by Jeff Shaara
There were newspapers on the small table by the window, and he stood now, would read the one column again, the amazing hostility, the vicious attack on the army. It was not a southern paper, but one from New York. It had always been the voice of opposition to Lincoln, but this time the writing was not endless rhetoric about politics and economics, topics of interest to almost no one; this time the attacks were leveled directly at the army, and directly at William T. Sherman. Grant held the paper up to the light, read the words, focused on the amazing descriptions. The article quoted the governor of Georgia and the representatives in Richmond. They were howling mad, claimed the worst kind of barbarism was sweeping across the state, that what Sherman was doing was little more than raping the land, burning and looting the farms and towns of the innocent. Grant turned slightly, let the lamplight wash over one paragraph, one sentence in particular.
Wars are the exclusive property of the men who fight, and should never injure the innocent civilian.
He had read that the first time with astonishment, read it now with disgust. He put the paper down. Innocent? he thought. Where is the line? Does the man who works in the munitions factory differ from the man who grows the food? Do they not both support the ability to fight a war? He knew how Sherman saw this, how Sherman had responded to the indignant civilians, the small-town politicians who protested his method of war. His response had opened something in Grant’s mind, something Grant had not considered. Sherman had told them: If you are not affected, if you are not hurt by what we do, then you will not do anything to stop it. The war will simply continue. As long as it is just the soldiers, these barbaric men with guns who kill each other, as long as the damage is far away, the destruction and death out of your sight, then no amount of hand-wringing and moral outrage will make it end. If you are affected, if your farms, your crops are destroyed, your neat buildings in your perfect towns burned to the ground, then there will be a reason to stop this. War is not tidy, it is not convenient, it is everywhere, it has to be felt by everyone.
Grant had not thought of that, had always assumed you won the war by winning the battle, your guns against their guns. But now he realized that so much had changed, not just the ground, where the war was fought, but how. The horror of what was written about, the accounts of the bloody fields, the horrible numbers of casualties, were commonplace now, drifting through headquarters as another piece of the daily routine. The angry reports of Sherman’s march were in the southern papers first, as though Sherman himself had somehow changed the war, brought some surprising and outrageous barbarism to this gentlemen’s disagreement. Grant thought of his friend, the manic energy, thought, Yes, I have no doubt he has been efficient, completely efficient. But if he is a barbarian, then what about the rest of us?
Above the James River, Longstreet was using land mines now, on the roads east of Richmond, explosive charges that did not distinguish between who was innocent and who deserved to die. Hardee had done the same in defense of Savannah, and when Sherman’s army approached, men and horses were maimed in horrific ways by hidden charges they never saw. When the weapons are that anonymous, when we can kill our enemy without ever seeing him, then how do we know who the victim might be? he thought. The guns are so good now, we can drop our shells with such precision, the killing happens with such casual regularity. Was it different when we had to look him in the eye, stare face-to-face, comparing our honor and our courage to his?
Grant had been relieved to hear the wounds had allowed Longstreet to come back. But Pete, he thought, you are my enemy. It was not supposed to ever be like that; this was to be nothing more than a conflict over whether or not you fellows could break away, be left alone, govern yourselves any way you saw fit. It was a fight over an idea, an argument over politics, a duel between gentlemen. How naive … Did you believe, truly believe, that there would be no blood, that the innocent would be spared? The politicians thought it would take a month, maybe two. The first troops who volunteered signed up for ninety-day terms.
He thought of Beauregard, another veteran of Mexico, another good soldier in the old army. He commanded the gunners at Fort Sumter. So they shell the fort, show us how serious they are, and expect us to … what? Just back away? Just allow it to happen, the country to be divided up, the Union destroyed? It seemed so long ago, a lifetime, another world.
He didn’t know how much to believe of the reports, whether or not Sherman had been as vicious as many claimed. But of course, he knew what Phil Sheridan had done to the Shenandoah. If the enemy cannot eat, the enemy cannot fight. Is that any more barbaric than blasting twenty pounds of canister through a line of men? Or dropping a thirty-pound iron ball through the roof of a shelter where men sit, believing they are safe?
