by Jeff Shaara
Lee stared at a candle flickering on the windowsill, still heard the voices, heard Mary, clearly in command, thought, I should let them know I’m home. They will be concerned, ask stern questions: Have I eaten? Is my coat warm enough? He smiled. They worry too much about me. Everyone worries too much.…
He tried to stand up and a sharp pain stung him, a sudden hard pinch in his throat. He sat again, stared at the candle, and the pain flowed slowly out of him, then was gone. He heard himself breathing, sat back on the couch, thought, Easy, let it go. Thank God.
All during the autumn the pains had come, and he’d spent many days alone in his tent. He would not discuss the ailment, not even with Taylor, and he did not tell anyone that the trip to Richmond would be for that as well, to rest, the soft comfort of home. He could never admit that to anyone, not even to Mary, and for the first few days it had helped, he’d slept well, felt stronger. But now, knowing he would return to his men, that Davis would not send him out of Virginia, the pains surprised him, coming back again. The last few nights he had lain awake staring up into the dark, talking quietly to God, feeling the motion in his chest. But even the prayers did not comfort him, and he could not stop thinking about what they still must do, how the war would go on until he did something, that it was his responsibility.
It was only a few days until Christmas, and he knew they were glad he was home, that it should be a joyous time. He stood again, slow, careful, moved toward the sounds from the kitchen. He steadied himself in the doorway, saw motion in the dark hall. Mary came out of the kitchen, leaning on the small crutch, saw him standing in the shadow of the candle. She stopped, surprised, said only, “Oh …” and looked at him, but they did not speak. Suddenly he could not look at her, stared down at the floor. He wanted to say something, give her something. It was always so hard.
After a quiet moment she said, “I don’t need the explanation, Robert. Go … go on back to your army. You won’t ever really be here, this won’t ever be your home … until the war is over. We have had Christmas without you before. We will manage.”
He still said nothing, felt her eyes digging deep inside him, seeing all of him, and he thought, Of course, she always knows. But there was no bitterness in her voice, not this time. He did not hear the dark anger, just the sadness, the calm acceptance of all they had missed, the family gatherings, the children growing up under the eye of their father. She had, after all, married a soldier.
She began to move away, then stopped, said, “You don’t have to explain … not to me … not to any of us. If they need you to end the war, then end the war. We will still be here. We are still your family. Now, go on. They’re waiting for you, you know.”
She moved away, hobbled slowly down the hall, back toward their room. He watched her, waited until she was gone, then stared at the dark space, closed his eyes, saw the vast cold camp, shelters and fires, great fields of guns and wagons and horses. And then he saw the faces, the men of his ragged army, waiting for him to return, the army that waited for the command to send them forward once again, maybe for the last time.
He opened his eyes, looked into the dark, saw his faint shadow from the dim light of the candle, said quietly, “Yes … I know …”
PART
TWO
… testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived, so dedicated, can long endure. We are met here on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of it as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But in a larger sense we can not dedicate—we can not consecrate—we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract …
7. GRANT
MARCH 1864
THE LINE MOVED SLOWLY, THERE WAS MUCH TALKING, NERVOUS ANticipation. He could feel the motion, the energy of the crowd, held back by the people in front, moving only with small short steps. Gradually they drew closer to the wide doorway. Now he could see into the next room, saw the pale blue walls, lit by one small chandelier. The sounds of the people began to quiet; those who had passed through the doorway were now nearly silent. He held the boy’s hand, looked down, saw his son trying to see past the line of people, the glorious dresses of the women, the fine suits of the men. But the boy was too short and the crowd pressed together too closely, and so they just eased along slowly, until it was their time to enter the blue room.
He had not changed his uniform, had lost the key to his trunk, and so, had thought it might not be proper … and he didn’t want to embarrass the boy. Frederick was only twelve, had become used to traveling with his father through the army camps, even on the march. But neither of them had ever been to see the President. He smiled at the boy, who still strained to see the adventure that lay in front of them, thought, He is used to the attention, he loves it, the son of the commander, all the officers, their wives, frittering and making a to-do around him, since the commander himself will have none of it. He thought, now, of the boy’s mother: Yes, this would be for you, you enjoy this much more than I do, the receptions in great halls, shaking hands with well-dressed folks, the stifling dignity of meeting Important People. He glanced down at his uniform, saw the smudges, the worn cloth. If she were here … I would not be here. I should have taken my pistol and shot my way into the trunk, broken the lock. He smiled again, thought of her sulking, the pursed lower lip. She would definitely not approve of these clothes, not here, not tonight. The boy looked up at him, and he could see that part of her, the excitement in the boy’s face, as they moved ever closer to the Big Moment.
He could hear small comments, realized now that people were pointing at him. Most did not know who he was, and he heard names, guesses, none of them correct. He did feel embarrassed now, began to think this was a bad idea. I should have waited until tomorrow, when the official ceremony would take place. But he had arrived early, and when the boy had heard there was a reception at the White House, the issue was settled. He frowned, thought at least he could have found a way to clean up the uniform.
