He rolled to one side, stared at the back of the tent, saw his shadow as a soft, uneven mound, raised a hand, watched the shadow moving with him, wiped the hand through his hair. I will not do this, he thought. It cannot happen this way. Grant is getting pressure from Washington. That has to be it. He is being shoved hard from behind to get Lee in his grasp, and my army will make that inevitable.
He rolled back, faced the lantern, his hand fishing for the paper beneath him. He pulled it up to his face, caught the lantern light, read it again. Now he saw the second piece, the date three days earlier.
Not liking to rejoice before the victory is assured, I abstain from congratulating you and those under your command, until bottom has been struck….Since you left Atlanta, no great progress has been made here.
So, he requires my help. But he’s Grant, for God’s sake. He knows what to do, how to whip Lee. It’s the damned newspapers, their traitorous headlines, surrounding Stanton like so many horseflies.
He read further, his eyes wide.
I do not intend to give you anything like directions for future actions….
He lowered the paper, stared into the yellow light of the lantern, thought, So, three days after he writes that, he changes his mind. Or Washington changes it for him. They read the sewage that flows out of Southern newspapers, all about our starvation and certain destruction, and someone up there believes every word of that. I have to be “saved” by leaving this place. Damn them. Damn them all.
—
Hitchcock sat to one side of the tent, paper on a board in his lap. “I’m ready whenever you are, sir.”
Sherman was speaking to himself, words blowing through his brain, sentences, phrases, hot and fiery, condemnation and fury. But that would stay inside him, a hard fist holding on to the certain reality that Grant was his commander, his friend, and if Grant needed him in Virginia, there was a good reason for it. He stared at the floor of the tent, had mostly ignored Hitchcock, said aloud, “I won’t do it. It’s a mistake. A very bad mistake.”
Hitchcock seemed to read his mood, kept silent, waiting for Sherman to look his way. The words kept flowing, Sherman forcing himself to slow them down, to ponder the meaning, the message, the tone. He looked at Hitchcock now, saw concern.
“Do you wish me to stay, sir? I can return later.”
“Sit still.”
Hitchcock nodded, the pencil in his hand, his voice barely audible. “Yes, sir.”
“You got the heading?”
“Yes, sir. Lieutenant General U. S. Grant, Commander in Chief…”
“I know who he is. So does he. You don’t have to read it to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sherman fought through his thoughts, the torrent of anger, the twisting frustration. “I have to convince him he’s wrong.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sherman looked at Hitchcock now, as though for the first time, the kind face behind studious glasses. “How do I do that, Major?”
Hitchcock seemed surprised by the question, his mouth open slightly, words forming. “Well, sir, I would inform General Grant of our accomplishments. Nothing anyone can say will substitute for what we did here. It is not enough to suggest that we are in fine fettle. Offer him details, sir. This campaign has been more than a success. It has been a triumph. We must complete it.”
Sherman was surprised, rubbed a hand on his chin. “You been talking to the others?”
“Yes, sir. Is that not appropriate?”
“It’s fine, Major. You’re my staff. I expect you to know what’s happening. The rest of them feel like I do?”
“Sir, if I may suggest, the entire army feels as you do. No one here wishes to see you depart this command. None of us wish to depart. This is your army, sir. This is your campaign.”
“I cannot disobey him, Major.”
“Then you have to convince him. But not just that. You must offer the general an alternative that will accomplish the same goal, the goal of defeating the enemy. Ending the rebellion.”
“You’re an intelligent man, Major. Give me just a moment. We’ll at least try.”
The words came now, flowing out from Sherman through the hand of Hitchcock, the letter spread through several pages, lengthy recounting of the successes, the goals, the state of the army, the condition of the enemy. Through it all, Sherman relied on the one line in Grant’s note, the single opening, that if Sherman had objections to Grant’s plans, Grant would at least hear them. He kept Hitchcock’s advice close at hand, that it was not enough to gloat, to feed the newspapers with glorious headlines. This was Grant, after all. Grant would understand exactly what Hitchcock suggested. If Sherman had plans that were better than anything Grant ever suggested, he had to tell him just what those plans were.