He went to the candles, pinched each one, then picked up the lantern, raised the glass, blew the light out. He stared out the window, saw snow now reflected in the faint light of the other cabins. He was surprised, thought, They’re still awake, still at work, or, no, maybe just talk, card-playing. He watched the snow, felt the dark silence, thought of her now, sleeping in the small room. He looked toward the door, could see very little, a small reflection. What will this be like … when it is over? The boys especially, Fred and Buck, all the attention they get as the sons of the commanding general. It would be nice to be just … Father.
He thought of the last time he felt at home, like he belonged in some place, some house that was truly his. He shook his head, thought, Maybe it has never been like that. I have never been very good at anything but … this. This I know how to do. And it makes very little difference what newspapers say, or how indignant politicians become. We will do whatever we have to do to win this war. This can end, any time. There does not have to be any more barbarism, any more death, any more savagery. And if Lee and Davis don’t understand that, then it will go on, and there is nothing they can do to stop us. It has never been clearer than it is right now. They cannot win. It is only a matter of time.
He moved to the door, pushed it open, slowly, a small squeak of hinges. It was very dark, no light at all from the covered window. He could hear her breathing now, soft and slow, and he stared into the dark, thought, She rather likes this, being here, so close to all this. She is very aware of my place, my status. He smiled. Yes, she is spoiled. Her father did that, and now … I am no better. I would give her anything … and I cannot say no to her. Certainly she knows that. So, how will she adjust? What will we do when there is no war, when I am not in command? Will I be able to make her happy?
He felt his way, sat down on the bed, pulled off his boots, set them quietly on the wood floor. She turned, soft motion, and he tried to see her face, his eyes searching the dark. He felt guilty, thought, No, I’m sorry, I should have been quiet. Now her hand touched his arm, her voice drifting toward him, a quiet whisper, “Merry Christmas.”
35. GRANT
FEBRUARY 3, 1865
THE CARRIAGE WAS ELEGANT, ACCENTED WITH POLISHED BRASS and deep rich leather, led by the best horses that could be found. They moved through the rebel lines first, out into the bleak open ground, then, slowly winding, made their way through the Federal lines. The passengers were not familiar to the soldiers they passed, the men straining to see, officers with field glasses, men climbing on each other’s shoulders for a clear look. They were well dressed, they were civilians, and they did not look to the side, did not wave or answer the shouts of the soldiers. It was a show of dignity, of grave seriousness, a clear indication of the importance of their mission. The word flew, propelled by the sudden burst of hope, and the men began to cheer, to shout and yell and laugh, slapping each other, each regiment, each line of entrenchments passing it along, the contagious joy, the raw sense of relief, of what this one carriage, carrying three nameless men, could mean.
The cheers echoed all down the lines, spread through the dark holes and frozen earthworks, the trenches of both armies. The word spread farther, well beyond sight of the carriage, rippled through the trenches like
a flood of cool water. From the James River to well below the deep works around Petersburg men began to stand, to listen to the sounds, to show themselves in the deadly space where no man had dared. But the sharpshooters had laid down the muskets, joined the men behind them, waving hats, blowing bugles, beating drums. On both sides of the line the two armies began to yell at each other, a competition, who could yell the loudest, shout it out with the most passion, their voices swollen with the hope they shared with the very few who knew what the mission was about. Even the officers caught the fever, began to speak of it, spreading the great unstoppable word, and the men believed it even more, made more real by the enthusiasm of their own commanders, the men who knew what was happening. More men emerged from the ground, stared at each other, at the enemy across the way, some wondering still if the word was real, if the hope would become truth, if the carriage and the civilians meant peace.
