by Jeff Shaara
“You have any coffee? No, of course you don’t. Whiskey, then?”
The old man shook his head slowly.
“Good. Don’t need it anyway. No one in this army needs it, not until they all go home.”
The staff was spreading through the house, and Sherman glanced toward the window, more rain splattering against the glass. He saw riders, dreary men with rain pouring from their hats, dark, heavy raincoats. He caught a glimpse of one face, recognized him, one of Kilpatrick’s staff officers. Sherman thought, What the hell does he want? They’re supposed to be a long way off from this place.
He stood, more curious than he wanted to be, heard the boot steps in the foyer, moved that way, the aides taking the man’s coat. Sherman chewed on an unlit cigar, said, “Captain…Kingsley, isn’t it?”
The man saluted him, stood straight-backed, the annoying air of a man who knows he’s in that “special” arm of the service. “General, it is a privilege to see you again, sir. General Kilpatrick offers you his most sincere respects, and requests that I share with you a number of correspondences that have passed between our camps and the camp of the rebels, specifically between General Kilpatrick and General Wheeler. There is an increasing amount of hostility between the two camps, and words have been passed that have, frankly, sir, infuriated General Kilpatrick. The rebels are making astonishing accusations against us, sir.”
“There’s supposed to be hostility, Captain. This is a war.”
“Oh, yes, of course, sir. But General Wheeler has accused us of rape. And to make matters worse, sir, one of our patrols came upon seven of our soldiers, infantrymen, to be sure, who had been executed in a fairly gruesome manner, throats cut and whatnot. They were marked by a sign as having been the rapists. Again, they were certainly infantrymen. General Kilpatrick is very clear on that point.”
“I’m certain he is.”
“Well, sir, General Kilpatrick responded with appropriate outrage, pledging that he would execute any rebel prisoner in our possession for every Federal soldier executed by the rebels.”
“You said correspondences. You have them?”
“Oh, certainly. Right here, sir.”
Sherman took a leather satchel, turned away from the man, felt an annoying sense that this captain was enjoying his job just a little too much. “Stay here. One of my aides will get you something to eat. Dry off, for God’s sake.”
The captain obeyed, Sherman now alone in the parlor. He studied the letters, accusations of murder, flowing both ways. He scanned for the mention of a rape, saw it now, an incident not far from Columbia. Wheeler’s letter was direct and specific, the girl’s identity, the name of her father, the fact that seven men had taken part, said to be the same seven tracked down and executed by Wheeler’s men. He forced himself to read the back and forth between Kilpatrick and Wheeler, so much of it posturing, defending some mythical honor, the captain’s words coming again to Sherman, infantrymen. Certainly couldn’t be a cavalryman, he thought. They’re so far above reproach for any wrongdoing. Idiots.
There were boots again, voices, the annoying pleasantness of Kilpatrick’s man, but the other voice was more familiar still. It was Slocum. Dayton was there now, said, “Sir, General…”
“I know. Send him in here.”
Slocum appeared in the doorway, and Sherman held out a hand.
“Tell me, Henry, we still able to march, or are the men swimming now?”
There was more anger in the words than Sherman wanted, but Slocum seemed to share the sentiments, pulled off his hat, slapped rainwater in a spray.
“Miserable place, Cump. Miserable. How these people survive these winters, I don’t know. Whiskey and tobacco, I suppose.”
Sherman held out the letters. “Just got these, sent by that energetic captain out there. Kilpatrick’s been in a duel of words with Wheeler. We’re being accused of rape, among other atrocities.”
“Rape? Really? Haven’t heard any of that. Other things, mostly with the bummers. We’re not making friends hereabouts, that’s for certain. Rebels are getting more bold about disregarding the rules of war.”
Sherman set the letters on a small table, said, “What do you mean?”
“Well, I haven’t reported every incident to you. Too many of them, for one thing. And, it’s war. You know we’ve made every effort to control the scavengers, your orders, mine, every division commander we’ve got has nailed notices to trees, or passed the word all the way down to platoon level. Regrettably, it hasn’t been very effective. Perhaps there is some benefit to what the rebels are doing about it.”
“What are they doing?”
“Executing them. The cavalry in particular seems to have targeted the scavengers as a priority, and when they’re caught, Wheeler, or whoever else is in charge, has taken to killing the men, and making sure we find them. It’s been going on fairly regularly now. Worst case, we came across eighteen men, all with their throats cut. My men also found twenty-one others, tossed in a ravine, like it was some sort of official burial ground. Signs are showing up, along roadways, ‘Death to all Foragers.’ Not sure it’s stopping any of our worst offenders from abusing the citizenry, but it’s got the men pretty riled up in camp. There’s talk of executing prisoners in retaliation.”
“Have you?”
“No, of course not. That’s not a War Department inquiry I would enjoy suffering through.”
Sherman sat, thumped his fingers on the table. “Don’t like this, Henry. Not one bit. If our foragers commit excesses, then we will punish them ourselves. But I will not tolerate the enemy judging us for what is lawful. Just because we raid plantations and feed this army doesn’t make us war criminals. And we’re sure as hell not murderers. Or rapists. Are we certain that Wade Hampton is now in command of the cavalry?”
“Quite. Prisoners talk about nothing else. Like he’s an avenging angel. Wheeler can’t be too happy about that.”
“I don’t give a good damn what makes Wheeler happy. But I’m not tolerating this. I’m the one they’re calling a butcher, and they’re massacring prisoners? Major Hitchcock!”
