by Jeff Shaara
Wheeler was, naturally enough, outraged, and he responded with a letter of his own, claiming that there was “positive proof that the country swarmed with organized parties who do not and never did belong to my command” despite the fact that in nearly every instance, those roving gangs identified themselves to the civilians they plundered as being Wheeler’s men.
But Wheeler had one hard and fast friend: William Hardee, who countered Beauregard’s dismal assessment with at least a hint that Wheeler was an asset that the army could not afford to lose. Hardee added to the fray by telling Richmond and Beauregard that “the reports of its disorganization and demoralization are without foundation, and the depredations ascribed to his command can generally be traced to bands of marauders claiming to belong to it.”
To Wheeler’s enormous relief, any suggestion that his cavalry was to be disbanded was, for now, ignored.
—
Inspector General Roman was long gone, but the sting of his report still gnawed its way through the men. Seeley knew as well as any other commander that, whether or not his troopers had decent horses, the men themselves were lacking even the most basic weaponry. In Seeley’s most recent command, three hundred men had dissolved to barely a hundred, many disappearing from the various camps, presumed to have deserted. As he inspected his men every morning, Seeley could see for himself that those men who could ride were often missing pistols, and a third had no muskets at all. Uniforms were a thing of the past.
At Pocotaligo, the rail depot and telegraph line that ran toward Charleston had been untouched by the Yankees, Hardee keeping as close communication with Wheeler’s positioning as possible. As reports from the various scouting parties found Wheeler, he had wired Hardee that his first priority was farther inland, close to the Savannah River. There was no secret to what Sherman was attempting to do, a significant march along the river, which aimed itself straight toward Augusta. Wheeler had responded by riding that way, accompanied by a sizable portion of his command, keeping close to the northern banks of the Savannah River. Wheeler’s decision had far more to do with another report his men had offered, that Kilpatrick’s horsemen were accompanying that column, would likely lead the way into the city of Augusta, or, if Sherman changed course and made a crossing of the river into South Carolina, Kilpatrick would certainly cross first, ensuring a safe passage for the infantry across Sherman’s pontoon bridges. It was no more a surprise to Seeley than it was to other officers in Wheeler’s command that if Kilpatrick’s whereabouts could be confirmed, Wheeler would do everything he could to stand in his way.
Seeley’s own men seemed not to care just what duty they were assigned, whether they were in close pursuit of Yankee cavalry or just guarding the rail depot. It had been many weeks since there was a fight of any kind, the Federal surge into South Carolina close to Savannah seemingly just for show, to prevent any Confederate forces from adding to the men Hardee had kept in the city. Now, with Savannah fully in Sherman’s hands, Seeley had expected a rapid advance northward, knowing full well that the columns he had seen, Hardee’s men, numbered fewer than ten thousand. If there had ever been confusion before as to Sherman’s numbers, that uncertainty was gone. With so many camps spread out in and around Savannah, Wheeler’s scouts had confirmed more than once that if Hardee was to be attacked in Charleston, he would be outnumbered at least five or six to one.
—
The land they rode through was flat, mostly featureless, miles of sandy ground, flat grassy fields, cut through by low bottoms, cypress patches, bog holes, and mud pits. The ride had misery of its own, but today that misery had been compounded by another change in the weather. They had grown used to the cold, the lack of any threat from Sherman allowing the men to settle into camps where the fires stayed high. But now the hard chill was punctuated by rain, the sandy roads deepening, the weakened horses struggling all the more.
The orders had come from General Dibrell, passed along to him from Wheeler, that care had to be taken that Sherman wasn’t merely feinting toward Augusta, that Charleston could still be the primary target. Seeley knew that General Hardee would need every piece of information the cavalry could give him, that if any significant column was suddenly to appear along the coast, Charleston had to be made ready.
He kept his gaze downward, water flowing in a cold stream off the bill of his hat, soaking what was already soaked, his seat and legs rubbed raw by the rough cotton of his pants, every move by the horse scraping his skin. Up ahead, the road narrowed, thickets of pine woods pushing together, a small farmhouse to one side, no sign of the farmer. No, Seeley thought, he has more good sense than to do anything in this weather. What would he do, anyway? What grows here? They say rice needs plenty of water. Well, there’s that. And snakes. And every kind of bug the Almighty set on this earth. Maybe too cold for those critters. Just as well. There’s enough misery right here.
