The Fateful Lightning

by Jeff Shaara

  Sherman appreciated the immediate discovery that Hitchcock could write well, and to the relief of Dayton, McCoy, and most of the other staff, Hitchcock assumed the role as an unofficial secretary. But Sherman had seen this kind of itchiness before, recognized that Hitchcock had that aching need to be a part of something, and if he were to miss it, he would regret that for the rest of his life. It was up to Sherman to make sure that Hitchcock didn’t act rashly on that instinct, by putting himself into serious danger.

  “So, how’s the horse?”

  Hitchcock reached down, gingerly patted the horse’s neck. “We’re getting along. He hasn’t tried to toss me into any mud hole yet. I suspect he’s tempted.”

  “Might find your own yet.”

  “Doubt that, sir. Reports were pretty specific that the Belle Peoria was captured by rebel raiders. My mount Ellis is likely under the backside of General Forrest right now.”

  Sherman made a small laugh, rolled the cigar back and forth, thought, His horse was named Ellis? One hand began fidgeting with a button on his coat, and Sherman said, “If you say so. Didn’t know you were bringing a thoroughbred to camp. Reb cavalry boys are pretty particular about their mounts.”

  Hitchcock was silent, and Sherman realized he had embarrassed him. He had an instinctive respect for the man, beyond the fact that Hitchcock was far closer to his own age than nearly anyone around him. There was something serious in the man’s sense of duty, even the most mundane task attacked with the kind of vigor that earns promotions.

  “Heard you went to Yale. That path usually puts a man into politics. You?”

  Hitchcock seemed to welcome the change of subject. “Oh, not really, sir. Missouri was a deadly awful place to go that route. Nasty in the extreme. I voted Whig until Lincoln came along, and so I changed over to Republican. Thought Lincoln was the only real choice we had. I’ve no use for those who preached rebellion, none at all. No use for those in Missouri who resorted to such violence.” He paused. “I guess that seems a little silly. There’s plenty of violence now. And here I am.”

  “Why?”

  “Heard a lot of talk about the problems with the country, all the arguments. Saw that it was very easy for a man to come down hard on any position he chose, if he didn’t have to die for it. Not intending to die, of course. But this war is too important for me to spend it arguing law cases in St. Louis. I just couldn’t remain safely at home making money and enjoying a comfortable life while others were doing the fighting. And of course…dying. I rather expect that’s why you’re here. I took you for a Lincoln man right away. You rose quickly in this army, a man who fights for the right causes. Pardon me for the observation, sir.”

  “It’s not an observation. It’s a guess. And I never said anything of the sort. Don’t talk much about my politics, don’t intend to start. I care not at all for the side issues in this war. Does no good, on any account. There’s one reason I’m here, Major. Those people out there, whether they carry a musket or wear a skirt, they have undertaken to rebel against and destroy my government. They will stop this war and return to the obedience of our laws or my government shall destroy them. I am presently employed by my government, and I’m rather good at following orders. Usually.”

  Hitchcock stared at him. “Well put, sir. You should argue the law.”

  “Tried that. Do a better job of…this.”

  They approached another camp, an Illinois flag planted high, only one walled tent, as Sherman had ordered it. He saw horsemen now, moving his way on the road, led by a familiar face. The man pushed his horse faster, his small staff trailing behind. He reined up, offered Sherman a crisp salute.

  “How very good to see you, sir. Might I be of service? We’re making camp in this clearing, and the skirmishers have been deployed.”

  Sherman felt washed over by the man’s energy, the annoying combination of high rank and youth. He returned the salute, said to Hitchcock, “This is General Mitchell, one of General Morgan’s brigade commanders. Ohio lawyer. You a Yale man by any chance, General?”

  “Yale? Oh, my, no sir. Kenyon College, in Gambier. Didn’t spend any time at all outside Ohio until the war.”

  Sherman leaned closer, shook his head. “How old are you, General?”

  The man hesitated, as though the admission might be costly. “Um…twenty-six, sir.”

