The Fateful Lightning

by Jeff Shaara

  Sherman shook his head, thought, What kind of a soldier chooses to miss watching a battle? Especially a good one.

  “That is his misfortune, Major. I want a dispatch sent immediately to General Slocum. Tell him we have been successful here, and that the navy is now free to assist our efforts. As well, the way is open for rations, other supplies as we might need them.” He paused. “Tell him that this day calls for a good big drink, that once he imbibes, he should take a good deep breath and yell like the devil.”

  Howard appeared now, moved past Sherman, examined the boat. “Not much of a craft, sir. They call it a skiff, I believe.”

  “I don’t care if it’s a hollowed-out tree stump. You going with me or not?”

  Howard smiled, a rarity. “I wouldn’t miss this, sir.”

  —

  He arrived at the fort well after dark, had been gratified to find Hazen in his new headquarters, the McAllister House, sitting down to supper, a meager feast of Confederate stores, which suited Sherman just fine. With the tension of the planned assault, he had barely eaten all day. Sherman had been pleased to see that Hazen’s dinner included one chair for the captured fort’s commander, Major George Anderson, an appropriate gesture for a man who, from what Sherman could see, had been left out to dry by his superiors in Savannah, men who should have grasped the value of the place. But that was a topic for another time. With the meal concluded, Sherman had found a soft place in one of the bedrooms, had bedded down in a state of near collapse, the pleasing end to what had been a magnificent day.

  —

  “Sir! Are you awake?”

  “Who?”

  “Major Nichols, sir. Sorry to disturb you, but there’s a dispatch from downriver.”

  Sherman blew the fog from his brain, blinked into the lantern light, saw the paper in Nichols’s hand. “What the hell’s it say?”

  “It’s from General Foster, sir. He’s requesting in the most urgent terms that you board the gunboat Dandelion. He wishes to see you with all speed. He says he is commander of the Department of the South. I’m not familiar with that command, sir.”

  “I am. Foster’s one of those who enjoys bellowing just to hear the echo. But he commands whatever troops are garrisoned along the coast. He wants to see me right now?”

  “He doesn’t specify, sir, though he seems rather insistent.”

  Sherman sat upright, reached for his coat. He had little respect for loud-mouthed generals, and Sherman counted Foster among them. But Foster had friends in influential places, most of those in Washington. Sherman knew that ignoring the man’s urgency might be a mistake that would return to bite him.

  John Gray Foster was another of the West Pointers who had made a reputation in Mexico, serving later as an engineering instructor and commander at the naval academy in Annapolis. Before the war, he had been one of the army’s primary supervisors for the construction of forts along the New Jersey coast, but when the war erupted at Fort Sumter, Foster had earned at least one more dubious honor. He was there, serving under the fort’s commanding officer, Robert Anderson.

  Sherman stood, fiddled with the buttons on his coat, said, “Engineers. Everything happens by the ticking of their clock. He wouldn’t have sent the damned message in the middle of the night if he wanted me to wait till next week. The Dandelion?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s supposed to be a few miles downstream. The message mentioned Admiral Dahlgren, also most interested in meeting with you.”

  “Impressive. The whole damned Atlantic Ocean just woke up to us being here. How the hell we supposed to get there? They send a boat?”

  “Doesn’t say, sir.”

  Sherman completed buttoning his coat, saw Howard now in the shadows, and Howard said, “Anything you require of me, General?”

  “Your presence, if you wish. We’re taking that skiff downriver.”

  “Now?”

  Sherman was already in motion, moved out into the open air, a breezy chill. Hazen was there now, scrambling to put on his coat, and Sherman said, “Our visit is brief, General. I need some oarsmen. A few strong backs would be appreciated.”

  Hazen shouted out an order, guards and other staff officers emerging, and Sherman moved out toward the river, could see the silhouette of the fort in the moonlight. Troops were gathering, Hazen making the selection, one of those men now moving past Sherman, standing at the edge of the grassy yard, and the man said, “Uh, General? Just one word of caution, sir.”

