by Jeff Shaara
He fought through the gloom, brushed wet snow from his shoulder, took the horse’s reins from the groom. He climbed slowly into the saddle, forced his back straight, blew out a breath of white fog. Pickett moved closer, said, “I expected the Yankees this morning, General. Still thought they’d drive right through here.”
Pickett was pointing out past the earthworks, and Hardee ignored that, had been through this already in his mind. The only real push toward Macon had come from Kilpatrick’s cavalry, a noisy assault that was clearly designed to attract attention, a loud show that served only to terrify the untested troops. But the infantry never came, those columns of blue instead marching eastward, still strung out from the miserable weather, and so still offering Wheeler some possibility of an opportunity. Hardee thought of the telegraph again, thought, We’re an island, drifting in a sea. At least there is Wheeler. Word could come, some great victory over the Federal horsemen, or even more, a crushing blow against Howard’s infantry. I would hear of that, for certain.
“Anything from Wheeler, Colonel?”
“No, sir. Not since this morning, early. They’re keeping close to the enemy’s movements. If there was a problem, he’d tell us.”
Hardee nodded slowly. “We squandered an opportunity here, Colonel. We have troops garrisoned at Augusta, Savannah, Charleston, and more spread out through outposts everywhere in between. If we had brought them here, a united army, General Howard’s forces would have been in serious trouble.”
“You could have ordered them to assemble here, sir. It was in your power.”
“You know better than that, Bill. Dick Taylor’s set to ride in here anytime now. This will be his command, until Beauregard gets here. I can see it all. Clean shirts and preening staff officers, gathering in front of some glorious fire in some citizen’s cozy hearth, poring over maps, still holding on to Richmond’s fantasy that Sherman has doomed himself. I prefer to prepare for what must still come.”
“I don’t understand. You mean…winter?”
Hardee glanced up, the snow light, breezy. “No. Sherman’s not halting for any kind of winter quarters. He’s marching his troops all over God’s creation, spreading his people into columns miles long, on roads not fit for a plow horse. All we’re doing is watching, reacting, hoping for something positive to happen. No matter what Beauregard tells us to do, or what the president believes, we’re not in control of anything here. I have one option, and if my new superior officers allow it, I’ll do what I believe to be the only maneuver that makes sense. If Sherman intends to strike Augusta, he’s going to run straight into our gallant Braxton Bragg. I have my own prediction how that fight will go. From here there’s nothing at all we can do to help, even if Bragg would admit he needed it. But if Sherman marches for the coast, Savannah, Charleston, his columns could be vulnerable. There are rivers he must ford, and the weather is unpredictable. There is always the chance we can hurt him.”
Pickett stared at him, knew Hardee well, wouldn’t interrupt, Hardee still forming the words in his mind.
The snow came heavier now, and Hardee looked toward the staff, the aides shivering, ragged coats on thin frames, the ribs of their horses too plain.
“Bill, order the men to prepare our movement. If General Philips is capable of following orders, have him push on to the next rail station that Sherman hasn’t yet found. Beauregard can establish his headquarters here if he wishes it, and if he tells me to march to hell itself, I’ll obey him. But Sherman’s moving away from us, and right now it’s time to gather up every unit we can muster and find a way to stop him.”
“Where should we go, sir? The staff will want to know where your headquarters will be. General Wheeler must know as well.”
Hardee stared eastward, pictured the maps in his mind. “If Sherman is planning to advance to the coast, his likely target is Savannah. Unless I’m ordered elsewhere, that’s where we need to be.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHERMAN
WEST OF MILLEDGEVILLE, GEORGIA—NOVEMBER 22, 1864
The orchard was whipped by the wind, the trees bare of leaves. The staff was spreading out through the narrow rows, seeking some kind of shelter from the stiffening chill, while behind them, Sherman wiped at the watering in his eyes, cursed the cold. In the distance the staff was drawn to what he already saw, a glow of firelight in the distance, a blinking eye from a small cabin. The aides pushed their mounts that way, Sherman following, and he could see now small structures, crude, in something of an organized row. Slave quarters, he thought. Better to sleep there than put a fool tent out here in the open.
