by Jeff Shaara
Beauregard shrugged. “Six thousand, perhaps. Hood says not that many, but Hood will lie to protect his reputation. He had possibly thirty thousand engaged. From what Hood claims, he was outnumbered by more than half.” Beauregard looked at him now. “What of it, General? How does any of that affect what you are failing to do here? I ordered this bridge to be completed with extreme speed. When will that happen?”
Hardee looked again to the workers, saw men peering back at him, Beauregard’s words flowing across the choppy water. “It shall be complete when the men have completed it. My commanders are all convinced that we have no good purpose to serve by remaining here, and sitting still under Sherman’s avalanche. I agree with that view. So far I have made every effort to prevent the frontline troops from knowing what we intend, but that cannot last.”
Beauregard paced again, slow, steady steps, Hardee following, keeping a step behind. The rumble of big guns came now, far out to the left, down toward the position along the Little Ogeechee. Beauregard stopped, and Hardee said, “Those are siege guns. Quite certain the Federal navy is offering Sherman any assistance he wishes to have.”
Beauregard looked around, as though studying the city itself. “They have not shelled the town, the civilians.”
“Not yet.”
Beauregard looked at him now, as though genuinely surprised. “You believe he will?”
“I believe he can. Whether or not he will make this another Vicksburg will depend on us.”
“It will depend, General, on how quickly you get that bridge built.”
SAVANNAH—DECEMBER 19, 1864
Hardee stood in the parlor of the grand house, could smell the aroma from the small pine tree. The branches of the tree had been cut away in layers, to allow for gifts to be slid into the tree itself, each limb adorned with a candle, those to be lit on Christmas Eve. The tree was crowned with a small white angel, what the woman of the house had told him was her own doll, a toy from long ago, makeshift pieces of lace cut into wings, adhered to the doll’s back. Beyond the tree, above the fireplace, one long stocking hung low, wide stripes of black and white, what Hardee guessed to be a child’s optimism, that somehow, through all that was happening around this city, the stocking could be made full. He walked closer to the tree, eyed the water bucket nearby, the permanent precaution in the event any one of the lit candles should suddenly twist, or burn down, what could easily ignite the tree. That kind of tragedy occurred nearly every Christmas, in every town Hardee had been. He felt a stab of emotion, thought, No, that is one thing we cannot have here. Savannah shall not be burned. I will not oversee such an act, and I cannot believe that Sherman would commit such an outrage. If there is no danger to him here, if there are no guns, no sharpshooters, surely he will not inflict punishment on the innocent.
He thought of the cotton now, knew that throughout Savannah there were enormous stores of cotton bales, gathered throughout the fall, now waiting for the merchants to make the dangerous effort to deliver them to their clients in London, or anywhere else they could be sold. There is little chance of that now, he thought. So, do I destroy it? Those bales are gathered and stacked in every barn, every outbuilding in the city. If I burn one bale, it could erupt into a hell that would sweep through the entire place. And how many deaths would there be? He looked at the fragile tree, noticed the wood carving, a small manger scene placed close by. How much of this, how many Christmases would be consumed by a fire that I ordered? Sherman would get the blame for that, I suppose. The newspapers would certainly wish that upon him. But I would know, and I will not be responsible for such destruction. These people have done nothing to deserve any such cruelty, have not earned such disaster. There are forts here because we built them. There are soldiers here because I command them. And very soon, that will change. It has to change. Savannah will become what it once was, no matter what color uniform the soldiers wear. We cannot make a war in these streets, any more than I will make a war in Charleston. My family will not become victims of this evil. The war will end, it must end before reasonable men allow everything Southern to be rendered into ash.
