by Jeff Shaara
When he was older, at the Point, it was not his quick wit, dry humor, or skill with the lessons that made him friends, but his ability to ride. They had always thought of him as a natural for the dragoons, the cavalry, but he did not have the grades, could not choose where he would serve. The system did not reward the skill of the cadet, just the standing in the class, and his was of no distinction.
He kicked down the hill, through thick grass, and there was a sudden violent flutter, an explosion of small wings. A covey of quail blew up around him, flew away into the trees below. He felt his heart beating, laughed, heard a voice behind him.
“Where’s your shotgun, General?”
He turned, still smiled, saw the bulky figure of Elihu Washburne stepping carefully down toward him, the dark formal suit out of place on a grassy hillside.
“It wouldn’t matter. I wouldn’t hit them anyway.”
Washburne reached him, was breathing heavily. He was a large round man with long white hair streaming back from a high, broad forehead. He put a hand on Grant’s shoulder, laughed through the heavy breaths, said, “No, I never knew you to show much inclination to hunt. However, your secret is safe with me.”
Grant was puzzled. “Secret …?”
“Your dismal marksmanship. If the men knew, might not be good for morale.” Washburne laughed again, and Grant smiled.
He had asked Washburne to come along, to travel with the army on the move south and leave behind the dusty walls of the capitol. Washburne had been a congressman from Illinois for years, and it was Washburne who had seen something in this young man that the state of Illinois had sorely needed. When the regiments were organized, the first response to Lincoln’s call for volunteers, there had been no one else around Galena qualified to command, to put the regiments together.
Washburne had only known him from those weeks before the real fighting began, had met him the same time as Rawlins met him. Grant’s only importance to the people of Galena was that he had been in the Mexican War, but there was celebrity in that. Rawlins was consumed by the romance of it, had come to Grant with boyish enthusiasm, wanting to hear the stories, the exploits, but Washburne had seen much more. He had an instinct for character, saw beyond the shy seriousness, believed that Grant was a man who could give something to his country beyond service in a war that had long faded in importance.
When Washburne took Grant to Governor Yates, Grant had made no great impression, had left the meeting feeling there was no place for him in the new army. But there were sharp words behind closed doors, and the strength of Washburne’s influence gave Grant his first regimental command.
It was unusual for Grant to warm up to a politician, but there was a connection between them that Grant still did not understand. Washburne was so very different from Grant’s father, had seen the world, understood the great complexities of government, of power. Around Washburne, Grant spoke openly, something he did with no one else. He was the one man with whom Grant could feel comfortable letting down the barriers that held away the old enemies, the frailties, the personal failures that no one in that camp could ever be aware of.
As the war spread, and Grant was far removed from the eyes of Washington, it was Washburne who kept his name on the desks of the important, and when the time finally came, when Lincoln made the choice of a commander for the luckless army, Congressman Washburne was given the honor of officially nominating his friend Grant for the new rank of Lieutenant General.
Washburne glanced up at the sun rising above the trees, said, “Anything going to happen today? People seem pretty relaxed.”
“Not likely. Lee is back where he can do the most good, behind his works. He wants us to come at him now. He’s been bloodied pretty bad. He doesn’t want many more days like yesterday.”
Washburne crossed his arms, glanced up toward the tents, said, “Do we? I hear … they hurt us pretty badly too.”
Grant said nothing, looked at the ground. He pulled a cigar out, lit it, felt the heat swirl around his face, said, “We can afford it. Lee can’t. He knows that.”
“I’m not sure of that, my friend. The newspapers want numbers, and we can’t give them these kind of numbers. The people won’t stand for it. Mr. Lincoln wants to be reelected.”
Grant looked at Washburne, seemed surprised. “Reelected …” The word struck him. He thought about that, had not considered … November. “I suppose that’s true.”
He stepped through the grass, slowly, felt his way along the side of the hill. Washburne moved beside him, shaky, uncertain steps.
Grant looked at Washburne’s shoes. “Need to get you some boots.”
