The Fateful Lightning

by Jeff Shaara

  “General Sherman, I am a cotton merchant by trade, as is your host, Mr. Green. There are a great many of us who are well aware that throughout this war, maintaining trade with British merchants has proven unwise, and unprofitable. Profit is a tempting prize, sir. I admit that. The English have been a disappointment, to say the least. If they had valued our cause with as much passion as they enjoy our cotton, this war might well have been different in its outcome.”

  “There is no outcome yet, Mr. Hardee. As for the English, I suspect they never intended to enter this war unless they were certain you were going to win it.”

  Hardee seemed to appraise Sherman, who kept his stare hard into the older man’s eyes. Hardee said, “I fear your opinion of the English is correct. As for the outcome of the war, allow me to disagree with you, General. There is only one outcome, no matter how much patriotism rattles through the hallways of Richmond. I know how the Southern army has fared of late. And, to be frank, sir, it is only by the grace of God, or rather, by your grace, that this city survives the torch. We are all certainly aware of the price you could have exacted from us. I have friends in Atlanta, sir. I know how a fire can devastate. I commend the discipline of your men.”

  “Actually, Mr. Hardee, my men have become fond of Savannah. Creating a base here offers something of a respite from the campaign. The men have been on the march for many weeks. Savannah is a pleasant diversion for them.” Sherman could see something unsaid on Hardee’s face. “I am rather busy. Is there anything else you require, Mr. Hardee?”

  “I believe it is a fair question to ask, sir, if you intend to remain here? Clearly, no cotton merchant can ply his trade with his best customers as long as those customers are kept away by your blockade. It would suit all of us well if we could resume that trade with our other best customers.”

  Sherman appreciated the man’s candor, smiled, twirled his cigar in his fingers. “Northern customers, you mean.”

  Hardee shrugged. “A paying customer is a paying customer. Many of us care not what flag flies over his ship.”

  Sherman was curious now, wondered what General Hardee would make of his civilian brother’s duplicity. “So, you are not a Confederate, then?”

  “I admit that we had leanings in that direction, when it seemed the South would prevail in this unfortunate affair. It is quite clear to me, and to many of us, sir, that the outcome of this war is an inevitability we must plan for. As I said, sir, I am a businessman. I must consider the future.”

  Sherman had suffered outpourings of righteous indignation from various English merchants, some of those based in Savannah, or others who had somehow evaded Admiral Dahlgren’s net, the very men who put currency into Hardee’s pockets. He was still surprised that Hardee didn’t seem to share their hostility toward Federal occupation of the city.

  “Your English friends are not as polite as you, sir. I’ve had to endure all manner of protest over my confiscation of their cotton. Some of that must surely belong to you.”

  “The future, General. We must assume that this year’s crop is simply lost, all of those bales now guarded over by your soldiers. We must regard that as we would an unfortunate turn in the weather. The results would be the same. I am already in contact with several large plantation owners, encouraging them to put their energies toward next season. Surely, the market will be a healthier place.”

  Sherman studied Hardee, saw only sincerity, a surprise. “It is a shame, sir, that your brother is not so eager to put this war behind us.”

  “I assure you, General, William shares my sense of what is real and what is fantasy. He is in something of a trap. I’m sure you understand that. You are both soldiers. Certainly, you do not always agree with the instructions handed down by your superiors.”

  “I obey my superiors, as your brother does. Perhaps one day we may discuss just what kind of people our superiors are.”

  “Perhaps very soon, then? I would expect your army to begin its march toward Charleston. Perhaps you are waiting for a bit better weather?”

  Sherman felt a bolt of caution, could hear a change in Hardee’s voice. But the man’s expression seemed pleasant enough still, and Sherman realized clearly he was in the presence of a man used to making a sale. Sherman smiled, said, “Mr. Hardee, my army shall resume our campaign in due time. There are military considerations which I cannot discuss with you, or any civilian here. Charleston shall be cleared of any stain of this rebellion when the time is right.”

