The Fateful Lightning

  He picked up another stick of fat pine, rolled it over in his hand. Hood throws his people away like kindling in a bonfire. He repeated the words to himself, dropped the stick in the fire, thought, You should write poetry, maybe. Well, no. You’d just say something stupid again, get yourself in trouble. Grant’s pants. Lee’s knees. Hardee’s party. Might be easier than you think to make up rhymes. He thought a moment. Nothing rhymes with Thomas. All right, Sherman, let it go. Vermin Sherman. Yep, that’s what they’ll say. Just keep your mouth shut and fight the damned war.

  Hitchcock added more fuel to the fire, the flames now high enough to warm them both. He reached into his coat pocket, retrieved a scrap of something Sherman couldn’t see. “Oh, sir, look here. Picked up a piece of this Spanish moss. Good keepsake. I’ve seen it before, in Alabama, but not in such an abundance as they have here. Did you know that when it gets wet, it turns green?”

  “I am pleased you find time for souvenirs, Major. It’s not exactly rare. There will be a great deal more ahead of us. You got the itch yet?”

  Hitchcock reacted by scratching his arm. “Itch…yes, sir. All day. How did you know that, sir?”

  “The moss. Some kind of bug lives in it, I think. I tried sleeping on a bed of the stuff once. Never do that again. Spent half a day sitting in a creek bed, trying to get the bug bites to go away.”

  Hitchcock held out the small piece of moss, tossed it now on the fire. The smoke grew thick, and Sherman waved it away with his hand.

  “Dammit, Major, it doesn’t burn worth a hoot. Not wet anyway.”

  “Sorry, sir. At least I know why I’ve been scratching.”

  “Better than snakebite. Plenty of those to be had out here, too.”

  He heard an audible shiver from Hitchcock, couldn’t help a smile. Step lively, Major. Or stay on your damn horse.

  The rains had stopped, the breeze blowing colder, and Sherman heard men stirring, curious about the fresh fire. He said in a low voice, “Don’t really want to draw attention, Major. Let them sleep. Move away.”

  “Oh, certainly, sir.” Hitchcock stood back from the fire, followed Sherman out through the darkness. Sherman began to miss the cigar, felt the chill on his bare legs, remembered he was in his nightclothes. All I need now is for that Conyngham fellow to show up. He’ll want to tell the world how I run this army in bedclothes.

  After a long moment, Hitchcock said, “Sir, are you intending to inquire of General Davis what occurred tonight?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, dear. You were not informed? That is my fault, certainly.”

  “I don’t like mysteries, Major.”

  “Sir, we do not have all the details, but General Baird was most disturbed by reports from his staff that General Davis ordered that at least one column of the Fourteenth Corps cross the creek a ways back, and when the troops were across, General Davis ordered that passage be refused the Negroes.”

  “What do you mean, ‘passage be refused’?”

  “According to General Baird, sir, General Davis removed his pontoon bridges before the Negroes could cross. A great many of them were left behind. General Baird intends to seek some official remonstrance against General Davis.”

  Sherman closed his eyes, shook his head. “Is the Fourteenth Corps in its camps, in position for our march tomorrow?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe so, sir.”

  “Then General Davis did what he had to do to get his people in the right place, including Baird’s division. In every column, the slaves are strung out like threads from a worn pants leg. We cannot slow our progress just to accommodate them. I made it plain to every senior commander that the Negroes be encouraged to remain at their homes.”

  He was angry now, felt a nagging annoyance at Absalom Baird. He trusted Baird, actually liked the man, knew that Baird had been one of Sherman’s most accomplished generals in the fights around Atlanta. But Baird was one of the three division commanders in the Fourteenth Corps, who answered directly to Davis. He held some respect for Jefferson Davis as well, though Davis was not a West Pointer. And he’s got a crazy-assed temper, Sherman thought. He stopped at another smoldering fire, tried to feel any kind of warmth.

  “Davis killed his commanding officer, you know.”

  “Sir?”

