The Fateful Lightning

by Jeff Shaara

  It was a devastating blow to Hardee, as much as to the rest of the army. His military mind agonized to understand how such a thing was allowed to happen, and he could not just absorb his friend’s death with faithful acceptance, as Polk himself might do. He had been angered by it, examined the event by the only tools Hardee had, the mind of a strategist, weighing the mathematics of it, the raw odds of an artillery shell cutting through not just any one man, but that man, and if there had been a Hand of God in that, Hardee had convinced himself that for one brief moment, a flicker of time, God had looked the other way. There was no other explanation that satisfied Hardee, and now none was needed. As horrific as that news had been, what he had just learned was much worse, his mind grappling still with the greatest sadness he had felt since the war began. Hardee had learned from Bishop Polk to place his faith in a just God, but now that faith was not just tested, it was nearly torn away.

  The telegraph line that ran to Charleston was still intact, allowing information to pass down the coast from Augusta and far beyond. And so word had reached him of an immense fight at Franklin, Tennessee, more than a week before, the bitter fruit sown by John Bell Hood’s attempt to drive the war northward, deep into Federally controlled strongholds. Franklin had been a disaster for Hood’s army, and Hardee couldn’t help an angry grief that it was a disaster for everything decent in a world growing more indecent every day. Among the dead was Patrick Cleburne.

  Cleburne had served Hardee with a tenacious and valiant effort throughout the campaign at Stones River. But Cleburne’s star rose far higher at Chattanooga. He had been the single spot of bright light in a campaign dominated by what Hardee knew to be the unbending incompetence of Braxton Bragg. Despite Bragg’s continuing missteps, a grossly outnumbered Cleburne had held off a number of powerful assaults from Sherman’s own forces, had held out until the darkness silenced Sherman’s guns. It was the only success in a day of catastrophe, the rest of the Federal army sweeping up and over the high ground far from Cleburne’s enormous triumph, wiping away Bragg’s entire army in a defeat as absolute as any of the war. Hardee had seen Cleburne throughout that remarkable day, had silently applauded the man’s heroics. But in the end, Hardee had been forced to order his best subordinate to back off the ground he had won, Cleburne assigned to protect the army as it made good a desperate retreat. Cleburne not only accomplished the task, he bloodied the triumphant Federal pursuit completely at Ringgold Gap, a pass through the north Georgia mountains, which allowed the remnants of Bragg’s army to escape. Even Richmond seemed to recognize what Hardee already appreciated. Cleburne was a true hero, earning an official “Thanks from the Congress of the Confederacy,” a rare accolade in an army where few had earned it.

  After Chattanooga, Cleburne had continued to show the kind of tenacity the army had not seen since the days of Stonewall Jackson, serving Hardee as well as anyone in the efforts to prevent Sherman’s capture of Atlanta. But Hardee could not control the whims of Richmond, and so when Hardee had been ordered away to Charleston, he had lost command of what he believed to be the best field officer in the army, and even worse, he lost touch with one of his closest friends. Cleburne had been ordered to continue on with Hood, had been a part of what Hardee had always believed to be an astounding waste of effort and manpower. Even Beauregard, who could have prevented it, had allowed Hood to venture off on a quixotic quest for redemption, as though by striking out toward Nashville, Hood could excuse his loss of Atlanta. Now, Hardee thought, Sherman is right out here, coming this way, and the only man I know who could hope to stop him…is gone.

  He tried to hold in his emotions, knew there were men watching him, the men with the shovels, his own staff close behind him, Major Roy and Colonel Pickett. He held the horse still for a long moment, kept his eyes on the soft orange glow drifting over the city, pushed hard to erase the image of Cleburne, tried not to hear the man’s self-conscious Irish brogue. I should speak to a priest, he thought. Try, anyway.

  The emotions wouldn’t leave, choking away his voice, and he nudged the horse forward, ordered the men to follow with a slow wave of his hand.

  HARDEE’S HEADQUARTERS, SAVANNAH, GEORGIA—DECEMBER 8, 1864

  He watched as Wheeler flexed his fingers, as though scratching at the air, his mind occupied in some place Hardee hesitated to disrupt. Wheeler looked at him now, as though suddenly struck by the flash of an idea.