He moved to a window, peered out, daylight fading, saw the river, one of his gunboats moving slowly past. That should be a fisherman, coming in with his catch. Or a merchantman, coming to load that cotton. His eye moved to the house across the street, one of several makeshift hospitals. There were ambulances parked in a cluster, one man climbing down, a man in a white gown moving toward the rear of one, more men now assisting. Hardee blinked hard, thought, Just skirmishing. There are always wounded, even if there’s no real fight. But the fight is coming, and if there is a general engagement, every house in this city will become a hospital. I know what Sherman’s trying to do, and I cannot stop him. It is one thing for him to gain his footholds on the islands, but he could yet put a great many men into South Carolina, more than Wheeler or anyone else could hope to contest. It’s what I would do, sweep around the flank, sever all communication, all routes of transportation, pen my enemy up inside a neat box. No, General, I will not allow that. I have my orders, and I know what must happen. There can be no delay while my generals offer opinions, or make their arguments over the only option we have.
He knew the bridge was nearing completion, that even if it wasn’t sound from an engineer’s point of view, it would suffice to get the men and a good many of the smaller field guns out of the city. If it could be tonight, he thought, that would be ideal. The enemy is pressing us hard, but he does not seem to appreciate our urgency. Perhaps he has little urgency of his own. Why should he? He must assume we are staying put, intending to fight it out, protecting the honor of the city more than the lives of my army. There are some in this army who would still do that. The time for such foolishness is past. I suppose General Hood knows that as well as anyone. I wonder if anyone in Richmond is paying attention.
He backed away from the window, caught the fragrance of something cooking, the floor below him, the family still using their house. Gracious hosts, he thought. There is meat, still. Bless them for that. I will not see them destroyed so that we can claim some sort of useless victory over Sherman, even if all we gain is a single day. No, it is time, and if it is not tonight, it will be tomorrow. We shall take what remains of this war elsewhere.
He looked again at the hearth, the lone stocking, heard a rustle in the next room. There were staff officers there, and he heard the tiny song in the voice of the child, had heard it every day since he had been there. The owner of the house had one small boy, barely four, and Hardee had avoided him whenever possible, the necessary business of the army, and more, the necessity of keeping the face of children away from all the planning for war. The boy was one of so many, civilians with their families, with their routines, their jobs and careers and daily chores, the wealthy with their maids and nannies. But this family had no stately grandeur to their home, no real wealth to flaunt toward their neighbors. Hardee knew there were cotton bales in the barn, a half dozen maybe, sacks of meal, rice, what would supply the family with sustenance through the winter. Now the Yankees will come, he thought. Will they see the child and push right past, and steal everything of value, everything a young boy has to eat? I would stop that, if I could. But there is nothing I can do. And so the best that anyone can do is to move this army away, and perhaps those other fellows will choose to pursue us, and not pillage this harmless place. Perhaps Sherman has enough decency in him that he will not destroy a beautiful place just because he can.
He caught a glimpse of the boy now, a peek around the open doorway, the hand of an aide capturing the boy before he came in. Hardee called out, “No! Let him be. This is his home, after all.” Hardee looked again to the small pine tree. “This is his Christmas. We are merely intruders here.”
The boy entered, eyes locked on Hardee, and he moved quickly toward the tree, peered up into the gaps between the neatly trimmed layers, no gifts, nothing yet to see. Hardee couldn’t avoid a smile, watched now as the boy eased close to
the hearth, fingered the stocking, which was longer than he was. There was disappointment on the boy’s face, and Hardee chuckled, said, “Too soon, boy. Not time for that yet.”
He realized he didn’t know the child’s name, but he saw a sparkle in the boy’s eyes, so familiar, the same kind of gleam he had seen from his daughters, too many years ago.
The boy studied him, a hint of fear, but his curiosity clearly outweighed the intimidation from Hardee’s uniform. “When’s it be time, Mister? Mama says Santa Claus will come. You ever seen him?” Hardee knelt low, the boy unafraid now, and Hardee took the tiny hands in his. “My girls knew him well. When they were young, they put feed out for his reindeer.”
The boy seemed confused, said, “What’s reindeer?”
Hardee felt a pinch in his throat, didn’t fight the smile. He sat down on the floor now, could see his staff watching him with wide eyes. He motioned toward them, go away, sat the boy down beside him. “You ever heard the story about Saint Nicholas?”
