The Fateful Lightning

by Jeff Shaara

  “I’ve given it some thought, yes, sir. Every man in this army knows your orders, your careful vagueness. A special purpose, well known to the War Department and General Grant, a departure from our present base and a long and difficult march to a new one. Well expressed, sir. The message is clear to all involved. The most effective way to prevent the enemy from knowing our intentions is to keep those intentions secret even from your friends. If I may, I only ask that, when time permits, you allow me to inquire and observe those things that are appropriate. You know that General Grant supports a free press, as does the War Department.”

  Sherman knew he was on dangerous ground now, felt a small simmering heat rise up in his chest. After a long moment, he said, “Any one of you newspaper boys writes anything that reveals anything useful to the enemy, I shall arrest you as a spy. I am no enemy of freedom of the press, but if you believe the press governs this country, then I would suggest you be the ones to fight this war. No reporter I have ever met understands the necessities of battle, not even one who claims affiliation with the Irish Brigade. Do you understand my feelings, Mr. Conyngham?”

  Conyngham did not hesitate, kept his voice calm, no heat in his words. “I understand completely, sir. We are, all of us, on enemy soil. If we are confronted by rebel troops, your judgment and your weaponry will lead the way. As I said, sir, I am merely an observer. Your orders apply to me as they apply to those men in uniform.”

  Sherman felt disarmed, couldn’t avoid the feeling that he actually liked this man. But he wasn’t prepared to offer Conyngham any hint of that. “You can ask anything you like. But be aware, Conyngham. I am the king of this particular mountain. If that ever displeases you, you are certainly free to find another mountain.”

  Conyngham laughed, another surprise. “I am aware of the proximity of enemy cavalry, sir. Obviously, I have no place else to go. This mountain will do just fine.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  GRANT

  CITY POINT, VIRGINIA—NOVEMBER 17, 1864

  The bank was steep, high above the soft light reflecting off the river. He came to the overlook often, staring out at the enormous might of the Federal strength he had assembled, a vast armada of supply ships, the wharves below him never quiet, supplies and armaments and men all adding to his army, the army whose sole purpose was to destroy Robert E. Lee.

  He glanced up at the moon, a clear night, chilly, a slight breeze rolling down across the wide expanse of the James River. Behind him, the construction had ceased for now, the row of headquarters structures mostly completed, the protection from the winter soon to come. There would be little such protection for his troops, something Grant never ignored. It frustrated him that Lee’s army was still out there, that throughout the months of campaigning Grant could never really force the issue, could never drag Lee into the open, where the superior strength of the Federal forces would bring the war to an end. There had been great bloody fights in the spring, through the Wilderness, Spotsylvania. But Lee had been slippery, a master of maneuver, evading any full-on confrontation. There had finally been one grand opportunity in June, the Army of Northern Virginia halting just long enough to invite an organized attack. Grant had obliged with a frontal assault that rolled into utter disaster. The place was Cold Harbor, where Grant’s army suffered thousands of casualties in a fight that accomplished nothing at all. It had been Grant’s worst day as a commander, and five months later the images were still fresh, would haunt him as he planned every new fight. Worse for the army, for Lincoln, Cold Harbor had threatened to erase the aura of invincibility that the newspapers had wrapped around Grant, the great hero Lincoln had selected to finally crush Lee’s army.

  The loss at Cold Harbor had been as devastating to Lincoln as the loss at Chickamauga the year before, a stain that dampened the great successes at Gettysburg, Vicksburg, Chattanooga, victories that, for a while, boosted morale in the North. But the public had short memories, and despite strategic advantage, especially the capture of the Mississippi River, the war still went on. By all accounts, Grant and Lincoln both knew that the armies in the South were reeling, with a lack of capable leadership, a collapse of morale, reports of rebel soldiers simply walking off the line, going home to salvage what they could of their lives. The successes Grant had enjoyed west of the mountains had shoved rebel forces out of every vital city and rail center, limiting the Confederates to strongholds in Texas, Alabama, and the Carolinas. But still, the great crushing blow seemed so elusive, the resilience of Lee in particular astonishing to Grant. With Lincoln facing reelection, even Grant knew that a weary Union might opt to cave in, the Congress offering the South what they wanted, if only to stop the bloodshed. It infuriated Grant that George McClellan had put himself forward as the candidate for peace. As popular as McClellan had once been, few in the army had cast their votes in his direction, most of the troops sharing Grant’s anger that the general who squandered the opportunity to win the war in 1861 would now claim no one else could win it, either.

