The Fateful Lightning

by Jeff Shaara

  His staff had seemed to wilt under his tirade, though most of them had been audience to this kind of fury before. He stormed away from them, moved out to the open bluffs, saw Poe’s men at work on the pontoons, the bridge mostly complete, bluecoats adding to the men already on the far side of the river. He kept walking, his boots kicking up loose ground, the rough tracks made by horses, the camps of the men, most of those shelters now coming down. He ignored that, continued to walk, venting the steam from the boil inside him.

  “Sir?”

  He didn’t want company, knew the voice, knew there would be no escape. Sherman stopped, stared at the work on the bridge, waited for Hitchcock. “What the hell do you want with me, Major?”

  Hitchcock was breathing heavily, reached Sherman now, seemed to hesitate, then said, “Sir, I’m just trying to understand your thinking.”

  Sherman looked at the man, a wilting stare, but Hitchcock seemed up to the challenge. Sherman leaned closer to him, said, “I’m thinking every minute of the day, Major. What the hell are you talking about?”

  Hitchcock let out a long breath, adjusted his glasses, Sherman forcing himself to wait for what was coming. “Sir, the shelling last evening. We took a few casualties, to be certain. Not many, though. I have always believed that every life is precious, of course. But I have learned that in the army, there is always human cost, and if the casualties are few, it is a blessing.”

  “So?”

  “Last night. Was that not an action justified by our shelling the city? All along this march, I have observed a complete disregard for the well-being of the citizens. We have fired and wrecked structures of all kinds, put people out of their homes, destroyed businesses and places of worship. I admit, it took me some weeks to accept this tactic, and I understand your thinking on that score, sir. I really do.”

  “So?”

  “How can you hold such anger toward the enemy, just for shelling our position? Is the war only to go in our favor, sir? Is the enemy not entitled to some vengeance of his own?”

  Sherman knew this was the kind of question he was going to hear often, possibly in Washington, certainly from the newspapers. He stared at Hitchcock for a long moment, saw sincerity on the man’s face, the question a serious one.

  “I don’t have time for coddling your sensitivities, Major.”

  “I understand, sir. I’m still learning. My apologies for disturbing you.”

  “Listen to me, Major. In all that burning of towns, the raiding of plantations, everything we have left in our wake, how many civilians did I order executed?”

  Hitchcock seemed surprised at the question. “None, that I can recall, sir. No, none.”

  “In every house fire you witnessed, were any people burned along with their goods? Were there firing squads, was there butchery of anyone not in uniform? Hell, even in uniform? We make a fight against those who make a fight against us. The civilians have given fuel to this war, and we have used it up by the most efficient means possible. You recall the bummers we came across, those men who had been executed? Happened more than once, and probably happened more than we’ll ever know. Throats cut, left by the side of the road. All right, that’s the way the enemy responds to our destruction of his property. I know the bummers have been out from my control, have taken my orders to an extreme I did not intend. But their actions accomplished exactly what I did intend. The enemy captured some of those men, and meted out a brutal punishment. I have no real problem with that. That’s war. It just means we’ll respond by doing the same. I told Kilpatrick, an eye for an eye. We’ve sent word into every town: You shoot at us, you burn the supplies we require, we’ll respond in kind. It has worked, occasionally.”

  He reached into his pocket, fished around, pulled out a paper. “You recall this? Letter sent through the lines by Joe Wheeler. He says he will not burn any more cotton, if we promise not to burn any more houses. That’s a rebel peculiarity, clear as day. What the hell do I care if they burn their cotton? Can’t eat the stuff, and we’re sure as hell not hauling it with us. Let Stanton and his minions parade out here and take it to Savannah. It’s all going to end up in the U.S. Treasury anyway. But Wheeler doesn’t say anything about food, grain, potatoes, any of what we value. They keep burning what these men need to eat, we’ll make them pay for it. That’s an eye for an eye, Major.”

  Sherman stuffed the paper into a coat pocket, and Hitchcock scanned his coat, said, “Do you carry every correspondence you receive on your person, sir?”

