19. LEE
June 1862
HE ENTERED his office, saw Taylor behind his desk, thumbing through a stack of letters. The new title that had been given to Lee, Military Adviser to the President, a title with nothing of significance attached, no real duty other than remaining near Davis, also provided for promotions for his staff. Taylor had received a commission of Major.
Lee paused, watched the young man, smiled at the quick movements, the efficiency. He is just a boy, Lee thought, and he’s a major. It took me nearly twenty years. . . .
“Oh, good morning, sir. You’re early, I didn’t expect you this soon.”
“Good morning, Major. Any news? Anything from General Johnston’s headquarters?”
“Sorry, sir, nothing. I spoke this morning with some men from General Hood’s brigade . . . Texans.”
Lee smiled, could not hide the reaction to the name, saw the huge man, John Bell Hood, the bright blond hair and beard, the only man Lee knew from his days in the cavalry who actually liked it there, chasing impossibly elusive Indians through the suffocating dust.
“You certain it was General Hood’s men?”
“Yes, sir. They came from Seven Pines, sir.”
“Seven Pines? So, our army is closer still.”
“Yes, sir. They told of being whipped at Williamsburg, said General McClellan had pushed them out of the trenches at Fort Magruder.”
“They said that? We have abandoned Williamsburg?”
“Yes, sir. They didn’t know much else, so I talked to some others, and they said pretty much the same thing. McClellan is apparently hot on their heels.”
Lee turned, went to his window, expected to hear something, cannon, some sign. There was no sound. He thought, This is madness. McClellan has never been hot on anybody’s heels. And did Davis know this, know of losing Williamsburg?
“Major, I am going to take a ride. It is not necessary to inform anyone in what direction I am riding.”
Taylor was puzzled. “Direction . . . ?”
“Major, I can no longer stay here and endure General Johnston’s silence.”
Lee heard the heavy sound of boots in the hall, then a young man, Major Marshall, another boy with the new responsibility of a senior officer, entered. Marshall stopped, startled to see Lee, and saluted, jarring his wire-rimmed glasses to one side.
“General, sir. Please forgive me for being late, sir.”
He glanced at Taylor, asked quickly under his breath, “Am I late?”
Lee’s mind was moving ahead, beyond the office, and he stepped toward the door, put a hand on Marshall’s shoulder. “Let’s go, Major, we’re taking a ride.”
Marshall trailed after Lee, then turned back to Taylor, still confused. Taylor laughed, seeing the young man’s awkward expression, waved him away with a loud whisper, “Good luck on your mission, Major!”
THEY WERE not far from the city when they came upon the first troops, men of Gustavus Smith’s brigades. The men were down, lying about in large clusters, trying to avoid the vast patches of thick mud from the hard rains that had soaked these swamps the last few days.
Lee and Marshall rode on, passed more resting troops, then reached an intersection where a large building was identified with a makeshift sign, THE OLD TAVERN. Across from the tavern was a farmhouse, and Lee stopped, saw horses, officers moving in and out. To the east, in the distance, he heard the sound, the soft rumble of artillery, then a steady rattle, a flow of musket fire.
“This way, Major.”
Lee dismounted by the horses, and the men coming from the house stopped and gave a surprised salute. Lee led the young man in, looked through a doorway into one of the rooms and saw staff officers, Johnston’s men. He motioned to Marshall to wait there, and the young man went in. Lee moved away from the pleasantries shared by officers who did not dirty their uniforms. He went toward the other doorway, peered in, and saw Joe Johnston.
Johnston looked up, did not stand, and Lee felt the tension, the dense air of trouble. He saw Gustavus Smith, nodded, and Smith made a quick unsmiling acknowledgment. There was a third man, General Whiting, another Johnston favorite, another quick nod. There had been no talking, and Lee sensed he had not caused an interruption. The men sat apart, did not face each other.
Lee broke the silence. “General, have you heard the firing?”
