The Fateful Lightning

by Jeff Shaara

  “I do not know if it is proper for me to speak for my brethren here. But for myself, I would choose to live by ourselves. There is a prejudice against us in the South that will require years to pass.” Frazier scanned the room. “Please speak out, if you disagree.”

  There were nods of agreement, one man raising his hand. Franklin didn’t know him, saw youth, another of the preachers from the town.

  “I am James Lynch, sir. I believe it is in the interest of all peoples that we shall live together. I do not foresee such a thing without difficulty. But I would hope we can all see ourselves as one people, as we are in the eyes of the Almighty.”

  Frazier looked again at Stanton, said, “We cannot decide our fate, no matter how honorable our intentions might be. Much has to happen, and you, sir, have more to say about that than any of us.”

  Stanton seemed to weigh the responses, wrote something on a pad of paper, Franklin now burning with curiosity. He looked up at Frazier, who glanced toward him, a brief smile. Franklin felt overwhelmed by the entire scene, looked again toward Sherman, who sat with his arms crossed, staring at Frazier with wide-eyed surprise. After a long moment, Stanton said, “General Sherman, I would request that you leave the room.”

  Sherman reacted slowly, looked at Stanton, and Franklin caught a strange gleam in Sherman’s expression, a hint of anger. “You wish me to leave? May I ask why?”

  Stanton coughed into the handkerchief, wiped at his mouth, said, “Please, General. Just for a time. It is the best way, under the circumstances.”

  Sherman stood abruptly, moved with heavy steps across the room, his staff officers following. They exited through the large wooden door, the door coming closed with a loud thump. Stanton seemed to exhale, folded his hands under his chin, said to Frazier, “Sir, would you kindly tell me your feelings about General Sherman? What exactly do the colored people in this community have to say about his command, or his actions?”

  Frazier did not hesitate. “On that I can speak for all of us, sir. We feel inexpressible gratitude to him. I believe him to be a gentleman, and a friend to our race. Some of us called upon him in this very house, and were met by him with no less courtesy than he must certainly have greeted you with, sir. By his military campaign, he has allowed what must be an entire nation of enslaved men to walk free. We have confidence in General Sherman, and we believe that our concerns could not be in better hands. He is performing God’s work here, sir. Of that I am supremely confident.”

  There were murmurs of agreement, Lynch speaking out. “I would caution myself not to judge the man, having known him for so short a time.”

  Franklin could not sit still, stood up beside Frazier, felt the words building up inside of him, a hot nervousness in his gut. “I have known of General Sherman since he visited in my father’s house, on Master Cobb’s plantation. I have walked with his army since that day, and if it is allowed, I will walk with his army until they are no more, or there is no call for his army to march into the field.”

  Stanton kept his eyes on Franklin for a long moment, then scanned the room. “I admit, I did not anticipate this kind of reaction to the general.” He looked at Frazier now. “You are not only a well-spoken man, you are possessed of more intellect and can speak on the subject of race with greater eloquence than most in the capital. I commend you, sir. I commend all of you. You have performed a service for your country.” Stanton coughed again, and Franklin could see the tired eyes of a sick man. “I shall recall General Sherman, and determine if he has any further questions of you. I for one am satisfied that this meeting has been most fruitful. Most fruitful. You may leave at your pleasure.”

  —

  The meeting went on well into the night, two hours or more, seeming to end only when the secretary’s strength gave out. When Sherman returned, Franklin could see a visible scowl on the general’s face, undisguised by the formal politeness he saw between Sherman and Stanton. As they filed from the room, Franklin held tight to Frazier’s arm, the old man as tired by the questions as Stanton had been by asking them. They reached the street in a hard chill, Franklin pulling his thin coat tightly around him, Frazier doing the same. The others offered their quiet respects, some taking Frazier’s hand, kind words that Frazier seemed to appreciate. Franklin had his own hand taken as well, knowing smiles from the older men, the young Lynch the only one among them who seemed to feel any dissent to what was said.

  Within a few minutes the crowd had gone their separate ways, Franklin still beside Frazier, moving in rhythm to the old man’s slow gait. After a long silent moment, Frazier said, “You did real good in there, son. I believe we surprised a few folks.”

