Jeff Shaara and Michael Shaara: Three Novels of the Civil War: Gods and Generals, the Killer Angels, the Last Full Measure

by Jeff Shaara

  He could see the tents now, daylight slowly spreading over the rolling ground toward his right flank, where Early was digging his trenches as well. He thought of Grant: We gave him no reason to retreat. Some had said Grant would move away, to Fredericksburg, toward the Rappahannock, running away from his first bloody fight with Lee’s army. The rumors spread from the lookouts, excited men who came to Lee with the first reports of troop movement, clouds of dust rising from long lines of black cannon. But Lee had seen the maps, knew that the roads to Richmond came right through … here. If Grant wants Richmond, he must fight his way through these works, he thought. We must sit and wait. And if he does not come at us here, then we must find his weakness, again, we must strike out at opportunity and we must not be late or make any mistakes. He thought of the commanders again, and the tight tug in his gut returned.

  None of them would talk about it, there was no hint of it even from the trenches, from the men on the front line, the men who could see the strength of the blue lines in front of them. But it was inside of him now, stirring deep in some very small place. It is only a matter of time. He had sent that to Davis, a response to the threat from Butler, moving up the peninsula now. The message had been clear and blunt: Make preparations to protect Richmond, bring troops to protect the rail center at Petersburg. Davis was still seeing the army as some great organizational puzzle, departments to be moved about and manipulated. There were good defenses around Richmond, but Davis was still convinced there must be a presence at all the major points, and even minor ones, anyplace the enemy was a threat. Troops were still scattered down through the Carolinas, a weak attempt at containing a Federal threat that was as much in Davis’s mind as it was in the field. But Lee’s message did stir something in Richmond, because, finally, Beauregard was moving troops north, from his base in North Carolina. The movement was slow, and the troops very few. Lee had been amazed at that, felt the guttwisting frustration that no one else seemed to share his concern for the value of Petersburg.

  He knew, of course, that Davis would send few reinforcements to him. He had accepted for weeks that he would have to make the fight against Grant with whatever he had. That made the trenches, the defensive tactics, an absolute necessity, because there was nothing he could do about Grant’s vastly greater numbers. But it is more than numbers, he thought. It has always been more than numbers. Every victory had come against superior forces. The advantage was strategy, tactics, the willingness to do what must be done to win the fight. The Federal commanders had never brought that to the field. And so he had always felt he had the edge, knew that Jackson would devour an enemy many times his size by sheer audacity.

  Longstreet could be as stubborn and as vigilant as anyone those other fellows put in line against him. Even Longstreet’s “slows,” his seemingly sluggish movement, had been positive. Lee had thought Longstreet dangerously slow at Second Manassas, but he had not ordered Longstreet to advance, had relied on Longstreet’s judgment, and when the First Corps finally moved, they drove Pope’s army into complete chaos. Now, in the fight just past, Lee had to believe that if Longstreet had been in place when he wanted him, if he’d been in line against Hancock’s attack, it might have been disastrous. He knew Hancock was the best they had, and his strength might have driven Longstreet back as it had Hill. Longstreet’s “delay” in reaching the field might have been the one reason why Hancock collapsed. The timing, ultimately, had been perfect.

  He felt the tug in his gut again, thought, If it is that, the intangible, something inside of us, something they do not have, then what have we lost? Who is it that I can trust to take a fight to the great numbers, and who will prevail? The name burned in his mind, the laughing face, the red beard, the ridiculous hat. Of course, he thought … Stuart. He smiled, nodded to himself. Yes, we still have that, his spirit is still in these men, and they will still look to him. He has learned along with the rest of us, he has made mistakes and gained the experience, and with that comes our ability to win this fight, still win this fight. But the others … there must still be time, they must learn. They may all rise to it, men like Gordon, Anderson, Early, but we may not have much time. And so I must do this, check the lines, I must be closer. I must watch over them all. I must make sure there are no mistakes.

  He could see the staff now, moving around the small fire, and he moved toward the wagons where the food would be, felt himself sweating, his breathing short and hard. He glanced at his tent, thought of the small bed, felt the weariness crawling over him, settling down into the turmoil of his gut. He took a deep breath, tried to hold himself together, tightened the grip inside, said aloud, “No.”

  Faces turned toward him, but he did not see them, was staring out toward the gray light rising over the far trees, thought of Grant. Now there is another change. So now there will not be much sleep.

  18. GRANT

  MAY 9, 1864

  THEY CALLED HIM “UNCLE JOHN,” AND THERE WERE FEW IN THIS army who had earned as much respect from their troops as Sedgwick. If he had not shown the kind of heroism that made newspapermen happy, he had always been a solid commander, had led troops since the beginning of the war, and commanded the Sixth Corps since Chancellorsville. He was older than most, had come out of the Point in 1837, the same year as Jubal Early. A New Englander by birth, he carried none of the trappings of the “easterner,” and many could not believe this rugged man was from New England. There was too much of the western frontier in him, the sharp eye of a man who has fought the Indian, the rugged exterior of a man who understands trickery, who understands his enemy.