Johnston looked up, and Lee saw nothing in the eyes, a cold stillness. He made a quick wave with his hand. “Some artillery. Nothing to be concerned about.”
Surely he has heard the muskets, Lee thought. He saw an empty chair, sat down, and still no one spoke, no attempt at conversation. Lee waited, had not expected this kind of reception. He studied Johnston, who did not look at him, did not look at anything, sat staring at the floor.
From outside there was the sound of a horse, a shout, and through the house came a burst of noise, a courier, who stopped in the doorway and began a frantic recital of his message: “General, sir, General Longstreet offers his compliments and wishes to report that he is engaged with the enemy and is moving them back. He requests with some urgency that the general provide support on his left flank.”
Johnston rose, passed quickly by Lee and was gone, then the others were up, and Lee heard Johnston call to his staff. There was a flurry of activity, men running for horses, and in a few seconds Lee was alone. He still had no idea what was going on.
He walked outside, found Marshall watching the men leave, and then from up the road, from the west, the road to Richmond, he saw a group of men and a familiar rider. It was President Davis, who rode closer, spotted Lee and smiled; in a good mood, Lee saw, which was strange.
“Well, General, I see you have also decided to use the direct approach with Joe Johnston. Have you learned what is happening? I hear musket fire.”
Lee could still see Johnston in the distance, and Johnston looked back, then spurred his horse and rounded a bend, out of sight.
“Mr. President, it appears that General Johnston has a full schedule today. He did not take the time to reveal his plans.”
“Yes, well, I know he saw me, I watched him leave. I suppose we have no choice but to follow along. Would you please accompany me, General?”
The men rode down a muddy road through thick woods. Troops were moving up on all sides, and Lee saw the flags, the units from Hood’s brigade. He looked about, hoped to see their commander, but the woods were too thick, and Lee knew it would not be a good time for conversation. From straight down the road came a sudden burst of musket fire, and in the distance smoke began to rise.
Davis pointed, said, “That’s Fair Oaks.”
Now cannon fire began to slice the air, heavy thunder poured toward them, and Lee knew the sound: Federal guns.
They rode forward, staying on the road, then came to a wide-open field filled with lines of moving men. To their front the woods turned thick again, and they watched the lines move forward, disappearing into the thick mass. Smoke began to fill the open spaces, and Lee heard units coming together, men screaming in confusion, officers trying to direct the lines, and he knew this was not good, there was no order.
After a few minutes men began to pile out of the woods, filling the road. Lee saw a flag: Texas, more of Hood’s men. The firing had moved away now, farther down the road. Lee saw an officer, a colonel, and yelled to him, “What are your orders?”
The man rode closer, saw Davis, saluted and shouted back, “We cannot locate General Longstreet’s flank, it is too thick. I’m trying . . . the men cannot fight through these woods!” The man saluted again, rode quickly away, tried to push his horse back into the trees.
The cannon fire continued in uneven bursts, and the daylight began to fade until the trees became a solid gray wall. Lee knew it would not go on much longer. Davis was speaking to the troops, a crowd had begun to gather around them, and then the wounded began to appear, carried out of the woods, and the sounds of battle were replaced with the cries of the men.
There was nothi
ng left for them to do. Soon they would see the commanders and there would be answers to the confusion. Through the soldiers that crowded the road came a horseman, yelling, waving his hat, an officer Lee had just seen, one of Johnston’s men. The foot soldiers cleared a path, and he rode closer.
“Sirs, General Johnston is wounded,” he shouted. “They are bringing him . . . there.” The man pointed across the open field, where the smoke was beginning to clear.
Johnston was carried by two of his staff, who laid him down under a tree as Davis and Lee rode up. Davis jumped down, kneeled, put his hands on Johnston’s shoulders, and Lee stayed back, watched from behind. There were shells still falling, mostly in the distance, and Lee could not hear the men speaking, but he saw Johnston’s face, saw he was awake.