  Sherman looked at Hitchcock, pointed toward the young man. “See what you missed? If you’d have joined up sooner, you might have made general by now. Twenty-six, and this man doesn’t have to show me any more courage than he already has. Used to command the 113th Ohio. Lost a hundred men at Kennesaw Mountain. Hell of a scrap, that one.”

  Mitchell still seemed hesitant, any hint of a smile now gone. “That’s correct, sir. Thank you for the mention.”

  “I don’t usually mention my bad days, General. Major, his division commander, General Morgan, slammed his men straight into Cleburne’s people. Bloody mess. Good thing for us that less than a month later, we had taken Atlanta. If we didn’t do that, Kennesaw Mountain might have cost all of us our commands.” Mitchell seemed ready to protest, but Sherman held up a hand. “Enough then, General. Let’s talk about now. Your foragers having any luck?”

  “Quite, sir. There are plantations in every direction. It’s growing too dark now, but the smoke over that way was giving us a pretty good sign that my boys had found what they were after.”

  “What smoke?”

  “The boys couldn’t hold back, sir. Ran into some old rebel woman who cussed them something awful. Rode that way myself, heard the most obscene language you can imagine, sir. The boys decided to raise her spirits up a little more. Cleaned out her hog pens, her chickens, everything else they could load up, then they burned the place.”

  Sherman stared that way, nothing but darkness. “I gave no order to burn anything, General.”

  “I know that, sir. Several officers made the attempt to put out the fire, but it was too late. Didn’t stop her cussing, though.” He paused. “Should I arrest those men, sir?”

  Sherman ignored the question, his mind filling with the “appropriate” response. But he kept silent, stared past the man, the darkness swallowing the open field, watched the men sliding beneath their shelter-halves, some laying out in the open on their blankets. There were scattered campfires, the smell of coffee now, bacon frying, laughter and singing, one man with a harmonica. Sherman looked skyward, no stars, the day heavy with clouds.

  “Might rain tonight. Could muddy up the roads. There’s a river ahead…Yellow River.”

  “Yes, sir. Bridge is burned away. We’ll put the pontoons out, make it across in short order.”

  “Any sign of enemy cavalry?”

  “One squad, came in for a look, took off pretty quick. They’re just watching us, sir. So far, anyway.”

  Sherman nodded, his mind drifting past the brigade, the smell of their cooking bringing him back to Atlanta, a very different smell. He turned the horse, said to Mitchell, “Offer my respects to General Morgan. I’ll be at my field headquarters, should he need to find me. Good night, General.”

  Sherman spurred the horse, Hitchcock keeping up, awkward in the saddle, the unfamiliar horse tossing him clumsily side to side. Sherman’s mount slowed to its usual quick-stepping pace and he kept his back straight, heard the cheers, the nicknames, acknowledged them by not acknowledging at all.

  Hitchcock gained control of his horse now, and Sherman heard the man’s breathing, Hitchcock seemingly nervous. After a long silence, Hitchcock said, “Sir, what of the burning? You ordered no trespass. A helpless woman?”

  Sherman knew this would come, wanted to ignore the man, but he respected Hitchcock, knew the questions wouldn’t go away until he answered them. “No officer in this army can control men who are out there on their own. This is dangerous ground, Major. Enemy cavalry is being cautious, but they have orders, too, and we’ll start hearing some musket fire pretty quick.”

  “But, sir, a woman?”


  “Probably a widow. Or maybe her husband or son is off fighting with General Lee. And if there is no son, she’s making this war on her own.”

  “What do you mean? I don’t understand, sir.”

  “I’ll not coddle you, Major. This army must sustain itself, and that requires doing what is necessary. I will not accept that just because we are shoving a big damned army through their backyards, we are to believe that, my goodness, they have always supported the Union, that all they want is a gentle peace. Suddenly we have made the war ‘inconvenient’ for them. Well, Major, if they wish this war to be gone, then they may choose to stop it.” He reined up the horse, felt the full anger now, stared into darkness, his eyes caught by a distant campfire. “I do not expect this to be a peaceable campaign, Major. I expect blood and death and sadness. These men are in the best of spirits right now. That is the most important part of this campaign. These men believe we are winning this war. I will not stand in the way of that. That spirit will prevail over any number of rebel cavalry, or any number of hot-tempered Southern ladies. It has to be so. It has to be!”