Washburne laughed, said, “Boots today, then a uniform tomorrow?” Grant smiled, and Washburne said, “No, I suppose not. One thing you don’t need is another politician.”
There was a brief rumble, from over the hill. Washburne stopped, looked that way. “Something? Artillery?”
Grant did not look up, said, “One gun, somebody saw a ghost.”
Washburne nodded. “A lot of ghosts out there. Some people say Lee’s a ghost, everywhere at once, sees everything you do.”
Grant looked at the cigar, tossed it aside. “Not anymore. Right now … he’s expecting us to run away. We have always run away like a whipped colt, run until we’re too tired to run anymore.”
Washburne was serious now, glanced again at the camp, saw a few faces watching them from a distance, lowered his voice. “Did we lose this fight? Forgive me, General, but the word is Hancock got pretty badly hurt.…”
Grant nodded. “Hancock hurt them first, drove Hill’s corps right out of these woods. This ground … you can’t push out so far when you can’t see. Lee was lucky, hit us with Longstreet when we were the most vulnerable. Hancock understood how it happened, said he was rolled up like a wet blanket. But Lee couldn’t finish the job, didn’t have the strength. Like last night—a good plan, they hit Sedgwick where he was vulnerable. But they didn’t have the power to hurt us, to really hurt us. If Lee does not understand that now, he will very soon. Everywhere we go, he has to follow. Anytime we stop, he will either fight or lose more ground. But it will not happen here. We have done all we can do here. He is in command of the ground. If that means he won this fight, fine. It doesn’t really matter. We’ll make another fight. He’ll have to win that one too. I don’t think … he can keep winning with what he has left.”
Washburne nodded, said, “Just remember the newspapers, the politicians. You see this fight differently than they do. If you admit you lost here, that is all that will matter. Another victory for Lee. You have to anticipate that, face the consequences.”
Grant reached for another cigar, stopped, looked at Washburne. “The President told me I would be left alone.”
“He will leave you alone. But after November …”
Grant thought of the politicians, all the reasons why he would never stay in Washington. He felt a sudden anger, said, “There will be no retreat, we will keep this army moving, we will force Lee to come to us. We already control the Mississippi, the seaports. If he does not fight us, we will capture his cities, burn his supplies, and destroy his railroads.”
Washburne looked down, said, “But … what about Davis, and Richmond? If we focus on Lee, that is just one part of the whole. The Confederacy, the rebellion, starts with Jefferson Davis.”
Grant looked at Washburne, slowly shook his head. “No, sir. Those men over there, those so-called soldiers of the rebellion, they are not dying for a government in Richmond. They do not charge into our guns screaming the name of Jefferson Davis. They are fighting for Lee. Lee is the rebellion. If he is defeated, if his army surrenders, then make no mistake, this war is over.”
There was another thunderous sound, above the camp, another big gun. Grant looked that way, said, “Richmond serves one purpose. Lee must defend it. If we threaten the city, he will have to confront us. Lee will soon learn … we are not going away. If the newspapers and all those people in Washington mu
st hear that, fine, I will write it down, send a letter to Stanton. You can deliver it yourself, read it to him, to all of them, make them understand what we are going to do. If it takes all summer … if it takes all year … it is only a matter of time before General Lee must face the consequences.”
EVENING, MAY 7, 1864
ALL DAY LONG THE SKIRMISHERS AND SHARPSHOOTERS FROM BOTH sides prodded and punched the nervous lines of their enemy. Observers were sent out, the deadly job of moving forward until they could actually see them, count the numbers, make sure the strong lines still lay in place.
By late afternoon the Federal wounded had been sent east, a long line of wagons rocking painfully toward Fredericksburg. Now the rest of the wagons, the food and ammunition, began to move, and for a time they moved east as well, but then, once the sounds of creaking wheels and bouncing timbers were beyond the hearing of Lee’s lookouts, the wagons began to turn south.
