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

by Jeff Shaara

  Lee said, “Where is General Ewell? Where is General Anderson?”

  Venable shook his head, said, “I don’t know, sir. I don’t know if they made it across the creek. We have heard nothing.” He pointed down the wide hill. “That’s Saylor’s Creek, sir. There has been a considerable fight there, sir.”

  Lee turned to Mahone, said, “I may need you, General. This way!”

  They rode farther along the crest, then dropped into a shallow depression, climbed up again, and Lee reined the horse, looked down the hill, saw the creek bed snaking through a wide stand of tall pines. Out of the trees, men were flowing in a vast carpet up the hill, wagons without drivers, panicked horses dragging bridles. The men began to fall, collapsing in the open grass, mostly from exhaustion, some with bloody wounds. In the trees below, along the creek, there were scattered pops of musket fire, but the fight was past, whatever had happened to the long column was already done. Lee stared at the great flow of his men, some moving close to him now, men with wild eyes and no muskets, and he felt the horror filling him, the cold stab in his chest, said, in a low voice, “My God … has the army been dissolved?”

  Mahone said nothing for a moment, the men now moving past them, the ones with enough strength to climb the long hill. Then Mahone shouted at the men, “Turn and fight! Stop … fight for General Lee!”

  A few faces turned up. Lee saw recognition in their eyes, and some began to gather, to slow the panicked stampede.

  Lee looked at Mahone, said, “General, I need you now. We must hold those people back.”

  Mahone saluted, turned the horse, said, “My men will still fight, sir!” He rode away quickly, and Lee moved down the hill, waving his hat, began to call out to the men, “Soldiers! Fight with me!” Men were moving closer, more now standing, finding their breath.

  Lee saw one man holding a battle flag, the man bloody, staggering, and he moved toward him, said, “Here, son, let me.…” The man looked at him, dropped to one knee, said nothing, and Lee saw now the face of a child, the sharp eyes, the bright light looking up at him, and the boy released the flag. Lee held it up high, began to wave it, catching the breeze. Now more men fell into line beside him, behind him, and they began to cheer, to yell out his name. He stared below, into the trees, was ready to ride, to move in one hard wave down into the face of the enemy, drive them out, drive them away. The flag was slapping hard around him, catching a sharp gust of wind, the horse staggering to keep straight, and he thought, Yes, we will not be beaten, you cannot take this away from us!

  Behind him there was a new sound, men moving over the crest of the hill, a heavy battle line. It was Mahone’s men, and all along the hill came the sound of the rebel yell, high and terrible. Suddenly, someone grabbed the flag, and Lee would not let go, looked at the man with hot anger, How dare you … saw the face of Mahone.

  Mahone still gripped the flag, gave a firm pull, and Lee felt it slip out of his hands. Mahone said, “General, this is my job.”

  THE DAY ENDED WITH THE FEDERAL CAVALRY AND INFANTRY HELD in check, while Gordon and Mahone slowly backed away. By dark Lee had learned the extent of the disaster at Saylor’s Creek. The army had lost nearly eight thousand troops, most of them captured. Many of the commanders had made their escape. But word came to Lee that Dick Ewell had fallen into Federal hands, and then, later in the evening, he learned that most of the Richmond Home Guard had been captured. They now ceased to exist as a fighting unit, would be escorted back toward City Point, along with their commander, Custis Lee. Lee’s oldest son was now a prisoner of war.

  It was Ewell’s mistake that gave the Federals the opportunity to cut through the column of march. The wagon train in front of Gordon had been sent on their northerly detour, but Ewell left no one behind at the intersection to tell Gordon that the wagons were changing direction, no one to tell Gordon not to follow the wagons. Without the crucial instructions, Gordon turned his column, followed the wagon train onto the wrong road.

  When Ewell and Anderson slowed their march, to respond to Sheridan’s assaults, they did not tell anyone in front of them, did not send word to Mahone, and so the army simply spread out, the column stretching longer, with gaps opening up, large enough for the Federal troops to cut through. The numbers were bad, the losses staggering, but Lee did not focus on that. He had to look instead at what was left, at the army he could still take into a fight.

