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

by Jeff Shaara

  As the march reached the shores, when the vast winding river appeared before them, some wondered if it would be as before, two years ago with McClellan, when that huge army had reached these same shores, to load onto the boats that would take them away from the enemy, moving downriver, out of Virginia and back to Washington. Grant’s boats were not taking them away, but on a short ride straight across the river. The talk stopped, and they all understood that Grant was not McClellan after all. They were still moving south, deeper into the heart of the enemy. The officers, the men who saw the maps, knew they were moving even beyond Richmond, the great prize that the politicians and newspapers seemed to value above all else. If they did not know what Grant had in mind, they knew now it was not to be Richmond, that once across the wide James, they would push on until they found the ragged army of those tough rebels. They did not yet know where the fight would be, but to the west, men were moving to meet them, filling a vast line of trenches, more deep earthworks, artillery officers gathering their men beside the big guns that had waited since the beginning of the war, guns that had never been fired, the guns defending the crucial rail center of Petersburg.

  PART

  THREE

  … The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they here gave the last full measure of devotion …

  24. LEE

  JUNE 15, 1864

  THERE WAS AN ARROGANCE TO THE MAN, AN ANNOYING POSTURE OF superiority. Lee had heard his words, listened patiently while the young captain pleaded his case, alternating humble requests with sudden boisterous demands, and Lee knew through it all that the young man was only repeating what had been so carefully drilled into him. Lee understood that, after all, he was hearing the voice of this man’s commander, General Beauregard.

  “General Lee, if we do not receive the troops from your command, if we do not have your support, the general is not responsible … he cannot be held responsible for what will occur. The numbers are all … right there, plain as day, sir. What else can be done?”

  The young man was pointing to the pile of papers, the neat stack he had placed on Lee’s desk. Lee glanced down, did not touch the papers, leaned back in his chair, said, “Captain Paul, does General Beauregard know exactly who it is that threatens his position?”

  Paul hesitated, then said, “Certainly, sir. We are facing the troops of General Grant.”

  “Captain, there are no Federal troops on this continent who are not the troops of General Grant. Does General Beauregard know which troops? Do we know which Federal corps?”

  Lee saw the man’s eyes staring at him in a dull glaze. No, he thought, he doesn’t know.

  Lee stood, the quiet signal. Taylor moved up, had Paul’s hat in his hands, held it out to the surprised young man. Paul looked at Lee, then at the pile of paper, still had more of his presentation to make.

  Lee said, “Captain, you may return to General Beauregard. Tell him we are well aware what General Grant is doing, and we are making dispositions accordingly. You are dismissed.”

  Paul took the hat, saluted, straightened his back, regained the arrogance, turned, brushed against Taylor as he left the tent, and was gone.

  Lee sat again, looked at the papers, said to Taylor, “Colonel, we should keep General Beauregard’s paperwork in a secure location. It would not be prudent to allow this valuable information to fall into enemy hands.” He could not hide the sarcasm, the weariness from days of frustration.

  The illness had passed, and he was actually feeling the old energy, could ride the horse now for long stretches. But there was a new illness, an old affliction that was coming back to haunt him, to infect the entire army. It was the politics of Richmond, the administrative hand of Jefferson Davis.

  The James River was Davis’s dividing line, where Lee’s authority stopped and Beauregard’s began. Beauregard had finally moved his headquarters up from the Carolinas to Petersburg, responding to the threat from Ben Butler. Butler was still tightly contained, but now the threat was much greater. Lee knew Grant was moving south, knew of the great river crossings. The word passed quietly from loyal civilians and careful scouts. It was no surprise.