  Franklin thought of Stanton, the questions that thoroughly intimidated him, answered with perfect ease by the old man. “You surprised me, Reverend. I ain’t never heard any one of us speak to white men in such a way. You answered every question he had. You think General Sherman and the secretary think different of us now? If they want to know anything about any of us, I hope you’ll be there.”

  “I can’t say what they might think. But I hope to be around long enough to see the end of this war. I have to have faith that the Lord won’t call me away too soon for me to see what will happen next. I have faith in General Sherman, faith in President Lincoln. If they want to know where we belong, what we feel, how we expect to be treated, all they have to do is ask.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  SHERMAN

  GREEN HOUSE, SAVANNAH—JANUARY 13, 1865

  He hadn’t slept, a long night of cold darkness, staring up at the plaster ceiling, nursing his fury toward Edwin Stanton. But with the daylight had come the business of the army, the senior commanders knowing that instructions would be coming their way soon, what part their troops would play in the next phase of the campaign.

  The breakfast offered by his host has been a grand feast, far more than Sherman’s tender stomach could handle. He tried to walk off the effects of that, felt at least comfortable enough to sit at his desk. The meeting with the Negroes had been both a benefit and a lesson in the subversive motives of the secretary of war. From the first day’s march out of Atlanta, Sherman had experienced little or no problems with the Negroes who followed behind his army. Since reaching Savannah, the outpouring of affection toward his command had grown to astonishing levels. There was nowhere Sherman could go in the city without being engulfed in joyous celebration. In the Green house, the front doorway seemed constantly to be opening for some new admirer, white or black. There had been of course the occasional grumble, the hostility of those who continued to dream of life without the Yankees. But the devoted vastly outnumbered the angry, and in every case, Sherman had offered as much politeness as he knew how.

  He ran his hands over a sheaf of papers, requests from various commands, letters from townspeople, letters from Washington. He eyed the one from Halleck, new meaning to that one now, the arrival of Stanton bringing home to Sherman just what kind of conversations were taking place in the capital. He came here to stir up trouble where none exists, he thought. They expect the worst of me, and Stanton came here to document that. General Davis and his clumsiness at Ebenezer Creek gave them all the fodder they required. But damn it all, I cannot fathom that Davis simply hates Negroes.

  He eyed the letter from Halleck again, the meaning much more clear now.

  Some here think that, in view of the scarcity of labor in the South, and the probability that a part at least of the able bodied slaves will be called into the military service of the rebels, it is of greatest importance to open outlets by which these slaves can escape into our lines….

  Sherman tossed the paper to one side, his mind poring over the motives of Edwin Stanton, just why he needed to counsel with the Negroes, and why Sherman had to leave the room. He was angry again, tried to ignore the stirring in his stomach, said aloud, “What the hell do they think is happening down here?”

  Dayton appeared, said, “Sir? You require something?”

  “Get
in here, Major. I can’t go making speeches to myself. People will think I’m touched in the head. Those that don’t already. I just figured out why Stanton came here. Halleck says there is the opinion in Washington that the slaves will take up arms for the rebels. We already know that to be utter foolishness. He also says that we must make every effort not to block the avenue of escape for the slaves from their plantations.”

  “Sir, have we not allowed any who would come—”

  “Yes, by damn! Did you hear those colored men last evening? They understand exactly what this army has accomplished, and just how much benefit has been given the Negroes in our wake. For whatever reason, Washington seems completely oblivious to the fact that this campaign has been a success, in every part! Last night, the secretary interrogates the most prominent Negroes hereabouts, no doubt expecting a condemnation of my character. This, aimed at the general who has commanded sixty-five thousand men through four hundred miles of enemy territory, who has captured cities, destroyed railroads, with barely any loss. All of this while allowing tens of thousands of slaves to find their freedom. And for that, I am construed as hostile to the black race.”

  “Sir, I don’t believe Secretary Stanton believes you to be against the Negroes.”