  “Not interested in caution, soldier.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but I’d advise it. There’s still torpedoes out here, scattered all over the edge of the river. We ain’t had time to dig ’em all up yet.”

  Sherman moved beside the man, stared out at the moonlight on the river, saw the patch of sand that led down to the skiff. “We made it up here once, soldier. We can do it again.”

  Sherman started out, paused, heard the men following behind him, heard a low groan from Howard. He studied the sand, a hint of their footsteps from the first trip, said, “Step carefully, gentlemen. I don’t intend to offer the rebels any reason to celebrate.”

  —

  He appreciated the reception from the Dandelion’s captain, a pleasant man who had ordered his crew to welcome Sherman aboard with a rousing cheer. But the boat was nothing like the larger gunboats Sherman had boarded before, especially during the prelude to the siege at Vicksburg, and its commander seemed to read him, other officers stepping closer, all of them with smiles.

  “Sir, it is my honor to be your host, if only for a brief while. Captain Horace Williamson, at your service, sir. This is Lieutenant George Fisher, Ensign Jarvis, Ensign Lofton. This craft is a tender for the gunboat Flag, anchored at the mouth of the river. I offer my respects from numerous officers hoping to meet you as quickly as your schedule permits. I should mention that during your most impressive assault on that fortress, I put this craft into motion, and made a quick journey downstream, notifying all the boats who were near of your triumph. There is considerable celebrating of your presence here, General.”

  “Captain, the pleasure is mine.” Sherman was overwhelmed by the naval officer’s manic enthusiasm, rivaling his own.

  “If you will follow me, sir. I have a small cabin below. Something of a luxury on a craft this small.”

  Sherman followed the man belowdecks, Howard following, Williamson leading them into a small office, soft chairs, a narrow cot to one side. He retrieved a bottle from a small wooden cabinet, poured a deep golden liquid in three glasses, what Sherman assumed to be brandy. He glanced at Howard, knew the man wouldn’t partake, thought, His loss, certainly. Leaves more for the rest of us. The captain motioned to the chairs.

  “Please, sirs, we require no formality here. This is an occasion I shall recall to my grandchildren one day! I salute you both!”

  Sherman took the glass, saw Howard doing the same, watched as Howard kept the glass in his lap. Sherman took a long sip, the pungent alcohol rising up through his head, felt the raw burn sliding down his throat. He coughed slightly, saw a frown on Howard’s face. “My apologies for General Howard.”

  Howard seemed to jump, said, “I mean no impoliteness, Captain. I do not partake of strong spirits. Please do not be offended.”

  “Oh, my, well, no sir. Not at all! Might I offer you anything else? Fresh water, perhaps? I assure you, it did not come from what flows beneath us.”

  “Nothing, thank you.”

  Howard put the small glass back on the captain’s desk, and Sherman eyed it, took another long sip from his own, his eyes watering slightly.

  “Fine offering, Captain. The people of Georgia tend not to create such quality. A great deal of corn whiskey, mostly.”

  The young man smiled, held up the glass, as though studying the brew. “We do take pride in this fleet. Much of our spirits comes from down south, the West Indies. Some we capture from blockade runners, so it tends to have superior pedigree to something made in a barn.”

  Sherm
an emptied the glass, still eyed Howard’s. Howard said, “Do not hesitate on my behalf, General. This is a day for celebrating, certainly.”

  Williamson saluted Sherman again, another sip, and Sherman reached for Howard’s glass, another strong taste. Once his throat had cleared, Sherman said, “So, Captain, what are we to do now? You’re in command of this situation at the moment.”

  “Oh, my orders are to make acquaintance with you, sir, and inform you that Admiral Dahlgren is most anxious to greet you. You must know that there has been considerable anxiety as to your situation. We had little to draw upon but Southern newspapers. Hardly a reliable source.” He looked at Howard now. “General, I assume you are aware that the three scouts you sent our way did reach their destination. They reached the shore yesterday morning, made themselves known to us, and thus were we informed that the army had reached your present position. That only heightened our anticipation that you would make yourself known in considerable force.”

