The Fateful Lightning

by Jeff Shaara

  “Oh, yes, sir. He has been seen often, and the papers there speak of little else.”

  “I would rather ride up there myself before I believe anything in the papers. I suggest we pay more heed to the quality of our observers.”

  “Yes, sir. Be assured, sir. General Bragg is in Augusta.”

  He imagined Bragg in a Confederate uniform, no more pleasant now than he had been years before. Sherman had been surprised each time he had learned the man had been put in command anywhere at all. Damnedest way to run a war, he thought. We whip him completely at Shiloh, wipe him completely off the field at Chattanooga, disgrace him for all the world to see, and now…here he is again. If that were me, if I failed that miserably, Grant would have my scalp, and Stanton would make sure it hung from the rafters of the War Department. But that’s not how Jefferson Davis runs his army. We have been too weak for too long, made far too many mistakes on the battlefield, or that son of a bitch would have been hanged. That’s my job, by damned. Grant knows it. But…Bragg?

  “Major, how do you think Bragg got the job?”

  Dayton eased the horse closer still. “Not sure what you mean, sir. In Augusta?”

  “Well, yes. Augusta. But anywhere else. I knew him, you know. Rather well. He actually had dinner in my home in New Orleans. The most disagreeable fellow I’ve ever met. Well, rebel, anyway. There’s a few in Washington.” He paused. Keep that to yourself, even around your staff. “Only thing Bragg liked to talk about was Mexico, his personal glory. He did something grand, got noticed, apparently. Made fast friends with Jefferson Davis. Claimed he was Zachary Taylor’s favorite boy. I suppose some of that is true. The part about Davis, anyway. That’s the only reason I can see why he’s in charge of anything beyond a slop detail.” He paused. “Knew a lot of them back then, Louisiana. Some fine gentlemen. Some not so fine. He’s the one I recall the most. A complete jackass.”

  “Yes, sir. You think we’ll face him?”

  Sherman had pondered that question since he had first learned of Bragg’s presence. “Nope. Hates every general in the reb army, and they hate him right back. Nobody wants to do anything for him, with him, or under him. And he has to know the newspapers hate him. He’ll be careful. Probably too careful, fight like hell to stay put in some mansion up there, giving orders to people who don’t need them, all to impress the local dignitaries that he’s necessary. But if anyone under him thinks they ought to venture out a ways, push us, maybe find our flank…well, that damned Kilpatrick had better do his job. Keep those fellows right where they are.”

  “Oh, he will, sir. He’s a firecracker, for certain.”

  Dayton had answered too quickly, an annoying tendency to toss out glad tidings just to brighten Sherman’s mood.

  “Major, I had a firecracker go off in my hand once. Still got the scar. I don’t like the man, not one bit. Too many bad habits, too much energy spent seeking glory. He’s done the job, so far. But Wheeler’s a firecracker all his own, and just as likely to go off. The reb cavalry is following every move we make. All I want from Kilpatrick is a good demonstration close to Augusta, just like he did at Macon. Throw a little fear into the townsfolk up there. Keep Bragg’s people sitting still. Keep all of them sitting still. Hardee, too. Best weapon in the world, Major, is confusion. Bragg is ripe for it. Hardee, I’m not sure. But he hates Bragg as much as any of the rest of them. Likely he’ll find a way to stay put in Savannah.”

  “Pardon me asking, sir, but your orders…do you still intend to march to the coast?”

  Sherman cocked his head, looked at Dayton, saw the others inching closer. “Rumors, eh?”

  “Quite a few, sir. Some of the generals still aren’t certain just what you intend them to do.”

  “Good. Generals have staffs. Staff officers have servants. There are big mouths in every corner of this war. The less they’re certain of right now, the better. If I can keep you guessing, the rebels won’t do any better. My Order 127 was very specific, Major. The corps commanders know what routes I intend them to follow, and I am more interested in the destruction of the railroads than any confrontation with rebel skirmishers. If we must slow the march to accomplish this, I will order that as well. Without railroads, nothing can move anywhere around us. Where this army finds itself in the future is not a concern for anyone but Grant…and me.”

