The Fateful Lightning

by Jeff Shaara

  Wheeler paced again, hands behind his back, noticed a handful of slaves off to one side of the house, watching the gathering of officers in the estate’s grand front yard. Seeley kept his gaze that way, his eye catching an old man, who seemed intensely interested in the conversation. Seeley slipped away from the officers, moved toward the Negroes, the slaves suddenly dispersing, the old man moving off with a hobbling limp. Seeley reached him, grabbed his collar.

  “Where you going to, old man?”

  “Nowheres a’tall, boss. Gots chores to do.”

  “Chores like gathering up information? You talking to any Yankees hereabouts?”

  “Oh, no, sir. No Yankees pay heed to this old soul.”

  He still held the man’s shirt, felt the fear in the man’s quaking voice. Seeley had no energy for this, thought, What can he tell anyone? That cavalry was here? He released the man’s shirt, remembered Tennessee, Mississippi before that, the infuriating discovery that the idle slaves that watched the passing of the soldiers were just as likely offering scraps of intelligence to Grant’s army.

  “Hardly matters now,” he said. “Nothing you can tell Sherman they don’t know already. They stupid enough to pay you, you take their money. Now go on.”

  He pushed the man gently, had no stomach for abusing one crippled old man. He moved toward the front of the plantation house again, saw Dibrell waiting for him.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Those slaves were watching us pretty intently. Thought I’d run ’em off. No need to have so many ears about.”

  Dibrell’s eyes narrowed, and he looked past Seeley, a scowling stare toward the various black men, going about some sort of labor with any kind of implement that was close. Seeley saw the counterfeit effort, thought, Yep, they were listening to every word. But he wouldn’t say any more about that to Dibrell, didn’t want to see the general’s usual show of bravado against people who were simply helpless. Dibrell sniffed, said, “Well, you watch them close. Tell Colonel McLemore what you saw. We maybe ought to put some people around here, watch for signs of Yankee scouts.”

  “I’ll tell him, sir.”

  Seeley ached to get away from Dibrell, his division commander too eager to inflict punishment on any civilian, black or white. It was one more reason why Joe Wheeler’s troopers were becoming so reviled along the trails, the tendency for some of the officers to treat every citizen as the enemy. If the civilians seemed unpatriotic in their eagerness to be rid of the war, Seeley knew that punishing them with abuse would only make them more uncooperative. No one seems to know what to do about that, he thought. But whatever we’re doing, it ain’t working.

  Seeley walked around the corner of the house, the yard spreading before him, saw a rider approaching, Wheeler leaving the others, walking out to the road to meet him. Wheeler seemed to keep the man out away from the others, his habit, receiving the latest dispatches only for himself, sharing what he felt his officers needed to hear. Seeley felt annoyed again, had grown too accustomed to showmanship.

  Wheeler spoke for a long minute to the courier, then turned toward the men. “As I suspected. Kilpatrick has been sighted just south of Aiken. Finally. Finally! Mount up, go to your commands. How many effectives do we have at hand?”

  Dibrell had returned, a low murmur among the ranking officers, Wheeler waiting with angry impatience. One of the others spoke up now. “Best as we can figure, sir, two thousand effectives. If we wait for a couple days, we can bring in more from the railroad, or those men you sent off toward Augusta.”

  “We don’t have two days to play around, Colonel. Gather up your commands. We’ll move into Aiken. I will plan a reception for General Kilpatrick he does not expect.”

  —

  Seeley heard the shots from down the road, and as he rode closer, he could see the horses splayed out, blood on their carcasses, a dozen men standing nearby, pistols in their hands, silent misery on their faces. He looked for Lieutenant Gibson, saw the man standing far out near the tree line, away from the carnage, talking to what seemed to be a civilian. He spotted Gladstone close by the horses, said, “How many? Eight?”

  Gladstone turned away from the dead animals, a grim sadness on the man’s face. “Eight today. We’ll have to take down a few more tomorrow. One of ’em was Old Lucy. She just couldn’t go no farther. Run out of heart. Loved that danged horse. Had her for two years.” Gladstone paused. “Hard thing for a man to do. Kill your best friend.”

