The Fateful Lightning

  “Very sorry to hear that. You should be hearing of his recovery very soon. The mail packets are already delivering their cargo up the Ogeechee. Certainly, all will be well.”

  Sherman had tried not to think of the baby, appreciated Dahlgren’s kindness. “My wife, Ellen. She would put all of this business in God’s hands. I am to be punished for my sins, or misdeeds, or profane thoughts, and so God carries away my firstborn. Very biblical.”

  “You don’t sound convinced of that.”

  Sherman had no idea of Dahlgren’s religion, didn’t want this kind of discussion, not now. “Ellen is devoutly Catholic. I suppose…I’m not. If I’m wrong, then I’ll find that out one day. I have too many things to concern me in this life.”

  “Indeed.”

  A voice came from forward of the ship, “Admiral? Your presence, if you please?”

  Dahlgren extended a hand toward Sherman. “Please excuse me, General. I have a few matters of navigation to attend to. These moments rarely last.”

  Sherman took the hand, and Dahlgren turned away, moved slowly toward the bow of the ship, past the enormous paddle wheel, the figure fading now into the faint lights. Sherman felt the emotion again, his son Willie, the boy’s face never truly out of his memory. Nine years old, he thought. Wanted only to be a soldier. Even more than I did. So, what about that, Sherman? You enjoy this, you’re damned good at it. Maybe it’s like the admiral says, you’re making the fight for both of you.

  That had not occurred to him until now, and he put one hand on the wooden rail again, the lights of Savannah nearly gone. So, we shall punish them doubly hard, he thought. Willie, if you’re here, somewhere, well, fine. If I have to carry a sword for you, so be it.

  He turned away from the water, shook his head, felt oddly uncomfortable. If my boy’s a ghost, I sure as hell don’t want him sticking his face into my tent. No, stop with that. There’s no spirits fighting alongside you. How about a few thousand casualties, but then, there’s a few thousand of those other fellows, too. They can have their own war, fight it out all over again. No one’s here on this damned ship but you. And if the enemy’s to be punished it’ll be by my hand, and it’ll be done the best way I know how. They deserve it. Let Ellen worry about where my boy is now, what kind of man he might have become. I just want this war to end.

  HILTON HEAD, SOUTH CAROLINA—DECEMBER 20, 1864

  “I assure you, General Sherman, we will not fail. I have ordered my men to begin a rigorous patrol of the enemy’s routes of escape. If anything, we shall succeed in crushing the rebels by crossing the river ourselves. With your troops to their front, old Hardee won’t know what’s driving up his backside.”

  Foster was a rotund man, an explosion of whiskers bursting from the sides of his face. Sherman absorbed the man’s bluster, fingered the buttons on his own coat, couldn’t avoid noticing that Foster’s coat was stretched nearly to the breaking point. Sherman tried to keep his eyes off the man’s face as well, couldn’t ignore the thought that Foster looked exactly like a pumpkin.

  He waited for Foster to finish, though after the first blathering sentence, Sherman had ignored half of what the man said.

  “Your intentions are profoundly appreciated, General. However, my intention is that you secure the enemy’s primary route of escape, the road from Savannah to Hardeeville.”

  Foster was still puffed up, nodded with exaggerated approval. “Certainly, yes, indeed. That is our goal as well. Tell me, General, have your men made a substantial crossing of the river? That pathway to the enemy’s flank could be even more approachable, more vulnerable from your side of things.”

  Sherman didn’t want to pour out the details of Grant’s order, was already regretting this journey. “General Foster, I have restricted General Slocum to the movement of one brigade north of the Savannah River. We are facing heavily fortified works all across the inland side of the city. I had hoped your foray into this situation would be as an addition to our efforts. The railroad south of the Savannah River is entirely in our hands, as is the Ogeechee River and Ossabaw Bay. The enemy has some power nearer to the city, on the Savannah itself, at least one ironclad, possibly two. There are at least two wooden gunboats and floating batteries, and it has been reported that he is attempting to construct a pontoon bridge. It is clear to me that Hardee understands the gravity of his situation, and is seeking some means to avoid the sacrifice of his army in a hopeless cause.”