  “Well, sir, I for one shall welcome the time when this unpleasantness has passed. Truly, we are grateful that Savannah is no worse by your occupation. Your soldiers have added considerably to our well-being, not just by their gallantry, but by their willingness to spend money. Regrettably, prices for even the most basic goods have escalated. I saw a merchant offering a bushel of apples for fifty dollars.”

  “American dollars?”

  Hardee laughed. “Oh, very good, sir. I believe he would have accepted either scrip. Some still hold out the hope that their hoard of Confederate currency shall sustain them. I do not happen to share that view. As I say, once this unpleasantness has concluded, and we return to the Union, such matters will be swept away.”

  “I disagree with your description, Mr. Hardee. There is no ‘return’ to the Union. As far as I am concerned, and my president as well, Savannah, the state of Georgia, and every other state south of the Mason-Dixon Line never left the Union at all. A few state governments made particularly idiotic decisions, and as a result, they cost the lives of a generation of men that this nation can never replace. My job is to put that outrage to rest, so that the same flag flies over your city as my own, the only flag that matters. I have no idea what anyone will do with their Confederate scrip, but I assume you will find dollars as useful to your trade as the British pound.”

  —

  He walked through a blustery wind, Oliver Howard beside him. As usual, the two men were escorted by Sherman’s guards, and behind them a scattering of staff officers who held back several paces. Sherman kept his gaze to the front, had eyed the prominent monument for several days, finally had the time to stroll closer. He moved toward the enormous shaft of marble, could see the figure of a woman at the top, what he assumed to be a representation of Lady Liberty.

  Howard showed little interest in the statue as yet, seemed lost in thought. After a few more steps, he said, “So, he believes we’re marching to Charleston?”

  Sherman slid the cigar through his lips, nodded. “Absolutely convinced of it. They have to believe that. The rebels, I mean. This was a plum like no other in the South, and Charleston would be one more. The citizens, the newspapers, hell, even Richmond has to believe I’m down here dancing with delight at my great conquests. Naturally, they would assume I want more. Charleston is the most logical place we would strike them. The navy would be there to help, certainly. Hardee’s there, as far as we know, and I’ll wager he’s got every man who can lift a shovel putting up earthworks.”

  “His brother tell you that?”

  “Didn’t have to. But Mr. Noble Andrew Hardee came to see me for more than a show of good manners. All that talk of how peaceful our future will be, how he yearns so for the end of the war. He came to me on a fishing trip. Curious, though. I’m not sure how he’d get word to his brother if I had told him anything useful.”

  Howard chuckled. “Word travels in many ways, General. You know that. Rebel cavalry is poking around anyplace they can. There are unfriendly eyes watching us even now.”

  “I’m counting on that. This is no different than the campaign through Georgia. I would rather avoid a major confrontation on any ground of their choosing, so it’s best we keep the rebels guessing. Spread the word yourself, throughout your command, any way that seems helpful. Tell everyone who’ll listen that we’re preparing for the march, and we intend to move up the coast.”

  Howard was gazing skyward toward the monument, said, “That won’t be difficult. The troops have made many new friends
hereabouts. Bound to be some fair ladies who think of themselves as loyal to their cause, who are plying our boys for secrets.”

  “I thought you didn’t approve of such goings-on, General Howard.”

  “For myself? Certainly not. But the morale of this army is as high as it has ever been. The boys are enjoying themselves, and much of that has to do with the hospitality of the ladies. I am realistic, sir.” Howard turned, called out, “What’s this square called?”

  Behind them, one of Howard’s staff responded, “Monterey Square, sir.”

  Sherman saw the courthouse off to one side, admired the scene for a brief moment, massive live oaks down the far streets, the monument standing taller than many of the nearby buildings. He continued to walk, moved out into the square, the guards spreading out well past. Down every side street, soldiers were appearing, coming closer, word of Sherman’s presence spreading quickly. He stepped closer to the base of the statue, saw the ornate designs all along the stone facing, said, “Impressive as hell. A true hero, this fellow.”

