Lee was fully awake now, said, “Thank you, Colonel. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Taylor closed the door, and Lee sat for a moment, looked over to the window, saw motion, and sharp wind in the trees, thought, They should have gone after Sherman.…
After Sherman swept him away from Atlanta, Hood insisted on gathering his army and moving north, Davis approving a plan that should have pulled Sherman up after him. Hood had been effective at harassing Sherman’s supply lines, the railroads in Sherman’s rear, all along the route toward Chattanooga. But Sherman let him go, focused instead on moving his great strength farther east. No one knew for sure what Sherman’s intentions were, but Richmond had seen value in taking the offensive, not merely nipping at Sherman’s heels. Hood continued to push northward, moved into Tennessee, finally found a hard fight at Franklin, just below Nashville, a fight that by all accounts had been a bloodbath. The Federal troops then pulled away, withdrew to the safety of the strong works at Nashville, and so Hood could claim victory. But it was costly, a disastrous loss of commanders, so many good men, struck down in front of troops that desperately needed good men.
There was value to Nashville, it was a major rail hub. If Hood had taken the city, it would have been a concern to Washington, a dangerous threat to the Ohio River. But as well as Lee knew the reckless aggressiveness of Hood, he knew the Federal commander. It was George Thomas, who had served under Lee in Texas, in the cavalry. Thomas was a Virginian who surprised Lee by staying in the old army, resisting the enormous pressure to join the forces of his home state. It was Thomas who had saved the Federal army a year ago from complete destruction by Bragg’s army, allowing Rosecrans to escape into Chattanooga. By his brilliant defense Thomas had earned the nickname the newspapers loved, the “Rock of Chickamauga.” If Thomas had now made a reputation for being somewhat slow to move, it did not matter. He was already in place, in the strong fortifications around Nashville. All he had to do was wait for Hood to move up close. Thomas had been reinforced, greatly outnumbered Hood’s exhausted and bloodied army, and so the results were predictable.
Lee moved from the bed, went to the window and held the lace aside. He looked out at tall trees, could see gray clouds beyond. He touched the pane of glass, felt the icy cold, a faint flow of air seeping into the room. Hood will be of no help now, he thought. If Thomas comes after him, he could pursue him all the way to the Gulf. But even if Thomas sits tight, Hood’s army will have used itself up. If he has been beaten badly at Nashville, forced into a rapid retreat, it means he has lost guns, left them behind. And how many good men?
He looked up at the clouds blowing over the trees, low and heavy, the light in the room now fading, a dim gray shadow. Winter, he thought. The weather has not been too bad yet, but that will change. A good hard storm, a hard freeze, the armies will sit tight for a while. Grant may be content to just hold his lines. But Sherman … there is nothing in his way, he can move in any direction. If he moves north …
Lee reached for the uniform hanging on a hook by the door and began to dress. There was a high moan, the wind swirling through the trees, and he looked out the window again, heard the panes rattle. He felt a chill, buttoned his coat, stared for a moment, saw a swirl of motion, the first wave of snowfall. Then the wind grew quiet, the snow falling softly. He knew Taylor was waiting, that outside, in the road, the wagons and the horses were moving, the clatter and hustle of headquarters. He did not move, waited a moment longer, watched the snow gathering on the window ledge and beyond, blowing softly through the tall limbs of the big trees.
CHRISTMAS 1864
MEN HAD BEEN LEAVING THE LINES EVERY NIGHT, SOME ON THEIR own, one by one, slipping away from their posts on the skirmish line, sometimes a whole section of picket line. At first the blue sharpshooters had been wary, steady fingers on tight triggers, suspicious of the ragged enemy who approached, the same men they had sought out for so long down the barrel of the musket. But there was no treachery, no fight in these rebels who came across the line, who called out in harsh whispers, who waved small pieces of white in the moonlight. They had simply had enough. Soon, the men in blue became used to it, waited for the small sounds every night, and every night more of Lee’s army slipped away, crossed over to the warm fires, the promise of a good meal.
