The Civil War Trilogy: Gods and Generals / the Killer Angels / the Last Full Measure

by Michael Shaara

  He paused, reached into his coat pocket, brought out a folded piece of paper, handed it to Grant.

  “Here, that’s my speech, that’s what I’m going to say. I thought you should have some warning. My guess is, you don’t dwell long and hard on grand public pronouncements. Neither do I. But you know they’ll all be waiting for your profound thanks, how undeserving you are, all that. Especially those folks with the ruffled feathers, they’ll look for you to toss them a fat piece of humble pie.”

  Grant opened the paper, scanned the words, was relieved to see only a few lines.

  “I understand, sir. Thank you. I’ll think of something … appropriate.”

  “Don’t give it any more effort than you feel comfortable doing. It’s not the words that mean anything. The Secretary of War will hand you a piece of paper that says you are a lieutenant general. There is a great deal of power in that … beyond the ceremony, beyond my speech, beyond what the newspapers make of it. How you use that power will likely determine if this nation survives. I am a great believer … no, let me put it another way. I have a great love for the Constitution. It is the thing I live for, it is the reason I sit here in this chair.” He paused, then said, “The wisdom in those words, the power of an idea, how man should govern his affairs, how humanity should respect itself … it is what separates us from the caveman, from thousands of years of the select few making all the decisions for the rest of us. If we allow this rebellion to succeed—if we do not hold those ideas together for our children—then we sink back to the Dark Ages. We might as well send the Queen of England an apology for all the trouble we caused, ask if they will take us back. And we will deserve no better.”

  Lincoln leaned forward in his chair, and Grant felt the dark eyes pressing into him. He absorbed the words, felt the great weight, the enormous sadness.

  Lincoln said in a low voice, “This is all so … new, the idea of one nation treating all of its citizens the same, that we do not divide ourselves into classes. I made a speech … last November, you may have read about it, the dedication of the National Cemetery at Gettysburg. It bedeviled me for the longest time … the first words … how to begin that, how to express that very thought, our youth. Europeans measure their history in centuries. The Chinese, my God, their system has been around for thousands of years. It is no wonder that this union, this precocious child of a country, is having such problems. There is so little to guide us, no example we can follow, we have no one to turn to except ourselves. The Constitution … this new idea … has been around for less than a century.”

  He paused, shook his head. “Four score … I don’t usually go for the poetic.”

  Grant nodded, had heard of the speech, the few short minutes that so many were now quoting, had been surprised at the controversy in the newspapers, the opinions and politics swirling around that little speech like a hurricane. He thought of Washington. No, this is not where I want to be.

  Lincoln looked at his hands, turned them over, flexed his long fingers, said in a low voice, “Perhaps we are simply arrogant, perhaps we have not earned the respect … perhaps the rest of the world should not take us seriously. But if we succeed, if we can end this rebellion and bring ourselves back together again, if we prove that this system works … we become a threat. What then will stop others, anywhere people allow themselves to think, people who do not wish to suffer under someone else’s domination, who can use us for inspiration? What will stop this system from spreading all over the world? Can you imagine that, Mr. Grant? Can you imagine the power of that? I’m guessing there are many—call them what you will, kings, monarchs, despots—listening to reports of our war, staring out the windows of their enormous palaces, wondering if there is not some John Adams or Ben Franklin or George Washington somewhere out there, someone who will rise up out of muddy fields or the oppression of some small village and sweep them away.” He looked at Grant, sat back in the chair, shook his head again.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Grant. I am somewhat of an idealist. Some around here think I’m something of a lunatic. Comes with the job, I expect.”

  Grant said, “Quite all right, sir. I do understand the value … what we are fighting to keep. It’s more than just the oath I took, or the rally around the flag.”