  “William Nelson. After the start of the war, in Louisville. Took offense at something Nelson said to him. I heard it was the kind of thing that men fight duels over, but Davis decided to go the shorter route. Shot Nelson with a pistol, in a hotel hallway. Killed him dead. Got away with it, too. I guess nobody much cared for Nelson.”

  “Sir, that’s awful! How did he keep his command? And how—”

  “He’s a good soldier, good leader. Stupid name, but I can’t hold that over him. As long as he handles his corps like he’s done so far, I can’t drag him down for some Negro matter. No time for that kind of thing, anyhow. Baird wants to pursue it later, I suppose he can. Somebody should warn him to stay out of hotel hallways.”

  Hitchcock held his hands out, feeling for the rain. He walked in silence for a long moment, then said, “Hope there’s not more to it, sir.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The newspapers and all.”

  “To hell with newspapers, Major. When are you going to learn that? Those people are not your friends, will do everything they can to sell a story to a public that swallows their nonsense whole. I’ve got more important things to concern myself with, and it’s right out there, about ten miles away. It’s up to Slocum to handle his generals. If they want to fight a duel, that’s Slocum’s problem. My problem is all those damned rebels out there. The Negroes insist on following us, they can handle themselves.”

  Hitchcock seemed agitated now, and Sherman had no interest in another lecture of conscience. Hitchcock seemed to choose his words carefully, something Sherman was used to. “Sir, you must acknowledge that, when the time comes, the president will welcome the reports of so many freed slaves. These people are…well, sir, they are worshipping this army, they worship you. I apologize, sir, but I don’t know of a better word for it.”

  “I’m not out here to be worshipped, Major. I’m out here to rip the guts out of this state, and the people who still intend to fight for it. I don’t need my staff officers soaking up sympathy for the Negroes. I didn’t ask them to follow us, and I can’t pretend they’re like my children. We’re busting their chains to pieces, we’re killing hound dogs every damned day, their owners are scattered to the winds. But I didn’t plan this campaign around emancipation. This is an army, not some damned tent revival.”

  He was walking faster now, even more annoyed at the interruption from Hitchcock. He noticed the major falling back, heard his voice trailing away.

  “Sorry to bother you, sir. I shall return to bed.”

  Sherman felt a hint of guilt, knew how much value Hitchcock had brought to his staff. He stared out into darkness, the breeze picking up, thought, It will be a cold one tomorrow, sure as hell. He thought of Davis, knew the man had been something of a copperhead, rarely had a kind word to offer toward Lincoln. Well, damn you to hell, General. Lincoln’s been reelected, and he’s in charge of this whole damned affair. I’ve got enough problems with Washington without one of my corps commanders stirring up a bee’s nest. Maybe, just maybe, this won’t blow up into something ugly. Best way to avoid that is to find some damned rebels and give the newspapermen something better to write about. Meanwhile, Sherman, just keep your mouth shut about all of that, and make sure these men do their jobs.

  DECEMBER 9, 1864

  “You can’t burn me out! You can’t do nothin’ like that! My man’ll be back! He’ll tell you what I done told you! They made him go! Came and took him, just like that!”

  Sherman heard the woman from down the road, saw a cluster of soldiers around her porch. Beside him, McCoy said, “Think it’s a problem, sir?”

  “It’s always a problem, Major. Go on, see about it.”

&nb
sp; McCoy rode forward, an aide in tow, and Sherman tried to skirt the far side of the road, avoiding the confrontation. He dreaded the presence of his color bearer, knew that it would draw her attention. He wasn’t wrong.

  “You there! You a big general and such! They burning me out! I love the Union! I love Lincoln!”

  Sherman tried to ignore her, but an officer moved out into the road, a hearty salute.

  “General Sherman! Uncle Billy, sir! It is an honor! Your authority is most welcome!”

  Sherman stopped the horse. “Why?”

  “Lieutenant Phil duBois, sir. 43rd Ohio, Colonel Montgomery’s brigade. We took musket fire from a pretty good bunch of rebels, back behind this house. When we returned fire, several of them scooted out of her cellar. We nabbed four of ’em, but the rest got away. According to your instructions, sir, this house is to be burned. But this woman says her husband was pressed by force into rebel service.”

  “You haven’t heard that before, Lieutenant?”