  Seeley hated to see Gladstone in a foul mood, the one man in the company Seeley could depend on for a shot of morale. “Very sorry, Sergeant. We’ll work hard on finding some mounts.”

  Gladstone shrugged, kept his eyes away from the carcasses. “Just part of the war, I s’pose. Good animal, she was. Got me out of more’n one scrap. Woulda done it again. Can’t ride a bag of bones too long and expect much.” He looked up at Seeley now, made a quick scan of Seeley’s horse. “Dang shame what we’s doin’ to these critters. You ride that old boy careful. He’s hurtin’. I can see it in his eyes.”

  Seeley appreciated Gladstone’s instincts, a man more at home in the cavalry than anywhere else they could have put him. “I’ll ride him as gentle as I can. But we’ve got business. General Wheeler wants us to ride into Aiken. Set up an ambush.”

  Gladstone’s expression changed, wide-eyed curiosity. “Kilpatrick?”

  “He says so. Reckon we’re gonna find out.”

  Gladstone seemed to perk up, a hint of enthusiasm in his words. “Hey, Captain, how ’bout you tell Lieutenant Gibson to find me some horseflesh. Not sure he knows how to decide much of anything on his own. But I’d hate to miss out if there’s gonna be a party.”

  Gibson was approaching, a look of hopefulness that Seeley dreaded, the young man’s bright optimism severely out of place. “Sir! Been talking to a fellow who’s got a place just down the road. There’s a good-sized farm out that way. He says that place could have some mounts. Mules maybe, but at least we’ll be able to ride.”

  “What fellow? That civilian?”

  “Yes, sir. Fellow named Jenkins. He says he’s not on too friendly terms with the neighbor, says the old man done let his place run to ruin, but he’s likely got all manner of goods squirreled away in the woods behind his barn.”

  Seeley thought, Yes, and that would take our eyes away from Jenkins and whatever he might have hidden. “We know the fellow’s name, the plantation owner?”

  “Jenkins just called him Old Fart.”

  Seeley felt like laughing, held it in. “I suspect that’s not his name. But we oughta go check in on him, do a little scavenging. Maybe pay a little more heed to Mr. Jenkins as well. We’re riding into Aiken by tomorrow, and I want every man in the saddle. Might be heading into a scrap with Kilpatrick.”

  Gibson’s eyes got wide. “Don’t say? Well, yes, sir. Let’s go pay a call on, um, what’d I say?”

  Gladstone responded, shaking his head. “Old Fart.”

  —

  Seeley led a dozen men along a gravelly road, saw an old fence line, the house beyond, slowed them with a wave of his hand. A man hurried toward them from the house, a pathway leading away from the crumbling porch of the dilapidated old home. Seeley saw the double-barreled shotgun come up, pointed at his own horse, reined up with one hand on his pistol. The man called out, “You keep back! Get on outta here! I got nothing you want!”

  Seeley took a deep breath, dismounted, tried to keep his calm. “Sir, we mean you no harm. We are good Confederates, like yourself.”

  “How do you know what kind of Confederate I am? I ain’t met a soldier on neither side worth his spit. What you want?”

  Seeley latched on to the man’s words, thought, Don’t ask him now, but someone oughta find out just what soldiers he’s seen on the other side. He studied the man’s face, thought, Might not be the man we’re looking for. Doesn’t seem all that old.

  “Sir, are you the owner of this land?”

  “Why you need to know that? None of
your business, anyhow.”

  Seeley looked out toward the house, a sagging roofline, overgrown bushes hugging the walls, no sign of any tilled fields. He glanced back at Gibson, said in a low voice, “Not much more than a run-down farm.”

  Gibson didn’t respond, his eyes locked on the man’s double barrels. Seeley stepped out clear of the horses, both hands extended to his sides. “We mean you no harm, sir. We’re engaging the Yankees shortly. We appreciate your help. We have great shortages, and are counting on your generosity.”

  “Bah! I got nothing here. Nothing!”

  “Well, sir, I respect what you say, but we’re in a desperate way. We’ll offer you a note for anything we might take. General Wheeler will honor it soon as he can.”