  He had served in Mexico, after winning a fighter’s reputation in the first Seminole Wars. Afterward, in an army that lost many of its best men to the tedium of the frontier, Sedgwick had thrived, fought Indians wherever the action was hot, served in Utah and then Bloody Kansas, when the army found itself in the center of the worst kind of violence, citizens fighting each other over the question of slavery.

  He could be gruff and profane, but the men loved him because he was efficient, because he knew how to place his troops where they would do the most good, with the least harm. He’d been up front again this morning, correcting one officer’s mistake, adjusting lines of infantry that had dug in too close to the mouths of their own big guns. The men on the front lines had become wary of the rebel sharpshooters, stayed low, flinching from the small bits of lead whistling overhead, sent at them from a hidden enemy very far away. Sedgwick had laughed at them, teased one man in particular, a sergeant, who was curled into a ball on the ground. Sedgwick had stood straight, gazing out across the open ground to far trees, the cover of those men with the long rifles, was still laughing when the bullet struck him, below the eye, spun him around and dropped him onto the sergeant who still crouched low beside him.

  PORTER WAS SHAKING, AND GRANT WAITED, COULD SEE IT IN THE man’s face, stung with the terrible news.

  “Sir, yes, General Sedgwick was killed … just a few minutes ago. They’re bringing the body back now.”

  Grant stared at the young man, said nothing. He held the cigar in his hand, looked at it, watched the ash fall to the ground, looked at Porter again, said, “Are you certain? Is he really … dead?” He stood, walked toward the tent, felt himself weaken, draining of energy. This is a disaster, he thought, worse than the loss of a division. He pictured Sedgwick’s face, the large heavy man, handsome, graying beard. How does that happen, one man … just taken away? He looked back at Porter again, said, “Is he really dead, Colonel? Are you certain?”

  Porter nodded quietly.

  Grant moved into the tent, sat down on the hard bed, stared at nothing. He thought, We should tell Meade … but of course, Meade would know. And Meade would have to choose someone to replace him, someone to command a very good corps. There were not many good commanders to choose from.

  He had hoped to hit Lee hard this morning, but the army was still moving in slow steps, cautious and clumsy. Meade wanted to assault the flanks, had sent Han
cock to the west, into a ragged terrain of woods and water, while Burnside would try to move east and attack what should be an exposed flank. But nothing was happening, there was no coordination, and Grant was understanding finally why for three years this army had not won its fights.

  He had watched Meade carefully, knew that Meade was still edgy about his job, still carried the insecurity that it would take only one sharp moment, one episode when Grant lost his temper, and he would be gone. Grant knew Meade was not very happy being so close to the eye of his commander, but he had not wanted Meade removed for he knew that Meade still knew his own army better than he did. If Grant had once thought that unimportant, now, at this moment, realizing the Sixth Corps needed a new commander, he understood why Meade had to remain. But there was still frustration, and he thought, I cannot get him to understand, if we are to make a mistake, let it be because we moved too quickly, not too slowly. He thought of Sheridan, and knew the two men had not gotten along, not at all, two men with strong egos and very different ways of thinking. The staff had told him this morning that Sheridan was meeting with Meade, that the staffs had gathered at a respectful distance while a violent argument boiled out of Meade’s tent. He knew that if they did not come to some agreement, if Meade was stubborn enough to stick to his old ways and did not share Sheridan’s understanding of cavalry tactics, he would hear about it, would have to settle it himself. He felt suddenly anxious, frustrated, tossed the stump of a cigar out through the tent flaps. Lee is right out there, waiting for us, he thought. He can move faster, because he has fewer troops to move, fewer wagons, fewer guns. All the things that give us the advantage also slow us down. And he has fewer commanders, he has control of his army. It seems … that I do not.

  Burnside had still not moved into position, the assault on Lee’s right flank delayed, the only sounds the small rattle of skirmishing. I cannot just … relieve everyone who doesn’t perform to my standards, he thought. I cannot put colonels into command of divisions, and I cannot command the corps myself.

  He moved back outside, saw Porter still standing by his small table, waiting for him, waiting for instructions. Along the road he could see wagons moving in both directions, some filled with wounded men from the fights exploding along the front lines, the uncoordinated bursts of activity. He saw one flag, the St. Andrew’s cross, the flag of the Sixth, men gathered around, some hearing the awful news for the first time. He could see the looks on the faces, the shock, could hear the sounds now, one man sobbing out loud. This will take something away from them, he thought. For a while, at least, they will not fight the same way.

  Lee lost Jackson, and then lost Gettysburg. But we will not lose here, not on this ground, not with these men. Every time we go at him, every good fight, even on those days when it is very bad, we bring something away, we add that to who we are, and we become better, stronger. There is something in the men who are veterans … they know they are veterans, they have seen the worst of it, some have seen the worst of themselves. Even if they have endured bad commanders, have endured defeat by an enemy none thought would be so strong or so well commanded, we are still better equipped, and by now we are better prepared.

  He thought of the chessboard again. If Lee is faster, more compact, we still have the power, and we will just keep at him. If he keeps moving south, we will follow him south, and very soon he will run out of places to go. But for now he is right out there, and maybe today, or tomorrow … he glanced at the sky, the bright sun. The weather is ours, but the longer we delay …

  He moved toward Porter, said, “Colonel, go to General Meade. Ask him if he has chosen a replacement for General Sedgwick.”

