by Jeff Shaara
Willie had been a part of Sherman’s daily routine, a bright light suddenly turned dark. But Sherman had never seen Charles, had never held him, had fashioned a fantasy around the baby that one day he would rise up to assume Willie’s place, capturing the affections of Sherman’s men, that finally Sherman would know a father’s joy at doing all those things that would make his son a man. Ellen’s news only intensified the need he felt to end this war, to put aside the army and the duty and find a way to be a family. There had always been a low burn of conflict between them, Ellen’s devout Catholicism just not Sherman’s way. Throughout most of the war, the miles between them muted that conflict, but if there was luxury in not having her close to him, there was guilt as well, more so now that his selfish need to keep the peace with her meant burdening her alone with the care for her infant son, in the deepest agony a parent can have. Now Sherman had no choice. His attentions could be focused only on what lay close to him: Atlanta, the new campaign, the job he was expected to do.
He glanced at the marching troops in the road below, pushed thoughts of his family far away. There were faces looking up at him, a few hats in the air, muted cheers. Fourteenth Corps, he thought. Jeff Davis’s men. Damn fool, that one. Jefferson C. Davis. By God, change your damned name. If those other fellows had a general named Ulysses Grant, he’d catch grief everywhere he turned. Davis seems oblivious, like he’s proud to wear the same badge as that lunatic in Richmond. Too much temper for my taste. Killed a man, General Nelson, I think. Got away with it. Not sure that would wash today. Damn sure won’t have anyone killing their commanding officer in this army. Bad for morale. Mine.
Sherman turned away from the troops, drawn again to the sea of fire, still thought of Davis. Maybe it’s just bad luck that he shares that name. His mama couldn’t know what she was doing to her boy. Well, Jeff, keep your pistol in its holster and do the job, and maybe you’ll end up more famous than the other one. Maybe we grab those scallywags and Grant will let you do the honors. President Davis, meet General Davis. He’s the one with the rope.
The voices caught him again, more cheers, and he looked again to the road, another regiment passing by, flags in the breeze, smiles, waving hats. He straightened in the saddle, acknowledging them, heard the fife and drum, those men in perfect rhythm, the march of the soldiers punctuated by what passed for music. He saw the drummer, an older man, no surprise there. Sherman had removed the human baggage from the army, those who took more in rations and care than the power they could give to the fight. That man will fight, he thought. Knows it, too. They all know it. No sick men on this march, no feebleness, no one too weak to keep up.
He couldn’t avoid the surge of strength from the column of men, the smiles only reinforcing what he already believed. They have no idea where we’re going, but they know what I expect of them. Sixty thousand men who know what the enemy looks like, and what they have to do to him, what they want to do to him. It’s up to me to put them in the right place, keep them ready for anything we find. But look at the faces. They’re smiling, for God’s sake. He clamped hard on the cigar, offered a slow, deep nod to one group, knew the look of veterans. Yes, by God, let’s win this thing.
Another regiment passed, and now he heard music, real music, a band, the tune clear, distinct, joyful. He saw them now, moving up behind an officer, the tune flowing through the column, carried on the voices of the men. It was “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” He stared at the musicians, felt pulled into the moment more than their joy, their skills with the instruments. He didn’t hide the smile, put one hand up, removed the shapeless hat, raised it just off his head, his silent salute. The soldiers cheered him again, but still they sang, the glorious words digging deep, opening a soft place Sherman couldn’t show them. He jammed the hat back down, both hands on the reins, felt suddenly as though he knew them, all of them, each man a piece of who he was.
The band was past now, the notes softening, and Sherman felt the staff close by, knew they would expect orders, that he was too energized to stay in one place for long. He noticed the smoke again, the breeze picking up, the view of the city obscured by its own death. He pulled the reins, turning the horse away, patted the animal’s neck, said, “Sam, you know what that stink is? It’s the rebels’ defeat. Rather enjoy that smell myself.” He tossed a glance toward the staff, Hitchcock, Dayton, the others waiting for the command. He didn’t hesitate, slapped the reins against the horse, his single spur digging into the flank. “It’s time to go to work. I’ve had all the Atlanta I want.”
