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

by Jeff Shaara

  They always were bringing him special food. The quartermasters seemed to search far and wide for what they assumed to be the special tastes of the commanding general. He didn’t understand that, knew that for the last few weeks the staff supply duty had gone to Horace Porter, the officers taking turns working with the quartermasters, and even Porter did it, brought all manner of odd and delicate foods to the table. Grant thought, What is it about … rank? Am I supposed to become suddenly strange in my eating habits, just because I am in command? Save it for the men, for the soldiers, the ones who earn it. They eat bacon and hardtack, and my mess table is covered with amazing varieties of … stuff. He thought of the sweetbreads Porter had found, and it gave him a shudder. He had first eaten them when he was very young, was not partial to the taste, the feel of it. Then he learned what part of the animal it was and it made him sick. A few days earlier, Porter had served the staff a tall plate of this odd “treat,” and Grant couldn’t touch it. While the others feasted, he had sliced a cucumber. They often found chickens, scrawny birds that had somehow escaped the scavenging of soldiers. Grant would not touch that either, could never stop thinking about feathers.

  He was perfectly content to feed from the herds of cattle that came from the big boats. When they had beef, which was often now, he watched the men stabbing the bloody meat with lustful enthusiasm, and finally he’d let them know, the subtle hint passed around. The meat will not bleed. He would only eat it nearly burnt to a crisp, and the staff had learned to go along; the man who liked his meat red would have to find another table. But it was the small sweet treats that still made him feel guilty, and he tried not to think about it, didn’t really understand anyway. The food is there, on the table, he thought. If it is not eaten, it will just … go to waste. But, sugar … an amazing luxury. There should be no luxuries, not when a war is being fought, not when those men are out there on their backs, spread out on hard dirt, sleeping so close to the guns of the enemy. We have not earned the right, not yet. We sleep in tents, our boots are dry, we can stand straight and stretch our backs without a sharpshooter taking our heads off. That is luxury enough.

  The taste of sugar was still in his mouth, and he began to think of coffee, then heard the horses, the commotion across the dark field. He stopped, waited, saw men rising from the mess table, and they knew as well. It was Meade.

  The horses stopped, the men began to dismount, and Grant heard the greetings, the staffs talking. He watched the one man, the wide floppy hat, silent, looking around. Grant moved that way, knew Meade was there only to see him, not to socialize with his staff.

  “General Meade, here. This way, if you please.”

  Meade moved quickly, now walked beside Grant, kept his head down, said nothing. Grant waited, knew something would pour out, always expected a flood of hot words, but Meade was quiet.

  Grant said, “General, your men have done all they can do, for now.”

  Meade stopped, looked at him, appeared surprised. “General Grant, I am not certain I share that view. We had our opportunity, and lost it. Petersburg was in our hands, and we allowed the moment to pass. My command did not—”

  “General, your command is fine. The attacks were not coordinated well, there was delay when there should have been none. It is something I have become accustomed to.”

  Meade was shocked, his face illuminated by the firelight as he stared at Grant with his mouth open.

  Grant began to walk again, said, “General, it has been six weeks. We have not stopped moving since we crossed the Rappahannock River. Look where we are, how much ground we have covered. We are facing a beaten enemy, an army that is on the very edge of collapse. The only way Lee can fight us is behind dirt. We still have the numbers, we still have the supplies, the guns, the power. If Richmond had any strategic value, I have no doubt it would be in our hands, it would be ours. His defensive lines cannot stretch that far and be much of a defense. He knows that as well. Now we will pick our moments, select our opportunities. If this is to become a siege, so be it.”

  Meade removed his hat, said, “Sir, there is no excuse for our performance today. I had to issue the same order three times, to get our people to move forward. This was to be one grand assault, we should have pushed them right into Petersburg. But for every unit that went forward, another just sat there, or moved too late to do any good. Half of Warren’s corps watched the other half chew themselves to pieces. The Second, Hancock … hell, Hancock can’t even fight.”

  Grant stopped again, said, “How’s he doing?”