  Lincoln sat up straight, and Grant saw the flash of fire. Lincoln pounded a heavy hand on the table. “Yes, Mr. Grant. I have no doubt of that. I also have no doubt that you are aware that if we do not win this war—if we do not show the world that this system can work, that we can build a nation and manage our affairs from the power of an idea written on a piece of paper—then that idea will die out. And it must not die out. If we lose this war, something of great value will be lost with it. History will record that the idea did not work, that our piece of paper did not carry the power of a monarchy, the Constitution was not as efficient as the power of an elite ruling class, that it is acceptable for one class of human being to possess and dominate another. There is a significance to this that goes far beyond our borders, and far beyond our time.”

  Lincoln pushed back the chair, stood up, held out a hand, and Grant saw the hard glare in the eyes giving way to something softer, the warmth returning. Grant stood, took the hand, and Lincoln said, “And now, the matter is in your hands. Take good care, Mr. Grant.”

  THE TENTS WERE IN THE DISTANCE, UP A LONG RISE. SPREAD around were the smaller tents of the army, a vast sea of white. Beyond, in the wide fields, the regiments were at drill, neat blue squares, flags, and the bright reflection from raised muskets. He rode with his staff now, a long cigar clamped in his mouth, the gray smoke swirling up and around the neat beard. Beside him was John Rawlins, a thin anxious man who never stopped moving, seemed to search the countryside, each turn of the road, each small rise, always alert. Grant smiled, thought, He’s always waiting for something bad to happen. Grant had known Rawlins from the beginning of the war, the first organization of the regiments in Illinois. To the rest of the staff, the two men were a perfect blend—they were complete opposites.

  Grant stared ahead, saw now the headquarters flag. Out in front, his security guard, a small squad of cavalry, reached the picket outpost, a small hut with no windows. A man in blue moved out into the road, then two more men emerged from the hut, watching the riders approach. The cavalry captain leaned over, said something Grant could not hear. Now several more of the guards appeared, moved into the road, all staring at Grant. There was a hushed shout, and quickly they jumped to attention, muskets hard on their shoulders. The cavalrymen moved aside, lined the edge of the road, and their captain saluted as Grant moved close. Grant saw the stripes on one sleeve, the sergeant of the guard, the man stiff and straight, and Grant reined the horse to a halt, said nothing, waited for Rawlins.

  Rawlins said, “Sergeant, might we find General Meade on this road?”

  The man stepped forward, still at attention, tried to keep his eyes to the front, but turned just slightly, stared up at Grant with his mouth open.

  Rawlins said, “I say, Sergeant! Might we find—”

  “Yes sir! Straight ahead, sir! The large flagpole … follow that, sir!”

  They moved on, and Grant could hear the whispers now, the cavalrymen dismounting, the guards questioning, curious.

  Rawlins said, “General, I will have a word with that sergeant. He should have kept his eyes to the front. We are not here to provide for their amusement.”

  Grant saw the large flag, a slow quiet slap against the tall wood pole, said, “This is a different army, Colonel. They are entitled to be curious about their new commander.”

  Rawlins slumped, said, “They think we are all backwoodsmen. That’s all I hear. They think just because we come from the West, we have no … refinement.”

  Grant smiled, said nothing, thought of Mary Lincoln’s strange compliment, a bit less refinement. “And what have we heard about them, Colonel? City boys with soft hands. It’s natural, a bit of rivalry. Up to now it’s been two wars, two armies, two different pe
rsonalities.”

  “But we’re not ruffians and heathens, sir!”

  Grant smiled, still watched the flag. “Not all of us.”

  He saw the larger tents now, and men began to gather, snapping to attention. Grant stopped the horse, and an orderly stepped forward, a young private with no right arm. The man saluted with his left hand, held it, stared silently ahead.

  Grant returned the salute, and the young man said, “If you will permit me, sir … I will take your horse.”

  Grant looked at the man’s uniform, felt suddenly awkward, and he climbed down, stared at the boy’s empty sleeve, thought, They are not all soft.

  He looked around, realized now that many men had quietly moved closer, watching him, and no one spoke.

