by Jeff Shaara
Chamberlain watched the line of troops moving past, momentum pushing them into the rhythm of the march. “I suppose . . . tell him we did good. You and me both. We did as good a job as soldiers are supposed to do. He’ll appreciate that. Probably mean as much to him as anything else we could say.”
“All right, I will. They’re proud of both of us, Lawrence, you know that.”
Chamberlain watched the last of the regiment move past, saw new officers, the next unit in line, knew they had better move along, catch up. “Yep, I know that. But please, stop calling me Lawrence.”
Tom smiled, saluted, then turned and ran, falling into line at the rear of his company. Chamberlain climbed carefully up to the road bed, walked with a quick step alongside the lines of troops, thought, We follow symbols, we follow the commands of men who have stars on their uniforms. The man doesn’t matter, the face or the name. Unless . . . he makes some bloody awful mistake, then the stars are given to someone else. He looked at the ground, felt his boots sink slightly into softening dirt, thought of Ames’s words. Of course, Ames understood, it is happening again.
He passed Tom, kept moving forward, moved by the other familiar faces, made his way toward the front of the line. He glanced over to one man, saw Kilrain, who was looking up, and Chamberlain followed the look, a brief glimpse toward a thick gray sky, and then he felt it, hitting his cheek, one cold drop of rain, and he looked back toward Kilrain. The heavy round face was looking at him, the hard look of a man who also understood, who had seen all the stupidity, who knew, after all, that the gold stars were often mindless decoration, that the army was led not by symbols, but by the fallible egos and blind fantasies of men.
IT RAINED all night and all the next day, and still did not stop. On the far side of the river Stuart’s men watched from under the dripping rims of wide hats as Burnside’s new plan, the quick and daring assault, was swallowed by the deep ooze of the Virginia mud. The great lines of wagons pulling the salvaged pontoons, the small field guns and heavier cannon, the tons of food and supplies, sank deeper and deeper, until Burnside had no choice but to halt the march and give the order to return the army back to Falmouth and the winter camps across the river from Fredericksburg.
By the end of January the army had settled into a new sense of gloom, defeated not only by Lee and Jackson, Stuart and Longstreet, or by the forces beyond the control of man, the rain and the cold. They had been defeated by the mind of one man, a kind and affable man who had a disastrous lack of talent for command. And thus Lincoln again made a change. Burnside was removed, as was Franklin, and Sumner was forced to retire. Fighting Joe Hooker was given command of the army. Lincoln’s appointment to the new commander concluded, “Go forward and give us victories.”
40. LEE
February 1863
THE WAR was spread now over most of the South, and there were new threats to the Atlantic coast. Burnside had been given his Ninth Corps again, and had been sent by boat to the southern coast of Virginia, below the James River. This effort could open a new front which would threaten the valuable supply routes that came from farther south, the fragile system of railroads through the Carolinas and Georgia. There was still the fear that by occupying southern Virginia, the Federal troops might again push inland, south of the James River, and once again threaten Richmond, this time from below.
The Federal threats to the Southern coast had never been serious enough to warrant Lee splitting up his army. He had found this part of the Confederacy a convenient place to send those commanders who had proven they were not fit to lead large armies in times of major crisis. Gustavus Smith, Chase Whiting, and even Beauregard, whose ego did not mix well with Lee’s style, were in command in various regions along the coast. But with the new threat, Lee knew he had to send someone who could hold the line against a serious advance, and at the same time hold the various Confederate commands together into some sort of cohesive unit, not governed by each general’s temperament.
He had first responded to the Federal move by sending Daniel Hill to North Carolina, to organize new volunteers into some sort of effective defense. Additional troops had been sent down under General Robert Ransom, and while Lee knew that neither man had proven himself in independent command, both were diligent and trustworthy soldiers. The detachments from Lee’s already outnumbered army, which still looked across the Rappahannock at the massive Federal force, did not satisfy the agitation that the new threat had given Jefferson Davis. Davis believed the threat to Richmond called for a more drastic response, and so, despite Lee’s small numbers, Davis insisted the army be divided further, and that a much larger force be sent to southern Virginia.