  North of the James, Lee had brought Grant’s great numbers to a bloody halt. If Grant tried to move toward Richmond, Lee was now in his path, and Lee knew that Grant would not make another mistake like that. There would be no more opportunities like the bloodbath at Cold Harbor. Grant had only two choices: to retreat, or to move south, cross the James and isolate Richmond from below. Lee never considered that Grant would retreat, had long accepted what the papers were calling the “hammering tactics.” Now he was beginning to understand something else: that Richmond might not be the target. Davis was sending Lee a stream of correspondence, needless reminders of the value of the capital, the urgency of a strong defense. The same cries were coming from Beauregard in Petersburg. He thought about the pleas, begging him to respond to an enemy that he had been facing across miles of bloody fields, an enemy he’d come to know, an army that was always there, shifting and maneuvering, moving slowly, then a quick blow, striking out and pulling away. But the indignant messages still came, and he held the anger tight inside. They called to him with outrage, as though he had no idea who this enemy was, how serious the threat. The messages were filled with predictions for Lee’s benefit, as though he knew nothing about Grant and what he would likely do next.

  He walked outside the tent, felt the bright sun, moved toward the horses. Yes, he thought, I will send what I can, we must move quickly. This time Beauregard is right, he is not seeing ghosts.

  Beyond the command tents, faces turned toward him, and he paused beside the horse, saw the men watching him, saw the ragged clothes, the thin faces, the bones of his army. There were a few cheers, hats waved, and Lee nodded to them, reached for the reins, climbed up on the big horse.

  He heard Taylor shout something, knew there would be an aide moving up behind him, that Taylor would never let him ride off alone, not anymore, not since the illness. Lee smiled at that, thought, He is like a father, stern, overprotective. And I am the son. I had thought … it was the other way around. He turned, saw Taylor standing by the tent, hands on his hips, watching until the aide was up on the horse. Lee moved Traveller away on the hard road, still smiled.

  He did not take great pleasure in the victory at Cold Harbor. He began to think on that, on the horror of that ground, of the enemy’s loss. And what did we gain? He is still there, and he will come again. Our defenses, our strong trenches … keep us from moving like we used to. We are slowed down by the only thing that saves us. He thought of Jackson, spoke to him: You would not have understood trenches. You would not sit still in the face of the enemy. You would press forward, mobile, fast. Lee was struck by an odd thought: that Jackson’s way could have been a terrible mistake, the hard fight, pressing forward, always forward. Grant has been inviting us to come out in the open, to fight him on his terms. Jackson might have done exactly that.

  He felt guilty then, never believed Jackson could have been anything but the commander this army needed. But the war had changed, the ways of fighting, gentlemen on bloody fields. He thought of the great river itself, the James. Early in the war it had been suggested the river be mined for protection against Federal gunboats moving on Richmond. The idea was cast aside with indignation, dismissed entirely for its barbarism. It was not the way wars were fought, not the way gentlemen conducted themselves on the field. That was only three years ago, but Lee knew those ideas were from another time. Now the James was mined, torpedoes filled with black powder. Honor had been replaced by efficiency.

  He still wondered about Grant, if it was the man himself who had done this. No, he thought, there is no blame, there is only the will of God. Jackson was taken from us because it was his time. Now the
war is fought by different men, many different faces. Lee knew the numbers, knew he had lost a third of his generals since Grant’s offensive began. Longstreet would not return for many months. Ewell was finally sent to Richmond, given command of the city’s guard, a face-saving position for a man who had once given the army so much. Hill was fit, at least for the time being, but if Lee did not think on it, the others all knew that when the next great fight came, Hill’s sickness would return. No one had stepped forward, none of the names seemed to matter. Anderson was still merely competent; his greatest day would still be remembered as the race to Spotsylvania. At Cold Harbor no one stepped forward, there was no bright stroke of command. They won because the enemy had made their own mistakes, had beaten themselves to death.

  He would not think of Stuart, could still not accept that; there had been no answer, no comfort. So many are gone, he thought, except … me. I am still here because God is not yet through with me. Lee forced himself not to ponder that, to ask why. There is only the duty. I need not understand it any better than that. When the duty has passed, there will be no mistaking it. Then God will take me as well.

