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 man smiled now, said, “I grew up here, know my way around. There’s a few shortcuts …”

  Grant stepped forward, put a hand on Rawlins’s shoulder, said to the man, “What is your command? Where is your unit?”

  The man looked at Grant, glanced again at Rawlins, saw Grant’s shoulder straps, the rank, said, “Oh, my. Sir, my unit is … gone. There is no command. I didn’t see much point in keeping up the fight. I heard there was a mighty lot of you fellows moving through here. I was kinda afraid … what might happen to my place.”

  Grant stepped aside, motioned for the man to move up the steps. “Welcome home, sir,” he said. “We appreciate your courtesy. These are fine accommodations. No harm will come to this place.”

  The man seemed more comfortable now, confident, said, “Finest hotel in these parts, sir. Built it myself.”

  He looked past Grant, toward the front door, saw more blue officers in the lobby, men now moving past, saluting Grant. He stepped toward the door, then turned, said to Grant, “Can’t rightly recall when it’s been this busy …”

  THE STREETS WERE QUIET NOW, THE TROOPS IN CAMP, THE BONFIRE collapsed into a mound of glowing embers. Grant was still on the porch, where he sat alone. He’d tried to sleep, but it was not to be, not yet, not until he heard something from Lee.

  There was still activity in the hotel, a card game, but the sounds had quieted now, and he heard footsteps, a low voice, “Sir?”

  Grant turned, saw Porter standing in the doorway, lit from behind by the glow of an oil lamp. “Come on out, Colonel,” he said. “Have a seat.”

  Porter moved to a chair, sat down, said, “It might not be till tomorrow, sir. You should get some sleep.”

  Grant held a cigar out, looked at the faint glow. “By anyone’s definition, Robert E. Lee is a gentleman, and an old soldier. He will respond. I’m guessing he has already responded. It just hasn’t reached here yet.”

  Porter sat back in the chair, stared at the dying bonfire. “Do you think it’s over, sir? Do you think he’ll surrender?”

  Two men were riding hard up the street from the east. Grant stood, moved forward, clamped the cigar hard in his teeth, said, “We’re about to find out.”

  The horsemen moved closer, slowed, and one of them pointed toward the hotel, then both saw Grant. The men approached and dismounted. Grant saw one was an officer, a familiar face.

  The man climbed the steps, saluted, said, “Sir, General Humphreys sends his compliments and wishes me to pass along to you this letter, which was received into our lines earlier tonight.”

  Grant said nothing, focused on the paper, reached for it, turned toward the light, scanned the words. He lowered the page, stared into the dark and let out a deep breath.

  Porter moved close, said, “What is it, sir?”

  Grant did not look at him, held the paper out, and Porter read it quietly.

  General—

  I have received your note of this day. Though not entertaining the opinion you express on the hopelessness of further resistance on the part of the Army of Northern Virginia, I reciprocate your desire to avoid the useless effusion of blood, and therefore before considering your proposition, ask the terms you will offer on condition of its surrender.

  R. E. Lee, General

  Porter looked at Grant now, said, “He’s asking for terms. Sir, he’s asking for terms!”

  Grant looked at the courier now, said, “You men are dismissed. You may remain here, if you like, or return to General Humphreys.”

  The man saluted again, said, “Sir, thank you. We will return to our camp.”

  The man moved away down the steps, and both men mounted the horses and were quickly gone. Grant moved to the porch railing, said, “Terms … there are no terms.” He looked at Porter. “They cannot hold out much longer. This … says nothing. It is no admission of anything.” He held his anger, flicked the ash from the cigar. “Surely, he doesn’t believe he can fight it out. He must think they can get away.” He turned now, pointed out toward the west, said quietly, “I want to be sure … get word to General Sheridan. I want our people out there, in front of him. I want Lee’s army penned up tight. This matter will be concluded.” He looked again at Porter, said, “Those are my terms.”

  He felt the first tightening bloom of a headache, took a deep breath, moved toward the door of the hotel, said, “Colonel, tomorrow morning I will respond to … this. Now, I believe I will go to bed.”