Davis turned and glanced at Lee, said something to Johnston, then mounted his horse. “We must find General Smith. He is in command now.”
They began to move back toward the farmhouse, would wait for the officers to come together, out of the dark.
Gustavus Smith was already at the house when they arrived and went inside. Smith was pacing, a manic display. “There was no . . . communication. I had no idea what we were . . . Longstreet was not on the road. . . .”
Davis did not speak, and Lee stepped forward, said to Smith, “What was General Johnston’s plan?”
Smith stopped moving, looked at Lee, glanced past to Davis, said, “General, I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”
Smith began to pace again, looked at Davis, then Lee. “Where are my men? What do we do now?” He turned to Lee, and Lee saw a wildness in his eyes, a man not in control. “What do we do now? The men are all over. The Federals are right . . . out there!”
Lee backed away and followed Davis outside. Davis mounted his horse, motioned to him.
“General, would you please ride with me?”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
They rode slowly through the dark. The sounds of the wounded filled the woods, and small flickers of light were moving about. Lee could smell the mud, the rain, knew the weather was again turning wet. Good, he thought. It would slow down the troops, swell the rivers. There would be time to regroup, to make new plans.
They moved farther from the troops, toward the west, closer now to the city, and the signs of battle were gone. The only sounds were those of horses stepping through the thick mud.
Davis had his head down. Lee thought he was sleeping. Abruptly, Davis sat up straight, leaned toward Lee and said, “General Johnston is not mortally wounded. He will survive.”
“I’m relieved to hear that, sir. He is a valuable man.”
“Maybe. He is a good soldier. I am not sure he is a good commander.”
Lee didn’t answer. They rode in silence again, and Lee began to think back, to drift away, Johnston in Mexico, at West Point, the fiery temper, which would give way to a quick joke, a big laugh.
“General, I am placing you in command of the army.”
Lee was jolted from his thoughts. “Sir?”
“This army needs the right man to lead it. These men . . . they want to fight. I have no doubt you are the man to give the commands . . . make the decisions.”
Lee felt his heart pound, looked at Davis through the dark, tried to see, to be sure. Davis said nothing else, and Lee took a long, deep breath, said, “Sir, I will do my best.”
They rode on, toward the dark shapes of Richmond, the horses moving in a slow rhythm. Lee stared at the flickering lights, distant lamps and streetlights. His mind was turning, moving beyond the night to the days ahead. It began to rain then, a steady, cool mist, but he did not notice, was deep into thought, and feeling very, very good.
PART
TWO
20. LEE
July 1862
IT HAD been just seven days, the last of June and the first few days of July. Each day had brought a new fight, at places they would remember as Frayser’s Farm and Gaines Mill, Mechanicsville and Malvern Hill. The armies fought and struggled and moved about and made blind and stupid mistakes and brilliant and heroic attacks, and for both sides the losses had been staggering. But now McClellan had pulled his army back down the peninsula, away from Richmond, and in Washington his political enemies had their day. He had not taken Richmond, despite fighting battle after battle, though he had not once been truly defeated or even driven from the field. McClellan had pulled away by his own choice, backing toward the safety of the big gunboats, escaping from demons that Lee did not command.
Lee knew he had missed an opportunity, that McClellan in his retreat had repeatedly left himself open to assaults at a variety of places, but Lee had discovered his own army’s weakness, his reliance on his commanders, and those commanders had not always been up to the task. Troop movement was inconsistent, communications were poor, attacks had been uncoordinated. The great weakness of choosing generals through politics had shown itself, and now, with McClellan tightly bound away from Richmond, Lee finally had both the authority and the breathing space to reorganize the army.
His headquarters was at the home of an old woman, the widow Dabbs, whose large house sat in the midst of an old, underused farm. His office was one of the smaller rooms, at the back of the house, and he had his own entrance so he could go outside when he chose, to slip away when he needed the rest or to just take a short walk.
