The Fateful Lightning

by Jeff Shaara

  “What are your orders, sir? I have examined the maps. I believe we can maintain a sufficient lead on Sherman’s vanguard, and I am confident that the cavalry can screen our movements to allow us to go as far as Raleigh unmolested.”

  He waited for a response, thought, He knows all of that. He is no doubt mapping out a route all the way to Petersburg. Or he knows that Lee is planning a move that would bring him south.

  Johnston didn’t look up, said, “General Hardee, you seem to be under the impression that I was appointed to this command in order to facilitate an ongoing retreat.”

  Hardee clamped his jaw tight, thought, Weren’t you? “I’m not certain what you are referring to, sir.”

  Johnston looked up at him now, a hint of a smile. “Don’t play a game with me, General. I am not endeavoring to unite our forces just so we can march away on the same road. I believe we have one hope.”

  Hardee thought, That word again.

  “Sir?”

  “Sherman’s army is advancing in two primary columns, two wings, with the cavalry screening mostly to their left flank. Correct?”

  “That has been his tendency, yes.”

  “Why would he change those tendencies? They have worked remarkably well. I have to admit, General, when I learned that he was intending to bypass Charleston by marching through those lowlands, through those horrific conditions, I thought him mad. I’ve seen those swamps, those rivers. I’ve seen what floodwaters can do to an army. And yet, he was not swallowed up. He was barely delayed at all. His decisions defy explanation, and yet they succeed. He has maintained a pace of march that I thought impossible, he has created roads where none exist. I admit, General, despite my loyalties, that Sherman has accomplished something remarkable.” Johnston paused. “It is possible that one day I could tell him that. He might not be a gentleman, but he has earned respect, even from his adversaries.”

  “He is still our adversary.”

  “Yes, and for that reason, and because he has been so unmolested, I believe we have an opportunity. As he marches north, the maps show diverse routes, roads that spread out with some distance between them. Sherman has no reason to fear us, and thus he might become careless. It is the only opportunity we are likely to have.”

  “You mean, attack him?”

  Johnston glared at Hardee now, as though he understood the insult. “Of course, attack him! It is my duty to make the best use of this army that I can. In the past, that has inflamed critics of my command, jokes at my expense, assumptions in Richmond that I am unwilling to fight. Be assured, General, there is still fight in this army. If Sherman allows himself to be careless, I intend to make him pay. If he unites his forces, and joins up with whatever troops Schofield brings from the seacoast, we have no chance of stopping him. But divided, it is a more equal fight. And, just like you, General, Sherman does not expect that we will assault him. But we will. I am quite certain that he is preparing himself for a valiant march into Virginia, already rehearsing what he will say to Grant, how they shall shake hands and embrace, and offer compliments to each other on their marvelous successes. But he is not prepared for a fight. And so, we shall give him one. With vigor.”

  —

  They marched northeast, a straight avenue that would take them to Goldsboro. But Hardee’s orders were specific. He was to keep ahead of Sherman at all costs, but at the same time delay the march just enough that he might tempt Sherman’s lead columns to engage. There was one purpose, and Hardee knew it did not include any real effort to defeat Sherman’s infantry. Johnston was continuing to bring together the scattered garrisons from their various outposts throughout North Carolina, a time-consuming effort on poor roads made even more difficult by the weather. What Johnston required was time, and Hardee’s was the only piece of Johnston’s army in a position to give it to him. For the cavalry, the harassment so common to both sides had turned uglier, part of that the response to both Kilpatrick and Wheeler accusing the other of various atrocities. With the armies now in much closer proximity to each other, it was becoming common for cavalry skirmishes to chatter through the pine woods and small towns on a daily basis. Whether anything would come of this was of minor concern to Hardee. His duty was clear. Keep ahead of Sherman, while slowing him down. If Hampton and Wheeler could do anything to aid that cause, Hardee had no objection at all.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  SEELEY

  NEAR SOLEMN GROVE, NORTH CAROLINA—MARCH 10, 1865

  There were no stars, the rain clouds still thick above them, nothing to offer the men a glimpse of anything but their own horses. Seeley rode slowly, focusing on the trail, his men keeping close, no one taking the chance of straggling. For too many days now, there had been skirmishing in almost every direction, the two cavalry forces keeping closer proximity than Seeley had ever experienced. The darkness had made the men unusually jumpy, but now, with so many Yankees in so many different places, no one needed a reminder to keep his mouth shut, and his horse under control.

