by Jeff Shaara
Davis looked at Lee, who had known this moment would come. There had been rumors, even mention in the Richmond papers that Lee would go west, take command of Bragg's shattered army. There was something ominous about Grant, something new, a deadly efficiency that the southern commanders had not faced before. To many, it was only logical that Lee be the one to confront him, the best man to face what was beginning to be the most dangerous threat. But it was not a duty Lee wanted.
Davis sat back in the chair again, rubbed his head with his hand, said, "We are not... in a position of strength. The Europeans know that... the people know that. Certainly the enemy knows that."
Lee nodded, said, "Yes, I imagine he does." Davis still rubbed his head, and Lee saw his face twisting, feeling the pain of the headache.
"General, are you the man we need? Are you willing... to replace General Bragg?"
Lee settled into the chair, took a deep breath and said, "I am willing to serve wherever you assign me." He watched Davis's face, the deep eyes now looking at him. Davis nodded, said nothing.
"But, I believe there are others who are more suited for that command. It is not likely that the Army of Tennessee would perform well for a commander they did not know."
Davis put his hands on the desk, did not show surprise at Lee's response.
Lee said, "General Meade is still in Virginia. I believe that he is still the greater threat, certainly to Richmond. And we are still the greatest threat to Washington. The war, ultimately, must be won... here. The Army of Northern Virginia is familiar with my command. I do not believe they would respond well to a major change in command. They are accustomed to... things as they are now."
Davis smiled, said, "I should have had you here to talk to those Frenchmen. You have always been a fine diplomat."
Lee let out a breath, felt great relief. He had thought Davis might order him west no matter what he said.
Davis looked at the clutter of paper on his desk, shuffled through it, read. Lee had seen this before, knew the matter had passed, that they would now move on. Davis read from a page, rubbed one hard finger idly against his temple, said, "Well, now, General, if your army requires that you stay in Virginia, we must provide someone equally inspiring to the Army of Tennessee...
The HOUSE WAS FILLED WITH CHRISTMAS, BRIGHT RIBBONS streaming around the windows, candles casting small shadows. He heard the voices in back, happy sounds flowing through the dark hallways, and he stopped in the dim light of the parlor, looked at the wheelchair still sitting in the corner of the room. He smelled the pine branches, sharp and familiar. He looked at the dark needles, and the smell was of the woods... the camps. He was suddenly very sad, still listened to the voices, stood quietly in the dim light of the room, tried to feel what they were feeling, the joy in the sounds, the holiday. But there was no holiday in the camps of the army. It was just a pause in time, the wait for the weather. They would not fight because it was impossible to move, the guns and wagons could not travel the icy, muddy roads, the men could not march through freezing nights. But it would not be long, it had never been long enough, and the roads would dry, the sun would warm them enough to move again, and there would be new fights, and new ground to cover, and places they had never heard of, villages and crossroads and small quiet rivers that would become the new horrible names they would always remember.
He moved to the small couch, sat down, felt stiff, cold, thought, I am not well. He put his hand on his chest, slid it up to his left shoulder, massaged. I do not understand... is it Just that I am... old? He felt the tightness in his chest, always there now, and when it did not hurt, on those mornings when he would wake without the pain, he was grateful, gave a thankful prayer.
He thought of the past few days, the drudgery of the meetings, the arguments, men with great opinions and little understanding. He had known it would be this way, that by coming to Richmond he would be pulled into it, hear it firsthand, that men with oil in their voices would take him aside, greet him with fat handshakes, take him into their confidence, seek his valuable approval, the influence of a powerful, respected man.
There had been great debate about Bragg's replacement, and finally Davis reluctantly agreed that the best man for the job, the one the troops themselves had always followed, was Joe Johnston. It had been a bitter pill for Davis, because Johnston had never cooperated with him, had never cooperated with anyone, and they all knew that Johnston would begin it all again, would run his own show, respond selectively to orders, regard Davis's instructions as inconvenient suggestions. On the Virginia peninsula, when McClellan had come at Richmond from the sea, Johnston cut off all communication with Davis, fought the Federal invasion exactly as he saw fit. When Johnston had been wounded, Davis was forced to make a painful decision, to give up Lee, his most trusted adviser, to send him from the capital to command the army. It had been Lee who organized and equipped the new army, Lee who designed the defensive lines of Virginia, the lines that proved So crucial to the first big fight at Manassas. But Davis had still wanted him nearby, and so Lee suffered quietly in the stifling air of a Richmond office while others led the fighting. But with Johnston down, Davis had to concede that the army's well-being was as important as his own, and finally Lee was given the opportunity to command the army in the field.
When Johnston's wounds healed, he'd gone west, but his command was separate from Bragg's, one of the great flaws in the organization of the army. Johnston had not been there when Bragg needed the strength, had kept himself secure and well defended in Mississippi, against an enemy that was making the fight somewhere else. Despite all of this, Davis had been made to understand, and Lee agreed, that when it came to putting troops in the field, when there were decisions to be made that could decide where and how the battle would be fought, Joe Johnston was the best man they had left.
