by Jeff Shaara
North of the river lay the critical rail depot at Hardeeville, its name the kind of coincidence that some men took for meaningful symbolism. To Hardee, the name of the place was far less important than its function: From that point, the rail lines ran farther up the coast, serving as the primary links to Charleston and other rail lines there that fed into Columbia and then on to North Carolina. With the rail line went the telegraph line, and Hardee knew that protecting both provided Savannah with their only links to Beauregard, as well as any other garrisons of troops that might be needed. To that end, Joe Wheeler’s cavalry had been ordered north of the river. Already Federal troops were reported to have landed along the South Carolina coast, a surprising threat Hardee had not expected, those men certainly put ashore by Federal transports. Hardee had immediately pushed troops out that way, hoping to destroy or at least contain the Federal incursion from that direction. But pulling those troops away from the defenses facing west merely weakened a line that was too weak already. Hardee had to consider the possibility that if Sherman was to alter his primary drive toward Savannah and shift a sizable portion of his men north of the river, any force Hardee could put there would likely be crushed, along with the railroad and any communication north of the city. Holding tight to his defensive lines was a gamble Hardee had to make, that despite Beauregard’s seeming disregard for Savannah as a place worth defending, Hardee was not yet willing to order his men to abandon the place, at least before any hope of halting Sherman had evaporated.
—
He kept to the horse, read the dispatch as he rode, the courier trailing behind, held back by his staff. He had anticipated that Sherman would attempt to open a passage up the Ogeechee River by assaulting Fort McAllister, the one waterway virtually devoid of any Confederate gunboats.
He halted the horse, let the reins drop, his shoulders sagging. Pickett was there now, said, “It is not good, is it?”
Hardee handed him the paper, said, “The fort has fallen. I expected a tougher fight. The enemy clearly chose to make that a priority. There isn’t much we can do about it.”
Pickett read, stared at the paper for a long moment. “What now, sir?”
Hardee kept his gaze downward, stared at the horse’s mane, the horse dropping its head, nibbling at a tuft of greenery at the edge of the street. “He has no idea what is happening, what we must confront. His entire world is in that mouthful of grass. He’s a beautiful animal, Bill. We should all be allowed to experience that kind of bliss, nothing to concern us but what we’re to eat. It probably doesn’t taste like much, but he doesn’t care about that, either.”
“You all right, sir? Do you have orders?”
Hardee looked at him, saw concern on his friend’s face. “Bill, there isn’t anything more we can do, not now anyway. Sherman has opened up the Ogeechee to their navy. We’re cut off from any roads going south. Strange, though. This says it occurred last evening, but I didn’t hear the guns. It’s pretty far, but I would have thought we’d have heard that.”
The rumble of closer cannon turned Pickett’s head, and he said, “Hard to hear anything else. They’re pushing in closer, sir. No doubt.”
“Of course they are. Sherman didn’t make his jaunt across this state just to admire our shoreline. It was his plan all along. We spread this army all over Creation, running around like madmen, anticipating him to turn off in some other direction, and all the while he kept up a straight line of march, right toward Savannah. We allowed him to avoid any real fight, did him a favor by not inflicting more than a few casualties. We debated and argued and speculated. And Sherman just…marched. Now he’s ready for the next act in his masterful play. The spoils of war, in this case. Quite the prize.”
“He hasn’t gotten us yet, sir. We’re strong.”
Hardee glanced at Pickett again, saw Roy, the others easing forward. “We were strong. Now we are waiting for the inevitable. Do you believe Sherman will march straight up to our heavy artillery?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “No. He will employ his navy, he will dance around our perimeter, he will maneuver and jostle until his artillery is capable of rendering this city into rubble.” He looked at Pickett again, then Roy. “Have we heard anything more from the gunboats?”
The two men looked at each other, and Roy said, “Nothing, sir. If they are not lost, it appears they are upriver, with the enemy preventing their movement back into the city.”
Hardee shook his head, slapped the horse gently. “They are lost to us, Colonel. That’s all that matters.”