  “We’re cutting trees everyplace there are trees to cut. That will help.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Sir, we know that the Yankees are moving this way, and there is no confusion as to their target. Would you have me make any effort to impede him? General Bragg—”

  “Bragg isn’t an issue here, Mr. Wheeler. General Beauregard is in command now. You know that, of course. He has agreed to come here, at my request. So we will answer to him now.”

  Wheeler showed no change of expression, seemed to ponder the news. After a silent moment, he said, “Does that mean there are new orders, sir?”

  “For you?” Hardee thought a moment, had gone through this in his mind all day. “Your men have been assigned to the destruction of everything of use to the enemy, everything that lies between the city and his current position.”

  “Yes, sir. Much of that has been accomplished. It was not a pleasant affair, sir. The civilians, as usual, have been carping at my men about their sacrifice. Who among us is not sacrificing? I have no patience for any of that. None.”

  Hardee had heard a litany of complaints from civilians, as hostile to Wheeler’s men as anyone Sherman had in the field. It was an unanswerable question, how to fight this war and leave the civilians unaffected.

  “I know of your efforts. If I intended to court-martial you for horse thievery, I would have done so long before now.”

  He expected a response, knew that Wheeler’s men had tormented as many civilians in Tennessee as they were now doing in Georgia. Wheeler shrugged.

  “My men require supplies. As does the enemy. Is it not advisable that I empty this country of anything useful to the Yankees? That was the order I was given, as I understood it.”

  “Yes, it was. Still is, I regret to say. The people of this state are appropriately surprised that this war has suddenly entered their front yards, as though our struggle over the past three years has suddenly become a nuisance. Are you aware that their governor, Mr. Brown, has suggested that the state of Georgia engage in her own efforts at peace?”

  Wheeler arched his brow, the most visible change in his expression Hardee had seen. “By themselves?”

  Hardee nodded. “It is Governor Brown’s position that each state in the Confederacy can withdraw their allegiance at any time. Since Georgia is now feeling the sword, he seems to believe his voters would prefer he do exactly that. You are aware that several South Carolina regiments have exercised the same privilege? Instead of assisting us here, they are safely ensconced at Charleston. Every state may now feel free to fight this war on their own terms.”

  “My men will hear none of that, I assure you. What of the Georgia regiments in other theaters? At Petersburg? Are they intending to just…resign?”

  “I expect not.” Hardee held up a hand. “General, do not concern yourself with this. Governor Brown is in hiding somewhere, best I can tell. Once the enemy took Milledgeville, he took the state government under his wing and flew off.”

  “He’s in Augusta.”

  “If you say so. Hardly matters.”

  Wheeler shook his head. “Treasonous. Ungrateful. I shall feel no reservations about what may happen to the loyal people of Georgia.”

  Hardee thought, When did you before? He let it go, stood, tried to stretch away the sleepiness. He moved to the window, his eyes searching through bleariness, caught by the flickers of lantern light down the street. Wheeler still mumbled something about Brown, and Hardee ignored him, his eyes rising to the black sky, a brief moment of peace.

  Wheeler spoke out now, erasing the calm, the words co
ming out in a boast. “It appears General Forrest has equipped himself no better in Tennessee now than before.”

  Hardee turned, saw the maddening blankness on Wheeler’s face. “If you are referring to the fighting in central Tennessee, the engagement at Franklin, yes, I know of that. We lost a great deal more than the prestige of General Forrest.”

  There was heat in Hardee’s words, and Wheeler seemed to grasp that he had stepped into a tender place.

  “I have had something of a competition with General Forrest, sir. I meant no disrespect.”

  “Like hell you didn’t. I know all about your distaste for Bedford Forrest. But you will keep that little feud to yourself. The army lost a decisive battle, and a number of capable field commanders. Thus far I have learned of five generals who were lost, Mr. Wheeler. Five.”

  He saw a hint of surprise on Wheeler’s face.

  “You did not know? General Adams, Granbury, Gist, Strahl. And General Cleburne. There could be others.” Hardee’s voice broke, and he stopped, was suddenly furious at Wheeler.

  “Very sorry, sir. I was not aware of the extent of our losses.”

  Hardee again fought the emotions, but the words burst through, hot and loud. “There will be more, Mr. Wheeler. A great many more! There is no replacing these men. Do you understand that?”

