by Jeff Shaara
"What does he think I had in mind... that we're going to walk away? It appears he intends to fight it out. I will send him a reply in the morning." He lay back on the sofa, closed his eyes, said quietly, "It is quite likely... we may all reply in the morning... with a great deal more than words."
ERLAIN
48. AMB
APRIL 8, 1865
T WAS PURE PURSUIT, A MARCH QUICK AND STRAIGHTFORWARD.
They had not seen the enemy, but the fight was all around them, the skirmishes with the cavalry, the great roar that had come from Saylor's Creek.
He rode Charlemagne again, the wound now a hard black knot on the horse's neck. They had moved most of the night, and now all of the day. There had been rain, enough to cool the men, enough to soften the roads so the wagon wheels could cut it into long furrows, the hardened ridges just high enough to break the ankles of the men who were too tired to watch their own footsteps.
He had to slow the column down. The road was clogged with another column, more wagons and guns. Ord's troops were up ahead, would share the same route for a while, and Chamberlain reined in the horse, watched as men struggled to push the wagons through a small stream. Behind him the men were in no mood for delay. Suddenly, a dozen men moved past him, toward the trouble in front) splashed down into the water, pushing the wagon up the other side. He moved the horse forward, thought, Yes, good. I suppose I should have told them to do that.
He had ridden for so long now he could not recall his last hour of sleep. The men had no patience, and when the march was slowed by the clumsy struggles in front of them, they would break ranks again Often there would and swarm past him to do whatever was necessary be a little extra, either the removal of the horses and their drivers by force, followed by an unceremonious toss into the creek or mud, or an astounding flow of profane language. He heard it this time as well, several men yelling in delirious anger at a teamster@'the man lashing at the troops with his whip. There were bayonets up now, and Chamberlain was suddenly awake, alert, thought, No, God, don't kill him. But the bayonets merely held off the driver's whip, finally knocking it away completely. The men then drifted back toward him, rejoining the column. No officer said anything, there was no reprimand, and Chamberlain thought, No, we are as tired of this as you are. We just can't do anything about it.
As they moved past him a few glanced up, and there were no smiles, and he could hear mumbled profanities, low voices. He tried to pick out the unique phrases, could not help but smile, the men scowling as they returned to their places in the line of march. A master of language, he thought, and I've never heard that before. I should write some of this down... but when on earth would I ever use it? An image flashed into his mind, and he saw the dark, frowning face of his father in-law. Well, that would be interesting, testing Fannie's father's capacity for shock. And Fannie would respond to my eloquent use of these new phrases by... what? Some choice phrases of her own? No, that is not a competition I could ever hope to win.
The columns were moving again, the men behind him giving their last word to the crippled wagons on the side of the road. They climbed out of the woods, moved onto open ground, the road much better, and Chamberlain turned the horse, moved to the side, stopped and stared at the wide field.
He'd seen fields like this before, where the great fights had taken place, the violence sweeping over the ground like some horrible storm. But the violence was different now, there had been no fight here, at least no combat.
As far as he could see, there were the broken machines of the rebel army, wagons, heaps of wood and wheels, and guns as well, broken carriages, brass barrels jutting out in all directions. Now the smells began to reach him, and he could see the brown shapes, had thought they were brush and bushes, but no, it was horses, mules, mostly dead, swollen carcasses. There was some motion, animals that had simply collapsed but were still alive, many still strapped into harness, trapped by the weight and the wagons they could no longer serve.
He moved the horse, fought breathing the awful smells, thought, No, keep going. If this is what is happening to Lee, we will soon see much more.
There was another creek in front of them, and the column moved down a short hill, the road muddy again, but the creek was open, wide, ith few trees. He could see small pieces of what had once been a wooden bridge, the rest swept away, either burned or chopped to pieces by the men they were chasing.
Ord's column had already moved through, but again wagons were being pushed aside, the foolhardy who assumed the water was shallow. There was a staff officer now, one of Ord's men, directing the column of men upstream, away from the congestion and toward a shallow place where the men could wade across.