  Howard still cringed at Sherman’s cursing, something Sherman knew would never change.

  “Quite right, sir. Here’s a vignette of the man himself. The moment of death, it appears. Casimir Pulaski, died 1779. Four score and five years ago. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  Sherman examined the details along the base, another look skyward to the female figure high above. He stood with his hands on his hips, the cigar planted between his teeth, said, “What’s so damned ironic about it? Died fighting the British. We’d have all done the same.”

  “Well, certainly, sir, but look where it is, where we are. This is a magnificent symbol, a monument of a fight for liberty, planted here, amid a city whose very existence owes so much to slavery.”

  “Not anymore. It’s the one thing Mr. Noble Hardee said that made sense. The smart ones, the businessmen, they’re already thinking of a world without slavery. Curious, though. With all his talk about the future, he never once mentioned just who is going to pick all that cotton.”

  SAVANNAH—JANUARY 12, 1865

  The packet boats and merchantmen continued to flow into the city, the waterways finally cleared of any dangerous obstacles. Much of that work had been done by rebel prisoners, and Sherman knew there would be criticism of that, most of it certainly coming from the rebels themselves. But casualties had been few, the labor effective, allowing the navy’s various craft a far more convenient passage into the city than the lengthy excursion up the Ogeechee.

  The most valued cargo many of the ships carried was mail, and Sherman had received the expected notes from both Ellen and his brother John, heartfelt praise for his accomplishments, tempered with the overwhelming sadness of the death of his infant son. Other letters came as well, lengthy offerings of guidance from the War Department, wonderfully generous congratulatory notes from President Lincoln. The mail went both ways of course, men able to write their loved ones for the first time in many weeks, each one with great tales to tell.

  Supplies had begun to arrive, fresh uniforms, shoes, all those goods that kept an army healthy in the field. Already word had gone northward of the plight of the citizens of Savannah, that the city was seriously squeezed by the army’s presence, food growing more scarce, the needs of the army taking priority. Sherman had made efforts to provide for the civilians, but resources were limited, some of that by the destruction of the railroads which Sherman had ordered himself. To Sherman’s surprise, a movement had seemed to erupt in the North, a spontaneous outpouring of sentiment for the plight of the citizens, that no matter if their city had been a crucial port for the rebellion, they were being viewed as innocent victims. The word had come to Sherman from David Conyngham that The New York Times was trumpeting a drive to raise funds to assist the civilians, an effort that was surprisingly effective. From what Sherman had been told, enormous stores of foodstuffs were being prepared for transport, from Philadelphia to New York to Boston. He didn’t completely understand why the Northern populace felt such pangs of remorse, or were encouraged to offer such generosity. But if ships bearing such assistance were actually to arrive at Savannah’s newly repaired wharves, Sherman knew it would make his relationship with the people of Savannah that much more positive. There was no fault to be found with that.

  On January 11, one of many smaller ships arrived, bearing the usual mail, other goods bound for his army. But this one carried a cargo that was unique, and to Sherman, a complete surprise. Embarking at the wharf in a hard chill came a handful of officials, including the greatest surprise of all, the secretary of war, Edwin Stanton.

  GREEN HOUSE—JANUARY 12, 1865

  Stanton appeared ill, wheezed repeatedly into a handkerchief. Sherman sat at one end of the large parlor, Green making the visitors welcome. If Green was impressed by his new guests, Sherman couldn’t tell. He was too impressed on his own.

  Across from him was Montgomery Meigs, the army’s quartermaster general, a man who carried enormous authority over the army’s vast supply network. There were others as well, various officials who worked directly for Stanton. The entourage that had accompanied the secretary had included civilian officials from a variety of government offices, men who were already spreading out through the city, escorted by General Geary. It was clear to Sherman, and to Geary as well, that military control over the city was soon to pass into the hands of various government agencies, those men already laboring to merge their civilian offices with the structure Geary had established for the operation of the city. To Sherman, the flood of bureaucracy was overwhelming, a great herd of men in suits, each one offering him a brief show of politeness, as though Sherman was simply in the way.