  Sherman shrugged. “Easier that way. Good to have your headquarters right in your pockets.”

  “I suppose so, sir, though part of that is my job.”

  “Another part of your job is to support what this army is doing. You recall how many times the rebels laid those damned torpedoes in our path? That was murder, pure and simple. If I was to salt the ground around this city with bombs like that, there would be hell to pay. Mostly in Washington. That damned Wade Hampton calls himself an aristocrat, a Southern gentleman, thinks he’s fighting for the cream of manhood, or some such nonsense. So he orders his artillery to shell sleeping men.”

  “I believe I understand, sir.”

  “Understand this, Major. We’re about to march into the capital city of South Carolina. I have no intentions of torching the place, of laying waste to the city just because of what it represents. My goal is to put my people into North Carolina as quickly as the rebels will allow that. If there’s food to be had here, we’ll take it. If a rebel shoots at me from a second-story window, I’ll destroy his house. The rebels did us a favor by not defending this place. I’ll do them a favor by marching out of here quick as we can.”

  —

  By midmorning, the city’s mayor, Dr. Thomas Goodwyn, had surrendered Columbia to Sherman’s troops. Sherman rode into the city alongside Howard, trailed by the staffs of both men, and the latest addition to Sherman’s command, General John Logan, now in command of the Fifteenth Corps. With the conclusion of the campaign to occupy Atlanta, Logan had asked for, and received, Sherman’s permission for a leave of absence. The reasons stuck somewhat in Sherman’s craw, that Logan had pressing political needs at home, specifically involving the 1864 election. Logan had come into the army after serving as a United States congressman, and to Sherman’s annoyance, the election was a priority to Logan, despite the duties of the army. But corps command seemed acceptable to a man who certainly would rely on his military résumé to enhance his political career once the war was over. Sherman had little use for political officers of any kind, but he had been with Logan since earlier in the war, Logan performing well at Vicksburg, in particular. Now, Logan had returned, and Sherman had been gracious in allowing Logan to settle into his new command, replacing the Fifteenth’s commander, Peter Osterhaus, who had ambitions of his own. Sherman agreed with the War Department to honor Osterhaus’s wishes for a high-level administrative post, and now Osterhaus was on his way west, named chief of staff of the Army of the West.

  Already, the Fifteenth Corps had driven out west and north of the city, anchoring along the Broad River, one of the two rivers that joined at Columbia to form the Congaree. Sherman had given orders that the remainder of his army would skirt past Columbia altogether, no need to funnel so many troops through the center of town. Sherman had pored over the maps, planning the route the two wings would follow, anticipating no great Confederate barriers until they reached North Carolina. It was still a mystery to Sherman why his ruse had been so completely effective, since surely the Confederate hierarchy had to expect that Columbia would be a likely target.

  There was another surprise in the town itself. For a place so steeped in the sparks that ignited the war, the Federal troops found what Sherman saw now, that life in the city was as close to normal as anyone could have imagined, as though there had been no war at all. Letters were already coming to his staff, invitations where he might sleep, others missives from old friends of Sherman, from his days serving at Fort Moultrie, a young lieutenant
who always seemed to attract the attention of the ladies. That attention was obvious now, notes coming from women whom Sherman tried to recall, who made it known that their husbands were off in some duty other than managing their homesteads, most likely in service to the Confederate cause. Sherman tossed those aside, had no interest in such complications. But another letter caught his attention, a note from a lady superioress, who supervised a convent school. The woman had once schooled his own daughter Minnie, at a convent school in Ohio. His response was as friendly as possible under the circumstances, that a guard would be assigned, with assurances that Sherman did not intend any destruction of private property in the city at all.

  His parade passed first through the scattering of corn and cotton fields that spread along the edges of the town, and immediately he saw the reception his army was receiving. The avenue was wide, the street lined with a mass of faces, both black and white. The cheers that rolled over him seemed surreal, something in a dream, Sherman reminding himself just where he was. He tried to maintain his decorum, the stiff back, eyes straight ahead, but along every block were dozens, if not hundreds, of people who seemed to welcome him as a conquering hero. He watched them, saw the nervous movements of Lieutenant Snelling, the guards moving closer to the people, a logical precaution against any kind of trouble.

