by Jeff Shaara
—
“What’s the matter, Major? You not hungry? You didn’t appear to suffer too badly on the ship.”
Sherman couldn’t help smiling, watched Hitchcock prod one of the open shells, his fingers dipping slightly into the fleshy meat of the oyster.
“Really, sir, I don’t see how anyone considers this a delicacy.”
“Not sure they do around here. The people along the coast probably eat the things pretty often. When there’s an abundance, take advantage. You prefer them cooked, perhaps? In Savannah, I had them fried in oil, something quite different. Makes them a bit crunchy, rather than…”
“Gooey. That’s what they feel like, sir. Goo. My apologies to the fine-dining culture of the South, but this is one journey I cannot make.”
Sherman reached over, slid Hitchcock’s plate toward him. “You don’t mind, then, do you, Major?”
Hitchcock motioned the plate away with his hand. “Please, sir.”
“Perhaps you’d prefer a taste of this sugarcane. A little hard on the teeth, but worth the effort.”
Dayton sat at the far end of the table, said, “Yes, go ahead, Major. Just chew on the stalk.”
Hitchcock held up a short piece of cane, the outer husk stripped away. He sniffed it, took a short nibble off one end, the frown disappearing. “Well, quite tasty, I admit. Like a confection.”
Dayton chewed on a stalk of his own, said, “That’s where confections come from, Henry. They boil the stuff down, I think, pull out the sugar. Didn’t they teach you anything at your fancy college?”
Sherman put one hand on his stomach. “Not sure I can eat any more of this. Major Dayton, be sure our host is aware of our gratitude. I have always said there are two things a soldier must do anytime there is the opportunity. One is eat. The other is write letters home. I shall now do the latter.” He watched Hitchcock struggle with the sugarcane again. “Enjoy that, Major. But a word to the wise. When I was in Louisiana, I learned to partake of that treat in moderation.”
Hitchcock peered over his glasses. “Why, sir? Pretty tasty.”
“Yes, and as well, I found it can provide some rather energetic stimulation of the bowels. That can be of benefit, on occasion. Though when we begin moving by horseback through swamp country, the benefit might become more of a hazard.”
Sherman heard the laugh from Dayton, his eye still on Hitchcock, who withdrew the cane from his mouth, stared at it. He seemed crestfallen, said, “Sir, you have mentioned on more than one occasion that you encourage your staff to eat hardtack. Keeps us in step with the men, all of that.”
“Yep.”
“For the first time in my perception, sir, that seems like a good idea.”
JANUARY 24, 1865
Captain Poe had delivered the latest collection of maps, showing a myriad of roads and farm trails that sliced in a haphazard pattern away from the marshy plains along the coast. To Sherman, the line Poe had sketched that attracted his greatest attention was the railroad, the Augusta and Charleston line, the last remaining link the city of Charleston had with any points to the south. The town of Pocotaligo was the first objective, that depot astride the rail line that stretched from Savannah to Charleston, leading to the bridge across the Savannah River that Hardee’s men had already burned. Northward, the rails were a tempting target, but Sherman knew that Hardee would prepare for that, would likely position a good percentage of his troop strength across that avenue. That was a move Sherman was counting on.
He began the day’s ride in a mood that matched the foulness of the weather. Poe had expressed what Sherman already feared, that the heavy rains would make any crossing of the low country a challenge at best, both wings of the army certain to face delays along every flooded road, every creek and swampy bottom. He stared down at the impact of his horse’s hooves, soggy splashes through soft, watery sand, the only sounds the steady rain, the sloppy steps of the horses, and the growling curses that rolled through his brain.
He had ordered Kilpatrick to accompany Slocum, leaving only a few squads of cavalry leading the way out of Beaufort. His final order to the horsemen had been to keep Sherman informed of their location by the burning of the occasional house, a joke that played well with Kilpatrick’s brand of humor. Sherman looked up across the great sea of saw grass, miles of watery plains, thought, A joke on me, for certain. Slocum’s got the river to deal with, and Poe’s men sure as hell better have learned about pontoon bridges by now. If this rain doesn’t stop, we’re gonna have a different problem. The water might rise up out of this flat country and swallow us up altogether. We’d have been better off bringing the damn boats right off the ocean with us. Rowing beats drowning.