His men followed the new path, and he waited until they began to cross at the new ford. They were veterans of this now, boots coming off quickly, suspended by a high bayonet, ammunition held high as well. He turned the horse, moved back down toward the remains of the bridge, had to see why they had moved upstream. There, below, all along the muddy banks, he saw a great mass of debris, more wagons, more guns, but now he could see color too, pieces of... things in the water, scattered in the mud. There was thick brush downstream, and the creek was clogged by vast piles of something different, not pieces of the army, but of life, home. The broken carts and wagons were not all military. There were small black carriages, trimmed in gold; pieces of fine leather bridles; a broken picture frame, the painting ripped away; pots; and mostly clothes, all colors, lace and silk, hats and black leather shoes. Civilians, he thought. This is a clear picture of the chase, the panic of a people escaping from... us. He felt a sudden sadness. They must think we are something truly awful, demons. Of course, the bridges were burned by whoever got here first, protecting themselves, with no thought of who might follow. And this was what followed. On the far side of the creek the mud was a vast spread of tracks, shallow and deep, and more color, the dirty refuse of clothing, cast-off shoes and boots.
He turned the horse, moved up along the column again, splashed the horse through the water. His mind was swirling in a daze, from lack of sleep, and he realized now he was very hungry. He instinctively felt his pockets, but there was nothing there, and now he began to feel angry, thought, All the criticism for being slow, Warren's removal, the angry talk about Meade's sluggishness... well, somebody better write about this, about how we are moving now. He tried to think of distance, had heard someone say thirty-five miles, thought it was probably more.
He climbed another rise, saw a long patch of trees, a farmhouse, and movement caught his eye. He could see men, now gathered around the house, most sitting, leaning against the side of the house. He looked around, thought they might be prisoners, but there were no guards. Someone should In the trees close by he heard voices, then saw more of them, scattered all out in the woods, men sitting, some lying flat on the ground. They were calling out to the troops, small greetings, some weak requests, begging for food. He saw muskets then, scattered along the edge of the road, thought, It's an entire unit... maybe a company, different companies. He looked for a uniform, something identifiable, saw only an occasional hat, one man wearing a bent sword, a black stripe on a ripped pant leg. The faces were mostly staring out at the road, but there were others, men staring ahead with blank eyes, men close to death, or dead already. No, he thought, they don't need guards. They aren't going anywhere.
The farm was behind them now, and then there was a fork in the road, and a staff officer, another man directing traffic. Ord's people were moving away, and Chamberlain saw Griffin, talking to officers Chamberlain did not know. Griffin saw him, and Chamberlain raised a salute, felt the stiffness in his shoulder, the wound now an ugly bruise along his ribs.
Griffin said, "Take the right fork... keep moving, General. Sheridan's up ahead. It's getting pretty tight."
Chamberlain nodded dumbly, asked, "Where's Lee?" Griffin leaned closer, saw the blinking fatigue, said, "Don't worry about Lee, General. You just keep your men moving on the road... this way.
If you don't fall off your horse, General Sheridan will find you when he needs you."
HEY FINALLY STOPPED WELL AFTER DARK, THE MEN COLLAPSING on any spot that would make a bed. Some rations made their way along the line, but waiting for food to cook meant more time awake, and so most of the men slept rather than ate. Chamberlain had slid down from his horse, given the order to the bugler, the command to bivouac. The sounds echoed down the line over the heads of men who did not need any command to sleep. Chamberlain had dropped down, spread out right where his feet touched the ground, and slept through the sound of the horse breathing right above him, finding its own rest.
He was very, very small, standing on uncertain legs, reaching up, his hands not quite reaching the tip of the icicle. Now his father was there, the large band grabbing the ice, snapping it clean from the eave of the house.
