The Fateful Lightning

by Jeff Shaara

  “Good. Keep his attention where it should be. If Hampton brought more horses with him, it means he weakened the cavalry presently assigned to General Lee. At the very least, our problem would be to General Grant’s benefit.”

  McCoy pointed, said, “Sir, who’s that?”

  Sherman saw his guards escorting a group of men, civilians, watched Lieutenant Snelling step out in front, holding the men back. Snelling approached the porch now, saluted, said, “General, these men claim to have made an appointment to visit with you. I can remove them, if you wish.”

  Sherman looked at the civilians, who seemed uneasy, staring back at him, some with ragged clothes, one man older, well dressed. “No, they are correct, Lieutenant. I authorized them to come. Might be useful to us.”

  Beside him, McCoy said, “Sir, they’re Negroes.”

  Sherman nodded to Snelling. “My staff has a talent for observation, Lieutenant. Bring them up. Let’s see what they have to say.”

  There were six men, the oldest gray-haired, a stoop to his walk. His clothing stood out, what could pass for a well-fitted suit, something Sherman had rarely seen on a black man in Georgia. The rest carried themselves like so many others, homespun pants, ragged work shirts, the thick chests of men who worked the fields. They approached the shallow steps of the porch, stopped just short, and Sherman said, “You wanted to see me. What’s your purpose here?”

  The older man stepped forward, hesitated at the bottom step, held his hat now in his hands. “We are mighty grateful for your time, sir. We have seen that your army is followed by a great many of our people. I have been told by several of your soldiers that this has been a problem. We had thought of coming along with you. Is it true that we are not welcome?”

  Sherman heard education in the man’s clear diction, another surprise. “No one said you are not welcome. Not in this command. However, it is difficult for us to care for your people in such great numbers.”

  The old man bowed slightly. “We have decided it is best that most of us not go with you, sir. I myself suffer with the rheumatics. Some of the others have ailments of a sort. Some lame, sickly. The women with the small children cannot so easily travel with you. If you offer wagons, that would be welcome, sir.”

  “Don’t have the wagons to spare. I believe you are making the correct decision to remain behind. We will permit the able-bodied to follow, if they choose to. No one will be forced to leave his home, or made to stay. If they can work for us, they shall be paid. Some orderlies and such have been with us for a great while.”

  “Some will follow you, sir. I will not. There is much age in these bones. I will hope that those who remain will work to make their peace with this land.”

  “What of your masters? Are they gone? I will hear nothing of retribution against your people. My cavalry will be ordered to patrol this country with purpose, once this campaign is complete. For now, that’s the most I can offer.”

  The old man smiled now, nodded, glanced back to the others. “I am thinking they’ll come back, when the fighting stops. But it can’t be like before. Those that don’t go with you, well, we choose to stay to home because it’s our home, too. But we have been praying for deliverance, and I am strong in the belief that it has come by your hand, sir. The war done changed everything. We are certain of that, sir.”

  Sherman looked toward McCoy, said, “Bring out another chair. My back’s hurting just watching him. There’s age in these bones, too.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The chair came now, the old man climbing the steps slowly, more hesitation at the chair.

  “Go on. Sit down. Tell me, what do you know of this war?”

  “I know the North will win. I know that Mr. Lincoln has done been reelected, and that General Grant is whipping General Lee. Or, he will soon. I know what happened at Chancellorsville, at Fredericksburg, at Vicksburg, at Atlanta. Many men have died to make this war. There will be a reckoning for that one day. God will not let this pass without some calling. I know that slaves have freed themselves by your victories.”

  Sherman stared at the man, impressed. “What do you know of the rebels, right now?”

  “Desperate men, sir. Many of the soldiers know the war is lost, just like the people around here. But they have to fight. No man can go home a coward. They’ll try to stop you. They’re awful scared what’s coming. You’ve done changed everything they know. Just like you’ve changed me. All of us. Colored folk like us already been a part of every war this country fought. We was the ones who told General Jackson how to win the great fight at New Orleans. It was a colored man who told the general to use cotton bales to stop the British cannon. You know that, sir?”