The soldiers lined up as they always had, filled the road with quiet curses, the units smaller now, the lines shorter from the casualties they would leave behind. The officers tried to keep them quiet, but the grumbling was always there, rolled along the column like a dull wave. Much of it was about Grant. They were still not convinced, the great reputation had not shown them much in this place. Lee was still over there, the war was no different yet. But when the orders came to move, and the column began to ease ahead, some of the men did not need the sun to tell them direction. The word began to filter down the lines, and the grumbling stopped, there was something new about this march, something these men had never been a part of before. If the fight in the Wilderness had not gone their way—the most optimistic called it a draw—they were not doing what this army had always done before, they were not going back above the river. If they had never said much about Grant, had never thought him any different from the ones who had come before, if they had become so used to the steady parade of failure, this time there was a difference. Some wanted to cheer, but were hushed by nervous officers. So along the dusty roads hats went up and muskets were held high, a silent salute to this new commander. This time, they were marching south.
Well after dark, Sedgwick had pulled away from Ewell, moved back to Chancellorsville, then turned southward. Burnside followed him, taking the same route. Behind Hancock’s wary troops, on the Brock Road, Warren’s Fifth Corps marched quietly, and only when Warren was safely past did Hancock order his men to fall into column, away from the safety of their log wall. They would march all night, keeping tight and in line, because on the march they would be vulnerable.
Meade had given orders to the cavalry to clear the roads south, and Sheridan had sent the horsemen forward as though the job was already accomplished. But Stuart was waiting, and below the marching columns of infantry, the cavalry ran into a hard stiff wall of gray. By morning the roads were still not clear, the infantry had to slow, began bunching up, the commanders impatient with the unexplainable delay. When Stuart began finally to give way, Sheridan’s troopers found themselves confronted not by a reserve force of cavalry, but by infantry. Lee had marched south as well, and if the Federals even knew they were in a race, by the next morning they knew they had lost.
The ground was much better here, the dense brush of the Wilderness fading into farm country, cut by small rivers and patches of heavy woods. Grant’s objective had been to move well into the open ground. The maps showed a key intersection, convenient roads spreading to the east and south. But when the infantry could finally advance, they found what the cavalry already knew. Along the wide ridges, behind the heavy fence rows, the men in gray were preparing again, shovels and axes and bayonets throwing and pushing the dirt, cut trees piled high to their front. They formed their lines in an arc, just north of the intersection, a small village known mainly for the one landmark, the courthouse. It was called Spotsylvania.
17. LEE
MAY 9, 1864
HE WAS UP AT THREE, HAD BEGUN TO MAKE THAT HIS ROUTINE. He’d been awake even before that, staring up at the dark and thinking of Jackson. He had never understood how Jackson could come so completely awake after only a short rest, rising with perfect energy. Jackson would often call his men awake hours before the first light, order them up and into the roads before anyone could see what was in front of him. It had worked, of course, even the commanders did not need to know where they were going, something Dick Ewell had found maddening. Jackson never felt the need to tell anyone of his plans, just point them in the right direction, and soon a surprised enemy would find an unstoppable force bearing down on them from someplace where no one had ever thought the enemy would be. But Jackson himself, Lee thought, how could he do this, how could he go without sleep? Now the image was there, the sharp blue eyes, the image Lee tried not to see. God bless him, he thought. I really do miss him.
He had dressed quietly, and now walked out past the tents, would not even disturb Traveller. He stepped through a small patch of woods, could hear the sounds in front of him, the shovels. The men were working in shifts, and when one group would rest, the shovels would pass to another, and with each hour the entrenchments were stronger.
Jackson would not have done this, he thought. He would not have stopped, dug in to these long lines. The idea had come from Longstreet, and it was the fundamental difference between the two men. Jackson would have them on the road now, or be pressing them through a faint trail in the woods to strike the enemy with deadly surprise. No, Lee thought, something is very different now. The commanders, certainly, on both sides. Jackson had never faced Grant. Lee had wondered about that, especially since Gordon’s flank attack on the Federal right, too weak, had begun too late. Jackson would have seen the opportunity immediately, would have stripped his lines bare, sent a great smashing blow around Sedgwick. Lee was certain of that, felt it rise up from some dark hole inside of him.
