The Fateful Lightning

by Jeff Shaara

  “Yes, sir! We are your prisoners, sir!”

  The shouts were growing up the road, the musket fire coming now, whistles and sharp whines past Seeley’s head. His men were on their mounts again, the prisoners mostly heaped together on the wagons, and Seeley glanced toward the Yankee infantry, close enough to see faces, a heavy line moving toward them, a hundred yards, closing quickly.

  “Let’s go! Take the trail!”

  The road through the woods was just wide enough for the wagons, but the mud was deep, the horse’s hooves pushing down into soft goo. He watched the wagons lurch crookedly into the trees, bogging down, and he wanted to shout them through, but there was little hope, the mud too deep, the wagons too heavy. His frustration fueled into raw anger, and he pounded his saddle, waved his men into the woods, most of them pushing their mounts tightly past the heaped wagons. He looked down the road again, the Federal line closer still, more musket fire, a ball whistling through the side of his coat. And now there was a new sound, from the thickets on the far side of the road. He heard the sound of horses, saw the blue mass emerging from woods, pushing through the brush toward him, one flag, then another. It was Federal cavalry.

  He yanked hard on the reins, turned the horse, the wagons abandoned, the Yankee prisoners scrambling down, making their escape. The Federal horsemen poured out onto the road, and Seeley drew his pistol, saw another squad farther down, pushing past the line of blue infantry. The Yankee horsemen halted, a frozen moment, barely thirty yards away, eyes on him, his pistol motionless. He focused on their carbines, and he heard the orders, the silence broken now, spurred the horse, the animal responding with a lurch. He followed his men into the woods, the wagons clogging the trail, offering blessed cover, blocking the Federal fire. He skirted around the wagons, the carbines rattling in a chorus of fire like nothing he had ever heard. His head was low, the horse obeying the urgency of his spurs, his eyes on the men in front of him, his men. They kept up the gallop, mud flying, the wet branches slapping past Seeley, the men still riding hard. They reached an open field and Seeley shouted out, some of the men halting, then more, coming back together, the immediate danger past. He drew them into line, the sergeants riding behind them, straightening the formation, and Seeley stared back into the woods, expected to see the blue horsemen in close pursuit.

  “Make ready! Aim low!”

  The men were silent, waiting, the agonizing tension spread through all of them. Seeley stared out down the trail, strained to hear, but there was nothing, only the hiss of more rain. Beside him was one of the new men, a corporal.

  “They ain’t coming. They think they just chased us off.”

  Gladstone was there now, the old man spitting a stream of tobacco juice close to Seeley’s horse. “They did chase us off, boy. You hear them damn carbines? Eight-shooters. Ten-shooters. Whatever the hell they got now.”

  Seeley absorbed that, knew Gladstone was right. He had seen that before, in Tennessee, the Yankee horsemen with their new weapons, one man able to shoot as quickly as half a squad of Seeley’s own. He had actually captured some of the repeating pieces, but they were useless to his men. The ammunition they carried didn’t fit.

  He felt his breathing, the hot anger at losing the prisoners, the prize of the wagons, whatever goods they might have carried. But there was nothing else to do. He felt a sudden enormous sadness, the image of so many blue troopers planted in his mind. Had to be twice what we’ve got here. And those carbines…

  He slid the sword into its scabbard, called out now, “Let’s ride back to Clinton, find General Dibrell. We’re not doing any good right here. We stick around, those Yankees will figure that out.”

  The men were grumbling, but no one offered any real objection. The sadness rolled through him still, an aching impotence. He spurred the horse, the animal sweating beneath him, but still obedient, as were the men. He led them back along the trail they had first come, back to where Wheeler would give them another task, put them into someplace where there might be another “unfair fight.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  HARDEE

  MACON, GEORGIA—NOVEMBER 22, 1864

  “You certain, Lieutenant?”

  “Quite so, sir. The telegraph operator proved most efficient. His discretion should be rewarded. Once he was aware that his communication was no longer private, he cut off all transmitting. Certainly the Yankees were intercepting our wires, possibly for some time. But the line is now dead.”