  “Not good. The doctors won’t let him ride. The Gettysburg wounds have opened up. General Birney is now in field command of the Second Corps.” Meade took a deep breath, made a low chuckle, unusual. “Hancock’s still pretty mad at Baldy Smith. Wants a court of inquiry, says we should have walked into Petersburg with bands playing. I told him Smith was relieved, but it didn’t help him any. He’s hurting more than he lets on. Guess I’d be about as mad as he is if the doctors kept me confined to my tent. He’s a fighter, no doubt. But … without him to give the orders, the Second is as toothless as the Ninth.”

  Meade stopped abruptly, had crossed a line. Grant said nothing, knew it was still a sore point with Meade, Burnside’s Ninth under Grant’s direct control, not a part of Meade’s command. It was still a problem, as was Baldy Smith’s Eighteenth, the corps that technically was still under Butler’s command. But the biggest problem that day had been Meade himself, the vague orders, each corps receiving a separate command. There had been no coordination because Meade had not told them to coordinate. Grant had learned now, with these men, these commanders, the orders must be plain and simple and direct. There could be no room for discretion. The fights today had gained little, but the casualties had not been as bad as this kind of jumbled attack could have produced. Lee was now firmly in command of the works around Petersburg, most of his army having completed the move from north of the James.

  Grant said, “Let it pass, General. We may have some time now, some room to breathe. The enemy is hard in his defense, and the men deserve a rest. We cannot fault the corps commanders every time a battle does not go according to plan. War is not fought on paper, you cannot draw a line with a pencil and account for what might happen. When change is needed, change is made. Who would you place in command of the Ninth? Of the Fifth? Is anyone ready to step into that position?”

  There was a quiet pause. Meade said, “I am not especially comfortable with having my orders ignored.”

  Grant thought, Maybe if the orders were better … but no, he would not say that to Meade, knew Meade was still sensitive, still expected to be the scapegoat if anything went wrong. And he knew that some of the worst orders, the disaster at Cold Harbor, those orders had not come from Meade, but from him. Grant also understood that the army was fresh with many new troops, men who did not yet understand that the battlefield is not like the parade ground. Even the veterans were not performing like they should, and the corps commanders were learning that even the best men, the finest and most experienced units, had to take a breath sometime. This powerful army was simply worn-out.

  He had seen the newspapers, the names, even those friendly to Lincoln, calling Grant a “hammer,” and those who were not friendly using words like “butcher.” He tried not to pay attention to that, but many of the officers did, especially after Cold Harbor. Many were questioning if there would be someone else, if that great failure would be like the failure of so many others, and would sweep Grant out of command. But Lincoln had said nothing, there had been no official blame. Grant appreciated that, that what Lincoln had told him months before was still true: Use the army, and I will leave you alone. He stared out through the dark, past Meade, thought, Yes, we have used this army. And we have made Lee use his more. Now it’s only a matter of time.

  JUNE 21, 1864

  HE STEPPED ONTO THE DARK WOODEN PLANKS OF THE DOCK, watched the steamer moving closer. Behind him the staff was in their best dress uniforms, waiti
ng along the shoreline. He held the cigar tightly in his teeth, looked up at the black trail of smoke coming from the small ship, and now he heard a voice out on the dock, close to the water, a sentry, a very young man in a sharp blue uniform. “No smoking allowed on the wharf!”

  He heard another voice, behind him, Rawlins, heard the boots coming out on the wood, small coughing sounds coming from Rawlins’s throat, knew what was about to happen, held up his hand.

  “It’s all right, Colonel. This man is quite correct. It was my order, after all. We cannot risk a fire.”

  Rawlins stopped beside him, and Grant glanced at him, saw him still red-faced, knew that if he’d let Rawlins confront the sentry, Rawlins might have thrown him in the river. Rawlins was choking on his own words, staring at the sentry.