His headquarters guard had already swept through the cabins, anticipating his order of this night’s resting place. He rode closer, saw guards at each, more firelight through small windows down the line.
Major Nichols rode toward Sherman now, one hand holding his hat on his head, fighting off the wind. Nichols was red-faced, shivering, said, “Sir! There’s good shelter over there. Not much for grandeur, but it’ll get us clear of this infernal cold.”
Sherman said nothing, clamped his teeth on the cigar, the tip missing its fire, extinguished by the relentless breeze. He moved the horse past Nichols, saw the aides dismounting, anticipating his approval. Can’t argue with that, he thought. He glanced toward the nearest rooftop, a ramshackle layering of timbers and flat wood, tree limbs matted together, the patchwork of a generation of inhabitants. Above was a broken-down chimney, a drifting column of black smoke. Through the window, the firelight grew more inviting, and Sherman dismounted, said, “This will do for tonight. I assume no one’s putting up a fuss about it.”
Hitchcock was there now, blinking hard through his glasses, hatless, disheveled. “General, these people seem most friendly. Some are anxious to make your acquaintance, and all of them have offered their homes for our use.”
“Where’s your hat, Major?”
“Not entirely certain, sir. Blew off a minute ago. One of the aides is fetching it. With the general’s permission, might we venture indoors? I swear, sir, I’ve not seen this kind of weather since I joined your staff.”
“It’s called winter, Major. Even in Georgia.”
Sherman was as weary of the windy cold as his staff, had ridden through gusts of snow flurries and dropping temperatures throughout the afternoon. He glanced at his pocket watch, just after four, said, “Long enough. Hope for better weather tomorrow. What distance we make today, Major?”
“Near twelve miles, sir. Best as I can tell. Captain Poe mentioned that a ways back.”
Sherman nodded, looked again at the light through the window of the cabin. “Good engineers keep track of that sort of thing. I’ll take this first one. Let’s see who’s at home.”
He handed the reins to a waiting groom, the staff gathering quickly around the door of the cabin. He pushed past them, knew they were as cold as he was. A guard stood at the door, saluted him, said, “All clear here, sir.”
“I assumed that.”
The guard pushed open the rickety door, and Sherman smelled the fire, the scent of tobacco and soot. He stepped inside, saw one old black man sitting at the fire, the man’s eyes locked on Sherman.
“Hello, old man. I’ll be using your cabin for tonight.”
The man kept his eyes fixed on Sherman’s face, and Sherman saw a missing leg, a rag of the man’s pants leg rolled up to the knee. The man’s skin was deep black, his eyes a dark yellow, the stare rigid, serious.
“You welcome in my home, good suh. They tells me that Genil Sherman done come heah. You knows him?”
Sherman pulled the cigar from his mouth, handed it to an aide, who moved cautiously toward the fire, relit it, eased back toward him, the cigar quickly back in Sherman’s teeth. “What do you know of General Sherman, old man?”
“De Lawd Hisself done sent him heah. He’s come to free all us folk.”
“Could be.”
“Yes, suh, I suppose he’s up de road, at de massuh’s house. Or mebbe he’s done come to
this place right heah. You suppose? Mebbe that be you, then?”
Sherman saw the man’s game, smiled. “I’m Sherman. We’ll not injure you. Your fire is an invitation I can’t ignore.”
The man slapped one hand against his good leg, a broad smile of his own, gaps in yellow teeth. “Ha! I knows it, fo’ sho!”
The man struggled to stand, Sherman motioning to the nearest aide, McCoy, who went to the man with a helping hand. But the old man was up on his own, pushed McCoy away. “Don’t need no hep. Been without this leg for years. If ’n I can, suh, I’d like to take myself a closer look. Dese ole eyes ain’t so good now.”
The man moved toward him, leaned close, no more than a foot away, the man’s scent overpowering, sour breath, more soot and tobacco. Sherman felt awkward, the man studying him, scanning the uniform, then straightened up again, took a step backward.
