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

by Jeff Shaara

  THE GUNS WERE SHAKING THE GROUND, GORDON’S MEN NOW handling them like their own. He could not see far, but the gray dawn was slowly spreading on the barren ground, and as far as his eyes could focus, the men in blue were gone, a quick retreat away from their trenches, or swept away by the sudden blasts from their own guns. The three handpicked companies had already moved to the rear, were gone from view, and Gordon looked in all directions, felt the pure hot excitement, the hard shouts of his men still close, still filling the fort, spreading out in a widening hole in the strength of the enemy, the new ground that was now their own.

  Muskets were firing all along the walls, men seeing their targets now. Some of the infantry support had moved into the fort, held there by their officers, waiting for the order to move out.

  Gordon was moving forward, could see the faces of his men, the raw excitement, eyes wide, faces red. Now he saw a mass of blue, some men in white shirts. It was the prisoners, the men dazed, stunned by the sudden assault. They were slowly moving belowground, herded into a “bombproof” by the men who had been so effective at interrupting their sleep. He saw one officer, saw the star on the man’s shoulder, moved that way, and the man looked at him, wide-eyed, his dirty face now full of the shock of what had happened to his stronghold, his Fort Stedman.

  Gordon said, “My compliments, sir. May I know who you are?”

  The man nodded formally, said, “Brigadier General Napoleon Bonaparte McLaughlen. My compliments to your operation, sir. You have humiliated a fine command.”

  Gordon said nothing, thought, Napoleon Bonaparte …? Well, then, your namesake would not be pleased this day.

  McLaughlen said, “If you permit, sir, I am your prisoner, and wish to remain with my men.”

  Gordon motioned to the shelter, said, “By all means, sir. We have work to complete.”

  McLaughlen disappeared into the mound of dirt and timbers, and now Gordon moved quickly toward the rear of the fort, stared out at the growing daylight, lifted his field glasses, searched for the three forts, for the men who would occupy them. He expected to hear more big guns, the men adding to the firepower that was around him, throwing the deadly charges farther down the lines, farther into the rear. He gripped the glasses, turned, swept the horizon, could see some earthworks, flashes of musket fire, but nothing like he had expected, no distinct earthworks, no clear targets for the thrust of the foot soldiers, no sign of the three forts.

  There was a sudden blast behind him, the ground ripping under his feet, and he turned, saw men scattered, bodies torn, timbers and dirt smoking from the impact of the shell. Now more shells came overhead, the high screams from guns far down the line. The ground began to bounce him, more blasts against the dirt walls, then the sharp blow of shot exploding overhead. Now there were screams, men wounded, men with nowhere to go, crouching low, leaning against the dirt walls. He climbed up on the embankment, looked for the three companies through the glasses, for some sign that they had found their own big guns. Where? he thought. Where are you? What is happening?

  Suddenly he could see them, men running toward him, dull shadows in the smoke, but he knew they were his men, could see the small scraps of white, the strips of cloth, and he watched them fall, cut down by fire from behind, from both sides. They began to reach the fort, the men saw him now, climbed into the fort, staggered toward him. He jumped down, could hear the whistle and zip of musket balls flying overhead, the slap of lead into the dirt.

  One man saluted him, crazily, was breathing heavily, was unarmed. “Sir! We got lost, sir! We couldn’t find the fort! There were Yankees all around us! The men are coming back! There’s nowhere to go, sir! What do we do?”

  Gordon moved past the man, climbed the dirt again, felt the sweat now in his clothes, the fever filling him, a hot sickness. Now he saw more of the men, it was almost fully light. Men were trying to hold a line, firing to the rear, but the Federal fire was coming at them from all directions, and the line dissolved. He looked down the enemy trenches, toward the next massed works, the name flashed in his mind, Fort Haskins, another strong battery, saw the bright flashes, the smoke pouring out in sharp bursts. He knew Haskins should be cleared out, the guns now in the hands of his men, but now he could see his men in line, spread all along this side of Haskins, out in the open. He watched, stared hard, thought, We did not take the big guns … they did not get inside. Now those men were falling away, the great clouds of smoke blowing across them, the hot shreds and scraps of metal, the deadly canister, ripping through his troops. He stared, saw glimpses through the smoke, thought, We should be in there, those should be our guns now.

