The Last Full Measure

by Jeff Shaara

  Grant nodded.

  "Hancock hurt them first, drove Hill's corps right out of these woods. This ground... you can't push out so far when you can't see. Lee was lucky, hit us with Longstreet when we were the most vulnerable. Hancock understood how it happened, said he was rolled up like a wet blanket. But Lee couldn't finish the job, didn't have the strength. Like last night-a good plan, they hit Sedgwick where he was vulnerable. But they didn't have the power to hurt us, to really hurt us. If Lee does not understand that now, he will very soon. Everywhere we go, he has to follow. Anytime we stop, he will either fight or lose more ground. But it will not happen here. We have done all we can do here. He is in command of the ground. If that means he won this fight, fine. It doesn't really matter. We'll make another fight. He'll have to win that one too. I don't think... he can keep winning with what he has left."

  Washburne nodded, said, "Just remember the newspapers, the politicians. You see this fight differently than they do. If you admit you lost here, that is all that will matter. Another victory for Lee. You have to anticipate that, face the consequences."

  Grant reached for another cigar, stopped, looked at Washburne.

  "The President told me I would be left alone."

  "He will leave you alone. But after November.. Grant thought of the politicians, all the reasons why he would never stay in Washington. He felt a sudden anger, said, "There will be no retreat, we will keep this army moving, we will force Lee to come to us. We already control the Mississippi, the seaports. If he does not fight us, we will capture his cities, burn his supplies, and destroy his railroads."

  Washburne looked down, said, "But... what about Davis, and Richmond? If we focus on Lee, that is just one part of the whole. The Confederacy, the rebellion, starts with Jefferson Davis."

  Grant looked at Washburne, slowly shook his head.

  "No, sir. Those men over there, those so-called soldiers of the rebellion, they are not dying for a government in Richmond. They do not charge into our guns screaming the name of Jefferson Davis. They are fighting for Lee. Lee is the rebellion. If he is defeated, if his army surrenders, then make no mistake, this war is over."

  There was another thunderous sound, above the camp, another big gun. Grant looked that way, said, "Richmond serves one purpose. Lee must defend it. If we threaten the city, he will have to confront us. Lee will soon learn... we are not going away. If the newspapers and all those people in Washington must hear that, fine, I will write it down, send a letter to Stanton. You can deliver it yourself, read it to him, to all of them, make them understand what we are going to do. If it takes all summer... if it takes all year... it is only a matter of time before General Lee must face the consequences."

  EVENING, MAY 7, 1864 ALL DAY LONG THE SKIRMISHERS AND SHARPSHOOTERS

  FROM both sides prodded and punched the nervous lines of their enemy. Observers were sent out, the deadly job of moving forward until they could actually see them, count the numbers, make sure the strong lines still lay in place.

  By late afternoon the Federal wounded had been sent east, a long line of wagons rocking painfully toward Fredericksburg. Now the rest of the wagons, the food and ammunition, began, to move, and for a time they moved east as well, but then, once the sounds of creaking wheels and bouncing timbers were beyond the hearing of Lee's lookouts, the wagons began to turn south.

  The soldiers lined up as they always had, filled the road with quiet curses, the units smaller now, the lines shorter from the casualties they would leave behind. The officers tried to keep them quiet, but the grumbling was always there, rolled along the column like a dull wave. Much of it was about Grant. They were still not convinced, the great reputation had not shown them much in this place. Lee was still over there, the war was no different yet. But when the orders came to move, and the column began to ease ahead, some of the men did not need the sun to tell them direction. The word began to filter down the lines, and the grumbling stopped, there was something new about this march, something these men had never been a part of before. If the fight in the Wilderness had not gone their way-the most optimistic called it a draw-they were not doing what this army had always done before, they were not going back above the river. If they had never said much about Grant, had never thought him any different from the ones who had come before, if they had become so used to the steady parade of failure, this time there was a difference. Some wanted to cheer, but were hushed by nervous officers. So along the dusty roads hats went up and muskets were held high, a silent salute to this new commander. This time, they were marching south.

  Well after dark, Sedgwick had pulled away from Ewell, moved back to Chancellorsville, then turned southward. Burnside followed him, taking the same route. Behind Hancock's wary troops, on the Brock Road, Warren's Fifth Corps marched quietly, and only when Warren was safely past did Hancock order his men to fall into column, away from the safety of their log wall. They would march all night, keeping tight and in line, because on the march they would be vulnerable.

  Meade had given orders to the cavalry to clear the roads south, and Sheridan had sent the horsemen forward as though the job was already accomplished. But Stuart was waiting, and below the marching columns of infantry, the cavalry ran into a hard stiff wall of gray. By morning the roads were still not clear, the infantry had to slow, began bunching up, the commanders impatient with the unexplainable delay. When Stuart began finally to give way, Sheridan's troopers found themselves confronted not by a reserve force of cavalry, but by infantry. Lee had marched south as well, and if the Federals even knew they were in a race, by the next morning they knew they had lost.