“They tole me you was with horns and such. The divil hisself. I ain’t seein’ no horns. What I see is…de Lawd’s gift.” The old man slapped his hands together, looked around his small room at the gathering aides, pointed to the open door. “If ’n you don’t mind it, suh, could you’uns please shut dat ting? Took me a good hour to get out the cold. Ain’t easy to keep up the fire with no hep.”
Sherman looked toward the door, the guard watching him, and Sherman didn’t need to give the order. The door closed abruptly, a half-dozen aides packed in close around him, all of them looking at the old man. Sherman pointed to the door. “Close it from the outside, all of you but Nichols and Hitchcock. We’re not having any damn council of war here. Out!”
They obeyed quickly, Sherman enduring the blast of cold while the cabin emptied. The old man still watched him, seemed extremely pleased at Sherman’s authority. He pointed toward Sherman now, still the beaming smile.
“I knowed it, fo’ sho. I knowed you was tellin’ the truth. There won’ be no sleep in this house tonight, no suh. I done seen the king of the worl’.”
The man backed away, his eyes still on Sherman, felt his way to his chair, but didn’t sit, a show of respect. The smile gave way to a new look, a surprise, the old man’s eyes filling with tears, rough fingers sweeping them aside. Sherman looked down, wasn’t prepared for this kind of reception. Beside him, Nichols said quietly, “Sir, this man said there’s a house up ahead. The guard confirms that. It’s a grand home. A plantation house. Must be this man’s owner.”
The old man nodded. “That’d be it, suh. Massuh Cobb. He done gone, fo’ sho. His gals gone, too, some of his hands go wid him. Some just run off. I’da gone, too, but this heah leg slow me down. Don’t do no good to get catched up wid cavalry.”
The word caught Sherman’s attention. “What do you know of rebel cavalry?”
The man sat slowly, the smile gone now. “I knows that Wheeler is on the prowl round heah. Everywheres. Don’ do for none of us to be catched on the loose. They’s good wid the bullwhip. Massuh Cobb got his dogs, too. Hounds, they say. Sniff out a man from any hole. One of dem hounds caught good hold of this heah leg. Chewed hard on my foot. Bad day, that. Near bled out. Massuh Cobb had the doctor take the leg off, jus’ so. No use for dem hounds, no suh. It ain’t jus’ the hounds that keeps me close to home. See heah, suh.”
The man turned in the chair, one hand pulling up his loose shirt, his back now bare. Sherman stared at the marks, welts, old scars crisscrossing the man’s black skin.
“The cavalry did that to you?”
The shirt came down again, the old man facing Sherman. “No, suh. That’d be Lucky. Boss man for Massuh Cobb. Massuh Cobb, he’s a good man, most often. Don’ care much for Lucky. He’s done gone, too.”
Hitchcock leaned forward, closer to the old man. “You mean this Lucky fellow whipped you. He’s the foreman, then?”
The old man shrugged. “Calls him what you like. He’s the one wid the whip. You find him, I’d be mighty pleased you tell me about it.” Hitchcock looked at Sherman, furious outrage in his voice. “Sir, this is everything I’ve ever heard. The cruelty against these people is—”
Sherman held up his hand. “Enough, Major. We know our duty here. What’s your name, old man?”
“Henry, suh. Or Buck. I gots a few names.”
Nichols spoke up now, hesitant, soft words. “What’d your mama call you?”
The old man looked at Nichols with a soft smile. “Wish I’da knowed that, suh. Not never seen what you’d call my mama. Old Bess cared for me, till she done gone to the Lawd.”
Sherman was growing impatient with this, said, “Gentlemen, let this man be. We don’t need any lessons here on the curses of slavery. Old man…Henry. You have something to eat?”
The man hesitated, pointed to one corner of the cabin. “My boy, Franklin, done put some bacon in de flo. It’s your’n, I suppose, you need it.”
Sherman shook his head. “No, it’s yours. We have plenty. I’ll not leave anyone to starve behind us. We’ll be here tonight, out of your way at dawn.” He paused. “Where’s your boy now?”
The old man stared hard. “You certain you’d be Genil Sherman now, ain’t that so?”