  “The hell he doesn’t. That’s what his little show was about last night. If those preachers and whatnot had given him the ammunition, if they had spoken out against me, the next thing you’d have around here is an order for my dismissal.” He paused, saw Hitchcock at the door. “Enter, Major. Join the festivities.”

  “Sir, I heard…do you require anything?”

  Sherman stood, moved toward a tall window, hands on his hips, turned now, stared at both men, said to Hitchcock, “What did you think of our gathering last night?”

  “I thought it was extremely positive, sir. That preacher, Frazier. He has to be the most well-spoken Negro I’ve ever seen. And he wasn’t alone.”

  Sherman moved again to the desk, an unlit cigar waiting for him. He snatched it up, stabbed it between his teeth. “I am a fool, gentlemen. It seems I take myself and my command too seriously. It is easy to believe, when you are in the field, out from the eyes of superiors, that the world belongs only to you. You make a small mistake, you can fix it. When you achieve victories, you enjoy the satisfaction. No one else matters, unless you fail, unless you suffer some massive defeat. But there is another kind of war going on in Washington. Men are maneuvering themselves for what happens next, for what winning this war will mean, for who might get rich, who might gain power.” He paused. “I trust the president. Didn’t always agree with him, but I believe him to be an honorable man. I don’t trust a single soul he has dancing around him, including our secretary of war. I have handed them a great prize, just as Grant did at Vicksburg, Farragut at New Orleans. Happy times for all. And then the politics begins. Generals become an inconvenience. We’re in the way. All those minions who came along with Stanton, they’re out there scampering all through Savannah staking their claim on their territory, how much authority they can add to whatever power they had up north.”

  “There’s more to it than that, sir.”

  Sherman didn’t see McCoy enter the room, turned toward him. “What do you mean?”

  “Sir, I’ve been talking to Mr. Conyngham, for one. Several other newspapermen. They gather around here every morning, looking for something new to talk about. This morning there was something new, Conyngham in particular chewing on something he had a hard time swallowing.”

  “Get to it, Major.”

  “Sir, word has spread that there is a movement afoot to give the Negro the right to vote.”

  Sherman dropped his arms, the cigar hanging loosely from his mouth. He waited for more, but McCoy seemed to have nothing to add. Sherman pulled the cigar away, felt strangely deflated, emptied of the fury. “So, that’s it? It’s not about me, and my supposed prejudice? It’s about pleasing the Negroes, so that one day, Stanton and his ilk will gain their vote?”

  “Seems possible, sir. The reporters say there is considerable talk in Washington about bringing the Negro into the…um…Conyngham called it…enfranchisement.”

  Sherman felt suddenly very tired, the lack of sleep finding its way into his brain. “No one will ask me what I think of that. That’s a machine far larger than any influence I’ll ever have. To be honest, gentlemen, it never really occurred to me. Half these people we brought in here can’t even read.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s why they’re ripe for promises and such.”

  Sherman had a clearer picture now, the meeting, Stanton offering so much graciousness. “They’ll remember all of this, one day. Those men last night. They’ll be grateful for the personal attention of Mr. Stanton, and so they’ll remember that when they have a ballot in their hands. Once, of course, he tells them who to vote for.”

  Behind McCoy, an aide appeared. “Sir, begging your pardon, but there is a letter here from the secretary.”

  “Read the damn thing.”

  “It’s fairly lengthy, sir. His aide said it was important for you to act on this before the new campaign begins.”

  Sherman saw the paper in the man’s hand. “Give it to me. Where is the secretary now?”

  “He was in his quarters on the cutter this morning. His aide said he was not feeling much better. He is said to go visiting with various townspeople, merchants and whatnot, later today.”

  “You mean, voters.”

  The aide seemed puzzled, and Dayton said, “That’s all, Sergeant. You’re dismissed.”

  The man was gone quickly, and Sherman moved to the desk, sat slowly, his eyes fixed on Stanton’s letter. He read for a long minute, then said, “He is suggesting, if that is the word, that the government stake claim to what is defined as abandoned lands, now in our possession by virtue of this war. This land is to be used for the settlement of Negro colonies.”