  More of Sherman’s staff had gathered on the porch, keeping back, all of them focused on the old man. Sherman ignored them, said, “I have not heard that. Forgive me for doubting that just a bit.”

  “Best not do that, sir. I was there. I piled up the cotton. Strong back in those days.”

  Sherman couldn’t help a smile now, saw nothing in this man that hinted at dishonesty. “You knew General Jackson?”

  “Fought the British, sir. It was a high time.”

  Sherman saw a smile on Howard’s face, a nod toward the old man. Sherman looked past the man, at the others, saw sober looks, the men keeping a respectful distance. The old man seemed to catch his eye, said, “They pick me to speak up for ’em. Old age, I s’pose. I been readin’ books most of my life, and it kept me inside, working for Miss Johnson. She owns this house, you see. These boys work the land. We’ll work it again, stayin’ here. I hear that you been killin’ the hound dogs.”

  Sherman still watched the others. He saw scars now, one man’s arm forced into a tight curl. He looked again at the old man, nodded. “I ordered it, yes. The president ordered you all to be without bondage. It seems you understand what that means. No more dogs.”

  “Then we’ll go back to the fields, no matter if the masters come back. These boys will work if ’n they can work for themselves. They’ll fight, too.”

  Sherman had a thought, pointed at the old man with a fresh cigar. “I have to ask you, sir, something of great mystery to me. Why do the poor white men, here and everywhere in the South, why do they fight to keep slaves they do not own?”

  The old man smiled now. “When the war broke out, the rich folk told the poor folk that if they win the war, they can have the land up north, and all the coloreds they want. The poor folk around here put faith in that. It ain’t worked out quite like they was told.”

  “Do you know of Jefferson Davis calling on the government to put arms in the hands of slaves? To fight us?”

  The old man laughed. “Tell you what, sir. The day the Confederates give us arms, that’s the day the war ends. We’ll take care of the work so you boys can go on home.”

  —

  They rode away from Millen with the sun at their backs, passing the wrecked rail lines, the thick scent of smoke rolling past. Sherman kept the old man’s words in his head, an experience that had surprised him completely. Educated man. Didn’t say how. Or why. Some of the slave owners maybe did the right thing once in a while. Or, maybe they needed the old bird to teach their own children how to read. That makes more sense. Too lazy to do it themselves. Maybe too stupid.

  He knew that was unlikely, had known too many Southerners whose education would compete mightily with anything he had learned at West Point. He knows of the dogs, though. They all do, I suppose. Nobody enjoys being a slave, no matter what some of those Louisiana fellows tried to tell me. Never thought I’d talk to one like that, though. God put them in the fields for a reason, simple as that. Seemed to work well enough, for a while. Lincoln’s got other ideas, and he’s using this army to change all of that. Not for me to question any of it. And, by damned, they sure do like us. Thousands of ’em, still following along with us. Gotta do something about that. This isn’t over, and some of ’em are gonna have a problem with reb cavalry, or worse. They could get caught in some
crossfire, a bloody awful mess, and sooner or later, some jackass reporter will make sure that story finds print in some newspaper up north. Explain that one to Lincoln, General Sherman. No, you’ve got some responsibility here, like it or not. That old man was telling you that, in his own way. He fought for us, Andy Jackson, no less. I’d like to hear more about that. And by damn, he knows more about this war than most of the white people I’ve met down here. None of that stupidity they spread around in Atlanta, how Yankees are just cannibals, eating the slaves for dinner. Somehow he sees through all the big talk, the newspapers and their fantasies. He’ll tell others, too. That was the point, that’s why those other boys followed him. That’s gotta help us, once the fighting’s over. I just wish I knew when that’ll be.

  The ground to the front was flat now, scrub oaks and thin stands of pines, the road sandy beneath his horse’s hooves. He knew enough of this land to know that a good march would put them outside Savannah within a few days, and that between this army and the salt marshes along the coast, it was rice country. That’s different, he thought. Seen that in Louisiana. Water and green grass. These boys will have to figure that out. No more cornfields lying out there like some Land of Plenty. And the closer we get to the marshes, the closer we get to whatever’s waiting for us in Savannah.