  All along the heavy dirt walls his men were firing outward, in all directions. The big guns still fired, but he looked around, counted, thought, Too few, without the other forts … if we did not take the batteries … we don’t have enough guns.

  More men poured up and over the walls, and the musket fire filled the air, his men with more of a target now, the enemy moving closer, the great numbers of Federal troops slowly closing in, tightening down on the breakthrough, the hole in their line. Gordon looked back across the cornfield, saw men moving in one direction, away, the first wave of his troops who would not stand up to the brutal fire. He did not look for more troops. There were no great strong lines of gray ready to cross the field behind him. Everyone had gone in, he’d sent everybody across. Reinforcements … he thought of Lee now, of the soft sadness in the old man’s eyes. No, there are no reinforcements. From the low ground beyond the cornfield there was silence, no smoke, no great flashes of fire. The rebel artillery was quiet, no batteries had been moved up in support. Gordon stared back toward his own lines, thought, I did not think … we would need our guns.

  More men began to run, escaping back across the open ground, jumping down and across the small trenchworks, across the bodies of the blue pickets. But few made it to the far side. The field was swept completely by the guns of the enemy. Still more men began to pull away from the trenches they had occupied, from out on both sides of the fort. They all knew there was safety beyond the cornfield, and men began to flow out in great numbers now, some dropping their muskets, some moving slowly, stopping to help the wounded. Gordon saw men rushing through the thin rows of corn, saw them suddenly swept away in a bright flash. Now the field began to burn, small fires in the trampled ground, the smoke a spreading blanket, the field alive with the movement of men, the great blasts of dirt and flame.

  He felt a man pulling at him, turned, saw a familiar face, the man shouting through the noise. “Sir … General Lee orders you to withdraw! Your men cannot hold this position, sir!”

  Gordon stared at the man, nodded, looked around again, said, “Yes. Yes, we must withdraw.”

  The man was gone, swept away in the flow across the field, and Gordon saw an officer, the man watching him, knowing what was coming, and Gordon said, “Find a bugler … someone to give the call. We must withdraw. Pull them out! Now!”

  The man saluted, was gone into the smoke. Gordon turned, was suddenly on the ground, blown down by a hot rush of wind. He pulled himself up, was on one knee, shook his head, wiped the dirt from his eyes, thought, What could we have done … what happened? He tried to stand, felt the ground still shaking, the big guns from all sides closing farther in, driving his men away. He began to move toward the front wall, saw his men climbing out in a mass, and now he saw a man in blue, rising up from the shelter, saw it was McLaughlen, and McLaughlen stared at him, said nothing, just a polite nod, the quiet confidence of a man who understands that his army is just too many, just too strong.

  39. GRANT

  MARCH 26, 1865

  “HOW CLOSE DID THEY COME? I HEARD MENTION THAT THEY TURNED the guns toward here.” Lincoln was grim, serious, concerned.

  Grant shook his head, said, “No, not close. It was probably part of the plan, throw us into confusion. A few shells landed down that way … nothing to worry about.”

  Lincoln walked now, a few long steps, stare
d out beyond the cabins of the headquarters, then turned, looked at Grant. “Lee cannot hold on much longer. Surely, he cannot.”

  Grant moved out to where Lincoln stood, glanced to the side, to the small group of reporters, the civilians who always seemed to gather around the camp when the President was there.

  Lincoln caught the look, nodded, lowered his head, waited for Grant to come closer, said quietly, “Forgive me. I am still accustomed to everyone knowing my business. It is not my place to inform the rest of the world what the situation is here.”

  Grant smiled, said nothing, moved close to Lincoln now, pulled at the cigar, felt the smoke roll up around his face, glanced again at the people watching them, said, “No, he cannot hold out much longer. It worries me. I wake up each morning and expect to hear that he’s gone.”

  Lincoln tilted his head, looked at Grant with curiosity. “Gone?”

  “In retreat, evacuated the city. Moved his army out to the railroads, the Danville line. If he makes it there, he can move south, join his forces with Johnston. Could cause some problems for Sherman. And worse, could make this war last for a while yet.”

  Lincoln seemed to droop, said gloomily, “How much longer?”

