by Jeff Shaara
Rawlins leaned close to him, held the reins out, said in a whisper, “Sir … we must leave here. We will move to the rear in good order. The men must not see you like this, sir.”
Grant took the reins, looked at Rawlins, saw the embarrassment, Rawlins glancing about at the faces now watching them. Grant said nothing, looked at the faces himself, and there was no cheering, no salutes. The men huddled behind low mounds of dirt, crouched low behind trees. The faces stared, eyes deep and dark, and he spurred the horse, prodded gently, began to move along the trail, the eyes moving with him as he passed by. He began to see each of them now, looked at them one at a time, the men who made his fight, who stood up to the guns. He saw officers, more eyes watching him, thought, Pull them together, form your lines. But the words did not come, there were no orders. There was no fight left in these men.
They moved back behind the trees, past the brush, away from the sounds. Men were moving now, horsemen rushing with dispatches, the business of headquarters. The staff began to scatter, the tents now in view, and Grant halted the horse, saw a small piece of color, motion, against a fallen tree. He leaned forward in the saddle, saw now it was a man. The face was looking up at him, reflected the bright sun, the man’s lips a light blue. Grant moved the horse, was suddenly jostled, the horse jumping, startled by a passing courier, an officer riding quickly along the trail. The man’s horse was kicking up a spray of mud as he passed, and Grant felt his own horse calming, the grip of the reins hard in his hand. He looked at the soldier again, saw a splatter of mud on the man’s face. He felt a twist in his gut, felt his throat tighten, climbed down from the horse. Now there was a hand on his shoulder, and a soft voice.
“Allow me … sir.”
It was Porter, and the young man moved past him, eased down over the upturned face of the soldier, wiped the mud from the man’s face. The man’s eyes blinked, and he looked now at Grant, stared with cold silence. Porter stood up, looked at Grant, said, “He’s not going to make it, sir.”
Grant could not look away, stared at the man’s black eyes, thought, There must be something. How do we just … walk away?
Porter was beside him now, said, “He’s done for, sir. We should go.…”
Porter moved to his horse, and Grant still watched the man, the eyes still held him. He had never done this before, had always stayed back, away from where the men fell, where the blood stained the ground. He could never admit that, never talked about it, but now he was facing it, could not leave this man, not yet. He wanted to say something, to ask the man … what? There were no words, no questions, and he moved toward the man, a step closer, saw that the eyes were not looking at him anymore, were staring ahead now into the sun, far away into some other place.
EVENING, JUNE 3, 1864
THROUGHOUT THE DAY THERE HAD BEEN SMALL SKIRMISHES ALL along the line, but there would be no great assault now.
Grant was far behind the awful place, sat alone in the dark, could still see it in his mind, could still see Meade’s shock, the words “a perfect slaughter,” and he could not escape the image of the one soldier, one man, the eyes that had watched him. He tried to think of his wife, of church, of Heaven. Is that where he is now? He felt angry, scolded himself, You should know about this. What is it like? He could have told you, if you had reached him sooner. You were the last thing he saw … in this life. Did he take that with him? Are the wounds healed now?
He stood, stared into the dark, away from the small fires. Is this what madness is, coming so close to death that it holds on to you, obsesses you? He began to walk, nervous steps, moved behind the tents, then stopped, clenched his fists. One man … how can you be so affected by one man? Is it because … you watched him die? You saw the face? How many faces lay on that field today? Is it any different because you weren’t there to see it?
He closed his eyes, thought again of Julia, thought, You would know what to say, you would have the Lesson, God’s comforting words for this. There are no comforting words here. Here, it is all about duty, and making the right decisions. And men must die … even when the decisions are the very best ones. If today was a bad decision … we can do no better than to make a good decision tomorrow.
