The Fateful Lightning

by Jeff Shaara

  But there were differences between Forrest and Wheeler that went far beyond appearances or Forrest’s lack of West Point training. Wheeler was not yet thirty years old, not much older than Seeley, some fifteen years younger than Forrest. What Wheeler lacked in age he seemed to make up with aggressiveness, whether or not that was always the correct option. If there were to be fights ahead, Seeley had accepted that Wheeler might put all of them in a situation that could be disastrous.

  Seeley dismounted, followed Dibrell toward the veranda. Wheeler scanned the men as they approached, glanced at the other officers, then moved with short, quick steps into the house. Seeley held back, waited for the more senior men, saw no one of his rank. He felt suddenly as though he shouldn’t be here at all, had never taken part in anyone’s council of war, if that’s what this was. But the mood was too serious, too grim for anyone to pay much attention to this one captain. If he wasn’t welcome, someone, especially Dibrell, could order him away.

  The room smelled of smoke, some of it tobacco, some from the breeze that carried the stink of burning lumber from the next block, where one house still spewed out a column of black smoke. Seeley crept forward, a large sitting room, saw Wheeler pacing, his hand holding a single piece of paper.

  “This came from Beauregard, who is right now…well, I have no idea where he might be. He’s on his way here, that’s all I know. All he’ll say.”

  “Is Beauregard our new commander?”

  The words came from one of the brigadiers, and Wheeler spun on his heels, stared at the man as though intent upon killing him.

  “Possibly. For now anyway. There is also word that General Bragg is assuming command from a base in Augusta, Heaven help us. General Hardee is supposed to be on his way toward Macon, to organize defenses there. General Johnston is no doubt perched up on some pole somewhere watching this with great amusement. A herd of generals, and none of them are here, and all of them with the authority to tell me what to do.” He spun again, paced a few steps, his boots clattering on the wooden floor. “Most of you have been with me in a great many scraps. This army has the astounding talent of winning battles and then losing them, all at the same time. Or perhaps we win the battles and lose the campaigns. Never mind. We have orders to pursue Sherman’s army, wherever they might be going. We are to stay close, inviting them to delay their march by forcing them to respond to our presence with vigorous aggressiveness. If there’s a fight to be had, we must have it. But we are not to attempt to bring on a significant engagement. The fact is, gentlemen…” He paused, looked down. “The fact is, there is no other army in Georgia to lend us a hand. In this command we have four to five thousand effectives. Sherman is leading ten times that number, or more.” He stopped, reached into a pocket, withdrew a crumpled paper. “I suppose you should hear this. I was sent this order by General Hood, just as he began his operations into Tennessee. Allow me to quote. ‘You must endeavor to keep the Atlanta and Dalton railway constantly cut, and should the enemy evacuate Atlanta, you must destroy all the roads north of the Chattahoochee, and constantly concentrating toward your left be prepared to join at any time the main body of the army. Should the enemy advance anywhere you will drive off all the stock in their front, and destroy all the mills within ten miles of their lines of march, retarding them as much as possible.’ ” He stopped again, held up the paper. “Four to five thousand effectives. We are to destroy every rail line that leads north, while we prepare to move to the west, all the while destroying the enemy’s sustenance to his front, wherever that may be, and maintaining a ten-mile-wide path of destruction along the enemy’s route of march. I have a solution to this ‘interesting’ problem offered us by General Hood.”

  Wheeler tore the paper in half.

  Seeley heard an audible gasp from men in front of him, but Wheeler’s hard stare silenced them. To one side Hannon spoke up, another of the brigadiers.

  “Sir, it seems General Hood does not have a complete grasp on our situation. I for one will support your decision to pursue and do damage to Sherman. Do we know where he is going?”

