The Fateful Lightning

by Jeff Shaara

  The column was slowing again, Hardee crossing a small, clear stream, allowing the men to fill their canteens. Many of the men garrisoned at Charleston had never made a forced march, and even the veterans rarely had to push through these dismal pine woods, lacking decent cover, decent clothing, and nearly any kind of rations.

  Roy moved up beside him, said in a low voice, “Willie’s about to drive me to desert. With all respect, sir. He keeps bragging about all he’s going to do to Sherman when they meet.”

  Hardee looked back among the men, saw his son kneeling low at the creek, speaking to one of the sergeants, the man patiently ignoring the boy. “What would you have me do? If his mother were alive, I’d have every excuse to send him on to Raleigh, but Mary is not his mother. And he’s too full of vinegar to take anyone’s advice.”

  “You could have ordered him, flat out.”

  Hardee had thought of that long and hard, shook his head now. “No. He may never get an opportunity like this again. No matter how this ends, for good or bad, he has to prove to me he’s a soldier. A father’s curse, I suppose. He sees my uniform, has to find a way to wear it. Just try to keep him out of trouble, Tom. I can’t be watching over him, and worrying about the enemy, too.”

  “Of course, sir. I’ll keep him underfoot, as best he’ll let me.”

  There was a rider coming forward, along the column, and Hardee saw the look, another dose of despair.

  Roy said, “That’s General Wright’s man, Long.”

  “I know. Got something to say, for certain.”

  Long moved up close, a crisp salute, said, “Sir, I have been ordered to communicate to you General Wright’s respects, and inform you that we have received a dispatch by rider, crossing the river behind us. The man was in considerable hurry, sir, and made great sacrifice to deliver his charge.”

  “What kind of charge, Captain?”

  “Sir, the general has received an urgent plea from Governor Brown that he return to Georgia. I must also report, sir, that General Mercer has been summoned as well.”

  Hardee soaked up the man’s uneasiness, said, “Why? In God’s name, why?”

  “Sir, General Wright is obeying the wishes of his state’s executive. General Mercer has been summoned by General Cobb, to lead his remaining troops to the garrison at Macon.”

  “For what purpose? There is no war at Macon.”

  Long glanced at Roy, cleared his throat. “Sir, I apologize for not being better informed. All I was told is that Governor Brown has ordered the Georgia militia still with this column to return to their native state, to attend to their agricultural fields, sir.”

  Hardee stared at the man, wanted to be angry at him, but he knew that Long was just conveying a message that Wright himself was too sheepish to deliver in person. “Where is General Wright, Captain?”

  “At the rear of this column, sir. He is assembling those units mentioned in the governor’s order.”

  “And he did not feel there was time to inform me himself?”

  Long hesitated, and Hardee saw the answer to his question. “I was only ordered to deliver his message, sir. The general regrets he cannot accompany your army farther. With your permission, sir, I must return.”

  “Certainly. I wouldn’t want to cause any delay for Governor Brown. These men will have fields to plant in a couple of months.”

  He regretted the sarcasm, the captain absorbing it with obvious discomfort. Long began to turn his horse away, then stopped, said, “General Hardee, may the Almighty keep you safe. This war can still be won, with His blessing.”

  “Was that a part of General Wright’s message as well?”

  He saw a different look on Long’s face now, sadness. “No, sir. It is my own wish, sir. I have respect for your command, and it has been a privilege serving under you.”

  Hardee could not fault the young man, the salute coming up, Hardee answering it as crisply as it was offered. “Thank you, Captain. Safe journeys to you as well. Should the enemy reverse himself and make another assault against Georgia, I am certain your state is in capable hands.”

  Long did not delay, rode away without looking back. Roy said, “What kind of nonsense is this? Forgive me, sir, but this is an outrage!”

  Hardee raised a hand. “Quiet, Major. No need to add to this army’s discomfort. They shall learn soon enough how their numbers are diminishing. Our greatest hope right now is that Sherman is not made aware of that.”