  “Don’t know. Long enough. He can move faster than we can, fewer men, fewer wagons, he’s on friendly ground. No, I do not want him to leave. We need him right there. The attack on Stedman may have been a sign that he’s about to move, put us back on our heels, throw some confusion into our position so that he can slip away, get a good head start. Can’t allow that. And he can’t do too much more of that. They lost nearly four thousand men yesterday, half of them captured. No, he has to do something else. General Sheridan will be here very soon. We need the cavalry, I’ll send them out west, cut Lee off, cut the escape route.” Grant stared out toward the river.

  Lincoln looked at him, the energy coming back, the smile. “It is your game, Mr. Grant.”

  Lincoln turned toward the onlookers, saw familiar faces, waved, called out, began to move away. Grant looked back, watched Lincoln move toward the crowd, did not know the faces, the men and women Lincoln began to greet, the handshakes. Grant thought, They’re not here to see me. He turned again, looked at the river, now heard quiet steps, saw Rawlins moving toward him.

  Rawlins was watching Lincoln, moved up close to Grant, said in a whisper, “He’s here a great deal now. Puts this place on a bit of an edge, I must say.”

  Grant did not look at him, said, “No edge here, Colonel. I invited him. I imagine this is something of a relief from what he has to endure in Washington.”

  Rawlins whispered again, seemed suddenly embarrassed at some indiscretion. “Oh, sir, no, I meant … I mean, it’s as though he is looking over our shoulder, watching everything we do. I have heard it’s like he was with General McClellan, same thing.”

  Grant looked at him now, held the cigar away, stared at Rawlins for a short moment, suddenly felt annoyed, and Rawlins seemed to wilt. Grant said, “I don’t know who you have been speaking to, who has given you such good intelligence. I have very little interest in what the state of affairs was in the headquarters of General McClellan. You may rest at ease, however, about the President’s spying on us. He has yet to ask me anything about my plans, my orders, or what we intend to do. And, in fact, Colonel, he is the one man on God’s earth who has a right to know.”

  * * *

  THEY CAME IN A PROCESSION, SLOWLY, EACH HORSE MOVING IN slow jerking steps, pulling their feet out of the mud one step at a time. The man in front kept his back straight, wiped now at his face, at the mud that had splashed up and over him all day. The rains had turned the roads into small rivers of ooze, and on both sides the men and the wagons went nowhere at all. But the horses could still move, and Phil Sheridan had finally come back to Grant’s army.

  There had been one more fight with Jubal Early, but it was quick and simple, and except for Early himself, what had once been a fine command was now almost entirely gone, buried in the hills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, or marching slowly northward to the Federal prison camps. With little to slow Sheridan down, the horse soldiers had cut a destructive swath across the railroads, canals, and communication lines that still linked Lee’s army to anything west of the mountains. Now the cavalry was moving down across the James River, and Sheridan was full of the confidence of a man who knows the power he commands, who understands his own importance.

  The staff watched him cross the open ground, the horse still struggling in the mud. Behind Sheridan, his escort, a dozen troopers, pulled off to the side, were already looking toward the wagons, toward the smells of coffee and bacon.

  Sheridan still rode forward, finally drew up close to the cabins, dismounted, raised the hat to the staff, made a low bow. “Gentlemen, the cavalry has arrived. We are at your service!”

  Rawlins moved forward, beaming, grabbed Sheridan by both hands, shook them, then slapped the small man on the shoulder, said, “Yes! Yes! A pleasure, General, indeed! The commanding general has been expecting you! Now there will be some action, yes?”

  Sheridan looked at Rawlins, a hesitant smile, then let down his guard. “Yes, by God, we will see some action now! I expect to run the enemy into nothing short of complete destruction! We will press him until he can stand no more!”

  Rawlins backed away, satisfied that the greeting had been appropriately respectful, and he pointed toward the larger cabin, said, “General Grant will be delighted to hear your intentions, sir! Why don’t you join him? He is in his quarters now. I know he wishes to discuss your impending rendezvous with General Sherman. Yes, that will put quite a bite on old Joe Johnston!”

  Sheridan looked toward the cabin, frowning, looked at Rawlins, said, “Sherman? He wants me to go to North Carolina?”

