by Jeff Shaara
He still said nothing, and they began to move closer to him, expecting him to discuss the plan, what he would ask them to do. He felt a sudden lightness, felt his mind open up, stared out into the clear blue and felt like he could step out, off the hill, away from it all. He felt drawn by God, that familiar sense that God was close to them. He had felt like this before, at Manassas, when he could see the panorama of Pope's army swept from the field by his men, and at Fredericksburg, his invincible line destroying the enemy's continuing assaults. But there was also the last day at Gettysburg, when he sat on the big horse and watched his men march in those beautiful strong lines across that wide field, moving ever closer to that one clump of trees, a mile of wi -open glory, and he'd felt God beside him as he waved them forward through the smoke and brilliant flashes of light, and waited for the smoke to clear knowing they were up and over the Federal lines. But when the smoke cleared it was not like that at all, and those who had survived came slowly back across the field, shattered and beaten, and God was not beside him.
He felt a sudden shock, blinked hard, sensed the men around him again. He felt his breath choke in his throat and put his hand on his chest, focused, brought himself back to this place. He turned, saw Longstreet beside him, watching him, concern in the blue eyes. But Longstreet said nothing. Lee thought, He does not believe God was with us that day. They were his men, and he did not want them to go. But I believed they would prevail, they could do anything. It had to be something in us... in our will. We cannot lose that, it is what God wants from us. We must not lose faith. Grant is just another test. God is watching us to see if the will is still there. It is still there.
He took another deep breath, said, "General, you know this man.
Will he do what we suppose him to do?"
Longstreet took the pipe from his mouth, seemed surprised at the question.
"Grant? Well, yes, I don't believe Sam Grant is a very complicated man." Longstreet stared out toward the north, thought for a moment, said, "I believe there is one thing we may depend on. Once he begins to move, once he is in front of us, we had better be prepared to stay there awhile. He will not go away until we make him go away. )) Lee said nothing, looking out to the north again, thought, If Grant is not complicated, then our job will be easier. We do not have the strength to strike him where he sits, so we must let him come to us, commit himself, at a time and place of his own choosing. But there has always been a mistake, sooner or later, with all of them. It does not matter if Grant is different from McClellan, or Burnside, or Hooker. He will make a mistake. God will provide.... Lee raised his arm, pointed out to the east, toward the Wilderness.
"He will cross there... at Ely's or Germanna. We must focus our attention there."
There were nods, low comments, and they waited, expected him THE LAST FULL MEASURE 101to reply But he did not feel like making plans, or to say more about the small details that these men would need. He felt something much larger was already in motion around them, the plan already in place, inevitable and certain. Abruptly, he turned, moved to the horse, mounted. They watched him, silent, curious, and he looked away, out toward the place where Jackson had fallen, and he felt the glare of the sharp blue eyes, knew Jackson was still there, would still help them. Yes, slow them down, General, he thought, hold them there and it will not matter if he has the numbers and the guns. It will not be a fair fight. The advantage will be ours.
9. GRANT
MAY 4, 1864 There WAS MOTION EVERYWHERE, HORSES AND WAGONS, GUNS and men. He rode past a row of supply wagons, each marked with the insignia of their corps, the three-leaf clover of Hancock's Second, the Maltese cross of Warren's Fifth, Sedgwick's Sixth with the St. Andrew's cross.
He passed the wagon train now, the wagons moving farther to the east, the route that would take them out of harm's way, down across the river closer to Fredericksburg. He could see the river now, the thick columns of blue soldiers crossing on pontoon bridges. He pulled the horse off the road, moved to a small rise. The staff followed, settled behind him, with only Rawlins close by.
He glanced up, saw the stark bright sky, the blazing sun. It was a perfect day, and he looked again at the river, could even see the reflection on the water, the line of troops magnified, the river sparkling with the reflections from the rows of muskets.
He was between the Fifth and Sixth Corps, watching them cross Germanna Ford. He knew that to the east Hancock was crossing at Ely's, and it was just like this, quiet and efficient, the men moving at a good pace, that they would soon be south of the river. Even Burnside was in position above them. The Ninth Corps, waiting for the order, would guard the north side of the river until the rest of them were across. Then Burnside too would move down, strengthening the army, which was already very strong. Grant thought of the numbers, nearly 140,000, the same number Joe Hooker had a year ago, but Hooker had spread them out, an elaborate plan that relied on coordination and communication, and the result was a disaster.
No, he thought, we will pass by Chancellorsville, and it will mean nothing at all, there will be no footnote in history to mark that place, not this time. This time we are one great fist, and Lee must respond to that. There can be no games, no elusive stalking. We are here, and if he avoids us, we will just keep going until we march into Richmond. But he will not allow that, and so we will have a fight. It does not have to be complicated.