  He felt the excitement of that, the chilly breeze blowing the smoky air past him, the symbol of where this army had been, what they had done, and how little trouble the rebels had given them. That will change, he thought. It has to. There’s still a hell of a lot of those bastards out there, digging big damned ditches around Savannah. And just like that old man said, these rebels can’t go home with their heads down, cowards can’t face their wives or their fathers and tell them how they just ran away from us like a flock of birds. One man stands up to fight us, they all will. I just wish it would happen right now.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  HARDEE

  SAVANNAH, GEORGIA—DECEMBER 8, 1864

  He had designed the defensive lines around Savannah himself, semicircles of earthworks and cut trees that spread out for more than ten miles from the center of the city. Adding to his efforts were additional troops, some of those coming in on the rail lines from the north, garrisons in Charleston and Augusta. But still the numbers were woefully inadequate, and even his carefully planned defenses could not be manned with enough force to hold Sherman away.

  Hardee had ordered General Lafayette McLaws to take command of a force of some four thousand men, mostly Georgia militia and green troops, mingled with those few veterans McLaws had under a command of his own. It was Hardee’s hope that those men make some kind of effective stand well out from the city, along Ogeechee Creek, a hard defensive line that would at least delay Sherman’s advance, and possibly punch a hard fist into the vanguard of Sherman’s forces. McLaws was a capable veteran who had served under Lee at Gettysburg. But he was first a Georgian, and when McLaws suffered the clash of personalities in Longstreet’s command, an event far too common in the Confederate hierarchy, McLaws had chosen to return to his home state. Whether or not he got along with his peers, McLaws was an asset to Hardee. But more, once McLaws saw the vulnerability of his position along the Ogeechee, he requested that Hardee allow him to withdraw eastward, to a strongpoint much closer to Savannah. Hardee had no alternative but to agree. He understood what McLaws was observing in the field, that a significant flanking movement by Sherman’s advance might swallow up those troops completely, a loss that would reduce Hardee’s overall strength by nearly half. Hardee had already accepted that the troops he had on hand would likely be all he would be given, even if Richmond or General Beauregard promised otherwise.

  As Hardee maneuvered his meager force into a coherent defense, he was given a gift, one of the few strokes of good fortune that the Confederates had received since Sherman left Atlanta. With Wheeler’s cavalry still dogging the heels of Sherman’s flanks, a Federal courier had stumbled into Wheeler’s men. The message the man carried was the first indication Hardee or the rest of the Southern command had received that clarified Sherman’s intentions. The courier carried orders and detailed planning intended for General Slocum, but instead those orders were carried quickly to Hardee. Though Hardee had concluded for himself that Savannah was to be Sherman’s ultimate target, the orders now confirmed that. Word was sent immediately to Beauregard, who had finally arrived at Augusta. Hardee had every reason to expect that Beauregard would now order those ten thousand troops garrisoned there to be sent by whatever practicable route necessary, to strengthen his lines at Savannah.

  But the chaos of command still plagued any efforts at coordination. Before Beauregard’s arrival, Braxton Bragg was in command of the overall theater, and in a gesture that Hardee was forced to appreciate, Bragg had allowed a small portion of those troops to travel to the coast, adding to Hardee’s force. But with Beauregard now replacing Bragg’s authority with his own, caution once again prevailed. Though Beauregard had wired Richmond with a detailed report of the desperate situation in Georgia, he had seemed equally as concerned just how his reputation might suffer for what was becoming rabid impatience with John Bell Hood, whose vainglorious campaign in Tennessee was technically Beauregard’s responsibility. Hardee had no interest in anything happening now beyond his own sphere, and if Beauregard was to understand just what kind of danger Hardee was facing, Hardee knew that Beauregard would have to travel to Savannah himself. The request had gone out, as urgent a call as Hardee had dared offer his superior. To his surprise, Beauregard, who had moved from Augusta to Charleston, agreed to do just that.