  “Can’t say I have, sir. You think maybe she’s lying?”

  “Don’t you? She’s hiding rebels, and they bushwhacked you. What the hell are you waiting for?”

  The woman came out into the road now, spit a stream of tobacco past Sherman’s horse with surprising force. “Now, you look here! My husband was made to fight agin you. Made to! Didn’t wanna go, no ways. We love the Union!”

  Sherman watched as she seemed to assemble another mouthful of spit, was suddenly fearful she was going to aim it at him. “Madam, gather what belongings you wish, and keep out of the way. I’ve heard your story in every town in Georgia. It seems that the entire rebel army is made up of men who didn’t want to fight. Well, madam, if that were true, this war wouldn’t have come to much, would it? And sure as rain, there wouldn’t be any need for me to be here, now would there?”

  She spit again, down under his horse. “If he was here, he’d show you what it means to fight!”

  Sherman had become too accustomed to this, though he was impressed with the velocity of the woman’s spittle, thought, Even the women around here know something of marksmanship. Lying, too.

  “Lieutenant duBois, continue your work.”

  He spurred the horse, the woman letting go of a stream of cursing, Sherman hurrying the horse out of range. McCoy rode up beside him now, said, “She was a real pistol, sir.”

  “Guessing she had one in her undergarments, Major. I bet her husband’s right up there in Savannah, waiting for us.”

  He heard musket fire, spreading out to one side of the road, held up the horse. A burst of cannon fire came now, two heavy thumps, then two more, and he yanked on the reins, his eye caught by Hitchcock, the major’s horse bucking wildly. Hitchcock calmed the horse quickly, a self-conscious glance at Sherman, who focused now on the stretch of road to the front. There were swampy patches to both sides, the road slightly elevated, someone’s labor at keeping it clear of high water. He had already crossed a half-dozen small creeks, eyeing the work of Captain Poe’s engineers, the men who were charged with clearing so much of the felled timber that lay across the roads.

  There was more cannon fire, and he ignored the effect of that on Hitchcock’s horse, stared ahead, saw troops moving up from the swampy fields, pushing forward. An officer emerged on horseback, now another coming out of the trees to one side, moving that way. There was a color bearer, the man’s small staff pointing toward Sherman, an aide turning quickly toward him. The man rode at a gallop, reined up, Sherman still watching beyond, where more soldiers flowed across the road.

  “Sir! Best stay back! There was a rebel guard post or something in the trees just there! We’ve got ’em on the run. More rebels to the front, dug into some works right across this road. Captain Drake ran slap into ’em, but they fired wild. Couldn’t a been more than twenty or thirty of ’em. We put the men into line pretty quick, two companies. Cavalry came in from that way, hit ’em on the flank, and we had one battery unlimbered pretty quick. Did the job, sir. The rebs took off that way!”

  There was more musket fire, farther to the right, shouting now, the fire scattered, fading. The officer returned to the road, moved toward him, said, “Welcome to our little celebration, General! All morning long. Reb outposts spread all across anyplace there’s high ground. But there’s no real strength. They don’t seem to want to put up much of a scrap, sir.”

  “You’re Alabama Cavalry, right?”

  The man responded with a proud smile. “Yes, sir! 1st Alabama Cavalry! Lieutenant Jerome Novey, sir. We’re hauling some prisoners, probably grabbed a few more just now. Colonel Spencer is up ahead, if you wish to speak to him.”

  “Not now. How strong are those earthworks?”

  “Not very, sir. Even if they were, there’s not enough rebels to hold ’em for long. Infantry has spread out to both sides, flanking the position. Rebs know they can’t stand up to that.”

  Hitchcock was there now, said in a low voice, “Alabama?”

  The lieutenant heard him, and Sherman knew what was coming, interrupted Novey’s inevitable show of pride. “There’s good Union men in every part of the Confederacy, Major. Unlike that lying female back there, these boys made a choice to fight for their country and not their state.”

  Novey sat straight in the saddle, a sharp nod. “That we did, sir!”

  “Lieutenant, I want to see what kind of rebel position we’ve run into. If you’ll lead us that way?”