Ewell could not see that, would not act, would wait for orders. How much longer can Ewell command? he wondered. He is collapsing, not in battle, not in one great disaster, but slowly, a bit each day, becoming weaker in his mind, his resolve crumbling, falling away.
There was another kind of collapse with Hill, but the decay of that command was different. Hill could still perform with the old energy, move his troops with precision, with instinct, but then he would be gone, the sickness would simply swallow him up, and he would sit in his camp completely out of touch, no sense of a plan, his mind completely empty. Lee did not yet understand that, but had seen it with perfect clarity in the Wilderness. The first day, Hill had been perfection, but by the desperate fight on the second day, he was not even on the field. Now the sickness had grown, and Hill was out again, and Lee thought, Will he ever be back?
It was a possibility he could not afford to ignore, and so he had given command of Hill’s Third Corps to Jubal Early. He knew how the men felt about Early, especially the officers, but Early was a fighter, and if his personality made quick enemies, he at least knew how to move troops. Hill accepted the change with dignity. Even he knew Lee had no choice. Early’s removal from Ewell had created an opening in the Second Corps. Lee quickly promoted John Gordon to command of Early’s division.
It had been an easy decision. Lee had felt some of the old enthusiasm, the confidence a commander has when he knows the army is in good hands, that the job will be done. Even though Gordon was not a West Pointer, he had already shown a talent for command and an instinct for strategy. Lee had not felt that way about anyone in a long time, except Stuart. And Longstreet.
The doctors had assured him the wounds were not fatal. Longstreet was far away now, and it would be a long time before he could return to the army, an army that could not afford to be without him. Even with all the criticism of Longstreet, the newspapers, talk of controversy and blame, there was no one Lee would rather confide in, no one with whom he felt comfortable sharing the quiet thoughts, the quiet moments. Now there was no one else.
Dick Anderson now commanded the First Corps, and if the choice had inspired n
o one, not even Lee, Anderson at least was dependable. Though he’d never shown anything like Jackson’s fire or the rugged stubbornness of Longstreet, he had performed with the best skills of both men the day before. It was Anderson who had won the race for Spotsylvania.
Lee moved out of the patch of trees, could see the men outlined against the night sky. The dirt was flying, around him the sound of axes echoing in the woods. He saw logs, carried forward on the shoulders of tired men. The works were becoming a vast long wall, a deep trench behind, a wide ditch in front, sharpened poles and branches pointing out toward the enemy.
He walked down to the left, passed behind long lines of laboring men, and no one saw him, there were no calls, no cheers. He began to climb, a long rise, a wide hill, paused, thought of the name. They called it Laurel Hill, and now it was a great stronghold. Porter Alexander’s big guns were dug in facing north and west, the crews moving slowly in the dark, the quiet work of good men, men who know how deadly their work could be. There were deep entrenchments here as well; Anderson had the gun positions well protected by infantry. Lee nodded, thought, Nothing will move us from this ground.
He began to walk back toward his camp, stopped, looked back up the rise, thought of the words again. Nothing will move us from this ground. There was no change greater than that, he thought. Something tugged in his gut, and he was suddenly anxious, angry. Longstreet had always believed in trenches, in hiding behind strong works. But when we won the great battles, he thought, it was because we attacked. Longstreet had always argued against that, and there had been Jackson to show him he was wrong. But the men … it was the men who began to understand. Lee thought of West Point. We learned how to fight the old way, the books were all about Napoleon, the textbooks translated from the French. But Napoleon did not have these guns. It has taken us too long to learn the lesson. Too many times we have ridden across the bloody fields, spread with the incredible horror of what these guns can do. Longstreet gave them shovels, at Fredericksburg, on the heights, and they laughed, the men thought it was not … manly. We would stand up and face the guns. Lee shook his head. Now we do not have enough shovels. No one believes in standing up in front of certain death. There is no honor in foolishness.