  He felt his hard grip on the reins, loosened one hand, snatched a fresh cigar from his pocket, stabbed it between his teeth. Hitchcock seemed subdued, kept silent, and Sherman was surprised by his own fury, had tried to keep that away, to focus on the duty, the campaign, the well-being of his men. He had seen that tonight, that so far all was well, the march, the advance, the progress. And the foragers were doing their job with perfect success.

  “Major, I will not excuse criminal behavior. But I will not punish those men who find the need to punish our enemies. Anyone complains to you about a fire, about their homestead being molested by our men, you can believe there is more to that than one arsonist in our ranks. The men know exactly what I know, and I will tell anyone who wishes to hear it. We do not burn anything, Major. Jefferson Davis has started these fires. Only Jefferson Davis can put them out.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SEELEY

  Despite Seeley’s suggestion that Augusta was the most likely target, Wheeler’s cavalry had focused more on the southerly movement of Sherman’s right wing, a route that would indicate an attempt to capture Macon. In the state capital at Milledgeville, barely thirty miles east of Macon, Governor Joseph Brown had echoed what many of his constituents were feeling, that Sherman was certain to make efforts to capture any place the Georgians themselves considered vital to the war. Those who had once dismissed the danger from Sherman’s “ragged band of Yankees” now changed their descriptions completely, word spreading that this savage mob was certain to occupy every town and village while laying waste to every structure in its path. The rumors, fueled by deep-rooted hatred of the Yankees, began to expand into something far more dramatic, tales of outrageous acts each more devastating than the last, heated stories of violence against the civilian women, as though Sherman’s entire army were no more civilized than Mongol hordes, raping and burning their way with all the savagery of Genghis Khan.

  In Milledgeville, Governor Brown was wrapped in a panic of his own, the state’s legislators convinced that Sherman intended to engulf the capital with the same kinds of destruction said to be ripping through the farm country. Since the unexpected collapse of Atlanta, Brown had sent desperate pleas to Richmond, urgent requests for additional troops and armaments, but so far the responses had been mostly rhetoric, the Confederate government only too aware that any significant reinforcements would have to come south from Virginia, where Lee’s forces were already stretched much too thin against the army of Ulysses Grant. It was clear to Wheeler’s cavalry that Sherman was carefully disguising his intended routes of march. If Richmond could offer little in the way of reinforcements, it would be up to Wheeler’s men to strike wherever possible, to delay or disrupt the overwhelming force Sherman was spreading across Georgia. Wheeler’s reports had reached the Confederate War Department, where Sherman’s actions were still being met with surprise. None of President Davis’s advisors could seem to fathom why Sherman had severed himself completely from any support, either from Grant in Virginia or George Thomas in Tennessee. Davis himself continued to insist publicly that Sherman had played right into Confederate hands by “isolating” himself and thus was certain still to be crushed. The strategists in Richmond were eager to agree with their president, loud predictions filling the newspapers that Sherman had made a monumental and possibly fatal blunder. That optimism finally inspired Davis to shift a number of his senior commanders from their far-distant posts, hastening them to Georgia in the hope of organizing a heavy force that would blunt the tide of Sherman’s advance, and possibly destroy it altogether.

  Despite Richmond’s optimism, Governor Brown seemed to grasp that a gathering of generals might add to Georgia’s morale, but unless those commanders were accompanied by great masses of troops, there was little hope of stopping anything Sherman might try to do. If they considered that problem at all, the War Department in Richmond seemed to have no answer.