  He looked up, the taller buildings, windows alive with handkerchiefs, the occasional Stars and Stripes. Howard seemed as surprised as Sherman, eased his horse closer beside him, said, “What do you make of this? You would think we had just liberated Philadelphia.”

  “I see it for what it is. No matter what pushed these people to make war, they recognize just how much power we have brought into their parlors. The smart ones know there isn’t any point in resisting. So, they’re not.”

  “Strange, though. Didn’t expect this.”

  Sherman shrugged, said nothing, could see ahead to a wide square, more crowds there, mingling with men in blue. He moved that way, felt a hard gust of wind, nearly removing his hat, tapped it down with a quick pat. The air was alive with more than cheers now, and as he rode closer to the square, he saw what looked like fat snowflakes, swirling past his men like the start of a blustery storm. Flecks of white were settling against his uniform now, on the horse, and he felt one, rubbed it in his fingers. Beside him, Howard said, “Cotton?”

  “Of course it is. I’d rather it be snow. I’ve come to hate this stuff. If it wasn’t for their damned cotton crops, the English would never have made so much noise about joining up with ’em.”

  “Doubt that’s happening now.”

  The wind was blowing stiffly across the wide square, propelling wisps of cotton over the crowds, the people reacting to it as though it were one more part of their celebration. Sherman spit out a piece that intruded into his mouth, looked behind him, saw McCoy, said, “Major, I’d prefer we find a headquarters as quickly as we can. I’m about to go into a sneezing fit.”

  “Yes, sir. There have been invitations aplenty. I’ll look into it, sir.”

  Sherman saw an older man, rotund, a good suit, the man making his way through the nearest crowd, hand in the air. Sherman pointed that way, the guards moving closer, the man regaling Sherman with a broad smile. Sherman stopped the horse, the man approaching, a hint of nervousness on the man’s face.

  “General Sherman, to be sure! I am Mayor Goodwyn. Your command was most gracious in its acceptance of my note of surrender. I must beseech you, sir. Please tell me what we must do to protect these citizens. We wish no harm to come to the city, nor to any one of our residents. Is there some instruction you wish followed? I shall endeavor to obey any order you give me, sir.”

  Sherman saw sincerity in the man’s face, thought, Doesn’t seem to be just about voters.

  “Do not be uneasy, sir. We have no business here other than to replenish our rations, and rest my men. We shall not delay in moving on. I have no cause to injure any private citizen, or destroy private property.”

  “Thank you, sir. I am greatly relieved, and am completely in your service. I might suggest an appropriate headquarters for you, sir. The residence of Mr. Blanton Duncan. He is, I believe, what you would call a displaced Union man. Kentuckian by birth. I know you will be welcome there.”

  “I’ll find him, thank you.”

  There was a commotion ahead, the guard coming together, and Sherman looked that way, nudged the horse forward, heard his name, a half-dozen men pushing past the citizens. Snelling was down from his horse now, other guards following, the commotion swallowed by the sounds of the crowd. Sherman kept his focus on the men, thought, Rebel deserters, most likely. No doubt they’re all ripe with precious information that I should reward them for.

  Snelling looked back toward him, a positive nod from his guard, Sherman curious now. Snelling led the men closer, and Sherman saw bits of ragged blue shirts, what remained of trousers. One man spoke out, a burst of tearful emotion.

  “General! Praise the Almighty! You have saved us.”

  Snelling said, “Sir, these men claim to be our own. Officers all. They claim to have escaped their confines at that camp outside of the town. It is just as we have seen before, sir. Their guards skedaddled, and the men found sanctuary here.”

  Sherman climbed down from the horse, moved past Snelling, scanned the faces, gaunt, sunburned, another man speaking up.

  “General, I am Captain James Otis, 5th Iowa Volunteers, sir. We are most grateful for your presence here, sir. We have freed ourselves from confinement.”