Lee stared at a candle flickering on the windowsill, still heard the voices, heard Mary, clearly in command, thought, I should let them know I'm home. They will be concerned, ask stern questions: Have I eaten? Is my coat warm enough? He smiled. They worry too much about me. Everyone worries too much.... He tried to stand up and a sharp pain stung him, a sudden hard pinch in his throat. He sat again, stared at the candle, and the pain flowed slowly out of him, then was gone. He heard himself breathing, sat back on the couch, thought, Easy, let it go. 7bank God.
All during the autumn the pains had come, and he'd spent many days alone in his tent. He would not discuss the ailment, not even with Taylor, and he did not tell anyone that the trip to Richmond would be for that as well, to rest, the soft comfort of home. He could never admit that to anyone, not even to Mary, and for the first few days it had helped, he'd slept well, felt stronger. But now, knowing he would return to his men, that Davis would not send him out of Virginia, the pains surprised him, coming back again. The last few nights he had lain awake staring up into the dark, talking quietly to God, feeling the motion in his chest. But even the prayers did not comfort him, and he could not stop thinking about what they still must do, how the war would go on until he did something, that it was his responsibility.
It was only a few days until Christmas, and he knew they were glad he was home, that it should be a joyous time. He stood again, slow, careful, moved toward the sounds from the kitchen. He steadied himself in the doorway, saw motion in the dark hall. Mary came out of the kitchen, leaning on the small crutch, saw him standing in the shadow of the candle. She stopped, surprised, said only, "Ob..." and looked at him, but they did not speak. Suddenly he could not look at her, stared down at the floor. He wanted to say something, give her something. It was always so hard.
After a quiet moment she said, "I don't need the explanation, Robert. Go... go on back to your army. You won't ever really be here, this won't ever be your home... until the war is over. We have had Christmas without you before. We will manage."
He still said nothing, felt her eyes digging deep inside him, seeing all of him, and he thought, Of course, she always knows. But there wa
s no bitterness in her voice, not this time. He did not bear the dark anger, just the sadness, the calm acceptance of all they had missed, the family gatherings, the children growing up under the eye of their father. She had, after all, married a soldier.
She began to move away, then stopped, said, "You don't have to explain... not to me... not to any of us. If they need you to end the war, then end the war. We will still be here. We are still your family. Now, go on. They're waiting for you, you know."
She moved away, hobbled slowly down the hall, back toward their room. He watched her, waited until she was gone, then stared at the dark space, closed his eyes, saw the vast cold camp, shelters and fires, great fields of guns and wagons and horses. And then he saw the faces, the men of his ragged army, waiting for him to return, the army that waited for the command to send them forward once again, maybe for the last time.
He opened his eyes, looked into the dark, saw his faint shadow from the dim light of the candle, said quietly, "Yes... I know..."
PART TWO
testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived, so dedicated, can long endure. We are met here on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of it as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But in a larger sense we can not dedicate-we can not consecrate-we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract...
7. GRANT
MARCH 1864 The LINE MOVED SLOWLY, THERE WAS MUCH TALKING, NERVOUS anticipation. He could feel the motion, the energy of the crowd, held back by the people in front, moving only with small short steps. Gradually they drew closer to the wide doorway. Now he could see into the next room, saw the pale blue walls, lit by one small chandelier. The sounds of the people began to quiet; those who had passed through the doorway were now nearly silent. He held the boy's hand, looked down, saw his son trying to see past the line of people, the glorious dresses of the women, the fine suits of the men. But the boy was too short and the crowd pressed together too closely, and so they just eased along slowly, until it was their time to enter the blue room.
He had not changed his uniform, had lost the key to his trunk, and so, had thought it might not be proper... and he didn't want to embarrass the boy. Frederick was only twelve, had become used to traveling with his father through the army camps, even on the march. But neither of them had ever been to see the President. He smiled at the boy, who still strained to see the adventure that lay in front of them, thought, He is used to the attention, he loves it, the son of the commander, all the officers, their wives, frittering and making a to-do around him, since the commander himself will have none of it. He thought, now, of the boy's mother: Yes, this would be for you, you en- )oy this much more than I do, the receptions in great halls, shaking hands with well-dressed folks, the stifling dignity of meeting Important People. He glanced down at his uniform, saw the smudges, the worn cloth. If she were here... I would not be here. Lshould have taken my pistol and shot my way into the trunk, broken the lock. He smiled again, thought of her sulking, the pursed lower lip. She would definitely not approve of these clothes, not here, not tonight. The boy looked up at him, and he could see that part of her, the excitement in the boy's face, as they moved ever closer to the Big Moment.
He could hear small comments, realized now that people were pointing at him. Most did not know who he was, and he heard names, guesses, none of them correct. He did feel embarrassed now, began to think this was a bad idea. I should have waited until tomorrow, when the official ceremony would take place. But he had arrived early, and when the boy had heard there was a reception at the White House, the issue was settled. He frowned, thought at least he could have found a way to clean up the uniform.