He pulled to one side of the road, looked back to his small column, the men stretched out, great open gaps between them. He held up his hand, stopped the lead horsemen, called out, “Hold here. Let them group up.”
He looked again to the front, had none of that itchiness, the sharp sense that, up ahead, maybe in those trees, there might be a threat, an ambush. He hadn’t seen any Yankees in weeks, beyond those he had scouted in their camps from a perch above the Savannah River. Yankees may not be any smarter than us, he thought. But they surely got enough sense not to go marching on roads this bad, in weather that could drown a fish.
The column was drawing up closer now, the faces of his men showing him more misery than he felt himself.
“Keep up, boys. No straggling. This ain’t a place you want to get lost in.”
No one responded, even the old man, Gladstone, keeping his curses to himself. Seeley rode back into the middle of the mushy sand, heard a voice behind him ask, “Where we going, anyway?”
He turned again, saw one of his lieutenants, Gibson, a man younger than he was. “We’re going where we’re told to go. General Dibrell sent us to scout down closer to where we can see Beaufort. You heard the order, just like I did. You have a problem, tell him.”
“How much further?”
There was no playfulness in Seeley’s mood, his words coming in more of a shout than he intended. “Have you seen me with a map? You got one? We’ll know we’re at Beaufort when we see Beaufort. You confused about that? Look for a whole passel of tents and a thousand colored soldiers. Ain’t you been paying attention? Yankees took that place long time ago, put a whole pile of Negroes in there, figuring nobody’d mess with ’em.”
“We aimin’ to mess with ’em?”
“We’re ordered to scout them, make sure they’re sitting tight. That too complicated for you?”
He turned away, spurred the horse, tried to calm himself, the rainwater sliding down the back of his wet shirt. He yanked on his raincoat, the rubber and canvas doing nothing to keep him warm. He knew they’d follow him, had gone through far worse than this, but his patience was gone completely, no time for talking about it, no time for discussions about just how futile this duty might be. Just do the job, he thought. We get close to Beaufort, there’s gotta be somebody nearby who’s got a roof we can crawl under. And if they wanna complain about us to General Anybody, they can go right ahead.
He rode closer to the hourglass of trees, the road piercing through tall, thin pines, a muddy pond visible to one side, surrounded by a stand of cypress. He stared that way, his eyes dancing with the sleepiness, more water streaming down from his flopping hat. There was a flicker of motion, a dark figure in the distance, then more, and now he heard the sound he knew too well. The musket ball passed overhead, and he was jolted awake, stopped the horse, stared that way, searching the rain, the thicket of trees. Now another ball came past, closer, in front of him, and Seeley held his stare through the driving rain, searching the distant trees, felt strangely disconnected, as though this were unreal, an odd dream. The men were gathering up behind him, no one seeming to
hear what was happening, and more musket fire came, the hard zing, a wet slap impacting a man behind him. Now the men responded, aware, the man tumbling from the saddle, the others calling out. Seeley waited a long moment, still couldn’t believe it was happening, that there would be Yankees out here. Our own men, he thought. Has to be. Another patrol, lost, probably. Panic and stupid.
“Hey! We’re your own! Hold fire!”
The rain drowned out his voice, more zips and hisses from the musket balls, Gibson calling out, “Sir! Pull back! Take cover!”
“Gotta be our own men! Damn fools!”
The men were backing away, seeking shelter on the backside of the trees, and Seeley felt raw anger, would find their officer, if there was one, scream into the man’s face. He jerked the reins, the horse pulling back, stumbling in the deep sand, Seeley falling to one side, hands grabbing for him, Gibson, others. He righted himself, more musket fire coming, the air buzzing like so many bees, and he jerked the reins again, said, “Pull back! Let’s find out what’s going on. I’ll stick that officer’s sword where there’s no sunshine! Take cover, till they find out how stupid they are! Who’s hit?”