The icicle was in his own hands now, and he sat in the snow, touched his small hands to the sharp point. His father was laughing, and Chamberlain put his tongue out, licked the icicle, felt his tongue suddenly stick to the ice, the sudden panic, and now he began to cry, and his father hand was on his shoulder, shaking him... "Sir?"
The hand shook him again, and he stared up at something horrible, ugly, hovering over him, tried to clear his eyes, realized it was the horse's nose. The voice said again, "Sir)" He tried to focus, thought, No, don't talk to me... and then saw the face of the man, leaning in close.
"Sir) Orders, Sir."
Chamberlain blinked hard, thought of sleep again, the snow, the wonderful dream.
"Orders? For what?"
The man stood, said, "From General Sheridan, Sir." His eyes were open now, and he sat up, bumped his head on the horse's snout. Charlemagne was coming awake as well, snorting, a hot wet breath on Chamberlain's face. He rubbed a hand over the wetness, rolled over, slowly stood up, said to the horse, "Well, the orders are for you too."
The aide held the paper out, and Chamberlain took it, could read nothing in the dark. The man struck a match, held it in front of the paper. Chamberlain tried to focus, saw the words:
I have cut across the enemy at Appomattox Station... if you can possibly push your infantry up here tonight, we will have great results in the morning.
Chamberlain looked around at the vast field of sleeping men, said to the aide, "Find the bugler. Sound the call to rise. Let's move."
49. LEE
NIGHT, APRIL 8, 1865 T
HEY WERE CLOSE TO THE STATION, AND EVERYONE KNEW THE rail cars were waiting for them. The march had gone well, Lee staying close to Longstreet, riding with him at the head of the column as he had so many times before. He kept the memories away) tried not to think of those days, now so far behind them, when he would ride beside the big quiet man, pushing the hard power of this glorious army into a weak and badly organized enemy. It was so very different now, and it was not just that his army was so weak, so badly used up, but that the enemy was very different as well. Grant's army had never run, could never have been persuaded to leave by the sheer audacity of Lee's tactics. He thought of that now, of the fight that had been, the long siege, the chase. He wanted to believe that it was the commanders, that if Jackson had lived, or Stuart, or Rodes, or... so many others... But it might not have been. Grant had brought something so different to those people, and whatever they had lacked before, whatever had been so terribly wrong with Hooker or Polk or Burnside, had finally been erased. Lee had always feared that, and even after Grant had been given command, he was not sure what it would mean. Always, from the beginning of his command, when Lee knew the fight was coming, when the great blue wave would slowly move forward once more, he never doubted that his army would prevail, never feared defeat. He always understood the mind of each one of those men Lincoln sent after him. He did not ever wonder about that, never asked himself if it was simple instinct, or superior military skills, or the hand of God. But now, riding in front of a slow column of starving men, he had to think of it, could not keep it away. He still did not believe that Grant had brought some strategic brilliance to the field that he could not grasp, or that his men had been outfought. But Grant had given his army something else, had propelled them forward at a horrible cost. Lee wondered about the numbers, what those boys in blue had given up. He had always believed that would decide the war, that the wives and the mothers in the North would not have that. But still they came, had come into his guns until his guns could not hold them away. It did not make sense, all the loss; the death of so many did not take away their spirit, but instead strengthened it, made them a better army. He had to admit that if he had underestimated Grant, it was because he had underestimated what the people in the North would allow him to do.
Lee had relieved some of his commanders, made it official, though no one else had thought it necessary. But he knew it was still the army, and there would be protocol. The commanders continued to move with the column, rode beside ragged pieces of their army, but the organization was nearly gone. Many regiments were now so small that they were grouped together with men they did not know, following unfamiliar flags. Richard Anderson, George Pickett, several others, were dismissed from command, and even if the names still drew respect from the men they had led, those men were too few. The army did not need any more generals.
