Sherman felt the ache in his bones now, thought, I could use a bit of leisure. “Let’s go, Major. Lead the way.”
McCoy moved out, Sherman behind, the staff following. Sherman scanned the sky again, the wind even harder now, the storm of white whirling above him, small cyclones, flecks blowing against every house, every shop, the street coated with a thin carpet of cotton.
DUNCAN HOUSE, COLUMBIA, SOUTH CAROLINA—FEBRUARY 17, 1865
The room was nothing like he had become spoiled by in Savannah, but the staff had settled him quickly, his first moment alone now since he came into the city. He removed his coat, the pockets thick with papers, thought of his description to Hitchcock, my headquarters in my uniform. They don’t understand that, he thought. Maybe Hitchcock takes offense at it, as though I’m depriving him of his usefulness. He does try, I credit him for that. He pulled a handful of papers from one pocket, tossed them on a small desk in the room, spread them out, quick scan. He did the same from another pocket, various dispatches, notes from some of the townspeople. Discard those, he thought. Wouldn’t do to have Ellen clean my soiled uniform only to find I’ve been corresponding with strange women. Whether or not I’ve actually spoken to them, or whether or not they’re strange, probably doesn’t matter. He pulled out another paper now, had forgotten what it was, the paper torn, yellowed, a smear of dirt. He opened it, saw penciled handwriting, the paper completely covered by verses. What the hell is this? He thought of the escaped prisoners now, the name Byers, thought, He wanted me to have this in the worst way. Something of meaning, no doubt, to him anyway.
Sherman read now, his eyes sliding slowly along each line.
Our campfires shone bright on the mountain
That frowned on the river below,
As we stood by our guns in the morning,
And eagerly watched for the foe;
When a rider came out of the darkness
That hung over mountain and tree,
And shouted, “Boys up and ready!
For Sherman will march to the sea!”
Then sang we a song of our chieftain,
That echoed over river and lea;
And the stars of our banner shone brighter
When Sherman marched down to the sea!
He lowered the paper, said aloud, “My God. This man is a poet.”
He read on, five verses in total, sat on the bed, his eyes fixed still on the paper. He tried to picture the man, rough-bearded, ragged clothes. He was a major, Sherman thought. Adjutant. Well, this is impressive as hell.
“Major Dayton!”
He waited, Dayton peering through the door.
“Yes, sir?”
“Read this. Major Hitchcock, here if you please!”
Dayton seemed curious, took the paper, cradled it carefully, read, his eyes widening. “We should show this to Mr. Conyngham, sir. This is worthy of print.”
Hitchcock was there now, Dayton handing him the paper without comment. Hitchcock scanned, then seemed to concentrate, adjusted his glasses.
Sherman said, “What do you think of that, Major?”
Hitchcock handed the paper to Dayton, said, “It’s as perfect an example as I can imagine, sir. The men are devoted to you, and all you’ve accomplished. This fellow is something of a poet, no doubt.”
“That’s what I said. What the hell do we do about this? Man was an adjutant in the 5th Iowa.”
Hitchcock thought a moment, smiled. “I know what I’d do, sir. Always room for one more adjutant. I’d put him on your staff.”
Sherman took the paper from Dayton, read again. “Find him. Always room for one more adjutant.”
—
He lay in the darkness, the windstorm battering the house, the walls seeming to shiver. Seen this before, he thought. California. A storm with no rain. Probably means something for the next few days, hell of a rain coming, or maybe snow. Infernal place, not North and not quite deep South. Caught between a normal winter and the devil’s own kind of spring.
The windowpane rattled, another strong gust, and Sherman stared up, fought to push the noises away. I haven’t slept through the night in, what? Twenty years? Well, maybe. Got a bed and everything, soft sheets, but no, there will be no peace. Maybe when there’s peace. But then there’ll be Ellen.
