by Jeff Shaara
They were waiting for him. The supper had been delayed until he came home, and he could smell the food when he opened the door. He slid out of his dripping coat, ran his hand through wet hair, moved into the large living room, saw the dining room beyond, the girls moving into their chairs, Mary in the wheelchair. There was laughter, some joking at his appearance, and he still felt the chill. He pulled at himself, wrapped his arms tighter. Mary was watching him, said something, and he looked at her, could not hear her words. He moved toward his chair, and there was silence, they were all watching him, watched him slowly sink into the chair. Mary said something else, and he felt his mind asking... what? Why do you not speak up? Now Mary moved her chair closer to him, held out a cup, the steam from the tea drifting felt up in front of his eyes. He stared ahead, still could not hear them, the fog closing across his eyes, his mind now drifting slowly away. He saw them standing now, moving forward, hands touching him, the voices like small bells, echoing through the cold darkness in his brain, the darkness spreading now, covering them all.
OCTOBER 12, 1870 H
E HAD BEEN AWAKE MOST OF THE TIME, HAD TRIED TO RISE from the bed, but there were always hands, and he had no strength to fight them. He was in the dining room, had thought that was strange, some odd dream, that the bed was in the wrong place, embarrassing, the privacy violated. But when his mind cleared he could hear them, understood that they'd made the large room his hospital, had seen the faces of the doctors now, familiar, men with warm hands, comforting words.
The medicine was always there, the bitter liquid, and they told him it would help, and so he took it without protest. For two weeks they told him he was getting better, would recover, something about a congestion in his brain, something the medicine would help. For the first few days he believed them, felt the strength coming back, but then would come the bad days, when he could not hear them, when the kind faces would change, showing dark concern, and he knew what they would not say to him, that it was more than a simple illness, more than any treatment could help.
When the sunlight had come into the room through the wide bay windows that looked out to the campus, he'd seen strange faces, thought he was dreaming again, but then his mind would clear, and the faces were real. Outside the house, they had lined up for days, students at first, then people from the town. As word of his illness spread, more people came, many just standing outside the window, watching the activity inside. At night the curtains would close, but the people would stay, many of them sleeping right there, on the lawn. On the good days, he had even waved to them, and they cheered him, joyous tears, kind words. He had seen uniforms, even a flag, a strange surprise, some of his army violating the law, presenting themselves to the man who was, after all, their commander. He had thought, speak to them, tell them they do not have to do this, it is all right. But he never left the bed, and so the faces never left their vigil outside the window.
Through the night, when the brief moments came, when he was awake, he could feel Mary's soft hand holding his. He felt the pains come back, the familiar tightness, the left arm, his throat filled with a dull ache. He wanted to tell them, but there were no words, no sound except the voice in his mind. He tried to see her face, could still hear the sounds flowing around him, but the darkness settled around him, began to push it all away. His mind was still working, and he tried to THE LAST FULL MEASURE 533 see through the darkness, thought, It must be... the face of God, but the darkness began to open, move away.
He could see new faces, panic, tears, the faces of soldiers, the great hollow sounds Of a bloody fight There was a stone bridge, a creek, red with the blood of the armies, and flowing across the bridge was a great mass of blue, Jackson now, the smiling pushing away everything infront of them. He saw face of Stuart, and they were standing still, beside him, looking at him silently, waiting for him to move, to tell them what to do. He looked around, saw the great blue wave moving close, and be looked at the commanders and still they did not move, and now be beard a noise, a great cheer, the high scream of the rebel yell, and be turned that way, felt the horse under him, could smell the smoke, the hard sounds of the fight along the creek. All around him now were row after row of his men, long lines Of death, but back behind him the high yell was still coming forward. He looked back, over the bill, saw troops, soldiers, his soldiers, a great wall spreading out to turn away the blue wave. He waved his bat, pulled the horse up high, Yes, come forward, push them, drive them. He could see the men on horses now, the flags, saw the one man in the red shirt, and be thought, Now, do it now! The staff was there now, the face of Taylor, and be yelled, Tell Hill be must come up!" wn the bill, the blue wave now In one great surge his men poured do backing awa I I now choked with the blue mass, y, a fur' oils fight, the br *dge 's men stillflowdeath spreading all along the creek, the piercing yell of Hill lous for of the ingforward. He watched, still waved the bat, felt that glor' victory, the blessing from God be never took for granted.