  “Wheeler, huh? You’d be his boys, then? What kind of note? How much?” The man seemed to catch himself. “Don’t got nothing anyway. Don’t matter.”

  “Sir, my men do not wish to harm you, but we require supplies, and I regret that I will force you to part with what we need. I’d lower that shotgun if I were you.”

  The man seemed to blink, the shotgun coming down slightly. “I got nothing. You all just go on down the road.”

  “Not sure until we make a search. You keep that shotgun low. No need for you to fear us.”

  “Plenty of need. But you seem like a decent boy. Like my little brother. Ain’t heard from him in two years. Had some coloreds here, too. They done run off.”

  The man seemed nervous still, and Seeley said, “What happened to your brother? He in the army?”

  “Dang fool wasn’t fifteen. Went up visiting my sister in Sandy Springs. Some smooth talker convinced him he oughta join up. Last I heard he was marching north, Pennsylvania. Ain’t heard a word from him since.”

  Seeley thought, Gettysburg?

  “Well, we can put in an inquiry with General Wheeler’s staff. Maybe even General Hardee.”

  “No need to go bothering generals on my account. I’ll find him, sooner or later.”

  There was no sadness on the man’s face, no sentiment in his words, still a jittery nervousness. Seeley felt an itch that the man was holding back a great deal more than anything about his brother.

  “You do any stretch in the army yourself? Seem fit enough.”

  The man hesitated, a quick glance back toward the house. “They didn’t want me. Sickly. I just want to get on with working this place. Now look around if you have to, then go on down the road.”

  The man lowered the shotgun toward the ground, moved away on the narrow path to his house. Seeley took the cue, pointed silently to Gladstone, four others, motioned for them to follow him, motioned for Gibson to keep back with the rest. Seeley spoke in a hard whisper toward Gibson, “You hear shooting, come running. Don’t trust this bird.”

  The man led them onto a porch, holes in the planks, remnants of four pillars that were missing completely. Seeley looked up at the ceiling, saw the sag, thought, Nothing holding this place up. Doesn’t look like a soul actually lives here.

  The man waved them to one side of the house, said, “You go on and look around out that way. Ain’t nothing for you to see in the house here. Look in the barn. Anything you see you can have. Then go on.”

  The man closed a rickety wooden door in their faces, and Gladstone moved up close to Seeley, said, “He’s in a blamed hurry for something. Maybe he’s got a bottle in there. His last prized possession.”

  “Not sure. He’s too anxious for us to leave. It’s more than a bottle of whiskey he’s hiding.”

  One of the others moved up close, Private Clemons, said in a whisper, “Maybe he’s hidin’ his brother. Maybe the young fella done run off from the army.”

  “Could be. But if the boy went to Gettysburg, by now he’s likely in Petersburg. Either way, he’s better off dead. Come on. Let’s look around back.”

  Seeley stepped back off the porch, moved around the side of the house, saw the barn to the rear, caught a sudden glimpse of motion, the man scampering out from the back of the house, across the overgrown yard, disappearing into the woods behind the barn. Seeley jogged that way, said, “He skedaddled into the woods. Easy. Spread out. He might have more’n a bottle. He might have the whole fixings for a whiskey still back there, and he loves that shotgun.”

  The men moved with him, wide formation, a quick glance into the barn, what Seeley knew would be empty. Gladstone moved up close to him now, said, “You smell that?”

  Seeley sniffed the chilly air, smiled. “Fresh horse piles. Let’s go. Slow, quiet.”

  They moved around the barn, the woods thick with briars. But there was little else to block their view, the trees tall and thin, the brush mostly empty of leaves. Seeley stepped high, crushed thin vines beneath his well-worn boots, thorns finding their way through thin leather. He motioned to the others to move ahead, worked to free himself from the tangle. He kept his eyes on his men, the others struggling with the briars, slow progress. Seeley pulled free of the thorns, his glove still grabbed by a stubborn vine, yanked it loose. He was moving again, farther into the woods, and to his front, he saw the flash, the burst of fire, then another. The men dropped low, calling out, but Seeley knew what they were seeing. It was musket fire. Seeley flattened out, thorns in his face, Gladstone calling out, “Yankees!”