His eyes focused on a soft orange glow on one wall, and he sat up, looked again toward the window. He stood, walked that way, pulled open the sash, the wind buffeting him, the sash blowing free of his hand, a hard crash against the wall.
“Damn it all!”
He looked out, the wind watering his eyes, called out, “Major!”
It was Nichols who appeared, unexpected, and Sherman said, “What’s the cause of that?”
Nichols looked toward the window, said, “There’s a house afire down by the market square. Perhaps more than one.”
“Go, now, be sure the provost guards are working on that. I’ll not have corned-up soldiers doing damage to this place.”
Nichols left quickly, Dayton now in the room.
“I saw it from downstairs, sir. Looks pretty nasty. This wind won’t help the fire company, assuming they have one. Our men will no doubt lend a hand.”
“If they didn’t lend a hand starting it. I want the provost marshal here in the morning. If he hasn’t posted guards all around this place, and all through the public squares, he’ll find out what it means to carry a musket.”
He lit a lantern, thought, No sleep now. There was a sudden commotion downstairs, heavy boot steps climbing up, Nichols there, breathing heavily.
“Did you run, Major?”
Nichols fought for his breath, said, “Yes, sir! It’s the cotton. You recall the bales we saw burning this afternoon? There was failure to extinguish those fires, and now the wind has spread the flames to a row of houses across the street.” Nichols took a deep breath. “Sir, General Woods was there, with a good number of his troops. They are working to quell the blaze.”
Sherman moved to the window, stared for a long moment, the wind blowing the stink of the fire toward him. He closed the window, could see now, silhouetted by the blaze, a storm of flakes, matting against the glass. But it was not the snowlike flecks of cotton. It was ash.
—
Woods’s troops worked through the night, aided by Hazen’s division, brought quickly into the city to help fight the fires. But the wind had already won the battle, the flames spreading in one great wave from house to house, block to block. The soldiers struggled vainly, some with tools, some no more than blankets. Others moved out in front of the fire, rousing the citizens, who needed no prompting, the soldiers leading them to anyplace that was safe.
By midnight, Sherman had gone out to see for himself, could only do what his soldiers were doing, most of them helpless, the windstorm pushing the flames through the wooden homes, shops, churches, in a hellish blaze too hot for anyone to stay close. By four in the morning it was mostly over, the wind dying down, and with it the storm of ash and soot that coated every place, and every man who had struggled to hold it back.
COLUMBIA, SOUTH CAROLINA—FEBRUARY 18, 1865
He walked through the square, struggled to breathe through the foul air, the stink of the fire now drifting through every part of the city. The staff had gone before him, seeking out the commanders, Woods, Howard, Logan, many others, the officers who had labored through the night. He stopped, saw smoke rising still, heaps of burned timbers, where a church had been. To one side, a row of homes was smoldering white ash, the citizens there already, some staring, paralyzed. He wanted to speak to them, but there was nothing to say, no promises, no assurances, all of that swept away by the towering flames that spared little in their path.
He saw Dayton, the young man’s face blackened with soot, the man coughing into a soiled handkerchief. Sherman waited, felt utterly powerless, as though any authority he had in this place had been taken away by something far greater, far more powerful.
“Sir, General Howard is with the mayor,
trying to find homes for the displaced.”
“How many displaced?”
“A reasonable estimate, sir, is close to half the city. There could be casualties, of course, but that is not yet determined. The mayor is asking if we might remain here, to assist in the rescue.”
Sherman kept his stare on an old woman, easing closer to a mound of burned rubble. He seemed to hear Dayton’s words now, turned toward him, said, “Rescue what?”
“I suppose…the city, sir. Not sure just what he meant. They require considerable help here, sir.”
Sherman felt the weight of that, the eyes that would be on him now, Washington certainly, and every city in the South. He saw a man approaching, a pad of paper in the man’s hand. It was Conyngham.
“Dreadful, General. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Put down the paper, Mr. Conyngham. I’ll not be interviewed by you or anyone else, not now.”