Gibson called out, “It’s Simpson, sir! Not bad. Slit the top of his shoulder.”
“Dress it best you can. Damn their souls!”
The men were down, the horses pulled back, and Seeley crouched low close to the road, his ankles buried in wet mud. He looked back, saw Gladstone spitting out a brown stream of tobacco, a smile on the old man’s face. Yeah, you think this is funny. How about this?
“Sergeant! Take three men, move out through these trees. Get as close as you can, find out what kind of jackass is in charge out there. If you can call him off, do it. Tell him who we are! There’s gotta be some kind of garrison keeping watch on Beaufort. They got nothing better to do than shoot at anybody they see.”
Gladstone didn’t complain, had been with Seeley too long for any arguments. He pointed out three men, groans coming fast, and Seeley pointed the way, Gladstone doing the talking.
“Leave your danged carbines here! You ain’t had dry powder all the blessed day! We’re just lookin’!”
Seeley watched as they moved off, Gladstone standing tall, the others crouched low. They seemed to sink into the deep grass, disappeared quickly into the pines, and Seeley watched the road in front of him, felt a burning need to slap someone with the broad side of his saber.
The minutes passed, the rain in his face, burying any sounds. He strained to hear any more firing, voices, but there was nothing, no sign yet of Gladstone. Behind him, the men were grumbling, and Seeley thought of rations, knew there were none, that even hardtack was becoming rare. He looked out through the trees the other way, saw clusters of palmettos, had heard talk of eating the roots, or something else that grew in the thickets, what someone called swamp cabbage. Or maybe, he thought, those boys out there brought backpacks with something to eat. That’ll be a good lesson. You shoot at me, and you can hand me your grub.
“Sir, what’s that?”
He saw Gibson point ahead, down the road, looked that way. Far past the narrow passage through the pines, there were more dark specks.
“It’s men. They’re coming in some kind of hurry.”
Seeley stood now, eyed the figures, a slow jog toward him, three hundred yards, closer, dark shapes draped in raincoats. He felt a cold stab in his stomach, had seen this before, too many times before, his hand moving to his pistol, reflex, and now he heard a sharp cry to one side.
“Get mounted up! Get going!”
Seeley saw the three men who had gone with Gladstone, a mad scamper through the wet, sloppy grass. They reached the road now, bent over, one man wheezing the words, “Gotta pull back! They’s a flock of ’em!”
Seeley looked past them, saw Gladstone now, making his way with slow, methodical steps. He felt suddenly helpless, furious, baffled, could only wait for Gladstone, looked again down the road, saw the men coming closer, slowing, in line, spaces between them. A skirmish line.
Gladstone climbed out of the grass, breathing heavily, a broad smile on his face. “Well, now, sir, we got a report to make to General Dibrell, or anybody else what cares.”
“What report?”
Gladstone saw the men coming at them down the road now, nodded, pleased with himself. “That, sir, is the advance line. There’s more down in the woods thataway. Seems the Yankees done decided to take a stroll thisaways.”
“How many Yankees?”
Gladstone shrugged, his eyes on the road. “I’d say maybe a million or so. There’s another road, out through those trees, backside of that pond, maybe a quarter mile or so. Better road than this one. They’s marching heavy, full column. Flags and whatnot. Rain don’t seem to bother ’em none.”
The musket fire came again, the skirmish line moving up to the cover of the pines. Seeley heard the sharp zips again, knelt low, saw the men tending the horses, a hundred yards to the rear.
“Time to go, boys. Get to the mounts!”
The men obeyed, quick, sloppy steps through the deep mud, no one making himself a better target by staying up in the road. Seeley followed, kept everyone in front of him, saw the wounded man, Simpson, holding a bloody cloth on his shoulder. He moved that way, close to Simpson, said, “You can ride, Jack?”
“Yes, sir. Hurts like the devil, but it’ll be all right.”
Seeley waited, watched as the men reached the mounts, climbing up quickly. Now they waited for him, and he scrambled out into the road, jumped up on his own horse, looked again at the men back in the trees. The flashes of fire were scattered, no more than a couple dozen skirmishers, and he thought of making a charge, knew that Wheeler would think of that first, would try to drive them off. Not our job, he thought. We’re out here to scout. Well, we scouted.
