Jeff Shaara and Michael Shaara: Three Novels of the Civil War: Gods and Generals, the Killer Angels, the Last Full Measure

by Jeff Shaara

  The trees parted and there was a visible trail. Campbell turned in the saddle, looked back down the line, motioned to Grant and pointed ahead to a panorama of flickering light. Suddenly there were men, moving quickly out of the shadows, appearing all around them, the sharp sound of metal, weapons cocked, then the column abruptly halted. Grant could see one man looking straight at him, pointing the gun at his face, a carbine. These were Sheridan’s men.

  The man who blocked the trail said in a low voice, “Well, what we got here?”

  There was a lantern now, and another man carried the light forward. Grant began to move the horse slowly to the front of the column, could see the first man was a sergeant, and the man said, “Well, lookee here! We got a reb escorting a dozen prisoners, or we got a dozen men escorting one rebel prisoner. Either way, reb, you must be some seriously important man.”

  Campbell looked around at Grant, who moved beside him, and now Porter began to move as well, and on both sides the carbines were raised a bit higher.

  The sergeant said, “Whoa, easy there. No hurry boys, no one’s going anywhere.”

  Porter said, “Gentlemen, we are here to see General Sheridan. This is General Grant’s party. We are here at the request of General Sheridan.”

  The sergeant looked now at Campbell, laughed. “Well, now, would you be the commanding general? Or are you just his chief of staff?”

  There were small laughs, and now Grant leaned forward, took off his hat, said, “Good evening, Sergeant. I am entirely dependent on your professionalism as a soldier. I can offer little except that you recognize me. This is understandably … an unusual situation.”

  The sergeant moved closer, glanced at the man with the lantern, who raised the light higher. Grant leaned over farther, thought, The light, catch the shoulder straps, the stars. The sergeant looked him over, then stepped back, looked again at the rebel uniform, said, “And you would be Mr. Campbell.”

  Campbell nodded, a slight bow.

  The man saluted Grant now, said to the men around them, “Boys, this here is General Grant. I seen you before, sir, crossing the Rapidan River. Mr. Campbell, he’s another matter. Don’t never look the same way twice.”

  The carbines were lowered, and Grant said, “Thank you, Sergeant. May we have an escort to General Sheridan?”

  The man motioned with his hand, and suddenly two horses appeared, their riders climbing up. The sergeant said, “Just follow these boys, sir. Take you right to him.”

  The column began to move again, and Grant let out a breath, realized how tense he had been, how easily fate could have made a much different, much more deadly situation.

  Porter rode beside him now, said quietly, “Forgive me, sir, I should have been better prepared.”

  Grant tried to see him in the dark, said, “Prepared for what, Colonel?”

  “To protect you, sir. They could have been rebels.”

  Grant smiled, said, “Mr. Porter, if they had been rebels, we might have been able to spur ourselves around and skedaddle away, and maybe most of us would have made it. If you had done anything to protect me with those fellows back there, we’d be dead. Those carbines are seven-shot repeaters.”

  Porter said nothing, and now they were moving past long rows of sleeping men, the fading embers of small fires. Men began to stir, and Grant looked out over the ground, could see faces coming out from under blankets, a slow ripple of activity, men coming awake in greater numbers.

  One man close by said, “Why, there’s the Old Man! Boys, this means business!”

  SHERIDAN HAD BEEN WAITING FOR THEM, CERTAIN THAT GRANT would answer the request. He’d even waited on his own evening meal.

  Grant had chewed on a small piece of burnt roast beef, watched with a hidden smile as Porter and some of the others gulped down a vast pile of boiled chicken, a slab of fat beef ribs.