  AS LONGSTREET’S FIRST TROOPS REACHED FARMVILLE, THE blessed rations were put into the grateful hands of starving men. Lee stayed closer to the rear, moved through the scattered troops who still made their way forward. He did not want to hear numbers, had received the reports from staff officers of what was left of the commands, but would not look at them, folded the small pieces of paper and stuffed them into his coat. Most of the commanders were still close by, somewhere, but for many, for Anderson and Pickett, there were no troops left to command.

  He rode slowly, thought about his son: I will write Mary. I will have to. They will not harm him, he is too valuable. There is some comfort in that. He knew Rooney was nearby, probably on the flank, riding with his cousin’s command. Fitz Lee’s cavalry was spread out all over the countryside, rushing to whatever crisis the Federals threw at them, were now gathering together in the same way the infantry was, finding itself, taking the head count, seeing just how much strength they had left.

  Lee had seen Rooney earlier that day, and it had been all orders and tactics, the business of command. He knew Robert Jr. was probably up front, near Longstreet, pulling his guns along under Porter Alexander now, guns that could still serve the army. How odd, he thought, the one farthest from the fight, from the war, would be the one captured. Custis was a brilliant engineer, and Lee thought of that, how much alike they were. Lee himself had spent most of his early military service in the Corps of Engineers, knew that his oldest son had the talent for it, but even though Custis had gone to the Point, he was not a soldier, did not have the temperament for it. He was quiet, even shy, nothing like the boisterous Rooney.

  The letter was already taking shape in his mind, but Mary would not take it well, no matter how he explained it. Lee knew Custis was clearly her favorite, and Lee was not sure why, thought, He is … something like me. But he has also been there, when I have not. She has learned to depend on him. He stared into the darkening trees, past the scattered movement of his men, thought, No, she has never depended on me. There has always been the army, even the early days, the duty always somewhere else, the Carolina coast, St. Louis, the Mississippi River. Then Mexico, the cavalry in Texas, and now … something we never could have known. No one had ever believed it would go on like this … four years.

  It suddenly came to him that he did not know where she was, not exactly. With Richmond now in Federal hands … he felt the anxious turn in his gut, forced it away, told himself, No, she is safe. They have been so kind, so many good friends, looking out for her. She has always had that, from the time she was a girl. Then it was her father, now … it should be me.

  He moved past an open field, the last of the sunlight reflecting on small pieces of motion, men coming out of the woods, still finding the road. He saw one man stop, looking at him, the man shirtless, with no hat, no musket.

  The man stared, then said, “Praise God. If I ain’t seen Jesus … I seen Robert E. Lee.”

  The man moved slowly away, and Lee felt himself sag, thought, No, so profane … how can they do that? And yet they believe it. They have always believed it. Now look at us, look how few of us there are.

  Abruptly, he reached in his pocket, had kept it away long enough, glanced through the brief reports, while there was enough light to see. He thought, The numbers are never good, never, not in any fight, on any ground. We were always up against greater strength. He already knew how many cavalry Fitz Lee had, had heard a brief report, something near three thousand. The infantry was harder to figure, and they were still finding stragglers, men still trying to keep up, dazed, starved. The best estimate was
around twelve thousand, mostly under Longstreet and Gordon. There were more men than that, but the reports would emphasize effectives, men you could put into a fight. He did not know how many men Grant had, had heard that Ord’s people were at Burkeville, and Ord had been above the James, the farthest Federal troops from Petersburg. So if Ord is here, that means … all of them are here. And that means they are slow. The thought raced across his tired mind, surprised him. They have always been slow. A very big dog, trying to catch a very small cat. He suddenly turned the horse, thought, Yes, that is one thing that has not changed. All we need is time. Even Sheridan’s cavalry could only hit us in the middle, not the front.

  Gordon had finally been able to pull away from his own fight at Saylor’s Creek, would move now up across the Appomattox again, and Mahone would take his men that way as well. Once across the river again … he tried to remember the map, did not have it with him. The river is still a great barrier to Grant’s people. Once we are across and can burn the bridges, we will have a very good jump on them. We can make the trains at Farmville, move on to Lynchburg.

