The horse stepped between the bodies of the dead, and Lee looked out across to the railroad cut, saw bodies spread all along the embankment. He removed his hat, held it by his side, rubbed his hand through the white hair, thought, If there had been more strength... we might have pushed them out of the cut, routed them across the stream. He tried to see it in his mind, the flags and the swarm of men pushing up and over the embankment, but the image was not there. This was not a field where victory had been turned away by brilliant strategy or a crucial piece of luck. It had not been close, a decision forced by the gallant heroics of one man rising up to turn the flow. It had been a simple bloody mistake.
Lee looked back at Hill, and Hill moved his horse forward, close beside Lee. The staff stayed back. Only Taylor rode out, stayed a few feet away, on the other side. Taylor stared at the dead, made an angry sound, a low discreet grunt. Lee did not acknowledge it, knew that Taylor did not respect Hill, did not regard him as a good commander. But Taylor could never say that to Lee.
Lee had not done this often-ridden out onto the bloody fields, fields where there were so many of his men, and so very few of the men in blue. There had not been many defeats like this, one-sided tragedies. Now it was up to Hill himself to explain; not to make excuses, but to understand what he'd done, the incredible disastrous mistake.
Lee still stared ahead, heard Hill clear his throat, a small cough, heard him shift himself in the saddle. Lee knew Hill was not well, had great discomfort riding, seemed to be in pain all of the time. The pain was on his face, and in the shape of his body, a great hard weight on his shoulders, pushing him down. Hill cleared his throat again.
"General Lee, there was a lack of... good reconnaissance."
Lee said nothing, waited for more.
"We did not know the Yankees were in force on this side of the run. I ordered... I believed that speed was the priority. He was spread out... I thought I could catch his rear unprotected."
Lee nodded quietly, still said nothing. He understood now how this could have happened.
A. P. Hill was a difficult man to command, sensitive and easy to provoke. He carried with him a dark stain from a past that he could not escape. At West Point he had missed graduating with his class in 1846, had to wait one more year, and the reason was scandalous and embarrassing: He had built a reputation as a young man who en)oyed the parties and the houses of ill-repute, the rowdy temptations of New York, and he'd suffered from what was described discreetly as a "social affliction." The late graduation meant he'd barely made it to the fight in Mexico, a fight won by the heroism of many of his classmates, Jackson, McClellan. And even in Lee's army he had never found a comfortable command. There was the great feud with Longstreet, a dispute begun by a newspaper report in Richmond, giving Hill more credit than Longstreet felt he deserved for the good fights on the Virginia peninsula, the Seven Days battles. Their arguments and hostility grew So intense that Hill challenged Longstreet to a duel, something Lee could not tolerate. Lee had only defused the situation by transferring Hill to Jackson's command. But Hill did not perform to Stonewall's rigid and inflexible standards, and so he found himself the focus of Jackson's hot temper as well. There were more charges, threats of arrest and court-martial, a controversy that ended only with Jackson's death.
But on the field, Hill had made his reputation. At Second Manassas, his battered line held their ground against Pope's overwhelming strength, and saved Jackson's flank until the great crushing blow from Longstreet swept the Federals from the field. At Sharpsburg, Hill pushed his men on a hard forced march, arriving on the field when Lee's entire position was near collapse. His division had driven Burnside's surprised troops back across Antietam Creek, and from that moment the cry among the men was "up came Hill." He bathed himself in that, the pride of his men, and most had considered him then the best division commander in the army. Since Jackson's death, Hill commanded a much larger force, many of Jackson's troops; but since Gettysburg, and through the small nameless fights of autumn, he'd shown none of the fire that had given him his reputation. It was a crushing disappointment to Lee, and he was beginning to see how it could be a great danger to the army. Here, on this one open field, in a fight that lasted less than one hour, because Hill was in a hurry, they had lost nearly two thousand men.
"Sir, I will prepare my report."
Lee nodded, put his hat on. The sun was dropping into the tops of the trees behind them, and he knew nothing would happen for a while. He understood Meade now, as he had understood the others before him, and he could anticipate the labs, the deep probes, Meade's way of looking for an advantage. Lee knew if there was to be a fight soon, he would have to press it. But the rolling country out in front of him, across Broad Run, was too familiar. The roads ran across more fields, up toward another stream called Bull Run, where the two great battles of Manassas had been fought. The land was stripped by the war, desolate and barren, and Lee's army could not support itself there. Where else could they go now but back, southward, to the protection of the big river behind them, the Rappahannock?
Lee glanced at Taylor, still said nothing, but Taylor knew the look, pulled his horse away and moved back toward the waiting staff. Lee took a deep breath, looked down at the bodies close around them, and Hill motioned, cleared his throat.
"Sir... General Lee... I am sorry... Sir."
Lee looked at Hill, saw the shame, the grief in the face of this small sickly man. He felt a sudden dark anger, impatience. He looked away toward the darkening sky, gripped his anger, clamped it down, would not show it, would not lecture him. He thought, There is nothing I can say that will change this. This was a lesson from God, and General Hill must learn from this, must take this with him, and it will not happen again.