—
He had divided his army into two wings, commanded by men he had come to respect. Oliver Howard was a veteran of the fights in the East, had lost an arm and a great deal of prestige by shouldering the blame for defeat at Chancellorsville and the first day’s debacle at Gettysburg. But Sherman saw more to Howard than reputation, and from all he could gather, it was more often the poor quality of the men in Howard’s command who had failed him. Howard was a West Pointer, and to Sherman, that alone gave Howard the benefit of many doubts. Sherman had no use for the more political generals, though his own army fielded men like John Logan and Frank Blair. He tended to rely on men who had been trained to follow orders, not bathe in a glow of their own making. The vacancy Sherman had to fill was a difficult one for more reasons than simple command decisions. He had come to rely enormously on General James McPherson, but McPherson had been killed during the battles for Atlanta. The loss was devastating for the army, and worse for Sherman himself. The men had become friends, a rarity for Sherman. In an army where Sherman had learned to distrust so many, McPherson had been a bright light, the keen mind of the engineer, with a talent for making the good fight. In his place Sherman needed someone who could drive forward with the same diligence McPherson had shown, and the tendency toward obedience Sherman required. George Thomas had pushed Sherman to consider Oliver Howard for the job. Though Sherman and Thomas had often clashed, Sherman respected Thomas’s judgment when it came to leadership.
Henry Slocum had been Sherman’s choice to command his second wing. Slocum was another of the West Pointers who had experienced nearly every major fight in the East, including the brutality of Gettysburg. Like Howard, he had suffered a severe wound early in the war, had survived to earn the respect of every commander he served. When Sherman assembled his forces in Georgia, Slocum was in command of the posts around Vicksburg, what had now become a backwater of the war. Sherman appreciated that Slocum’s talents were being wasted, and Grant and Halleck agreed. Now Henry Slocum had joined Oliver Howard as the two fists that Sherman intended to drive through the heart of the deep South.
Sherman’s command now consisted of four corps, with Slocum’s two as the left wing and Howard’s as the right. The army numbered sixty thousand men, aided by five thousand cavalry commanded by Hugh Judson Kilpatrick. Cavalry had long been a weakness in the Federal army and Sherman had little enthusiasm for Kilpatrick. His first choice would have been Phil Sheridan, but after Chattanooga, Grant had whisked Sheridan off to Virginia, had placed “Little Phil” in charge of the entire Federal cavalry force operating against Lee’s rebels.
Kilpatrick was an unruly, crude, and boastful man who seemed possessed of a need to make enemies. As Sherman had done with Oliver Howard, he pushed past the reputation, measuring ability first. In Georgia, Kilpatrick would be far from the view of Washington, which Sherman hoped would keep the man’s ambitions in check. During the campaign Sherman had planned for Georgia, the eyes of his cavalry would be crucial. Sherman accepted that he had to stomach Kilpatrick’s personal failings, including an amazingly vulgar boldness toward women, but Kilpatrick had shown that when confronted by the enemy, he at least knew how to fight. It was up to Sherman to disprove the rumors that flowed past his headquarters that Kilpatrick’s various accolades, his abilities in the field, might have been trumpeted most loudly by Kilpatrick himself.
Sherman’s artillery numbered only sixty-five guns, a purposeful lightening of the
machinery his troops would have to haul. Though the army was supported by some three thousand wagons and ambulances, those loads were far lighter than what many had been accustomed to. Sherman’s goal was to drive his troops fifteen miles per day, and with winter approaching, the unpredictable weather could be a hazard equal to anything the rebels put in his path. The easier it was for his men to march, the greater the chance that the most serious roadblocks would come only from what might be offered by the enemy. Sherman shared the confidence and enthusiasm of his men that any fights would be one-sided affairs. This was a veteran army, led by officers Sherman had chosen specifically for the job, whose commands had accomplished many of the Federal army’s most resounding victories of the war. Sherman rode eastward fully appreciating that most of the men who marched with him had never lost a fight.