  Grant searched for a cigar, had gone through a pocketful already today, felt a paper in his coat pocket. His hand stopped, fingers touching the note. It was the final message from Sherman, the telegram received more than a week ago now. He had read the note often, the words still fresh inside him.

  “I still have some thoughts in my busy brain…”

  Grant smiled. Yes, my friend, you always do. Good thoughts, mostly. Perhaps never as important as what you’re doing right now.

  —

  The arguments had begun as soon as the details of Sherman’s strategies reached Washington. There was considerable doubt whether Sherman could command that entire theater of the war on his own. Grant insisted otherwise.

  He thought of Nashville, Sherman’s order sending Thomas and most of the Army of the Cumberland back to protect that crucial city. It was only one part of Sherman’s design, inspired by what the Federal command now understood to be an amazing lack of discretion by the Confederate president, Jefferson Davis. Grant still marveled that Davis might seek to bolster the morale of his own armies by revealing in broadly reported speeches their strategy of maneuver and feint. The fall of Atlanta had certainly crushed Confederate morale, and Davis had reacted by traveling to various parts of his army, a mission of reassurance that all would turn out fine. But far beyond reassurances, Davis spoke openly to vast audiences of John Bell Hood’s attempts to draw Sherman out of Georgia by driving northward into Tennessee, severing crucial supply lines, drawing Sherman’s army into utter destruction, if not by starvation then by the sheer might of Hood’s army.

  Grant had been baffled by Davis’s optimism, since Sherman had soundly whipped Hood in nearly every encounter around Atlanta. And Grant agreed with the War Department that the remnants of Hood’s army, still a formidable force, should be dealt with once and for all, and not just left to its own planning. Sherman didn’t agree, something Grant knew to expect. Once Davis began giving his speeches, Grant understood what Sherman was insisting upon, that Hood would do what Davis suggested and move north to threaten middle Tennessee. If Sherman pushed his pursuit of Hood away from Atlanta, following him through Alabama or Tennessee, that would accomplish exactly what Davis had suggested publicly: Sherman would be removed from Georgia. Sherman had already predicted that Hood would move away, would strike out for new victories against a weaker foe, or some vulnerable outpost. Nashville seemed the logical place, and Sherman had addressed that supposition by sending enough force with George Thomas to defy any significant push from Hood. Grant had assisted as well, ordering added strength toward central Tennessee from Federal forces in every part of the Union, including a vast new ocean of recruits.

  The War Department still fidgeted, wondering if Hood’s hints of movement northward were only demonstration, deception that might somehow endanger Sherman around Atlanta. But Grant knew better. Davis would not stand up and lie to his entire army. It wasn’t the man’s way, would fly in the face of Southern honor for their president to be so p
ublicly deceptive. And now Hood was shifting northward, exactly as Sherman had predicted. It had been one of the most convincing arguments Sherman could make that his own operations should proceed as he designed them. Before Hood could destroy Sherman’s supply lines to Nashville, Sherman did most of it for him. It was Sherman’s plan, eliminating any possibility that a raid by Forrest or anyone else could threaten Sherman from behind.

  The last train northward from Atlanta had moved out on November 12, the same day the final telegraph link was cut. With Sherman now in motion east of Atlanta, he was opening up an even larger gap with Hood’s army, an army that Sherman had already thrashed. By now it was clear that Davis’s speeches had been accurate, and Hood’s intentions were plain. From the Confederate base in northern Alabama, Hood was intending to march north.

  Grant smiled again, stared out into darkness. Yes, Sherman, that will suit you quite well. Keep the prying eyes away from your backside. Whatever you’re doing down there, they’ll still be stewing up here, mouthing off their fears that your army is facing certain doom. The newspapers love that sort of thing. All those military geniuses wringing their hands how you’re violating every textbook. Well, Sherman, I remember the old man doing the same. You weren’t there, which is a damn shame, because you’d have appreciated what it meant to take ten thousand men into the middle of Mexico and push up against thirty thousand who sat behind big stone walls. And by God, it worked.

