by Jeff Shaara
He rode with Longstreet’s command, led a long column of troops in eerie silence. Longstreet had moved ahead, securing the crossing at a place called Goode’s Bridge. Lee rode beside his own staff, a few of Longstreet’s aides and a man who carried the flag of Hill’s Third Corps.
He knew Gordon was behind them, bringing up the rear of the march. It was not planned that way for any good reason, except that Gordon had been farther from the bridges in Petersburg. But Gordon’s men were still marching with a strong step, still carried the high morale, and so, from behind, they would prod the rest of the army forward. There were many stragglers now. The spirit of Gordon’s men was not to be found in Hill’s corps, the men who had lost their commander, whose pride had been swept away by the collapse of their defense. Many of these men carried their defeat with them, and it took something away, their strength, their energy.
As men fell by the roadside, the others in line ignored them; there were no taunts, no jeers. As Gordon’s men passed by, they began to break the line as well, but it was to lend a hand, to try to bring the soldiers back into the march. Some made the effort, inspired by the talk from the men in the road, the calls to march or be captured, to suffer the long walk or suffer at the savagery of the enemy. But if some dragged themselves back into the road, many more were simply gone, fading back into the woods, wandering off on small trails, men weakened by the lack of food and the exhaustion of the sleepless night. After a full day’s march, even the strongest of Gordon’s men began to feel the effects, and stragglers fell out of their ranks as well. Many who had the strength to stay with the march began to lose the strength for anything else, and so muskets, knapsacks, and blankets all littered the roadside.
Lee saw the bridge now, saw Longstreet waiting beside the river. Lee pulled off to the side, would watch them again, crossing another river. He listened, heard none of the sounds that had drifted up all day, the scattered musket fire, the small waves of cavalry. Lee looked at Longstreet, said, “Have we scouted across?”
Longstreet nodded, and Lee saw the same grim look, the dark serious eyes, thought, Of course he has, I do not have to tell him what to do. He has not changed, not at all. Longstreet’s right arm hung by his side, limp, and Lee glanced at it, could not help it, and Longstreet saw the look, moved the arm, pulled it up to the saddle, a small show, defiant. Lee knew it was difficult for the big man, a piece of him now soft and weak.
Lee said, “How is it?”
Longstreet looked away, across the river, said, “Can’t write … have to use the left. It’ll get better.”
There was a hard finality to his words, and Lee thought, Don’t ask him again. He smiled. The pride, yes, the stubbornness. Good, that is very good.
Longstreet waved the left arm across the river, said, “We’re clear, no major opposition, as far as we can tell. We got word from Anderson. He’ll be meeting up with us at Amelia. He’s been able to gather together some of Heth and Wilcox’s people, and what they could find of Pickett’s.”
Lee was surprised at that, had heard nothing from below the river. He said, “Do we know how many? What strength?”
There was urgency in the question, and Longstreet looked at him, said, “Not too sure. But there’s a fair number. Maybe as many as we have here.”
Lee felt a charge, a spark running through him, thought, If that is true … we are stronger still. “Are you certain of that?”
Longstreet nodded, said, “According to Anderson …”
“That’s very good, very good indeed. That means we have nearly thirty thousand muskets … and Ewell, he must have … several thousand.” He looked at Longstreet, said, “That is very good news. I did not expect to find that much strength, once we left the city.”
Longstreet pulled the small pipe out of his pocket, and both men turned, watched the column of troops moving across the small bridge. Longstreet said, “I am not sure we can call it … strength. I am not sure how many men can be considered effective.”
Lee watched the men marching by, and there were few cheers, the men staring straight ahead, slow and mechanical. He said, “They need to be fed. When we reach Amelia, there will be time.” He looked around, out toward the south, then back to the east. “General Grant should be pressing us, not just cavalry. And he is not. Surely, he can’t be satisfied with just capturing the city.”
Longstreet held the pipe in his teeth, said, “No, I expect Sam Grant is moving. Sheridan’s not going to sit still either.” He waved the pipe, pointed to the south. “They know where we’re going. They have to know if we reach the railroad, if we can get to Danville, they have a big problem.”