They had not met resistance at the crossings, just the potshots of a few skirmishers. He was surprised at that, had expected Lee to guard the fords, at least try to slow down the march. But Lee was still far away, the reports from the lookouts said there was simply nobody down there, the roads around the burnt ruins of the Chancellor mansion were clear, and so Hancock would move with good speed. Below Germanna, the two main roads pointing west-the roads that pointed straight at Lee's army-were clear as well. Sheridan had sent a division of cavalry under James Wilson far to the south, scouting the vital roads, the Orange Turnpike, the Plank Road, names that were familiar to the veterans, the men who had fought on this ground once before. They had not heard much from Wilson, but Grant had confidence that Sheridan knew his man, would rely on him to keep them informed when Lee began to move.
The other scouts still reported that Lee was well to the west, dug in even beyond Mine Run, the same ground where Meade had escaped last November. Grant marveled at that, thought, Surely he does not expect that we will make that mistake again? Yet there was no other word, and so they would see no rebels this day, would march down into the thickets of the Wilderness, past the small clearings where the flowers spread across the deep green in a glorious blanket of color, past deep winding creeks, the sound of the unseen water flowing all around them. The men who had not been here, who were seeing these woods for the first time, would stare up at the sky, marching in quiet rhythm, feeling the delicious heat on their faces. The others, the men who remembered Jackson, would glance nervously to the side, trying to see into the thick brush, peeking instinctively at the small gaps where you could see a bit farther, a place where a man might hide until his target came into view. But as the river disappeared behind them, and the bright day grew warmer, even the veterans began to relax, lightening their load along the way, dropping the blankets and knapsacks by the side of the road.
Grant still watched from above the river, felt the sweat now on his face, held the cigar away, wiped at his brow with the back of his gloved hand. He did not like the gloves, the dull yellow cotton, preferred the feel of the leather straps in his bare hands. They were a gift, and Rawlins had insisted they would make the necessary impression. He wore a gold braid on his hat, another change, never thought much about the uniform, but that was Rawlins again, the concern for appearances. Grant had to tell himself it mattered, that the men would look to see the dashing figure of the commanding general, and they would expect some pomp, some excess of finery. The gold braid was his only grudging concession to that. He tasted the cigar again, also a gift, the dark aroma filling him, the wonderful sm
oke drifting to his eyes, his nose, and he thought, Yes, there is one good thing about being the commanding general, beyond the pageantry, the ridiculous vanity, something few of them would ever understand. You can get the best cigars.
There was motion in the water, a row of horsemen splashing across the river, the soldiers on the bridges calling out, wet protests, some laughing. Grant watched them come, saw now it was Sheridan.
There had been comments about the appointment, this small man with the small round face. He wore a strange box hat and looked more often like an Italian street vendor than a commander of troops, but Grant knew his habits well, had seen him take his division up the hill at Chattanooga, climbing the ragged face of Missionary Ridge, and they did not stop until they were at the top, Bragg's army melting away in front of them. There had even been a question about following orders, whether Sheridan had ignored his instructions, should never have pushed his men that far up the hill; but Sheridan made no excuses, no explanations. The question quickly faded away, because Grant understood that when the fight is in front of you, and the enemy is handing you the high ground, there is great value in a commander who does not halt his men to clarify his orders. Grant never doubted that Sheridan could handle command of the cavalry corps, that nothing would be lost by the new assignment. He was a superb horseman, and was grateful to be brought east to confront jeb Stuart.
Sheridan rode toward Grant, his men filing out neatly on either side of him. Sheridan saluted, and Grant could see he was furious.
"Sir! We have been ordered... General Meade has ordered..." He was redfaced and looked down for a moment.
"General, please proceed. Is there a problem?" Grant Saw Sheridan closed his eyes, clamped down, seemed to be fighting for control.
"Sir, General Meade has ordered most of my men to the east, toward Fredericksburg. There are reports that some of the enemy's horsemen have been located in that area. General Meade seems to believe that the wagon trains may be in jeopardy." Sheridan took a deep breath.
Grant motioned at him with the cigar.
"Yes, so... what is your concern, General?"
"Sir! General Meade has us guarding the wagon trains! Surely the commanding general understands that we can better serve the army by spreading out farther to the south, protecting the roads. We have yet to locate any sizable force of the enemy, and we aren't likely to if we are sitting at Fredericksburg."
Grant glanced at Rawlins, could feel his chief of staff shifting nervously on the horse, impatiently waiting for an opening, the appropriate time for comment. Grant said, "You have something to say, Colonel?"
Rawlins tried to look surprised, said, "Oh... well, Sir, if I may offer. A sizable portion of General Sheridan's men are already in position down below us. General Wilson is protecting our right flank. I had thought General Sheridan would be pleased that his men are , in fact, being used in valuable service."
Grant waited, wondered if the flow of words from Rawlins had ended.
Sheridan jumped in and said, "Sir, General Wilson is new to command. If it had been my decision, his division would guard the wagons. It is the smallest division in the corps. Now, that is not possible. General Meade insists, Sir, that the bulk of my command stay to the east. He has... pardon me, sir, but General Meade is giving great credibility to the threat from Stuart. I have seen nothing to indicate this threat exists.
There was a silent pause, and Grant said, "General, has General Wilson located the enemy's cavalry?"
Sheridan looked down, seemed suddenly embarrassed.