  Foster nodded again, as though approving Sherman’s description. “Yes, certainly. But their cause is hopeless by many miles, General. Once the president issued his emancipation order, it played precisely into my hands. We have gone to great lengths to establish colonies of freed slaves. Quite a feat in the middle of a war, wouldn’t you say?”

  Sherman had wearied of this conversation, and worse, he wasn’t certain that Foster recognized Sherman’s authority at all. As it was now, Foster had held command of this part of the coastline for some time, and other than a brief command in the Department of the Ohio, Foster’s personal kingdom seemed to be where Sherman’s army had now arrived. Sherman wasn’t even certain if Foster might outrank him. He brushed that thought away as quickly as it dropped into his mind. It was one thing to swallow a distasteful order from Grant. Foster could keep his orders to himself.

  Sherman fiddled with the cigar now, his temper spilling over, his hands too shaky to light it. He kept a hard grip on his impatience, chewed hard on the end, biting an inch of cigar clean through. He spit the tobacco to the side, fought to control his voice. “I have studied the maps with great care. I strongly suggest, General, that you deploy one division, perhaps under General Hatch, and march them immediately across the Broad River. There should be very little opposition in that region, beyond some cavalry. Occupying the Union Causeway would seal the door, as it were. Hardee would have no alternative but to attack us, which would be certain suicide. Or he would be forced to surrender. I prefer the latter.”

  “Oh, I agree. A surrender would be most gratifying. And I see you’ve been going over my roster of command. Very good. Yes, Hatch is a good man, fine officer. He could do the job, definitely. I shall look into that possibility immediately.”

  Sherman waged a battle still with his own temper, ran a hand across his rough beard, the words rolling through his brain, pouring out now, more heat than he intended. “General Foster, just how soon is immediately?”

  ON BOARD THE HARVEST MOON—DECEMBER 21, 1864

  The voyage southward was interminable, Sherman spending far more time in agitated pacing of the decks than in gazing across dark water. In a journey that had encompassed three days, he had gained nothing of substance from Foster beyond the man’s assurance that all would be dealt with appropriately, Sherman sensing that Foster was perfectly content to have his command remain exactly where it was. For all Sherman could tell, the enemy in Savannah was only the latest inconvenience to Foster’s routine.

  Dahlgren had sensed his mood, kept mostly away, tending to the duties of his flagship. But throughout the journey, the coastline was clearly in view, Dahlgren keeping closer in an effort to give Sherman at least a sense of proximity to his own army. More, Dahlgren made as much steam as he could, regardless of the timing of the tides. As the Harvest Moon finally wound her way into the mouth of the Ogeechee River, her eight-foot draft gave Dahlgren every sailor’s greatest headache. She ran aground.

  —

  The labor had gone on for more than an hour, the tenders working to pull the ship free of a muddy bottom that refused to yield. Sherman paced again, another circuit around the open deck, working the cigars in his teeth until his jaws ached. The Harvest Moon was a seagoing vessel, more than five hundred tons of steel and wood, and as he prowled the decks, Sherman pondered that figure, wondering how so much heft could actually float, realizing that, clearly, there were times when it didn’t float at all.

  He felt himself sweating, the warm salt air working through his coat, made warmer by his mood and the unwanted
exercise. He moved inside the common area, peered out through one of the deck-side windows, felt stifled for air, moved out again through an entryway. He caught the stink of smoke from the stack high above, glanced up, then staggered slightly, caught off balance by the sudden tugging from one of the tenders to the stern, the smaller boat coming up to full steam, a valiant effort to free the larger ship. Men were yelling all around him, and he knew they shared his frustration, working the various ropes, doing all anyone could do to slide so much weight through the gumlike mud. Dahlgren was at the stern, leaning out, surrounded by men tending to heavy ropes, and Sherman moved the other way, keeping to himself, knew that his temper was magnified by every officer on the ship, and most probably by Dahlgren himself.