Lee nodded. “Then we cannot allow them to stop us. We must keep moving. We have a full day’s march on them. Once we reach Amelia, get these men fed … all those people can do is chase us.”
HE COULD SEE THE COLUMNS OF BLACK SMOKE, HEARD THE LOW whistle echoing through the woods, rode now up a short rise. He could see the small buildings, the one small steeple, and out to one side, a long row of great black boxes, the freight cars of the blessed supply trains.
He had sent word specifically to Richmond, sent the wire straight to the commissary commissioners—send the rations—and there was nothing polite or formal; it was not a pleasant request. It would be the last of the supply trains to leave Richmond, the last way out before the city fell into Federal hands. The food was warehoused there, had been slowly accumulated in anticipation of feeding troops that would still be stationed there. But those troops, Ewell’s ragged mismatched command, had made the long march, six thousand men who would soon reach Amelia, joining the rest of the army. Lee had received no reply from the commissary people, but now he could see it for himself, saw another small engine, a belch of black smoke, coming from the northeast, slowly grinding to a halt at the small depot.
The word had passed back along the column, and as they came closer to Amelia, the men picked up the pace, knew that once this day’s march was over, there would finally be something to eat.
Now he could hear the men moving up behind him, a low hum of voices, and he glanced back, saw them looking out at the trains, heard one man raise his hands, shout, “Praise God!” The man saw Lee, smiled, said, “Praise General Lee!”
Lee nodded, realized the man had no musket, was carrying nothing at all, and he wanted to say something, but the column moved past quickly, and there were more sounds, some directed toward him. But he did not hear, focused instead on the men themselves, felt his chest tighten, a small cold stab in his gut. He saw that many of them had shed the weight, had made the march on empty stomachs by lightening the load. Many of his soldiers did not have muskets.
The orders were given, and the men began to fill the open fields, some finding a soft place in the thick grass, simply dropping down, ignoring the directions of the officers, the call to stack arms, to stay in line. Lee moved the horse down the rise, toward the town, saw Longstreet approaching, moving slowly up the hill, away from the small buildings. Lee rode up beside him, and Longstreet was staring at him with a deep gloom, then looked at the ground, said nothing. Lee did not stop, moved on toward the depot, saw cavalry, men on thin horses, gathering along the railcars. Lee rode up toward the tracks, saw an officer sitting on a horse, looking up at one man standing in the open doorway of the car.
The soldier did not yet see Lee, said, “Yee howdy, Captain! We got all the ammunition we’re ever gonna need. And not one damned thing to eat!”
Lee moved toward the officer, and the man removed his hat, said, “General Lee! Uh, sir … this ain’t exactly what we was ex-pectin’ to find.”
Lee climbed down from his horse, moved to the railcar, looked at the soldier, who stared at him with wide eyes. Lee said nothing, reached up, and the man extended a hand, helped Lee into the car. Now Lee could see the piles of boxes, the neat stacks of cloth bags, wooden crates. He took a step forward, leaned down, saw the car was packed with powder, munitions, shot and shell for the big guns. He looked at the man,
said, “This is just one.… The others, there must be …”
The man was nervous now, shook his head. “No, sir. All like this one.”
Lee felt a hot fire swell up the back of his neck, turned, jumped down from the car, staggered, and the captain was down now, stepped forward quickly to help him, but Lee straightened, held the man away. He felt sick, his stomach clenching into a hard knot, his throat clamping down hard. He walked to the next car, looked inside, saw the same cargo, one cloth sack split open, black gunpowder spread out on the wooden planks of the floor. He turned, leaned against the side of the railcar.
The cavalry officer said quietly, “You all right, sir? Can I get you something?”
Lee stared ahead, said, “How are we … we cannot feed the men. They knew that … and they sent me gunpowder.”
The captain said nothing, saw a horseman moving through the depot, made a quick motion to the man to come forward.