The room reminded him of his office at Fort Mason, small and plain, the low ceiling and close walls, with one small window, but outside, he faced a stand of thick trees, saw the rolling green hills he loved. Beyond, the narrow, soft roads led out toward the bloody fields.
It had been a long day, couriers moving rapidly in and out, officers moving through the little office in a steady stream. Major Taylor had learned, had grown into the job, and Lee was grateful for the endless flood of minute details Taylor handled, diverting them from his attention.
For the first time, the army began to acquire an identity. Johnston had commanded units that he felt were his alone. Other generals not directly associated with Johnston’s command, such as Magruder, incorporated their own aura of political importance to the running of their commands. Thus, the army had been a group of smaller armies, where coordination and communication was a matter of both ego and convenience. Lee understood the necessity of eliminating the independence of division commanders, and thus formed a system over which he had more control, and more confidence. Longstreet had been the backbone of the Seven Days’ battles, had shown an ability to both move his troops and carry the fight, and Lee felt an instinctive trust for his abilities. Jackson had not performed as well during the series of fights, but Lee knew him well enough to know that given a specific task, there was no one who would move forward with more energy or ruthlessness. These qualities persuaded him to place Longstreet and Jackson in command of two large wings, bringing the various division and brigade commanders closer together and under his central authority. Others, men who simply had no place leading large numbers of troops, were removed, delegated to commands in distant fronts, out of harm’s way.
The most immediate difference between Lee and Johnston, however, came in Lee’s communications with Davis. Lee sent a continuing stream of messages to the President, kept him informed all through the Seven Days, and now passed along messages of all kinds, from important command decisions to the more mundane. Lee knew this would put Davis in a better frame of mind, and though Davis insisted on providing him with constant advice, Lee knew that simply by the existence of the open lines, Davis would convince himself he was still in tight control, while Lee did his job in his own way.
In Washington, the administration had heard enough of McClellan’s strange logic, and the general’s paranoia about those who conspired against him became reality. He was relieved of command, and the Army of the Potomac was given to General John Pope.
21. CHAMBERLAIN
July 1862
THE UNIFORMS were fresh and blue and sharply creased, and most seemed to fit their wearers we
ll, but occasionally the taller boys or the shorter would self-consciously glance at their too-short pants legs or the sleeves that rode down over their hands. They marched down the main street, and people came out from the shops to watch and admire. There had been no great patriotic fever in Brunswick, no loud breathers of fire, abolitionist orators, radical Unionists screaming out from soapboxes, but these boys, this new company of clean-faced boys, the sons of the shopkeepers and bankers and longshoremen, the boys who had responded to the calls for volunteers, stirred something in them, brought them together in a new way, and so they watched quietly as the slightly uneven lines paraded by.
Chamberlain had come into town to see the tailor. He now carried his package, a bundle of new shirts, all crisp and white and neatly folded, encased in a tight wrapping of brown paper. He tossed the parcel up onto the seat of the small carriage, began to pull himself up, and heard a drumbeat, a rhythmic pounding that surprised him. Then he saw the line of blue rounding the corner a block away. There was a flag, held up high by a boy in front of the line, and beside him was the drummer, who bounced the drum awkwardly in front of him, suspended by a thin strap around his neck, somehow maintaining the steady beat. Chamberlain climbed up into the carriage, sat sideways on the small seat and waited, saw the townspeople now, the small crowd gathering along the edge of the street. Then he saw the flag, a bright red A on a blank field of blue. They marched four abreast, and the line stretched back, still emerging from around the corner. He began to count, and made a quick guess, maybe two hundred. They reached him and passed at a deliberate march, the drummer setting the pace. He saw the faces, felt a cold thump in his chest; they were the faces of children.
The Civil War Trilogy: Gods and Generals / the Killer Angels / the Last Full Measure Page 23