There were riders now, coming toward him, a response to Sherman’s order that Howard keep him informed of anything that lay in their path. The horsemen reined up, moving alongside.
“Sir! General Howard offers his respects and reports that the enemy has withdrawn from the village at Pocotaligo without much resistance. There were cavalry patrols, but nothing of consequence.”
Sherman guessed at the time, didn’t feel like exposing his pocket watch to the rain. “What the hell time is it?”
“Near four o’clock, sir.”
“Any place to make camp up ahead?”
“General Blair has pulled his men into some fields at a plantation, called Gardner’s Corner. There’s dry ground there. General Howard has been informed, sir.”
“How far?”
“Not more than three miles, sir.”
“They got a house?”
“It’s a plantation, yes, sir. Fine old home, though seems to have been abandoned sometime ago.”
“Lead me there.”
—
The place had fallen into considerable disrepair, the owner long gone, Sherman not certain if the man had fled the inevitability of the war or had simply given up trying to live in such a place. He stepped heavily into the parlor, water flowing off every part of him, his boots spilling water over the tops. He saw a small wooden chair, sat, pulled hard on the boots, little success. Hitchcock was there now, looking as miserable as Sherman felt.
“Major, you can offer me considerable relief if you will pull off my boots.”
Hitchcock wiped at his glasses, nodded slowly, said nothing. He moved toward Sherman, bent low, a valiant effort on the left boot, which finally gave way. Water poured from the boot, adding to the puddle growing around Sherman’s chair, and Hitchcock grabbed the other boot, removed it as well.
“Thank you, Major.”
“Sir. You suppose it would be proper to have one of the aides do the same for me?”
“Just tell them, Major.”
Sherman slid out of the raincoat, another lighter coat beneath it, removed that one as well. Dayton was in the house now, more misery, and he moved quickly, took the raincoats from Sherman’s hand.
“Allow me, sir. I’ll find a suitable place.”
Sherman felt his uniform coat, his trousers, said, “Tell me, Major. If I had so damned much rain cover on me, how come I’m so damned wet?”
Dayton didn’t laugh at the mild joke, the day’s ride draining away his humor. “Don’t know, sir. Can’t recall rain this hard.”
“I recall it plenty of times. It’s never as bad then as it seems right now. And for all we know, tomorrow will be worse.”
“We could hold the army here, sir. Let this storm pass, or whatever it is. One thing for certain, the enemy can’t move any quicker’n we can. Not likely they’ll suddenly appear to our front.”
“That’s why we’re not stopping. I want this army inland as far as possible before Hardee or anyone else figures out what we’re doing. I have to explain that? This is a campaign, not a scouting expedition. I intend to grab as much of South Carolina as possible before anyone decides to fight over it. We have to maintain our supply lines as long as possible, and once we’re far enough from the coast, we’ll be relying on the countryside again. I don’t want anyone to get to t
hose plantations before we do. Am I clear?”
“Completely clear, sir.”
Dayton moved farther into the house, and Sherman scowled at the small lake he had created around his chair. He had no reason to be angry at Dayton, at any of them. I’m like some child, he thought. Spoiled by having it easy, everything going my way. Somebody tossed a rock into my bowl of sweets. Hell, Dayton understands. Been with me too long. He’s right, though. The damned rebels aren’t doing much more than we are, plodding their way through the mud, if they’re moving at all. Hardee has to believe still that he’s the target, that we’re going to make a grab for Charleston. Damned Southerners, it’s always about land and towns. Same with those politicians, all that crowing about how easily the war will end if we grab Richmond, or so much panic that the damned rebels might have grabbed Washington. Old-fashioned foolishness. Hardee’s a better soldier than that, ought to understand that what matters is the army, those men out there who can fight, who can kill these men here. That’s the target. I didn’t punch a hole in Georgia just to scare civilians. I made a point, a point I’m going to make in South Carolina, and maybe North Carolina, and maybe, if we have to, Grant and I will make it again in Virginia. I’m tired of fighting a bunch of rebels who made this damned war because they thought they could play politics with our flag. I’d rather play politics with a battery of artillery, and four corps of veteran troops. We’ll see who wins.