Lee did not hear the man coming, and suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder and Lee turned. It was Taylor, who said, “There are no rations, sir.”
Lee nodded, said nothing.
Taylor was angry, said, “It is treachery, sir! Just like before …”
Lee stepped away from the train, moved to the horse, climbed up, sat heavily in the saddle. He looked at the cavalry captain, said in a slow, quiet voice, “Thank you for your assistance.”
The man saluted, looked at Taylor, said something Lee could not hear. Taylor moved close to the horse. “Sir,” he said, “we will send out the wagons to all the farms around here. There has to be something … the people will not deprive their army.”
Lee took a deep breath, felt the hot pain in his throat give way, and he nodded again, said, “Yes, Colonel. See to it. Spare no effort. Prepare an order … no, a request. We need anything that can be provided.”
He turned the horse, moved through the depot, rode close to the tracks, looked into each car, all of them, could not ride away from the trains without seeing it all for himself. He did not pause, moved slowly by each one, saw that every one was filled with the tools and the fuel of war. He passed the last car, turned the horse toward the camps of the men. I do not understand this, he thought, there could have been no confusion. He thought of Taylor’s word, treachery, but it had not been like that, not since Northrop had been removed, but what explanation could there be? No, it was just … a message. God has denied us. I do not understand.
He rode back up the hill, toward the field where more of the army was spreading out, the men still anticipating the relief from the weakness, from the awful emptiness. He could not look at them, at the faces, thought still of Richmond, could see it now in his mind, men in blue adding to their celebration, digging through the great warehouses stacked high with the food that could save his army.
45. GRANT
APRIL 5, 1865
HE HAD SPENT THE NIGHT IN PETERSBURG, THE STAFF CHOOSING A pleasant, modest house in the nearly deserted town. Lincoln had come to him there, a short happy visit, but was gone now, had gone back toward City Point. Grant then began the ride with his army, in pursuit of Lee’s retreat.
He was west of the city, moving out on the well-worn roads, when the courier reached him, the dispatch simple and direct. Richmond was captured, had been nearly as deserted as Petersburg. The first blue troops into the city had found the last remnants of a violent and destructive departure. Some had made the decision that nothing of value would be left behind, others had simply grabbed whatever was there for the taking, and often that included liquor. Most of the citizens had fled, but they were the people who truly hoped to return. To many it was an escape from the emotion, not from the Yankees. Many simply could not bear to watch the city occupied by the men in blue. As the town emptied, the mobs had taken over, and stores, offices, and warehouses were looted. Many were burning, most from simple arson. Along the waterfront the destruction was different, the fires deliberate and necessary, the gunboats and waterfront storage sheds destroyed by the last of the rebel troops, the horrible duty of burning your own so the enemy can make no use of it.
When the Federal troops moved in, there was no fight, no opposition. The few townspeople who remained stayed mostly indoors, and in the streets there was a strange celebration, mostly Negroes, slaves and free, the people who understood as much as anyone what the fall of this city would mean.
Grant read the dispatch with regret, thought, I wish Lincoln was still here. I wish I could see his face.
Of course, Lincoln would know by now, probably knew before he did. And he knew Lincoln would go there, would have to see it for himself. Grant understood that, did not share the apprehension of some of the others, that Lincoln’s life would be in danger. Yes, there could still be stragglers and deserters, men crouching low on rooftops, still determined to strike out at the enemy. If Lincoln were there, out in the open, walking the streets, he could be an irresistible target, and anything could happen. But it will not happen, he thought, because of the man himself, the message he would give to anyone who still remained, the newspaper perhaps, anyone who might represent the government of the state of Virginia.
There had been a movement already, reasonable men who looked to the future, to the mechanism for bringing Virginia back to the Union. Lincoln had encouraged that, had no intention of continuing the war when the shooting stopped, had no patience for those in Congress or the newspapers in the North who insisted on revenge, on a policy of punishment, the recklessness of a hostile relationship with those who had created the rebellion. Lincoln did not fear the streets of Richmond, especially if the cavalry and naval guard kept a sharp lookout. Grant knew Lincoln would find a way, get the message to those who held the authority, communicate that they were still part of the United States. As long as Lincoln was President, it would be as simple as that.