The two gunboats were the Macon and the Sampson, invaluable craft that Hardee had hoped to use to protect the evacuation, and at the very least prevent Sherman from attempting to move on the city from the north, across the Savannah River. Besides protecting the construction of Beauregard’s pontoon bridge, the two boats added substantial firepower to the land-based artillery. But as they patrolled farther upstream, the two boats had been caught by surprise by a mass of Federal sharpshooters and several well-placed artillery pieces, forcing their captains to retreat farther upriver, and farther from the wharves close to the site of the pontoon bridge. The loss of the two gunboats added to the strain of Hardee’s predicament and only increased Beauregard’s determination that Hardee leave the city.
The rumble from the cannon continued out to the west, some of it impacting much closer than anytime before. The staff seemed nervous, men speaking in hushed tones, Hardee ignoring that, focusing instead on the sounds. He glanced up, clouds obscuring the sun, no hint of rain.
“What is the hour?”
“Near ten, sir.”
He kept his gaze westward, could see smoke drifting above faraway trees, the thumps and thunder rolling out in both directions. He felt the familiar stab of concern, searched the roads for couriers, for some information, his mind asking the inevitable question: Is it time? He turned to Roy, said, “Send an aide to General McLaws. I must know if he is under direct assault. If it is more of the skirmishing, I must know that as well. Explain to General McLaws that I cannot be in three places at once. Send an aide down to General Wright. If McAllister is in enemy hands, I need to know if Sherman is driving a strong force up from that direction. Have we heard anything further from General Smith?”
The questions betrayed his anxiousness, and he stopped, held that in, knew his staff officers would understand the urgency. He had very little confidence in two of his three commanders, McLaws being the most experienced. But good generals made little difference in a fight against a force as large as what Sherman was pushing toward them. He had told Beauregard that Sherman likely had thirty to forty thousand men, but the reports that reached him from both flanks seemed to show many more than that. Is it exaggeration, he wondered, or is it that we have been wrong from the start? Even Wheeler could never give us numbers that matched what the civilians claimed they saw. Do I trust them? How? Perhaps Beauregard is right. That thought jolted him. Beauregard’s reputation for timidity was legendary, as far back as the vicious fight at Shiloh. His timidity cost us that battle, he thought. Now it will cost us Savannah. And yet there is no argument I can make.
“Sir! Riders!”
He brought himself back to the moment, saw colors, following a small staff, Gustavus Smith. Smith was experienced in the field but had never displayed the kind of leadership that won admiration. Now he commanded the right flank, anchored against the river. But Smith’s troops were the least reliable, those remaining Georgia militia, as well as the greenest troops Hardee had in the field, no more than two thousand men.
Smith rode close, saluted, called out in a voice louder than Hardee needed to hear, the voice of panic. “Sir! The enemy has embarked troops onto the islands, taking up positions all down the river. They are moving on my flank, and I have no means to prevent that. What are your orders, sir?”
Hardee stared at Smith, could read fear in the man’s eyes, a disease that no doubt infected his entire command, men who had no place being in line against Sherman’s army.
“H
ave they reached the railroad bridge?”
“They are close, sir. My skirmishers have attempted to halt their progress, but last night they must have used boats, and put men even farther downriver.”
Hardee lowered his head. “They did not swim, General.” He stopped, fought his temper.
Smith still called out, his voice piercing, the man no more than a few feet away. “What am I to do, sir? The enemy has pushed us hard into the lines just beyond the limits of the city. His artillery has come up. You can hear that now, sir. They are moving men closer to our position right through the swamps and wetlands, sir. I admit, that was a surprise to me. I had hoped they would advance into the chosen avenues, confront our largest guns.”
“We all hoped that, General. Sherman is not a man preparing for suicide. He will continue to advance his troops through any means he has. If that means wading up to their necks in swamp water…that’s what they’re doing.”
“Yes, sir. It seems so, sir.”