DECATUR, GEORGIA—NOVEMBER 16, 1864
He led the staff to the side of the road, scanned the town, saw faces peering out from half-opened windows. The men continued their attention to him, some calling out the name he had become accustomed to hearing: “Uncle Billy.”
He pulled the spent cigar from his teeth, spit out a sliver of wet tobacco, drank from a canteen. The staff held their distance, as always, and he ignored them, had no interest in talking to anyone. But the intrusion came anyway, a horse moving up close behind him, and Sherman knew it wouldn’t be any of his officers. In these moments, when he rolled through his own thoughts, they knew better. He waited for the inevitable, the greeting he had no interest in answering.
“Halloo, General. Perfect day for this, I suppose. Nice chill in the air. Has to be more comfortable for the men, wouldn’t you say?”
Sherman closed his eyes for a brief moment, fought the urge to just ride away. At one time he would have done exactly that, but Grant had changed that, had forced Sherman to accept that it might be beneficial to be pleasant to a newspaper reporter. Sherman had carried a lustful hate for those men through several campaigns, but Grant had pushed him hard to understand that whether or not the reporters would ever be his friends, antagonizing them might destroy Sherman’s career. It had nearly happened already, early in the war, Sherman’s personal collapse, the overwhelming fear and insecurity even he didn’t understand. It had been Kentucky, his first major command, Sherman reacting to rebel movements northward not with strategy but with panic, calling out publicly that the Federal army was too weak, too inferior. The indiscretion had found its way to the paper in Cincinnati, a portrait of Sherman that emphasized what must surely be madness, insanity, a brutal description that continued to dog him throughout the war. His response had been to remove newspapermen from his camp, and if they didn’t obey, Sherman had unleashed the occasional bodily threat. That had been too much for Grant. The scolding was harsh, a stern warning from Grant that Sherman absorbed. In the campaigns since, the two men had grown closer still, mutual respect in an army where too often a man’s ambition created enemies instead of cooperation. Sherman accepted the lesson still, knowing very well that Grant’s unflinching support was the only reason Sherman held this command.
The horse stopped beside him, a hint of soap and perfume reaching him. Sherman let out a breath, kept his eyes on his marching column. He waited for more, the man insisting on breaking the silent moment.
“I say, General, they are a fine-looking lot. Up to the task, as it were. Fourteenth Corps, I see. General Howard’s people are down to the south a ways. Saw a bit of their column earlier.”
Sherman accepted defeat, knew that the man would not leave him alone until he got some response. He glanced at the man’s face, familiar. “Do you have a question for me, Mr. Conyngham?”
“I always have questions, sir. It’s my job, you know.”
“You’re from New York, right?”
“Indeed, sir. The Herald. I must offer my appreciation to you for including me on this most ambitious campaign. My readers will appreciate that as well.”
Sherman looked at him again, saw an ingratiating smile. “You sure?”
Conyngham seemed surprised by the question. “Well, most certainly, sir. Every officer I’ve spoken with has virtually erupted with enthusiasm for this adventure. Every one!”
The word rolled through Sherman’s brain. Adventure. “Pretty exciting stuff for you, then? War? Blood, intestines, severed limbs? And dead horses. Make sure you include that one, too. Make note of the stench.”
“Sir, my apologies. I did not mean to suggest that war is anything…”
“Here’s what I suggest, Conyngham. I suggest you pick up a musket, fix the bayonet, and wander out a ways away from this column. There’s rebel cavalry out there watching every move we make. You’ll find all the adventure you want pretty quick.”
“Again, my apologies, sir. I spoke in error. I served with the Irish Brigade, in case you were not aware. I have witnessed a great deal of this war, and its cost. I do not intend to glorify anything this army accomplishes. Or you, sir. There is much to see here, much to experience.”