  Hardee walked slowly, felt a sudden dread, the uncertainty of being cut off from communication with anyone who could help him. He kept it inside, wouldn’t let that show to the young officer, stepped through a crust of frozen mud. Beside him the lieutenant moved with a precise march to his steps, as though Hardee were leading him on parade. Hardee had grown used to that, the younger officers treating him as much with fear as with the respect due his rank. He knew that kind of behavior had been spread by the West Pointers in the army, the men who knew Hardee first as commandant, the man most responsible for discipline at the academy. At first that had flattered him, Hardee hoping that the respect they showed him came from his creation of the army’s field manual. But few paid much attention to that now, and his reputation for discipline carried more weight than even he would prefer. He often thought of those in the North, had even kept up some correspondence with them throughout much of 1861. But that wasn’t practical now, might even be considered collusion with the enemy, a perception he knew Braxton Bragg would have embraced with a vicious glee. Still, there were the friends, the very discreet network of men who offered to trade information in return for his advice on tactics. Most of that was worthless, in both directions, but Hardee knew to keep trying, that occasionally a nugget would slip through, something even the man in blue wouldn’t realize had value. Hardee was far more careful, kept his missives cloaked in the veil of friendship, pride, and loyalty toward the good student, the promising young officer, no matter the color of his uniform. The men closest to him now were loyal indeed, but West Point had nothing to do with that. They had endured what every Confederate commander had suffered, whether the heavy hand of Jefferson Davis or the ridiculous abuse of authority by generals who Hardee knew had no business leading an army.

  He continued to walk, the air colder still, a flurry of damp snow swirling around him. He glanced up, the sun sinking low, and he moved closer to the earthworks, could see that the men who had once occupied the works were mostly gone. The lieutenant beside him kept up his rhythmic pace, splashing through the icy potholes in the street, and Hardee stopped now, turned to the young man, said, “Will you please avoid the parade ground drill, Lieutenant? There is no one here to congratulate you on your precision, including me. Your report is accepted. You may return to Major Roy, and request he assign you to…something else. We must prepare to leave this place, and I don’t want fanfare about it. Do you understand?”

  The man seemed crestfallen, as though accompanying Hardee was the most useful task he could perform. Hardee thought, He might be right about that.

  “Yes, sir. I shall report to Major Roy. With your permission…”

  The young man slapped up a perfect salute, and Hardee returned it with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. The man moved away now, Hardee letting himself sag, turning again toward the earthworks.

  The telegraph line had been the last one that was useful. There had been a game of sorts, Federal cavalry most likely, Kilpatrick’s men tapping into the line to hear whatever messages might still be on the wire. The latest word from Beauregard had been more annoying emptiness, Beauregard still far away, hampered by the condition of the transportation routes. Beauregard’s last message had been directed more toward General Wheeler’s cavalry, the painful reality for Hardee that no one else under his meager command would have much effect on the Federal troops bearing down on Macon.

  My views are that positions should be defended only so long as not to risk safety of troops and materials required for active operations i
n the field. Remove to safe locality all government property on line of enemy’s march, and consume or destroy all supplies within his reach.

  Hardee had passed Beauregard’s order along to Wheeler, but there was little enthusiasm for what Hardee knew was one more piece of instruction from someone too far away to understand just what was going on. The only piece of the message that Hardee took seriously was the need to remove troops who were likely to be crushed by whatever forces Sherman was pushing toward them.

  Beauregard will get here eventually, Hardee thought. And then he’ll know exactly what I know. We would have defended this place as best we could, and we would have cost the enemy some heavy casualties. But the men here would never have stood for long. No matter the nonsense the newspapers trumpet over our heads, we were never strong enough here to keep Howard’s two corps away. It was only our good fortune that General Howard made the decision to avoid us. I just wish I knew why.

  Those few men who still held the ground saw him coming, salutes and hats in the air, no more than a few dozen of them now. He searched for their officer, whoever that might be, had no patience for anyone not at his post. He climbed up on a dirt embankment, freshly dug, and so a heap of soft mud. The men kept their distance, respect he appreciated, and he steadied himself, stared out through the wisps of snow. I should have sent them out with a more experienced commander, he thought. Zealous generals kill men, usually their own. Like Pleasant Philips, a man who knows nothing about leading men in the field, and so he decides to impress us all by making his own battle, as though by leading his untrained militia against anyone he found, he would become a hero.