  “Dismissed, Colonel. Go back to the others. The man is doing his job.” Rawlins stepped away, slowly, made some gesture to the sentry Grant did not see. He held out the cigar, freshly lit, and tossed it off the dock, a small hiss as it touched the water. The sentry was aware now, and Grant realized the man was shaking, staring at him with wide eyes. It was obvious he’d had no idea who this plainly dressed officer was who had intruded into his authority. But he definitely knew now.

  Grant nodded, and the man saluted, a slight quiver in his hand, said weakly, “Sir …”

  The boat was alongside the dock now, sailors moving about with ropes, pulling the boat tightly into place. The gangplank was quickly laid, and now Grant saw one man, tall above the others, stepping forward, the long legs carrying him quickly forward onto the dock. He was all smiles, the tall black hat clamped down firmly on his head, moving in long quick strides toward Grant, now holding out the wide hand.

  “General Grant, it is a pleasure, sir, a pleasure!”

  Grant reached out, felt his hand swallowed up, held on tightly while the lanky arm shook up and down, raw boyish enthusiasm.

  “Mr. President, welcome to City Point. Welcome to the headquarters of the army.”

  THE REPORTERS WERE KEPT BACK, THE STAFF GUARDING CAREfully, and even the small bribe or promise of favor did not tempt the officers to allow anyone within earshot. The two men walked slowly along the high bluff over the river, out in front of the rows of white tents. City Point was at the junction of the two rivers, where the Appomattox flowed into the James, and at this point the water was nearly a mile across. The two men stopped, Grant pointing, and the reporters, and the staff, could only guess what he was telling the President.

  The bluff was higher than even the tops of the tall ships, and Grant motioned toward one, just docked, the ropes now securing her to the wharf. “Cattle, probably two or three hundred head.”

  Lincoln nodded, said, “Indeed. The supply people are doing their job. I hope you agree. The supplies have been … adequate?”

  Grant pointed to another ship, the decks piled high with brown bundles, men moving about, the piles slowly shifting to the dock itself. “More than adequate. From this place, we can keep the flow constant. The wagons can load up right at the water. We don’t even have to rely on the railroads.”

  Lincoln nodded, said nothing. Grant turned, could see the sea of faces watching them, men scattered across the open yard of the grand estate. The big white house itself was used by the quartermasters, the headquarters tents spread out in neat lines across the open yard. Behind them was the larger mess tent, and down below, beyond the last of the staff tents, the small corral for the horses.

  Lincoln still watched the ships, the activity down below. He said quietly, as though unfriendly ears were listening, “If I may ask, what of General Lee’s supplies?”

  Grant looked at him, surprised at the question. “We’re working on that. General Lee has little to rely on but the railroads. That’s why he’s protecting Petersburg.”

  “Permit me, General, I know I had told you I would never ask. But I am stunned by what I see here, by the size of this effort, by the strength … the pure strength of your army. It is an easy thing to sit up there in Washington and forget what is happening here, the magnitude of your effort. I hope you don’t hear what I have to endure, the opinions from my opposition, how easy this should be, how quickly we should overrun those rebels. I wish those men, the reporters, the congressmen … I wish they could see this, this remarkable scene, all the ships, the wagons, the men. I am impressed, General. I have to say honestly, I am impressed. I wonder, though, how strong is the enemy?”

  “You mean, sir, does Lee have anything like … this?” He waved his arm, a sweeping gesture across the waterfront. “No, he most definitely does not. And, that is the point. I have not done as well with this army as some of your people in Washington would have assumed. I have read the papers. Most of them criticize you for what this army has not been able to accomplish.”

  Lincoln nodded, said, “I do bear the responsibility. No one lets me forget that. The victories are yours, certainly. The failures are mine.”

  There was something painful in the words, the signs of strain that Lincoln tried not to show. Grant looked at him, the deep lines in the worn face.

  Lincoln said, “Been nominated again. Those foolhardy Republicans want me to keep at it until I get it right.”

  “Yes, sir, I heard about the convention. Congratulations.”