Conyngham obeyed, the pad slipping into his coat pocket. “You can’t escape this, General. None of us can, not even me. You will be blamed.”
Sherman looked toward the old woman again. “They will know. These people. We did not destroy their city.”
“Of course you did. Like it or not, this is one more piece of your campaign, your legacy. Whether or not you lit the torch hardly matters. You were here. And now…this.”
“It was the cotton. The damned wind. Maybe a few drunk soldiers, and I’ll find them. We’ll have inquiries. I’ll talk to every damned officer in this place.”
“That might soothe your conscience, General. Won’t give these people much to cheer about. I would suggest you offer them something helpful. Food, certainly.”
Dayton moved closer to him, said, “The mayor asked for guards, sir. To prevent mass theft, I suppose, unauthorized citizens picking up what isn’t gone.”
Conyngham said, “Whatever you do here, it won’t be enough.”
Sherman felt an explosion coming, moved away from the row of what used to be homes. “You think I planned this? Is that what your damned newspaper will print, that I burned this place, and fiddled like Nero all the while?”
“I won’t. Others will. Depend on that, General.”
“Who burned the cotton? Who started those fires? This is not Atlanta, there are no great military targets hereabouts. I had no reason to set a torch to anything here.”
Dayton said, “Sir, General Woods, Colonel Stone, they said there was fire burning when they rode in. They assumed the rebel cavalry tried to burn up the cotton before we could claim it.”
Conyngham moved with Sherman, a quick-paced walk. “And who will believe that? Who will want to hear that the great cavalry hero General Hampton might have begun this? No, General, this is your campaign, and your conquest, and those who believe you to be without morals will condemn you for this.”
Sherman stopped, looked at Conyngham, tried to summon a fury against the man, but the impotence came in waves now, utter helplessness. He felt sick to his stomach, looked away from Conyngham, searched the streets for the route back to his headquarters, one of the few homes close to the fires that had been saved. He moved with deliberate steps, thought of the eyes, all those men in Washington and Richmond, every newspaper and every politician, every speech maker, North or South, who would take the flames from this city and use that to build a fire of their own. The thought rolled through him, spoken in soft words.
“Damn you, Conyngham. You’re right.”
—
The army remained in and around Columbia for two more days, Sherman authorizing a herd of five hundred beef cattle given to the city, the only real bounty he could offer. As well, the mayor was given one hundred muskets, with instructions to arm capable men to serve as guards, once Sherman’s provosts had left the city.
On February 20, the army began to move again, leaving behind the devastation that many knew would be laid upon them. But Sherman had to keep his focus on what lay ahead, and as the men made ready to march, Sherman gave the order so familiar that Captain Poe’s engineers began work immediately. They knew the routine now, the men spreading two or three miles out from Columbia in every place the rail lines ran, obeying the order they had received so many times before. They were destroying the tracks.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
HARDEE
NORTHWEST OF CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA—FEBRUARY 26, 1865
It had rained for most of the week, adding to the gloom that spread through the army that marched with him. But the morning dawned clear and cold, the men picking up the pace on drying roads, Hardee moving along the columns talking to the men whenever he could.
Within a few days after the fire, he had learned of the extent of Columbia’s destruction, what seemed to be a catastrophe for the citizens there. The harsh irony was that the fire had taken place on the same day Hardee had ordered his army to march out of Charleston, which to the people there had been a catastrophe of its own. There had been protests aplenty, prominent dignitaries learning of his orders within hours of his troops pulling down their camps. The outcries had been loud and vigorous, tearful and angry, the women especially seeming to believe that Hardee and his army were tossing them to Sherman’s rapacious savages. But Hardee could offer no better explanation than the obvious. For reasons Hardee didn’t completely understand, Charleston had been spared, Sherman choosing to strike through the center of the state, rather than making a grab for the port that Hardee considered far more valuable. But he had not ever truly understood what Sherman was about, whether or not the man was as brutish and unsympathetic to the civilians as the rumors suggested. The results of the campaign thus far had shown an odd inconsistency, some towns escaping completely, others left in a pile of ash.
