by Jeff Shaara
He looked at Longstreet now, felt a cold darkness in his chest, said, “There is nothing for us to do. It is time for me to go to General Grant, and accept the consequences for my acts.”
He looked back down the hill, saw staff officers waiting, watching him, and he motioned them forward, his hand resting on the sword. He rubbed his fingers slowly on the scabbard, gripped the hilt, felt the cold weight growing inside of him. This is the message, he thought, this is the only path. He looked at Longstreet, felt the tears, had no strength to hold it away, his hand shaking now, the fingers letting go of the sword, said, “But I would rather die … a thousand deaths.”
EARLY AFTERNOON, APRIL 9, 1865
THE MESSAGE HAD GONE OUT TO GRANT, WRITTEN FOR HIM BY THE young man in the round spectacles, the nervous hand of Charles Marshall. He had no idea where Grant was, had tried to reach him through the lines in the rear, as he had before, but there was no reply, and without a cease-fire, without the entire Federal line accepting a truce, there could be a new assault at any time.
It was the sheer bulk of the Federal forces that had slowed communication, the message passing from one front to the other. The dispatches were now flying back and forth, confused, uncertain, no one taking responsibility for ordering a truce. The word finally came that Grant had been on the move, the long ride down across the small river toward the town, from the rear of the army forward, to Sheridan’s front.
Lee sat on the ground, leaned back against an old apple tree. The shooting had stopped, a fragile truce in effect, but still he had not heard from Grant. Around him, the staff had spread out, guards posted, holding the soldiers at a distance. Word of the truce had spread through his men as well as the Federals, and order was breaking down, men looking for him, to protest, to beg for the chance to fight on.
He did not hear it, the sounds of men from across the open ground, calling him, the anger, sadness, tears. He was thinking of Mary, of a letter, months before, while they were still in Petersburg, before the winter had ended. There had been such optimism, the energy for the new spring, for what would come, and the letter had been forgotten, pushed aside by the great flood of words and papers that came with the operation of the army. But now the letter came back to him.
I … shall endeavor to do my duty and fight to the last.
He imagined her reading the words, shaking her head, the mild scolding, her sad acceptance that yes, he truly believed it, truly believed the war would still go on, must still go on. Now, it would not, and already he was trying to understand that, what it meant.
He thought of Lincoln, had never imagined he would ever see him as … President, the commander-in-chief. Of course, Lee would not be in the army, would probably become a prisoner. And Davis … he realized now he had no idea where Davis was, or what might become of him. He ran names through his mind, his own staff. Taylor had taken a brief moment to be married, just as the defenses of Petersburg collapsed. Lee shook his head, could not help a smile. Taylor was the most vocal on his staff about continuing the fight, was ready to pick up a musket himself. He thought, No, young man, your life is beginning, something new, something worth going home to. They have that, the young ones. That is where the passion belongs, to yourselves, to creating a new life.
He heard horses now, looked up, saw past the men around him, to Longstreet, riding in a slow rhythm, both hands holding the reins, the good show for his men. Longstreet would still do that, he thought, still not let the weakness show. Lee pulled himself up, waited, and Longstreet dismounted, moved through the staff, saluted awkwardly with the left arm.
Lee said, “We are still waiting, General.”
Longstreet nodded, held the pipe in his teeth, looked around, focused across the open ground, and men began to point. Longstreet said, “There … a flag of truce.”
Lee followed his gaze, saw three men, two of them in blue, and they rode up fast, reined up beyond the cordon of troops. Lee felt a thump in his chest, moved forward, and the guards parted. Lee saw the Federal officer, a brigadier general, one star, and glanced at the man in gray, who saluted him. The third man took the three horses, stayed back. The Federal officer moved up, faced him, nervous, made a bow, removed his hat, said, “General Lee, I am General Babcock … of General Grant’s staff. I have a letter for you, sir.”
Lee took a deep breath, said nothing, nodded, reached for the paper that Babcock now held out. He stared at it for a moment, and opened the envelope.