  He thought of Winfield Scott now, the man who had brought a flock of young lieutenants right out of West Point and, with complete faith in their ability to command, had led them to victory in Mexico. We’re not lieutenants anymore, Grant thought, and some of those boys are generals on the other side of this thing. Grant put a hand to the strap on his shoulder, the three stars, knew he was the only man since Scott to hold the rank of lieutenant general. Big shoes to fill, he thought. Thank you, Mr. President. More faith in me than I had in myself. Scott had to approve that, too. Lincoln wouldn’t have made that kind of move without talking to him. He pictured Scott, a massive hulk of a man, heavy with age, well into his eighties now. I love that old man, he thought, as much as I love that skittery redhead in Georgia. A lot in common, and I’d wager Sherman would take that as a compliment. Probably Scott, too. But first Sherman’s got to pull his army through the fire. Like the president said, we know what hole he went into. Just not sure which one he’ll crawl out of.

  Grant spun around, gave a glance toward the lanterns at his headquarters. He couldn’t avoid a nervous shiver, was too used to having Sherman’s ear, or advice, or just his cantankerous mood to crack through the tension. Now there would only be silence. He began to move back to his headquarters, a handful of his aides lingering in the darkness, moving with him. He flexed his fingers, fought the nervousness boiling up inside, turned to one side, changing course, still moving quickly. He wouldn’t disturb Julia, not yet. The shakiness bothered him, the unavoidable fear that Sherman would join so many of the others, Reynolds, Sedgwick, McPherson. All good men. All dead. Even Winfield Hancock had come to Grant, suffering mightily from his wounding at Gettysburg, too crippled now to continue. Is that the first word I’ll hear, that the redheaded fool stuck his head out too far, is lying in some ambulance somewhere? Or they buried him in Georgia? Not much chance of that. Dead or not, he’d not sit still for that insult.

  He shoved away the thoughts, scolded himself. He’s smarter than you are, Grant. Well, maybe. He’s enjoying himself down there, and he’ll not do anything to ruin that. You’ve got bigger problems, more to concern yourself with right here. He stopped walking, forced himself to focus on the campaign right in front of him. Lee’s army was spread out in a line nearly thirty miles long around the rail hub at Petersburg. Grant hated the idea of a siege, something he shared with Sherman, but Lee’s army was dug in hard, and a siege was the most effective way to avoid a mass of Federal casualties. He walked past a small elm tree, stopped, his fingers finding his last cigar. He lit it, the fire warming his face, and he knew now there was no separating Sherman from what Grant was facing in Virginia. Thank God for you, Sherman. The newspapers hate sieges as much as I do, and the president might have lost the election by impatience alone if you hadn’t given us Atlanta.

  He stared out past the headquarters houses, toward the distant lines of Lee’s army. There’s nothing else I can do here, not right now. All right, Sherman. We’re doing it your way. It better work, or both of us will end up shoveling manure. I know I can’t hear from you, not for a good while. But by God, I’ll be worrying about you every day that passes. Can’t help that. He thought of Sherman’s words again.

  “I will not attempt to send couriers back, but will trust to the Richmond papers to keep you well advised.”

  Grant chewed hard at the cigar, searched the darkness, saw one man alert, responding, moving closer.

  “Sir? May I be of assistance?”

  “Colonel Porter, at first light, send out riders to every camp along the siege line. I know there’s trade going on with those other fellows, whether I authorize it or not. Provide coffee or bacon or whatever is required. A few of Lee’s boys know how to read, and I want copies of every newspaper printed in Richmond.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  SEELEY

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA—NOVEMBER 17, 1864

  The horror spread out nearly to the horizon, the low hills not disguising the astounding magnitude of the destruction, entire blocks of the city in smoldering ruins, thick black smoke in columns rising up in every direction. He felt sick to his stomach, stared down, took his eyes away from the skeletons of so many structures, most of them unidentifiable heaps of rubble. But the smells engulfed him, unavoidable, hinting of burnt flesh, or something close, cloth and lumber and so much more.

  “Captain, bring your men out this way. There’s folks here need a hand.”