  He kept his gaze on the town, saw his guards returning, Lieutenant Snelling leading the way, a quick salute.

  “The town is clear of rebels, sir. The cavalry squads chased away those few who did their mischief. It cost us one killed, a dozen or so wounded.”

  Sherman stared ahead, saw the first of the ambulances rolling forward. The anger returned, and he looked again at the homes, a pair of shops to one side. There were citizens now, faces in windows, coming up from the safety of the cellars, the usual mouselike cautiousness as the blue soldiers moved through their towns. A voice came, a woman, from the open doorway of a house.

  “You cowards! You have no cause to be here! Scoundrels and vagabonds, the lot of you!”

  Sherman watched her, saw age, gray hair, a drab gray dress. The guards moved that way, their usual caution, and Sherman had heard too much of this already, moved with them. The woman stood defiantly, arms crossed, a hard scowl on her face, the words spitting out.

  “You come to kill me now? You choose to harm the innocent? We’ve done nothing to you, nothing at all!”

  Sherman moved out beside the lieutenant, saw the man’s hand on his pistol, waved him back. “It’s all right, Lieutenant. I don’t believe she’s carrying a weapon. Tell me, madam. Where are all the young men of this town? Don’t see any.”

  The woman kept her stance, her chin now raised, one more hint of her defiance. “Why, they’re all off with the army, that’s where!”

  “And where might that army be?”

  “Anywhere you bluebellies dare to trespass! There will be justice served, soon enough!”

  “There were some of them right here, a short time ago.”

  “You’d be mighty smart for a Yankee. Yep, and they’ll be back, sure as rain. I seen what they did to you boys. I seen their muskets, I seen your men falling like so many sticks, right out there in the street!”

  “And they made good use of your courthouse for their protection, I suppose.”

  “And they’ll do it again!”

  “No, madam, they won’t.” He turned to the staff, Dayton closest. “Major, send the order to General Williams. They made this place a battleground, made that damned courthouse their fort. Now they’ll know the cost. Burn the thing.”

  —

  He had made his camp in a home north of the town, thoroughly infuriating the two women who lived there. He kept away from them, a mother and daughter, the mother more prone to outbursts of fury that he left his staff to absorb. It had been that way even in Atlanta and everywhere since, the more elderly women with the lack of discretion, the daughters usually terrified what these soldiers might do in response. Occasionally the outbursts were humorous, not at all what the old women intended. But Sherman did not require entertainment, not now. His mood was blacker than it had been in days.

  “You certain of this?”

  Hitchcock stood with his hands at his back, blinked through his glasses. “Quite so, sir. We were able to rescue the paper before the old fellow had the chance to burn it.”

  “The Chicago Times?”

  “Indeed, sir. The gentleman must have had a close acquaintance in Illinois who wired him the news. The account was quite detailed, including our direction of march, and offered names of the senior officers, down to the division commanders, at least.”

  Sherman stared down from the hard chair, his eye following the tight seams in the floorboards. His fists were clenched, a useless gesture, and he tried to breathe, to sit back, the anger holding him in place. “We march out of Atlanta, and a Northern newspaper provides anyone who cares to know just what kind of force we have, just who commands it, and perhaps, just where
we’re going. What am I to do about that, Major?”

  Hitchcock seemed to stammer, no response adequate. “Not certain, sir.”

  “I hate them, Major. They have no courage, no discipline, no integrity. They lie when it suits them. And, apparently, they commit treason as well.”

  “Sir, if I may…Mr. Conyngham seems a decent sort. I can’t think of him doing something to damage this army, or you, sir.”

  Sherman sniffed. “Mr. Conyngham is here at my pleasure, protected by the guns I command. For now, he knows just who is keeping him alive. As soon as he goes back to New York City, there’s not one thing I can do to influence what he writes.” He rubbed a hand on his rough beard, gripped a cigar in his teeth, his other hand now gripping the edge of the chair. “I’ve a good mind to resign as soon as this campaign has concluded. You cannot carry on a war with a free press.”

