The Fateful Lightning

by Jeff Shaara

  Mills frowned, seemed resigned to the task. “I suppose, yes, sir. It’s only fair. I seen some of ’em buried, helped out with a bit of that. Ain’t hard to get ’em up, if you’re careful.”

  Hazen turned to Sherfy now. “Leave the horse with my staff, Lieutenant. Keep your men off the road. We’ll get you some help.”

  The order went back, and the officer responded, moving forward quickly from the column. Hazen saw Colonel Theodore Jones, in command of the first brigade, the man who would lead three of the designated regiments. Jones saluted, eyed the prisoner, said, “Are we to continue forward, sir?”

  Hazen pointed to Mills, said, “Not just yet. Send a dozen or so men forward to accompany our new friend here. We have a dangerous problem on the causeway to our front. Go as far as the cover extends, then report back to me.” He paused, knew how important his commanders were, men who had served Sherman, men who now would depend on him to put them in the right place. He lowered his voice, away from the prisoner. “Teddy, we’re mighty close. I want the artillery brought forward as quick as the road is cleared. Time is our worst enemy now, and I don’t intend to have my ass chewed on by angry generals.”

  —

  The tree line ended just as Kilpatrick described it, a wide, grassy plain that led straight to the fort. Hazen had found a house, owned by a family named Middleton, quickly established a headquarters, and with the columns gathering up, he organized the assault. With the fort now plainly in view, Hazen pushed his men out into an arcing formation, sending three regiments out to each flank, with the final three holding the center. By three o’clock a single line of sharpshooters were sent forward, picking their way quickly through the wiry grass, stumbling through shallow creeks, the men driving forward to less than three hundred yards from the fort. There the poor planning of the rebels provided an enormous advantage. Where the trees had been cut, the ground was now spread thickly with stumps, offering each man protection as he drew bead on the walls of the fort. As Hazen watched from the tree line, the sharpshooters settled into their low cover, began firing at whatever targets the fort was offering. For the men in the fort itself, the musket fire accomplished just what Kilpatrick had predicted. The artillerymen defending the rear of the fort found that working their guns was deadly.

  As Hazen feared, the ground he couldn’t readily scout was proving difficult for his men, especially out to the right, far from his view. With nearly three thousand men flowing out into unknown terrain, the fears came, anxious glances toward the setting sun, aides scampering out into thickets only to disappear without offering any real word just what kind of progress the men had made. Besides the saw grass, men were stumbling through head-high stands of cane, briars, and mud holes, meandering soft-bottomed creeks that sucked the shoes from men’s feet. With daylight starting to dim, Hazen became desperate for word that his men had reached their starting point, that more than just the men to his front were waiting for the order they expected to hear, the order to step off, to move quickly toward the fort.

  —

  He strained to see through the field glasses, the puffs of smoke few, the cannon fire from the fort mostly ineffective. He couldn’t see the rebels themselves, but Kilpatrick’s description was accurate, the walls on this side of the fort topped with a smooth line of earth, his sharpshooters waiting patiently for any target.

  There was commotion in the woods behind him, more men moving up, the reserves, and he paced through the trees, stared again through the glasses, looked skyward, the sun low over the woods. There was a sharp voice now, and he turned, saw his aide running, stumbling through a thin curtain of vines.

  “Sir! The signal post has made contact!”

  “With who?”

  The man was breathing heavily, and Hazen looked past him, a futile stare toward the edge of the river, where he had ordered a lookout and signalmen posted.

  The aide caught his breath, said, “They say it’s General Sherman himself, sir. He’s about three miles off, across the river. The general’s signal officers sent a message, sir.” The man was still breathing heavily, as much from the run as the weight of his sudden responsibility. “Here, sir. General Sherman says that he expects the fort to be carried by this night.”

  Hazen closed his eyes, let out a long breath. “So do I, Corporal.”

  He moved quickly toward his horse, thought better of that, the musket fire from the fort scattered, but any man on horseback would draw every rebel’s aim. He searched the staff, saw men running up toward him, more of the couriers. He was out of patience now, glanced at his watch, past four, shouted out, “Report! Have the men reached their positions?”