Hill waited, peered up at Lee from under the brim of the battered hat. After a quiet moment Lee said, "Well, General, let's bury these poor men, and say no more about it."
The army MOVED SOUTH ALONG THE RAILROAD, THE GREAT steel link with the north, the Orange and Alexandria. He sat on Traveller, watched a detail of men with sledgehammers, some with long steel pry bars. They knew he was watching them, and so the work was fast and without complaint, and the officers did not have to tell the men how to do their job
They pulled and twisted, and gradually a long piece of track pulled free of the rail bed. Now more men dragged the rail to a neatly stacked pile of logs, and with one great groan they laid it on top, balancing it carefully so that each end of the rail stuck far out in each direction. There were already several more rails on the stack, and now an officer moved up, carried a small tuft of burning straw, knelt beside the woodpile, spread the flame slowly around the edges. The fire began to climb, and in a few short minutes it engulfed the woodpile completely. Lee pulled at the horse, moved away from the tracks, heard the men whooping, knew that when the fire was at its hottest, the weight of the heavy steel would begin to tell, that as the steel heated and softened, the ends of the rails would begin to sag. Then the men would lift them off the fire and push them hard against a fat tree trunk, twisting them more, so when they cooled and the steel hardened again, they could never be used for rails.
He rode toward his camp, thought of the railroad, the shipments moving south from Washington, supplying Meade's army. He felt a black anger, gripped the reins tightly, did not hear the men he passed, the bright salutes, the small cheers. He did not look at them because he knew he'd see gaunt faces, rags, bare feet. From the south, the rail cars did not bring the supplies that Meade received so easily from the great factories and farms of the North. The supplies were simply not there to send, the farms depleted, the citizens of the small towns and the larger cities, choked by the naval blockade, fighting their own war of survival.
Always when he moved north, he repaired the railroads as he went, fixing what a retreating Federal army had destroyed. But now, instead of repairing the damage, Lee was creating it, destroying the tracks himself. He did not share the enthusiasm for the job that his men ha
d shown. They did not understand, not yet, that the war had changed. The defeat at Gettysburg had cost them too much, and there would be no more invasions north. With Meade in pursuit, even a hesitant pursuit, Lee knew he could not simply make a stand or drive forward into the enemy. He had to rely on maneuver now, draw Meade into a vulnerable place, allow Meade to make a careless mistake. The only way to do that was to bring Meade south with them.
It was nearly dark, and he saw his campfire, saw Taylor signing a paper, handing it to a courier. The man moved away quickly, efficiently, and Lee climbed down from the horse, handed the reins to an orderly, moved to the fire.
There were other men waiting to see Taylor, the daily routine of the headquarters, but when they saw Lee, staring quietly, alone, into the fire, they did not approach. He watched the flames, heard nothing but the soft sound of the burning wood, did not hear Taylor send aides toward the soldiers, telling them: later. Taylor moved into the firelight, and Lee looked into the boyish face, saw the major's uniform, knew Taylor would not be self-conscious; the promotion had just been announced, and the new coat would be slow in coming, the insignia of Lieutenant Colonel.
Lee said, "Colonel, we have destroyed our own railroad." Taylor nodded, said quietly, "Yes, Sir." Lee looked back into the fire.
"We are backing away from an enemy we could have beaten. We must wait for him to come to us. We do not have the means... to press the attack. The men... we are not providing for the men."
"Sir, it is a disgrace. Richmond must be made to understand...
Lee saw the anger in Taylor's face, knew that his aide shared his frustrations. He is so young, Lee thought. He does not understand... you must find the control, you must not let the darker emotions surface. Lee raised his hand in a calming gesture.
"No, Colonel. Richmond cannot help us. It has been clear for some time... we must do with what we have. The president has assured me that all that can be done is being done. But the men do not receive shoes, the rations are disgraceful. I have begun to fear... it seems there is treachery. Someone in the quartermaster's office does not want us to prevail." He paused, thought, No, I should not... we must not be a party to rumor.
Taylor was watching him, wide-eyed, and Lee said, "Colonel, this is in confidence... do not speak of this to anyone. I must depend on you, as my chief of staff. You must understand the importance in not allowing the business of this army to reach beyond this headquarters. It seems that principle is not being followed elsewhere. There are those in the government who find it necessary to discuss our strategy with the newspapers. I have learned more about our troop movements in Tennessee from the Richmond papers than I have from the president." He looked up, above the fire, toward the shadows, men moving through the camp. Taylor said nothing, still watched him. Lee now looked at the young man, and Taylor stood upright, a reflex to Lee's quiet anger.
