The Fateful Lightning

by Jeff Shaara

  “You know what a torpedo is? Maybe you helped bury the things on this road.”

  The man showed awareness now, looked down at Tupper, shook his head. “No, sir. Not me. Not none of us here. We was up that ways, at the outpost.”

  Sherman felt his fists clench, tried to hold his anger, pointed toward the torpedo his men had pulled from the ground. “Your people chose to bury those things to assassinate our troops, instead of standing up to a fair fight. We shall remedy that.” He looked past the first prisoner, saw the others all looking at him, a new fear. “You men will remove these instruments from this roadway.”

  The first prisoner was wide-eyed, panic in his voice. “Sir, I don’t know how to do that. They could explode.”

  “You’ll do it the way it has to be done. I would suggest you be careful.” He looked toward the lieutenant of the guards, Jasper. “You have your orders, Lieutenant. Put them to work.”

  The prisoners began to protest, cries of fear, and Sherman turned away, walked back toward the wounded man, Novey and Hickenlooper still by his side, a hand on the young man’s head, his face ghostly pale. Behind him, one of the prisoners called out, “Sir, please. They could explode!”

  Sherman moved down off the road, an aide waiting with the reins of his horse, and he stopped, looked back at the prisoner. “I don’t give a good damn.”

  He climbed up, saw the guards pushing the men forward, the prisoners now down on their hands and knees, sifting slowly through the sand. He pulled on the reins, turned the horse, saw Hitchcock looking at him with wide eyes.

  “You have some problem with my orders, Major?”

  Hitchcock shook his head. “Oh, no, sir. It’s just…I haven’t heard of such things before. Torpedoes?”

  Sherman thought a moment, tried to calm himself, knew he couldn’t be angry at Hitchcock. “Heard of ’em a few times. Virginia peninsula, I think. The rebels used them mostly around fortifications, a damned nasty way to sound a warning if someone’s coming at night. I suppose I can understand that. But this…damn it all, Major, these cowardly sons of bitches call us ‘barbarous Yankees.’ But this? This is nothing but murder.”

  —

  They kept well off the side of the road, Sherman focusing on the sounds of fighting to the front, those rebels still making a stand in their works gradually pulling away. By now the officers in command of the fight knew he was there, and couriers came back every few minutes, their officers eager to keep Sherman informed. But there wasn’t much to report, beyond the retreat of the rebels, who were far outnumbered by the troops pushing out and around them.

  His engineer, Captain Poe, had come up quickly, word reaching him of the torpedoes on the road. Poe had walked about with childlike impatience, waiting for the prisoners to complete their work, the men unearthing seven more torpedoes, which had been spread in a single line across the road. The torpedoes were crude artillery shells, twelve-pounders, filled with black powder, ignited by the weight of a man’s footstep. Poe had offered him even more details, but Sherman had little interest. The rebels’ intent was obvious, to kill no more than a few men, or perhaps only one, the leading officer of a column.

  As the fighting pushed farther forward, Sherman moved with it, saw the rebel earthworks for himself, a stout fortification that could have caused far more difficulties than it had. He knew that they had been led by officers with experience, who understood that the Federal forces, even the single division led by Absalom Baird, were far stronger than the rebels could hold away. The fighting continued, but in small bursts, all of it driving back along a wide, sandy causeway that sliced high above swampy fields and soggy pine woods. Farther along, Sherman and his staff reached the small depot of Pooler, a rail crossing where his men expected to begin their usual job of wrecking the tracks. But instead they were ordered to construct a heavy line of log works, a precaution against a sudden assault by the reorganized rebels. It was the first time his men had taken a defensive line seriously, the understanding, even without any specific order from Sherman, that the swampy ground to their front might very well become a battlefield.

  All through the swamps, both Slocum and Howard were driving their two halves of the army into a more compact front, the men suffering through waist-deep water, pushing hard to link their positions. Sherman established his headquarters at a house near the Pooler crossing, could see clearly that this rail line extended straight into the city. As he waited for his two wing commanders to join forces, Sherman was still uncertain just what kind of strength the rebels had in Savannah and just how much of a fight they intended to make. The concept of a siege had never appealed to him, but an all-out frontal assault against strong earthworks could cost more casualties than what they might gain. Sherman respected Hardee, knew that if Hardee had any strength at all, there was a hard fight yet to come. For now Sherman pulled together the links of his own chain, drawing them tightly around Savannah.