…With my present command, I had expected, after reducing Savannah, instantly to march to Columbia, South Carolina; thence to Raleigh, and thence to report to you….
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
HARDEE
SAVANNAH—DECEMBER 18, 1864
Beauregard had returned to Savannah late the night before, a journey that mystified Hardee. The trip itself was hazardous at best, avoiding wrecked rail lines, skirting the Yankee patrols that extended both from the coastline and the islands upstream in the Savannah River. But Hardee had done what good subordinates do, greeting Beauregard with the respect due the man who would bear the ultimate responsibility for informing Richmond just what was certain now to happen. If Beauregard needed to see the state of affairs in Savannah, Hardee had no objection to that at all.
The Yankees had made solid advances toward the city from upriver, earthworks and log works rising up on Argyle Island, what Hardee knew could be Sherman’s jumping-off point for a strong movement either toward Savannah or into South Carolina. There had been efforts to hold those Yankees back, but any kind of muscular assault would mean a weakening of other parts of the line, where every outpost faced increasing masses of blue.
—
They walked swiftly along the water’s edge, Hardee laboring to keep up with Beauregard, a surprise. For so long Beauregard had carried some kind of illness, some debilitating ailment that drained away his strength, especially when his strength seemed most required. But now it was Beauregard with the energy, pacing manically along the riverfront, hands clasped behind him, observing the work ongoing to build the pontoon bridge.
“Three bridges? You need three?”
Hardee expected this, knew there could not be the kind of speed with the construction of the bridges that Beauregard had hoped for. “It is the best way. Three short spans, making use of Hutchinson and Pennyworth islands. If we attempt to build a single span bypassing the islands altogether, it could be vulnerable from as little as a single artillery shell. As it is, the longest span is near eleven hundred feet in length. We must make use of what the situation offers us.”
Beauregard stopped, looked at him, and Hardee wondered if the man was grasping just what Hardee was telling him. But Beauregard seemed angry now, said, “General, I instructed you to construct a bridge for purposes of evacuating your army. Does that order not imply haste?”
“Sir, we have had difficulty locating sufficient numbers of boats.”
Beauregard turned again to the water, hands on his hips, then pointed out to the river. “Yes, what are those craft, anyway? Peculiar construction.”
“Rice boats, sir. We have a few shallow-draft barges we can use as well. We no longer have free passage up the rivers, in any direction. That has limited the number of those craft we could bring here.”
Beauregard spun toward him again, seemed to search for any reason to be angry. “And just how were those rivers lost to us? I can understand the enemy moving troops up, anchoring one flank against the banks of the Savannah River. But now I hear that the Ogeechee is open to him as well, that he is able to support himself with fresh supplies from the Federal navy’s armada of transport ships. Just how did that happen, General? Did we not have a substant
ial fortress to prevent just such an occurrence?”
Hardee suspected that Beauregard already knew those details, part of the game Beauregard liked to play, as though it were insight and intuition that gave him his conclusions, and not old-fashioned rumor and intelligence.
“I erred in believing that Sherman would consider Fort McAllister a priority. He had to know it was well fortified. Their navy had never made any real attempts to bypass the place. I did not anticipate Sherman’s willingness to take risk.”
“Yes, well, in this war, General, the most successful commanders make their way by taking risks.”
The response burned through Hardee’s brain, his jaw clamped shut, the urge to puncture Beauregard’s arrogance: When did you ever take a risk? He kept control, Beauregard turning away, as though his criticism should be the last word. Hardee looked down for a long moment, heard men out on the pontoons calling out toward them, recognizing just who these officers were. He glanced back toward his staff.
“Be certain Captain Stiles understands the urgency of his mission. Do we know where he is?”