  By the third day after Sherman’s columns abandoned Atlanta, a new challenge swept over this part of Georgia. The rains came, a soaking, relentless chill spreading over the country roads and woodlands, a blanket of muddy misery that spread through both sides of the fight. The Southern horsemen were forced to ease up on their exhausted mounts, the soft mush of the trails taking a toll on the strength of the horses far more than it affected the men. But the mud also slowed the Federals, most notably Sherman’s right wing, under Oliver Howard. Howard had reached the west bank of the Ocmulgee River, a formidable obstacle to any march eastward. The Federal engineers set to the task of bridging a turbulent river now swollen from its banks by the addition of so much rain. With Wheeler’s Confederate cavalry keeping a discreet watch, Howard’s men began constructing a pontoon bridge, the only available means of crossing the river. From their perches in distant woodlands, the cavalry quickly learned that Howard’s progress was being slowed considerably, that any crossing of the river would be a tedious affair. It was the first piece of good news the Confederate commanders had heard in the many weeks since Sherman occupied Atlanta.

  It was no surprise to Seeley that his suggestions to General Wheeler had been tossed aside, that Seeley had been ordered to join a far greater force of cavalry that rode more to the south. Though Federal cavalry patrols seemed to appear in every part of Georgia, Wheeler had become convinced that with so much effort being made to cross the Ocmulgee only thirty miles above Macon, that city, with its foundries and armament shops, had become Howard’s primary target. For now, Richmond seemed to agree.

  Along with the greater part of General Wheeler’s cavalry, Seeley had kept up his patrols in the dismal weather by helping to form a tight screen across Macon’s northern perimeter. Should the Federal cavalry shove toward them, the horsemen could at least offer the feeble militia at Macon some warning. Near the village of Planter’s Factory, the troopers continued to observe Howard’s sluggish construction of the Federal pontoon bridge, while west of the river, Howard’s two corps could only suffer in the rain. With so many Federal troops close by, there was little the Confederates could do to stop Howard’s engineers from completing their task. Equally as discouraging, no one in Macon could be certain just what he intended to do once he had made his crossing.

  South of Planter’s Factory, the river ran straight southward into Macon, which seemed to show that the Federal forces would make any advance toward Macon along the east side of the river. At the very least, this observation allowed Wheeler to consolidate his cavalry to that side of the river, eliminating the need to keep up patrols westward. In Macon itself, the local militia and the few Confederate regulars there began to focus most of their attention on strengthening their defenses to the north and east, which helped to narrow their area of vulnerability. Under the wary eye of Wheeler’s observers, with the occasional sniping skirmish to keep the Federals on their toes, Howard continued the tedious task of constructing the bridge.

  Whether or no
t Howard was indeed aiming for Macon was still only speculation. Milledgeville lay east of the Ocmulgee as well. Despite the panic in the state capital, Wheeler had to concern himself with what seemed to be the most logical military target for Sherman’s army. But by crossing the swollen river in such miserable weather, Howard’s troops had strung themselves out for a good many miles. There was no illusion among the Confederate horsemen that they had any hope of containing a major thrust by close to thirty thousand Federal infantry. But at the very least, the rain had accomplished what Wheeler knew his horsemen could not. The muddy roads and turbulent river had effectively slowed the Federal advance in a way that gave valuable time to the Confederate forces, time Wheeler could use to make an attack of his own.

  MACON, GEORGIA—NOVEMBER 19, 1864

  TO THE PEOPLE OF GEORGIA:

  Arise for the defense of your native soil! Rally round your patriotic governor and gallant soldiers! Obstruct and destroy all roads in Sherman’s front, flank, and rear, and his army will soon starve in your midst! Be confident and resolute! Trust in an overruling Providence, and success will crown your efforts. I hasten to join you in defense of your homes and firesides.

  GENERAL PIERRE G. T. BEAUREGARD

  The optimistic entreaty had reached Macon from Corinth, Mississippi, where Beauregard’s journey eastward had been slowed by poor weather and crippled rail lines. Though some newspapers continued to portray Sherman’s army in desperate straits, and all but ignored what the Federal troops had done to Atlanta, Beauregard’s message seemed to acknowledge that attention was being paid, that someone in the Confederate hierarchy at least knew what was going on.