  He rode now toward Longstreet’s camp, heard his name, a man calling out, a one man salute, and Lee could not see him, the darkness now deep into the trees. He waved his hat, said aloud, “Rations are at Farmville. You can draw rations at Farmville. Keep moving!”

  There were small voices all around him, surprising him, men he could not see, and now he could hear them moving, footsteps in the road, and the word echoed out through the woods, far behind him on the road: rations!

  APRIL 7, 1865

  THE FEDERAL PRESSURE ON GORDON AND MAHONE MADE THEIR crossing of the Appomattox difficult, and Mahone’s most important job, to burn the High Bridge before the enemy could seize it, succeeded only halfway. Mahone did set fire to the main bridge, the rail crossing for the Southside, a huge span stretching over a part of the river that was impossible to ford. But the Federal troops came on too quickly, in too much strength, and after a sharp fight, they were able to put out the fire. But worse, what Mahone had failed to do was burn a second bridge, smaller, down below, close to the water. That bridge, designed for wagon traffic, was left undamaged. Humphrey’s Second Corps was able to cross immediately, keeping up the pressure behind Gordon and Mahone.

  At Farmville, Longstreet camped his men on the north side of the bridges there, prepared to burn them when the last of the army could move across. But with the Federal Second Corps now on the same side of the river, Lee had to keep moving. Below the river, Federal troops under Ord were approaching fast, and so the railcars carrying the food could not stay at Farmville, could not risk being captured. St. John had to move them farther west, out of harm’s way. Many of Longstreet’s men were still lining up for their first rations in five days when the trains suddenly pulled away.

  * * *

  LEE WAS WITH LONGSTREET, PACING NERVOUSLY. HE HADN’T SEEN Mahone, knew that he and Gordon were doing their best to hold the Federals away in the rear.

  Longstreet was sitting, leaning against a tree, smoking his small pipe. Lee stopped pacing, listened for big guns, the sounds of a fight. Longstreet’s camp wagon was nearby. An aide was unloading a trunk, and it fell open with a loud clatter of metal pans.

  Lee turned, said, “Quiet! I’m trying to hear!”

  There was complete silence in the camp, all faces turning toward the outburst from Lee. Longstreet leaned forward, motioned the aide away.

  Lee stared as the man slipped past the wagon, then looked at the faces, turning from him now, averting their glances. Lee took off his hat, rubbed his hand slowly over the top of his head, said to Longstreet, “We have done nothing right. They should have burned that bridge. We would … they should have …” He stopped, the words choked away.

  Longstreet said, “Sir, please, sit down. Here …” He reached for a small camp chair, set it upright.

  Lee moved to the chair and slowly sat down. Resting his arms on his knees, he looked at the ground, then gazed beyond the matted grass, staring deep into some dark place. There was a quiet moment, then he said, “If they were not on this side of the river, we would have escaped.”

  Longstreet nodded, said, “We have still escaped. There’s nothing west of us. There’s a big bunch of those boys south of the river, but they can’t come across, not for a long while yet. We move quick, we can make it up to the next station, the rations will be there, and all we have to do is keep those boys behind us from making trouble.”

  Lee looked at him, saw a smile, thought, Something is … wrong with him. I have not seen a smile on him since … longer than I can recall. He said, “General Longstreet, your mood puzzles me. We are in a serious predicament here.”

  Longstreet tapped the pipe on the tree behind him, lit it slowly, said, “When have we not been in a predicament?”

  Lee was still confused, thought, This is the man whose gloom is legendary, and now … with the enemy hard on us from two sides, he smiles.

  Longstreet saw the look, said, “Sir, we can only do what is in our power. It is still in our power to reach Lynchburg. We might still find an opportunity to reach Danville. If we can keep moving, keep the enemy behind us … Gordon’s men are still putting up a fight. These boys here … Yankee cavalry isn’t going to stop them. We make it to the next station, feed them, we have a clear shot to Lynchburg. And that will give Sam Grant a problem.”

  There were horses, a small group of couriers riding into the camp, eyes searching for Lee. Lee looked up, saw Marshall step forward. One horseman saluted Marshall, said something, then reached down, handed Marshall a piece of paper.