“And all of that stuff will make it into your story?”
“It will. I have to ask, sir, do you know how long it will be before I can telegraph a dispatch northward?”
Sherman reached for a fresh cigar, kept his eyes on the marching column. “You know, that’s the kind of question a spy would ask. You a spy, Mr. Conyngham?”
He could feel the reporter’s frustration, felt a tinge of satisfaction.
“General, please. You know my credentials. Technically, I am a commissioned officer, with the rank of captain. Whether or not I actually command troops is of course up to you. It is not a responsibility I am seeking. You personally authorized me to accompany you, one of only a few men of the press allowed to do so. I am grateful for that. I only hope to be able to offer some account of this campaign when the time is right.”
Sherman knew he was being outdueled, had no talent for wordplay. “I don’t know, Conyngham. You not have a chance to send a story out before we left Atlanta?”
“Yes, sir, I did. The lines were severed only four days ago, and I was fortunate. We were given no warning of that.”
“The warning went to the people who needed it. I gave the order. Sorry I didn’t consult you newsboys first.”
Conyngham lowered his voice, leaned closer. “Sir, I am well aware of your disdain for my profession. I am not here to insult you, or humiliate you. I have no cause to soil your name. I accept my role as an observer, to chronicle this campaign. Is that not a good thing? For this army? For you, sir?”
Sherman let out a breath. “Suppose so.”
Conyngham straightened. “Thank you for that, sir.” He paused. “General, if I may ask, a number of the others are curious as well. Why did you not leave behind a force to defend our positions in Atlanta? Do you not fear the rebels might return to the city? So much effort to capture the place. And, if the rebels were to retake the city, would that not pose some hazard to this march?”
Sherman pondered the question, knew it had been asked in Washington as well. “A short time ago, there was a rebel cavalry raid in Tennessee. Place called Johnsonville. You familiar with this fellow Forrest?”
“Certainly, sir. Nathan Bedford Forrest. A scourge, no doubt.”
“He’s a hell of a cavalryman. Scourge, too, I suppose. Couple weeks ago, he waltzes his crew up the bank of the Tennessee River, fires a few artillery rounds into our depot there. Strong position, good many of our boys, a fair amount of artillery of our own. You know what happened? Our boys ran scared, scrambled toward Nashville like a flock of frightened sheep. Cost us, hell, maybe two million dollars. Why’d they run, you might ask? ’Cause it was Forrest. The scourge. That’s all it took. Well, right now he’s feeling pretty fat and happy. No doubt he’ll hit us again, bust up the railroad, every supply line we have out of Georgia.”
“You think he might move up behind us? Capture Atlanta?”
“No. Hood needs him in Tennessee. Hood couldn’t keep us out of Atlanta, so he’s gonna do the
next best thing he can to save his honor. Richmond’s howling about the loss of Atlanta, so Hood has to make it up to them, find salvation someplace else. Point is, he needs a victory. So he’s marching north, probably aiming to hit Nashville.”
“Right. But I don’t understand what this has to do with Atlanta.”
“Not a damn thing. We cut off all contact with Atlanta, and every other place that’s not right in front of us.” He raised a hand, pointed down the road toward the marching column. “That’s where we’re going. I don’t care a whit about where we’ve been. It’s a pure waste if I leave men in Atlanta. I’ll not slice off a big piece of this army just so they can sit in earthworks, and maybe offer a target for Forrest or whoever else might be tempted. There’s nothing in Atlanta right now to protect. Nothing to save. Nothing threatened. It’s behind us. Just like your telegraph wires.” Sherman looked at Conyngham now, saw comprehension on the man’s face. “You’ll just have to keep your stories to yourself until we find another telegraph.” He paused. “You just a bit curious when or where that’ll be?”
Conyngham shook his head. “No, sir. It will happen when you tell me about it.”
Sherman knew a lie when he heard one. “Don’t ‘pleasure’ me, Conyngham. It’s gotta be killing every one of you reporters just what we’re headed for, just what the plan is.”