  Rawlins stepped forward, scanned the uniforms for rank, said, “You … Major, this is General Grant. We are seeking General Meade.”

  The man was looking at Grant now, said, “Yes, sir. Welcome, sir. General Meade is back here, in his tent—”

  “I’m right behind you, Major.”

  Grant saw Meade emerge from the tent, his wide black hat clamped down on his head. Meade stepped through the men, moved up to Grant, saluted. Grant returned the salute, saw Meade quickly scan him up and down with the look of a man whose stomach hurts. Meade said, “Welcome to the Army of the Potomac, General.”

  Grant nodded, glanced at the men watching him. “Thank you, General. This is Colonel Rawlins, my chief of staff.” He turned to Rawlins, said, “Colonel, I wish to speak to General Meade. Introduce yourself and the rest of the staff to General Meade’s people. Get acquainted.”

  Rawlins snapped his boots together, exaggerated formality, and said, “Yes sir! Right away, sir!”

  Grant looked at him for a brief moment, thought, This may be more difficult than I thought. We have no need for posturing. He looked at Meade again, saw the same sour expression, and a small hint of impatience. Grant said, “General, might we have a word?”

  Meade turned, held out an arm toward his tent, said flatly, “At your convenience, General. After you.”

  Grant moved to the tent, Meade followed him, and Grant stopped, looked back at Rawlins, who was still standing stiffly. “Colonel … at ease.”

  He moved into the tent, saw two chairs, a small desk. He sat in the smaller chair, leaned back, removed his hat, laid it on his knee, pointed to the larger chair, said, “General, please, take a seat. It isn’t necessary for us to be … so formal. The air in this camp is thick enough as it is.”

  Meade sat, kept his hat on, said, “General Grant, this army is quite familiar with your successes in the West. Your promotion was applauded, by this command as much as anyone’s. I hope you are able to do what Washington expects you to do. We all hope for that.”

  There was no enthusiasm in Meade’s voice, and there was a silent moment. Grant said, “I assure you … there will be a fundamental change in the way we operate. Washington … the President is aware of the failure of the policy of allowing each army to operate independent of the others. There has been no coordination, no plan that involves all theaters of activity. That will change.”

  There was another silent moment, and Meade said, “I welcome … any changes the commanding general may wish to make. We have already made many changes here. I have tried to put the best men where they need to be. We have some good men in this army, the best … the best in the East. I am certain the general has his own strong feelings about his commanders in the West.”

  Grant felt suddenly annoyed. “General Meade, may we dispense with the rehearsed speeches? I don’t care to be referred to in the third person.”

  Meade seemed surprised, glanced at Grant’s hat, removed his own, put it on the desk, ran his fingers around the rim, and Grant saw something new in his face, relief. Meade said, “Then sir, if I may say—”

  “Yes, General, you may say whatever you please.”

  “Thank you, sir. Washington has made it clear that they place little value on the ability of the Army of the Potomac to hold its own with your people in the West. There is the feeling in this camp that the Secretary, even the President, has sent you here to teach us how to fight. If my people seem a bit testy … it’s because they don’t care to be judged against your … against the army in the West. These men have fought some pretty hard fights. We haven’t always done as well as we might have, but it is not the men. Washington must pass judgment on my leadership. I am prepared for that. But there has been a great deal of reorganization since Gettysburg. It has been my priority to put the best commanders where they can do the most good. We do have good people in this army. Good commanders are good commanders no matter where they happen to be fighting. This army sits under the shadow of Washington, and Washington can be … impatient. Most of what they know of your command is what they see on paper. Here, a week doesn’t pass without some bloated dignitary parading through the camp asking my people how long it will take us to end this war. They go back to Washington and tell the newspapers we are sitting around doing nothing while our enemies boast of their great victories.” Meade stood now, put his hat on his head, and Grant sat back, waited.