Longstreet was now moved back, and Gordon's command was moved out in advance, closest to Appomattox. The greatest threat was still from the rear, from the Federals who were close behind, and Longstreet's troops were the most prepared for a good fight, now the freshest troops left in the dwindling army. If the race for Appomattox was won, it would be up to Longstreet to hold the blue infantry away. In front of them would be only cavalry. Even Sheridan could not hold his horse soldiers in line against Gordon's infantry.
There had been no delays, another hard march, and no one in the ranks thought they should stop. There was no food, except what waited for them up ahead, and the column was consumed by the forward motion, men sleeping on their feet, driven only by the slow rhythm of their own fading strength. If the rhythm failed, the men simply dropped away, fell to the side of the road. Those who remained did not notice, still moved forward because there was nothing else for them to do.
Lee had felt more energy since the morning, moved the horse along the column now, toward the front, knew that somewhere up ahead they would make some sort of camp, a place for the business of the army. Behind him some of the staff stayed close, Marshall, Venable, and Lee knew that Taylor would have the camp ready when they arrived. Traveller moved slowly, stepping carefully, moving around the men on foot, blinded by the darkness and their own exhaustion. Lee could see the ones who had fallen away, some just sitting on the side of the road, heads low, faces down. He thought, I must still rally them, say something, give encouragement. He called out, "Up, men... to the march!" They did not seem to hear, and he realized his voice was only a whisper, barely a sound at all. There was nothing he could say to replace what they had already given up.
Lee rounded a curve, a short rise, could see the moon, bright, bathing the open ground around him in white light. The road was still full of troops, the last of Gordon's men, pushing closer to the town, to the rail station. He spurred the horse, just a bit, a gentle prodding, and Traveller climbed the rise, another curve, reached the crest. The moon was off to the side now, and he could see his shadow, felt the coolness of the air, a slight breeze, and suddenly, far out in front, he could hear the sound of big guns.
He stopped the horse, listened, thought, It is down below, along the river, the cavalry.... He looked that way, toward the south, stared into the dark, but the sounds would not let him turn away, and now he could hear it plainly. The sounds were in the West, from the one place they could not come, where there could not be anyone to block his way. He looked again to the south, thought, No, it's the wind, the lay of the land, the echo tricking me. He moved the horse a short way along the road, pulled off, moved into the wide field, crested another small rise, halted the horse... and now he could see th
e flashes of light, the sounds rolling toward him in louder bursts, sharp waves of thunder. He thought, Gordon has found them... cavalry, there is cavalry at Appomattox. He moved the horse quickly now, the staff following closely, his gut closed up tight in a cold ball, and he thought, They cannot be there... they cannot take the rail cars
MIDNIGHT, APRIL 8, 1865 T
HEY WERE BARELY TWO MILES FROM APPOMATTOX COURT House, a small town whose existence was defined by the railroad. The fight had quieted, a hard encounter between blue horsemen and an advanced line of Lee's artillery, big guns put into place by Porter Alexander, men who were suddenly the front line in a fight they were not expecting. Fitz Lee's horsemen, helping to guard the rear of the column, had quickly been sent up, and the fight was softened now by the late hour, the big guns holding the blue cavalry back. But they did not leave; there was nothing about the rebel line in front of them to drive them away. It was George Custer's division, men who had ridden hard for this opportunity. They had won the race, had come hard into the rail center, seen the great prize strung out on the tracks before them, and now the rail cars were in Federal hands.
Lee's camp was quiet, many officers spread out on the ground, most just lying flat, staring up at the thick clouds that drifted past the moon. They were mostly staff officers, serving what remained of the command of the army. The men they served-Fitz Lee, Longstreet, Gordon-were all close around the fire, sitting on the ground themselves, faces lit by the glow, staring up at the one man who stood. Lee could not move from the fire, not yet, and they waited, patient, no one speaking. He stared down into the flames, listened to the crackling sounds, and felt the weariness, the energy of the day and of the cool night drained out of him. He turned, saw Longstreet sitting on a log, the small pipe in his mouth, watching him.