  “Sir, I do not wish to defend that Chicago paper. But from what I have observed, no harm was done. We have ample numbers of Southern papers who continue to make incredible pronouncements, sir, each one more fantastic than the last.”

  “Anything recently?”

  Hitchcock seemed to jump at the chance to defuse Sherman’s mood. “Yes, sir. If you will allow…”

  “Go on.”

  Hitchcock slipped quickly away, and Sherman heard the order to the aides, a scramble of footsteps. He couldn’t help a smile, thought of Hitchcock. He’s still afraid I’ll stick a musket in his hands.

  Hitchcock returned now, held a folded paper in his hands, seemed out of breath. “If I may, sir.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We received a copy of the Augusta Constitutionalist, calling upon all citizens of Georgia to lay waste to the countryside, to starve this army by burning everything in our path. The Columbus Times claims we’ll be swallowed up by the swamps to our front. Let’s see, this is the Savannah News. They claim the people of Georgia are outraged and insulted by your presence and all of Georgia will soon take to the forests as bands of guerrillas. We will be…um…utterly annihilated, sir.”

  Sherman worked the cigar in his teeth, nodded. “I like that last one. These old women would make interesting guerrilla fighters. Not sure who’d arm them, train them. And if they burn all the food stores, not sure how they’d eat. What do you think, Major?”

  “I think we’re doing quite well, sir.”

  “Me, too. There’s a great deal of noise, that’s for certain. But we’ve accomplished something none of them will ever admit. We’ve pierced the heart of the Confederacy, and that’s more dangerous to Jefferson Davis than any field of battle. We’ve proven to one and all, North and South, that this nation, as they would call it, is a mere shell. Crack through, and it’s hollow inside. Whatever ‘cause’ those damned rebels claim to fight for is nothing but illusion, planted in them by slaveholders and politicians. And newspapermen. They spit out their words as smooth as oil, and get their young men all fired up to fight, even if they don’t know why. These women have sent their men off to die, just to prove that their cause is the right one. We are proving them wrong. Simple as that.”

  EAST OF SANDERSVILLE, GEORGIA—NOVEMBER 29, 1864

  The landscape was changing dramatically, the lush greenery of the rolling hills giving way to flatter land and sandy roads, scrub pines, and stunted live oaks. The plantations had changed as well, far fewer of them, and those farms they came across were mostly hardscrabble, the people as ragged and poor as the land they worked. It was a curiosity mainly to his staff, and those soldiers who had never really seen the poorest parts of the South. Sherman knew it well, had seen this kind of land and its people in Louisiana and Mississippi. The biggest challenge of this change would come for the foragers, who were learning quickly that the bounty of the farmlands behind them was mostly gone, the wagons often returning to the camps with far fewer luxuries than the troops had become accustomed to. Each division had its own supply train, but very soon their vast reserves were diminished, the men forced to make do with whatever the foragers could find. Instead of the mountains of hams and bacon, stores of molasses and honey, the enormous flocks of chickens and turkeys, more often the foragers were settling for potatoes and cabbage. The herds of livestock were often as poor as the people who owned them, and even the foragers seemed to grow unwilling to strip bare the poorest people most of them had ever seen. But the necessities of the army had priority. Sherman had no ill will toward the poorest citizens of Georgia, had met them along the trail as he had met the wealthy ones, women mostly. But the change was dramatic, these people far more ignorant of the war, of what was happening anyplace beyond their meager farms. And a great many of them knew only the faintest of rumors about just who these blue-coated soldiers were, and why they were marching past their homes.

  There were exceptions, of course, those few who made the unwise decision to strike out at the bummers first or the cavalry patrols who rode past. The threats and curses came as they always had, and the bummers, free from the oversight of their officers, reacted as they had since the beginning of the march. Houses and barns were torched, fences and livestock pens wrecked, those few cotton gins destroyed. Sherman passed by the destruction without expression, knew that Hitchcock and others among his staff were outraged at the lack of obedience to Sherman’s orders. But the reality had settled upon all of them, that the men who chose to disobey were a fact of life in this army. Sherman’s officers still attempted to rein them in, punishing those who committed the most outrageous acts. But more often, a burning home or the blackened timbers of a barn offered no evidence just who had committed the act. It only added to the trail of destruction that Sherman knew spread out behind him. If he had any serious misgivings, the reality was always in his mind that the swath of ruin he was creating would convey a very clear message to anyone who believed the rebel army was capable of winning this war. First, they would have to put a stop to Sherman’s march, and so far, no one had seemed willing to offer the fight.