Lee said, "Colonel, from this point on I must examine any dispatch that goes to Richmond. We will have to be more... discreet about what we tell the president, the secretary of war. And, especially, the quartermaster general." Taylor nodded slowly, absorbing Lee's words, and there was a silence. Lee thought, He is so young... he may not understand the importance... He suddenly felt the absence of Longstreet. Lee could talk about any subject, the politics of Richmond, the dark troubling doubts, and Longstreet would always listen, patient, watching him with sad dark eyes. Then Longstreet would always offer something of his own, might even make an argument, but always respectful, only enough to make a point. Lee knew that lately, since Gettysburg, the disagreements between them had been deeper, less was said face-to-face, that Longstreet's dark moods had taken him further away. With Longstreet now in Tennessee, Lee did not think on that, on the disagreements, the controversies about Longstreet's sluggishness. Lee had seen the newspapers, knew that many were now blaming Longstreet for the defeat at Gettysburg, but Lee would not hear that, would not support anyone who spoke out, offered an indiscreet opinion. That kind of talk was not good for the army, and he knew that Longstreet was still his best soldier, the man he would have to depend on as the war went on. The bloody fields at Bristoe Station, the image of Hill's careless attack, had driven deep into Lee. He knew he would have to rely on Longstreet more than ever now, that even if Longstreet moved a bit slower than Hill might, he would not make that kind of mistake.
Lee did not know when Longstreet might return. In Tennessee, Longstreet had taken his men into the fight with as much fury and skill as the fight had needed, had driven the Federals hard at Chickamauga. But now Longstreet was under the command of Braxton Bragg, and Lee had heard only bad reports from that command, disgruntled officers, an angry Longstreet most of all.
Bragg's only support came from the president, and so when calls began to flow in from the field for Bragg's replacement, incredible reports of incompetence and friction with his commanders, nothing changed, because Davis would not remove a man he liked. Lee thought, How can Bragg... manage? What must that be like, the constant grumbling in headquarters 5intrigue and protests? How can any man run an army if he does not have the respect... if he is so far removed from his command? Good fighting generals did not have to be popular generals, but it was clear now from the reports, from Longstreet's own letters to Lee, that Bragg was neither.
Taylor was still watching him, was shifting back and forth with idle energy. There is none of that here, Lee thought, the harsh words, the jealousies of great egos. And I have this young man... Walter Taylor was the most valuable officer Lee had, a fiercely loyal and protective chief of staff who alone could do what Lee did not have the strength to do. Lee's staff, among the very best, had always been small. There were many who had sought the prestigious positions, but they learned they could not bear the strain, the quantity of work nearly impossible. Taylor never complained, was clearly in charge, was always where Lee needed him to be.
Taylor was still moving, rubbed his hands together, seemed nervous. Lee knew the young man had something to say, that it would come out in a burst of indiscretion, the impatience of youth.
"Sir! Surely they must know the harm... we must make them understand. If the quartermaster... if General Northrop is responsible, Sir... we must do something!"
Lee thought, Do something? Do... what? He'd grown weary of asking, of explaining the army's great needs, of calling for new troops. As each request went south, he had only felt a greater sadness. Richmond could not even send them shoes.
"What we will do, Colonel, is limit the flow of information, limit the correspondence. We will reveal what is necessary to reveal, and nothing more."
"I understand, sir. We will limit the correspondence. It is... most regrettable, sir."
Lee took a long breath, stared deep into the fire, felt the heat now, felt it move through him, ball up in a tightness in his chest, a dull hard pain.
"Yes, Colonel. It is most regrettable."
6. LEE
DECEMBER 1863
He was close to Richmond NOW, COULD SEE PEOPLE ALONG the dirt roads, wagons moving slowly, some stopping briefly to watch the train. They were used to the trains now, but a few spotted him, saw the white hair and the uniform, the old familiar face gazing at them through the window, and they would wave. A few hats would go up, cheers and shouts, and later they would tell their friends that he'd been there, that they had seen him with their own eyes.
He did not respond, saw patches of snow, the mud on the roads, thought now about the winter, and the men with bare feet.
There had been one more push from Meade. Once more he'd come south, across the river, crossing at a place where Lee had made preparations. Lee had thought the place defended, but the defense did not work. Meade moved quickly and with power, surprised Lee's troops, moved across the bridge that should have been protected. It was another mistake.
Lee pulled back to the west then, beyond the edge of the Wilderness, the place where Jackson had nearly destroyed the Federal army that past spring. Lee did not think of those days, of missed op
portunities, of the pain of that night, when the courier brought him the news, the unbearable image of Jackson falling from his saddle, shot down by his own men. Lee had learned that in this war there were many strokes of what some called luck, but he did not believe that, thought: God has His reasons, and sometimes the tide turns against you, but there will be a balance. If we were victorious that day, we would pay a price another day. He saw Jackson's face again, the sharp bluceyes, and he could not help it, thought, Why? Was it necessary to take him? He had asked that question often, prayed long for an answer, for some understanding, but it had not come.
Now when Meade pushed toward him, Lee ordered them to put up defenses through the deep woods, a place called Mine Run, and the dirt had flown and trees were felled. It was a great change from the earliest days of the war. When he'd first suggested the digging of trenches around Richmond, he received hoots of derision in the newspapers, was called "Granny Lee," or the "Queen of Spades." Wars should be fought by men standing straight, facing the enemy, and no honor would ever be won by men who hid behind cover. But the soldiers themselves did not care what the papers said. They had seen the horrors, the bloody reality of what that kind of honor could do to the men around them, and they welcomed the trenches. When the order came, every man sought to put his hands on a shovel.
Jeff Shaara - The Last Full Measure Page 7