  “Certainly, sir. Please follow me. We’ll move out off the road, in case of rebel artillery, sir.”

  Sherman followed, the staff falling into line behind him. His guards moved out with the cavalryman, Lieutenant Snelling spreading them out through the thin woods, tall pines, sandy soil, patches of soft and soggy ground the horsemen knew to avoid. They rode for several minutes, and up ahead, more musket fire began. Sherman listened with one hand gripping the reins, stared up past the horsemen, expected to see the rebels, some attempt to drive his men away. But the firing was almost all one direction, aimed away from his own men. Around him, more troops were coming into line, pushed forward by their officers, adding more strength to whatever confrontation lay ahead. Now the whoops and cheering came, the men recognizing him as he passed by. He eyed the officers, saw good order, none of the chaos of a major engagement. He felt relief at that, allowed himself to hear the cheers, saw officers with swords held high, some of those calling his name. The horsemen led them through a four-gun battery, those men cheering Sherman as well, the ever-present cries of “Uncle Billy.” He was relaxing now, pulled out a cigar, was cheered even for that, an odd surprise. He lit the cigar, kept himself straight in the saddle, acknowledged the men with a brief nod, fought to hide the smile. Behind him, he heard Hitchcock, the words aimed at one of the others.

  “God, but they do love him.”

  Sherman kept his gaze to the front, pondered those words, thought, If they love me, it’s because we’re winning the fight. One time, just one time, it goes badly, all that might change.

  Up ahead, the cavalryman quickened the horse’s pace and Sherman saw Lieutenant Snelling turn toward him, pointing out toward the road. There was a cluster of men, gathered up on the wide stretch of the sandy road, and he heard shouts, furious anger. The guards led the way, Lieutenant Novey now off his horse, down among the men. Sherman dismounted, stepped forward, Snelling coming toward him with his hands out.

  “Sir! Please stop here! There is considerable danger.”

  “What kind of danger?”

  “Torpedoes, sir!”

  He pushed past Snelling, moved up onto the road, the men making way for him. To one side was a horse, its belly ripped open, the animal a fountain of blood. The men had gathered around the rider, and Sherman saw another man, bloody flesh on his leg, the bone stripped white, the foot completely gone. Another officer was there, Hickenlooper, a familiar face, no time for friendly greetings. Novey was bent low, looked up at Sherman now, red fury on the man’s face.

  “It’s Lieute
nant Tupper, sir. Our adjutant.”

  Hickenlooper was manic, angry, said, “There was a torpedo in the road. Killed the horse, and when we moved in to see, Tupper stepped on another one! Oh God, is he dead?”

  Novey shook his head. “No. Bad wound. Get me a blanket, cover him up.”

  Sherman saw them both looking at him now, saw the anger, the sadness on the face of every man there. Tupper. The name wasn’t familiar, and he watched as the blanket was laid over the man, only the face still showing. Sherman saw youth, his eyes open, but there was no crying, no screams, the man just shaking slightly. Novey was talking to the man now, soft words, encouragement, and Sherman looked away, saw other men gathered around some piece of hardware on the ground. He stepped that way, Snelling out in front, and one man said, “This here, sir. This is what done this. The rebs bury ’em just below the sand. These wire things, can’t hardly see ’em. Man steps on ’em, they blow to hell, begging your pardon, sir.”

  “Sir! Rebels!”

  He turned, saw a dozen ragged men under guard, pushed forward by blue-coated guards, men with bayonets. One of the guards moved toward him, saluted, said, “Sir, I’m Lieutenant Jasper. Orders from General Blair that these prisoners are to clear the road of the torpedoes, sir. The general was most outraged, sir.”

  The response came slowly from Sherman, a deep growl. “Damned right he is. Carry out your orders.”

  The prisoners were halted, most of them eyeing him, no recognition beyond the uniform. Sherman walked toward them, the road now lined on both sides with men in blue, no one speaking. He faced the prisoner at the front of the line, pointed toward the young lieutenant Tupper.

  “You know what wounded this man?”

  The prisoner showed no defiance, seemed to understand his predicament. “No, sir.”