  Wheeler didn’t flinch, said, “And Braxton Bragg sits in some mansion enjoying the luxuries of lofty command.”

  “I do not concern myself with Bragg!”

  He was shaking now, closed his eyes tightly, fought for control. He could hear the faint boot steps, knew the staff had come, would be close by, whether he wanted them or not. He opened his eyes, was surprised to see Wheeler standing.

  “Sir, I shall carry out your orders. We shall do what we can to empty the countryside to Sherman’s front. We shall cut down as many trees as we can, to impede his progress on the roads.”

  Hardee saw the face of Pickett at the door, concerned, waiting for some kind of reassurance from Hardee. “It’s all right, Colonel. General Wheeler will be leaving.”

  Hardee looked at Wheeler, felt some calm returning, pushed away the thoughts of Cleburne. “At your discretion, when you feel you have done an adequate job retarding Sherman’s advance, you will move out once more to his left flank, and resume your harassment.”

  Wheeler seemed to absorb that, said, “That will eliminate any protection for the city beyond your defenses now in place.”

  “We do not have the strength to prevent the enemy from forcing crossings at any point along the creeks and rivers he chooses. The Ocmulgee, the Oconee, the Savannah, are not obstacles we can defend. The Federal engineers are making excellent use of pontoon bridges and so can ford anyplace that suits them. I had hoped to make a strong defense farther out from the city, but General McLaws was adamant that he could not hope to hold Sherman back. I agreed, and repositioned his troops nearer the city. General Beauregard has agreed to come here, to see our situation for himself. I cannot ask more than that. I am certain that if there is to be a stand at all, it will be in the works we are fortifying right now, closest to the city. I have ordered the larger coastal guns brought westward as well, placed where they might deal a blow to the enemy’s advance.”

  “The coast is now undefended? What of the Yankee navy? Could they not be a threat?”

  Hardee was in no mood for lengthy explanations, especially not to a cavalryman. “Sherman serves at the pleasure of General Grant. They are, at the very least, comrades. Friends, if you will. Grant will not let anyone else take thunder from Sherman’s triumphant march. Unless we can injure him, and badly, I’m certain the Federal navy has orders to remain out of the way, unless Sherman requires their help.”

  Wheeler seemed to understand that Hardee had a peculiar knack for finding information no one else seemed to know. “Then, sir, if you will permit, I shall return to my men. We may not be capable of causing him great injury, but we shall cause considerable inconvenience, sir. As much as possible.”

  HARDEE’S HEADQUARTERS, SAVANNAH, GEORGIA—DECEMBER 9, LATE NIGHT

  “Sir, the Richmond paper has arrived. It is only a few days old. Remarkable that it got through this quickly.”

  He looked up from his desk, Roy offering him a smile.

  “Why are you not in bed, Major? It is late.”

  “Not while you’re here, sir.”

  “So, Major, you would ingratiate yourself to me with blind loyalty. I suppose it works.”

  “Blind loyalty is still loyalty, sir. You might wish to examine the paper. There is word there about Sherman.”

  Hardee had had his fill of newspapers, already knew what kind of bizarre optimism was being spread throughout Georgia, if not the whole Confederacy. He took the paper, “Sherman” catching his eye, and read:

  Sherman’s campaign, daringly conceived, has been dimly prosecuted. He seems to realize his peril, and is now concerned only with making his escape. The great hero has turned fugitive.

  Hardee glanced at the banner. Richmond Sentinel. He handed the paper back to Roy, who seemed nearly giddy.

  “See there, sir? If it’s being said in Richmond, it must surely be true.”

  “Go to bed, Major.”

  “Only after you, sir.” Roy was serious now. “There is nothing to command here while the rest of the city sleeps, sir. Is it not best if you awake with them?”

  “There are men at labor in the defenses, Major, even now. No hand can be spared, and whether it be day or night, the work must go on. Or is that a new idea for you?” He had no reason to scold Roy, but the exhaustion had taken over, his eyes heavy again. “Is there any coffee about?”

  Behind Roy, a voice, Pickett now at the door. “Sir, a wire for you, from Charleston. It’s in cipher, sir. Should I decode it?”