  He stared at nothing, the pine woods around him smelling of swamp water, the only sound the low slurp of his horse’s hooves. He had hoped to find Wheeler on this trail, felt an agonizing tension, thought, There was one map. One scrap of paper. Gone now. Where the hell did I put the thing? We could be anyplace except where we’re supposed to be. Or we could be right where the map says we’re going, and wouldn’t know it until somebody opens fire on us.

  The orders had come from General Dibrell, passed down from Wheeler, who now answered to Wade Hampton. Whatever cavalry could be gathered in the vicinity of the two armies was presumed to be pulling together, as large a force as Hampton could assemble. With Sherman’s army advancing into North Carolina, the urgency was obvious to all of them, that the cavalry had to become a more effective arm of the entire army, and right now any kind of sharp strike on the Federal positions could be helpful in gaining time for Joe Johnston to pull together even more troops from the scattered outposts all through the state.

  Seeley had been given specific instructions, ride this trail until it ended, one of a dozen just like it, a spiderweb of routes through the pine woods and farmlands. In the darkness, any ride was dangerous, the Federal troopers just as eager as their counterparts to launch an assault, with as much surprise as possible.

  He didn’t know of any plan, just that the rendezvous was tricky, Hampton pulling together the men not in some convenient town, but in the middle of the woods, at night, with rain possible at any moment. Seeley knew nothing about Hampton beyond the man’s reputation, spoken of throughout South Carolina as one of the state’s favorite sons, and since the death of Jeb Stuart, Hampton was said to be the greatest horseman in the South. Seeley had never heard Wheeler speak that way, knew that in Tennessee there would be an argument to that from anyone who had ridden with Nathan Bedford Forrest, Seeley included. But for now Hampton was in command, and from the tone of the orders, something was happening, and Seeley’s men were to be a part of it.

  He tried to control his anxiousness, knew that the men had plenty of their own. Keep your calm, he thought. Don’t let on you’re scared. He glanced out into complete darkness, a slight breeze whispering through the pines, thought, One dog barks out here and the whole lot of us is liable to skedaddle in the other direction. Don’t you be leading the way. He heard a man’s voice, low, indistinct, halted the horse, the others doing the same behind him, following his lead. The sounds came past a thicket of trees, a hint of open ground beyond, and Seeley closed his eyes, tried to pick out the sounds. The voices came again, definite, clear, men talking in harsh whispers, and he opened his eyes, his heart racing, glanced behind him, dull shadows of his small column. He made a sharp hissing sound, the only order he would give them, nudged the horse forward again, pulled his pistol, the reins in one hand. The pistol was heavy, a light mist on his face, his breathing heavy, and he edged closer to the clearing, his mind trying to distinguish the shapes there, a cluster of men. Or bushes. He strained to see, had done this too
many times, searching the darkness for movement, his eyes tricking him, dancing images that were nothing at all.

  Another horse was beside him now, startling him, a hand on his arm. He couldn’t see faces at all, but he knew it was Gladstone, the telltale odor of tobacco spittle. Up ahead, the voices were clearer now, and he felt a hard tap on his arm from Gladstone, a soft whisper.

  “It’s our people.”

  Seeley kept his eyes on the dark images, cursed the sergeant in his mind, How do you know that, you crazy old man? But more images rolled into view, Seeley could see another column of horsemen, emerging from a road to one side of him, no more than fifty yards away. They halted, one man riding forward, more of the low talk, and Seeley knew the voice. It was Wheeler.

  He let out a long breath, felt like laughing, the tension of the moment passing, replaced by curiosity, just why he was there. He leaned close to Gladstone, said, “Hold them here. Let me check on this.”

  Seeley nudged the horse forward again, moving closer to the other column, keeping their place, while their commander moved into the clearing. He had a sudden burst of nervousness, that they might think he was…not one of them. He wanted to speak out, knew the orders, realized the pistol was still in his hand. Bad idea, he thought. One shot, even a dumb accident, and this whole place might become a blind battlefield. He holstered the Colt, moved closer to the head of the second column, said in a low voice, “Good night to be a ghost.”

