The Fateful Lightning

by Jeff Shaara

  Franklin understood immediately that he had been far more fortunate than most of the others. If Clara had accompanied him, the orders could certainly have applied to her, one more mouth the army was struggling to feed. And, for his work with Colonel Jones, and the camps of the 113th Ohio, Franklin had been given a choice, whether to make the journey toward some unknown opportunity or to remain with the army. For him, there was no option at all. If there was land to be provided the former slaves, a place to begin some new kind of life, he had to believe that the army, or at least the colonel, would see that he received his share. But that could come later. It was clear to him that the war was still being fought, rebel cavalry still skirting the Federal march, the men he marched with still caring for their muskets. Until that had passed, and he could go back to Clara and not fear some kind of punishment, he would stay with Colonel Jones.

  NEAR AVERASBORO, NORTH CAROLINA—MARCH 16, 1865

  The musket fire had been straight in front of them, Franklin as mystified as the men around him just what was happening. But the riders came quickly, horsemen moving back along the column, carrying reports to the officers somewhere to the rear. The column had been ordered to halt, the men standing in deep mud as more riders passed by, both directions. Out front, the firing had grown louder, ambulances coming toward them, filled with wounded men, pulled by struggling horses that slogged through the mud, forcing the column of soldiers off to the side of the road. He had felt the first real fear then, the sounds of the fight rising up far more menacing than the hiss of the rain. But then the orders came, the men called back into the road, moving forward. He had gone with them at first, terrifying confusion, had finally seen Colonel Jones, but the man had concerns of his own, could only tell Franklin to stay back, keep out of the way. Franklin had obeyed, settling into some wet brush, watching as more soldiers moved forward, straight toward the sound of the guns. The ambulances passed by him all day long, Franklin feeling a guttwisting fear that these soldiers were dying, all of them, that something awful had happened, something no one had expected. He sat curled up in the shadow of a gnarled oak tree, his mind spewing out questions, no answers. His fears centered first on Colonel Jones, then on the others, anyone he knew, and then, the greatest fear of all, that Sherman was there, would die, along with the others, that somehow it had all gone terribly wrong. And then, even as the rain continued, the fight had ended.

  —

  He saw Colonel Jones, a shelter-half serving as a makeshift tent, the rains still blowing through the trees. Franklin was suffering from a hard chill, moved with quick steps trying to relieve the cold in his bones, his clothes thick with icy water. As he saw familiar faces, he felt breathless relief, the sight of the colonel inspiring tears. He wanted to call out, a boisterous greeting, but Jones was speaking to another officer, serious faces, and Franklin held a clamp on his joy, knew to stay back. The adjutant was there now, a new man Jones had added to his staff in Savannah, near the time Jones had received his promotion. He was very young, seemed to carry his authority with a little more pride than he had yet to earn, served the colonel mostly with the handling of dispatches, receiving the orders that were passed down to the regiment. Franklin felt immediately that the young man regarded Franklin as a curiosity, speaking of him as though Franklin couldn’t hear his words. The man’s name was Hartmann, but Jones always called him simply lieutenant.

  Hartmann saw Franklin now, moved out toward him, away from the other officers, said, “Hey! Wondered where you run off to. Didn’t think we’d see you again. We had us a scrap, sure enough.” He moved closer to Franklin, as though sharing a secret. “That fellow there’s General Mitchell, commands the brigade. He put us straight into the fight, he did.”

  Franklin stood shivering, Hartmann seemingly oblivious.

  “Excuse me, sir, but can I get a blanket, or maybe some rations?”

  Hartmann moved away, responding to a call from Jones, who saw Franklin now.

  “Well, good. Get over here!”

  Franklin saw a hint of a smile, was suddenly grateful Jones remembered who he was.

  Hartmann said, “Saw him lurking out there in the brush. He best be careful doing that kind of foolishness. Somebody might think he’s a spy.”

  “I ain’t no spy. Just did what the colonel told me to do. Stayed out of the way.”