The rain had slowed, the men now moving away, pushing the horses as hard as the ground allowed. Seeley eased his horse off the road, a lower profile, stared out to the far woods, where Gladstone had been. He heard it now, unmistakable, the steady rhythm, adding to the pounding in his chest. It was drums.
“I done tole you, Captain. There’s a column over that ways, and if you look real good, there’s one back thataways, too.”
Seeley looked again toward the skirmishers, far behind them, saw the flicker of a flag, men on horses. He thought of Wheeler, chasing the Yankees upriver, far from this place, wondered who these men could be. The skirmishers were still peppering the air with their fire, and Seeley felt himself pulled back, a hand on his reins, Gladstone.
“Best not linger hereabouts, Captain.”
Seeley nudged the horse, followed his men, a steady retreat, retracing their steps through the watery sand. His mind raced, thoughts of the enemy, and Seeley stopped, pulled out the field glasses, stared through wet lenses, blurry images, the colorful flag, the unmistakable flicker of the Stars and Stripes. Gladstone said the words as they flowed into Seeley’s brain. “Ole Sherman did this in Georgia. Split up his army, drove ’em two ways. Guess he’s done it again.”
“Guess he has, Sergeant. We best tell somebody about it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
SHERMAN
BEAUFORT, SOUTH CAROLINA—JANUARY 23, 1865
The boat trip had taken most of two days, including a brief stop at Hilton Head, for a council with General Foster. But the journey was made far more miserable with the change in the weather, with the kind of seas even sailors had learned to dread. For the army, men who had rarely if ever been at sea, the journey was an education in the frailty of the human body. To Sherman’s amusement, tempered with concern, most of the soldiers who accompanied him had become seasick. As the affliction spread, though, any humor had faded, and Sherman understood that weakening his men at the start of a campaign would provide one more reason for delay. He had run out of patience for delay.
The surprise at Beaufort was that the town was a healthy, vibrant place of businesses and merchantmen, peopled by both black and white who se
emed barely to notice their differences. Some of those were soldiers, the colored regiment garrisoned there after one of the few successes by Federal troops during the first year of the war, those men acclimating to life as just another part of the whole. As a result, throughout the war, the town had been virtually free of any real conflict, the Federal government going so far as to emancipate the slaves in that area, an act that seemed to affect no one beyond the town’s borders. But Beaufort had not been ignored altogether. Recognizing the town as something of a sanctuary, escaped slaves found the means to reach the town, not even the most vigilant trackers wishing to deal with the possibility of a confrontation with the regiment of colored troops. Thus did Beaufort continue to grow and thrive. It was the one port along the southern Atlantic coast not affected by the Federal naval blockade, adding to its prosperity.
For Sherman, the only really disagreeable aspect of the town was the weather. The storms that had so plagued his troops at sea continued on land, and despite Sherman’s orders that Howard’s wing make rapid progress marching inland, the roads had become rivers of swamp water, what so many of these troops had seen before. As the army had learned on their approach to Savannah, the low country was fit for little but growing rice and the occasional field of sugarcane. Sherman’s supply wagons were full for the most part, the ships ferrying goods to Savannah now supplemented by transports and steamers that pushed up the various waterways that flowed past Beaufort, supplying the army even as they marched closer to their first objective of Pocotaligo. But the rains had swollen every waterway, flooding roads so severely that not even corduroying the surfaces provided much help. On the left wing, the Savannah River was now swollen to dangerous levels, Slocum’s men unable to make any significant crossing with the pontoon bridges they had on hand. Sherman knew to be cautious, that pushing his army too far too quickly in these kinds of miserable conditions might create a problem of his own making. In this kind of dismal country, supplying the men had to be a priority. For many of the troops still in and around the town of Beaufort, an old staple was found in abundance, oysters, something many of the men had come to enjoy. The cooks had become as creative with the bivalves as they had with the rice, both a hearty alternative to hardtack. But not everyone accepted the oysters as a treat.