The anger stayed with him all day, and the commanders had come around, bringing the explanations. He listened, said very little, absorbed just how bad it had been. This was a disaster, and after all the talk, the excuses, the maps, the numbers, it had come to him, the anger slowly replaced by something else, something much worse. He understood now, thought, You cannot blame them. It is not Meade’s caution, or the inexperience of Wright, the ridiculous attention to detail that curses Warren. This is not Burnside’s inept slowness or Hancock’s overaggressiveness. We cannot blame this on poor coordination, or bad timing, or the curse of bad weather.
He began to move again, walked further into the dark, stared at nothing. There is no one to blame but me. This was my fight, my opportunity. He thought of Lee. He is not some demon, he made no grand strategy, no brilliant countermove. I sent them … I ordered them across this ground. Lee lined his men up in a straight line behind a big pile of dirt and cut this army to pieces. And I did not see it … I did not know it was going to happen.
He moved toward a small fire, saw men sitting in a circle. The voices were low, the faces still, eyes staring into the flame. He moved closer, saw Rawlins, Porter, others, men from Meade’s staff. The tents spread out beyond, flaps open and still, for there was no breeze. There were more men sitting near a wagon, men leaning up against the spoked wheels. There was motion, a bottle, one man handing it to another, the bottle upturned, then passed along. He moved that way, and the faces turned toward him, one man holding the bottle carefully, cradling it like a small child. There were nods, small casual greetings, too casual, but he did not notice, turned, moved toward the tents. Now he saw a group of men moving slowly away from him, men disappearing into tents, staff officers, staggering slowly out of the firelight. There was a small table, a deck of cards scattered loosely, and in the center of the table, another bottle.
He stopped beside the table, stared at the cards, the colorful depictions of royalty, and knew his mind was playing with him, would not let him look at it, but slowly he saw it, fixed his eyes on the label, focused on the faint lettering. He reached out, felt his fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle, lifted it up slowly, saw the light pass through. It was nearly empty, but there was still the last good drink, enough to warm a man all the way down, the delicious burn.
It had been a long time ago, and it had been a fight he had to win. The gold rush did something to the men in California, took something away, all the lessons of home, all the rules about decency, dignity. The army was not immune, and in a place where every temptation was bold and colorful, few had been able to keep themselves away from the crude pleasures.
Julia stayed in Missouri with her family, had not made the journey, had not joined him in that amazing place, San Francisco. The loneliness had eaten at him like a disease, and the disease exposed something in him he did not understand, a weakness, and he had been consumed by it, by the numbing comfort of the bottle. He did not frequent the gambling halls, the clubs, where women offered company to a man whose family was so far away. He avoided the sounds and the lights, and so he was faced with long quiet nights, would listen to the sounds of wild streets from a dark room, trying with every piece of himself to see her face, keep her name in his mind. When it became harder, and her face faded, there was only sadness, and with the sadness came the bottle.
Julia would never know how far down he had gone, that it had been the drinking that finally cost him his job. He had resigned from the army, a choice provided by a generous commander, saving him from the humiliation of a court-martial. He always carried the weight of that—that it mattered little if he had been a good soldier, he also had a dangerous weakness. When he went back east, to his family, to life as a civilian, he made a silent vow, to her, to his children, the most important decis
ion of his life. The weakness would never come back, would be kept away. He would always remember how his career, his life, had nearly been shattered by the bottle.
Now he moved the bottle in a small circle, swirling the brown liquid, thought of the word: shattered. How many men had their lives shattered today … how many families? He thought of the newspapers, the reporters. The numbers were already flying through the camp, thousands of casualties, and they will report that. Many men died here today because … I made a horrible mistake. Many men have died since this campaign began, and we have not yet brought this to a close. What right do I have to take so much from these men, without giving them something in return? I had thought … it would be over by now.
There was a hand on his arm, and he jumped, startled, saw it was Rawlins.
“Sir, please … allow me.” Rawlins took the bottle slowly from Grant’s hand. Grant saw Porter now, the others, men gathering slowly behind him. Rawlins tossed the bottle to another man, said, “General, if we may be of service, sir?”