  Jones motioned him to come in under the shelter, said, “General Mitchell, this is my camp aide, Mr. Franklin. Been with me since well back in Georgia.”

  Mitchell was young, stern-faced, nodded briefly toward Franklin, said, “Fine. Colonel, we’re moving out in the morning. General Morgan’s been ordered to lead the division along the road toward Goldsboro. He says Sherman’s not too happy with our little fight. We’re to make up time as best we can. Our brigade was the only one from the entire Fourteenth Corps that took part in the scrap, and General Davis wants to know what in blazes we were doing. Might cost me this star, and it’s not even warm yet. I’ll be at division headquarters if you need me. General Morgan expects me to take the heat from General Davis. Guess I’d better.”

  Mitchell moved away into the rain, and Jones seemed to wait, then said to Hartmann, “Get Mr. Franklin something to eat. I was worried about you, you know. The rebels tossed up a big mess in front of us, and we had no place to go but straight at them. I got word from Colonel Mitchell—ah, General Mitchell—that we were needed. We were in the van of the whole Fourteenth Corps, and some say we bailed out a couple of the Twentieth’s divisions by ourselves. Not sure if that’s true, but I’ll believe anything they want to tell me.”

  The words flowed over Franklin, and he said, “I heard the fight. Sounded pretty bad. He’s a colonel or a general?”

  Jones laughed. “Mitchell? Just made him a brigadier general in January. I’ve always called him colonel. Have to get used to that. He still calls me captain once in a while. The army has its ways, especially in the middle of a war. I try not to think about that.”

  Franklin was completely confused, didn’t yet understand the distinctions about rank. Hartmann was there now, handed Franklin a wad of hardtack.

  “Here it is. Best we got right now.”

  Jones said to Hartmann, “Go to the 108, talk to Captain Jordan. Ask him if they’ve got anything better to eat. Most of the men are worrying more about our wounded than what we’re having for dinner.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hartmann seemed to sag, pulled his collar up tight to his neck, splashed his way out through the thin woods.

  Franklin said, “Wounded? You done lost some men, then?”

  “We took casualties. Problem is, there’s no place to leave ’em. Anybody goes down, we have to carry ’em with us. We’re still in rebel country. North Carolina’s not turning out to be what we were told. The high brass thought these people would rally around us. I guess Sherman thought North Carolina is mostly Union in sentiment. Doesn’t seem that way. I get hit with a musket ball, I don’t want anybody leaving me with these people. Where’d you spend the fight? Hide out?”

  “Just sat by the road. Found a tree, kept some of the rain off. I never heard a fight before, not like that. Scared me, sir. Didn’t know what to think.”

  “It wasn’t all that bad. The rebels put a roadblock in our path. Stubborn bunch. It took some doing, but we pushed ’em away. But headquarters is spitting snake venom our way, saying we need to make up for the lost time. Not sure if we’re chasing those same rebels or if they took another way out of here. All they tell me is get these men in the road and go, soon as daylight shows.”

  “Where we going?”

  Jones removed his hat, ran a hand through wet hair. “They don’t tell me that. We follow the folks marching in front of us. If I want to know where we’re going, I can ask once we get there.”

  SOUTHWEST OF BENTONVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA—MARCH 19, 1865

  The sounds of musket fire drifted toward them, digging into Franklin like a knife blade, the same cold-chested fear he had felt at Aver
asboro. The troops seemed unaffected, continued their march on the soggy roads, the only change the number of riders that moved alongside the column. But with the riders came orders, and Franklin kept his place close behind Jones, a color bearer to one side, the adjutant Hartmann just behind. Most of the horsemen had gone on by, but now, one man reined up, Jones responding with a salute, both men dismounting, a quick jog off the side of the road. Franklin stepped out of the column, unsure what he was supposed to do, moved closer to Jones and the other officer, the man showing Jones a map, one hand motioning toward the front of the column. Jones called out to his adjutant now, a hard edge to his voice, “Lieutenant, pass along the order to the companies. There’s open ground ahead. Move out to the right, keep in contact with the 108. We’re to position on their right flank. Vandever’s brigade will be to our right. Move, Lieutenant!”