Lee rode slowly, pulled his coat tight around him, the cold wind raising a dust cloud that swirled down through the men crouching in the shelters. He could see the faces, looking up at him from below, from the shelter of their dark holes. He saw one man stand, and Lee stopped the horse at the familiar look, the man staring up at him as the men had always looked at him. This man raised one hand in a crooked salute, and Lee could see he was shivering, his thin coat ripped at the shoulder, exposing bare skin to the wind. Lee returned the salute, the old instinct, and he wanted to say something to the man, thought, Stay low, stay warm. But there were no words, he could not speak, he felt his throat pull tightly into a knot. He raised his hand, motioned to the man, a silent gesture, sit, go back into the shelter, and the man’s voice rose faintly through the wind, his arms now wrapped around his frail body.
“General Lee, I’m hungry.”
Lee could not control it now, felt the icy wetness on his face, looked down into his gloved hands, wanted to say to the man, “Have faith, God will be here for us … God will provide.” But still there were no words. He looked at the man again, the gaunt face now turning away, and Lee saw him drop down out of sight, into the shelter. Lee turned the horse, blinked hard at the wetness in his eyes, thought, They deserve so much … and I have nothing to give them.
He knew of the desertions, the reports came to him every morning. The numbers were growing, and he knew that through the winter the numbers would grow worse. The army was extended in a line that no army had ever held, and there were fewer men to hold that line every day.
He rode back behind the lines, close to the buildings of Petersburg. He was beginning to know many of the people who were still in the town, familiar faces, the strong-willed citizens who would never accept defeat, civilians who still cheered him. He had appealed to them to give to his men what they could, but the supplies were low for them as well, the cellars and pantries as bare as the farmland around Petersburg.
He rode into the streets now, past the destruction from the Federal bombardments, broken windows, shattered walls. But the people still came forward, faces watching him from the places that could still keep them safe, voices rising from the cellars, calling out to him.
He turned a corner, saw a wagon moving toward him, drawn by one lame horse. The wagon slowed, and Lee saw an old woman, holding tight to the reins, and she said to him, “General Lee … it is a fine day, sir! It is the Lord’s day!”
Lee raised his hat slightly, made a short bow, thought, Yes, we must not forget that. “Thank you, madam. Bless you. But please, it is not safe … the Federals may start shelling the town at any time.”
The woman turned a hard eye to the east, said, “No, General, I don’t believe so. Not today.”
There was sound now, from a side street, and Lee saw another wagon, followed by an old man, walking, carrying a bundle on his shoulder. Now the sounds came from all sides, the people slowly moving toward the main road, wagons and carts, women, old men, children. Some moved by him, and he stared in amazement, looked now at the old woman.
She said, “Excuse me, General Lee. I got to be goin’.” She slapped at the old horse, who lurched, hobbled past him, and then he saw into the back of the wagon, round bundles wrapped in cloth, and the smells rose up to him, the wonderful fragrance, warm bread. He watched the wagon move away, and the others were moving by him now, and there were more smells. He felt his stomach growl, reminded of the great Sunday feasts, the bounty of Virginia.
People still called out to him, the streets busy now. He glanced to the east, felt a stab of fear, knew the big guns were watching them, hoped the old woman had been right.
The people understood that if they h
ad little, they at least had something, and so they gathered the small bits and scraps, the last hidden treasures, and loaded their wagons with whatever their kitchens could create. Lee moved the horse aside, watched the wagons and carts creaking and groaning past him, the people on foot smiling as they shifted their loads, nodding and greeting him, saw the faces filled with the spirit of their faith, of their cause.
He saw one man, younger, walking on a stiff leg, missing an arm, and Lee recognized the remnants of an old uniform, knew the man was a veteran, had been one of his own. The man’s one hand held a package, cradled it gently, and he bowed, said, “General Lee, ’tis a fine day indeed.”
Lee nodded to the man, looked at the strange bundle, saw now it was sitting on a plate. He said, “Sir, what is that?”