  He rode past the sound of running water. The thick trees around him smelled of dark spaces, rotting wood. He felt the sweat on his face, but it was not the sweat of sickness, of the fever. He still felt for it, probed for the horrible twist in the gut, but it was gone completely, and even his appetite had returned. As they had come closer to Richmond, the gifts flowed into camp again, many citizens sending the last bounty the land had given them. The packages of food were welcomed now, and he was eating regularly. He was grateful for the generosity of the people who kept their suffering to themselves, who did not have much to give, but he knew that the army was suffering more. Vegetables were almost nonexistent, and what passed for meat was either rancid or pure fat. The men were surviving on crackers and moldy flour.

  Lee was beginning to understand what this meant to the fighting strength of the army. The marches were much slower now, and the work details accomplished little before the men simply fell out, exhausted, hollow eyes staring ahead at nothing.

  He stopped the horse, looked back at the aide who was behind him at a discreet distance. He could hear the sounds of the army, a low echo through the woods, and he tried to hear more, was suddenly swarmed by mosquitoes, a thin cloud singing around his head, picking at his ears, his face. He waved his arm, spurred the horse again, thought, Keep moving.

  He knew that Beauregard was right, after all. Petersburg was the target. If the rail center there was captured, the supplies would stop, and the symbolic buildings of Richmond would mean nothing to the starving men of this army. But Beauregard had done himself no favors, had always requested more men than the army could ever provide, was always issuing grand proclamations, great involved schemes to invade unimpeded into the North, grand impossible conquests which he would of course always lead. Now that he was facing a serious threat, the calls for troops were as frantic as ever, but Davis had heard too much of that, and Beauregard would not get his way.

  The frustration came over Lee now in a wave. With Grant south of the James, he thought, Beauregard is in command. It becomes his war. That will not sit well in Richmond, and so Davis will change the departments again, shift responsibility to suit his moment, creating more confusion, more chaos.

  And all the while, Grant presses forward.

  * * *

  LEE HAD LEARNED QUICKLY THAT GRANT HAD NOT FORGOTTEN THE Shenandoah Valley. The inept Franz Sigel had been replaced, and the new threat to the South’s most fertile breadbasket came from David Hunter. Lee had known Hunter from the old army, had seen a side of the man in Mexico that had not impressed anyone’s sense of decency. Hunter carried a barbaric viciousness into the fight, and now into the farmlands of the valley. Moving south, his forces swept into Lexington, burned the buildings of VMI, burned the home of Virginia’s Governor Letcher. The outrage was loud and direct, one more reminder that this war was no longer fought by gentlemen, but Lee knew that beyond the mindless destruction, the threat to the supply line was very real, and so he weakened his army again, sent Jubal Early with the Second Corps to push Hunter away. When Early crossed the Blue Ridge Mountains, Hunter’s bravado collapsed, and the Federal troops pulled away without a fight, withdrew to the west, across the Alleghenies, the Federal commander satisfied with the damage he had inflicted on the civilians.

  With Hunter no longer a threat, Early’s men began to look northward, and Lee now saw an opportunity. Early would march toward Washington, repeating on a smaller scale what Lee had tried to accomplish twice before. If Early’s numbers were not great enough to actually occupy the city, the threat would still shake Lincoln’s chances for reelection, and certainly cause Grant to respond by sending troops, weakening his army as well.

  Lee’s plan was sound, but the strength was not enough. Grant sent Wright’s Sixth Corps, who moved quickly, filling the great heavy defenses around Washington with veteran troops. Early reached the outskirts of Washington too late to cause any real harm.

  Lee continued to support Beauregard’s calls for troops to the defenses of Petersburg, and Beauregard accomplished an amazing feat, defending the city itself with a handful of troops while Grant’s Eighteenth Corps, commanded by “Baldy” Smith, hesitated in front of the nearly defenseless city. Smith was to be supported by Hancock’s Second Corps, who arrived on the field under a fog of confused orders. The attack never came, an attack that would have seen the Federal troops marching into Petersburg virtually unopposed. The delay cost Baldy Smith his command.