  Howard looked at Sherman, surprised. “We could not know they had made contact with you. Those men embarked on a most hazardous mission, dressed as rebel miscreants. It was a risk at best that they reach anyone but a rebel firing squad. I am greatly relieved to hear they are safe.”

  “Oh, quite safe, sir. They of course were not aware what might occur today. Most impressive, sir. Most impressive.”

  Sherman slapped Howard on the shoulder. “Impresses the hell out of me. What were their names, General?”

  “Captain Duncan, Sergeant Amick, and Private Quimby, sir.”

  “Write that down for me. They deserve promotion. Anyone volunteers for a mission like that deserves recognition for it. Or, an award for complete stupidity.”

  Sherman could see that Howard wasn’t certain if he was serious or not.

  Williamson seemed to wait for the conversation to break, then said, “General, I am also charged with offering you any news you may wish to hear, events that you might not be aware of. The army has achieved an impressive victory at Franklin, Tennessee, over their General Hood.”

  “Know all about that. Well, some of it. That was one piece of information we picked up from the Georgia papers.”

  “Very good, sir. As well, General Grant is confident that his siege of Petersburg can only result in victory. The enemy troops there are reportedly in a dire situation.” Sherman nodded, finished the second glass, and Williamson touched the bottle. “More, sir?”

  Sherman shook his head, tried to clear out the creeping fog moving through his brain. “Any notion what General Foster is so anxious about?”

  Williamson’s expression changed slightly, a hint that not every relationship between army and navy was as cordial as this one. “The general will of course make a report to you. Admiral Dahlgren wishes you to know that General Foster has landed a considerable force of men, perhaps a division, on the South Carolina side of the Savannah River. He has made considerable comment about driving his men inland, destroying the railroad nearer the coast.”

  Sherman perked up now. “Has he?”

  “Destroyed the railroad? I do not believe so, sir. I only know what Admiral Dahlgren has stated, and that was given me in confidence, sir. General Foster is not the most, um, open of fellows. The admiral believes the troops are having some difficulty carrying out General Foster’s planning.”

  Sherman absorbed that, no surprise that Foster would keep his plans to himself. He realized now that a naval officer might consider a single division to be an enormous force.

  “I should wait for General Foster’s report, Captain.”

  “Certainly, sir. I did not mean to speak out of turn.”

  “You didn’t. But putting people inland north of the Savannah River could be of enormous benefit. The enemy has a force probably exceeding ten thousand in Savannah right now. It is my intention to nab the lot.” He thought again of Foster. Engineer, and so he will spend time on details. That could be an asset. Or not. Sherman felt his impatience returning, annoyed with Foster, no matter the aid the man might be giving the campaign. He tossed that over in his head, thought, Careful, here. You’ve been all alone out here, running this thing your own way. Now there will be eyes watching you. Important eyes. Damn it all. “Captain, it is essential that I make contact with the War Department, and with Grant. They will expect full reports of our campaign. As for Savannah, very soon we shall have every piece of our artillery within range of the city. General Hardee is in command there, and certainly he will appreciate the nature of his emergency. Once our guns are in place, I intend on notifying him of that situation.” Sherman paused. “Notes, yes. Do you have paper and pen?”

  “Oh, of course, sir.”

  Williamson leaned low, retrieved both from a drawer near his feet. He laid the paper on the desk, turned a silver inkwell toward Sherman.

  “Very nice, Captain. Appears to be valuable.”

  “Solid silver, sir. Liberated it from a British fellow who tried to run me through with his sword. Such are the dangers of confronting blockade runners. Thank you for noticing. The admiral allows us to keep some prizes, though it does remind one of pirates.”

  Sherman caught the humor in the man’s words, thought, Every sailor in the fleet thinks about pirates sooner or later. It’s in their blood. Sherman moved the paper close, thought a moment, the others keeping silent. “First thing, I must send word to General Halleck. He will certainly pass that along to the secretary, and perhaps the president. Love to be there for that. A great deal of hand-wringing, you know. Some of those people in Washington expected this to end rather poorly for my command. It’s a pleasure to correct that impression.”