Hardee thought of the railroad, the communications to the north, Beauregard, Richmond, any troops that might still come to their aid. But his tactician’s mind swept that away. No, he thought, what we have now is all we are to have.
“General Smith, order the railroad bridge to be burned. Once that is under way, withdraw your men into the lines at the city’s edge. Preserve your artillery. Your men are not veterans. I do not wish to see a stampede. Orderly withdrawal, do you understand?”
Smith appeared ready to cry, and Hardee turned away, had no use for weakness, not now. Smith moved away, called out orders to his staff, more of the urgency none of them needed to hear. Hardee spurred his own horse now, thought of Ambrose Wright, commanding those troops positioned on Hardee’s far left flank.
“Gentlemen, we should inspect our position to the south. If the Federal navy intends to make itself known to us, we should be prepared.”
Pickett moved closer, said in a low voice, “How? What can we do to prevent them?”
Hardee moved the horse, no response, the single word in his mind.
Nothing.
—
On December 17, Hardee received the letter he had expected for nearly a week.
You have doubtless observed…that seagoing vessels now come through the Ossabaw and up the Ogeechee…giving me abundant supplies of all kinds, and more especially heavy ordnance necessary to the reduction of Savannah. I have already received guns that can cast heavy and destructive shot as far as the heart of your city; also I have for some days held and controlled every avenue by which the people and garrison of Savannah can be supplied, and I am therefore justified in demanding the Surrender of the City of Savannah….
W. T. SHERMAN
MAJOR GENERAL
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SHERMAN
HOWARD’S HEADQUARTERS, NORTHEAST OF FORT MCALLISTER—DECEMBER 18, 1864
He read the note with undisguised anger, one line shouting out to him from the paper.
Your demand for the surrender of Savannah and its dependent forts is refused.
W. J. HARDEE / LIEUTENANT GENERAL
Howard sat close to the dying fire, a small white pipe in his mouth. “Did you expect anything else?”
Sherman folded the note with a harsh slip of his fingers, caught himself before he tore it into pieces. “I should keep this, I suppose. Others may want to see just what kind of dreams General Hardee is nurturing.”
“Richmond, no doubt.”
Sherman glanced at Howard, felt a surge of fury, fought to keep his voice below the hearing of Howard’s entire camp. “I don’t care a whit for Richmond. I don’t care what kind of pride Hardee must display. He lies, all through this ridiculous letter. Lies. He is ‘in free and constant communication with his department.’ We have destroyed miles of rail lines in every direction. We have men wiring themselves into any telegraph line still standing, and if there are messages going back and forth, we’ll hear them. He behaves as though we’re barely a mosquito, buzzing around his horse’s backside, something to be swatted away.”
Howard kept his stare on the fire, and Sherman knew that Howard rarely showed excitement at all.
“Do you ever get angry? Does this not dig one big hole into your brain? The damned rebels took your arm, for God’s sake.” Sherman paused, felt a stab of guilt. “Sorry, Oliver.”
“It is a fact, General. I cannot pretend to have what is not there. The fortunate thing is they did not take both. To be sure, that would be something of an inconvenience.”
Sherman jammed the note into his pocket, focused his anger again toward Hardee. “The arrogance of the man, the arrogance of the entire rebel nation, their damnable cause, their insistence that all things Southern must be preserved against the Mongol hordes from the North. I’m sick of this, Oliver.”
Howard looked at him now, the pipe still clamped in his teeth. “So. What would you change? Do you expect Hardee or anyone else to just throw up their hands and admit that this entire enterprise was one great error? Do you expect Jefferson Davis to call on Lincoln and offer a hand, apologizing for all the trouble he caused? You know what this will require. You know, better than anyone in this army that guns change minds, guns alter history, guns erase pride. We have plenty of guns, General. Big ones, little ones. We’re moving them into position by the hour, and when you give the order, we’ll drop shells anywhere Hardee thinks he’s safe. That note isn’t for you. It’s for the civilians who are crowing at him every minute of the day. They’re scared to death. They think he’s their salvation, and he has to make a good show of it. It’s for posterity.”