  Wheeler glared toward Hannon. “I believe it is our job to find that out. Every mayor in Georgia believes Sherman’s army is breathing fire outside his front door. There’s people in Pensacola convinced Sherman is moving that way. Macon is a ripe target, as are Augusta, Savannah, Tallahassee, the prison at Andersonville, St. Augustine. How many more can I name? The only thing we actually know, that I have seen myself, is that the bluebellies marched away from here on four different roads, moving east and south, possibly to assault four different targets. With little to stand in Sherman’s way, he has the luxury of choosing his targets as he feels inclined. All right, so here are my orders. At first light, you will drive your men out toward Macon and Augusta. I’ll give you your routes of march then. Those would be the most significant targets, unless any of you believe Sherman’s off to a vacation on the Gulf of Mexico.” Wheeler continued to pace, seemed to ignore the others. Seeley looked around the room in front of him, saw nervous faces, no one making any attempt to speak out. Seeley felt a stirring in his empty stomach, the question burning inside him. It makes sense, he thought. Surely he knows this. Seeley took a long breath, said, “Sir, I believe either Augusta or Savannah would be his goal.”

  Wheeler tilted his head, looked at him with cold eyes, no other expression. “Why is that? Who are you, anyway?”

  “Captain James Seeley, sir. I rode with General Forrest.”

  “Seeley. One of the bandits from Tennessee. Steal anything today?” Seeley felt the weight of the stares in his direction, took another long breath. “Sir, if Sherman moves through Augusta, it would follow that he’s intending on marching farther north to join the fight in Virginia. If he goes to Savannah, he will certainly find support from the Yankee navy. You said yourself, sir, there’s very little army for him to fight here, and from all we’ve seen, the Yankees have cut themselves off from their supply lines. With all respect to General Hood’s orders…” Seeley glanced at the torn paper on the floor. “Sir, General Hood must not be aware that the Yankees have already destroyed those roads leading north.”

  Wheeler stared at him, the eyes softening. “A great many ideas for a man who rode with Forrest. I was not aware General Forrest encouraged his men to think.”

  There was a murmur of laughter, but Wheeler kept his stare on Seeley, said, “I was born in Augusta, Captain. You know that? No, don’t expect you do. But I agree with most of what you say. I also believe Macon is his target. Too many factories, valuable goods there. It’s a crucial supply link for General Hood’s advance.” Wheeler paused again. “Captain, I started my army life as an Indian fighter. Most ridiculous, infuriating kind of war you can wage. The enemy never stays put, is never where you expect him to be, seems to rise up out of the ground when your back’s turned. Right now we will become the Indians. Gentlemen, Captain Seeley might be mouthy, but he could also be right. Our duty is to harass Sherman from every direction, make him look over his shoulder every hour. Until General Beauregard or someone else in authority tells me different, I’m going to pursue the enemy with a special eye on both Augusta and Macon. We’ll follow his trail, determine what he’s planning to do, and make life as miserable for him as we can. Find plenty of axes. We may be cutting down every tree in Georgia to block every road he can use. Any other suggestions, Captain?”

  Seeley felt the stares again, wanted to shrink away.

  Dibrell spoke up now, standing tall beside him. “He’s my man, General. Good fighter, certain to lead a division one day. Allow me to lead his men toward Augusta. We shall do all that is possible to prevent any harm from coming to your homestead.”

  Wheeler ignored Dibrell, paced again. “Return to your camps. Seek information from the slaves, from any citizens who might have seen or heard something important. Gather rations, wagons, do what you can for the health of your mounts. Find ammunition, and sharpen your sabers. Until someone decides to assist us with a few thousand
troops, we’re the army in this place. Let’s find the enemy.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SHERMAN

  NEAR COVINGTON, GEORGIA—NOVEMBER 17, 1864

  The army will forage liberally on the country during the march. To this end, each brigade commander will organize a good and sufficient foraging party, under the command of one or more discreet officers, who will gather, near the route traveled, corn or forage of any kind, meat of any kind, vegetables, corn meal, or whatever is needed by the command….Soldiers must not enter the dwellings of the inhabitants or commit any trespass….

  The army responded to Sherman’s order with complete enthusiasm, every unit now offering up those men who were called bummers, every brigade commander designating those few soldiers whose job would be to move out far from the column, ahead or to the side, for the sole purpose of locating food and forage for the army. It was the only logic that made sense to Sherman: Even if the enemy made little effort to impede progress, if the army was to survive long enough to reach the coast they would have to live off the land. This part of Georgia was lush, fertile, with vast farms and plantations where slaves toiled, where cattle and hogs had been gathered into enormous pens, and barns and pantries were full. It was one of those nagging worries, and Sherman knew that Grant had asked the same question, the most important question this army would ask itself: How would they eat?