Now he was in the blue room, and suddenly he could see the President, tall above the crowd, made more so by the slight bows of the people as they passed by, small greetings, careful handshakes. He was stunned by the face, the deep gray eyes, the hard lines, the sadness of a man who felt all the weight of this great bloody war, who must answer to the widows and the children, must find some way of explaining why he did this, why this war had to go on until the rebels were brought down. The tall man was smiling, saying a few words, then a brief nod and another smile. Then the eyes were caught by the blue of the uniform, and suddenly Lincoln stepped forward, moved through the startled row of silk and satin, pearls and lace, reached out a great heavy hand and beamed a wide smile.
"Why, here is General Grant! This is a great pleasure, I assure you Grant took the hand, felt Lincoln's strong grip. Grant felt the warmth, the smile that seemed to spread out over him, over the room. He felt himself pulled away from the crowd, did not see them gather around now, did not feel the boy move close to his side, the attention now focused fully on this small man in the rumpled blue uniform. He stared up into the eyes, felt a sudden weight shifting onto him, more than just the eyes of the President. He felt himself "smile, said, "Thank you, Sir. Mr. President, Sir. It is a pleasure to meet you."
He felt foolish, thought, He is the President of the United States... think of something to say. It had not occurred to him that he might actually speak to Lincoln, not tonight, had expected maybe to see him, catch a glimpse of the big man through a crowd.
Lincoln still had him by the hand, pulled Grant through the throng of people, and now they were seeing the uniform, the obvious lack of formal preparation. There were amused comments, nods of "Yes, now here is a real soldier He heard his name flowing out, carried along in a small wave, "General Grant," and in the hallway beyond, the wave grew into shouts, someone began a cheer. He looked around the room, saw the faces watching him, staring.
Lincoln released him, said, "General Grant, allow me to introduce Secretary Seward."
Grant looked at the long thin face of the Secretary of State, smiling at him with the charm of the diplomat. He took the hand that Seward offered, but Seward's words slipped by the polite formality, and Grant could only hear the rhythm of a slowly rising chorus in the gathering crowd. Now Lincoln was moving him along, and Grant saw a woman, standing alone, watching him with hard quiet eyes. He was led closer, and she did not speak, watched him carefully, appraising him, and he heard someone say, "Mrs. Lincoln... this is General Grant..."
She was wearing a small hat, a strange cluster of fresh flowers, her long straight hair pulled back tightly. There was a wide-open space around her, the people did not approach her, no one stood close. He made a short bow, thought again of his uniform, felt completely awkward, thought, I should apologize.
But she spoke, and near them there were suddenly no voices, only quiet.
"General Grant... how nice to meet you. I hear that you bring a bit less refinement and a bit more bulldog to this war."
There was laughter, and Grant tried to smile, bowed again, had no idea what to say. He glanced at Frederick, said, "Mrs. Lincoln, allow me to introduce my son, Frederick Dent Grant."
She reached out a hand, touched the boy Is cheek, and the boy flinched slightly. She said, "Yes, how nice. My sons are often with their father as well. Teach them... show them how to be men. -1) Grant smiled, nodded, was not sure what she meant, wondered if it was sarcasm. There was a brief silence, and he thought, Say something... words, something appropriate. She was smiling at Frederick and suddenly she began to move away, a wide path opening in the crowd. The voices behind him began to grow again, and he turned, saw that the room was filling rapidly, the neat order of the reception line was gone, the crowd mobbing into the room. Grant felt for Federick's hand, and the boy gripped him hard, pulled close beside him.
Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, and he was turned, pulled, saw now it was Seward. He followed, pushed through the noise, the hands reaching out to him, saw the tall figure of Lincoln move on in front of them. Seward moved up behind Lincoln, and Grant f
ollowed to another room, saw it was larger, the walls light green, high white ceilings, an extraordinary chandelier. Seward led him to one side, the crowd following close behind, pushing through the wide doorway. Lincoln stopped beside a small couch, and Seward pointed, said, "General, it might be best... climb up here, stand on the couch."
Grant looked at Seward, said, "On the couch... my boots?"
"Please, General, it's all right. They seem to want to get a good look at you. It might be the only way to calm them down." Grant looked at the elaborate lace, the silk brocade, looked at Lincoln, and Lincoln was smiling, obviously enjoying the moment. Grant looked again at the couch, then took one step up, steadied himself with one hand on Seward's shoulder.
The room was larger, began to fill as well, and Grant saw other uniforms, the marine guard, the men now moving into the crowd, trying to ease them into lines. Hands were raised toward him now, and he watched the faces, saw the smiles, heard his name again. He looked down, saw Frederick beside the couch, and the boy was smiling now, was beginning to absorb the excitement and the attention from the crowd. Grant watched the marines guiding the people along, silently, gently, but the numbers and the energy were too great, and the people surged up close to him, and his name was now a single chant, the crowd calling out, "Grant... Grant... Grant... " Beside him, Lincoln said something to Seward, and Seward leaned close to him, said, "General, when you have had enough of your adoring crowd, the President requests you join him in the drawing room."