THERE HAD been snow again, a few inches, and the hills and fields were again a solid white, a clean blanket for the fresh graves and torn earth of the great battle. Lee walked along his hill, Taylor behind, and the gun crews came alive, stood suddenly, shaking off the cold, a show for the commander which he did not need. He raised his hand, nodded to the men, and hats were raised, cheers went down the line. The sounds carried below, to the troops in their cold-weather camps, and the men crawled out from snow-covered hideaways, knew what the sound meant. No matter how often they saw him, they would give up the small warm place in the ground to see him again.
He moved back over the hill, dropped down behind the lines, saw a huge fire. There were few big fires now, there was no wood left, the trees and fences long gone. The men had formed details, hauling firewood over the rough country roads from farther and farther away. As the army sat in one place, it pulled at the country like some great dirty sponge, soaking up a widening circle of food and fuel.
The big fire was slowing, and the men saw him coming now, more cheers, and now he saw it had been a wagon; one spoke wheel leaned crookedly from the edge of the black ash. There was one officer, a captain Lee did not know, and the man was hesitant, saluted with a glance toward the fire, and Lee nodded, did not speak, did not ask if the wagon was usable or not.
He stood close to the shrinking heat, looked at the men who spread along the far side of the fire, away from him. They would not get too close, though more than once, when he would ride through the camps, someone would approach, carefully, a dirty hand extended, just to touch him, to touch the horse. He did not understand that, it always embarrassed him, but he rarely stopped them, left that to the officers or his staff, who might keep the men away with a shout, or the empty threat of a raised sword. He stared beyond the fire now and saw the faces of the men, the faces of his grand and wonderful army. Now there were more faces, to the side, behind him, men gathering from all directions, all along the hill, and he looked out, to all the dark eyes that watched him quietly, and he felt his throat tighten, could not swallow, fought it, said a silent prayer, Thank You, for the love of these men. Yes, he thought, I love them as well.
He tried not to look at the faces, saw the army instead, saw the filthy rags most were using for clothes, the small pieces of cloth many had wrapped around their feet, but not all—there were many bare feet, red and hard on the snow. He saw now the thin frames of men who did not eat because there was little to go around. The soft sadness gave way now, replaced by anger, toward the Federals, toward this war. And toward Davis, who would not come out here, who did not see these men in their rough and cold camps, and so did not take seriously his urgent requests, and those of others, to provide better for these men, soldiers who spent their time now in basic survival, a glorious fighting force that was slowly starving to death.
HE WAS in his tent, holding a gift from a local merchant in the town, an old man, a candlemaker, who had brought his family back to their home and found their whole lives reduced to the litter of war, scattered into the streets of Fredericksburg. The man had crossed the canal, climbed the hill, looking for Lee, asking, following the sad directions of weak soldiers, and finally had found him. He had come only to give him the one piece of his family’s history that he had found intact, their Bible. The old man looked at Lee with eye
s that unsettled him, eyes that dug deep inside, a man whose faith was now firmly with this army, and so he accepted the gift without protest. Now, he sat alone and read the inside cover, crude handwriting, the old man’s simple message: “To General Robert E. Lee, May God bless you, and the good work you do.”
Work. He did not think of what he did as work, not as a job. When he had been back in Richmond, in the drab office with the piles of paper, that had been work. Leading these men . . . he shook his head, thought, Maybe that is what we need now: work. These men do not need generals now, they need someone who can supply them, feed them, the work of the people who stare at piles of paper. And those people have not done a very good job.
He rose, put the Bible down on his cot, pushed out through the flaps of the tent and looked for Taylor, who was standing over two men, trying to keep a small fire lit.
“Major, if you please.” Taylor turned toward him, began to move, and Lee said, “Major, please send my respects to General Longstreet, and request that he meet with me as soon as he is able.”