  CHERAW, SOUTH CAROLINA—MARCH 2, 1865

  He had formed a defensive position suited to the number of men still remaining in his command. As the army continued their march, stalled by more rain, and the lack of food and forage, desertions had become routine, each morning’s roll call revealing fewer men in every unit. The greatest number of desertions had come from the South Carolina regiments, those men quick to realize that Hardee was marching them closer each day to the North Carolina border. At Cheraw, there was at least the opportunity for the men to find rations, to rest wounded feet and lame animals. For days now, Hardee had no real idea just where Sherman was, but with Hampton’s cavalry finally making an appearance, Hardee learned that Sherman was moving directly toward him. If there were advantages to Cheraw for the Confederates, Sherman seemed to be eager to reach the town first.

  Hardee rode among the workers, as he had done at Savannah, watching their spirit, the labor ongoing with a weariness he had not seen before. He knew it wasn’t the march alone, that these men welcomed each morning with a miserable question, just who among them had vanished in the night. Hardee had already made the effort to reorganize his forces, Lafayette McLaws and William Taliaferro his two remaining ranking generals. Both were veterans, though neither man inspired the kind of leadership Hardee required. And so Hardee rode through their newly dug earthworks, making his best effort at inspiring the men to dig just a little faster.

  The staff trailed behind him, his son Willie calling out to the men with the kind of cheerfulness that inspired curses. Hardee tried to ignore that, kept as much distance as he could between himself and his boy, knew that very soon, it might be time to yank the boy’s leash with a firm pull.

  “Sir, the aides report there are rations back at the camp wagon. One of the aides lassoed a hog.”

  Hardee turned, saw Pickett looking at him, hunger and hopefulness in the man’s face. He could not hide from the rumbling in his own belly, scanned the laborers, who mostly ignored him. “I suppose we must not starve ourselves. Lead the way, Colonel.”

  Pickett nodded, smiling, a show of gratefulness, turned his horse. Hardee noticed the animal’s ribs, one more mount that would not survive much longer. He glanced down at his own horse, knew the animal had been given preference for the meager forage they had found along the way, a privilege of command Hardee never took for granted. He spurred the horse gently, moved up closer to Pickett, who said, “Not very much generosity from the citizens hereabouts. Their morale is about what we have in the camps. It’s a terrible thing to witness.”

  “Defeat?”

  Pickett seemed surprised at the word. “The soldiers seem to feel that. Some of ’em, anyway. The people, mostly it’s hope. They were preached to for so long about how grand our independence would be, how President Davis was leading us to a Promised Land.”

  “You ever believe that?”

  Pickett thought a moment. “I wanted to.”

  “We all wanted something, Bill. I wanted to lead men into battle. All I was ever trained to do. Led good men, some good fights. It was never the men, Bill. Never. Those same politicians who preached so loudly never had to face the enemy, never knew what kind of steel it took to fight. The generals who led these men…some of them weren’t fit to lead a schoolyard of children. Maybe that applies to me.”

  “Certainly not, sir.”

  “What have I given this army lately, Colonel? What inspiration do they find by my presence?”

  “Plenty, if I may say. You’re here, after all. Where is Beauregard? Or Bragg?”<
br />
  “It doesn’t always work like that. Not every general rides at the head of a column, or charges into a fight with his men. The ones who were good at that, who enjoyed that…well, most of them are gone. I suppose there’s a lesson in that.”

  He could smell the cooking pork, was suddenly ravenous, took a swig of water from his canteen. The smoke was rising from near the lone wagon, officers huddled close, all eyes on the roasting meat. There were others now, gathering slowly, drawn by the same aroma that engulfed him, a hundred or more, emerging from the trees, from the small road that led into the town. He stopped the horse, Pickett moving on, and Hardee felt sick, couldn’t ignore the pain in the faces of the men. He spurred the horse, moved up close to the wagon, called out, “Officers! Stand aside. Who is the cook here?”

  “Here, sir!”

  He saw a familiar face, the man holding a small pitchfork, two black men behind him, stoking the fire.

  “You will provide a serving of that meat to every man in the ranks who requests it. Officers shall receive theirs when the men have been fed.”

  “Sir, there won’t be enough. It’s just one old hog. Maybe a two-hundred-pounder.”