The battle was past now, and tbefield was changed, the horrible sights, the awful scenes of death were gone. He saw Hill now, and the others, and behind, there were many more faces, all still, quiet, watching him. He wanted to tell them, Fine work, victory is Yours... but there were no words now, and the fiaces were all smiling at him, and now be saw strange faces, men who should not be there, who were not at that great awful fight, the struggle for Antietam Creek. There were tbefaces of many friends Winfield Scott, Albert Sidney Johnston, many others, all the familiar faces, spread out in a soft white glow. He was not on the horse now, moved forward the white mist flowing around him, and tbefaces began to move away. He began to follow them, saw them looking back at him, leading bimfarther into the mist. e of Now the m' tbegan to clear and he saw a vast field, a great tide is bt, "o... which army... But there were men, moving away. He tboug no uniforms, they were all the same. He watched them." felt more men now moving past him, the flow endless, the faces looking at him with a gentle calm. Some were calling to him, silent words, but he could feel '*t' thought, I must still lead them. He stared out above them, the bright white of the sky, thought, The face of God... "t must be.. -. Then he looked again at the men, the endless numbers, stiliflowing past him, and he thought, Yes, this is tbeface of God... you are all the face of God. He looked behind him now, thought, It is time... I must go with them. He looked for his staff, but there was no one there, and he thought, There must be someone... I must tell them... we must go now. He turned, yelled out the command, the last breath before be moved away, marched again with his men. ""Strike the tent!"
5 7. G -RAN @T
MOUNT McGREGOR, NEW YORK, JULY 1885 E HAD BEEN WRITING ALL MORNING, THE WORDS POURING from his mind in a steady stream that seemed to outpace his ability to put them down. He would pause, resting, feel his own harsh breathing, but the words pushed hard against the dam, and so his hand would move again, releasing them, an unstoppable flow.
His hand began to ache, and he stopped, sat back in the chair, laid his head back, stared at nothing. Outside, he could hear the sounds, the birds, and he looked that way, felt the tightness in his throat, and now his weariness was complete. He looked at the paper in front of him, thought, No more, not now.
He stood, a slow labor, walked to the doors that opened onto the terrace, stared for a moment, could see the birds now, flutters of motion, and below, the road, blessedly empty, no traffic, none of the people who had gathered earlier that morning.
It had annoyed him at first, people coming just to watch him, to stare at him, his private moments. There was kindness in that, he knew, but it was still an intrusion, and the sickness took away his patience. When he needed the break from the work, from the writing, he would go outside, settle into the soft chair, listen to the birds. If there were onlookers, they were respectful, usually quiet, would not disturb him, but he always knew when they were there, and that was disturbing enough.
He'd wondered at first why they came, thought they might be reporters, or old soldiers, someone who kne
w him once, maybe a long time ago. But he never saw a familiar face. They had the odd habit of just standing, watching, giving a wave, a small greeting. Then it had occurred to him: they are waiting for me to die. ' ins had come the autumn before, a sudden shock, an The first painful assault on his throat from nothing more than eating a piece of fruit. He felt a sting, thought it was an insect, a bee, and swallowed, fighting back, had bathed his throat in cold water, but the pain had not gone away. Julia insisted on doctors, but he would have none of that, had little faith in anything they would do. But Julia had her way, always had her way, and the doctors had come to him with that look that carries its own message. He had cancer of the throat.
Julia would not believe that, sought more doctors, some assurance that it was curable, but Grant did not cooperate, would not be the sub- )ect of experiments. He could feel it inside, the disease kept a hold on him every day, always announced its presence. He eventually began to weaken, and then he knew what was happening, that there would be very little time, and that he had one very important job to complete.
The memoirs had not been his idea, but when the offer was made, it seemed to be a miracle. After eight tumultuous years in the White House, after a two-year journey around the world, his gift to the patience of his wife, he had in fact been nearly destitute. He'd been approached to write some articles, a piece for a magazine, and was surprised to learn there was an audience for the stories, for his memories of the war. He was never a writer, had never even thought of putting words on paper, nothing but what came with the job. They paid him anyway, a pleasant surprise, and he'd begun to enjoy it, going back, searching through some of his old papers, the familiar names and places, and even the bad times, the grim figbts where many good men were lost.
It had never occurred to him that anyone would pay to read the story of his life, that there was anything about his life that was inspiring, or even interesting. But the numbers had been presented to him, a guarantee of half a million dollars; that if he could produce the memoirs, it would ensure the financial well-being of his family. The articles, brief and to the point, had been fun. Now there was something added-a responsibility. The writing had taken on an urgency because, he knew, more than anyone else, he was running out of time.
The money, the financial security, was inspiring certainly, but there was something more, a growing friendship with the publisher, Samuel Clemens, an unexpected benefit of the simple business deal. That was a new experience for Grant, because his business deals almost always went bad. Through his entire life, the most painful lessons, his faith in man would be shaken not by success or failure on the battlefield, but by how men behaved in business dealings. It was a lesson he still could not accept, not completely, and he still wondered about the criticism he'd received, how naive he was. He had always been too eager to trust, believed that everyone would accept responsibility the way he did. It was simple and logical. If you trusted someone with doing their duty, to do ajob, it did not matter if money was involved, the job would be done.
During the last half of his presidency, he had clearly shown too much blind faith in those who worked in his administration. His failure to understand and then to stop the corruption around him had not only been a severe embarrassment, but would haunt him for years after his term expired. It was as it had always been, on the fields of Virginia, or in the white halls of Washington. If he was told the job would be done, he simply believed it.
