Never Call Retreat

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Edwards Ferry

The Banks of the Potomac

September 3, 1863

The roll of drums echoed from the woods, sending a shiver down his spine. It was not the long roll signaling the charge, just a steady thumping beat, growing louder and louder.

A cool breeze swept across the Potomac, ruffling the water, flags whipping out around him, the national colors, corps standards, regimental flags, his own headquarters flag.

The morning was cool, rain having passed during the night, the dawn breaking fresh and clear with a hint of autumn to come.

The drumroll grew in intensity and then he saw them, the head of their column coming out of the forest.

The head of the column was a sea of red battle standards of the Army of Northern Virginia and inwardly Gen. Ulysses S. Grant felt a chill.

How often I have seen those flags through the smoke of battle, coming on relentlessly, gray-clad warriors charging forward beneath them, their wild shouts echoing to the heavens.

But now they marched in silence.

There must have been a hundred or more flags at the head of the column, the colors standing out bright and clear in the early morning light. Ahead of them rode a single man on a gray horse, followed by several others.

The flags cleared the forest, and behind them came the column of infantry, ranked in column of fours, officers to their front, drawn sabers resting on shoulders, but the men behind them no longer carrying rifles. Their weapons had been stacked at dawn, when they had fallen into ranks, cartridge boxes slung over weapons and left behind.

They were now less than three hundred yards away, entering the open fields cut back but days before in preparation for battle to defend this crossing, roughly dug graves from that battle covering the ground in front of one of the forts. They approached the wide temporary bridge laid across the canal. As they reached the embankment they would be able to see what awaited them on the open ground leading down to the Potomac where he waited at the edge of the pontoon bridge across the river.

Grant turned and, saying nothing, nodded to Ely Parker.

Ely rode forward a few feet out into the middle of the road, drew his saber, and rested it on his shoulder. "Battalions!"

The cry echoed down the length of the road, picked up by the thousands of Union troops deployed. "Atten-shun!"

The troops flanking to either side of the road came to attention.

"Present arms!"

The echo of the command startled Gen. Robert E. Lee who had been lost in melancholic thought. He raisec his head, looking straight ahead. The road was flanked to either side by several divisions of Union troops, standing a half dozen ranks deep. As one, all raised their rifles up to present arms, the traditional military salute.

Lee stiffened in the saddle and slowed. He looked over his shoulder. Walter Taylor was carrying his headquarters flag, Pete Longstreet by his side. Judah Benjamin was with him, as was John Bell Hood, gray-faced, with a bandaged stump of an arm, but insisting over all protests that today he would ride out and look "those Yankees" straight in the eye.

He had not expected this. Never across the last several days had there been mention of it by Grant. The agreement reached was simply that the men were to stack arms on the morning of the third, break camp, march to the river, and there surrender their colors before crossing the river.

He had half-feared that the surrender of colors might be a difficult moment and even wondered if the earlier surrender of arms was a subtle way of preventing trouble. For surely, when the cherished banners behind him were turned over, emotions might overflow for those who had followed them for so long, had given so much for so long. He had agreed with Grant's suggestion that all flags to be surrendered were to be massed at the front of the column rather than to be directly turned over by their own men.

Never had he expected this.

He looked to his comrades.

'Tell the men to march with pride," Lee said solemnly. "Honors are being rendered to us."

The column had come to a halt behind him, drums stilled. Lee looked over at Pete, John, Walter, and Judah. "Forward, gentlemen."

The drums picked up again, a steady marching cadence, orders shouted back down the line, and though there was no longer that reassuring sound of men slapping the barrels of their rifles as they shifted them to present, he could sense that all had braced up, heads raised, eyes level.

The first of the Union troops were directly ahead, their colors held high, tough, lean men, Westerners by the looks of their battered hats, threadbare jackets, and patched trousers. Their officers, mounted, came to attention and saluted with drawn sabers, and Lee returned the salute.

The Union troops were silent, most with eyes straight ahead, but some looking up at him wide-eyed, some offering subtle nods as he rode between the flanking lines. Before each regimental standard, were more officers, all saluting.

He felt overwhelmed, recognizing more than one face as he rode between the columns, friends from long ago in Mexico, younger faces now prematurely aged, cadets of his from West Point, a few of them, when saluting, whispering, "Good day, sir," or simply,

"General Lee."

He gave a glance back. The flags of what was once his army were still held high; behind them the men were marching, not a word said by either side.

And then ahead, he saw him, waiting by the bridge over the Potomac, General Grant.

Grant took a deep breath. If ever there is a moment when I can truly serve our country, he thought; it is here, it is now. God give me guidance He nudged his mount and came to the center of the road, Ely drawing back. He was unarmed, his dress uniform having been lost somewhere in Frederick, so he was turned out instead in his traditional field dress of a simple private's sack coat with three stars on each shoulder.

Lee was closer, just a few dozen feet away, the flags behind him. Grant stiffened to attention.

Lee held up a hand, signaling a halt, the command racing back down the length of the column. Lee came to attention, saber in hand, and saluted.

"General Grant, sir."

"General Lee."

Lee looked about and then focused on Grant. "Sir, why are you doing this?" Lee asked. Grant took a deep breath.

"I am not saluting a defeated foe," Grant said, and this time he raised his voice so it would carry. "The war between us is over. Today we are saluting brave fellow Americans, men of honor and courage."