Major Roy pointed to the nearest island. “I observed him on Hutchinson a short while ago. They are beginning to lay pontoons on the far side. The Savannah is anchored just beyond our view, sir. Her captain is concerned that the Yankees might still try to move onto the island.”
Beauregard looked at him again. “The Savannah? Ironclad, yes?”
“Yes, sir. It is the one advantage we have in the river to this side of the city. The Yankees have made no effort to engage her. It would be a costly fight, no doubt.”
“Hmm. No doubt. We should have had an entire fleet of ironclads, here and everywhere else the enemy has sealed up our ports. No one in Richmond would listen to me.”
Hardee had never heard of any controversy about the navy, had no idea if Beauregard was being truthful or not. At the very least, it was one more hint that Beauregard was aware just how out of favor he was in the Confederate capital.
Hardee stared out over the water, saw another gunboat well away, said, “We have the Firefly and the Isandiga out on the far shore. They are assisting to hold away any Yankee approach. That should assist in the completion of the bridge. The Georgia is downstream, closer to the mouth of the river. The Federal navy is not making any attempt to contest this river.”
Beauregard nodded slowly, seemed satisfied with Hardee’s confidence in the naval guns, giving the first sign of any kind of enthusiasm for anything Hardee was doing. “They will pay a price in blood, no question. They cannot prevent us from making a successful retreat.”
Hardee thought, They have yet to try. If Sherman knows of this bridge, surely he will do something about it. “There are forces north of the river, sir. We are doing our best to push them away, but it is troublesome. General Wheeler’s cavalry has lent some assistance, occupying the enemy’s attentions on that side. I have urged in the strongest terms that the road toward Hardeeville be kept open. It is our only hope of keeping this army intact.”
Beauregard spun around, pointed a finger into Hardee’s face. “So, you see? You agree that we must withdraw from this place. I knew that. There were others who believed you would fight to the last. Foolishness, always has been. This country does not require martyrs. We have plenty as it is. How prepared is the army to begin the withdrawal?”
“The order has not yet been given to the men.”
Beauregard turned to him again. “Good Lord, why not?”
Hardee hesitated before answering, chose his words. “Your orders are that we abandon this city to its inhabitants rather than risk the destruction of this army. I called a council of war last evening, before you arrived. I wished to know the feelings of the men who will command that withdrawal. There are engagements ongoing all down the line, from the far left to the shores of this river. If the men know they are to pull away, they may begin doing so prematurely. There is some sentiment in this army still to make as strong a fight as we can, damage the enemy severely. The morale of the men is better than I had hoped. I did not see any reason to remove any hope they might have.”
“So, the men feel this is a fine time to stand up and face Sherman’s guns, eh? Were they adequate to that task a month ago? They allowed their backs to be pushed against the wall, so to speak, and now they wish to show courage?”
“Morale is always a good thing, sir. Mass desertion or a wholesale surrender benefits no one but the enemy. Is it not my duty to prevent that from happening?”
Beauregard was shaking his head, stepped closer to the river, stared out again to the workers at the island. “If we could prevent any of this, don’t you think we would have done so? It hardly matters anymore what the men believe will happen. We do not operate on hope, General. The plain fact is that the order I gave you was approved in its entirety by Richmond. There are no illusions as to what will happen here. I have seen plenty of evidence that the enemy is pushing hard up against whatever defenses you have constructed. He outnumbers us by a wide margin, and I regret that the quality of the fighting men we have here does not match up with his. That has been a problem for this army for the better part of this past year. You are not the only one suffering from that disease, General.”
Beauregard paused, as though swallowing hard for what would come next. Hardee was curious, thought, What new disaster is he not telling me of? Has Lee been taken at Petersburg? Has the enemy moved into Richmond? After a long moment, Beauregard said quietly, avoiding the ears of the lingering staffs, the laborers along the near shore of the river, “There has been an engagement at Nashville. General Hood’s troops did not prevail. Hood is in retreat now, as far as we know. He left behind him the heart of his army.”