  Stanton was unshaven, wore small, round glasses, looked at Sherman with a hard stare, the handkerchief clutched in one hand. “General Grant insisted I make this journey, difficult though it might be. He says the air here is good for the soul. Not sure why Southern air is any better than what I was breathing in Washington.” Stanton coughed now, heavy and wet, the handkerchief over his mouth. “I’m not breathing very well, to be sure. You’ve heard from Halleck?”

  Sherman had received a number of letters from Henry Halleck, most of them easily ignored. “Certainly. Is there one in particular you’re referring to?”

  Stanton paused, seemed to gather himself, as though his words were rehearsed. “I am most delighted to be in your presence, General. You are a true hero, in every sense. There is one concern which has surfaced, which I must address, and the opportunity to nurse this ailment seemed appropriate. Halleck wrote you about our fears that you might be sending the wrong message to those who see this war as a struggle to free the slaves.”

  Stanton’s bluntness caught Sherman by surprise, the letter from Halleck now coming back to him. “I told General Halleck that there is no substance to such rumors.”

  Stanton kept his stare on Sherman. “Yes. You described the matter as ‘a cock and bull story.’ Well phrased. And, possibly, not completely accurate. I have beseeched you repeatedly to offer more assistance to the Negroes who have been liberated by your campaign. There is considerable talk in Washington that you have manifested an almost criminal dislike for the Negro. It is estimated that some fifty thousand slaves have welcomed their freedom by flocking to your army, and that you drove most of them from your ranks. There is considerable talk about the unfortunate incident at Ebenezer Creek, that General Davis showed a hostile disregard for the well-being of freed slaves who had entrusted themselves into his care.”

  Sherman never expected this, his mind already churning through the names of the men in his army who would offer such a story. He thought now of the reporters, those men so eager to send home their dispatches, wild tales to enhance their reputation. Damn them all.

  Stanton sneezed, made a low curse, the handkerchief coming up, and Sherman said, “Sir, I have discussed the Ebenezer Creek incident with General Davis. He maintains with perfect sincerity that his primary task was to retrieve his pontoon bridges i
n a timely manner. I had no reason to carry the matter any further.”

  “You should have. There was considerable disagreement among the Fourteenth Corps’s commanders, and some of that ill feeling toward General Davis’s actions has found an audience in Washington, eager to seek punishment. Not only toward him, but toward you.”

  Sherman sagged in the chair, his hands working the buttons on his coat, a hard cold stirring through his chest. “Because I did not eagerly accept the added baggage of tens of thousands of Negroes, who would have been an encumbrance to my army, I am construed to be hostile to the black race? And I would be punished for that? Is no one in Washington paying attention to what has been accomplished here? General Grant did not approve this campaign as merely an expedition to strip plantations of their slaves.”

  He pulled back on his temper, saw Stanton still eyeing him, and Stanton nodded now, smiled, another surprise, said, “Yes, well, I have done much to deflect such criticism of your command. The president has enemies who will seek any means to undermine his popularity, and right now, you may be the most popular man in the Union. The president has been most public in his praise of your achievements, and so, any blemish on your record creates one on his. I regret it is that simple.”

  Sherman closed his eyes for a long second, thought, I despise politics. “How do I answer these attacks? Am I to be punished?”

  “Easy, General. I came here to calm the angry voices, to satisfy those who seek hammer blows when a mild switch is sufficient. I should like to speak with General Davis myself. I am aware, according to his staff and the word of several who brought complaints against him, that he operated outside of your orders. Though his command is your responsibility, his actions in the field can be judged as they are.”

  Sherman realized that Stanton was playing the game so familiar to anyone whose power is granted by others. I am an asset to the president, he thought. If there is fault to be found, it will be found somewhere else. “I shall send word to General Davis to meet with you at the earliest opportunity.” He paused. “I must suggest, sir, that General Davis is an excellent soldier, and I do not believe him to harbor any animus toward the Negro.”