  They camped in a grove of trees, many of the men creating cover from their canvas shelter-halves, offering some protection against the cold night breezes. Sherman’s staff had found him a house, nothing like the grand mansions to the west, but a wooden floor and solid windows that would at least offer him warmth. It was one part of the turmoil he seemed to carry with him every day, and every night, the inability to sleep for more than an hour or two. His staff knew that during the day, when the columns took their brief rests, Sherman was just as likely to dismount the horse and find a soft bed in a tuft of grass, grabbing a nap that might only last a few minutes. Once in camp, he allowed the staff their sleep, wouldn’t plague anyone with that ridiculous habit some officers had of working all night just to prove they were capable of it. Driving a staff to such lengths might impress a superior officer, but Sherman knew it did very little good if your aides were so exhausted, they tumbled out of the saddle.

  The night was clear, and around him the fields were speckled with campfires, the men huddling up for another cold night. It wasn’t as bad now as it had been over the past week, and Sherman knew they were pushing ever closer to the coast. He understood enough of the weather to know that proximity to the ocean meant milder temperatures, especially in winter. As long as no violent storm rolled in from the sea, the worst the men would have to contend with were the enormous swamps that spread all along the coast.

  He stood beside the twisted limbs of a live oak tree, smoking a cigar, a cup of coffee in one hand. Behind him the house was alive with lantern light, the commanders offering their couriers to report on just what kind of activity the rebels might have tossed up in front of them. Little had happened over the past few days to give him real concern, and if the troops felt relief at that, it just made him more cautious. The ground to the east would offer the rebels ample opportunity to make strong defensive stands, the waterways more spread out into swampy marshes than steep-sided rivers. The going would be slow, the men forced to wade through muddy wetlands, and Sherman thought now o
f Vicksburg, the months before the great siege, when Grant’s engineers had tried to plow their way through the Louisiana swamps by digging a canal. The men had suffered mightily for it, exhaustion and sickness, the entire project finally collapsing. The campaign had to be executed once more from scratch, a severe embarrassment for Grant, his reputation salvaged only by the extraordinary success once the army had found a more intelligent way to cross the Mississippi River. Sherman had been an enormous part of that, though he had argued with Grant about the tactics, as much as anyone could. In the end Grant’s plans had been nearly perfect, and their relationship had grown stronger still. Sherman still believed that the army had conquered Vicksburg only because he had worked alongside Grant, instead of against him. There were mistakes to be sure, always, in every campaign, but Sherman had no patience for any kind of blunder now. So far, he knew his greatest achievement had been planting uncertainty in the enemy’s commanders, but his greatest asset was still the power of his army. Losing men to disease was simply unacceptable. And the sick, just like the wounded, could not be left behind.

  He heard boot steps on the porch of the small house, waited for the intrusion, took a hard pull on the cigar, enjoyed the final moment of uninterrupted warmth. The voice came now, Hitchcock.

  “Sir, sorry to intrude. My work has concluded for the day, and I was seeking permission to retire. Do you have any further need for me?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Just past eight, sir.”

  “Fine. Nothing now.”

  A horse broke through the low sounds from the camps, and Sherman felt a bolt of alarm, the man riding quickly in the darkness, a certain sign of urgency. Hitchcock said, “Courier, sir. I’ll check with him.”

  “Go.”

  Sherman watched through the haze of cigar smoke as Hitchcock trotted across the open yard, the courier dismounting, his loud voice breaking through the quiet darkness. Sherman moved that way, the lantern light from the nearby windows revealing a young lieutenant, too much excitement in his voice.