  “Forgive me, sir. But if I don’t … if you don’t hear this now, you may never hear it. You may find out the hard way. The enemy here is not the enemy out West. I know something of command. Robert E. Lee is not Pemberton, he is not Bragg. No disrespect … your success out West is to be commended. But what flows through here from Washington, all we have been hearing is that we only need General Grant, and old Bobby Lee will turn tail. Well, sir, now you are here. Now you will find out what this army has known for a long time. It will take more than a few new corps commanders to march us into Richmond!” Meade was red-faced, breathing heavily.

  Grant pointed to the chair, said, “Thank you, General. Please sit down.”

  Meade seemed surprised, looked at the chair and sat. Grant reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a cigar, then another pocket, moved deliberately, pulled out a small metal box, and Meade could see a piece of flint, Grant now striking it against a piece of steel. The sparks began to ignite a twist of cloth, and there was a plume of black smoke, the cloth began to burn, and Grant slowly lit the cigar. Meade watched him intently, seemed to calm down, and Grant held out the cigar, looked at it, said, “I don’t know many of your people, but that will change. Some of the names are familiar, I knew some of them at the Point, some in Mexico. What I am depending on is coordination, that your army will work with the forces in the West. General Sherman has succeeded me in command of those forces, and I will be informing both of you what our new campaign will involve.”

  He stopped, saw Meade’s expression change, saw surprise. “What is it, General?”

  Meade removed his hat again, looked down. “Forgive me, sir, but it was my assumption that this command … that I would not be a part of your plans. It is no secret that the President has been impatient with my efforts.”

  “General Meade, you were in Mexico. Do you recall how rumors affected the army then?”

  Meade looked at Grant now, and Grant could see the memories, Meade’s own experiences in Mexico, coming back to him. Meade said, “We were cut off from the coast, from Washington, from everybody. General Scott’s decision … to move the army inland on its own … we went through a different panic every night.” Meade smiled now, the first change in his expression. “There were supposed to be ten thousand Mexicans waiting for us around every turn.”

  Grant nodded, smiled as well. “And behind us, and above us … Santa Anna was on top of every mountain, every water hole was poisoned, they moved like ghosts in the night.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, absorbed the sudden rush of memories. But Grant focused, pushed the thoughts of Mexico away, looked at Meade, and Meade was serious again, said, “I had thought the reports were reliable … that General Sherman would be assuming command of this army.”

  Grant was surprised, said, “Really? And where are you going? Tennessee?” G
rant felt a sudden twinge of impatience.

  Meade said, “I assumed … because of Washington’s lack of enthusiasm for my performance … I would be relieved. I would only request … that you inform me without delay. Washington has always had a policy of dragging these things out, letting the commanders … sweat a bit. There seems to be some delight on the part of the Secretary to maintain suspense, and General Halleck has a habit of launching surprise attacks on his subordinates.”

  Grant felt a surge of anger, thought of Halleck, took a deep breath. “There is no surprise attack here. I have no intention of replacing you. We cannot run this army by trial and error. I know your record, I know how you command. I have no doubt you will continue to serve this army well. I have experienced the impatience of the Secretary. He makes grand judgments based on what he reads, not what he sees. And General Halleck is now …” He paused, had not thought of this before, of all the implications of his promotion. “General Halleck is now my subordinate. What pleases Washington is no longer to be your concern. What pleases me …” He paused, thought of his own words, felt the anger slip away, was suddenly embarrassed, surprised at himself. “Perhaps I should say that differently.…”

  Meade slapped his hand hard on the desk. “No sir! You have made yourself quite clear. I am greatly relieved to hear that. We heard … the word was that your promotion might be … political. Something … for the newspapers to play with. I had thought, if you moved to Washington, you would probably …” He paused. “You would probably become one of them.”

  Grant looked at the cigar again, said, “I have been advised to maintain my headquarters in Washington. I have no intention of doing so. I had thought … perhaps I would go back out West, Nashville. But General Sherman knows me well, he knows what I expect of him, and he knows his opponent there. Here … it is different. I believe you are correct about General Lee. How we deal with your opponent will determine the outcome of the war.”