  Now he was riding through the dark again, held a fresh cigar in his teeth, something he could not do on the long ride. But this time he was with Sheridan, and it was a short ride across a field of tobacco. Beyond the field he could see the lanterns in a cluster, a well-lit hub of activity, horses and men moving around a small cabin. Sheridan dismounted first, and the aides stepped back, almost by instinct, had observed Sheridan’s hot temper too many times. Grant dismounted, and they began to recognize him. Salutes went up, small greetings. Sheridan did not answer, moved by them, and Grant followed, moved past a man who held the door open, the dull orange light barely filling the small room. Grant looked down, saw Meade lying flat on a small bed, a white shirt, hatless.

  Grant moved quickly, leaned down, said, “General Meade … I heard you were ill.”

  Meade looked at him with a flash of anger, but held it, clamped it down, said, “Of course … yes. I am ill. I’m flat on my back, while out there Lee’s army is waiting for us.”

  Sheridan grunted, said, “Sir, that’s why … sir, no, I do not believe General Lee is waiting for us at all.” He looked around the room. “A map … where’s a map?”

  Meade raised an arm, pointed toward a small desk, and an aide moved that way, but Sheridan was faster, pushed past the man, grabbed the paper, held it up in the lamplight, said, “Turn up the lamp, I can’t see.”

  The aide looked at Meade, and Meade closed his eyes, said weakly, “Fine. Turn up the damned light.”

  Grant was still looking at Meade, sweat on his brow, the face drawn, ghostly. He said, “No. We can use this light. Lay the map out, let’s have a look.”

  Sheridan grunted again, spread the map on the desk, said, “Lee has dug in all around Amelia. He has moved some people out this way, drawn up in a line against us. But he is not going to wait for us. He has to keep moving. General Meade has a different opinion. I will not speak for you, General.”

  Meade sat up now, a groaning struggle, said, “We should wait for all the troops to get up. The Fifth Corps is facing Lee now. The Sixth and Second should be here, ready to move, by tomorrow.”

  Sheridan said, “And we may advance toward Amelia just in time to see Lee riding away over the next hill.”

  Grant scanned the map, said, “General Ord will be at Burkeville by tomorrow. There is no way that Lee can use the railroad now. He is cut off from Danville. His only option is to fight … or keep moving. If I was in his place, I would be moving … right now.”

  He straightened, looked at Meade, who was on his back again, the small piece of strength now gone. Grant said, “General Meade, the cavalry will continue to move to the west. The infantry will divide, moving west and north. I want to cut him off, get in front of him, not just follow him. There is nothing to be gained by preparing an attack at Amelia. The fight will come when he has no choice but to face us.”

  Meade nodded, said nothing, and Grant knew he was resigned to it, the illness draining the argument out of him.

  Sheridan was already moving toward the door, impatient, and Grant said, “General Sheridan, may I assume you intend to move your people … early?”

  Sheridan saluted, said, “Sir … with your permission, we are already moving!”

  46. LEE

  APRIL 6, 1865

  THEY HAD FOUND SHERIDAN’S CAVALRY BLOCKING THE ROAD TO Burkeville, but Lee had believed Longstreet’s men were strong enough to break through, to push them aside. Danville was becoming more important now than merely as the escape route. There was food there, a huge stockpile, and Lee had sent word for the trains to roll north, to bring the rations to the army.

  As Longstreet had pushed down toward Jetersville, to drive off the Federal horsemen, he found not just cavalry, but infantry, the strong lines of the Fifth Corps. Scouts reported the Second Corps was moving to join them, and the Sixth was a short march away. It was clear to Longstreet, and so, to Lee, that the road to Danville was closed. The only line of march was west, the town of Farmville. There the Southside Railroad ran out toward Lynchburg, and Lee had two choices. If they could stay ahead of the Federals, the army could again turn south and try for Danville. Ot
herwise, they could make use of the last leg of the Southside not in Federal hands, and move the army farther west to Lynchburg.

  He had camped near the home of Dick Anderson, another fine old estate that would absorb the effects of the long war. Anderson’s wife and children were still there, had prepared as much of a dinner as they could for Lee and his staff the night before.