  The first aide dropped his hands to his knees, exhausted, shook his head breathlessly. “Don’t know, sir! Thick as dog hair, sir. Couldn’t find Colonel Jones. The 116th Illinois is in line, but they didn’t know more than that. No word from the 6th Missouri at all!”

  Hazen ground his teeth, knew that the Missouri men were the far right flank, well beyond anyplace he could see. He looked again toward the river, the signal outpost, tried not to see Sherman in his mind, thought, Howard is certainly beside him, both men pushing their eyes through field glasses, straining to see anything out here at all.

  He stared out to the skirmish line, the men still firing at will, specks of smoke as they peppered the fort, the return fire very light. That could change, he thought. We have to have the entire force moving together. But I cannot control any of that. He searched the officers close by, saw a bugler, shouted to the man, “Sound attention!”

  The man obeyed, the bugle slicing through the woods, men in line out to both sides. He had already given the order that none of the regiments be bunched up, that they move in a single line, shoulder to shoulder, no more than a heavy skirmish line. The men were falling into line now, officers close to him eyeing him, expectant, tension in their faces. Hazen tried to fight through the hard knot in his gut, looked again at the bugler, hesitated, thought, There is no time to wait. If you want to fight for Sherman, you’ve got to fight.

  “Bugler! Order forward!”

  The bugler completed his task, the men responding by stepping out from the trees, a long, snaking line, pushing through the tall grass. He expected heavy firing from the fort, a massive volley from heavy artillery, saw only specks of smoke, not much more than it had been already. He stood high on a stump, field glasses up, stared out over the backs of his men, guessed the distance one more time, six hundred yards.

  He spoke out now, to no one, to them all. “Go! Don’t stop! Don’t slow!”

  His heart pounded heavily in his chest, more firing coming from the fort, but the sharpshooters kept up their own fire, and very soon the main body had reached them, swallowing them, the sharpshooters rising up, moving forward with the thin blue wave. The fort responded, scattered artillery fire, but no massive burst, his men still in line. He stepped down from the tree trunk, saw his staff watching him, knowing just what was happening next.

  “Time to go, gentlemen. I expect to see the inside of that fort pretty quick.”

  He walked out clear of the trees, stepped more quickly, felt the crushing weight of the order he had given them. He jogged slightly, trying to keep up, thought, No, not this way. He turned now, shouted out, “Bring my horse! They need to see me! Move!”

  The groom appeared, leading the animal quickly toward him, and Hazen climbed up, stared out through the glasses again, the line of blue much closer to the fat earthen walls. Men were dropping away now, out of sight, and he thought of Kilpatrick, the description, ditches, abatis. There were blasts at the base of the walls, nothing like artillery, and he drove the horse through the grass, pushing closer, saw a blue mass gathering in clusters, some men firing up at the enemy. There were more blasts to one side, odd sounds, and the words drilled into him now, the words of the prisoner, legs and feet. He cursed aloud, saw the men gathering along the ditch, helping hands, knew it was the torpedoes, some of the men too anxious to avoid the deadly mi
sstep. He spurred the horse again, saw more of his men coming out of the saw grass to the left, that flank hugging the river. They were nearly at the wall, and he thought of the torpedoes, some kind of warning, but they were firing up at the rebels along the walls, no time for anything but the advance, still moving, those men dropping down into the ditches.

  He heard a single thump, out to the right, saw a wisp of smoke, glassed that way, a huge mortar, out away from the fort, worked by a handful of rebel gunners. Now the fire was returned, the gunners gone, punched down, more of his men emerging from that way, flags, the men from Illinois. He gripped the field glasses, one hand clenched in a hard fist, punched the air above his head, glanced toward the river, to where Sherman would be, where the smoke of the fight could clearly be seen. We’re there, General. We’re going in.