  The army brought cattle from the farms around Atlanta, several thousand head, along with those wagons Sherman had authorized, filled with whatever grain and corn they had pulled from close to the city. But Sherman had no expectation that anything they carried with them would last long enough for the kind of campaign he expected. He knew soldiers too well, that no matter the orders, a man given five days of rations would consume most of that in a single day. If the commissary officers believed the army carried a month’s worth of food, Sherman knew it could be gone in a week. And even more important, none of those calculations had made any allowance for possible raids by rebel cavalry. Sherman had seen the cost of those raids firsthand, as far back as the planning for the assault against Vicksburg. Grant’s entire strategy had been delayed for months by a raid against the enormous depot the Federal army had created at Holly Springs, Mississippi. The loss of supplies had totaled in the millions of dollars, damaging Grant’s reputation in Washington. It had been carelessness, poor preparation and poorer performance by men who were charged with protecting such a valuable part of the army’s offensive. This time there were no such depots, the lesson learned not just by Holly Springs, but by the ferociousness of rebel cavalry in every place Sherman had traveled. He knew it was certain to continue, mostly where the rebel army was pushing forward an offensive of its own, Hood’s men driving northward toward Nashville. But that was a very long way from where Sherman was now, and farther still from his intended targets. In his wake would be nothing like Holly Springs, or Johnsonville. There were no stagnant depots to invite rebel cavalry at all. The wagon trains that trailed each corps were protected as well as the generals could provide, but Sherman had too much respect for the abilities of rebel horsemen and too little faith in his own commissary officers to believe his supplies were completely safe.

  —

  He saw the first wagon, overflowing with all manner of spoils, hams and headless chickens hanging from the side, sacks of corn and flour stacked high. The men were cheerful, great tales of their bravery against what seemed to be hordes of furious rebels, an army somehow brushed aside by this handful of heroic souls.

  Sherman moved the horse toward them, eyed the wagon, ignored most of the talk coming from the men. But they saw him, and so the talk grew more fierce, the tales taller still, all for his benefit. He stopped the horse, leaned out, inspected the wagon, the men quieting now, waiting for his response.

  “This all?”

  The comment was purposeful and Sherman expected some show of indignation. The man driving the wagon obliged him.

  “Um, sir, begging your pardon and all, but this here’s every scrap of food there was at a farm no more than a half mile from this very spot. You want we should go out farther, well, that’s fine by me. But there was rebel cavalry aplenty gathering up, and we might not have made it back a’tall.”

  Sherman looked at the man. “How much cavalry?”

  He saw the man inflate, the question showing the rest of them that even the commanding general took him seriously. “Why, sir, there was a good hundred of ’em. Sabers drawn, ready to ride right down on us. I seen their eyes, I did. We was gonna stand and fight it out, but I knowed that the lieutenant was expecting us to strike it rich with this here kind of bounty, and make it back safe and all, so we’s could have a good feed tonight. Fact is, I thought better of making the fight. But, General, if there’s another chance, we’ll send them horsemen scampering off, sure as fire.”

  Sherman looked toward the lone officer, said, “Fine. Lieutenant, I’ll have your man here promoted to general. But please tell me how many cavalry you saw.”

  The lieutenant was very young, sheepish, seemed unwilling to contradict his own man. “Well, sir, we did see a flock of gray coats. I didn’t have much chance to make a count. One of ’em took a shot at us.”

  Sherman had the picture now. “So a musket ball flies past, and you wisely give the order to haul that wagon back here quick as you could, thus saving the lives of your men and making sure this, um, bounty made it back here safely. All for the good of the camp.”

  The lieutenant smiled, readily accepting Sherman’s explanation. “That would be about it, sir.”

  “Well, Lieutenant, I’d like you to accompany Major Dayton here to my tent. We should hear a good deal more about your heroics.”

  The man seemed to quake, put one hand on the wagon to steady himself. “By all means, sir. Right now?”