Lee found he could not reply. He advanced a few more feet, taking the sword from his shoulder, holding it lovingly for a few seconds. It was the sword his father, Light Horse Harry Lee, had carried in the Revolution. He inverted it, and offered it to Grant hilt first.

Grant held up a hand and shook his head.

"No, sir. That sword helped to win our independence. It is a cherished heirloom of your family. Keep it today in remembrance of our friendship."

Again, Lee found he could not reply. He then looked back to the column behind him.

"Surrender the colors," Lee announced.

Since none of this had been planned or discussed, there was a moment's hesitation, the flag bearers not sure what to do next. Some clutched their treasured standards tightly, tears streaming down their faces.

Across from Grant stood several hundred men who were unarmed, drawn up in ranks. They began to step forward, going up to the Confederate flag bearers and saluting.

"Your colors, sir," one of them said.

The first approached, looked up at Lee, eyes pleading. Lee forced a smile and nodded.

The soldier, with head lowered, reluctantly handed the flag over. More and more came up, each saying the same, "Your colors, sir," and without protest the flags were handed over.

One of the Union soldiers took a flag and looked up at it, breaking discipline.

"Fourteenth South Carolina?"

The rebel looked at him defiantly, and Grant was just about to raise his hand, to signal Ely to have officers prepared for this moment to intervene.

"You took our flag at Gettysburg," the Union soldier said. "I will treat yours with honor."

He saluted and stepped back, the Confederate looking at him wide-eyed and then saluting in turn.

The Union soldiers taking the flags then stepped back to the side of the road. Lee watched them carefully. The flags were not laid on the ground, or tossed down. Staves were simply rested, the men returning to attention. The colors of the Army of Northern Virginia were turned over, all except one, the personal flag of Lee, carried by Walter. No one approached him and Walter looked around in confusion.

"General Lee, your flag is your keepsake as well," Grant said.

"I thank you, sir."

There was a long silence, no cheering, no shouts of triumph, no patriotic airs, only the sound of the wind, the fluttering of the flags, of which only one was now held high, the colors of Grant's headquarters.

"God be with you, General Lee," Grant said, and he drew to the side of the road, clearing the way.

Lee rode a few feet forward, leaned over, and extended his hand, and there was a muttering from all gathered at the sight of this.

'Today you are a friend of the South," Lee said loudly. "God be with you, General Grant, and with all of your honorable men. We shall never forget the respect you have rendered us this day."

Grant took his hand firmly, and then he leaned over and whispered, "For heaven's sake, sir, please try and end all the fighting. Please, sir, help me with that."

"I shall."

Their grasp tightened for a second, and then Lee let go.

He looked over his shoulder, men staring at him, the column stretching deep into the woods.

"Pass the word down the column," Lee said, not too loudly, but clear enough for those in the front ranks to hear. "Pass the word that we have been today treated with honor, and we shall return that honor."

He turned to face forward, nudged Traveler, and as he passed the national colors he slowed and raised his sword in salute.

He rode on and made it a point to turn and look back. His officers behind him hesitated for a second, not sure of what to do, but his gaze made it clear to them. Longstreet did it first, slowing and saluting the flag. Hood, once the fire-eater, right arm gone, but with tears streaming down his face, raised his left hand to render honors.

He could hear word of this racing back down the column, the discipline of silence broken for a few seconds.

"The general's saluted the flag. Salute the flag as you pass, men. They saluted ours."

Drummers picked up the beat of the march, and the column went forward, Lee at the front. As they stepped onto the pontoon bridge across the river, command was given to break to route step.

The column flowed past, an endless sea, it seemed, of battered, worn men in gray and butternut, blanket rolls over shoulders, some limping along with a bandaged leg or arm in a sling, some being helped by comrades.

Grant gazed into their eyes, accepting the salutes of their officers.

He looked carefully at his own men. Their features had softened in the last few minutes. Some would nod or whisper a few words as the Confederates continued to march by. He had worried about that, the slightest breach of discipline, a taunt, a comment, that would be repeated and remembered. But he realized now there had been nothing to worry about at all.

If any were bonded together by a war, it was these men, these men of both armies. The politicians of both sides who had started this nightmare might now scream for vengeance-never to give up, never to forget, always to hate and be hated in turn-but not these men. They had, together, faced the fury of battle, and so many of their comrades had disappeared into those gray smoke-enshrouded fields, where they would remain forever.

Those here, at this moment, understood far better than any what it had cost, what it now meant. They had shared the crucible of war and drank from its scalding contents and the taste of it had burned the final hatreds away.

After long minutes became a half hour and then an hour, the command was given for the front rank to step back and go to at ease, the rank behind them stepping forward to replace them and coming to attention. And yet still he remained motionless, watching the column as it continued to pass.

Discipline did ease slightly when a reb marching by looked over and recognized a few, a tragic few in their tall black hats. The reb saluted. "Iron Brigade, fit you at Antietam. You boys have grit."

The men of the Iron Brigade nodded. 'Texas, ain't you? You're good men."

The reb nodded and moved on.

And so the column crossed over the bridge, dust rising up as the hours passed, a rider astride a gray horse at the fore, followed by a single flag disappearing from view, marching into the realm of legend.