  “Then make the servings smaller. We find another hog, or a beef cow, or a single chicken, you will do the same.”

  The man looked at Hardee with a puzzled stare, and Hardee said, “Is there confusion about my order?”

  “None, sir. Just…can’t say I ever heard one like that before.”

  Hardee ignored the comment, moved the horse slowly away from the wagon, the gathering crowd of soldiers looking both at the wagon, and him. He pointed to one side of the fire, said, “You men will line up here.” He paused, saw the men with nothing but bare hands. “Use your shirts, if you have to. It could be hot.”

  He glanced toward the cluster of officers now, saw undisguised agony. Pickett was back beside him again, said in a whisper, “You picked one fine time to be polite. I got spit slobbering down my shirt.”

  Hardee had no need to offer an explanation, said softly, “Maybe next time. These men decide to up and leave tonight, these officers will have the whole commissary to themselves. I’d rather not experience that.”

  The officers began to separate, audible mumbles Hardee tried not to hear. From the town Hardee could see a handful of soldiers, accompanied by a pair of civilians, the men in a frantic dash toward him. Pickett seemed to welcome the distraction, said, “What’s the matter with them? Looks like something’s happening.”

  Hardee watched them coming, thought, Everything that happens lately seems to be bad. But there were smiles from the men, the soldiers whooping, one man jumping, hands waving high.

  Hardee said, “The telegraph. Must be. The line still runs north.”

  He spurred his horse, cutting the distance between them, could hear the cheerfulness, the smiles broken by exhausted breathing. One man staggered close to him, his hand holding a piece of paper.

  “Sir! General! It’s deliverance, sir!”

  The paper reached Hardee’s hand, the man collapsing to his knees in gleeful exhaustion. Hardee felt a nervous stir inside him, steadied his hand, opened the folded paper.

  “It’s a telegram, all right.”

  Pickett leaned close, said, “Well? Please, General. You’re not gonna let me eat, at least let me in on the secret.”

  Hardee lowered the paper, stared ahead, his mind working, drifting, his thoughts scattered by fatigue, hunger, trying to gather what might happen now. “Won’t be secret for long. We need to share this with the men. Seems our new commanding general, General Lee, has some ideas for us that didn’t come out of Richmond. I doubt the president would have suggested this on his own. They hate each other, you know.”

  “Lee? I thought he and the president were friends.”

  Hardee pulled himself back to the place, the moment, the men around him. Some were curious about the commotion, the ones with meat in their hands coming closer in a loose crowd. Hardee turned the horse, called out, “Gentlemen, if you please. We have received word. By order of the commanding general, Robert E. Lee, General Joseph E. Johnston has been named to command of this entire theater of the war, superior to Generals Beauregard, Bragg, and, well…Hardee.”

  The men erupted in loud cheers, more men running that way, the word passing with windy speed. Hardee watched the spreading joy, the sudden outburst of elation. He tried to share that, to feel the contagiousness of it, looked again at the wire. No, he thought, the president would not have suggested this. Lee knows Johnston well, knows what he can do, better than any commander in this army. Joe Johnston is a master of the retreat.

  He continued to watch the soldiers, the word spreading out through the trees, through more of the camps. He glanced at Pickett, said, “You cheered by this, Bill?”

  “I suppose so, sir. Old Joe coming back? That will give them, well, hope, sir. This might be the blessing we need.”

  Hope. Hardee said nothing, rolled the word through his brain. He searched for the feeling, for renewed optimism, but the tactician in him could only see the numbers, the plans, the strategy. He moved the horse away, would not say anything to dampen anyone’s spirits, not even his friend, Pickett, or anyone else on his staff. He saw his son now, the boy on horseback, riding hard, a self-appointed messenger, spreading the word to anyone who would hear it. And they will hear it, he thought. They will see this as a sign, a symbol, that the confusion and uncertainty will be replaced by…what? Victory? He shook his head, moved away from the joy of his men, thought, No, what Johnston will give us is spirit, at least for a while. And when that is exhausted, perhaps we can say he at least gave us a little more time.