Now he was in the blue room, and suddenly he could see the President, tall above the crowd, made more so by the slight bows of the people as they passed by, small greetings, careful handshakes. He was stunned by the face, the deep gray eyes, the hard lines, the sadness of a man who felt all the weight of this great bloody war, who must answer to the widows and the children, must find some way of explaining why he did this, why this war had to go on until the rebels were brought down. The tall man was smiling, saying a few words, then a brief nod and another smile. Then the eyes were caught by the blue of the uniform, and suddenly Lincoln stepped forward, moved through the startled row of silk and satin, pearls and lace, reached out a great heavy hand and beamed a wide smile.
“Why, here is General Grant! This is a great pleasure, I assure you!”
Grant took the hand, felt Lincoln’s strong grip. Grant felt the warmth, the smile that seemed to spread out over him, over the room. He felt himself pulled away from the crowd, did not see them gather around now, did not feel the boy move close to his side, the attention now focused fully on this small man in the rumpled blue uniform. He stared up into the eyes, felt a sudden weight shifting onto him, more than just the eyes of the President. He felt himself smile, said, “Thank you, sir. Mr. President, sir. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
He felt foolish, thought, He is the President of the United States … think of something to say. It had not occurred to him that he might actually speak to Lincoln, not tonight, had expected maybe to see him, catch a glimpse of the big man through a crowd.
Lincoln still had him by the hand, pulled Grant through the throng of people, and now they were seeing the uniform, the obvious lack of formal preparation. There were amused comments, nods of “Yes, now here is a real soldier …” He heard his name flowing out, carried along in a small wave, “General
Grant,” and in the hallway beyond, the wave grew into shouts, someone began a cheer. He looked around the room, saw the faces watching him, staring.
Lincoln released him, said, “General Grant, allow me to introduce Secretary Seward.”
Grant looked at the long thin face of the Secretary of State, smiling at him with the charm of the diplomat. He took the hand that Seward offered, but Seward’s words slipped by, the polite formality, and Grant could only hear the rhythm of his name, a slowly rising chorus in the gathering crowd. Now Lincoln was moving him along, and Grant saw a woman, standing alone, watching him with hard quiet eyes. He was led closer, and she did not speak, watched him carefully, appraising him, and he heard someone say, “Mrs. Lincoln … this is General Grant …”
She was wearing a small hat, a strange cluster of fresh flowers, her long straight hair pulled back tightly. There was a wide-open space around her, the people did not approach her, no one stood close. He made a short bow, thought again of his uniform, felt completely awkward, thought, I should apologize.
But she spoke, and near them there were suddenly no voices, only quiet. “General Grant … how nice to meet you. I hear that you bring a bit less refinement and a bit more bulldog to this war.”
There was laughter, and Grant tried to smile, bowed again, had no idea what to say. He glanced at Frederick, said, “Mrs. Lincoln, allow me to introduce my son, Frederick Dent Grant.”
She reached out a hand, touched the boy’s cheek, and the boy flinched slightly. She said, “Yes, how nice. My sons are often with their father as well. Teach them … show them how to be men.”
Grant smiled, nodded, was not sure what she meant, wondered if it was sarcasm. There was a brief silence, and he thought, Say something … words, something appropriate. She was smiling at Frederick still, and suddenly she began to move away, a wide path opening in the crowd. The voices behind him began to grow again, and he turned, saw that the room was filling rapidly, the neat order of the reception line was gone, the crowd mobbing into the room. Grant felt for Federick’s hand, and the boy gripped him hard, pulled close beside him.
Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, and he was turned, pulled, saw now it was Seward. He followed, pushed through the noise, the hands reaching out to him, saw the tall figure of Lincoln move on in front of them. Seward moved up behind Lincoln, and Grant followed to another room, saw it was larger, the walls light green, high white ceilings, an extraordinary chandelier. Seward led him to one side, the crowd following close behind, pushing through the wide doorway. Lincoln stopped beside a small couch, and Seward pointed, said, “General, it might be best … climb up here, stand on the couch.”
Grant looked at Seward, said, “On the couch … my boots?”
“Please, General, it’s all right. They seem to want to get a good look at you. It might be the only way to calm them down.” Grant looked at the elaborate lace, the silk brocade, looked at Lincoln, and Lincoln was smiling, obviously enjoying the moment. Grant looked again at the couch, then took one step up, steadied himself with one hand on Seward’s shoulder.
The room was larger, began to fill as well, and Grant saw other uniforms, the marine guard, the men now moving into the crowd, trying to ease them into lines. Hands were raised toward him now, and he watched the faces, saw the smiles, heard his name again. He looked down, saw Frederick beside the couch, and the boy was smiling now, was beginning to absorb the excitement and the attention from the crowd. Grant watched the marines guiding the people along, silently, gently, but the numbers and the energy were too great, and the people surged up close to him, and his name was now a single chant, the crowd calling out, “Grant … Grant … Grant …”
Beside him, Lincoln said something to Seward, and Seward leaned close to him, said, “General, when you have had enough of your adoring crowd, the President requests you join him in the drawing room.”
