'Sir, a personal appeal. You taught us at the Point to always deal with our fellow officers as comrades and with honor.'
He hesitated.
'Go on, Captain.'
'Sir, on my word of honor to a fellow officer, you cannot win this day. I have seen both sides now. Honor binds me from saying or revealing more to you, but I do appeal to you to reconsider.'
'Thank you, Captain Struble, but my decision is final.'
'I am sorry, sir.'
Struble turned and, with his Confederate escort, raced back down the road, mud flying up as he passed, a few of the skirmishers offering catcalls once Struble was clear of their lines.
Lee looked over at Pete.
'I think we should press forward and see what Grant has prepared,' Lee said.
Struble appeared out of the distant woods, riding hard. Grant raised his field glasses and could tell the answer already. Struble drew up and saluted. 'He didn't accept it.' 'No, sir. He refused.'
'I'd have done the same,' Grant said softly. 'How many are coming?' Sheridan asked. Struble looked stiffly down at Sheridan. 'Sir, I cannot tell you.'
'Nor should you,' Grant interjected. 'Captain, please stand by.'
The crackle of skirmish fire erupted ahead, and some mounted skirmishers came out of the woods, pulling back. Tragically, two men down the road dropped from their saddles.
The field was nearly six hundred yards wide, open pasture land, grass waist high. At the center of the field was a crossroads, a lane coming down from the right leading back up toward Hauling Ferry. Troops from that position had been coming down it during the night and were concealed in the woods to his flank, led by Hancock, who had turned over command of the rear guard to Sykes and was now commanding troops covering the western flank of the net. At the crossroads was a small chapel, apparently abandoned.
Grant looked behind him. It was not the best of tactical arrangements, but he prayed that what he had deployed would, have the desired effect.
His skirmishers reached the edge of the woods, this morning seeming to advance with a bit of their old spirit, or was their elan just a final, mad desperation? During the night scouts had reported some campfires just on the other side of the woods. Grant had to be there, the courier had proven that. The question to be answered in the next few minutes was simple enough. Was Grant's army beaten down and worn? Had the pursuit been one of troops exhausted and strung out on the roads, or had he managed to bring up sufficient strength?
If he is off balance, then we push through and roll him up. Every man had been spoken to by their officers just before daybreak, told of the task ahead. Dry ammunition from the few remaining wagons had been distributed to the advancing lines of Armistead.
As they advanced, Lee rode just behind the main battle line, his staff around him. He would not let them hold him back this morning, he had already made that clear. Somehow Walter had managed, during the night, to clean his other uniform and presented it to him when he arose. Stains had been sponged out, the brass polished. He felt strange dressed thus, for all his men were ragged, filthy, hollow-eyed from lack of sleep.
Moving cautiously, the skirmishers advanced a hundred yards out of the woods and into the field. There they halted, officers calling for the men to dress ranks.
Then he could see them. A heavy line of cavalry on the far side of the field, men mounted, perhaps two or three regiments.
For a moment his heart swelled. Cavalry, we can push them back.
'Bring up the guns,' Lee said.
Walter looked back and raised a fist, then pointed forward. A battalion of guns that had been waiting on the far side of the woods turned into the road and started to struggle forward, mud splattering, the first of them reaching the edge of the woods then turning left and right to deploy out.
In another few minutes it would begin.
And then the Yankee cavalry men turned about, some riding off to either flank, into the adjoining woods, others heading toward the rear.
Behind them was a solid line of guns arrayed hub to hub, more than fifty, covering the width of the field. Directly behind the guns battle flags were suddenly raised up, dozens of flags, national colors, state flags, a solid wall of infantry, thousands strong.
The first gun recoiled, then down the line the others fired nearly in unison. Walter moved in protectively to Lee's side. Several seconds later they heard the shells… all of them aimed high, arcing up over the trees, all of them solid shot, no explosions, only the sound of their passage as they disappeared to the rear.
Lee raised his field glasses and scanned the line. The gun crews were at work, this time turning up the elevation screws, lowering the muzzles.
Grant had just given him a warning. The next salvo would plow straight into the Confederate lines.
Gunners to either side of him were unlimbering, looking nervously across the field, officers already shouting for case shot with three-second fuses.
Time seemed to drag out. The last of the Yankee gunners loaded, rammers stepping back, sergeants hooking in lanyards, rolling them out and waiting, facing their commanders, waiting for the order to unleash hell.
Lee looked over at his men at the edge of the woods. Bayonets had been fixed, men were arrayed, breathing hard, eyes focused across the field. Armistead was nearby, arm in sling, sword drawn, his hat on its tip.
Some of the men were kneeling, praying, many reciting the Twenty-third Psalm.
Still the Yankees were waiting. They should have opened the bombardment, fifty guns slashing across the field, trees shattering, guns dismounting, men screaming, his batteries smothered under, Armistead then going forward into the maelstrom.
Grant waited, not firing.
'Thy will be done, Lord,' Lee said out loud.
You are not to fire until ordered to do so by me!' Grant kept shouting, as he rode back and forth just behind the gunners, Henry Hunt riding by his side. 'Relax, boys, relax,' Hunt interjected. 'If they come, it'll be Malvern Hill all over again. Just relax, boys, relax.'
Men stood tense, wide-eyed, staring across the field. The rebel skirmish line had stopped a third of the way into the field. Most were kneeling in the high grass. 'A flag!' someone shouted. 'A white flag!' A staff officer was pointing to a Confederate officer riding forward at a gallop, his saber raised, a dirty white towel or strip of cloth tied to the point. 'Struble and Ely!'
The two left his side, Struble still with his white flag, Ely by his side. The two galloped out and met the officer halfway. They talked but for a moment, then the three turned about, Ely and Struble now galloping back, Ely standing tall in his stirrups, hat off, waving it.
'It's over!' he screamed, 'Lee's surrendering! It's over!'
Men stood silent for a moment, comrades turning to each other in amazement, and then the cheering began. A wild, triumphal roar.
'Silence!' Grant screamed, and he rode out in front of the guns, turning to face his men.
'Silence!'
The cheering died away.
'There will be no demonstrations, no cheering,' he cried, his voice carrying across the field. 'Gunners, stand down, remove primers carefully. Infantry to stack arms and remain at ease!'
All fell silent and more than one man removed his hat. In an instant the mood was transformed. Some shook hands, as comrades of so many hard-fought campaigns looked at each other. 'Looks like we'll live out this day,' 'My God, we're going home,' 'It's over, it's really over,' rippled up and down the line. Some went to their knees in prayer, some wept, some laughed and began to slap each other on the back, others stood silent, heads bowed.
Ely and Struble came up to Grant.
'Sir, General Lee wishes to discuss terms.'
Grant said nothing.
'Sir, I suggested the abandoned chapel in one hour,' Struble interjected, pointing to the dilapidated church at the crossroads.