  To make that effective, there would have to be assistance from the Federal navy. The maps showed him what the naval commanders already knew well, that, from the south, the Ogeechee River was the primary deepwater avenue into Savannah, and it was strongly protected by a formidable obstacle, Fort McAllister. With no direct communication with anyone at sea, Sherman had to assume that the navy would be reluctant to assault McAllister directly, since the position had certainly been designed with heavy armament, a sufficient strongpoint that the navy could not bypass without heavy losses. If McAllister was to fall into Federal hands, it would have to be done from the land side, a challenge Sherman was already beginning to plan.

  As Sherman fielded the reports from the sporadic fighting in front of him, there were still questions, uncertainties, mysteries. But one fact began to burn in his brain. Since leaving Atlanta, the campaign had been simple and direct. No matter the complexity of his army, the various commanders, the unwieldy lack of discipline of Kilpatrick’s cavalry, for three hundred miles the army had never been stopped, had never been forced to spread into vast lines of battle, had never faced an enemy who would meet them on equal terms. So far the entire campaign had been a lengthy march. Now, barely ten miles from Savannah, that march had ended.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  HAZEN

  DECEMBER 12, 1864

  He had convinced himself not to be intimidated by a meeting with Sherman. It wasn’t working.

  Hazen had commanded troops since early in the war, his first contact with Sherman coming at Shiloh, in April 1862. Hazen didn’t serve directly under Sherman, or even alongside him, had been a part of an entirely separate command. At Shiloh there had been two Federal armies engaged, the first belonging to Grant, which was then aided considerably by the arrival of the second under the command of Don Carlos Buell. Hazen served Buell, knew only that when his troops reached the fighting, the victory over a tough and dominating rebel force was mostly under way. It was an astonishing turnaround for Grant’s army, who had been rolled back by a surprise attack that nearly shoved Grant into the Tennessee River. Buell’s men had arrived after the first day’s fighting, what Buell himself considered to be a valiant rescue of Grant’s defeated forces. But Grant, and most of the men in Grant’s command, including Sherman, saw Buell’s added forces as mere window dressing, that the Confederates had whipped themselves with poor decisions, brought on by the death of their commanding general, Albert Sidney Johnston. Grant’s view had finally prevailed throughout most of Washington, Buell still fuming over the lack of credit for pulling Grant’s bacon out of the fire. But Buell was long gone now, replaced first by William Rosecrans, whose subsequent collapse at Chickamauga a year later was one of the Federal army’s blackest days. Soon after, Rosecrans was gone, replaced by George Thomas. In the changing hierarchy of the Federal command, Thomas had fallen under Grant’s authority, and then, with Grant moving east, promoted over the entire army, Sherman had been elevated to Grant’s former command. Thus Thomas was now under Sherman. Sherman had taken those changes mostly in stride, supported migh
tily by his friend Grant. Thomas, who seemed not to befriend anyone, had at least earned significant respect from his subordinates, Hazen included. Another subordinate, John Schofield, had just crushed John Bell Hood at Franklin, Tennessee.

  It was what many of the brigadiers, Hazen included, had come to expect, that the War Department seemed to manage this war by shuffling through bad commanders, until, by pure chance, they stumbled on a good one. At Shiloh, Sherman had failed to impress anyone in Buell’s army, Hazen included. But as the campaigns rolled forward through the western theater of the war, Sherman’s star had risen, and with it the respect of the men who served him.

  Hazen had done well under Rosecrans, and continued that under Thomas, especially during the magnificent victory at Chattanooga. With Grant now taking overall command, Hazen understood who Sherman’s friends were, and so there was little surprise when Sherman, and not Thomas, had been named to fill the vacancy left by Grant in the West. Whether or not George Thomas was the more deserving general seemed to matter little to Washington.