  APRIL 8, 1865

  To General Robert E. Lee, Commanding, CSA:

  Your note of last evening, in reply to mine of the same date, asking the conditions on which I will accept the surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia, is just received. In reply I would say that peace being my great desire, there is but one condition I would insist upon—namely, that the men and officers surrendered shall be disqualified for taking up arms against the Government of the United States until properly exchanged. I will meet you, or will designate officers to meet any officers you may name for the same purpose, at any point agreeable to you, for the purpose of arranging definitely the terms upon which the surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia will be received.

  U. S. Grant, Lieutenant-General

  He rode now north of the river, stayed close to the Second Corps, the tight pursuit of Lee’s army. If the response came, it would likely come through those lines, the closest point where the armies met.

  He’d had little sleep, and the headache had grown, erupting like some great black fire behind his eyes, fueled by a tight stranglehold on the back of his neck. He had tried to ride, to keep up with the movement of Humphreys’s troops, but the movement of the horse only increased the throbbing in his head. Now he was camped at a farmhouse, could only sit and wait while his army kept up the chase.

  The army was nearly equally divided, the Sixth Corps moving in behind the Second above the river, while down below, Ord’s Army of the James was supported by Griffin’s Fifth. Sheridan’s horsemen were pushing hard, skirmishing all day with Fitz Lee as they moved closer to the most likely place for Lee to entrench. Sheridan focused on Appomattox Court House, where the river narrowed to an easy crossing, where it could no longer protect Lee from the troops below. By nightfall Sheridan’s cavalry had reached the edge of the small town, and the scouts could see the great railcars that waited for Lee’s army to arrive.

  GRANT WAS STILL AT THE FARMHOUSE, HAD WELCOMED THE KINDness of the family there, and his headache had been assaulted by every home remedy anyone in the house, or on his staff, could suggest. He lay on a sofa, stared up at the dark, could still smell the mustard from the compress that had been put on his legs. Outside, it was quiet, the family occupying a small guest house while Grant and his staff used the larger house for the headquarters.

  The headache had been relentless, and he tried closing his eyes, but the pressure inside of him forced them open. He knew there would be no sleep, not while he felt like this. He stared up again, and there was a soft knock at the door. He wanted to yell, to shout, the anger at the intrusion sprouting from the flaming agony in his head. The door opened, a small crack, and he heard a quiet voice. It was Rawlins.

  “Sir?”

  Grant let out a burst of air, said, “Come in. I’m awake. I’m suffering too much to get any sleep.”

  Rawlins moved in slowly, Porter behind him, with a small candle. Rawlins said, “Sir, we have received a letter from General Lee.”

  Grant sat up quickly. Porter set the candle down, and Grant took the paper, held it toward the light.

  General:

  I received at a late hour your note of today. In mine of yesterday I did not intend to propose the surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia, but to ask the terms of your proposition. To be frank, I do not think the emergency has arisen to call for the surrender of this army; but as the restoration of peace should be the sole object of all, I desired to know whether your proposals would lead to that end. I cannot, therefore, meet you with a view to surrender th
e Army of Northern Virginia; but as far as your proposal may effect the Confederate States forces under my command, and tend to the restoration of peace, I shall be pleased to meet you at 10 a.m. tomorrow on the old stage road to Richmond, between the picket lines of the two armies.

  R. E. Lee, General

  Grant lowered the paper, shook his head, let out a long breath. “What does he think I had in mind … that we’re going to walk away? It appears he intends to fight it out. I will send him a reply in the morning.” He lay back on the sofa, closed his eyes, said quietly, “It is quite likely … we may all reply in the morning … with a great deal more than words.”

  48. CHAMBERLAIN

  APRIL 8, 1865

  IT WAS PURE PURSUIT, A MARCH QUICK AND STRAIGHTFORWARD. They had not seen the enemy, but the fight was all around them, the skirmishes with the cavalry, the great roar that had come from Saylor’s Creek.