  That fight had been a few miles outside Macon, a small town called Griswoldville. Hardee had only ordered reconnaissance, most of that in the hands of Joe Wheeler’s cavalry, and Wheeler understood clearly that if opportunity presented itself, he could strike the Yankees at will. But Philips had been sent out on another mission entirely. It was Hardee’s intention that Philips’s militia avoid contact with the Yankees and seek out a functioning railroad farther east or south that might transport those troops away from Macon altogether, along with Hardee himself and the various other units still in place.

  By preserving as much troop strength as he could, Hardee kept alive his own optimism that the Georgia troops, and anyone else sent to bolster their ranks, might be placed into some advantageous position, a strong defensive line where they might actually accomplish something useful. The railroad was key to that plan, but General Philips had interpreted Hardee’s order as though a fight was desirable. Philips had stumbled into a dangerous confrontation, the inexperienced brigadier taking it upon himself to launch his two-thousand-man force into what he must have believed was the unprepared rear guard of one of Oliver Howard’s columns. Instead Philips had sent his ragged and disorganized troops into the repeating rifles of a well prepared force. The results were no surprise to anyone but Philips. It was a disaster, more than four hundred casualties, from a command that couldn’t stand to lose anyone at all. If there was one positive from Griswoldville, it was confirmation that Howard’s columns were moving away to the north and east of Macon, the Federal troops granting a mysterious reprieve to the town that Howard most likely could have grabbed at will.

  Hardee wiped the chilling wetness from his face, stepped carefully down to level ground, stood alone, still examined the works. We’d have made a good fight of it. I have to believe that. Georgians fighting for Georgia. Perhaps the Yankees feared Wheeler, the threat of a fight with good cavalry. Howard’s probably under orders from Sherman to keep clear of any significant fight. The question I cannot answer is: Why? He must know the kind of weakness we have here. No, if Sherman had wanted Macon, he’d be here, right now. He expended great energy to convince us…hell, convince me that he was coming. I suppose that was the point. We sat here and waited for him, and all the while, the other half of his army was somewhere north of here, maybe driving right into Augusta. Or maybe he doesn’t care about that place, either. Maybe he’s going all the way to the ocean. And there’s not a thing Richmond can provide us that will stop him.

  He walked toward the groom holding his horse, saw his adjutant, Colonel Pickett, a handful of aides on horseback. He kept his eyes on Pickett, expected some kind of news, something bad yet again. But Pickett offered a simple nod toward him, the casual friendliness that marked their relationship. No, there is no news at all, he thought. No orders, no absurd hurrahs of encouragement. The Federals control the telegraph, and so all we have here is silence. Not even the cavalry can tell us what’s happening beyond a few miles from here. He stood for a long moment with his hands on his hips, the cold, wet air piercing him through his coat. Silence. I hate silence.

  William Pickett was older than anyone on his staff, had come to Hardee out of Alabama, served as his adjutant general. He was a veteran of Mexico, a rarity among the officers around Hardee now. It had not escaped Hardee that most of the younger officers who led the men around this new command had no idea what a victory felt like. At least Pickett has that inside of him, he thought. The question now is whether or not I can recall that myself.

  Pickett and Thomas Roy had served Hardee through the worst of the controversies Hardee had suffered throughout the war, most often the clash of personalities with men like Braxton Bragg and more recently John Bell Hood. Hardee appreciated their loyalty, had felt fortunate that nearly all of his staff had kept with him even as he was moved into various new commands by the clumsy maneuvering in Richmond. The latest move had come at the urging of Hood, even as Hardee served under Hood in attempting to hold Sherman away from Atlanta. As Atlanta fell into Federal hands, Hardee was sent east, to take command of the garrison at Charleston. Richmond cloaked that assignment in all sorts of meaningless compliments, but Hardee knew that Hood simply wanted him out of the way. Hardee had seen too much of this in the army, most notably with Braxton Bragg, the year before.