Grant didn’t know the men, didn’t know many politicians at all. But the names were now familiar, and they were important. The group was headed by Alexander Stephens, a former United States congressman from Georgia, and now vice president of the Confederacy. The other men were John Campbell, a former Supreme Court justice, now the Confederate assistant secretary of war, and Robert Hunter, who had been the U.S. Speaker of the House of Representatives and was now president of the Confederate senate.
Grant did know why they were coming, waited impatiently as the carriage made its way slowly to City Point. He could hear the cheering following the carriage along the road, while in the camp there was no motion, everyone watching the carriage. For a brief moment the business of the army, of the war, had stopped.
The carriage was led now by a Federal escort, and the horsemen pulled to the side, formed a neat row, most eyes focused on Grant. The carriage stopped, and Grant looked at the driver, a small nervous man with huge eyes that darted about in all directions, absorbing all he saw, a man feeling very much alone in the camp of the enemy.
Grant moved forward, watched the three men climb out of the carriage, one much shorter than the others, the small man moving with difficulty under a thick layer of overcoats and scarves. The face meant nothing, but Grant thought, He’s Stephens.
He moved closer as the men adjusted themselves from the ride, and the faces now turned toward him. There were smiles, and Grant was surprised, had expected … he was not sure, maybe … anger?
Stephens stepped forward, held out a hand, and Grant took it, realized just how small Stephens was, the hand feeling fragile, tiny, in his own. Grant bowed slightly, and the others now came forward, more hands, more smiles.
Grant said, “Welcome, gentlemen …” He paused, began to feel it now, could still hear the cheering out on the road, the men still infected by the rumor, by the hope, by the power these men carried, and all that it could mean. Grant looked at Stephens again, the pleasant smile, thought, My God … maybe it’s true. He stepped back, more formal, made another short bow, said, “Gentlemen, welcome to the headquarters of the United States Army.”
THE MEN CARRIED THE OFFICIAL DESIGNATION OF PEACE COMMISsioners, and had expected to go all the way to Washington. But Lincoln would not wait for them, came by a fast steamer, and hosted the commissioners on a small ship anchored at the mouth of the James River at Fort Monroe. The meeting lasted four hours, small talk and grave discussion, bits of humor and bursts of anger. The men knew each other well, from years of political wrangling, the business of Washington, the common ground of political experience. When it was over, the peace commissioners returned by the same route they had come, and Lincoln came to City Point to see Grant.
“IT WAS NOT A WASTE OF TIME. NOT AT ALL.” LINCOLN LEANED back in the chair, stared at the ceiling of the dark cabin.
Grant held the cigar in his hand, watched Lincoln, would not ask. He will tell me if I am supposed to know, he thought. Lincoln rocked forward, leaned close to Grant, said, “But I know them … I know Stephens. They brought me a piece of paper that came straight from Davis. Stephens wasn’t happy about it, but his hands were tied.” Lincoln shook his head, leaned back again, slapped his knee with his hand. “They don’t seem to understand … it amazes me, like speaking to a blind hound dog. He knows what he’s supposed to do. But turn him loose and he runs in circles. That’s it … they’re running in circles.”
Lincoln stood now, ducked under a low beam, moved toward the warmth from the fireplace. Grant still watched him, held the cigar in his mouth, turned it slowly with his fingers.
Lincoln stared at the fire, said, “We talked about it until we beat it to death, and it still came back to one point. They don’t see coming back … coming together as one country. That’s Davis talking, holding out till the end. He still believes they can end this thing and become independent. I could see it in Stephens’s eyes. He knows better, knows it can’t be like that.” Lincoln straightened, looked at Grant. “One country. That’s the first point, the only place to start. We end the war by reuniting. Everything else comes later. All the discussion, all the terms, come later. But Davis …” Lincoln looked at the floor, shook his head. “Davis has his dream, and he can’t be moved. As long as Davis is in charge, all the peace commissioners in the world won’t make a difference.”