The boy shook his head.
“I used to tell this to my girls every year.” He paused, memories flooding through him, the words coming now, and he looked at the boy, saw the wonder of a child’s innocence. For a brief moment, the war seemed very far away, and he smiled again, lowered his voice to a soft whisper, said, “ ’Twas the night before Christmas…”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
SHERMAN
DECEMBER 19, 1864
He had left specific orders with both Slocum and Howard, to continue pressing their men hard against the defenses that faced Sherman’s entire position. Already Howard was anchored down to the right against the Little Ogeechee River, an unassailable position. Slocum had continued to insist that he be allowed to push a vast force north of the Savannah River, but Sherman held him back, agreeing only to a single brigade. It had to be a surprise to Slocum, and to anyone in Sherman’s command, that Sherman was suddenly showing great care, uncharacteristic caution. What he would not discuss with anyone was his roaring anxiety over Grant’s reaction to his letter, his pleading response to Grant’s order. No matter Sherman’s classic impatience, it would be several days before he heard a reply.
It was entirely possible, even likely, that Grant would still bow to whoever was urging him to pull Sherman out of Georgia and simply repeat his order that Sherman put the bulk of his army on board the flotilla of transport ships. Grant’s staff officer had been specific about that, the armada steaming toward him even now. If, on the other hand, Grant were to allow Sherman his wish, and authorize him to proceed with the capture of Savannah, the last thing Sherman needed to do now was make a ridiculous mistake. Any serious assault on Hardee’s defensive lines could prove far more costly than Sherman would want to explain to Grant, and would no doubt justify Grant’s order in the first place. Worse for Sherman, if Grant was being pressured from above, a blunder by Sherman could force Grant to do the worst thing possible for Sherman: relieve him of his command. The order to Sherman’s generals made very clear that there was to be no direct confrontation with Hardee’s lines. The skirmishing would of course continue, picking and prodding, seeking weaknesses that Sherman might still exploit. Once Sherman had his reply from Grant, he knew his generals would be fully prepared to launch a major assault.
From their first meeting, Sherman had been impressed with Admiral John Dahlgren, a man who took his job seriously and brought a level of expertise and sobriety that Sherman respected. That respect had only been enhanced by Dahlgren’s offer of gunships to go along with the supply transports. Dahlgren had seemed fully aware that cooperation between army and navy was an asset for both of them. Though Sherman preferred any strategy other than a siege, he understood that Dahlgren’s assistance could close the ring around Savannah completely, what would likely be an unbreakable seal. Dahlgren also favored a combined operation in assaulting the city itself, suggesting that the navy could drive gunboats and possibly several companies of marines up the Ogeechee, adding power to whatever attack Sherman intended to make. Sherman appreciated the admiral’s enthusiasm, and planning for a siege wouldn’t seem to contradict Grant’s orders, at least for now. But until Sherman received Grant’s response, he felt a different kind of urgency: the aching need to sit tight. Unfortunately, it would be Sherman’s job to convey that message directly to Admiral Dahlgren.
There was another significant reason for Sherman to go to sea. Dahlgren had generously offered Sherman transport north toward Hilton Head Island, where General John Gray Foster was anchoring his own Federal presence along the shore. Sherman was increasingly elated by the prospect of a hard-charging invasion along that part of the coast, that Foster’s troops could do significant damage to what the maps showed to be Hardee’s last remaining avenue of escape. That route was called, ironically, Union Causeway, leading away from the city on the north side of the Savannah River, the route toward the rail depot and roadways at Hardeeville. But Foster’s men had failed to advance as Sherman had hoped, no explanation given for their timidity, or why there was any delay at all. If Sherman was to shove Foster into action, he knew there was no substitute for meeting the man face-to-face, emphasizing just how important Foster’s mission might become.
ON BOARD THE HARVEST MOON—DECEMBER 19, 1864
There was a small burst of lantern light, Dahlgren emerging from the ship’s main cabin, moving toward him.
“We should arrive at Hilton Head at dawn, or thereabouts. The tides are somewhat in our favor.”