  He had started the army in motion well before dawn, and once it was known that the route would have to be west, there would be no delay, no time to lose. There was still no food for the army; the wagons had come back from their foraging mostly empty. The farmers simply had nothing to give. It was the season for planting, for plowing the new fields, and whatever harvest had been stored from the previous autumn had long been exhausted. A small wagon train had escaped Petersburg, and there was a much larger train that Ewell had put into motion at Richmond, but Lee learned that the Federal cavalry had caught up to both of them, and what was not taken by the enemy had simply been burned.

  The tent had been packed away, and he was pacing nervously in the yard, impatient. He saw Taylor, then Venable, coming out of the house, and Lee mounted the horse, the clear signal that it was time to move.

  Taylor moved toward his own horse, said, “Sir, we have asked General Anderson’s family to remain in the cellar. I told them it could be dangerous for them today.”

  Lee nodded, had not thought of that, could not think of civilians now. His mind was already out on the road, far out with Longstreet, with the advance of his army.

  On the road, the men were already moving. He watched them, and there was no cheering, the only sounds the muffled steps of weary soldiers, their short time for sleep broken by the dull pain of hunger. We had the chance, he thought, the opportunity, a good day’s start. But here, we had to stop, to wait, to see what the wagons could bring us. And it cost us a day’s march. There can be no delays now, none. Sheridan has good horses, while ours drop away from their own hunger. The animals have it no better than the men.

  There was a horseman, moving against the slow tide of troops, and Lee did not recognize the man, an odd sight, a neat uniform, clean, something no one saw anymore. The man had an escort, another unfamiliar face, civilian clothes. Lee sat on the horse, waited, and the officer saluted him, and now Lee could see the man’s face. It was Isaac St. John.

  St. John was now the commissary general, having replaced the incompetent Northrop two months before. St. John had made his reputation for efficiency by good management of the Mining and Nitre Department. Where Lucius Northrop’s mismanagement had often left the army hungry, St. John’s department always kept the ammunition boxes full. In the weeks before the final collapse of Richmond, St. John had done what he could to salvage something of the commissary. Lee had no reason to doubt the man’s good intentions, or his capability. It was just too little too late.

  St. John saluted Lee, shifted his weight in the saddle, a painful reminder that he had rarely been in the field.

  Lee said, “General St. John, I did not expect to see anyone from your department.” There was sarcasm in his voice, and Lee regretted it immediately. He looked down, said, “I assumed you might have accompanied the president.”

  St. John said, “No, sir. I am not certain where the president is, though I believe he made it to Danville. I came here … to find out where you wanted the rations.”

  Lee looked up, stared at the man in the dim lamplight. “What rations?”

  “We have eighty thousand rations waiting at Farmville. I had ordered them to Danville, but when we realized the way was blocked, I sent them on the Southside out to Farmville. Farmville is about … eighteen miles from here, sir.”

  “I know where Farmville is, General. We are moving out that way now. Are you certain?”

  St. John seemed surprised at the question, said, “Oh yes, sir. I was wondering if you wanted me to load some wagons and send the rations in this direction.”

  There was a simple matter-of-factness to the man’s words that made Lee smile. St. John showed no signs of nervousness, of the strain of what was happening all around them. Lee shook his head, said, “No. Not yet. The Federals have a large cavalry force, certainly moving toward Farmville. We may be in little more than a race. If you send wagons this way, they may be captured. We will do what we can to get to Farmville.”

  St. John nodded, shifted his weight again, said, “I did not realize the urgency … I had best return to Farmville myself.” He looked out toward the road, at the march of the troops. “Godspeed, sir.”

  Lee nodded, looked at the slow steps of the men, thought, Godspeed, indeed.

  THE CAVALRY FANNED OUT TO BOTH FLANKS, WOULD MAKE WHATever stand they could against the pressure from Sheridan’s horses. Longstreet’s men led the march, and Lee knew he did not have to prod him, there would be no need for him to stay up front to keep the column moving. In the center, Ewell’s mixed command would move behind Anderson, and behind them was much of the artillery and what remained of the wagon train. The wagons would again be sent on a parallel route, a long circling route to the north, to take them out of harm’s way and to clear the road for the more rapid movement of the men. In the rear, John Gordon’s troops would hold off any threat from behind, and once the wagon train was out of the way, Gordon would move up and connect with Ewell and Anderson.