  The ground was much better here, the dense brush of the Wilderness THE LAST FULL MEASURE 179 fading into farm country, cut by small rivers and patches of heavy woods. Grant's objective had been to move well into the open ground. The maps showed a key intersection, convenient roads spreading to the east and south. But when the infantry could finally advance, they found what the cavalry already knew. Along the wide ridges, behind the heavy fence rows, the men in gray were preparing again, shovels and axes and bayonets throwing and pushing the dirt, cut trees piled high to their front. They formed their lines in an arc, just north of the intersection, a small village known mainly for the one landmark, the courthouse. It was called Spotsylvania.

  17. LEE MAY 9, 1864

  HE WAS UP AT THREE, HAD BEGUN TO MAKE THAT HIS ROUTINE. He'd been awake even before that, staring up at the dark and thinking of Jackson. He had never understood how Jackson could come so completely awake after only a short rest, rising with perfect energy. Jackson would often call his men awake hours before the first light, order them up and into the roads before anyone could see what was in front of him. It had worked, of course, even the commanders did not need to know where they were going, something Dick Ewell had found maddening. Jackson never felt the need to tell anyone of his plans, just point them in the right direction, and soon a surprised enemy would find an unstoppable force bearing down on them from someplace where no one had ever thought the enemy would be. But Jackson himself, Lee thought, how could he do this, how could he go without sleep? Now the image was there, the sharp blue eyes, the image Lee tried not to see. God bless him, he thought. I really do miss him.

  He had dressed quietly, and now walked out past the tents, would not even disturb Traveller. He stepped through a small patch of woods, could hear the sounds in front of him, the shovels. The men were working in shifts, and when one group would rest, the shovels would pass to another, and with each hour the entrenchments were stronger.

  Jackson would not have done this, he thought. He would not have stopped, dug in to these long lines. The idea had come from Longstreet, and it was the fundamental difference between the two men. Jackson would have them on the road now, or be pressing them through a faint trail in the woods to strike the enemy with deadly surprise. No, Lee thought, something is very different now. The commanders, certainly, on both sides. Jackson had never faced Grant. Lee had wondered
about that, especially since Gordon's flank attack on the Federal right, too weak, had begun too late. Jackson would have seen the opportunity immediately, would have stripped his lines bare, sent a great smashing blow around Sedgwick. Lee was certain of that, felt it rise up from some dark hole inside of him.

  Ewell could not see that, would not act, would wait for orders. How much longer can Ewell command? he wondered. He is collapsing, not in battle, not in one great disaster, but slowly, a bit each day, becoming weaker in his mind, his resolve crumbling, falling away.

  There was another kind of collapse with Hill, but the decay of that command was different. Hill could still perform with the old energy, move his troops with precision, with instinct, but then he would be gone, the sickness would simply swallow him up, and he would sit in his camp completely out of touch, no sense of a plan, his mind completely empty. Lee did not yet understand that, but had seen it with perfect clarity in the Wilderness. The first day, Hill had been perfection, but by the desperate fight on the second day, he was not even on the field. Now the sickness had grown, and Hill was out again, and Lee thought, Will he ever be back?

  It was a possibility he could not afford to ignore, and so he had given command of Hill's Third Corps to Jubal Early. He knew how the men felt about Early, especially the officers, but Early was a fighter, and if his personality made quick enemies, he at least knew how to move troops. Hill accepted the change with dignity. Even he knew Lee had no choice. Early's removal from Ewell had created an opening in the Second Corps. Lee quickly promoted John Gordon to command of Early's division.

  It had been an easy decision. Lee had felt some of the old enthusiasm, the confidence a commander has when he knows the army is in good hands, that the job will be done. Even though Gordon was not a West Pointer, he had already shown a talent for command and an instinct for strategy. Lee had not felt that way about anyone in a long time, except Stuart. And Longstreet.

  The doctors had assured him the wounds were not fatal. Longstreet was far away now, and it would be a long time before he could return to the army, an army that could not afford to be without him. Even with all the criticism of Longstreet, the newspapers, talk of controversy and blame, there was no one Lee would rather confide in, no one with whom he felt comfortable sharing the quiet thoughts, the quiet moments. Now there was no one else.

  Dick Anderson now commanded the First Corps, and if the choice had inspired no one, not even Lee, Anderson at least was dependable. Though he'd never shown anything like Jackson's fire or the rugged stubbornness of Longstreet, he had performed with the best skills of both men the day before. It was Anderson who had won the race for Spotsylvania.

  Lee moved out of the patch of trees, could see the men outlined against the night sky. The dirt was flying, around axes echoing in the woods. He saw logs, carried forward on the shoulders of tired men. The works were becoming a vast long wall, a deep trench behind, a wide ditch in front, sharpened poles and branches pointing out toward the enemy.

  He walked down to the left, passed behind long lines of laboring men, and no one saw him, there were no calls, no cheers. He began to climb, a long rise, a wide hill, paused, thought of the name. They called it Laurel Hill, and now it was a great stronghold. Porter Alexander's big guns were dug in facing north and west, the crews moving slowly in the dark, the quiet work of good men, men who know how deadly their work could be. There were deep entrenchments here as well; Anderson had the gun positions well protected by infantry. Lee nodded, thought, Nothing will move us from this ground.