Through it all, Hardee had been frustrated by the inability of anyone in command above him, Bragg and Beauregard, to devise any sort of plan or a strategy that seemed aggressive. It galled the man who penned his own book on strategic campaigning that he had no authority to put any kind of strategy of his own into motion. He still answered to Beauregard, and from all he could find, Beauregard and Bragg had their heads together, arguing and debating over a variety of plans, neither man having enough confidence in his own ideas to put those plans to paper.
Bragg had been in Wilmington, a city now indefensible, the number of Federal forces coming into nearby Fort Fisher far exceeding what anyone in the Confederate hierarchy anticipated. If Bragg expected a fight, he had been overruled by Beauregard, whose decision to vacate that city had been seconded by Richmond. It was a glaring admission that even the dreamlike optimism of Jefferson Davis had accepted the reality that the Confederacy was rapidly shrinking.
If Beauregard seemed to hesitate, Hardee had finally been convinced to begin his march by receiving the most bizarre of sources. A copy of the New York Tribune had been spirited in to Charleston, a column explaining in astonishing detail just what Sherman’s army was planning to do. The reporter, who had impressive knowledge of the Federal army, had no qualms about revealing that Sherman’s goal now was to march steadfastly into North Carolina, aiming to capture the city of Goldsboro by way of Fayetteville. Already cavalry reports from both Wheeler and Wade Hampton had suggested that Sherman would target Charlotte first, a logical choice, the city resting so close to the state line. But Sherman feinted again, suddenly turning eastward, and if the cavalrymen seemed unconvinced just where he was heading, the reporter in New York spelled it out with perfect precision. Regardless, sitting with several thousand experienced troops in battlements at Charleston now made little sense for Hardee at all. No matter the outcries by those who believed themselves certain victims, Hardee had ordered his army to begin their march northward.
Once he acknowledged the abandonment of Charleston, Beauregard only added to the confusion of command by ordering Hardee to march his men by way of Wilmington, what seemed on the maps to be a logical route to take toward Goldsboro. With Bragg vacating the city, Hardee had already received the last telegraph signals that the railroad
there was certain to be engulfed by the newly arrived Federal troops under General John Schofield, who would certainly order the same kind of destruction to the rail lines that Sherman had perfected in Georgia and South Carolina. Hardee pleaded with Beauregard as much as decorum would allow, that he should make his march by way of the town of Cheraw, South Carolina, just below the North Carolina state line. Whether Beauregard had serious objections, or even second thoughts to any kind of plan Hardee now put into effect, Hardee had no idea. With Hardee’s men on the march, and Sherman driving northward from Columbia, Hardee’s means of communication were nonexistent. His greatest hope for learning anything specific about Sherman’s whereabouts would come from the cavalry, who continued to skirt around Sherman’s flanks, jabbing and poking at the screen established by Judson Kilpatrick. It did not escape Hardee that the boisterous patriot Wade Hampton had spoken long and loud about the rescue of his beloved state. But within days of his assuming command, all Hardee could learn was that Hampton was riding hard and fast for North Carolina.
—
Hardee rode at the head of his column, thought of what lay behind him. They had completed their crossing of the Santee River the day before, the rain-swollen waters slowing the march in a way that lowered morale even more.
Miles ahead, he knew the vast parade of refugees were on the move, some using the few remaining railcars, some in wagons, every conveyance they could find. He stared that way, knew his wife was there, a fierce argument inside him, fearing for Mary’s safety, and the safety of his daughters, wondering if the journey itself would prove more dangerous than what might happen to those who kept to their homes in Charleston. His son had ignored any of that, of course, the boy now pushing hard to keep with the army, still riding as part of Hardee’s staff. It was the ignorance of the young, Willie seeming to burst with confidence that as long as he was allowed to become part of the next great confrontation, the army was safe.