  The man’s horse seemed to bolt, dancing from the man’s startled reaction, and Seeley pushed on past, moved into the clearing, no time for explanations to anyone he couldn’t see. The group in the clearing was formed in a circle, and Seeley moved up, a gap forming, slid his horse in between two others, realized now there were close to twenty men, surrounding three in the center. One of those men said in a low voice, “Who’s that, just come in?”

  “Captain Seeley, sir, 4th Tennessee.”

  Wheeler was one of the three, said, “He’s one of mine, sir. A Forrest man.”

  “Welcome, Captain. I’m General Hampton. By dawn we should make even General Forrest proud. This fellow beside me is General Butler. I’d introduce all of you, but that hardly matters. So far we’ve put together near fifteen hundred men. Your orders are very simple, and maybe not so. Simply put, we have located Kilpatrick’s camp, without being detected. At dawn, General Butler will lead a column on the road that passes through the swamp to the west of that camp. General Wheeler shall listen for the first firing, and lead his men off to the north of this position, which will put him in the rear of the enemy’s camp. Is Captain Bostick present?”

  A low voice came next to Seeley. “Right here, sir.”

  “Captain, as you know, you have the enviable job of finding and capturing General Kilpatrick. The rest of this force will do what we do best, and cause the enemy as many casualties, capture as many prisoners as our surprise will afford us. But capturing Kilpatrick is our primary goal.”

  Seeley was impressed, thought, This is big, enormous. He searched the dark shadows, thought, General Dibrell could be here, should be here. If he’s not, I’ll pay for it. He’ll want to know every word, and he’ll blame me for getting him lost. It’s just what he does.

  He strained again to see the faces, to identify any of the officers, knew only the figure of Wheeler, had seen him too many times before in black darkness. The generals were speaking together, low whispers, and now Hampton spoke again, just loud enough for the men to hear him.

  “Dawn. Try to rest your men until then. No bugles, no fires, nobody discharges a weapon. Kilpatrick’s camp is through these woods, that direction, not more than a half mile. Dismount with your men, pass along the orders. No conversation, no jokes, no foolishness. Keep close to your horse, in the event we are detected.”

  One of the men across from Seeley said, “Sir, how do we know where Kilpatrick himself might be?”

  Hampton whispered something to Butler, then said, “You’re late arriving. No matter. There is a house, the Monroe house. Stands out. Largest around. Captain Bostick shall move directly there, and put Kilpatrick under guard. We shall do all we can to come to his support, as events allow it. No more questions, gentlemen. Seek out each other, be aware of your location, the location of the rest of this command. This is a golden opportunity, and I shall not see it squandered by carelessness. Go now, to your men. When it is light enough to see the man’s face beside you, mount up, prepare to receive the command to attack.”

  Hampton moved out through the circle, Butler with him, the men making a path. Wheeler rode directly toward Seeley now, stopped the horse close beside him, said, “Where the hell have you been? Where’s Dibrell? McLemore? Porter?”

  “We made our way as best we could, sir. I haven’t seen any other senior officer since nightfall. General Dibrell ordered me to follow a map to this point.”

  The others had dispersed, and Wheeler seemed to wait for the rest to be out of earshot. He spoke in a low voice now, but not low enough, a volume that made Seeley cringe.

  “We finally have our chance, and Hampton gives the prize to one of Butler’s men. If you’d have been here sooner, I might have convinced him to let you do it.”

  Seeley kept his whisper. “Capture Kilpatrick?”

  “Yes, you simpleton. Now Butler can grab the glory. Well, you listen to me, young captain. You heard what Hampton said. Go to that large house. If that Captain Bostick gets his hind end caught in a sling, you can help him out of it. Or I will.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wheeler said nothing for a long moment, Seeley not certain what to do.

  “Sir, I should return to my men. We’re on that trail, back that way.”