Sherman stood with his hands pressed against the rail, his thoughts far away, his fingers caressing the damp wood, polished smooth. He suddenly realized Dahlgren had spoken to him, said, “Dawn, you say? Sorry, Admiral, my mind is elsewhere. Something about the water after dark, the moonlight flickering. The lights of Savannah seem brighter out here than anything I’ve seen from the other side. Rather peaceful, actually. All of that…takes my mind to other places.”
Dahlgren chuckled. “Indeed. That’s why many of us go to sea. There is always work to do, always those details of command to attend to, but then there are the times like this. Quiet moments. Thoughts of family, of home, one’s wife, I suppose. These are happy times for some of us, I’m sure. Not all, I’m afraid.”
Sherman knew only the slightest details of Dahlgren’s son, Ulric, killed earlier that year. He was said to be a Northern spy, involved in a plot to assassinate Jefferson Davis. Ulric’s capture and subsequent execution made rich fodder for the Southern newspapers, something Sherman almost always ignored. He looked at Dahlgren’s face, saw a father’s emotion, was suddenly struck by his own, stared out to sea again, tried to hold back the memories, his eyes dancing with the shimmering moonlight.
Dahlgren settled in beside him, leaned out as well, a silent moment between them, the only sounds the rhythmic chug of the steam engine beneath their feet, the soft splashing of the paddle wheels to each side of the ship.
Dahlgren was older than Sherman by more than ten years, the age showing itself in the man’s lean and drawn face, a receding hairline with a healthy dose of gray. The man seemed stern, rarely smiled, but Sherman had seen moments of warmth, hints of melancholy, and more, had felt the man’s respect for Sherman’s command, a prize all its own.
The breeze seemed to shift slightly, a chill against Sherman’s face, the ship turning, and Dahlgren said, “There are Confederate forts out from those lights, two miles or so, several heavy shore batteries we try to avoid. No need risking any chance encounter with a lucky rebel gunner. Once we’re past Savannah itself, there won’t be any problems.”
Sherman studied the low line of faint lights, the shoreline blending together, nothing that showed him a fort. “Not sure how many men they have in those forts. Hardee’s stretched pretty thin. I have to believe that.”
Dahlgren seemed to ponder that, said, “Once we start bombarding those places, it won’t much matter how many people they’ve got. I understand your need for delay. But I promise you, General, it will be a grand show.”
Dahlgren paused. “Your plans seem to have been well designed. My compliments again.”
“Thank you.”
“Doesn’t always happen like that. Even good plans can take a tragic turn. My son, Ulric. He was part of a plan to liberate the prison camps near Richmond. He didn’t plan on getting caught. Now the rebels are claiming that he was the linchpin of some kind of ridiculous plot, calling him an assassin, as though anyone should be condemned for killing Jefferson Davis. All my boy did was the job he was assigned. He paid for that with his life and then, his honor.”
Sherman said nothing, felt awkward now, scolded himself for his own arrogance, allowing himself to feel pride in his campaign, blissfully unaware what kind of emotion might accompany Dahlgren’s hearty slap on the back. He fumbled again with the cigar, no attempt to light it, stabbed it between his teeth. “Very sorry.”
“Thank you. He was a soldier, and sometimes soldiers die. The tragedy is that he was only twenty-one. He’d have made a fine commander.”
“Like his father.”
“That’s not necessary, General. I often feel his presence, as though his sword fights with me. If only in spirit. I would hope he’s in a better place. Forgive my rambling, General. I am aware that you carry tragedy of your own.”
Sherman was surprised, rarely spoke of the death of his son, wondered now how Dahlgren knew about it. “He was just a child. They die as well. Sickness, typhoid fever. Some say a disease like that is just misfortune, chance. I never considered bad luck to be a curse for the young.” He paused. “My son Charles, just an infant. I’ve never actually seen him. Heard from my wife before we left Atlanta that he was quite ill. No day passes without me thinking of that, not knowing if he’s well now, or…anything else.”