  The earthworks were still not fully completed, but the labor was ongoing, men who worked their shovels in shifts, aided by every Negro Hardee could secure from surrounding plantations. He knew the outermost lines were indefensible, a loose configuration of artillery posts and rifle pits that spread in an organized pattern well beyond Savannah’s limits. But he had focused more of the work on the positions closer to the city, an arcing defense that extended barely five miles from the center of town. Here earthworks were made stronger by flooded fields, the marshy ground claimed for growing rice. Now those watery plains were meant as a barrier, Hardee’s desperate hope that the Federal forces would be funneled onto the higher ground of roadways and earthen dams, far easier for his limited number of troops and artillery pieces to defend. The final line hugged the perimeter of the city itself, a far stronger position, aided by the massive coastal guns that had once faced the sea. The men seemed to draw inspiration from that, though Hardee knew that once Sherman’s artillery was in range of that line, no response Hardee could offer would keep the Federal army away for long. At the very least, the last line might offer Hardee’s troops valuable time, enough perhaps to allow an evacuation of the city by any passageway that might yet exist.

  —

  They cheered him still, men sweating in the cold, some of them shirtless, strong backs to rival the strength of the slaves. He tried to acknowledge them, offering a tip of his hat, or a feeble wave, the most energy he could muster.

  He was achingly tired, his eyes heavy with lack of sleep, had ridden along much of the defensive positions for a long afternoon, followed by several aides and a pair of staff officers. He kept pushing the horse, would not stop to chat with any of the officers along the line, felt the weariness in every joint, knew that this night would be like so many before. It was not just the responsibility, all those civilians and their fears, complaints about shortages or panic over just what kind of army was headed their way. Hardee had been kept awake as much by the torment in his own mind, if there was something more that he could have done, if there was some flaw in his planning, in the strategy that his own instincts told him were utterly futile in stopping Sherman’s advance. As he read the reports from McLaws, from Wheeler, it seemed to engulf Hardee like a terrible dream, the bone-chattering fear that comes from absolute helplessness. In the darkness, his fitful sleep would give way to wide-eyed staring, a frustrating vision
of some bizarre contest, a duel where only one participant carried a weapon. When daylight came, he could not just sit in his headquarters without knowing just how much progress the men were making on the earthworks. And so he rode, as he had ridden today, oddly surprised that his presence seemed to give them energy when he had none at all inside himself.

  In the waning days of Bragg’s authority, Bragg had kept Wheeler’s cavalry between Sherman’s army and Augusta, still believing that Sherman would make his move in that direction. Hardee hadn’t believed that in more than two weeks, even before his suspicions had been confirmed by the captured courier. But Bragg was no longer any authority at all, and Hardee knew that a newly arriving Beauregard would know little enough about Sherman’s actual maneuvering. Hardee had taken it on himself to move Wheeler where the cavalry might be more effective. Thus far there had been more skirmishes with Kilpatrick’s bluecoats, nothing gained but a scattering of casualties on both sides. And for at least a short while, Hardee had pondered if the Federal courier had been a ruse, if Sherman had sent the man into Wheeler’s troopers with false information. But now Wheeler’s tracking of Sherman’s march had made him confident that Sherman’s columns had put Augusta to their rear, and so there was little need for Wheeler to keep his invaluable strength so far behind where Sherman was now moving.

  Hardee pulled the horse back, turned away from the earthworks, looked out toward the tall spires of Savannah’s many churches, made brighter by the glare of the sun setting behind him. He stared for a long moment, thought of the civilians, knew that the churches had become more than a Sunday destination. They will be gathering there soon, he thought, after their evening meals. Seeking news, information, word of great victories, the foolishness of the newspapers, or anything that comes to us from Richmond. They will seek guidance, inspiration, hope. I can find no fault with that. They cannot know all that I know. They see guns and troops and stacked muskets and believe in us, believe that we bring great power to protect them. He looked down, blinked through the heaviness in his eyes, thought, What might I find there? Is there some priest who will take my hand and assure me that all will be well? It had been a significant change in his life, accepting the doctrine of the Episcopal Church, inspired by his friend and fellow commander, the army’s most notable Episcopalian, Bishop and General Leonidas Polk. But soon after Hardee’s conversion, Polk had been killed outside of Atlanta. That devastating blow had resulted from a single round of artillery, blasting through the man like the fist of God, as though some great price had been exacted from a man who had inspired more religious fervor in this army than any other.