  Sherman was at the bow now, stopped, stared inland, vast seas of saw grass, a narrow channel, and beyond, open water. He understood that this was for him, that the admiral had taken a different route toward the mouth of the Ogeechee to save time. He felt embarrassed himself now, thought, Dahlgren has to be humiliated by this. Keep your talk to yourself, Sherman. No joking about this to anyone. He looked down into muddy water, saw the current flowing toward the ship, the Ossabaw still leaking tide. That will change, he thought. The tide will change, rise, and in time the ship would free herself without all this damned work. He wasn’t sure how much time, a matter of hours, probably, and he knew Dahlgren would have a chart somewhere. He left the bow, moved his way toward the small cockpit, saw Dahlgren approaching him, nothing pleasant in the man’s demeanor.

  “Ah, General. I’ve made different arrangements. If you don’t mind a bit less pomp, I have ordered my barge put off. She’s lashed now to the starboard side. Quite a bit easier to maneuver over these marshes. If you don’t mind, please follow me, and we’ll resume our journey.”

  “As you wish, sir. This is your command. I am merely a passenger. A bothersome one at that.”

  Dahlgren still didn’t smile, moved past him, Sherman following. He peered out over the rail, saw the flat-bottom craft, men with ropes, what he had already been corrected to call lines, holding her tight to the side of the ship. He followed Dahlgren down the ladder, men below assisting, and Sherman descended as quickly as he could without tumbling off, dropped down to the small deck, saw all eyes on him, Dahlgren included. Dahlgren said, “Hold tight, General. She’s not very stable. But we’ll slide through this grassy flat in no time. Get you where you need to be.”

  Sherman realized they were all studying him, a distinctive air of fear in the men. He felt guilty now, all this labor on his behalf. He held up his hands, tried to show approval. “Yes, thank you. This is perfectly fine.”

  Do they think I’m some sort of demigod, he thought? I haven’t shouted at a single one of these fellows since I boarded this ship. Perhaps my staff has been a bit indiscreet, told them a few things they shouldn’t have. Or perhaps these sailors can tell I’ve been on water too long. Yep. Get me back to my damned army.

  They pushed through the channel, past thick saw grass, Ossabaw Bay opening up before him. Yep, that’s exactly what he did, Sherman thought. Took a shorter route to get to the mouth of the Ogeechee. He took a chance and did me a favor, and it bit him. Remember that. I don’t imagine too many admirals embrace the idea of running aground.

  From the bow, one of the crew raised his hand, called out, “Sir, a boat. She’s signaling.”

  Dahlgren was there now, motioning Sherman to join him. “Yes, General, she’s signaling for you by name. This should be a better ride for you. That’s the quartermaster’s tug, Red Legs.”

  The two craft came together, lines tossed, an officer on the tug shouting out toward Sherman, “Sir! Letter for you, sir! For both you and the admiral. Most urgent!”

  Sherman felt the familiar cold jab, his mind rolling through so many possible disasters, images of every kind of bad news. He thought first of Grant, the response, thought, He’s not interested in my ideas. He’s ordering me to go to Virginia.

  He raced past that to new thoughts, something much worse, a great fight, considered the possibility, the most likely place, the enemy surprising Slocum, perhaps turning the army’s left flank along the Savannah River. He wanted to send troops northward, Sherman thought, and I stopped him. Bad mistake. Foster didn’t do a damned thing, and Hardee attacked us where we weren’t expecting. Those ironclads, they could have chopped our boys up on those islands.

  The officer was on board the barge now, saluted Dahlgren, pulled the paper from his pocket, an identical one handed to Dahlgren. The man looked at Sherman, seemed desperately relieved to see him.

  “We weren’t certain where you would be, sir. Major Dayton prepared a letter for each of you, in the event we couldn’t find you.”

  Sherman tore through the folded paper, frantic glances, forced himself to slow, to absorb each word. His knees began to weaken, and he moved to a wooden box, felt his way down with one hand, sat slowly. Dayton’s words struck him hard and deep, a heavy punch in his stomach.

  General, I have sent you two dispatches via Fort McAllister in hopes of reaching you. General Slocum reports enemy gone from his front and he had got eight guns—this report at four A.M. General Howard reports General Leggett near the city and no enemy. General Slocum is moving and General Howard the same, and I have no doubt both are in Savannah now. I will ride with General Howard at his request, and leave our camp until the matter is more definite and you make orders. Maj. L. M. Dayton, Adjutant General

  There was a second piece of paper, official stationery, and Sherman saw the seal of the state of Georgia. It was addressed to him.