  He looked again to his men, drove the horse closer still, saw the assault pushing right up to the walls of the fort, men scrambling through loose dirt on the earthworks, the enemy above, but the blue were too many, and they were up and over the wall. He turned toward the trees behind him, saw the reserves in line, watching, waiting for the order. No, he thought. Not yet. Not now. But be ready. It can’t be this simple.

  He turned to the fort again, the horse close to the wide ditch, clusters of tree limbs blocking the way, some of that tossed aside by his men, some still in place. He jumped down from the horse, dropped low, saw a group of men, pulling a wounded man back, bloody legs, the smoke heavy now, most of that from the musket fire of his own men. He pushed down through the ditch, the dirt walls in front of him difficult, one man lending a hand, pulling him up the steep slope. The smoke was drifting past, and he glanced back, saw men in blue down, but not many, wounded men crawling back, seeking cover, others closer to the ditch, more blasted limbs, the effects of the torpedoes. Damn them, he thought. There will be punishment for that.

  He was at the top of the earthworks now, the fort a bath of smoke, but the firing was slow, scattered, his men swarming through, surrounding the big guns, the musket fire now silent. Around him the voices came, the men understanding what they had done, that they were inside the fort, the rebels whipped, men gathering prisoners, the piercing screams of the wounded, troops on both sides. Beside him men rose up to the crest of the earthworks, the walls of the fort, standing tall, waving, cheering. It was over.

  —

  “There were torpedoes, sir. Pretty thick, all along the base of the wall, just outside the ditch. We lost a few men there. Captain Groce was killed, sir. Musket fire.”

  Hazen saw the gloom in the colonel’s eyes, put a hand on his shoulder. “I know about that. I want casualty counts by tomorrow. Plenty to do right here.”

  He looked toward the prisoners, saw an officer, the bandaged head, the man seated on a wooden crate. Hazen stepped that way, stood close to the man, said, “Major Anderson, my apologies for your rough treatment.”

  Anderson looked up at him, said, “It’s war, General. But your men should respect a sword when it’s offered. Fellow clubbed me with his musket.”

  “Heat of battle, Major. Not everyone is a gentleman.” Hazen looked across the cluster of rebels, some bloodied. “Two hundred men, it appears. My report was accurate.”

  “You have excellent scouting, sir. We were never strong here. It was a mistake, to be sure. My men gave it their best, I assure you. Captain Clinch is among the dead. He fought a most gallant fight. These men were not prepared to give you anything.”

  Hazen had seen for himself that the surge over the earthworks had not stopped the fighting. Even now bodies were being pulled from various nooks in the fort, some of the rebels making a stand anywhere there was cover. He walked away from the prisoners, climbed up beside one of the seaward guns, an enormous forty-two-pounder. He glanced around, had confirmed for himself what his men were saying, thought, Twenty-four guns. A good day’s haul. He stood tall, stared out through a darkening sky, tried to see the place where Sherman would be, where they all would have seen the fight. He wouldn’t expect grand compliments, didn’t really know if Sherman went for the boisterous salutes, a toast with spirits. There are dead men out in that grass still, he thought, as there are right in here. Anderson is right. I prefer to salute them.

  The sun was nearly gone, the air now filled with a rising chorus of creatures from the wetlands around them, frogs and birds, and other things Hazen had never seen. I will not miss this place, he thought. He recalled Sherman’s words, the great weight of responsibility Sherman had placed on his back. I’m not sure if the entire campaign will ever depend on what these men did here, he thought. But if capturing Savannah required us first to take this place, well, General Sherman, it’s yours.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  SHERMAN

  CHEVES’ RICE MILL, THREE MILES FROM FORT MCALLISTER—DECEMBER 13, 1864

  He saw the Stars and Stripes go up the flagpole at five, kept his gaze on the flag for a long minute.

  “By God, Howard, they’ve done it! The whole assault lasted no more than thirty minutes!”

  Howard was next to him, his single hand holding field glasses of his own. “Fifteen minutes, sir.”

  Sherman heard the boastfulness of the words, knew that Howard had been right to send Hazen, and not push for Kilpatrick’s cavalry to make the attack. He glanced around, two signalmen behind him, the only other men on the roof of the mill.