General R. E. Lee, Commanding C.S. Army: Your note of this date is but of this moment (11:50 am) received. In consequence of my having passed from the Richmond and Lynchburg Road to the Farmville and Lynchburg Road I am at this writing about four miles west of Walker’s church, and will push forward to the front for the purpose of meeting you. Notice sent on this road where you wish the interview to take place will reach me.
Very respectfully, your obedient servant,
U. S. Grant, Lieutenant-General.
Lee folded the letter, glanced at his pocket watch, pulled out a small stub of pencil, wrote the time on the envelope. It was one o’clock. He looked at Babcock, said, “General, I am concerned that the truce … will not hold. Can you see that General Grant’s people be instructed to observe the truce until … our business is concluded?”
Babcock nodded, said, “Certainly … absolutely.” He felt his pockets, and now Marshall was up beside Lee, handed a pad of paper to Babcock, who said, “Thank you … um …”
“Colonel, sir.”
Marshall backed away, and Lee did not look at him, heard the hard emphasis on the word, the pride of the young man still intact.
Babcock felt his pockets again, and Lee now held out the pencil. Babcock smiled weakly, said, “Thank you, sir.” He wrote something Lee could not see, and Lee waited, patient, now sensed Longstreet beside him. Babcock said, “There … sir, if you will have someone deliver this to General Meade’s command, there should be no further hostilities from that part of the field. General Grant is up ahead, and I assure you, sir, that the truce will be observed there.”
Taylor now moved up, and Babcock’s note was carried away quickly. Lee reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded map, the sketches of roads, troop movements, thought, I suppose this should stay here. He reached out, handed it to an aide, now turned to Babcock, said, “I suppose, General, we should be on our way. Do you have some preference? General Grant is not specific.”
Babcock made a short bow, said nervously, “I thought, sir, in the town, we can find a location that is suitable.”
Lee said nothing, moved toward the horses, took Traveller’s reins from an aide, reached up to the saddle.
Now Longstreet was beside him, said, “Honorable terms … unless he offers us honorable terms, we can still fight it out.”
Lee stared out to the west, thought, No one here knows General Grant as well as you. He climbed up to the saddle, said, “Do you believe that will be a problem?”
Longstreet thought a moment, shook his head. “No, I don’t. Sam Grant will be fair.”
Lee spurred the horse, moved toward Babcock, who was climbing on his own horse. Lee glanced around, all the men now looking at him. Seeing Taylor, he said, “Colonel, I wish you and Colonel Marshall to accompany me.”
Lee saw another man, recalled his face, Hill’s man, the message brought to him on that awful day just a short week ago. Lee said, “Sergeant Tucker, will you accompany us as well?”
Tucker seemed shocked, said, “Yes … certainly, sir.”
Marshall was on his horse, and Lee saw Taylor, standing close to the apple tree. Taylor was not moving, stared down at the ground, and Lee said, “Colonel Taylor … are you ready?”
Taylor looked up at him, and Lee saw the tears. Taylor said, “Sir … please, I ask you not order me.”
Lee saw the pain, the sadness, in the young man who had been so close, such a part of the army, of Lee himself. Taylor sat now, his head in his hands, quiet sobs, soft sounds.
Lee watch
ed him for a moment, fought it himself, said, “Very well. Colonel, you may remain here.”
He turned the horse, nodded slowly to Babcock, and they began to move out across the field.
He could see the town in front of him, the small buildings, the courthouse. They rode out through the lines of his men, men who called out to him, as they always had, the men who never held anything from him, from the fight, from their affection for their commander. He moved through the lines, would not look at them, could not bear to see it in their faces. The sounds were enough, the cries, the sadness, the long years now suddenly closing in, the great long fight now passing, drifting out of them, the last piece of strength, the last emotion from the hearts of his men, pouring out across the field. Then the soft sounds were behind him, following him, inside, staying with him. He could not keep it away, held the sounds hard, tried not to show what it meant, the pain that was gripping him, pulling him back toward them.