  He despised Bragg, the animosity mutual, but Bragg could not avoid the blame for the disaster a year earlier at Chattanooga. When Richmond accepted Bragg’s resignation, command of the army had then been offered to Hardee. He accepted, but very soon he knew it was a responsibility he simply didn’t want. Though he worked tirelessly to rebuild what had been shattered at Chattanooga, Hardee had pulled away from the weight that army command required. To the astonishment of Richmond, and particularly Jefferson Davis, within three short weeks Hardee relinquished the command, urging Richmond to appoint Joe Johnston in his place. Hardee had no doubts at all that Johnston could do a better job, could inspire the army and the citizenry, and would be a more effective strategist. A stunned Jefferson Davis had reluctantly accepted Hardee’s recommendation, and Johnston had been given the command. But even Hardee knew that the longtime friction between those two men could have no pleasant outcome. Like Beauregard, Johnston had a talent for irritating the president.

  Once Sherman pushed his Federal army deep into Georgia, the president had all the excuses he needed. Predictably, Davis removed Johnston and replaced him with John Bell Hood. Hardee had often been frustrated with Johnston’s tendency toward retreat, but in the face of overwhelming odds, Johnston reacted with careful strategy, had always shown he preferred maneuver to all-out assault. Hood seemed to understand that Davis expected him to perform with far more aggression, even so far as to contradict every strategy Johnston had recommended. But Hood took his authority beyond aggression into outright recklessness. Johnston had been roundly criticized for retreating in the face of Sherman’s advance, and so Hood did the opposite. The results had been devastating for the army, and for Atlanta. But Davis continued to support Hood in his command, the amazing talent the president had for ignoring his own errors in judgment. Now Hardee was convinced that Hood’s pursuit of some new glory in Tennessee would result in one more nail in the lid of the Confederacy’s coffin.

  Hardee had no idea if anyone in Richmond appreciated Georgia’s importance to the Confederacy, the state supplying crit
ical supplies to Lee’s army in Virginia. And yet, he thought, Davis seems to believe every state is its own kingdom, invincible, that one by one, we shall throw the invading bluebellies out, as we march proudly toward some heavenly conclusion. And so, what is your duty, General Hardee? Would you not prefer to return home to your new bride? The thought stopped him, made him smile.

  He knew there was talk, even among some of his staff, that his recent marriage had been viewed as a distraction, that his focus was on the perfumed skirts of his beloved Miss Mary. She was his second wife, his first—the mother of his three children—passing away more than ten years before. Charleston is a lovely place, he thought. Suits her, as it suits the children. If they would only listen to me, and remain out of harm’s way.

  It was his daughter Sallie who insisted that her place should rival his own. During the battles for Atlanta, Sallie had served as a nurse in every makeshift hospital she could reach, and even now Hardee knew she would continue to serve the army whether he wanted her to or not. She will not follow orders, he thought. At least, not my own. But I can hardly prevent her from doing such work, when we have so much need for it. But still…Charleston. A wonderful place for a family. Yes, Miss Mary, I have had enough of this. But there is still so much more to do. And so many fools to suffer along the way.

  Hardee had served John Bell Hood with as much conviction as he had always brought to the field, but during the fights for Atlanta, Hardee began to accept what Hood would not, that Sherman’s vastly superior force of arms, as well as the quality of his generals, could not be swept away simply by throwing troops directly into Sherman’s guns. Inevitably, the fall of Atlanta required a scapegoat, and Hood had singled out Hardee for many of the failures against Sherman, an accusation Hardee could not completely contradict. Rather than subject the army to a lengthy game of approbation and courts of inquiry, Hardee accepted the transfer to Charleston, where he now commanded the garrison. Until Beauregard or Richard Taylor reached Macon, Hardee was the ranking commander, had traveled southward into Georgia with the clear understanding that halting Sherman’s advance was still the higher priority, even if Hood thought there was greater glory to be found in Tennessee. It continued to surprise many in the War Department in Richmond that Sherman had not chased after Hood, had instead seemed perfectly content establishing a military base out of Atlanta itself. And now, Hardee thought, Sherman is pushing toward…where? But that is an answer I am expected to know already. And they provide me with what? Wheeler’s cavalry, and a few thousand war-weary troops or conscripts who have no experience at all, led by men like Pleasant Philips, who still believe they can find glory in killing men for no good reason.