The two men moved away, and Grant was now alone, the hands reaching up to him, a sea of silk and flowers, perfume and cigars, politicians and diplomats and reporters. He began to reach for the hands, a brief grasp for those who came close. They began to file by, but did not leave, and so the room grew more crowded, the marines began to ease away, could do nothing but stand out of the way, moved back against the far wall, watching him as well. Now the chant began again, his name, and he stared in amazement, tried to smile, thought, I am no hero …
There was no escape, they would not let him leave, and he shook the hands, nodded politely at the kind comments, the friendly greetings. He looked out over the faces, began to feel now what this was about, the raw enthusiasm for this one soldier. He understood the look now, something he had not noticed before, had not seen in the face of soldiers. He was giving them … hope.
THERE HAD NOT BEEN A POSITION OF LIEUTENANT GENERAL IN THE army for years. Winfield Scott had been the only man since George Washington to hold that rank, and certainly no one since the start of the war had shown himself particularly worthy. After three years now, after the disastrous incompetence of some commanders, the political intrigue that surrounded others, the infighting in Washington, and the morale problems in the field, and as the casualty numbers grew more horrifying, Lincoln understood that something profound and meaningful was fading away from the people. The rebellion was bleeding more from the country than its young men. If it was to turn around, if something was to be saved out of this great war, it would fall on one man who did not speak to crowds, who did not enjoy the raw attention of an admiring public, who did not perform on the field with one eye on the newspapers.
Grant was no one’s political favorite, he had not accumulated debts from men of power. He did not get along with General Halleck at all, but Lincoln had learned through bitter experience that it was not Halleck who would win the war from his comfortable office in Washington.
Grant had shown Lincoln something that the others had not. He could win … and he did not need to tell you he had won. If he did not win, he did not send a steady stream of explanations, excuses, he did not lay blame. And, he did not make the incessant calls to Washington for reinforcements. Lincoln had become so accustomed to hearing from his commanders how the enemy was always superior, that from the earliest days of McClellan’s command, the Federal army would never be strong enough to whip their enemy. Even when there were successes, when the Federal soldiers showed their commanders that they could in fact whip those other fellows, the success was never complete, the opportunity for complete victory had never been followed up. The commanders did not seem to believe it, did not have the fire of confidence, did not appear to understand that with just a little more—another quick strike, another strong blow—those tough boys in the ragged clothes just might do as the blue army had done so often: back away. And if the blow was strong enough, and deliberate enough, it just might end the war. If Grant had his success far from the capital, far from the attention of the eastern newspapers, it was the people who were beginning to hear about him from the soldiers, from the men who fought under his command. He did not ride the grandest horse, he did not wear the fanciest uniform. But he had understood his army, had given the right orders, put his men in the right places. At first the names did not cause excitement in the east: Fort Donelson, Shiloh. But then came his triumph at Vicksburg, a complete and utter victory, a mass surrender of a major rebel army, and with that came Federal control of the entire Mississippi River. Now the papers picked up the name. When he broke out of Chattanooga, a violent clubbing of Bragg’s army that swept them out of Tennessee, Grant had suddenly reversed the tide in the West. He had pulled his army together like one massive fist, cocked and ready to strike directly into the heart of the deep South. When word of this extraordinary breakthrough reached Washington, Lincoln made up his mind. If there was to be one man to control the flow of the war, he wanted Ulysses Grant.
THE MARINE HELD THE DOOR OPEN, AND HE PASSED BY, RETURNED a crisp salute. The door closed behind him, and the sounds of the crowd faded away. He had left Frederick
behind, the boy now the center of attention, surrounded by the ladies. The boy had begun to charm them with the innocence and guile only a twelve-year-old knows, and Grant knew he would be fine on his own.
Lincoln sat alone at a small table, and Grant glanced around the room, saw portraits, a mantel covered with flowers, a huge silver tray lying flat on a dark table in the corner. Lincoln held out a hand, motioned to a chair, was smiling, seemed energetic, enthusiastic.
“Please, General, have a chair. I am delighted … truly delighted to have you here. Allow me to make good use of this opportunity … I have wanted to talk to you.”
Grant sat, still looked around the room, felt Lincoln watching him, said, “Thank you, sir. I could have waited until tomorrow.…”
“Nonsense, I’m glad you came tonight. You caused quite a stir. The crowds don’t respond much anymore … not to me, anyway. These weekly receptions have become pretty routine. This was a delight.”
There was a pause, and Grant waited, did not know what else to say. Lincoln leaned forward, across the small table, and Grant felt the energy, the mind working. Lincoln stared at him, and Grant felt himself pulled forward, drawn to Lincoln’s stare.
“General, there was no one else. I heard all the names, people politicking for the favorite general … but when it came down to it, when Congress approved the position, I considered no one else for the job. No one, not one of the men who staked their claim … was as deserving as you. The army gains nothing by blessing its commanders with meaningless titles. The rank of Lieutenant General has meaning. It belongs to only one man, and that man must understand the job he faces. I have no doubt that my choice is the right one.”