—
He slept on the floor, near a brick fireplace that had seen better days. The aides had found little to stoke the fire, the majestic live oaks spread across the plantation already stripped of limbs, used by his men to build fires of their own. He rolled over, the stiffness in his back matched by the hardness of the wooden planks beneath him, cursed aloud, sat up. The night had grown much colder, and he stared at the glow of a handful of embers, moved closer, blew hard into the ashes, a cloud swirling up around his face. He coughed, spit.
“Damn it all!”
A damp handkerchief removed most of the ash from his face, smeared the rest, and he cursed again, shivered, the wetness in his clothes not yet dry, even his meager nightclothes damp. He slapped his arms against his sides, shivered again, his eyes searching the darkness. In one corner of the room was the skeleton of an old bed frame, and he climbed to his feet, fought more stiffness in his knees. He stumbled toward the wreckage, bent low, picked up one end of a broken board, snatched hard to the side. The frame came apart, and Sherman dragged the broken piece out toward the hearth, jabbed one end into the fireplace.
“Too damned big.” He looked up above the mantel, saw an old clock, had noticed it earlier, long broken, the small glass front shattered. He reached up, pulled the clock down, stepped away from the fireplace, raised the clock above his head, launched it downward with as much force as he could. The clock shattered at his feet, a discordant clash of metal innards and splinters of wood. There were footsteps now, voices, Sherman ignoring them, kneeling carefully, avoiding the springs and gears, shards of glass. He gathered up as much of the splintered wood as he could, stepped carefully to the fireplace, voices in the dark, “Sir! Are you injured?”
“Nope. Just cold as hell, Major. Help me get this damned fire going again.”
Dayton was down beside him now, and Sherman blew again into the ash, closed his eyes, fought the cloud, blew again. The embers found the splinters, the fire growing slowly, the room lighter now. Sherman sat back, realized there were a half-dozen men behind him.
“What the hell do you want?”
Hitchcock was fumbling with his glasses, said, “Sir, I heard a terrible conflagration. I thought perhaps an artillery shell!”
Sherman looked at him, shook his head. “A clock. Gave its last breath so that I might not freeze. Now go to bed. All of you. Anybody else needs to stay by the fire, fine, but do it quietly.”
The men dispersed, and Hitchcock sat on the floor, said, “To be truthful, sir, I am frightfully cold. My blanket isn’t adequate.”
“Then help me break up that bed frame. It should burn for a good while.”
Hitchcock stood again, planted his foot hard on the larger piece of timber, a loud crack, the brittle old wood coming apart.
“Excellent, Major. You’re a master vandal.” Sherman paused. “You know, for all the destruction this army has done, I believe this is the first act of vandalism I’ve committed myself. Don’t mention any of this to the damned reporters. They’ll make up some kind of nasty little tale about that.”
POCOTALIGO, SOUTH CAROLINA—JANUARY 25, 1865
He woke to a bracing chill, and blue skies.
Outside, the army had formed a vast camp, and for the first day in nearly a week, the rain clouds were gone, the air crisp and dry. He stood on the porch of another old home, the owner nowhere to be found. The coffee was hot, a slab of ham waiting for him at a broken-down table behind him, and for the first time since landing in South Carolina, Sherman actually felt good.
He inhaled deeply, the cold air energizing him, gazed out across the slow motion of the mass of blue. Fires were everywhere, the men pulling down fence lines, trees, anything they could burn. He watched one larger fire, saw a platoon of men gathered close, some of them now looking toward him. He smiled, thought, You know what this means, don’t you? It means I’m about to give orders, and you already know what they are. It’s time to move.