  He rode Charlemagne again, the wound now a hard black knot on the horse’s neck. They had moved most of the night, and now all of the day. There had been rain, enough to cool the men, enough to soften the roads so the wagon wheels could cut it into long furrows, the hardened ridges just high enough to break the ankles of the men who were too tired to watch their own footsteps.

  He had to slow the column down. The road was clogged with another column, more wagons and guns. Ord’s troops were up ahead, would share the same route for a while, and Chamberlain reined in the horse, watched as men struggled to push the wagons through a small stream. Behind him the men were in no mood for delay. Suddenly, a dozen men moved past him, toward the trouble in front, splashed down into the water, pushing the wagon up the other side. He moved the horse forward, thought, Yes, good. I suppose I should have told them to do that.

  He had ridden for so long now he could not recall his last hour of sleep. The men had no patience, and when the march was slowed by the clumsy struggles in front of them, they would break ranks again and swarm past him to do whatever was necessary. Often there would be a little extra, either the removal of the horses and their drivers by force, followed by an unceremonious toss into the creek or mud, or an astounding flow of profane language. He heard it this time as well, several men yelling in delirious anger at a teamster, the man lashing at the troops with his whip. There were bayonets up now, and Chamberlain was suddenly awake, alert, thought, No, God, don’t kill him. But the bayonets merely held off the driver’s whip, finally knocking it away completely. The men then drifted back toward him, rejoining the column. No officer said anything, there was no reprimand, and Chamberlain thought, No, we are as tired of this as you are. We just can’t do anything about it.

  As they moved past him a few glanced up, and there were no smiles, and he could hear mumbled profanities, low voices. He tried to pick out the unique phrases, could not help but smile, the men scowling as they returned to their places in the line of march. A master of language, he thought, and I’ve never heard that before. I should write some of this down … but when on earth would I ever use it? An image flashed into his mind, and he saw the dark, frowning face of his father-in-law. Well, that would be interesting, testing Fannie’s father’s capacity for shock. And Fannie would respond to my eloquent use of these new phrases by … what? Some choice phrases of her own? No, that is not a competition I could ever hope to win.

  The columns were moving again, the men behind him giving their last word to the crippled wagons on the side of the road. They climbed out of the woods, moved onto open ground, the road much better, and Chamberlain turned the horse, moved to the side, stopped and stared at the wide field.

  He’d seen fields like this before, where the great fights had taken place, the violence sweeping over the ground like some horrible storm. But the violence was different now, there had been no fight here, at least no combat.

  As far as he could see, there were the broken machines of the rebel army, wagons, heaps of wood and wheels, and guns as well, broken carriages, brass barrels jutting out in all directions. Now the smells began to reach him, and he could see the brown shapes, had thought they were brush and bushes, but no, it was horses, mules, mostly dead, swollen carcasses. There was some motion, animals that had simply collapsed but were still alive, many still strapped into harness, trapped by the weight and the wagons they could no longer serve.

  He moved the horse, fought breathing the awful smells, thought, No, keep going. If this is what is happening to Lee, we will soon see much more.

  There was another creek in front of them, and the column moved down a short hill, the road muddy again, but the creek was open, wide, with few trees. He could see small pieces of what had once been a bridge, the rest swept away, either burned or chopped to pieces by the men they were chasing.

  Ord’s column had already moved through, but again wagons were being pushed aside, the foolhardy who assumed the water was shallow. There was a staff officer now, one of Ord’s men, directing the column of men upstream, away from the congestion and toward a shallow place where the men could wade across.