  Beauregard finally strengthened the lines around Petersburg with whatever troops he could put in place, but his skill at defending the city did not save him from the wrath of Davis. Making a tactical mistake, Beauregard removed the line of troops that were holding Ben Butler’s blue forces in place, allowing Butler’s men to strike out at the one line of communication between Petersburg and Richmond. It was all the excuse Davis needed. Beauregard was removed, and Lee’s authority to defend Petersburg was made clear. With Grant’s intentions now beyond doubt, Lee moved his men south, wrapping a hard line around the city, filling the trenches and earthworks with the men who understood their duty: that no matter how much strength the enemy brought against them, they could not leave this ground. They were defending the last great lifeline of their country.

  25. CHAMBERLAIN

  JUNE 18, 1864

  THERE WERE SIX REGIMENTS, ALL MEN FROM PENNSYLVANIA, BUT they all knew his name, this college professor from Maine, knew he would lead them as well as any one of their own. They had moved far below the James by now, marching behind the rest of the army, the men of the Second Corps, the Eighteenth. Word was already spreading, another opportunity lost, bad coordination, bad communication. Some of the staff officers had seen a furious Meade, a fiery torrent of temper launched at the unfortunate officer whose duty happened to take him to headquarters. Rumors were flying that Hancock had failed, Smith was relieved. Chamberlain had heard all of it and finally had gone to Griffin to find out the truth. Now he was back with the men, riding beside the marching column. He kept the image of Griffin with him, the anger, red-faced, explosive. Yes, the opportunity had been there, there was virtually no defense at Petersburg. But there had been confusion, hesitation—the curse of the army—commanders who could not see what lay in front of them, men who would not take the responsibility. If there was no initiative, no risk, there was no victory.

  Now they were moving south, the Fifth Corps to be the left flank of the army. There had been another attack, Meade sending the center of the line against the lightly held rebel works. But the rebel lines were empty, the defenders now back to the outskirts of Petersburg, a tighter line. Meade ordered them to press on, still believing the rebel numbers were very few, but the foot soldiers saw the guns, the fresh cannon and heavy lines of muskets. The rebel works were now filling with Lee’s men, the numbers rising rapidly. If headquarters did not understand what was happeni
ng across from them, then they would learn of it from the men on the front lines. There would be no mindless rush to make up for the indecision of before. This would not be another Cold Harbor.

  Chamberlain heard the bugles in front, the men beginning to slow the march, moving into the deep brown grass of the fields. There were guns, distant rumbling, from the north, up where Burnside had halted, and Chamberlain reined the horse, listened, thought, No, no attack, not yet. We just got here.

  The men of the brigade were nearly all sitting now, faces covered with the grime of the march, the blue of the uniforms dulled by layers of dirt. At the look of men who had absorbed the road beneath them, Chamberlain felt a smile, could not hide it. When they had crossed the James, there was a brief pause, and the men were close to the water. They did not have to be told that this might be the only opportunity they would have, and so they’d swarmed into the water, clothes and all, splashing the thick layers of dirt away, the memories of the hard marches and the bloody fights flowing away downriver. He’d sat on the big horse, watching them, heard the laughing, the pure joy, had ached to join them. It would not do, of course. The officers had to maintain some decorum, especially the brigade commander. They did not know that he’d waited until dark, just before they moved out onto the dusty roads again, and slid quietly into the water, under the watchful eye of a provost marshal—not for protection, but as a discreet lookout for Griffin, Warren, or worse, General Meade. It had been cool and delicious, and the uniform dried quickly. Now the uniforms were covered with the signs of the march again. And he knew they remembered the river.

  He saw men gathering sticks, small dead trees, and fires began to dot the field, the cooks moving to the fires, the coffeepots hanging above low flames. He dismounted, moved toward the flag bearer, a huge man named Coogan. Chamberlain felt the stiffness in his feet, his legs, tried to flex the muscles. Coogan watched him, still held the flag high, the gathering place for the officers. Chamberlain approached, looked up at the bright sky. Sweat rolled into his eyes and he blinked hard, put a finger to his eye, the hard leather of the glove probing painfully, doing no good. He blinked again as Coogan held out a handkerchief.