  “Hmm, well, don’t congratulate me yet, General. There’s still an election. I hear it might be George McClellan for the Democrats. He’s pretty loud about a peace movement, got a bunch of people thinking we should end the war before too many more get hurt. It’s the kind of talk that looks good in the newspaper. People beginning to move that way, I’m afraid. You have to give them a reason to believe this will end soon, General.” Lincoln stopped, looked down, said, “Sorry, Mr. Grant. I told you I would not interfere.”

  There was a quiet moment, the sounds from the waterfront drifting up the rise, a light breeze now blowing across the wide stretch of water.

  Grant said, “It will take time. It may only take time. This is settling down to a siege. They can’t last much longer.”

  Lincoln looked at him, said, “How much longer? You expect this will end like Vicksburg? That would be quite wonderful, sir.” Lincoln was smiling now, the enthusiasm returning.

  Grant said, “I don’t think it will end like Vicksburg. There’s still the railroads, the rebels are still being fed. And Lee is not Pemberton. Lee is not like anyone I have fought against.”

  Lincoln smiled, pointed to the reporters watching them. “There’s a good many of those fellows over there with the pencils in their hands who would enjoy quoting you on that.”

  Grant did not look. “A few generals too …”

  Lincoln laughed, removed the tall hat from his head, ran his hand through his hair.

  “Yes, we both have our crosses to bear. How long, General?”

  The question was serious, and Grant looked at him again, saw the expression changed, the dark eyes looking hard into him. “We will put as much pressure on Lee as we can. We are already extending our lines around the south of the city, and as far as we extend, the enemy must extend as well. They do not have the manpower, and we do. I had hoped it would be over by now. We should have driven him out of the city by now, broken them.…” He glanced at Lincoln, saw a frown, knew that Lincoln did not feel comfortable hearing the details. Grant paused, said, “I don’t enjoy making a siege. It requires patience. I have learned that predictions are easier made than realized. I don’t know how much time it will take.”

  Lincoln nodded, still serious, then began to smile. “Then, General, we will exercise patience. It will be my job to convince the voters to do the same.”

  Lincoln stepped forward to the edge of the bluff, looked downriver, saw another ship, moving closer, and in the distance a column of black smoke, a steamer. He waved his hat in a sweep across the waterfront below.

  “My God, I cannot get over this. Look at this, General! The strength, the power behind your army. It’s right here, right in front of us. These ships
come from every port, all the way up to Maine. The entire Union is pouring out not just its men, but its bounty. I wish they could see this, the people who doubt us, who doubt our resolve.”

  Grant stepped closer to the bluff, followed Lincoln’s gaze, could see more columns of black smoke now, the steady flow of supplies for his army. He pulled a cigar from his pocket, began to light it, said, “There’s only one person who needs to see this. If there was some way, any way, to bring him here, I’d go myself, a private invitation.” Grant pulled at the cigar, the smoke flowing up and away from the river. “If he would stand right here, right on this spot, and watch those boats unloading, the supplies, the food, the guns, if he could see the reinforcements filling the docks … if he saw it for himself, what we are bringing to the fight … we would not need patience.”

  Lincoln was running the names through his head, the reporters who plagued him, his enemies in the press, in Washington. “One man? Who, if I may ask?”

  Grant looked at him, held the cigar now tightly in his teeth, said, “Robert E. Lee.”

  THEY RODE OUT IN FRONT OF A COLUMN OF STAFF AND REPORTERS, moved on the hard roads through the camps of the men. The horse that carried Lincoln was large, but not large enough, the man’s legs hanging down awkwardly. Grant had not wanted to look, did not want to embarrass the President, knew Lincoln was not as comfortable on the horse as he tried to show. Some of the soldiers were pointing, Lincoln’s neat black suit now covered in dust, the pants legs riding up, showing a bit of his bare leg. The soldiers seemed to cheer more at that, at the humanity, the lack of show. They were used to the spectacle of the silken dignitaries, men in perfect suits, embroidered shirts, as though posing for a portrait. But Lincoln was simply one of them, awkward and smiling, happy to feel their enthusiasm, and so they shared it with him even more.