  * * *

  HE HEARD MEADE FIRST, THE BOOMING ANGRY VOICE, HAD GROWN used to it, the voice that seemed to carry over the entire field. Usually it was aimed at a staff officer, often an innocent man who happened to bring the wrong piece of information, something Meade might not want to hear. But the voice was coming closer, and Grant sat up on his bed, wiped his face with his hand, heard another voice now, a high pitch, clear anger. It was Sheridan.

  He tried to clear his head, had told Rawlins he would take a short rest, had not expected to fall asleep. He still sat on the bed, waited, listened, and the voices were close, grew quiet, small low comments, like two angry children coming to Papa, both of them right, both of them wrong.

  It was Rawlins, the face appearing between the tent flaps. “Sir, forgive the interruption to your rest. We have visitors.”

  Grant motioned with his hand, a small wave. “Be right out. Tell them not to kill each other before I get there.”

  Rawlins looked at him with wide eyes, said, “I don’t think it has come to that.…” He glanced back, then looked inside again, whispered, “But it would be advisable, sir, if you were to make haste.”

  Grant pulled on his boots, and Rawlins held the flap back, stood stiffly as Grant moved past. He squinted at the sunlight, saw the two men standing formally at attention, waiting for him. He reached into his pocket, felt for a cigar, but the pocket was empty. He sagged, thought, Worse yet, I am unarmed. He said, “Well, gentlemen, are we feeling the full effects of this awful day?”

  Neither man spoke, glanced at each other, then Meade nodded, said, “Yes, sir. It is an awful day indeed. John Sedgwick was much loved. There is a gloom throughout the Sixth Corps, if not the whole army.”

  Grant nodded, and Sheridan said, “Yes, gloom. Now, sir, allow me to address you directly, if that is permissible. I do not wish to offend the chain of command.” There was sarcasm in Sheridan’s voice.

  Grant took a deep breath, said, “You may proceed, General.”

  Sheridan stepped forward, his face began to flash fire, and he removed his hat, held it tightly, said, “General Grant, it is my contention that this army has been habitually misusing its cavalry. General Meade and I have quite different viewpoints with regard to the function of the horsemen. I have tried to convince General Meade that we should not be assigned such mundane tasks as guarding wagons and scouting the countryside for the general’s dinner!”

  Grant looked at Meade, saw the eyes expand, waited for the coming explosion.

  “Dinner! I have never suggested …! General, this is outrageous!” Meade puffed, removed his hat, his fist curling the brim hard in his hand. Grant raised his hand, calming, thought, No, General, don’t hit him with the hat.

  “Gentlemen, I have no time for this. I would like to hear something more specific, from both of you. General Sheridan, if you don’t feel the cavalry is being used properly, then give me an alternative. What would be your strategy?”

  Sheridan nodded, was clearly prepared for this moment, said in a quiet voice, “Sir, from everything I have heard, this army’s cavalry has, more often than not, been turned about, confused and left highly embarrassed by the skill of the enemy in general, and Stuart in particular. From what I understand of your overall plan, sir, we are to pursue General Lee’s army until we can draw him into a fight. If you will allow, I would like the same opportunity. I propose to take this army’s cavalry and, instead of raiding supply depots and vandalizing railroad tracks, I would like to pursue General Stuart. If given a free hand …” He glanced at Meade. “If given a free hand, I will whip General Stuart.” Sheridan put his hat on, a final punctuation mark.

  Grant looked at Meade, said, “General?”

  Meade glanced at Sheridan, put his hat on as well, said, “He will leave us blind. We cannot maneuver this army in the enemy’s country without the use of cavalry.”

  Sheridan turned, said, “General, you have not allowed me to maneuver at all! You counter my orders, you place my men without consulting me …”

  Grant felt a small headache blooming, reached again, felt the inside of the empty pocket, said, “That’s it, gentlemen. General Meade, if General Sheridan says he can whip Stuart, then we should let him. If we destroy the enemy’s cavalry, we will have gained an advantage that may hasten the end of the war.”

&nb
sp; Sheridan beamed a smile, saluted Grant, said, “Sir, we will move immediately! I will send regular reports.”

  “Send them to General Meade. You are dismissed.”

  Sheridan spun, moved away, began to shout instructions to his staff. Grant looked at Meade, who stared down at the ground like a scolded puppy. Grant said, “General, we must take risks. We know where Lee is, and for now, the cavalry’s eyes are not as important as what he may be able to accomplish.” He paused. “Do we have a replacement for General Sedgwick?”

  Meade looked up, nodded. “Yes, sir. It was a bit of a problem … General Ricketts was next in line by rank. But it was always Sedgwick’s preference that Horatio Wright succeed him, in the event … He will be adequate to the task. The men will accept him, I believe.”

  Grant nodded, thought of Wright, had known him in the West, a good engineer, had commanded in Ohio briefly. “Fine. I will send his name to Washington. Is that all for now, General?”