The memoirs could only be handled by him, and even if he had use of a secretary, someone to correct his spelling, his poor grammar, the words still came from him. His fading energy only gave him a few hours each day, but it had been enough so far. Clemens was confident that he was very close, that in a few weeks, or maybe days, the final pages would be written.
Clemens came more often now, and the visits were more social than professional. He would wait for Grant to complete the day's work, then they would sit and talk, as much as Grant's voice would allow. As weak as he was, as much discomfort as his voice gave him, he enjoyed the visits. It could be wonderfully entertaining, because Clemens himself had no problem filling the quiet spaces with his own words, was a man who did not even require an audience, seemed perfectly happy just speaking out loud, entertaining himself as well as anyone who might be around. Clemens had done a good bit of writing himself, great literary treasures, and Grant always enjoyed hearing about that from a professional, the magical process, where the words came from. He'd always been astounded that this man would actually pay him to write the memoirs, was honored now by the man's friendship, the man most people knew by the name of Mark Twain.
E MOVED OUT ONTO THE TERRACE, PEERED OVER THE BALI II saw no one on the road. He was grateful for the cony, st privacy, moved to his chair, eased himself down. The birds chattered at him, annoyed by his presence, and he sat still for a moment, had come to know that if he sat quietly, did not move, they would soon forget he was there.
He could hear a carriage now, the birds suddenly fluttering away. The carriage slowed, stopped in front of the house. He didn't hear voices yet, listened for the sound of the bell outside the front door. He knew Clemens was supposed to come today, and he'd drawn energy from that. Even the writing had gone well, faster, stronger. He heard footsteps, thought, Please... no one else, no reporters, no well wishers The bell rang, one sharp clang, and he could hear sounds in the house, Julia moving toward the door. It opened, and he heard her voice, the flirtatious delight, and thought, Thank God, it has to be him. He relaxed then, knew what would be next. Staring out at the trees, he saw the birds gathering again, and then the terrace door was opening. Immediately, he could smell the cigar.
"Still drawing inspiration from those damned birds, eh?"
Grant smiled, and Clemens was now in front of him, the playful teasing a mask for the man's eyes, examining Grant with dark concern.
Grant said nothing, held out a hand, which Clemens took, and then Julia was there, holding a bright cluster of flowers. She said, "Look, Ulyss, he brought more flowers. I must say, Mr. Clemens, you do know how to charm a household." Clemens winked at Grant, said, "My dear, it is not the household I aim to charm. It is the occupants. And, given that one of them is this fellow here, it is safe to say that my aim is toward his better half."
Julia made a short bow, said, "Mr. Clemens, your aim is accurate." There was a pause, and Clemens blew a cloud of cigar smoke toward Grant, then made a great show of extinguishing the ash, tapped the cigar on the railing, slid the cigar into his coat pocket.
Julia made a short nod, said sternly, "Thank you, Mr. Clemens. Now, I will go put these in water, and leave you two alone."
When she was gone, the door closing, Clemens sat down next to Grant, peeking around toward the house, the same game played with every visit. He retrieved the cigar, lit it again, and leaned back in the chair.
It was a simple pleasure for Grant now, the wonderful smoke. He could not enjoy his own cigars anymore; the gentle warmth that he'd enjoyed for so long was now a scorching fire in his throat. Julia was considerate of that, had thought it was insensitive of men to smoke around him, a cruel tease. Usually, she was right, but she did not understand that Clemens knew it as well, would smoke only what he knew were Grant's favorites. If Grant could not enjoy the pleasure of smoking himself, Clemens would do it for him. If the men thought themselves clever, like two boys in some guilty misbehavior, they did not know that Julia understood the game as well. As the cloud rolled up between them, and Grant would absorb what he could of the gloriatching the oils smoke, she would wait, then move up near the door, w 1 two men enjoy their small victory over her stern discipline.
They J today?" sat for a moment, and Clemens said, "The voice... all right Grant nodded, said, a low scratchy growl, "Not too bad. They want me to take the morphine to help the pain. But it fogs up my brain. Can't do that." the cloud of smoke, said, "You're Clemens nodded, blew ano I very close. How far you gonna take it?"
Grant shook his head.
"
The war. I don't see how I can go Clemens held up his hand, said, "The war is fine. Good stuff. That's what people want anyhow. Hard to get anybody excited about eight years in the White House. Anticlimactic." He laughed.
"Even your White House."
Grant nodded, thought for a long moment, said, "I never would have done that... if Lincoln had lived." 0. You Clemens nodded, blew smoke.
"You wouldn't have had t may have saved the country, your enemies notwithstanding. We were out of control. Could have been anarchy. Too bad... you could write a lot about that. Teach some people a few lessons."
Grant shook his head no. Clemens realized what he'd said, knew well that there would be little time. He said, "No, it's not important. Stick with the war."
Grant stared at the birds again.
"I had thought, maybe the trip... write about that, what it was like... especially for her. She was in her glory."