He looked up, above the rooftops, looked into a vast sky, imagined the face of God, sad, forgiving … and now he saw them, the images on the clouds, the cold steel in the face of Jackson, the laughing playfulness of Stuart. They were his boys; more, they were his sons, and now the tears came, the sadness overwhelming him, the grief for a part of him that was gone forever.
52. GRANT
AFTERNOON, APRIL 9, 1865
HE REACHED SHERIDAN’S LINES, RODE PAST MEN WHO HAD ALready heard the news. They cheered, wildly at first, but he did not respond, moved quickly, held a cigar tight in his teeth. He was still not sure, could not really know if this was not some ruse, some deception. He had run that through his mind, that for Lee’s army, it was the only way, the only escape. If they catch us resting, a lapse … but he thought of the letter, the last note from Lee, had read it through the hot cloud of the awful headache that had still tormented him. The letter echoed now in his mind, the cool blessed words.
I ask for a suspension of hostilities pending the adjustment of the terms of surrender of this army …
After he read it the first time, the headache suddenly vanished, the violent fist gripping the back of his neck releasing him, as if chased away by some marvelous miracle. No, he thought, it is genuine, it is not deception. I have to believe that Lee is, after all, an honorable man.
They had ridden hard, along dusty trails and hard roads, the staff trailing out in a long column. He could see flags now, turned the horse, rode toward a group of officers, men who were waiting for him. He reined the horse, saw the faces, the expectations, then he saw Sheridan.
He dismounted, and Sheridan was quickly in front of the others, saluted, said, “General Grant! We should resume the assault, sir! I respectfully request that my men be allowed to finish this job, sir!”
Grant was surprised, said, “General, did you not receive a request for cease-fire?”
Sheridan made a grunt, said, “Oh, yes, I received it. Time enough for the rebels to strengthen their position! Five minutes, sir, five minutes, and this will be over. We have them right in front of us. The boys are itching to go. It will be short work. I guarantee it, sir!”
Grant glanced at the other officers, saw some men with Sheridan’s fire, nervous motion, but there were others, sad frowns, small glances at the ground, men who did not share Phil Sheridan’s eagerness for an easy fight. Grant said, “Are they moving troops? Have they shown any signs of advance?”
Sheridan shrugged, said, “Not that we can tell. But you know how they are, sir. Give them an opening—”
Grant shook his head, put up his hand, stopped Sheridan’s words, said, “General, your precautions are noted. Have you not received something from General Babcock, some word of a meeting with Lee?”
Sheridan’s face now fell into a gloom. “He is supposed to be … in the town. I didn’t believe it, not sure I believe it now. But the message came for you to proceed at General Babcock’s request.”
Grant chewed hard on the cigar, thought, You would wait until you killed them all before you told me? “General Sheridan, you may accompany me. That should relieve your fears about the enemy’s intentions.”
Grant climbed the horse, glanced at Rawlins, Porter, the others, and said, “Gentlemen, let’s find General Lee.”
THEY SLOWED AS THEY MOVED PAST THE HOUSES, THE SMALL buildings, storefronts. Along the hill in front of him, he could see the solid blue line, the sun reflecting off the bayonets, the men spread far out around the town. In the shallow valley below, he could see a line of rebels, and behind, the mass of dull gray, wagons, guns, all that was left of Lee’s army. He heard Sheridan behind him, small comments, thought, Yes, five minutes, and the blood would be on our hands for all time.
He saw a man, ahead, waving, the clean blue uniform of an orderly, the man saluting now. Grant reined the horse, the men behind him slowing, the horses bunching up. The man was nervous, saluted again, seemed suddenly overcome, stared open-mouthed at the collective power of the men on the horses.
Grant said, “What is it, son?”
The man pointed, a house to the side of the road, a pleasant brick home, two-story, a small open yard, said, “There, sir! I am instructed to direct you … there!”