  Sir,

  The City of Savannah was last night evacuated by the Confederate military and is now entirely defenseless. As chief magistrate of the city I respectfully request your protection of the lives and private property of the citizens and of our women and children. Trusting that this appeal to your generosity and humanity may favorably influence your action, I have the honor to be, Your Obedient Servant,

  R. D. ARNOLD, MAYOR OF SAVANNAH

  He stared straight through the paper, tried to feel anger toward Dayton, toward all his staff, toward Foster or Dahlgren, all the reasons why Sherman had not been there. He thought of Slocum, so many men on those islands, and they did not know what was happening? An army retreats across a bridge and no one hears that? The question came now, a voice inside of him from that place he hated, the dark hole where the doubts lay, the fears. What about you? What would you have done? Would they have slipped out from under your own eyes? Explain that to Grant. To anyone. You had to go out and play in a damned boat.

  He felt a bony grip on his shoulder, heard the voice of Dahlgren. “Well, sir, my deepest apologies to you. Had I made better steam, or taken a better route…well, I cannot change what has happened. But I am deeply sorry. It appears you have arrived somewhat late to your own party.”

  Sherman kept his gaze down, the words on the papers now a blur, Dahlgren’s strong hand still on him. He tried not to feel angry at Dahlgren, knew the decisions had been his alone, the need to see Foster, to make something happen that could not happen at all. His words came now, a low, quivering voice. “I let him escape. We pushed him all the way to the sea, and then we allowed him to slip away.”

  Dahlgren removed his hand from Sherman’s shoulder, sat down close beside him. “General, I know very little about such things, but if I may suggest, General Hardee is a problem for another day. By his absence, he has given you a gift. Or rather, you have done all that was necessary to earn one. Allow me to offer you the first of what will be many, I’m sure. Congratulations, General. You have captured the city of Savannah.”

  PART TWO

  To His Excellency President Lincoln, Washington, D.C.:

  I beg to present to you as a Christmas gift, the City of Savannah….

  — WILLIAM T. SHERMAN

  The Confederacy seemed suddenly to have changed, a glory had passed from it, and without acknowledging it, we felt the end was near.
r />   — MARGARET CRAWFORD ADAMS, COLUMBIA, SOUTH CAROLINA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  FRANKLIN

  WEST OF SAVANNAH—DECEMBER 22, 1864

  He had spent most of his time now with the other freed slaves, a part of their community, and Franklin was surprised to learn that his voice was one of those that seemed to draw attention. Since the horror of Ebenezer Creek, many of the army’s black followers had begun to see the army in an entirely different way, some of those former slaves choosing to pull away from the celebratory parade. Franklin understood their sentiment, that what had happened at the creek was seen by many as a betrayal, a promise broken. He heard their nervous talk, that so many of the slaves had accepted their liberation as a great gift offered by the men in blue, a gift that could be torn away from them anytime the army chose. Most of the freed slaves knew very little of any other life, and now many had spoken out about returning to the only world they knew. No matter how deep his anger, Franklin saw Ebenezer Creek as a decision made by one very bad man, that there were others in this army who genuinely cared for what these people were trying to do. It was a hard task convincing himself that his ignorance wasn’t leading him into some kind of hell, that there could be many more blue-coated generals who didn’t care whether the slaves were freed or not. But Franklin would not lose that faith, not yet, had no reason to think back to the Cobb Plantation as his home. Those horrors were permanent, something that ran deeper through him than what he had witnessed at the creek. He had tried to spread reassurances to the others, and some did listen, some agreeing with him that what happened at Ebenezer Creek was just a part of this war, that the Yankee soldiers had mostly been generous, even kind, and if there were bad men in blue, most of the former slaves knew enough of life in the fields to accept that bad men could be found anywhere. Ebenezer Creek had taught Franklin, as it had taught many, that being free meant looking out for yourself, that liberation meant there was no longer a master at all, whether on the plantations or with this army.