  Lee had ridden all along the line, tried to see into the faces of the men, to give them something, a piece of himself, some of the cheer that they always seemed to find when they saw him. But the faces were down, staring at nothing, the steps slow and plodding, and all along the road men were falling out, simply collapsing. He moved the horse carefully, the roadside littered again with muskets. There was little else, few blankets, few knapsacks remained. The men had lost all need for comforts, for any personal items that would only require more energy to carry. Without blankets the men would sleep on the ground. Without muskets they could not fight.

  He had seen Heth, then Wilcox, Longstreet’s commanders, holding their men together as best they could, the numbers dropping by the hour. Now Mahone passed by him, and Lee nodded, smiled, thought of the nickname, Little Billy, another of the men from VMI. Lee had promoted him on the spot for Mahone’s brilliant defense after the Crater explosion, and now Mahone commanded Anderson’s old division, troops that had been in every major fight since Malvern Hill.

  There were some cheers now, a small number of old veterans, hard men who simply treated this as another march. Lee felt some of the energy coming back, saw hats going up, the affection as it had always been. Mahone had stopped briefly, but now was moving on, keeping his men in motion, keeping them tight against the columns in front.

  Lee could see a few guns now, small field pieces, horsemen. He rode back that way, crested a small rise, saw men scattered down along the road, some crawling away, moving into the shade of tall trees. He sat straight, could hear it now, a hard roll of thunder, the sounds of a fight echoing in the east. He had expected to see the column of troops, Pickett’s men, and Anderson’s and Ewell’s, but felt a sickness growing in his gut, looked at a road scattered with stragglers. The sounds were louder, rolling over the low hills, and he spurred the horse, began to move across the countryside, dropped down into a small gully, then up another short hill. He stopped the horse, could hear musket fire, great rolling chatter, and he spurred the horse again, rode up that way, thought, The wagon train.

  He knew he was moving to the north, far above the main road, saw small creeks, swampy patches of woods. He climbed another rise, the ground falling away in front of him, a wide hill dropping down into tall pine trees, a small creek. The fight was all along the creek. Beyond, along the far rise, he could see great columns of smoke, small patches of flame. He raised his field glasses, tried to focus, saw it was Gordon’s men, a rolling assault coming all along Gordon’s lines. Lee stared, lowered the glasses, thought, The rear guard …

  He turned the horse, rode along the crest of the ridge, saw officers coming toward him
from the main road, saw Mahone, staff officers. Lee pointed toward the road, yelled, “Where is Anderson? Where is Ewell?”

  Mahone reined up the horse, could see the smoke from Gordon’s fight, said, “I don’t know, sir. They were supposed to be close up behind us.”

  Lee felt the anger breaking through, could hold it back no longer, said, “Well, yes, General, I know where they are supposed to be!”

  There was a small group of cavalry now, and they rode along the crest of the hill, the men staring down into the fight along the creek. Lee looked for an officer, saw a young man, a major, said, “Who is that? Who is engaging General Gordon?”

  The man saluted, surprised, did not expect to see Lee, said, “Infantry, sir! Looks like the Second Corps, sir!”

  Lee stared down the long slope, thought, Infantry? I had thought cavalry perhaps. How did infantry get so close to our rear … and where is their cavalry?

  To the south, near the main road, there was a faint sound of muskets, and Lee turned the horse, said to Mahone, “General, ride with me. We have to find General Ewell.”

  They moved along the crest of the hill, and Lee saw Venable now, riding hard, waving at him. Venable pulled up, steadied himself on the horse, was breathing heavily, said, “General Lee … the wagons have been captured. The enemy’s cavalry has broken through the column.”