Grant saw three horses now, riderless, beside the house, and a man holding the reins, wearing a ragged gray uniform, a sergeant. He rode into the yard, dismounted, suddenly felt his hands sweating, looked at the front entrance of the house. It was quiet, with no one guarding the door. He stepped forward, reached the steps, stopped for a moment, turned, looked at the men behind him, thought, maybe … I should go alone, but no, it does not matter. They have earned it. This is something we will tell our children about. Say something to them, he thought, keep it dignified, quiet. But he saw the faces, and no one was smiling. He scanned the solemn faces, the weight of the moment keeping them all quiet, and even Sheridan removed his hat now. Grant turned, walked slowly up the steps, the sound of his boots echoing through the quiet of the house.
He passed through the door and into a hallway, did not wait. He saw Babcock off to the left, a warm room, dark, and Grant moved to the doorway, stopped, looked at three men, all standing, waiting for him.
Babcock saluted, and Grant nodded, returned it with reflex. Then he straightened, removed his hat, stepped slowly into the room. He could not help but stare at the calm dignity, the grace, of the man in the gray uniform facing him, straight and tall, the white beard not quite hiding the firm jaw, the dark weariness in the man’s eyes.
Babcock said quietly, “Sir … General Grant, may I present … General Robert E. Lee.”
Grant made a short bow, and Lee’s expression did not change. Grant realized now how well Lee was dressed, saw the red silk, the extraordinary sword. There was a quiet moment, and Grant felt something odd, something he did not expect, thought, How difficult this must be. What would this be like if it were me?
He moved closer, held out a hand, said, “General Lee, thank you for meeting with me.”
Lee did not smile, took the hand, a brief, firm grip, said, “General Grant, it is my duty … to be here.”
Grant heard footsteps behind him, saw officers slowly filling the room, lining up along the wall. Lee glanced at them, and Grant thought, Familiar faces, surely he knows some of them. He looked now at Lee’s aide, a young thin man in small round spectacles.
Lee caught the look, said, “General, may I present Colonel Charles Marshall.”
Grant nodded, and Marshall made a short bow, said quietly, barely audible, “Sir.”
The room was quiet again, the officers now still, and Grant began to realize what he was wearing. He glanced down, saw the mud on the boots, the dust on his clothes, was suddenly embarrassed, wanted to say something, realized he still held the cigar in his teeth. He slowly raised his hand, removed the cigar, said, “I hope you will forgive my appearance. I have ridden all morning to get here. There has not been time to change.… I’m not even certain where my trunk is, at the moment.” He tried to be casual, relieve the tension, th
e quiet strain in the room, but no one spoke.
Lee simply nodded, said, “Quite all right, sir.”
Grant could not take his eyes from Lee now, began to feel a growing sadness, did not know what to expect, thought, How would we ever know? We will never be in this position again. Lee’s face still was hard, firm, and Grant looked for something, some sign, but could see now, thought, No, he will give nothing, he is holding it all in. Is this his way? Or perhaps he believes this is what men must do, something about gentlemen. Grant’s mind was beginning to move now, a swirl of frustration.
“General Lee, I recall seeing you in Mexico. Perhaps you remember me? I was with the Fourth Infantry, a captain.”
Lee shook his head slowly, said, “No, I don’t recall. The Fourth … good unit. They were all good.”
Grant thought, Of course, how would he know me? How many officers did he meet? He was General Scott’s chief of staff. “Yes, all good men. It was a good fight. General Scott was, um …” He ran out of words now, frustrated again. What can I say to him about General Scott that he does not know? He glanced around, saw his men watching him, was impatient now, thought, I have never done well at this sort of thing, not even with Lincoln.
Lee now looked to the side, focused on a small oval table, said, “Perhaps, General, we should discuss the matter at hand. I have come to meet you in accordance of my letter this morning, to treat about the surrender of my army. I think the best way would be for you to put your terms in writing.”