  He began to walk back toward his camp, stopped, looked back up the rise, thought of the words again. Nothing will move us from this ground. There was no change greater than that, he thought. Something tugged in his gut, and he was suddenly anxious, angry. Longstreet had always believed in trenches, in hiding behind strong works. But when we won the great battles, he thought, it was because we attacked. Longstreet had always argued against that, and there had been Jackson to show him he was wrong. But the men... it was the men who began to understand. Lee thought of West Point. We learned how to fight the old way, the books were all about Napoleon, the textbooks translated from the French. But Napoleon did not have these guns. It has taken us too long to learn the lesson. Too many times we have ridden across the bloody fields, spread with the incredible horror of what these guns can do. Longstreet gave them shovels, at Fredericksburg, on the heights, and they laughed, the men thought it was not... manly. We would stand up and face the guns. Lee shook his head. Now we do not have enough shovels. No one believes in standing up in front of certain death. There is no honor in foolishness.

  He could see the tents now, daylight slowly spreading over the rolling ground toward his right flank, where Early was digging his trenches as well. He thought of Grant: We gave him no reason to retreat. Some had said Grant would move away, to Fredericksburg, toward the Rappahannock, running away from his first bloody fight with Lee's army. The rumors spread from the lookouts, excited men who came to Lee with the first reports of troop movement, clouds of dust rising from long lines of black cannon. But Lee had seen the maps, knew that the roads to Richmond came right through... here. If Grant wants Richmond, he must fight his way through these works, he thought. We must sit and wait. And if he does not come at us here, then we must find his weakness, again, we must strike out at opportunity and we must not be late or make any mistakes. He thought of the commanders again, and the tight tug in his gut returned.

  None of them would talk about it, there was no hint of it even from the trenches, from the men on the front line, the men who could see the strength of the blue lines in front of them. But it was inside of him now, stirring deep in some very small place. It is only a matter of time. He had sent that to Davis, a response to the threat from Butler, moving up the peninsula now. The message had been clear and blunt:

  Make preparations to protect Richmond, bring troops to protect the rail center at Petersburg. Davis was still seeing the army as some great organizational puzzle, departments to be moved about and manipulated. There were good defenses around Richmond, but Davis was still convinced there must be a presence at all the major points, and even minor ones, anyplace the enemy was a threat. Troops were still scattered down through the Carolinas, a weak attempt at containing a Federal threat that was as much in Davis's mind as it was in the field. But Lee's message did stir something in Richmond, because, finally, Beauregard was moving troops north, from his base in North Carolina. The movement was slow, and the troops very few. Lee had been amazed at that, felt the gut-twisting frustration that no one else seemed to share his concern for the value of Petersburg.

  He knew, of course, that Davis would send few reinforcements to him. He had accepted for weeks that he would have to make the fight against Grant with whatever he had. That made the trenches, the defensive tactics, an absolute necessity, because there was nothing he could do about Grant's vastly greater numbers. But it is more than numbers, he thought. It has always been more than numbers. Every victory had come against superior forces. The advantage was strategy, tactics, the willingness to do what must be done to win the fight. The Federal commanders had never brought that to the field. And so he had always felt he had the edge, knew that Jackson would devour an enemy many times his size by sheer audacity.

  Longstreet could be as stubborn and as vigilant as anyone those other fellows put in line against him. Even Longstreet's "slows," his seemingly sluggish movement, had been positive. Lee had thought Longstreet dangerously slow at Second Manassas, but he had not ordered Longstreet to advance, had relied on Longstreet's judgment, and when the First Corps finally moved, they drove Pope's army into complete chaos. Now, in the fight just past, Lee had to believe that if Longstreet had been in place when he wanted him, if he'd been in line against Hancock's attack, it might have been disastrous. He knew Hancock was the best they had, and his strength might have driven Longstreet back as it had Hill. Longstreet's "delay" in reaching the field might have been the one reason wh
y Hancock collapsed. The timing, ultimately, had been perfect.

  He felt the tug in his gut again, thought, If it is that, the intangible, something inside of us, something they do not have, then what have we lost? Who is it that I can trust to take a fight to the great numbers, and who will prevail? The name burned in his mind, the laughing face, the red beard, the ridiculous hat. Of course, he thought... Stuart. He smiled, nodded to himself. Yes, we still have that, his spirit is still in these men, and they will still look to him. He has learned along with the rest of us, he has made mistakes and gained the experience, and with that comes our ability to win this fight, still win this fight. But the others... there must still be time, they must learn. They may all rise to it, men like Gordon, Anderson, Early, but we may not have much time. And so I must do this, check the lines, I must be closer. I must watch over them all. I must make sure there are no mistakes.

  He could see the staff now, moving around the small fire, and he moved toward the wagons where the food would be, felt himself sweating, his breathing short and hard. He glanced at his tent, thought of the small bed, felt the weariness crawling over him, settling down into the turmoil of his gut. He took a deep breath, tried to hold himself together, tightened the grip inside, said aloud, "No."

  Faces turned toward him, but he did not see them, was staring out toward the gray light rising over the far trees, thought of Grant. Now there is another change. So now there will not be much sleep.