  Seeley looked toward the voice, saw General Dibrell, pointing directly at him, motioning crisply, as though it were some gesture made on a parade ground. Seeley didn’t answer, spurred the horse, pushed past more of the rubble, the smoke watering his eyes. The horsemen tailed out behind him, no more than thirty now, half what he had commanded only a month before. Some of those had simply disappeared; some had been captured by Sherman’s cavalry, the ultimate indignity for any man who had once ridden with Forrest. The squad followed him down a narrow alleyway, pushing forward to reach the open avenue, where they might escape the stink, breathe cleaner air. Dibrell waited with obvious impatience and Seeley could see a flock of ragged civilians gathering around the man’s horse, other cavalrymen unable to hold them back. Seeley jabbed at the horse, moved closer, Dibrell now offering him a shrug.

  “See if you can handle these people. I have to locate General Wheeler.”

  “You there! Can’t you help us?”

  The words came from a woman, old, frail, soot on her face, her dress caked with ash. Dibrell spoke out again, and Seeley knew the man’s habit, trying to sound official.

  “Help is aplenty, be sure of that! We shall ride hard into the devils who did this! There shall be no mercy! General Wheeler shall see to your salvation, you can be certain of that!”

  Dibrell seemed to exhaust his own bravado, and Seeley eased past a handful of the citizens, saw the eyes turning toward him now, no one inspired by the general’s words.

  “Sir, I have secured a single wagon back that way, past that church spire. There is corn, some sweet potatoes. With your permission, sir, these folks can take what they need.”

  He knew the wagon had been a treasure, gathered from abandoned cellars and larders that somehow escaped the claws of the Yankee occupation. His own men had already filled their pockets with anything that might sustain them another day. But Seeley couldn’t deny the desperation of the civilians, and Dibrell seemed resigned to that, pointed toward the church, still the annoying bombast in his voice.

  “Very well! Good people, we have come to your rescue. We will provide for you as long as there is breath i
n the Confederacy!”

  Seeley turned his horse, the general’s assurances meaningless, empty bluster. He rode past his own horsemen, the townspeople following, and he looked at the faces of the men he led, saw glimpses of optimism, some grabbing on to Dibrell’s promises as though the next fight would turn things around, would rescue the people of Atlanta, would put the glorious city back to what it once was. Seeley held them up with his hand, said, “Half of you, come with me. We’ll show ’em the way. There’s bandits about. The rest remain here.”

  He knew which men would stay close to Dibrell, the ones who still held the fire, who still ached to rip into a column of Yankees. But there were others like him, worn-out, road weary, hungry. If any one of them thought his suffering was worse than that of any civilian, the gaunt faces of the citizens said otherwise.

  Much of Atlanta was destroyed, the wider avenues lined with skeletons of buildings or piles of brick and stone, gutted houses that still smoldered. Smoke and ash coated everything, the hard streets beneath his horse’s hooves or any structure that remained. The sights had inspired anger, some of those men who hung on Dibrell’s ridiculous speech prepared to march into whatever hell the Yankees offered. Seeley had seen some of this before, on a half-dozen battlefields where a town happened to be in the way. But Atlanta was very different, if only for the scope of it, the sheer volume of the destruction. Word had passed beyond the city, reaching Hood’s army in Alabama, and orders had come for the cavalry patrols to ease closer to the city, probing to see just what the Yankees were doing, whether or not Sherman was pushing out farther west in what would certainly be a fresh pursuit of Hood.

  As the cavalry moved in, they expected skirmishers, scattered musket fire to keep them away. Instead they found a city devoid of soldiers, and whether or not Sherman intended a pursuit of Hood, all that Seeley knew was that they had marched away from Atlanta in another direction altogether. Now in their place came the civilians, some seeking loot, bandits and thieves that Seeley had been ordered to capture. But most of the people he saw now were simply returning to their homes, many finding no home at all. Already the roads were growing busier, cavalry scouts beyond the city reporting an odyssey of scattered wagons, even more civilians emerging from safe places in the countryside, some returning with their most treasured possessions. They seemed to be everywhere, their numbers increasing by the hour, some sitting slumped over in their wagons, staring at the wreckage of what might have been a grand house or an entire street of tall and elegant homes, now rubble and ash. For some the final insult had come from the Confederate cavalry, orders to confiscate wagons where they found them, to scrounge through the remains of the city for anything the Yankees might have left behind.