  Sherman studied the men, saw the childlike joy on each face, tears, thankfulness. He felt himself tightening, tried to hold it in, said, “You men are a testament to the spirit of this army. You are safe now.” He turned, pointed to the horsemen behind him. “All of you, that man is General Howard. Once we have reached a headquarters, report to him. He shall provide for your comfort, and make necessary arrangements for you to accompany us.”

  One man pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket, said, “Sir, I am Major Byers, adjutant of the 5th Iowa. Please accept this. It would honor me if you would read it at your leisure. Please, sir.”

  Sherman stuffed the paper in his pocket, held out his hand, the man taking it. He felt the man’s rough skin, the bones barely hidden, said, “Major, follow along with us, and present yourself to General Howard. He will give you rations. A doctor shall examine you. You are safe now, Mr. Byers.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Sherman moved to his horse, climbed up, Howard smiling at him. Howard said, “I yearn for these kinds of days, General. Instead of mourning casualties, we deliver men from their captivity.”

  Sherman nudged the horse forward, the guards moving out in front again. “I don’t mourn casualties, Oliver. I try to inflict them. I would suspect that those men would agree to do the same, should the opportunity arise, especially for any rebel who stands guard in a prison. Let us see if we can provide for that.”

  —

  They reached another square, the storm of cotton still blowing out around them, more cheers from civilians, many of those faces black now. Behind him, Dayton called out, “Sir, that’s the depot, up ahead. Not much left.”

  Sherman saw smoke rolling up from the blackened frame of the building, another building beside it, and on the platform, an enormous mound of cotton bales. The wind was whipping hard at the smoldering wreckage, the fire spreading to the cotton, other mounds of cloth bags. Men were moving ahead quickly, calling out for assistance, and he motioned to Dayton.

  “Go. See what’s in those cloth sacks. Cotton I don’t care about. But there should be some rations, grain and whatnot.”

  Dayton was past him quickly, other aides, more soldiers adding to the rush. Other soldiers were there already, coats waving, low flames beaten out. Dayton held up a handful of corn from one of the smoldering sacks, and Sherman nodded, thought, Good. At least there’s still something to put in the supply wagons.

  To one side, Howard said, “Another fire down that s
treet. Appears to be cotton. There’s smoke over that way as well.”

  Sherman saw citizens gathering at the low flames, a vain effort to extinguish the windblown fire that had engulfed a full bale. There were soldiers as well, and Sherman moved that way, prepared to give them a stern order, to help the civilians. But he heard their chorus, directed now toward him.

  “It’s Uncle Billy! We’re in for it now!”

  The others seemed to stumble about the man, and he saw the jug, said to Howard, “These men are intoxicated. Damn it all! You’d think these people would hide their whiskey, or at least send it off with the rebels. I want provost guards at every main intersection. I’ll not have looting from a bunch of corned-up soldiers. You understand me, General?”

  He knew Howard had no tolerance for drunken behavior, could see more men emerging from a side street, another jug, one man tumbling down face-first. Howard was already in motion, orders to his staff, and Sherman pulled on the reins, turned the horse away, saw Dayton coming back.

  “Not your job to put out fires, Major. McCoy should report back to us soon. I’ve had enough of this day. Send an aide out to find him. Every one of these damned people seemed jubilant that I’m here. I want to know if that mayor was right about the house we can use.”

  Dayton spoke to an aide, the man riding off quickly, and Sherman looked toward the drunken soldiers again, could not avoid the contrast to the escaped prisoners. He thought of the names, Byers, Otis. Those men have honor. They survived an ordeal most of us will never understand. And now we show them this kind of foolishness, shameful outrage. These citizens won’t be in such a celebratory way if they get our soldiers intoxicated.

  He saw McCoy now, riding quickly toward him, the aide riding beside.

  “Sir, we have a suitable place. The mayor was correct, sir. I spoke to Mr. Duncan. Indeed a Kentucky man, most gracious. His door is open to us, at our leisure.”