  His men followed the new path, and he waited until they began to cross at the new ford. They were veterans of this now, boots coming off quickly, suspended by a high bayonet, ammunition held high as well. He turned the horse, moved back down toward the remains of the bridge, had to see why they had moved upstream. There, below, all along the muddy banks, he saw a great mass of debris, more wagons, more guns, but now he could see color too, pieces of … things in the water, scattered in the mud. There was thick brush downstream, and the creek was clogged by vast piles of something different, not pieces of the army, but of life, home. The broken carts and wagons were not all military. There were small black carriages, trimmed in gold; pieces of fine leather bridles; a broken picture frame, the painting ripped away; pots; and mostly clothes, all colors, lace and silk, hats and black leather shoes. Civilians, he thought. This is a clear picture of the chase, the panic of a people escaping from … us. He felt a sudden sadness. They must think we are something truly awful, demons. Of course, the bridges were burned by whoever got here first, protecting themselves, with no thought of who might follow. And this was what followed. On the far side of the creek the mud was a vast spread of tracks, shallow and deep, and more color, the dirty refuse of clothing, cast-off shoes and boots.

  He turned the horse, moved up along the column again, splashed the horse through the water. His mind was swirling in a daze, from lack of sleep, and he realized now he was very hungry. He instinctively felt his pockets, but there was nothing there, and now he began to feel angry, thought, All the criticism for being slow, Warren’s removal, the angry talk about Meade’s sluggishness … well, somebody better write about this, about how we are moving now. He tried to think of distance, had heard someone say thirty-five miles, thought it was probably more.

  He climbed another rise, saw a long patch of trees, a farmhouse, and movement caught his eye. He could see men now, gathered around the house, most sitting, leaning against the side of the house. He looked around, thought they might be prisoners, but there were no guards. Someone should—

  In the trees close by he heard voices, then saw more of them, scattered all out in the woods, men sitting, some lying flat on the ground. They were calling out to the troops, small greetings, some weak requests, begging for food. He saw muskets then, scattered along the edge of the road, thought, It’s an entire unit … maybe a company, different companies. He looked for a uniform, something identifiable, saw only an occasional hat, one man wearing a bent sword, a black stripe on a ripped pant leg. The faces were mostly staring out at the road, but there were others, men staring ahead with blank eyes, men close to death, or dead already. No, he thought, they don’t need guards. They aren’t going anywhere.

  The farm was behind them now, and then there was a fork in the road, and a staff officer, another man directing traffic. Ord’s people were moving away, and Chamberlain saw Griffin, talking to officers Chamberlain did not know. Griffin saw him, and Chamberlain raised a salute
, felt the stiffness in his shoulder, the wound now an ugly bruise along his ribs.

  Griffin said, “Take the right fork … keep moving, General. Sheridan’s up ahead. It’s getting pretty tight.”

  Chamberlain nodded dumbly, asked, “Where’s Lee?”

  Griffin leaned closer, saw the blinking fatigue, said, “Don’t worry about Lee, General. You just keep your men moving on the road … this way. If you don’t fall off your horse, General Sheridan will find you when he needs you.”

  THEY FINALLY STOPPED WELL AFTER DARK, THE MEN COLLAPSING on any spot that would make a bed. Some rations made their way along the line, but waiting for food to cook meant more time awake, and so most of the men slept rather than ate. Chamberlain had slid down from his horse, given the order to the bugler, the command to bivouac. The sounds echoed down the line over the heads of men who did not need any command to sleep. Chamberlain had dropped down, spread out right where his feet touched the ground, and slept through the sound of the horse breathing right above him, finding its own rest.

  He was very, very small, standing on uncertain legs, reaching up, his hands not quite reaching the tip of the icicle. Now his father was there, the large hand grabbing the ice, snapping it clean from the eave of the house. The icicle was in his own hands now, and he sat in the snow, touched his small hands to the sharp point. His father was laughing, and Chamberlain put his tongue out, licked the icicle, felt his tongue suddenly stick to the ice, the sudden panic, and now he began to cry, and his father’s hand was on his shoulder, shaking him…

  “Sir?”

  The hand shook him again, and he stared up at something horrible, ugly, hovering over him, tried to clear his eyes, realized it was the horse’s nose. The voice said again, “Sir?” He tried to focus, thought, No, don’t talk to me … and then saw the face of the man, leaning in close. “Sir? Orders, sir.”