Hardee had never expected anything positive to come from Hood’s campaign, but he did not expect what sounded like an all-out disaster. “How bad were his losses?”
Beauregard seemed not to hear him. “That was my command, you know. Richmond entrusted me to put the right people in the right place, make the proper decisions. But I cannot be asked to do the impossible, no matter who is doing the asking. I am to govern a man who has shown himself to be ungovernable. General Hood is a favorite of Richmond, and so Richmond expects him to perform miracles, while I must stand aside and offer my approval. Then Richmond offers me nothing to see these miracles through, no men, no guns. All I receive is criticism. If Hood was victorious, all would be well, those who worship heroes would have their day. And still, no one would consider my place, my authority. Unless, of course, he failed.”
For the first time, Hardee realized just how much authority Beauregard had been given, that Hood’s entire campaign was approved through Beauregard’s headquarters. If Hood was indeed Beauregard’s responsibility, why did he not order Hood to strengthen his army right where he was, make some new effort against Atlanta? Now he claims…what? He didn’t want to get in Hood’s way? Hardee knew that Hood’s decision to invade Tennessee seemed at best to be reckless. And so, he thought, because you would not give Hood a firm order, good men like Patrick Cleburne are dead. Is this what the president empowered you to do? He realized now that Beauregard had not used Davis’s name once. Of course not. They despise each other. Why should that be any different now? Why should this army, this war be managed any differently now than it has always been?
Hardee stepped away, black anger flowing through him. He stared out at the labor ongoing toward Hutchinson Island, tried to keep his mind on the job he had to do, the right way to do it. I cannot tell him the truth. He would not hear it anyway. But certainly, he knows he will garner all the blame, for Tennessee, for Savannah. He must surely know he cannot keep this command. Davis will find any excuse to remove him, as he has done already…three times in the past? And so, Savannah is his last command, and surely everyone in Richmond, and everyone in Beauregard’s headquarters, knows that.
“It is so terribly unfair, you know.”
Hardee was surprised by the change in Beauregard’s tone, but he knew exa
ctly what Beauregard meant. Be tactful, he thought. He is not yet your enemy.
He forced his voice into calmness, said, “Sir? Forgive me, I’m not sure what you are referring to.”
Beauregard looked at him, deep gloom on the man’s face. “This war is very close to a conclusion. That is not a legacy I wish to embrace. I have served my government as best I could. Well, we all have, certainly. I do not mean to place myself above anyone else. But you see it, don’t you?”
“I see what I am authorized to see, General. Savannah is my command, and I must consider the problems that we have right here. My greatest concern is that we cannot stand tall when we are outnumbered five to one in both men and guns.”
“Do you not see how much of the Confederacy is now occupied by Yankee commanders? How am I…are we to reverse that?”
“I do not know, sir. If I am ordered to assault Sherman’s troops to my front, I shall do so. Is that not how a soldier learns to fight? Perhaps General Hood believes that as well. He must certainly have believed he could have recaptured Nashville.”
“And then what? General Hardee, you are either incredibly naïve or you are mocking me. We couldn’t hold Nashville two years ago against a ragtag bunch of blue-coated misfits. It is an indefensible place, especially from the north.”
Hardee held the question to himself: Then why did you allow him to go there? Why did you not order Hood to remain in Alabama? Why did he not pursue Sherman out of Atlanta?
The night before, those questions and many more had been thrown about his council of war, and the answers then were no more useful than the answers now. He turned away from Beauregard, thought, Would it have mattered, after all? If Hood had pursued Sherman, there was still Thomas, and Thomas would certainly have ridden hard against Hood from the west. No victories, and many more casualties.
Hardee had to ask, knew it would all come out eventually. “How bad was it for Hood? How severe were the losses?”