  Wheeler turned his horse, hesitated a moment longer, waved a hand toward Seeley, then moved off. Seeley sat alone for a long minute, the quiet settling over the clearing. He absorbed Wheeler’s instructions, what seemed a direct contradiction to General Hampton’s orders. But Kilpatrick, he thought. I grab him, maybe with that other fellow, won’t matter. That’ll be a story to tell Katie. And the whole army, maybe.

  He pulled the reins, the horse moving to one side, spurred the animal gently, moved back toward his men. He had questions, wondering how they had found Kilpatrick’s camp, why Hampton had come, who Butler might be. I’ve got eighty men, and they’re talking over a thousand. Maybe two.

  He saw dismounted troopers, knew the shadow of Gladstone, the old man walking out to meet him.

  “Well, the brass monkeys tell you how to win the war?”

  Seeley climbed down from the horse, thought of Hampton’s instructions, the harsh orders, the care, the opportunity. He leaned close to Gladstone, said, “Yep. Just wait for daylight. If everybody can keep quiet, we’re gonna be a part of something pretty big.”

  Gladstone spit a stream of tobacco to one side of Seeley’s leg, a low laugh. “Heard that before, Captain. Just try to keep us from getting killed, so damn close to the end of this thing.”

  Seeley wouldn’t hear that, not now. He had nurtured too much of his own despair for too many months, realized he was a part of something enormous, a plan. For the first time in a very long time, he was excited.

  SOLEMN GROVE, NORTH CAROLINA—MARCH 11, 1865

  The daylight took an eternity to arrive, the low clouds keeping the wet darkness wrapped around the men like a cold blanket. But the faces were clear now, and he moved through them, passing along the orders, what was supposed to happen, what kind of opportunity there was. He was surprised by the lack of enthusiasm, nearly all the energy coming from him, the men too accustomed to disappointment, assaults that too often had become frantic retreats. He knew better than to cheer them on, the kind of mindless hoorahs that Dibrell would offer. Already men were moving in the trees around him, other trails, some pushing past the thin growth, gathering on the larger roads. He saw officers now, Wheeler leading the way, a slow, deliberate ride over soggy ground. Wheeler saw Seeley’s men, motioned them forward, made the same gesture t
o others, more columns moving out, gathering, several hundred men. There were low voices, no one speaking out, the instinct for the value of quiet. Seeley kept his eyes on Wheeler, saw some of the other senior officers, still no sign of Dibrell. Seeley heard the rattle, straight out through the woods, a crash of musket fire, all eyes that way. He held tight to the reins, felt for the pistol, the saber, habit, watched Wheeler, saw the man’s cold stare off toward the sound of the fight. Wheeler put one arm in the air now, no words, none needed. After a long second, the arm came down, and the men began to move.

  They rode as quickly as the woods would allow, the sounds of the fight growing in front of them. Seeley moved out to one flank, the woods to his left alive with horsemen, Wheeler somewhere in front. Seeley ducked tree limbs, the horse obedient, efficient, a quick glance back to his men, keeping up close, eyes on him, on the sounds to the front. To one side, men were in the woods, on foot, men in blue. Seeley wanted to call out, but the men were advancing toward the fight, as the horsemen were, what seemed like a skirmish line. Seeley pulled the pistol, but the Yankees paid no mind to the horsemen, and Seeley watched them, saw glances his way, no recognition, thought, They think we’re Yankees! He nudged the horse closer to the main body, putting distance between his men and the foot soldiers, those men nearly gone, blocked by the timber. He was frantic, fought to keep the horse in a slow gait, the pounding in his chest ruling his brain, his hand finding the butt of the pistol, the voice screaming through him, Let’s go!

  The woods began to give way, smoke now finding them, the sounds of men, screaming, shouts, more firing. They were in the clear now, the village laid out in front of him, men in motion in every direction, many men on foot, a mad scramble through small houses, open yards, a narrow street, a wider road. The attack was utter confusion, men with sabers high, a line of horsemen, riding hard, colliding with another line, men in blue. The fights were singular, duels with sabers, pistol fire, men chasing down the men on foot. Seeley moved out into an open area, trying to find some order, glanced back, his men still with him. There were Yankees coming out of the small houses, some barely dressed, strapping on belts, swords, running for a corral of horses.