  “Hardtack tonight, gentlemen! Hardtack tonight!”

  The signalmen seemed confused by Sherman’s outburst, but he ignored their reaction, looked again at the flag, felt like a tub overflowing with perfect joy. He dropped the glasses, walked to the edge of the roof, saw his staff gathered below, expectant, broad smiles. Sherman thrust one hand out toward the fort, shouted, “He’s done it! By God, it’s ours!”

  “Sir, what of the gunboat?”

  Sherman had forgotten it completely, wiped away by the manic excitement of Hazen’s success. He looked out down the river, saw the boat that had been there for most of the afternoon. The signal had come to him before the attack, a simple question whether or not McAllister was yet in Federal hands. Sherman was fairly certain the captain of the vessel did not expect a response directly from Sherman himself, a simple “No. Attack under way.”

  “They saw the fight. Have to know we’ve got it. Doubt Hazen even knew they were there. River snakes around too much. But he’ll know shortly. I want to get over there quick as we can. There’s an oar boat down there in the grass. Will it do?”

  Behind him, one of the signalmen said, “I believe so, sir. We took a look at it earlier. Seems sound.”

  “Then we’ll make use of it, and right now, before it gets any darker.” He reveled in the excitement, most of it coming from him, knew Howard and the others were taking that in. Yes, he thought. Victory. There is nothing better. He slapped his hands together, then wrapped his arms tight against the chill of the evening breeze. He looked at Howard again, couldn’t avoid the bursting energy, the most excitement he had felt since he had marched into Atlanta.

  “This is a grand thing. A grand thing! Savannah’s ours!”

  “Yes, sir. Much to do, still.”

  Howard seemed cautious, a damp rag tossed across Sherman’s enthusiasm. But Sherman had no interest in caution now. There was time later for careful planning. He rolled those thoughts over in his mind, what his priorities were, what had to be done first, said aloud, “The navy must be notified. They must know just what we’ve accomplished here, where my command is, what kind of condition this army is in.” The words began forming in his brain now, all the dispatches still to be sent, all those messages that would go north. He called out again, more of the childlike enthusiasm. “I want to get over there, see the place, see just what we grabbed. Going with me, Howard?”

  Howard seemed to ponder the question, a quick glance at the signalman, who said, “I believe the boat will hold at least four or five passengers, sir.”

  Howard absorbed that, said, “Well, then, sir, I wouldn’t
miss it.”

  Sherman ignored Howard’s hesitation, paced the rooftop, still manic, frustrated that the ground was too far below, that making the jump from the roof was likely a bad idea. “I’m going down, Howard. Order some oarsmen to make ready. The moon’s up already. It ought to be a glorious night. More glorious now.”

  He made his way off the roof, climbed down through the inside of the mill, his staff still waiting, men asking each other just who those passengers were going to be. Sherman burst into the open yard of the mill, one of the signalmen with him, the man trotting out to the edge of the water, working with the boat. Sherman moved that way, thought of the gunboat. I should get to that thing, find a way to communicate with whoever’s out there. The navy has to be going mad with questions, watching that assault. They’re not just going to sit out there and hang fishing poles.

  His staff was gathering close now, following him to the river, one man with a lantern. Sherman stopped close to the boat, said, “I’m going across this damned river, give Hazen a handshake he won’t forget. Major Nichols, you will accompany me. Howard, you require company?”

  Howard motioned to his own chief of staff. “Colonel Strong, you should join us.”

  Sherman was moving about, aching impatience, watching the men chosen to man the oars. “I expect speed, gentlemen. Darker by the minute.”

  He had a sudden thought, the rest of his army, the men spread out along the causeways and swampy thickets all to the north. Those men had been engaged in steady skirmishing most of the day, pushing close against whatever rebels were manning their defenses. He looked for Hitchcock, the man with the good handwriting, no sign of him. “Where the hell’s Hitchcock?”

  Dayton responded, “Sir, he chose not to make the journey here. Said he had some work to catch up on.”