  Hartmann seemed to animate, raw excitement in the young man’s face. He spurred the horse, spinning in the muddy road, shouted, “Yes, sir!”

  Jones returned to his horse, ignored Franklin, another officer moving up, a handful of aides, another flag, larger. The face was familiar, the man Franklin had met in the camp, and Jones said, “General Mitchell, just had an adjutant from General Morgan here, placing us to Vandever’s left.”

  “I know that, dammit! I’ve been with him for a half hour. The rebels are in strength all across our front. Carlin’s moved the First Division to the left of the road, and he ran into a hornet’s nest. Make tracks, Colonel! We don’t yet know what we’re facing. But it’s no skirmish line.”

  The sounds from the fight were growing, seemed to be closer, Franklin staring that way, nothing to see. Hartmann returned now, and Jones shouted to him, “Let’s ride, Lieutenant. We have any couriers about?”

  “No, sir. Just…me.”

  “No good. I need you with me. You ever positioned troops under fire?”

  Hartmann hesitated, and Franklin had seen the look before, a man too frightened to speak. After a long second, Hartmann said, “No, sir.”

  “Time to learn! Keep your eye on the colors of the 108. No gaps between us, you understand?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Jones saw Franklin now, seemed to weigh a decision, Franklin feeling the weight of Jones’s thoughts. “Fall into line! Stay close to me, if you can. You wanted to be in the army, well, I might need you. I don’t have the horses to keep in touch with the other regiments. Might have to be you. Can you follow orders?”

  Franklin felt a sudden burst of pride, said, “I been following orders my whole life, sir.”

  “Keep up front of the column. When we spread into battle lines, you stay where I can see you. You run away, I never want to see you in my camp again.”

  Franklin was surprised by the anger he saw in Jones’s face, but Jones was looking toward the sound of the guns now, and Franklin moved up beside the horse, one hand on the animal’s rump.

  “Tell you what, Colonel. You don’t run off, I won’t, neither.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  FRANKLIN

  SOUTH OF BENTONVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA—MARCH 19, 1865

  The fight had begun early, one division of the Fourteenth Corps struck hard by a column of rebels that their commander, William Carlin, did not expect to see. As Carlin’s men flowed out into the fields, they encountered skirmishers, Wade Hampton’s dismounted cavalry. Skirmish lines had rarely been a challenge for massed infantry, and Carlin ordered his men forward, expecting the rebels to back away. But Hampton was supported by infantry, a far stronger force than Carlin was prepared to assault. Carlin continued forward, obeying the orders of his corps commander, General Davis, who believed that the rebels could be shoved aside. Instead Carlin drew the attention of numerous Confederate troops, driven forward by their commander, William Hardee. After a brutal fight, Carlin’s division became seriously outflanked, and aided by the presence of several artillery batteries, Hardee’s men drove Carlin back in disarray.

  To the right, Morgan’s division moved out as ordered, what should have been the right wing below the main road, opposite Carlin’s position above. But Carlin’s entire front had become a vicious battleground, and already reinforcements had been sent forward by Davis to hold back Hardee’s men. Hardee continued the fight, reassured by the presence of Braxton Bragg, whose troops had moved into line on Hardee’s left, opposite the Federal right flank. But Bragg delayed, uncertain just what lay in his path, even as the fight swirled through both open ground and thickets of woods across Hardee’s entire position. By late afternoon the left wing of the Federal position had collapsed, Carlin’s men falling back into the advancing line of Slocum’s Twentieth Corps, men hurrying forward to stem the rebel tide. On the Federal right, Morgan’s division, the brigades of Mitchell and Vandever, backed up by a third brigade commanded by General Ben Fearing, stood alone, facing the newly positioned battle lines commanded by Bragg. With little happening to Morgan’s front, his corps commander, Jeff Davis, ordered Morgan’s reserves, Fearing’s brigade, to pull away from supporting Mitchell and Vandever and move out farther to the left. Davis’s hope was that Fearing would drive directly into the exposed left flank of Hardee’s rebels, which could help the Federal reinforcements he had already sent forward in sweeping the field of Hardee’s victorious troops.