He leaned over, put his hands on Grant’s desk, looked hard into Grant’s eyes, said slowly, a grim, quiet voice: “Mr. Grant, I would have given them a blank sheet of paper, anything they wanted, any terms. All they had to do was come back to one country. Even the slave issue … they know there’s no hope there, not even Davis believes they can maintain slavery. But … it was right there, on the table. It was in their hands …” Lincoln straightened again, held his hands together, then slowly spread them apart. “… and they let it go. It was … sickening.”
Grant could see the sadness on Lincoln’s face, and Lincoln moved to the chair, sat heavily, slumped down, the thin shoulders sagging. Grant could feel his mood, and Lincoln put his hands on Grant’s desk, leaned forward, said, “There is only one solution, Mr. Grant.”
Grant nodded, said, “Yes. Always has been.”
Lincoln looked at him, shook his head. “No, not always. Reasonable men do not do this. History will not consider what we have done to ourselves as reasonable, or necessary … or civilized. I am very afraid that God will judge us harshly. If not all of us, perhaps then only some of us. We have paid a terrible price. This country will never recover from this war, there will always be wounds. And it saddens me, Mr. Grant, it saddens me deeply that this must still be your affair.”
Grant nodded, stared at Lincoln in silence, at the man’s great sadness. Lincoln took a deep breath, shook his head again, and there was a change in the man’s face, dark, serious, and he looked hard at Grant now, the soft kindness gone from his voice.
“Mr. Grant, I must ask you … forgive me, I must instruct you. There will be no more conferences, no more meetings with commissioners. You are not to decide, discuss, or confer upon any political question. That authority rests … with me.” Lincoln paused, rubbed his tired eyes, let out a long breath. “Your job is regrettably simple. The rebels will agree to our terms when their army is defeated. Defeat their army.”
Grant nodded, said nothing, was already far beyond the events of the day. He had felt the enthusiasm, the optimism that the peace commissioners might bring something tangible, justify all the cheers, all the energetic hope of the soldiers. But that was past, and now his mind was already working, the new plan, that when the warm weather came again, the reality was grim and simple. The killing would go on.
On the front lines the joy of the soldiers was swept away now by shock. There would be no peace, the deadly spaces between the lines would remain. The men stared across the open ground, one long look at those men, over there, the men so much like them. Now they began to crawl back into their dark holes and huddle below the frozen earthworks in stunned silence. Gradually, some began to move around, reaching for the muskets, loading with slow precision, then peering up, slowl
y, carefully, looking for any piece of the man across the way. As it grew darker, the deep rumble shook the ground, and the men did not even notice, the sound too familiar, the low thunder, the big guns launching their terrible fire through the darkness.
36. LEE
FEBRUARY 1865
HE HAD BEEN SHOCKED BY THE LETTERS, BY THE ANGRY OPINIONS spread out across the pages of the newspapers. The calls had been loud and thoughtless, but they came from desperation and frustration with a war that was slowly destroying their country. Davis had exhausted the patience, and for a long time had been losing the support of the state governments and the governors themselves, particularly in the deep South. But the surprise for Lee was that his own name was so prominent, the solution, the simple answer to what was ailing the country. As the new year had opened, the calls became louder, and Lee began to receive inquiries directly, some quiet, secretive, as though there should be a subtle plot. Some were open, public, voices of influence, and Lee absorbed it all in stunned silence. Sentiment had grown, and the calls became clear and open. What the South needed was a military commander, someone with absolute authority to take charge of the fumbling incompetence of the government.
The horrible tales told by the soldiers, men who simply quit and went home, began to grow and exaggerate, the stories about the scarcity of food now became horrible tales, ridiculous rumors, men eating rats, even shocking reports of cannibalism. In the camps, the soldiers laughed through their hunger, shook their heads at the absurdity, and no one thought the people back home would listen to the foolishness, surely no one would believe these fantasies. But the politicians had used the horror for their own benefit, and the men who never had great loyalty to Davis now blamed him for all of it, and the outcry was tearing the Confederacy into pieces. There was only one man who still commanded respect, even among the most radical, the most vocal enemies of Davis. Robert E. Lee.