  At first Hazen had accepted Sherman’s promotion with reluctant dread. Despite Grant’s faith in him, Sherman’s reputation was one of recklessness, a hot-tempered man who often talked too much, who was not yet suited for a serious command over such a substantial part of the Federal army. But many of those voices had been silenced, even Sherman’s foes accepting that the Atlanta campaign had, for the most part, been superbly executed, even if the rebels opposing him, Joe Johnston and then Hood, had provided Sherman with most of those opportunities. But Hazen was surprised to learn that, unlike Don Carlos Buell, Sherman had no hesitation offering praise to those who earned it, and not just to those men who had marched under Sherman’s own flag. When Thomas was sent north into Tennessee, Hazen remained in Atlanta by Sherman’s order, the brigade commander now promoted to command of one of the four divisions in the Fifteenth Corps, part of Oliver Howard’s wing of Sherman’s newly organized army. That had been a pleasant surprise to Hazen, who fully expected to remain with Thomas.

  What Hazen had learned by serving close to Sherman was the value of Sherman’s instincts, something that could never be taught at West Point. With Atlanta under Sherman’s belt, coupled with the decision not to chase John Bell Hood across Tennessee, Hazen had formed a far different view of Sherman from what had been portrayed in the newspapers. Hazen had become confident that as long as Sherman had Grant’s support, he was capable of an independence rarely seen in the Federal army. The decision to march eastward out of Atlanta had caught most of Sherman’s commanders by surprise, Hazen included. But now, with Thomas holding off Hood in Tennessee, and the lack of Confederate opposition in Georgia, Hazen’s confidence in Sherman seemed justified. The man was not in fact some loose cannon, with delusions of his own abilities. Hazen had admitted to himself and his own subordinates that Sherman’s army had accomplished thus far in Georgia a campaign that was not only successful, but possibly historic. There would be doubters still, always the harping from some rival commander, some reporter with his own axe to grind, that the rebels had allowed Sherman his success, that little had been sacrificed. But those voices were few. Strategically, the march toward Savannah hadn’t really accomplished much more than wiping clean a vast swath of Georgia plantations, draining the state of an enormous supply from this year’s harvest. But Sherman’s goal had been to rip the heart out of a crucial area of the Confederacy. So far, that was exactly what he had done. If there was a greater success to be had, it lay ahead, what Hazen knew could be a far greater challenge than skirmishing with cavalry and frightening civilians.

  With the army so close to Savannah, Hazen was as confident as the generals he served that the fall of Savannah was inevitable. What Hazen didn’t expect was that Sherman had singled him out, much as he had done in Atlanta. This time Hazen was to be given a very specific duty. Lost in the reorganization of Sherman’s forces was the quiet fact that Hazen now commanded the same units Sherman had overseen at Shiloh, and as part of the Fifteenth Corps, Hazen now marched at the head of the troops Sherman himself had led throughout the siege of Vicksburg and the brutal fight at Chattanooga. Hazen was being singled out not just because he was a capable leader, but because he commanded veteran troops who had become accustomed to pleasing their Uncle Billy.

  The order had come to him first through Oliver Howard, and Hazen had obeyed by marching his division toward a prominent crossing over the Ogeechee River, nearly fifteen miles south of Savannah. He knew little of the geography of the area, beyond what his men had already seen. This was rugged, marshy country, dotted with deep swamps and water-soaked rice fields. Already his men had slogged their way through far more misery than he had ever expected, soldiers often pushing wagons and guns through mud and bog holes, the men themselves forced to march through water up to their chests. There were roadways, dry stretches of sandy causeways, but the men learned quickly that those routes were secured by rebel outposts, where a single artillery piece might make any narrow stretch of dry ground far more dangerous than what lay in the swamps.

  KING HOUSE, OGEECHEE RIVER—DECEMBER 12, 1864

  He couldn’t avoid the hard stare from Sherman.

  “It has been suggested by General Kilpatrick that his cavalry make this assault. I chose to defer to General Howard’s view that this should be done with experienced infantry.”