Grant looked at the others, the man with the bottle, then focused on Rawlins. “Your service is noted, Colonel.” Grant saw the look in Rawlins’s face, the look of the one man in the camp who knew of the disease. There was a silent moment, and Grant nodded, said, “Colonel, the men may be excused.”
Rawlins motioned with his hand, and the others moved off.
Grant did not watch them. He walked away from the fires, into the darkness. He heard footsteps, the crunch of leaves, a voice. “General … if you don’t mind, sir, may I walk with you?”
Grant knew the voice, did not look at the face. It was Porter. “You have something to say, Colonel?”
“Oh … uh, no, sir, I just thought … well, sir, you look like you need some company.”
Grant looked at him now, the firelight reflecting on the young man’s face. He nodded, said, “All right, Colonel, suit yourself.”
Grant moved further into the dark, Porter moving beside him. Grant stopped, looked at the stars, stared silently into the deep black space.
Porter said, “We lost … a good many men today. We haven’t given out the official casualty count. Not yet. It is frightful, sir.”
Grant said nothing, felt deep into his pocket, pulled out a cigar, lit it slowly, felt the smoke swirl around his face. He still watched the stars, said, “I have underestimated him.”
Porter leaned forward, tried to see Grant’s face in the dark. “Sir? Who, sir?”
Grant lowered the cigar, crossed his arms. “Lee. I have underestimated General Lee. That should be pleasing to some in this army. I’ve heard the comments from General Meade’s people. I don’t know anything about fighting a war until I’ve fought Bobby Lee. Didn’t pay much attention to all that. Just talk. Now … maybe … they’re right.”
“I don’t believe that, sir. No one does … not the ones who matter.”
“The ones who matter, Colonel, are a long way from here. It’s the people up North who matter. We can’t keep sending troops home in boxes. Mr. Lincoln has an election coming up. If he can’t give the people a victory, then someone else will get the chance. Likely, it will be someone who knows how to play on the people’s unhappiness. Do you know what that will mean, Colonel?”
Porter shook his head, said, “No, sir.”
“It means the war will end. Quickly. And if the victory is not in our hands, there is only one other way it can end. We will have to back away, withdraw the troops, and the rebels will have their country. The Union will cease to exist.”
Porter said nothing, followed the small glow of Grant’s cigar moving in the dark.
“There is only one way to make war, Colonel. You have to hurt somebody. Maybe you have to hurt everybody. Make them feel it, understand what it is we are doing out here. If this war is worth fighting in the first place, then it is worth winning. We cannot win unless we fight. If we fight, men will die. If more of them die, then we will win. It has nothing to do with cities, or government, or what is barbaric and what is civilized. We are here, and the enemy is over there, and if we must give the newspapers the horrifying truth, then the people will know. If Mr. Lincoln does not want me to win this war, then he can make that decision. But there is no other way to see it. If these men do not fight and bleed and die, if we do not make the rebels quit by destroying their will to fight, by destroying their army, then the only other choice is to walk away.”
Porter rubbed his hand through his hair, took a deep breath, said, “I don’t know, sir. The enemy is still over there. It seems like no matter what we do, we have to face those boys behind those works. It seems like … nothing changes.”
Grant drew at the cigar, flicked the ash away. “I made a serious mistake today. We cannot just throw strength at strength and prevail. There is another way, there has to be. Lee has outmaneuvered us, outfought us. He has been a better commander than I have. Maybe he’s smarter, maybe he’s just luckier.”
He turned, looked back toward the fires. “If we have made one great mistake, all of us, it has been that we have failed to understand our strength. He has guns, we have guns. He can dig trenches, we can dig trenches. So, if we cannot crush him … if it costs us too much to smash him with one blow … then we will strangle him. We will stretch his supplies until he cannot eat, we will stretch his manpower until he cannot defend. We will make them hurt, until they cannot fight.”
Porter stared, wide-eyed, said, “Um … forgive me, sir … how?”