He hadn’t heard from Slocum, but the dry weather meant the Savannah River would begin to fall, easing the burden for the engineers. Even now, one of Howard’s divisions from the Fifteenth Corps had been trapped below the swollen river, those men forced to march through the muddy bottoms and flooded fields alongside Slocum’s troops. But now they can get their tails up this way, he thought. Howard will be happy about that. He likes things orderly.
For now Howard’s men would gather up, ease out on the march, preparing to move at as rapid a pace as the drying roadways would allow. But there would be no great surge northward until Sherman heard from Slocum that both wings of his army were safely in South Carolina. It can’t take long, he thought. February will be drier. Usually is in the South. Wonder if Hardee knows I’m aware of that? He has to feel pretty damned safe up there knowing what kind of miserable country lies between us. Well, General, you keep holding on to that thought. And keep your garrisons right where they are.
He thought of the rail line, his men already at work destroying as much track as was within reach. I should send them out a little farther, he thought. Hardee’ll have cavalry scouts all over hell, watching what we’re doing. That might give him just a little more confidence that we’re headed up his way. He pulled out the map Captain Poe had given him, the network of roads that had become impassable. But that’s going to change, he thought. Not just the weather, but the geography. We get farther from the coast, the ground rises. Better ground for marching, the farms will be healthier, good forage for the horses, plenty of rations for the men. It’ll be a whole lot prettier than these damned piney woods, too. Get back up to hardwood country, away from these palmettos and their snakes.
McCoy was there now, had come up late from Beaufort, part of the staff remaining behind to ensure the commissary officers were doing their jobs, supervising the transport of those last supplies that could still be useful to his army.
“Coffee’s really good this morning, sir.”
“It’s not the coffee, Major. It’s the air. You know anything about fortune-tellers, Major, those Gypsy women that claim to know the future?”
McCoy laughed, caught himself. “Not really, sir. Haven’t ever used one.”
“Me, neither. But if one was here, I know what she’d say. She’d say we’re due for a good healthy march, for one. And one more thing, too. She’d tell us that come February, those folks up in Columbia are going to have a rough ride.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
SEELEY
NORTHEAST OF AIKEN, SOUTH CAROLINA—FEBRUARY 9, 1865
“The crossing of the river was inevitable
. I do not believe for one minute that Sherman intends to strike Augusta. But General Hardee is most insistent that we protect that place, as well as every important place in South Carolina. I have long exhausted my inquiries as to just how we manage that.”
Wheeler was pacing, an unusual show of energy, the words flowing out in a steady stream. Beside Seeley, General Dibrell seemed to puff up, his usual posture.
“Sir, is it not wise of us to strike out against the enemy’s flanks?”
Wheeler looked at Dibrell as though staring at a snake. “What ‘flank’ do you have in mind, General? Are you aware of a ‘flank’ that no one has told me about? I suspect if we march just about anywhere in this country we shall stumble into some Yankee position.”
“I just thought we should make an aggressive move. The Yankees must surely believe they have the upper hand. Such arrogance leads to carelessness.”
Seeley winced at the obviousness of Dibrell’s observations, another officer speaking up, saying, “General Dibrell, perhaps you were not informed that Kilpatrick’s cavalry is making a move along this side of the river. It is fairly certain he is moving in the direction of Aiken.”
Seeley was surprised by that, knew nothing at all about Kilpatrick’s movements. But his men had come west and south on orders from Wheeler, no explanations offered. Seeley knew that remaining closer to Pocotaligo made little sense, that his men would find themselves in full retreat every day Sherman advanced. Wheeler’s order made sense for one other reason. Seeley agreed that the cavalry should act as a more united force, that spreading out in small scouting parties served only to annoy the Yankees, and not much else. With the improvement in the weather, it was certain that whatever Sherman was planning to do, he would move more quickly.