  Hazen glanced at Howard, saw a brief unsmiling nod, and Hazen looked at Sherman again. “Yes, sir. I appreciate your confidence in my men. As you know, this division brings a great deal of experience. We are prepared for any assignment you consider appropriate.”

  He caught a frown from Howard, thought, Easy on the genuflecting. You’re not some corporal, being chewed out for spitting on Sherman’s shoes. Relax.

  Sherman seemed to ignore Hazen’s discomfort, focused now on a map, unrolled for him by one of Sherman’s aides. Howard drank from a teacup, and after a silent moment, Howard said, “General, do you think it would be proper for General Hazen to have use of a chair?”

  Sherman didn’t look up from the map, waved his hand, another of the aides responding by bringing a heavy chair from some other room. Hazen was surprised, his two superiors seated on hard wooden chairs, this new one plush, a soft flowery cushion. The aide set the chair down with a heavy thump, backed away, and Howard pointed. “At ease, General. We could be here for a while. There’s much to discuss.”

  Sherman looked up from the map now, stared past Hazen, pulled a cigar from his pocket, lit it casually, seemed lost in thought, then seemed to see Hazen for the first time. “No. Not all that much. You are to capture Fort McAllister. Not much more complicated than that. Here, take this map. Pay attention to the path of the Ogeechee. General Howard’s engineers are right now repairing whatever damage the rebels have done to the bridge. King’s Bridge.” Sherman looked at Howard now. “You certain it will be ready for tomorrow?”

  “I have confidence in my engineers, sir.”

  Sherman pulled at the cigar, smoke rolling up around his face. “I am counting on that.” He looked at Hazen again. “How many effectives in your division?”

  “Today, sir, approximately forty-two hundred.”

  “Good. You will march them across the bridge first thing tomorrow, keeping to the right bank of the river. The map shows the fort to be roughly six miles downstream, if the river was a straight line. It’s not. I trust Captain Poe to have calculated his figures correctly, but you will have to cover more than a dozen miles.”

  “Sir, will we confront any rebels along the way? Are there outposts, strongpoints we should be aware of?”

  “Kilpatrick says no. On this occasion, I will trust his judgment.” Sherman paused. “Know this, General. The fort is a strong position, but I believe it can be taken with a rapid assault from the land side. Most certainly, the larger siege guns positioned there face the water. The element of surprise should be maintained until the last possible moment. Kilpatrick says there is ample cover within a few hundred yards
of the fort.”

  Hazen felt the stirring in his stomach, saw Howard watching him, as though expecting some kind of protest. Hazen looked purposefully at the map, saw the Ogeechee as a winding snake of a waterway, the fort positioned to guard against any waterborne intrusion upriver. The question rolled through his mind. Is that dry land behind the fort? Or will we march through swamps over our heads? He looked at Sherman, was surprised to see Sherman staring at him with a hard glare in his eyes.

  “General Hazen, this assault may very well determine the outcome of this entire campaign. A lengthy siege of Savannah will be nearly impossible if we cannot feed this army. If we cannot make juncture with the navy, we are not in the kind of country where we can readily sustain the men. I have no intention of turning us around and marching back to Atlanta.”

  Howard seemed impatient, nervous, waited for Sherman to finish, then said, “General, we are even now making efforts to contact any Federal ship that might be close to the shore south of here. But we cannot depend on any assistance from navy gunboats.”

  Hazen knew nothing of any attempts to reach the navy, had wondered if there was a sizable force anchored offshore, as eager for some word from Sherman as Sherman was for them. Hazen thought, Careful, they don’t have to tell you everything. But his curiosity was pushing the question. “If I may ask, sir, what kind of efforts?”

  Howard didn’t hesitate. “Scouts. It’s all highly secretive, of course. If they’re captured, it won’t go well for them. In addition, General Kilpatrick is moving his men far to the south of Fort McAllister, seeking some other deepwater channel or harbor, and with some luck, he might find a vessel he can communicate with. We do not believe the navy has any idea just where we are, or what our intentions are.”

  Sherman kept his stare on Hazen. “The best way to tell the navy anything is to blow the hell out of Fort McAllister. The navy’ll notice that one, pretty sure.”