  Hitchcock said, “What land, sir? Savannah?”

  “No. Abandoned farmlands and plantations, all along the coast, as far down as Florida, as far north as the existing settlement at Beaufort, South Carolina. He is appointing an Inspector of Settlements and Plantations, General Rufus Saxton.”

  “Saxton! How did he get that job?”

  Sherman looked at Dayton. “Easy, Major. Saxton may not be a favorite in this camp, and he may not have accomplished a damned thing on a battlefield, but he’s just the kind of squirrel to do a job like this. Has a talent for paperwork, and this sounds like mountains of it.” Sherman read further. “There’s more. The secretary is insisting that we begin encouraging the enlistment of able-bodied Negroes as soldiers into this army.”

  McCoy said, “We have a great many already, sir. Teamsters, laborers, sappers, carpenters, all manner of service.”

  Sherman read further. “ ‘Negroes so enlisted will be organized into companies, battalions, and regiments.’ He means for them to fight.”

  Hitchcock said, “Is that a problem, sir?”

  Sherman put the paper down, thought for a long moment. “There are colored regiments now, throughout the army, some under Grant, some under Thomas, other places. Some of those units have acquitted themselves well under fire. Most haven’t had the opportunity. In the past, I have expressed reservations about that. They proved me wrong at Vicksburg. Put up a hell of a scrap along the river.” He ran his eyes over Stanton’s words, thought a moment, said, “We’ve got a whole new flock that’s come along with this army, men who probably hate their former masters, maybe hate the South. If some of those want to carry a musket, we’re to give them the chance. Whether or not they can fight…well, maybe Stanton’s expecting me to shove them up to face the first rebels we run into. Not going to do that. If Washington wants to interpret that to mean I’m against the black race…well, hell, what am I supposed to do about that?”

  —

  On January 15, as Sherman was preparing new orders for his commanders, word came to Savannah that offered an even greater boost to morale.

&
nbsp; Fort Fisher, which guarded the mouth of the Cape Fear River, near Wilmington, North Carolina, had long been known as a rebel strongpoint where blockade runners had a reasonable chance of reaching safety. The fort was considered a serious thorn in the side of any effort to unite Sherman’s army with Grant’s. In an attempt to eliminate that problem once and for all, Ulysses Grant ordered General Ben Butler, with a force of six thousand troops, to attack the fort by advancing down the coast on board naval vessels. The army would be assisted by gunboats commanded by Admiral David Dixon Porter, the man who had been so enormously cooperative to Grant’s efforts at Vicksburg two years before.

  In early December, Butler had landed his troops in the sand dunes within sight of the fort. But the rebels had anticipated this move, moving a force roughly matching Butler’s on a march south from Virginia, to reinforce the garrison already there. Pressed hard by Grant to get the job done, Butler attacked without adequate preparation and adequate reconnaissance, a combination that breeds failure. After fruitless assaults, a frustrated Butler had made his last-gasp attempt on the fort by positioning a boat packed full of gunpowder nearby, hoping the explosion would destroy the fort. The boat exploded on schedule, doing no harm whatsoever to the fort or its occupants. Discouraged, Butler convinced himself the fort could not be taken, and he abruptly withdrew his troops, and returned them by ship to the James River. Disgusted with Butler’s failure, Grant ordered many of those same troops to return, reinforced by another two thousand men. The expedition was led this time by General Alfred Howe Terry. With none of Butler’s self-doubt, and considerably more ability in the field, Terry’s expedition pushed hard against the fort’s defenses. After three days of naval bombardment and a determined assault by Terry’s troops, the fort was secured. On January 15, the last gap in the Federal stranglehold on the South’s Atlantic seaports had been sealed.

  Sherman’s initial reaction to Butler’s failure was that the fort might best be left intact, that leaving a rebel garrison there would ensure that a sizable number of the enemy would be kept separate from any force the rebels might bring into South Carolina. But now, with Fort Fisher in Federal hands, Sherman realized that the city of Charleston had become nearly indefensible. Hardee would have no alternative but to withdraw his troops well to the north of Sherman’s new march, or risk being surrounded.