"I... don't know, Sir. I have not received word from General Wilson in... some time."
"Well, then, until you do, I would tend to go with General Meade's instincts. He has been here before, he has dealt with Stuart before. Unless you can determine with certainty that his orders are a mistake... I would suggest you obey them."
Sheridan nodded, said, "Yes, you are correct of course, Sir. I will send word to General "Wilson to inform us of any contact with Stuart. I am convinced we will not find him at Fredericksburg. If you will excuse me, Sir." Sheridan saluted, turned the horse, and the troops followed after him, thundering down to the river, splashing across.
Grant saw a row of guns now, moving onto the bridge. Rawlins smiled, said, "General Sheridan is a might small for a job this big, wouldn't you say, Sir) Grant did not smile at the joke, looked briefly at Rawlins, then watched the bridges again, the swaying motion of the pontoons under the great weight of the big guns.
"Colonel, General Sheridan will be big enough for all of us before this is through."
THERE WERE FEW CLEARINGS, BUT THEY HAD FOUND ONE OPEN
mound, rising above the level of the trees that spread out all around them, and he had chosen the spot for his headquarters. Meade had set up his tents nearby, and by midday the three corps were completely across the river, spread far along the roads that cut through the Wilderness.
There was a small house, long abandoned, a few pieces of furniture remaining, and Grant would use it only for meetings, was more comfortable in the tent. He leaned against a tall fat tree stump, pulled a fresh cigar from his coat. Meade's camp was slightly below him, and Grant smiled at that. Meade had clearly given thought to the elevation of the headquarters tents, and made sure he was not higher up the rise than Grant.
But it was the flag that caught Grant's attention. Meade had been given a new one, a field of deep lavender, with the stark likeness of a golden eagle in the center, circled with silver. Grant stared at it, shook his head, saw Meade now coming up the hill toward him. He thought, Let it go. Meade was never predictable, you never knew how he would react to anything. The breeze picked up, and the flag stood out straight, grand and regal. Grant couldn't resist the urge, pointed with the cigar, said to Meade, "What's this... are we in the presence of Imperial Caesar?
Meade turned, looked up at the flag, and Grant saw him frown, a look Grant was becoming familiar with now. Meade carried a small folding chair, sat down, settled the chair into the soft ground.
"If it is offensive... I can remove it."
"Not at all, it lends an air of... the majestic. Not sure Secretary Stanton would approve. If he pays us a visit, I would suggest you stow it away. He would likely take it home with him." Grant put the cigar in his mouth, hid a smile.
There was activity below them, couriers beginning to arrive, breathless horsemen, the staff moving to meet them. Grant saw one officer bringing a man up the hill toward him, and the staff officer said, "General, excuse me, Sir, this man has information about the enemy's position."
Grant looked at the man, had expected to see a cavalry uniform, but saw infantry, a captain. The man looked at Grant, then Meade, seemed to gulp. Meade leaned back in the chair, said, "What do you have for us, son?"
"From General Warren, Sir... I'm to tell you that his men are halting per orders, Sir, and are on the Orange Turnpike. There is no sign of the enemy in our front, Sir." There was a pause. Grant saw other staff officers moving Closer, the anticipation of hearing some piece of real news.
Meade said, "That's it? That's Warren's report? What about the cavalry... they're supposed to be on his flank."
"Uh, no Sir, we haven't seen any cavalry, not since early this morning. There's nobody, Sir. No horses, no rebs."
Meade looked at Grant, and Grant turned, moved toward his tent, said quietly, "General, a moment, if you please..."
Meade stood, said, "Well, Captain, go on back to General Warren and tell him to keep an eye out. Lee's not just going to watch us walk all the way to Richmond."
Meade moved behind Grant and they ducked into the tent. Grant sat on a small chair, pointed at another, and Meade sat down. Grant held the cigar in his hand, looked at Meade, said, "Where is he?"
Meade thought, then said, "Well, Lee too. I'm talking about Wilson. The cavalry. Where are the reports?"
Meade was suddenly nervous, wrapped his fingers around his knees, gripped hard.
"I will send someone down there.
It is possible-in this infernal place-he is lost."
Grant watched him quietly, said slowly, "It is also possible that he has his hands full of a fight. Lee knows where we are, this is his ground. Wilson's not that good of a horseman to sneak up on him. And he sure isn't going to sneak up on Stuart."
Meade nodded, said, "
"He's supposed to be across the river by dark. We'll see about that, but I'm not concerned about General Burnside right now. I'm much more concerned with how far Lee will let us go before he does something."
"Mine Run... he must be waiting for us there."
Grant thought, Yes, General, he would like us to make your mistake again, and you would like to have a second chance. He leaned back in the chair, said, "No. He cannot afford to just wait for us. If we move on to the south, we will have slipped by him and have a clear shot at Richmond, and he will not allow that. He has to move, to come at us. The only question is... when."
Meade seemed puzzled, said, "You want us to wait for him? Here? Shouldn't we keep going? He wants us to stay here. This is the best place for him to attack."