  But the confusion was overwhelming. Fearing did find rebel troops, but those men were scattered and disorganized, making a fight on their own, a challenge for Fearing’s compact lines. The rebels didn’t recoil as Davis had hoped, and reacted to Fearing’s appearance by settling into whatever cover they could find, content to trade volleys with Fearing’s men. With the broken Federal line now strengthened by the rapid advance of troops from the Twentieth Corps, the fight settled into a slugfest, the Federals backing into the cover of heavy timber, while Hardee’s rebels shoved and prodded their way into any opening they could find.

  By four in the afternoon, Braxton Bragg had finally satisfied himself that his share of the Confederate front was now prepared to participate in the attack. Across from them was a line of trees, manned by skirmishers from Illinois. Behind the skirmishers stood the two brigades of Mitchell and Vandever.

  —

  “We’re out of contact! Damn it all!” The cluster of officers absorbed the fury of their division commander, Morgan pacing furiously. “General Davis took our reserves, and now we don’t even know what’s happened to Fearing! The only word we have received is that he’s taking heavy fire from two sides. I have no idea what’s happening north of the road. All I hear is a storm of artillery and musketry! I haven’t received any orders from General Davis, and I’m not even certain he’s on the field!”

  Morgan looked out to the rear of the formation, an aide galloping in, the man dismounting in a tumble.

  “General! There’s a gap between our left and any other troops. Except rebels, sir. I nearly ran slam into ’em. The whole world is full of rebs, sir!”

  Morgan stopped moving, glanced out over the men, most of those at work creating a defensive line. “Not this part of the world, Corporal.” Morgan focused on Mitchell now. “General Mitchell, your brigade is my left flank. I do not know what lies out farther left, beyond the main Goldsboro Road. Right now we cannot concern ourselves with any of that. All we know is there is a considerable number of the enemy beyond the tree line to our front. Have we heard anything from the skirmishers?”

  One of the officers said, “Just that the rebels are forming into lines. They’re not coming yet.”

  Morgan faced that way again, said, “What the hell are they waiting for? They know we’re here, no doubt.” He turned to the two brigade commanders again. “General Vandever, you’re the right. There’s two halves to this puzzle, and right now it’s all we can count on. Go to your commands. It’s getting late, but there’s plenty of daylight.”

  The thunder of artillery came again from the far left, what they had heard now for hours. Mitchell said, “They could be coming at us from that direction. Maybe
that’s what those fellows are waiting for out in front of us. They hit our flank, it’ll be a simple matter to swallow us up.”

  Morgan mounted his horse, said, “There’s too much firing up above the road. Somebody’s holding the rebs’ attention. All I know is that Slocum was sending the Twentieth Corps up here fast as they could march. The rebels don’t have that many troops in the whole state. I won’t speak out against General Carlin, but if his men gave way like it appears, he must certainly have run into something he wasn’t prepared for. I won’t have that here. Prepare to be attacked, and prepare to drive them back. And if they come again, drive them back again. It’s that simple. Now, go!”

  —

  Franklin’s hands were blistered, but the axe swung down hard, the tree toppling slowly, men swarming over it, trimming the limbs. To one side of him, Captain Gorman called out, “Move that up here! Stack it up. Good!”

  On both sides of Franklin, men hoisted the log, Franklin setting it on his shoulder, moving in step with the others, the log placed on a stack of a half-dozen more. Franklin felt the stiffness in his back, pains in both arms, licked at the blisters on his palms. Beside him, Sergeant Knight knelt, seemed in pain, and Franklin bent low, said, “You need help?”

  Knight shook his head, stood slowly, said, “Just taking a minute to rest these damned bones. These logs oughta hold back anybody. Just hope we get a chance to try it out.”