Taylor nodded, began to move again, and Lee said, “And . . . please request that the general bring along two of his best . . . no . . . that is vague. Request that the general be accompanied by General Pickett and General Hood.”
Taylor absorbed the message, nodded again, and Lee went back to the warmth of the tent, began again to read the old man’s Bible.
IT WAS late in the afternoon, and more clouds were moving in, more thick gray, and Lee knew there would be snow yet again. He heard them first, a dull rumble, then saw the horses coming up the rise from the direction of the larger hill, Marye’s Heights. Longstreet wore the wide floppy hat, held the reins with a new pair of white leather gloves, and Lee smiled, thought, It has to be a gift, he would not wash the old ones.
Behind Longstreet the other men were a marked contrast. Lee knew the bulky form of Hood, a bigger man than even Longstreet, and beside him Pickett, the small, thin frame topped by rolls of curling hair bouncing below his small cap. They reined up, dismounted heavily, and Lee stood, hands on his hips, stretched his back, then felt a tightness in his chest.
He pushed his arms out wide, said, “Gentlemen, it is a pleasure. Please, let us go inside, it’s a bit warmer.”
Lee backed into the tent, and Taylor held open the large flaps for the others. Longstreet bent, moved inside, and Lee pointed to a small stool. Longstreet did not speak, sat down with a small groan. Hood moved inside, quickly found a place on the ground, and now Pickett, and suddenly the tent was filled with a smell, and Lee felt his face contract, bombarded by the peculiar odor.
“My goodness . . . what is that . . . ?”
Longstreet laughed, pointed a gloved hand at Pickett, who said, “General Lee, with all respect, I come today wearing the latest gift from my dear Sallie, a sample of the finest and most recent import from Paris. It is called ‘Fleur de . . . Fromage,’ or something. . . .”
Lee thought, Flower of cheese? and Longstreet said, “General, please forgive General Pickett, he does not have a gift for French. And as for his taste . . .”
“My taste is quite the envy of Richmond, sir. I assure you, if the other gentlemen in this army would allow themselves to partake of the good life that still abounds, it would make for a much more pleasant if not high-class atmosphere.”
Hood moved slightly, increased the distance between him and Pickett, said, “General, it is not often my good fortune to share such close quarters with you . . . for which I am now grateful . . . but I respectfully point out that there are a great many fine officers in this army who are not gentlemen, and who would not be caught dead smelling like that.”
Pickett looked at Hood with surprise, then frowned. “Pity . . .”
“Gentlemen,” Lee said, interrupting. “We must address matters at hand. I, for one, will accept General Pickett’s . . . adornment. However, it compels me to make this meeting a brief one.”
Hood nodded, said, “Bless you, sir.”
Lee looked at Longstreet, who waited, was not smiling now, had removed the gloves and pulled a short cigar from his coat. “General Longstreet, we are faced with a problem . . . two problems, actually. The first, and most immediate, is the supplying of this army. This is my priority. The second problem concerns the Federal advance along the Virginia coast, below the James River. That is President Davis’s priority. I believe we have a means to deal with both situations. We must begin by dividing this army. . . .”
AS THE first true signs of spring began to spread over the hills and farms of Virginia, the march began. The two divisions under Hood and Pickett would move to the trains, travel south, establish a defensive front below the James River, and unite the efforts of the other commanders there to prevent any further Federal advance. Longstreet was placed in a position of independent command, with two important conditions. One was that he begin immediately to secure supplies for the army from an agricultural area that was still relatively abundant, and send a steady flow of these supplies to northern Virginia. The second condition was that Longstreet be prepared, at quick notice, to make use of the railroads, and return his troops to Lee’s command if Lee required it. Lee was now left with a force of only fifty-five thousand, less than half the size of the Federal Army that sat in winter quarters above the Rappahannock, a Federal Army with a new commander, who had a sharp eye toward the end of the miserable winter.