  —

  As the night fell, the cavalry scouts rode hard into camp, the dispatch even more urgent than Hardee expected. For a few days, there had been delay, the Federal army caught behind the high water of the Wateree River. But those waters had fallen, and now both wings of Sherman’s army were marching in a rapid advance to occupy the town of Cheraw. There could be no hesitation, no futile optimism that his feeble defenses would hold Sherman’s juggernaut away. With his artillery and baggage trains sent safely northward, across the Pee Dee River, Hardee gave the order to his men. The march would resume, northward, across the border into North Carolina.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  SHERMAN

  HANGING ROCK, SOUTH CAROLINA—MARCH 2, 1865

  He had hoped by now to be in close pursuit of Hardee’s army, confirmation reaching him that Charleston had been abandoned, and those troops were on a route that should cross his own path. He had ordered the commanders to march with all speed, but as had happened so many times throughout the campaign, the weather had failed them. Rain-swollen creeks slowed every column, and Sherman had ordered his own camp to remain at Hanging Rock until the pontoons could be put to use.

  He was traveling with his Twentieth Corps, commanded by Alpheus Williams, one part of Slocum’s left wing. The other, Jeff Davis’s Fourteenth Corps, had been trapped behind the Catawba River, their pontoon bridge swept away by the rising water. A frustrated Sherman could only make camp and wait, hoping that the rains that were again plaguing his army might also work to slow down the enemy.

  —

  “How long does he anticipate?”

  The courier was shivering, soaked through from his ride, and Sherman tried to temper his questions, couldn’t fault this man for his efforts.

  “Sir, General Davis is most distressed by the lack of progress. The engineers are making use of every kind of material to reconstruct a workable bridge. The waters are most unforgiving, sir.”

  “In other words, General Davis has no idea whatsoever how long it will take him to cross that damned river.”

  The man was shaking visibly now, and Sherman wondered if it was the cold wetness in the man’s clothes as much as it was intimidation in Sherman’s presence.

  “No, sir. I assure you, sir, the general is hard at work.”

  Sherman ro
se from the dining table, moved toward an energetic fire in the brick hearth. He had no idea whose house this was, just that the staff had found the first place they could dry their clothes. But even now, the roof above him was leaking, a steady drizzle of rainwater flowing into a hole hammered through the floor. Sherman stepped past that, warmed his hands at the fire.

  “Sergeant, you may share this warmth. I will not attack you.”

  The man eased closer, as though not quite believing him, but the fire was too inviting, the courier standing beside Sherman now, the floor there growing wetter from the man’s dripping clothes. “Thank…thank you, sir. I apologize for intruding into your headquarters.”

  “You had a job to do. You did it. No need for you to court some illness by staying out in this miserable weather any more than you have to.”

  CHESTERFIELD, SOUTH CAROLINA—MARCH 3, 1865

  As General Davis finally pushed the Fourteenth Corps past the stubborn Catawba River, Sherman began to move again, alongside the Twentieth Corps. But the weather was unrelenting, the roads so poor that nearly every yard had to be corduroyed, a process that slowed the army still, and drove Sherman to utter fury.

  As the troops marched into the village of Chesterfield, they were met with a hard skirmish line, what was quickly identified as cavalry under the command of Matthew Butler, whose horsemen had most recently been observed around Lee’s position at Petersburg. It was one more piece of evidence for Sherman that the rebels were scrambling with any maneuver they could, holding off both Grant and Sherman with numbers that likely were diminishing daily. The skirmish was brief, Butler’s men moving away quickly, unwilling to stand up against a wave of blue infantry.

  The staff found him yet another house, what had once been a grand plantation home, now a run-down structure whose sole asset was an unleaking roof. As the staff prepared the place, aides were sent out to the commanders with specifics on Sherman’s location.

  He stepped into the house on bare floors, wet boots tracking their way into a foyer, a parlor, a sitting area still with furnishings. The owner was an old man, his wife seemingly older, a frail-looking couple who stood silently to the side, acknowledging their helplessness. Sherman found a comfortable chair, the only one available, sat heavily, eyed the old couple as they eyed him.