The man stopped, held the plate out toward Lee, said, “It’s a turkey, sir. Well, it ain’t a for-real turkey. My wife, she built it, so to speak. It’s sweet potatoes. Don’t it look like a turkey, though?”
Lee stared at the oddly shaped mass, then out to the passing carts. He felt a wave of confusion, said, “What are these people doing? Where are they going?”
The man seemed surprised at the question, said, “Why, General, sir, we’re a headin’ out to see the army. It’s Christmas. It’s time for dinner.”
34. GRANT
CHRISTMAS 1864
THE LOG HUTS WERE FINISHED, AND NOW, WITH THE WIND AND THE harsh wet cold settling over the army, the energy of headquarters became deliberate, patient, the business of running the army. There had been snow, then a melt, and the roads in all directions were a boggy mess. There were still those who tried to keep their routine—the sutlers, whose business would suffer from inactivity, and others, merchants or reporters, who would not always pay heed to the advisories from headquarters, ignored the requests for restricted movement on the roadways. The soldiers knew there would be no activity, that under these conditions there was no way to move men and machine. It had been this way from the beginning, and it was accepted by both sides that winter meant a grudging peace, at least for a while. There had been exceptions, of course. The Battle of Fredericksburg was the most notable, two years ago.
Now, Hood had made the same effort in Tennessee, fought against an ice storm that was as effective at stopping his army in its tracks as anything the Federals could have done. But the result hadn’t had as much to do with the weather as with Hood himself. With the smashing of Hood’s army, and the threat now gone from Tennessee, most of the focus would be in Virginia, and here there would be no movement until spring.
The cabin was tight and efficient, one small room in the rear, the bedroom, some privacy at least. The main room was the office and the sitting room, the tiny space for whatever important guest might require attention. At least the cabin was warm.
Grant sat quietly at the tall desk, a high cabinet divided into small compartments, cubbyholes for all manner of paperwork, orders and requests, official and informal. There were candles in each of the windows, and Julia had found pieces of colored glass so that each candle gave off a different light. He hadn’t noticed, of course, and so had to absorb her gentle scolding. Now he saw the small flickers of color, dancing slowly on the dark log walls, her touch, the one bit of her feminine hand in the stark decor of the headquarters. It was, after all, Christmas.
The children stayed below, on the river, a small steamer. Most of the time Julia was with them, but came up to visit her husband when there was time, when the workdays were shorter, the nights free of the tedious detail of command. Tonight she was there, but it was very late, and she’d given up waiting for him, had been asleep for a while.
The door closed carefully, the aide backing out slowly, very aware that Mrs. Grant was sleeping. Grant sat at the desk, took the telegram apart, unfolded the paper, read it slowly, ran his finger over each word. Now he was smiling, beaming, felt suddenly like a small child. He wanted to cheer, to yell out something, to burst out into the cold night and wake up the whole army. The wire was not even addressed to him, had been forwarded from Washington, directly from the President. It was a message from Sherman, received by Lincoln on Christmas eve.
I beg to present you as a Christmas gift, the city of Savannah …
Sherman had done it, had cut himself off from his supplies, moved across Georgia all the way to the Atlantic. Grant was still smiling, thought of those people in Washington—Halleck, Stanton—the great outcries, predictions of disaster, how Sherman’s plan would end in catastrophe, the suicide of his army, starvation, capture, desertion. Grant had refused to listen to that talk, knew Sherman too well, understood what could be gained, what a success could mean, and now what the success did mean.
He thought of Lincoln then, the smile on the rugged face, thought, Yes, this is your doing. If not for you, if you did not give me the authority, if it was up to those people in Washington, it would never have happened. Sherman would be bogged down somewhere around Atlanta, taking small pieces of punishment from Hood’s army, and he might as well be in a prison. But now Hood was destroyed, no longer a part of the war, and Sherman’s sixty-five thousand men were on the coast, healthy and jubilant, waiting for their next move. Grant stared at the last bit of flame on one of the candles, a small dot of red reflected on the window. You already know, my friend, the next move will be north.