  “Right now. Follow my adjutant back to where they’re settling me down for the night. Major Dayton, escort the young lieutenant here off into those trees. I’ll be there as soon as the tents are up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dayton motioned with his hand, the lieutenant walking behind the horse like a small duck following its mother. Sherman looked again at the wagon, saw more officers moving up, salutes, low greetings.

  “Gentlemen, your foragers made a good haul. That’s one. We’ll need a good many more of these every day. Keep these men on the move, keep them out in front of the column or as close by as you can.” He looked at the wagon’s driver. “What’s your name, Private?”

  “Jerald Guffney, sir.”

  “Well, Private Guffney, if there’s hordes of rebels lurking out there, I don’t want anyone doing something stupid enough to get themselves captured. You understand that?”

  The man seemed to grasp that his particular show of heroics had run its course. “Yes, sir. No doubt about that.”

  Sherman’s patience for the game had ended, and he turned, saw Major Hitchcock, motioned him closer, said in a low voice, “Let’s check the next camp. That lieutenant can wait a bit. Dayton will know what to do, how to talk to that ‘boy.’ We’ll find out just what these men saw out there, some real numbers. He’ll be a little more forthcoming if he’s away from these braggarts. Maybe I can teach him not to make heroes out of scroungers.”

  Hitchcock smiled, said, “Yes, sir. In your charge, sir.”

  Sherman jabbed the horse with the lone spur, moved quickly past the men still gathering around the wagon. Hitchcock caught up with him now, glanced back, the other aides following, the crowd around the wagon out of earshot.

  “General, you think there was any rebel cavalry at all?”

  “Yep.”

  “Really?” Hitchcock seemed surprised, stared out through the darkening trees.

  “Easy, Major. There’s a hundred of our skirmishers out that way, hoping for just that, a fat wad of horsemen trying to bust in here. We’ll get plenty of warning.”

  “Thank you, sir. Just not all that familiar with such things.”

 
“You will be.”

  They rode farther, officers coming to attention as he passed, their men calling out the salutes, more of the same, “Uncle Billy.” Hitchcock said, “Sir, that not bother you? So much informality? I would think they’d show more respect.”

  Sherman stuffed a fresh cigar in his mouth, chewed on the tip, always enjoying that first bite into dry tobacco. “They’re showing plenty of respect. Good for morale. They can call me anything they want, as long as they do the job. You see some general insist on his men calling him by his full rank, all of that nonsense, you can bet it’s because they’re afraid of him, or maybe they hate the man. They love you, they’ll think up some kind of nickname. Always been that way.”

  Hitchcock seemed to ponder that, said, “Think they’ll find one for me?”

  Sherman couldn’t help a chuckle, pulled the cigar out, twirled it in his fingers. “Don’t count on that. Staff officers are usually pretty invisible. Supposed to be that way. Only adjutant I know who insists on being front and center is Grant’s man, John Rawlins. Puts himself into Grant’s business like some cocky-ass rooster. Wouldn’t put up with that here. But Grant’s good to his friends, and I guess Rawlins is a friend. So Grant puts up with a great deal. He’s put up with me more than most.”

  He suspected Hitchcock didn’t know much of what he was referring to, could see the man absorbing every scrap of information Sherman was giving him.

  “I can see that you and General Grant have a good understanding.”

  “You might say that.”

  Henry Hitchcock had been with Sherman’s staff for only three weeks, had come to the army from a notable law practice in St. Louis, by way of the influence of his uncle in Washington. General Ethan Allen Hitchcock had been a longtime acquaintance of Sherman before the war, though Sherman had no idea the old man had a nephew who aspired to be a soldier. The word had come from the War Department, the younger Hitchcock rejecting an offer from Edwin Stanton to serve in the logical position as judge advocate in his hometown of St. Louis. Henry Hitchcock had determined that service in the army meant service close to the front lines, and so the elder Hitchcock had appealed directly to Sherman. There was always room for more assistance, and Sherman had obliged his old friend, welcoming his nephew to camp in Atlanta. What he did not expect was that, unlike every other member of Sherman’s immediate staff, Hitchcock was by their measure old. He was thirty-five.