  Marshall turned toward Lee and, hesitating, moved close and held out the paper. “Sir,” he said, “a message has come through General Mahone’s lines, sir. It is from General Grant.”

  Lee took the paper, saw the wax seal, slid his finger slowly under the flap, broke the wax and opened the page. He read slowly, absorbed the words:

  General:

  The results of the last week must convince you of the hopelessness of further resistance on the part of the Army of Northern Virginia in this struggle. I feel that it is so, and regard it as my duty to shift from myself the responsibility of any further effusion of blood, by asking you the surrender of that portion of the Confederate States Army known as the Army of Northern Virginia.

  Very Respectfully, Your Obedient Servant,

  U. S. Grant, Lieutenant-General, Commanding Armies of the United States

  LEE LOOKED AT LONGSTREET, HANDED HIM THE PAPER.

  Longstreet read it, handed it back, shook his head and said, “Not yet.”

  Lee looked up at Marshall. “Colonel, bring me the map. I want to see how far we still have to move to reach …” He looked at Longstreet. “… the next station, you said, General?”

  Longstreet held the pipe in his mouth, said, “Appomattox.”

  47. GRANT

  APRIL 7, 1865

  IT WAS NEARLY MIDNIGHT, AND HE’D SPENT THE EVENING ON THE porch of a hotel, the only one in the small town of Farmville. The army was gathering still, and by now word that Grant was here, with them, had fueled a party, a bonfire, men cheering, singing; men exhausted by a long day’s march, but not yet ready to let go of the emotion. It was clear to all of them, whether they had seen the enemy or not, whether they’d had any part in the fight, that this army was moving fast and furiously toward something momentous, something grand and joyous.

  Grant sat on the porch, alongside Rawlins and Edward Ord. Men were still marching by, some coming into the town for the first time. A few were breaking ranks, moving toward the bonfire, some carrying knots of fat pine, lit now into great torches. The men were cheering Grant as they passed the hotel, and the songs were a strange mix of bad voices and disconnected melody, each unit singing something different, the sounds overlapping into a roar of noise. One group now stepped into the light, the odd uniforms of the Zouaves, the red trousers lit by the light of the great fire. They were singing especially loud, “John
Brown’s body lies a molderin’ in the grave …”

  Rawlins said, “Inspiring! Indeed, inspiring! ‘John Brown’s Body’ is nearly a hymn to our boys.”

  Grant listened for a moment, then said, “Is that a song?”

  Rawlins seemed surprised, said, “Why, yes, sir. That very song, there. ‘John Brown’s Body’ … surely you know that one, sir.”

  Grant frowned, thought of Julia. The same thing would come from her, the scolding at his ignorance. Grant listened again, shook his head. “No, afraid not. I know two songs. One’s ‘Yankee Doodle.’ ” He paused, thought a moment, could recall some very poor harmony in a disreputable bar in San Francisco, the indiscreet words still lodged in his memory. He was suddenly embarrassed, glanced at Rawlins, said, “The other one isn’t.”

  The Zouaves were past now, and the sounds of the great salute were winding down. Grant stood, moved to the porch rail, thought, We should have heard by now. He cannot just … ignore it.

  There were boots behind him, and he heard Porter’s voice, “Sir! Look! It’s a rebel!”

  Grant looked out into the dark, the dim light of the street beside the hotel. A man came out of the shadows, careful, discreet, saw Grant now, removed his hat. The man moved slowly around the porch, reached the steps and waited, still cautious. Grant could see what was left of a gray uniform, an officer.

  Rawlins moved to the top of the steps, blocking the man’s way, said, “Who are you, sir? Do you come from General Lee?”

  The man flinched, looked at Rawlins as though expecting to be hit, shook his head. “General Lee? Oh, Lord, no. Please forgive me.” He looked at the others on the porch, his eyes now focusing on Grant, and he said, “This is … my hotel. I am the proprietor.”

  Rawlins made a noise, said, “Is that a fact? You look more like a deserter to me. How did you get through? We have provost guards on all these streets.”