The Last Full Measure

by Jeff Shaara

  The two men moved away, and Grant was now alone, the hands reaching up to him, a sea of silk and flowers, perfume and cigars, politiclans and diplomats and reporters. He began to reach for the hands, a brief grasp for those who came close. They began to file by, but did not leave, and so the room grew more crowded, the marines began to ease away, could do nothing but stand out of the way, moved back against the far wall, watching him as well. Now the chant began again, his name, and he stared in amazement, tried to smile, thought, I am no hero... There was no escape, they would not let him leave, and he shook the hands, nodded politely at the kind comments, the friendly greetings. He looked out over the faces, began to feel now what this was about, the raw enthusiasm for this one soldier. He understood the look now, something he had not noticed before, had not seen in the face of soldiers. He was giving them... hope.

  THERE HAD NOT BEEN A POSITION OF LIEUTENANT GENERAL IN the army for years. Winfield Scott had been the only man since George Washington to hold that rank, and certainly no one since the start of the war had shown himself particularly worthy. After three years now, after the disastrous incompetence of some commanders, the political intrigue that surrounded others, the infighting in Washington, and the morale problems in the field, and as the casualty numbers grew more horrifying, Lincoln understood that something profound and meaningful was fading away from the people. The rebellion was bleeding more from the country than its young men. If it was to turn around, if something was to be saved out of this great war, it would fall on one man who did not speak to crowds, who did not enjoy the raw attention of an admiring public, who did not perform on the field with one eye on the newspapers.

  Grant was no one's political favorite, he had not accumulated debts from men of power. He did not get along with General Halleck at all, but Lincoln had learned through bitter experience that it was not Halleck who would win the war from his comfortable office in Washington.

  Grant had shown Lincoln something that the others had not. He could win... and he did not need to tell you he had won. If he did not win, he did not send a steady stream of explanations, excuses, he did not lay blame. And, he did not make the incessant calls to Washington for reinforcements. Lincoln had become so accustomed to hearing from his commanders how the enemy was always superior, that from the earliest days of McClellan's command, the Federal army would never be strong enough to whip their enemy. Even when there were successes, when the Federal soldiers showed their commanders that they could in fact whip those other fellows, the success was never complete, the opportunity for complete victory had never been followed up. The commanders did not seem to believe it, did not have the fire of confidence, did not appear to understand that with Just a little more another quick strike, another strong blow-those tough boys in the ragged clothes just might do as the blue army had done so often: back away. And if the blow was strong enough, and deliberate enough, it just might end the war. If Grant had his success far from the capital, far from the attention of the eastern newspapers, it was the people who "Were beginning to hear about him from the soldiers, from the men who fought under his command. He did not ride the grandest horse, he did not wear the fanciest uniform. But he had understood his army, had given the right orders, put his men in the right places. At first the names did not cause excitement in the east: Fort Donelson, Shiloh. But then came his triumph at Vicksburg, a complete and utter victory, a mass surrender of a major rebel army, and with that came Federal control of the entire Mississippi River. Now the papers picked up the name. When he broke out of Chattanooga, a violent clubbing of Bragg's army that swept them out of Tennessee, Grant had suddenly reversed the tide in the West. He had pulled his army together like one massive fist, cocked and ready to strike directly into the heart of the deep South. When word of this extraordinary breakthrough reached Washington, Lincoln made up his mind. If there was to be one man to control the flow of the war, he wanted Ulysses Grant.

  The MARINE HELD THE DOOR OPEN, AND HE PASSED BY, returned a crisp salute. The door closed behind him, and the sounds of the crowd faded away. He had left Frederick behind, the boy now the center of attention, surrounded by the ladies. The boy had begun to charm them with the innocence and guile only a twelve year-old knows, and Grant knew he would be fine on his own.

  Lincoln sat alone at a small table, and Grant glanced around the room, saw portraits, a mantel covered with flowers, a huge silver tray lying flat on a dark table in the corner. Lincoln held out a hand, motioned to a chair, was smiling, seemed energetic, enthusiastic.

  "Please, General, have a chair. I am delighted... truly delighted to have you here. Allow me to make good use of this opportunity... I have wanted to talk to you."

  Grant sat, still looked around the room, felt Lincoln watching him, said, "Thank you, Sir. I could have waited until tomorrow...... "Nonsense, I'm glad you came tonight. You caused quite a stir. The crowds don't respond much anymore... not to me, anyway. These weekly receptions have become pretty routine. This was a delight."

  There was a pause, and Grant waited, did not know what else to say. Lincoln leaned forward, across the small table, and Grant felt the energy, the mind working. Lincoln stared at him, and Grant felt himself pulled forward, drawn to Lincoln's stare.

  "General, there was no one else. I heard all the names, people poll ticking for the favorite general... but when it came down to it, when Congress approved the position, I considered no one else for the job. No one, not one of the men who staked their claim... was as deserving as you. The army gains nothing by blessing its commanders with meaningless titles. The rank of Lieutenant General has meaning. It belongs to only one man, and that man must understand the job he faces. I have no doubt that my choice is the right one."

  Lincoln still stared at him, waited patiently for a response. Grant said, "Thank you, Sir. I hope the Secretary... and General Halleck agree. There are many who presently outrank me as major generals."

  "Not any morel And that is the point. Stanton, Halleck... you should see them scramble around here, trying to keep the details from my prying eyes. They don't feel I have any business trying to run this war. They see me as a leaking bucket, that if I am informed of anything resembling a secret, I will crow about it from the roof of the White House. There have been times, though, I admit... there were times when I was naive enough to have done just that. I have always made the mistake of trusting too much... of believing in the sincere intentions of those who profess to be my friends. It has, on occasion, been a problem."

  Grant nodded, felt a smile, said, "Yes... I understand, Sir. I may have done some of the same. It has cost me... I don't have much of a talent for business."

  "Fortunately, it is not business that concerns us, Mr. Grant. And I do believe you have other talents, specifically, a talent for making a fight. And, there's the lesson, perhaps for both of us. Make the fight, don't talk about it. You cannot imagine... the volume of talk that flows around this place. Washington is like a barnyard full of braying mules... and that includes most of my cabinet. I'll make you a deal, Mr. Grant. You don't tell me how you plan to run this army, and I won't tell you how to run it either."

  Grant sat back in the chair, looked for the smile, the )oke. But Lincoln still stared at him, and he realized suddenly that Lincoln was serious.

  "Mr. Grant, I have tried sometimes... to figure out what the army needs. I have tried to help where it seemed a great deal of help was needed. I have even made it official, sent out presidential decrees, written up special orders. Most of them have come out of frustration. And, likely, most of them have been wrong. But you cannot imagine what it is like to have all the authority to issue orders, and no power to see them carried out. But that will change now. I am giving you my word, Mr. Grant. If you take this army out and use it, I will give you "Whatever you ask for. And no one in this town will interfere. If they do, that is something I can control." Lincoln sat back in his chair, smiled now.

  "You were correct, Mr. Grant, there are a few ruffled feathers ar
ound here. Actually, there are times when I rather enjoy that... give some of these fine fat fellows a little indigestion. But make no mistake. There's nothing I have said to you, nothing implied in any of this, that does not carry the full power of the United States government. Tomorrow, there will be a ceremony. You will stand there and listen to me make a fool speech...."

  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 not
hing, 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 personalities."

  "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."