HE HAD ridden into the town, an invitation from a group of women. It was a brave show of normalcy, a formal and social gathering by citizens crushed by the weight of destruction and rebuilding, and Lee could not refuse them.
The snow was gone now, the wide field beginning to fill with large patches of deep green. There were still signs of the battle, many signs, and he rode past them now without looking down. He looked up to his hill, to the long row of hills, thought, Will they do it again? It was hopeful, but he knew it would not be. The new Federal commander would not follow the same disastrous path of his predecessor.
He began to climb, and the gun crews waved to him, welcoming him back. He stopped the horse, climbed down, had a sudden need to walk, to kick through the new growth. Behind him, his staff was surprised, began to climb down as well, and he turned, waved them on, said, “No, go ahead. I just want to walk.”
Taylor stayed behind, sat on his horse, holding Traveller’s reins, and the others rode on up the hill, between the big guns.
He began to climb, quick short steps, a fresh energy, his boots digging into the soft dirt, and he looked down, saw bees dancing among the first of the new flowers, small yellow circles climbing out of the layer of thick brown. He was breathing hard now, paused, reached down, thought of Mary, flowers in her hair, and there was a sudden pain in his throat. He tried to straighten up, felt the pain moving into his left arm, a sharp burn, and looked at the arm, the hand, expected to see blood, a wound, but the gray coat was unchanged. He sank to one knee, held the arm, massaging, feeling, but the pain did not go away. He looked up the hill, to the guns, saw the troops watching him, coming toward him, and from deep inside he felt something swell up, long icy fingers wrapping around, gripping his heart, and he looked down, saw the flowers, saw them fading behind a cold black curtain.
HE WAS on his cot, staring into a glow of light, the reflection of the sun on the canvas. He saw Taylor, and Walker, and now he saw more, realized the tent was full of people, and there was a doctor . . . the man who had set his injured hands. He tried to turn his head, felt the pain in his throat, froze into stillness.
The doctor said, “Hello, General. Welcome back. We were a bit concerned, I must say.”
He said nothing, looked at Taylor, saw teary-eyed relief, then tried to turn, and again the pain stopped him cold.
“Easy, now, General. No need to move about.”
“What . . . ?”
Taylor bent over him, said in a hushed tone, “We thought you had left us, General. You collapsed . . . we brought you to your tent. The doctor says you’ll be all
right. Just rest. If you need anything . . .”
There was a sound outside the tent, a voice, yelling. “He’s awake. He’s all right!” and now there was more noise, the sounds of cheering, and Lee listened, did not move, looked at the doctor, a question.
The doctor said, “General, if I may have a private word?”
Lee looked at Taylor, who turned, spoke to the others. “Out! Leave the general alone now. We must leave him.”
The men began to file out, and the tent seemed suddenly cavernous, hollow. The doctor sat down on the stool, said, “General, I believe you have a problem with your heart. You seem better now . . . actually, you seem in perfect health. But sometimes it can sneak up on you. The best advice I can give you is take it a bit easier.”
Lee spoke quietly, testing his voice. “Doctor, there is an army out there. They are not likely to allow me much of a rest.”
“General Lee, I can only offer that you will not serve our cause well if you are flat on your back. The best way for you to get back on your feet, or onto your horse, is to rest now. Your young Mr. Taylor seems to be quite capable of managing this headquarters.”
Lee stared at the canvas, nodded slightly. “Doctor, can we do anything to keep this matter somewhat . . . private?”
The doctor laughed, said, “Actually, no.”
Lee smiled. “No, I suppose not.”
The news that he was not seriously ill spread through the army with the same speed and energy that propels word of a great victory. The troops began to find ways to pass by his headquarters more often now, and gifts began to flow into the camp, from the town and from the countryside. He did not stay on his cot long, and within a few days even Taylor could see no difference, none of the tormenting signs of age. Lee began to ride again, to move among the troops, to ride down the broad hill, through the guns and the fields of flowers, staring hard at the hills across the river.