“I’m Sherman.”
“Franklin’s out yonder, in de fields. Hidin’ low. We done been fooled once, by cav’ry sayin’ they was Yankees. We called out to ’em, hally-yoo. Then they done come with de bullwhips.” He paused, looked down, then over to the fire, a shower of sparks from a settling log. “Dey whupped Franklin good. Kicked him till he couldn’t breeve. If I’da had the whip, I’da kilt me a man that day. Franklin had a knife, and I prayed to the Lawd he not try nothin’. De Lawd answer. Franklin done lived that day. But he ain’t gonna be whupped no mo. Scares me when he talks like dat. He’ll be heah, when he sees you is Yankees fo’ sho. He never gon’ believe I seen Genil Sherman, that you done been in this here house. He thinks I’m addled anyways.”
Sherman ignored the others, could see now that this man had more behind his eyes than Sherman usually saw. “I don’t think you’re addled. I think you know how to help us. Rebel cavalry is close by, right?”
The old man nodded. “Out past dem trees. Dey’s a deep cut, a crick. Dey’s hidin’ dere, mebbe. Come outten de dark like ghosts. You be careful, Genil Sherman, suh. Dey be comin’ for you, fo’ sho.”
Sherman smiled. “Don’t you worry about that. We’ll take care of any ghosts that come out of these woods. They don’t have enough bullwhips to scare my boys.”
The door opened, the cold air blowing in, and Sherman saw Dayton, red-faced from the cold.
“Sir, begging your pardon, but there’s a grand house up the road a piece. There’s a few officers there now, but I would suggest, sir, it might be a bit more comfortable as a headquarters.”
The old man pointed toward Dayton. “I done tole you! Massuh Cobb’s house. You go on dat ways. Dat house be fine. Bluecoats done been through dere all day, but you’s be welcome, too, I reckon.” The man smiled the gap-toothed grin again. “Dat would be a fine happenin’, ain’t it now? Massuh Cobb makin’ way for Genil Sherman. De Lawd done His work heah, dat’s for sure.”
Sherman rolled the name through his head. “Cobb. That’s Howell Cobb? The governor?”
The man kept the smile wide. “One and the same, Genil, suh.”
Sherman glanced toward the officers. “Well, my apologies to you, sir. We’ll be moving on. Some of my people will wish to use your fire. No harm will come to you, I’ll see to that. Your boy, neither.”
“I knows, suh. De Lawd done sent you heah.”
The tears came again, and Sherman felt embarrassed, couldn’t leave the old man with such thoughts. “I’m not here from God, old man. Just President Lincoln.”
The old man wiped his eyes, sat again, still the smile. “One’s good as t’other, suh.”
—
Cobb’s house was everything Sherman expected, a grand mansion overlooking a vast plantation, wide fields where a bountiful crop of corn and cotton had long been harvested. But the barns and outbuildings were mostly inta
ct, showing only hints of vandalism from the foragers who had certainly been through earlier. Even now, another band of those men were moving up from the road, a handful of wagons, coming from the column marching behind Sherman. They had their orders, followed them as Sherman watched through the tall window, loading up as much as the wagons would hold. He watched for a long minute, the darkness settling on the scene, the fire in a wide stone hearth behind him reflected on the glass. He turned, the officers watching him, could smell the cooking of some kind of meat, saw Nichols emerging from a back room, holding a newspaper.
“This is Cobb’s place, all right. Found linens with his name on ’em, one silver spoon on the floor in the dining room. Probably dropped by a thieving forager. There’s engraving on a teapot, same as this. ‘HC.’ I talked to some of the slaves. They say this place is called Hurricane. And, General, it seems he keeps souvenirs. There’s a newspaper here from Macon, mentions a speech he gave, not so long ago. Seems ‘General’ Cobb is calling on all the good men of Georgia to attack us from every direction.”
There was laughter, the half-dozen officers enjoying the moment, the warmth of the fire, each man holding a cup of something Sherman assumed was whiskey. Hitchcock was moving toward him, holding his own tin cup, held it out toward him.