  “Only if you wish me to read it, Colonel.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Pickett was gone, and Roy moved away now, said, “I will attempt to find coffee, sir. We had exhausted what was here. Perhaps there is a cooperative neighbor.”

  “No. It’s near midnight. Leave the people be.”

  He couldn’t avoid curiosity about the wire, looked toward the door, heard Pickett talking to an aide, the scratching of a pen on paper. He stood, started to move that way, a useless exercise in impatience, knew there was little he could do to hurry them. Pickett met him at the door.

  “Here, sir. This seems accurate.”

  Hardee took the paper, the familiar penmanship of his friend. He moved back to the desk, sat, read:

  Having no army of relief to look to, and your forces being essential to the defense of Georgia and South Carolina, whenever you shall have to select between their safety and that of Savannah, sacrifice the latter. Pierre G T Beauregard, Lieutenant General, Commanding.

  Hardee set the paper down, and Pickett said, “Does that mean we are not to defend the city, sir?”

  “That is exactly what it means. You will say nothing of this to anyone. Do you understand that?”

  “Certainly, sir. It would be most distressing to the civilians hereabouts.”

  “I cannot concern myself with civilians right now, Colonel. Our task is to make it as difficult as possible for Sherman to complete his advance, and we shall offer as much of a demonstration as might convince him we intend to fight to the last. That kind of display might be the only effective weapon we have.”

  “If we abandon the city, where shall we go, sir? General Beauregard does not offer any specifics.”

  “I suppose I shall ask him that directly. He is supposedly on his way here. The only alternative may depend on Sherman’s tactics. We must do all in our power to maintain a route of evacuation, most probably into South Carolina. If I were Sherman, that would be my goal. If he captures Columbia, he will most likely continue his conquests northward.” He paused. “Even if Sherman is content with what he has gained thus far, he has swung a sword through the heart of the Confederacy, a wound we cannot hope to heal.”


  Roy was there now, showed the same concern as Pickett, who said, “What do we do now, sir?”

  “You do what you wish. Both of you. I am going to bed.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  FRANKLIN

  NEAR SPRINGFIELD, GEORGIA—DECEMBER 8, 1864

  He carried a written order from Captain Gorman, sanctioned by Captain Jones, a precaution Franklin took seriously. The paper authorized him to accompany the bummers on their next venture outward, what would be another sweep through the countryside that was growing more dismal by the mile. The swamps seemed to spread out in every direction now, marshy fields, thickets of enormous cypress trees, black water, mud, and every kind of insect. The plantations were fewer, most abandoned, and the bummers continued to ignore the authority handed them by Sherman’s order at Atlanta. The complaints and entreaties from the Southern civilians had reached every headquarters in all four of Sherman’s corps, but with food likely to be much more scarce, it became more important for the bummers, or the black aides like Franklin, to make the friendly effort to convince the slaves to even greater efforts toward helping the passing army. So often, when the plantations had seemed stripped clean of any useful goods, the slaves had led the way, revealing hidden treasures in underground larders, root cellars disguised by any means the white owners thought would help. The bummers had become expert at seeking out those hidden pantries, but much more, they had focused enormous energy at rooting out more than just rations. The hunt for some kind of treasure had not changed at all, the bummers growing skilled at identifying carefully disguised hiding places, freshly turned soil that might lead to a trove of silverware, or some other valuable booty. But there were far fewer opportunities for the bummers now, and so the urgency for befriending what slaves there might be seemed important enough for Jones to hand Franklin over to Gorman, both men recognizing that a Negro offering a kind word might be more persuasive in convincing any slaves that this army was not about pillage or suffering. There were too many rumors of that already, some ridiculous, some regrettably true. And by far, the greatest outrages had been committed by the bummers. To the officers who actually cared about the consequences of that, who took Sherman’s orders seriously, it made sense to reach out to the civilians with a softer hand. But Franklin’s officers also knew that some of the bummers had become uncontrollable, ignoring anyone’s authority but their own muscle. It was a fact of life that as they spread farther across Georgia, more and more of the men regarded the foraging duty as a means of enriching themselves at the expense of any well-to-do civilian. It was infuriating to those officers who cared, and not all did. Franklin had heard plenty of that from his own captain to understand that too often, when the bummers moved out past the skirmish line, they left the authority of their officers behind.