Grant rode farther west now, below the Appomattox River, stayed close to Edward Ord’s command, the troops who had once been under Butler. The columns marched along the Southside Railroad, and all along the tracks he saw the workers ripping up one side. But it was not destruction, it was repair, adjusting the rails to fit the gauge of the Federal cars. The quartermasters had insisted, and Grant authorized the work, as long as it did not slow the march of the rest of the army. He did not believe it was really necessary, knew it was a precaution against failure. Only if Lee escaped, only if the war was to last for many months yet, would this army need the railroads.
There was no reason for him to stay close to Petersburg. The war had left that place behind, was moving away again, to a new place, new ground, where the fight would still have to be made. He had given the new orders, but the commanders already knew, the target was the rebel army, that wherever Lee went, they would go.
Much of the cavalry had moved up above the river, kept a close watch on the direction Lee was moving, but there were no surprises. Grant knew now about Lee’s disaster at Amelia, and Federal scouts and small cavalry units were following the wagons that Lee scattered into the countryside. Many were simply plucked up, the drivers captured along with their small weak escorts, and all told the same story, how they had been sent on a desperate search for food, for anything the farm country could still provide.
Whether or not Lee could feed his army, he could not stay long at Amelia. The key was the railroad, and that left only one route for Lee to follow—southwest, toward Danville.
THEY WERE RIDING THROUGH DARK WOODS, A DANGEROUS ROUTE close to the camps of the enemy. There had not been time for a formal escort, and it was not the place for it. The commotion of a large security force would have certainly brought on more attention than Grant wanted. Sheridan had sounded urgent, sent a scout in a rebel uniform across miles of open country, bringing the message straight to Grant’s headquarters. The message was of troop movements, positions, but it was the last few words that brought Grant and his small escort now into the dark woods: I wish you were here yourself.
Sheridan was much closer to Amelia, his cavalry still
on the far west of the Federal position, leading the way in the race to cut off Lee’s retreat. The Fifth Corps, Griffin’s command now, was spread out across the one road that ran out of Amelia to the southwest, the road that ran parallel to the Danville Railroad. Grant had left Ord behind with simple instructions: keep moving. By morning Ord’s men would be at Burkeville, also on the Danville line, and so even if Lee somehow ripped through the strength of the Fifth Corps and Sheridan’s horsemen, the way would still be blocked.
Grant could see small fires now, flickers of light spread out across a wide field. He felt relief, thought, Finally, we’re here. But they did not stop, moved farther, beyond the vast sea of sleeping men, and Grant realized with a quick flash of excitement: Those are not our men, they are the campfires of the enemy.
There were only a dozen troopers with him, led by Sheridan’s scout, a grisly looking man named Campbell. They had ridden for nearly four hours, could not stay on main roads, had to rely on Campbell’s skills and his memory for faint trails in dim moonlight. Grant rode just behind Porter, the young man silent and nervous, and suddenly the small column halted, held up by the quiet hand of the scout. Campbell rode back toward Grant, then slowly eased into the woods, his head low, probed for a long moment, then came back into the trail, moved farther back, still searching for something. Grant thought, I hope you are as good at this as Sheridan says you are. Grant could see a small movement now, saw Porter pull his revolver, discreet, ready. Grant could not see the gun in the darkness, but knew Porter held it tightly against his chest. Porter did not trust this strange man, and Grant smiled at that, had known Campbell for a long time, knew he was Sheridan’s most trusted scout. He could say nothing to Porter, silence was still essential, but he thought, It’s all right, Colonel. He’s not going anywhere. There is no treachery here. Now Campbell emerged from the woods again, moved toward the front of the horsemen, motioned to the right, and then ducked again into the woods. The column followed, and Grant saw Porter’s revolver go back into its holster. He waited for Porter to move into the woods, then gently spurred the horse and followed the rest of his escort.