“To hell with posterity. Hardee can offer reassurances and apologies all day long to the good citizens of Savannah. Doesn’t change a damned thing. If he insists on standing up to us, then we shall oblige him, and a great many of his men will die. There’s posterity for you.”
—
He had slept for more than an hour, a luxury he had tried to enjoy. But the tent flap had stirred him awake, a low voice, one of Howard’s aides.
“Very sorry to awaken you, sir.”
“Who’s that? Frasier?”
“It’s Colonel Woodhull, sir. None of your staff are present, and I had no choice but to awaken you.”
“Why?”
“An officer has arrived, just now, sir. Says he is Colonel Babcock, from General Grant’s staff. He has made this journey to convey a message from General Grant.”
“Orville Babcock? Here?”
“That’s what he says, sir.”
Sherman was awake now, stared out through the open tent flap, only shadows beyond. “Bring me a lantern, Colonel. And I suppose you may bring Colonel Babcock as well.”
He sat up, grabbed his coat, pulled it on quickly, his mind racing. Babcock? What the hell for? The tent flap opened again, the lantern light blinding him, and Sherman covered his eyes, felt for a cigar, the pocket empty. The lantern was hung above him, and Sherman felt a hard dig in his insides, a stab of caution. Babcock was there now, offered a crisp salute, which Sherman returned.
“Long way from home, Colonel.”
Babcock was never one for chatter, and Sherman could read the man’s seriousness, hints of arrogance that Babcock always carried.
“General, I bring you a letter, from the pen of General Grant. It is imperative that you read this without delay. There are two letters, actually. The first is less formal, composed by General Grant on December third. You may of course read that one first. The second was composed December sixth. There are orders for you, sir.”
Sherman felt his heart racing, all thoughts of his independence erased by Babcock’s haughtiness, something Sherman had seen before. Babcock was a brilliant young man, had graduated third in his class from West Point, had now earned an appropriate position on Grant’s staff as secretary. He reached into a small leather pouch, produced a piece of foolscap, then another, kept his stance at attention, handed the paper toward Sherman. Sherman took both papers, fought to keep his comp
osure, thought, He’s congratulating me. Has to be. Why send Babcock? Sherman glanced at the headings, saw the dates, chose the latter one, Babcock’s word punching him. Orders. He struggled with his sudden burst of nervousness, tried to keep his composure in front of a man who would notice every flaw.
“I haven’t seen you in a while, Colonel. Since Vicksburg?”
Babcock’s expression didn’t change, still the formality. “Knoxville, I believe, sir.”
“Yes, Knoxville. If you say so.”
Sherman fingered the papers, had a gut-stirring uneasiness, was annoyed by the show of stiffness from Grant’s officer, left him standing at attention. He opened the second paper completely, slow, deliberate, tilted it toward the lantern light, began to read.
I have concluded that the most important operation toward closing out the rebellion will be to close out Lee and his army….My idea is that you now establish a base on the sea-coast, fortify and leave in it all your artillery and cavalry, and enough infantry to protect them, and at the same time so threaten the interior that the militia of the South will have to be kept at home. With the balance of your command, come here by water with all dispatch. Select yourself the officer to leave in command, but you I want in person. Unless you see objections to this plan which I cannot see, use every vessel going to you for purposes of transportation….
U. S. GRANT, LIEUTENANT GENERAL
He stared blindly past the paper, felt a hard edge of nausea rolling up through him. “Leave me, Colonel.”
“Sir, I am ordered to await your response….”
“Get out of this tent, Colonel. You shall have my response in due time.”
Babcock vanished, a surprise, and Sherman lay back on the bed, dropped the paper beside him. I am to leave here, to go to Virginia. He cannot see any objections to that. Grant, what are you doing? Am I not to be allowed to complete this task? Savannah is…right there. She sits waiting for us, her defenses certain to collapse, Hardee’s army expecting capture. Why would you do this?