The plan had been kept secret, and no one knew just where Sherman would end up, where his army, cut off from communication, would suddenly appear. There had been speculation that he would move south, toward Mobile, or even Jacksonville. Some had believed the march was just a ruse, that he still would turn and go back to Tennessee, to pursue Hood from behind. The papers in Richmond did not believe that Sherman would simply pack up and go, with little concern over Hood’s great invasion northward. It was considered pure foolishness that Hood could be allowed a free hand in Tennessee, an extraordinary mistake that would surely result in a major breakthrough for the man from Texas, who everyone knew was determined to make a fight. But it was exactly that determination that gave confidence to Sherman’s plan.
Hood was looking for anyone, anywhere, to throw his army against, whatever enemy he could find. Nashville was a ripe target, but Sherman guarded it with the most stubborn defender in the Federal army. Hood’s invasion north was exactly what Sherman, and Grant, had hoped for. With Hood out of Georgia, moving straight toward the massed guns of George Thomas’s defenses, Sherman had no one to slow him down, no force of rebels large enough to even attract his attention. The small numbers of Georgia militia, men who stayed close to their homes, could only pick and stab at this great blue wave that rolled through their state.
If neither Washington nor Richmond knew exactly where Sherman was going, it was clear that he was forsaking his own lines of supply for what he could take from the land. That was the greatest fear in Washington, that once Sherman was cut off, any delay, any obstacle, could cause him to use up whatever food was in reach. There were short memories in the capital, but not at City Point. Grant had done this before, made the march years ago, Winfield Scott’s great trek across Mexico, cut off from everything but the goal in front of him. There was no difference now.
There were newspapers on the small table by the window, and he stood now, would read the one column again, the amazing hostility, the vicious attack on the army. It was not a southern paper, but one from New York. It had always been the voice of opposition to Lincoln, but this time the writing was not endless rhetoric about politics and economics, topics of interest to almost no one; this time the attacks were leveled directly at the army, and directly at William T. Sherman. Grant held the paper up to the light, read the words, focused on the amazing descriptions. The article quoted the governor of Georgia and the representatives in Richmond. They were howling mad, claimed the worst kind of barbarism was sweeping across the state, that what Sherman was doing was little more than raping the land, burning and looting the farms and towns of the innocent. Grant turned slightly, let the lamplight
wash over one paragraph, one sentence in particular.
Wars are the exclusive property of the men who fight, and should never injure the innocent civilian.
He had read that the first time with astonishment, read it now with disgust. He put the paper down. Innocent? he thought. Where is the line? Does the man who works in the munitions factory differ from the man who grows the food? Do they not both support the ability to fight a war? He knew how Sherman saw this, how Sherman had responded to the indignant civilians, the small-town politicians who protested his method of war. His response had opened something in Grant’s mind, something Grant had not considered. Sherman had told them: If you are not affected, if you are not hurt by what we do, then you will not do anything to stop it. The war will simply continue. As long as it is just the soldiers, these barbaric men with guns who kill each other, as long as the damage is far away, the destruction and death out of your sight, then no amount of hand-wringing and moral outrage will make it end. If you are affected, if your farms, your crops are destroyed, your neat buildings in your perfect towns burned to the ground, then there will be a reason to stop this. War is not tidy, it is not convenient, it is everywhere, it has to be felt by everyone.
Grant had not thought of that, had always assumed you won the war by winning the battle, your guns against their guns. But now he realized that so much had changed, not just the ground, where the war was fought, but how. The horror of what was written about, the accounts of the bloody fields, the horrible numbers of casualties, were commonplace now, drifting through headquarters as another piece of the daily routine. The angry reports of Sherman’s march were in the southern papers first, as though Sherman himself had somehow changed the war, brought some surprising and outrageous barbarism to this gentlemen’s disagreement. Grant thought of his friend, the manic energy, thought, Yes, I have no doubt he has been efficient, completely efficient. But if he is a barbarian, then what about the rest of us?
The Civil War Trilogy: Gods and Generals / the Killer Angels / the Last Full Measure Page 131