  Rawlins was still absorbing the light of his small piece of privileged information, the official word, did not notice Sheridan’s change of mood. “Why, yes indeed, General. First, you and General Sherman put away Johnston, and then, by God, it’s back up here to finish off Lee! A fine plan, I heard General Grant speaking of it myself! I would suggest, sir, you make yourself known to the general. He’s in his quarters now. By all means, you go right in!”

  Sheridan seemed stunned, glanced at Rawlins’s wide smile, said, “Move south … to join Sherman? I do not think … I must say, I’m not pleased by that plan.”

  Rawlins’s smile vanished. He saw Sheridan’s expression now, and his mouth opened, hung there for a brief moment, then he said, “Oh, um … no, why of course, General, North Carolina … no, not a good idea, not at all. You must convince General Grant to reconsider. Perhaps … perhaps I misunderstood the general.… No, you should talk to him, now, right now, by all means!”

  Sheridan stared at the ground, then looked at Rawlins, said, “Colonel Rawlins, I believe it is better if the general invites me in. It is not proper for me to simply intrude.”

  Rawlins seemed perplexed, suddenly seemed to have a stomachache, said, “Yes, I see. We should … inform the general you are here, perhaps he will ask for you, if he is not busy … or perhaps not. Oh dear …” Rawlins was red-faced now, felt crushed under the weight of some disastrous blunder of protocol.

  Porter quietly moved up behind him, said, “Colonel Rawlins, if I may … General Sheridan, General Grant invites you to his quarters, if it is a convenient time, sir.”

  Sheridan stepped forward, angry, staring ahead, moved past Rawlins, said, “Yes, it is a convenient time. North Carolina …”

  Rawlins turned, looked at Porter, puzzled.

  Porter smiled, said quietly, “I took care of it, sir.”

  GRANT HANDED HIM THE WRITTEN ORDER, AND SHERIDAN READ quietly, nodded, read again, absorbed the details of the movement of the army, the great final push to the west. Grant would not wait for Lee to make another assault, would not give him the precious time to escape the widening arc of blue.

  Sheridan was now under Grant’s direct command, eliminating any conflict with Meade. In the fiel
d, Sheridan would command not only the cavalry, but the infantry that would move with him in support, the powerful numbers of the Second and the Fifth Corps. The cavalry would lead the way, moving quickly to the west, then north, surrounding Lee’s lines, cutting through the Southside Railroad, then farther up, through the Danville as well. If the plan was carried out with speed, and with good movement of troops, Lee’s army would be completely cut off from any supply. If Lee did not quit, he would have to come out from the trenches, come out and make the best fight he could. It was exactly what Grant wanted.

  The order did mention North Carolina, that if Sheridan’s horsemen completed their work with the railroads, he could move south and link up with Sherman. With Lee in a tightening noose, with the defeat of Lee’s army so close, it was not Sheridan’s choice to move away from the great spotlight, the final bow to the great theater in Washington.

  “SIR! I CAN’T JUST … I SUGGEST ANOTHER COURSE!” SHERIDAN was red-faced, and Grant did not interrupt him. “Sir, I believe I can best serve this army in Virginia … right here!”

  Grant looked out toward the staff, said, “General, walk with me, if you please.”

  Sheridan was still angry. The discussion had been brief, his protests as restrained as he could keep them. Grant had been patient, had let Sheridan blow off some steam, watched him now with amusement as he tried to hold himself together, to keep himself from crossing that line with his commanding officer. Sheridan’s face was tight and dark, and Grant moved away, left him standing alone. Grant stepped across the soft ground, turned, looked back at Sheridan, a silent request to follow. Sheridan took short steps, came up beside Grant, and now they walked together, away from the cabins, away from the ears of the staff.

  Grant could hear him breathing, the odd hat crushed low on Sheridan’s head. Grant began to put the words together, thought of Lincoln, of the man’s perfect ability to explain any situation, the humor and the homey stories that would cut through anyone’s angry wall, bring down anyone’s self-importance. He glanced at the shorter man, said finally, “Please, General, be at ease. I do not wish you to go to North Carolina. My orders … there is very little that goes on paper in this army that does not soon reach the newspapers, the eyes of Washington.”