  A few feet away, one of Seeley’s men raised his pistol, fired without aiming, a musket blast answering. Seeley felt a frantic helplessness, the briars holding him in a painful grip, said in a hard whisper, “Hold fire! How many are there?”

  The man kept low, shook his head. “Saw a few. Not sure.”

  Seeley pulled his own pistol, looked for Gladstone, saw the older man on his knees, peering up, and Gladstone fired his pistol now, then again, more musket fire coming back.

  “Get down, you old fool!”

  Gladstone looked at him, the yellow toothy grin, said, “We done run into a fight! Hee!”

  Behind them, Seeley heard the others coming at a run, looked back that way, saw Gibson now, leading the rest of the squad forward on their knees, carbines in their hands. Seeley looked at his pistol, his only weapon, screamed at himself now, Stupid! You didn’t trust that fellow, and now you’re in a damned ambush!

  Behind him, a carbine fired, then another, and he lay flat, still helpless, hard in the grip of the briars. There were shouts now, farther into the brush, what seemed to be an argument. There was another carbine blast from his own men, Gladstone’s pistol firing again. Gladstone called out now, “Give up, you damned fools! You ain’t getting out of this mess!”

  Seeley closed his eyes, his heart racing, thought, Not the time for a bluff. How many are there? Not sure who’s in the “mess.”

  To one side, one of Seeley’s men stood, his pistol aimed, Seeley wanting to shout the man into cover. But the man just stood, said aloud, “That’s right. Easy. One step at a time. Hands over your heads.”

  Seeley saw one of the men now, a heavy black coat, a scruff of a beard, hands high.

  “Don’t go shooting us. We ain’t gonna fight you.”

  Seeley fought to stand, the briars tearing through his pants leg, his pistol up. In front of him, six men were moving out of the woods, hands high, one man walking straight toward him, desperate fear in the man’s eyes. Seeley aimed the pistol at the man’s face, said, “Slow. What you doing out here?”

  “Same as you. Looking for food and whatnot. Ain’t wantin’ no fight. We won’t be causing you no trouble, long as you treat us decent.”

  Seeley couldn’t keep his hand from shaking, the pistol quivering, and he lowered it slightly, saw nothing that looked like uniforms, none of the men looking anything like soldiers. “What unit you with?”

  “Ain’t been with a unit in some time. You a captain, then? Cavalry, I guess.”

  Seeley felt a wave of suspicion, thought, Yankees wouldn’t know if I was a captain, or cavalry, neither. The men all looked at him, seemed to recognize authority, one of them the plantation owner. Seeley understood now. “
You boys are working for Sherman, right? Done caught you scavenging. You know what’s happening to men like you? Both sides done agreed on an eye for an eye. Some in this army would cut your throats. Might still. Might just shoot you down where you’re standing.”

  He stopped, was never good at empty threats. I’m not murderin’ anybody in cold blood, he thought. But his words had the desired effect, one younger man breaking down in tears, dropping to his knees.

  “Don’t kill us, sir. We ain’t with Sherman. We’re South Carolina. Just going home.”

  Seeley stared at the man, scanned the others, said, “You deserters?”

  The counterfeit landowner spoke out now, seemed to speak for the rest. “We done give all we had, Captain. This army’s got no use for us, no how. We all know what you know. It’s over. Few more killed, maybe. But not us. We got families. Let the generals figure it out. There just ain’t no more purpose to this.”

  “That’s not up to you. You’re soldiers. You don’t just up and go home.”

  “So, what you gonna do with us? They gonna see us hang? Shoot us down in front of a whole regiment? They’s horses back in them trees. Take ’em, and maybe let us go. We woulda rode on outta here, but the only way out’n them woods woulda been straight past you. Either way, we’d run out of luck.”

  One of the others spoke up now. “Ain’t had nothing to eat in four days. These farms ain’t got nothing. This fella what lived here tried taking us on with his old shotgun. Not smart. We were hungry, that’s all.”

  “Shut up!”

  The shout came from the imposter, and Seeley felt a sick turn inside of him, said, “Where’s the farmer, then?”

  “Sir!”

  It was Gibson, a shout coming far back in the trees.