Grant looked at the cigar, tossed it down, stepped on it, the faint glow of the ash buried in the soft dirt. “South … cross the James. We will cut him off, from his food, his supplies. We will isolate Richmond. We will start by doing what Butler was supposed to do. We will take this army where it will hurt him the most. We will capture Petersburg. We will squeeze him and stretch him until there is no fight left in that damned bunch of rebels.”
He turned, moved toward the glow of the fires, Porter following behind. He tried to think of the plan, the troops, the commanders, but in the dark, staring up into the small pieces of starlight, he saw the lone soldier again, the black eyes, staring at him. He stopped, looked to the ground, closed his eyes, pushed the face from his mind, thought, No, it cannot be like that. There is only one way … the only way we can succeed. We cannot allow that … we cannot see the faces.
JUNE 15, 1864
THEY LEFT THE CAVALRY TO SCREEN THE MOVEMENT, SLIPPED AWAY from the disaster of Cold Harbor with the measured steps of an army that knows the enemy is still strong. They moved quickly, made their way down to the shores of the wide James River, marched calmly past grand plantations, great white mansions spread along the water, so many monuments to the glory of old Virginia. One in particular was their destination, an enormous estate called “Berkeley Hundred,” the ancestral home of President William Henry Harrison. Here, there was a wharf, long boat docks that had once received royal yachts and flotillas of brightly dressed aristocracy. Now, the men of Grant’s army gathered along the wide banks, waited in turn for the ferries and transports of the navy to move them across the river.
On the march, the veterans noticed something else about the sounds, the distinct tramp of marching feet, the quiet rhythm that says the wagons, the supplies, the big guns are not with us. Many had seen the great noisy columns moving away on other roads, and if they knew that Grant had slipped them quietly away from the enemy, there was still the nervous glance, the bad joke, unprotected infantry, the supplies and guns leaving them vulnerable. The foot soldiers did not know that upriver, the great columns of horses and wagons had reached another point on the wide river, Wyannoke Landing. The drivers and teamsters had stared in amazement as a pontoon bridge waited for them, a bridge nearly half a mile long, held in place in midstream by anchored ships. The wagons, guns, and nervous drivers began to cross a bridge longer than many had ever seen, the longest pontoon bridge ever built. The James was not calm, and stiff waves rolled against the bridge, bouncing the wagons, rocking the guns, bu
t in less than a day the long columns of men and machine were across. It was an efficient march, inspired by the deep water beneath their feet.
By late in the day most of the great army, a hundred thousand men, was on the south side of the James River. The men were formed into their units, companies and regiments, brigades and divisions, and a vast sea of blue spread out away from the river. As the camps began to form, the tents and fires filling the wide fields, the sounds were still muted, low conversation, a calm that surprised even the veterans. They all knew now what had happened at Cold Harbor, what had been happening to them since the first days in May, when the great campaign had begun. The massive assault that would end the war had cost this army nearly forty percent of its strength, nearly fifty thousand casualties. The reinforcements had come, rebuilt the army, brought the numbers back up, but the veterans had little respect for raw numbers, for the soft men who had never faced the guns. The veterans had seen what great numbers could mean, that when the enemy waited for you behind strong defenses, the great numbers meant a greater loss, and the hard strength of the blue army had been slowly drained away. There was quiet talk about Grant, but the veterans remembered McClellan and Hooker, Pope and Burnside, and their officers still told them Grant was the best man they could turn to, and they were coming to understand that the cost in numbers was the cost of waging war. But the blind optimism from the days before the Wilderness was gone. There was little of the excited talk of victory, of finally going home. Even the music had changed; when the army was in the camps, you did not hear the noisy clash of patriotic fever. The air echoed now with a sweeter sound, soft sad songs, songs of home and family, of God and the souls of the men who were no longer there. Even the commanders understood, you cannot force good morale, and the music reflected the mood of the army. No one gave the order, no one tried to change the spirit of the men with mindless calls for boisterous flag waving.