  He wrote now, the other two chatting amiably, Williamson rising, offering to give Howard a tour of the small craft, Sherman sensing that there were others gathered just outside. Howard obliged, both men aware that giving Sherman a few minutes alone was the right thing to do. He wrote feverishly, his enthusiasm returning, but he didn’t hide his caution that Savannah was not yet in his hands. He focused first on the army, the condition of his men, knew the newspapers would care more about that than anything Sherman had accomplished. He had no problems with that, the report stating it simply and directly, “The army is in splendid order, and equal to anything.”

  He stopped, pondered the words, his hands quivering with the weariness, the excitement, the effects of the brandy. He tried to focus again, completed the letter, thought of Halleck, Stanton, like so many frightened birds. Well, sure as hell, this will calm them down.

  He heard a commotion now, men calling out, and in a short minute Williamson was there again, hesitant, said, “Sir, excuse me for interrupting. Word has come from a tender for the cutter Nemaha. Admiral Dahlgren is on his flagship, the Harvest Moon, anchored presently in Wassaw Sound. He offers his warmest congratulations, sir, and expresses his wishes that you join him, possibly tomorrow. I am to return you to McAllister tonight. As well, General Foster hopes to make contact with you on the morrow. Or rather, later this day. It is well after midnight, sir.”

  Sherman said, “Will you run us up on this boat? Make a much easier voyage than that skiff.”

  He saw gloom on Williamson’s face. “Very sorry, I cannot, sir. There are numerous torpedoes in the river, one part of the enemy’s barricade upstream. You shall have to use the skiff, I’m afraid.”

  Sherman looked down at the notes, spread now across Williamson’s desk. “You will see that these are dispatched?”

  “In the morning, sir. With all haste. It is the least I can offer you, sir. Washington must know where you are, just what you’ve accomplished.”

  The thought burst into Sherman’s brain like a bolt of lightning. “One moment, Captain. Before we depart. I seem to have overlooked the most important commander I have.”

  “Sir?”

  “As long as you’re in position to dispatch these, it is probably a good idea that I write a letter to my wife.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  HARDEE

  SAV
ANNAH—DECEMBER 14, 1864

  Beauregard had arrived on December 9, his inspection lasting the better part of a day. But he was now back in Charleston, and for Hardee, whether or not his superior was looking over his shoulder made no difference at all.

  They had disagreed about the course of action, Hardee still hoping to hold the line against Sherman by severely limiting the access the Federal troops would have into the city. Already dikes had been cut, rice fields heavily flooded, the avenues into the city now confined to five causeways, where Hardee had placed the larger coastal guns. But the open fields were not impenetrable, merely shallow lakes, usually waist-deep. If the Yankees could not be stopped, the best Hardee could hope to do was to slow them down.

  To Hardee’s dismay, Beauregard had little interest in making any real effort to stop Sherman at all, Hardee surprised at what seemed to be a spirit of defeat. Even if Beauregard was right that the evacuation of Hardee’s troops was the only alternative, Hardee had planned on ferrying his men across the Savannah River. Once across, the men could be marched northward farther into South Carolina. But Beauregard overruled him, ordering the building of a pontoon bridge across the river, whether or not Sherman’s artillery allowed them to complete it. The plan called for defensive assistance from the Confederate gunboats, already patrolling the Savannah River, as well as good defensive firepower from a floating battery, making use of several of the enormous guns that had once faced the sea.

  Hardee had faith in his engineers, though he understood that completion of the bridge depended far more on just how quickly Sherman moved his artillery within range of the city itself. Even now, as he patrolled the earthworks that faced the oncoming Yankees, men were at work, hurriedly hauling rice boats that were lashed side by side, serving as the pontoons. More men worked to wreck the wharves themselves, some of which had stood strong for more than a century, their timbers to serve as wooden planking atop the long, thin boats.