He waited impatiently, heard the boots in rapid steps. Hitchcock was there now, said, “Yes, sir?”
“Get your pad of paper. I want to send a letter.”
Lt Genl Wade Hampton
Commanding, Cavalry Forces, CSA
General,
It is officially reported to me that our foraging parties are murdered after capture and labeled “Death to all Foragers.” One instance of a lieutenant and seven men near Chesterville, and another of twenty one near a ravine near Fosterville.
I have ordered a similar number of prisoners in our hands to be disposed of in like manner. I hold about 1000 prisoners captured in various ways, and can stand it as long as you; but I hardly think these murders are committed with your knowledge, and would suggest you give notice to the people at large, that every life taken by them simply results in the death of one of your Confederates….
Within days, Hampton’s reply was received.
I shall shoot two Federal prisoners for every one of my men you execute….
—
The war of words produced no satisfying result, and Sherman had to suspect that Hampton might very well carry out his threat. Sherman had long ago accepted that this war, or any war, was no gentleman’s game, that honor and dignity would be early casualties. But the foraging would continue out of necessity, no other way for Sherman to feed his army, a point he tried to make clear to Hampton. The orders went out again to the foragers, urging at least a measure of respect for civilian property, but Sherman and his commanders were forced to accept that they could not effectively govern the behavior of men sent out without direct control, and that temptation, greed, and viciousness had become part of the everyday life of a greater number of his soldiers than Sherman wanted to admit. As they marched through the raw middle of the Southern aristocracy, as they observed the lives of the masters and their slaves, as they heard the outpo
urings of joy that came from the freed blacks, his army had come to share Sherman’s complete lack of respect for what it meant to be Southern, and just what the South was fighting to preserve.
That both sides had men who could show such barbarity was not a pleasant reality. Sherman still believed wholeheartedly in the doctrine of total war, yet he was learning the cost, that as the war dragged on, the boundaries between combatant and innocent victim were becoming blurred. It only added fuel to Sherman’s fire to push onward, to drive his army as far as necessary to strangle the remaining Confederate strongholds, or confront and defeat whatever armies their generals might still command.
—
He entered Cheraw on March 3, making a rendezvous with Oliver Howard and troops of his right wing. The pursuit of Hardee’s men had been futile at best, the Confederates traveling with far fewer encumbrances, an advantage to them only while on the march. But Sherman was quick to understand that Hardee had left Cheraw in a hurry, had likely been closer to the jaws of Sherman’s army than Sherman had realized. In the town were the great treasures left behind, most of that from the citizens of Charleston, their effort to secure their belongings from the hordes of Sherman’s army. But Hardee had been forced to abandon military stores as well, an enormous amount of shot and shell, artillery pieces and musketry. But one artifact was brought to Sherman’s attention, one prize that the men in Sherman’s command would hold dear. Among the cannons left behind was one marked with a bold plaque. It was the cannon that had fired the first shot at Fort Sumter.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
HARDEE
FAYETTEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA—MARCH 9, 1865
As Hardee resumed his march, intending to meet with Johnston in Fayetteville, there was confusion still, an order received from Braxton Bragg that turned Hardee more to the west, with the new goal the town of Rockingham. Bragg had been inspired by rumors that Schofield’s Federal troops were on a rapid march up the Cape Fear River, a path that would lead from Wilmington directly toward Fayetteville. Within a day of Hardee changing direction, a correction came from Bragg, that the Federals were not in fact pursuing that path. But Hardee had been too efficient for his own good. He had reacted to Bragg’s order by making the most logical preparation for holding Schofield away, which included burning the bridges at Fayetteville, which would certainly slow Schofield down. Now those burned bridges proved to be a barrier, preventing Bragg’s forces from crossing the river and uniting with Hardee.
—
Hardee stared out the window, a thunderous rainstorm lashing the house, water in sprays against the glass panes.
Johnston sat in a soft chair, read dispatches just received, notes from the cavalry, another note from Bragg. He studied the paper for a long minute, said, “He says he didn’t tell you that Schofield was on the march. You misunderstood his instructions.”
Hardee turned to Johnston, let out a breath. “Of course that’s what he says. I’ve grown accustomed to General Bragg’s way of conducting his affairs. If things don’t turn out to his liking, he merely changes the facts.”
Johnston folded the paper, put it in his pocket, and Hardee knew there was meaning to that, Johnston keeping a record of every order, and now, every mistake.
“How much did you have to abandon at Cheraw?”
Hardee hated the question, knew there would be loud complaints to Richmond, complaints Johnston might already have heard. “Sherman’s army was within a few hours’ march. We did not have the luxury of time spent loading a vast wagon train, a wagon train we did not have. I was fortunate we learned of Sherman’s whereabouts when we did.” He paused, knew he hadn’t answered Johnston’s question. “A great deal was left behind. The citizens of Charleston relied on our army to take care of more personal property than I would have hoped for, property they did not feel safe having in Charleston. I did not encourage anyone to send wagonloads of valuables to Cheraw. Panic is a disease. The people of Charleston had an epidemic all their own. I admit, my own family was stricken. My wife and daughters insisted on traveling north. I believe they are in Raleigh.” He paused. “I am forced to admit, sir, that this army became guardians of a considerable store of every kind of goods, from wine to fine carpets. I trust General Sherman is making good use of our generosity.”
“I hope your family will be safe. But I am not concerned with carpets, General. You also abandoned a considerable store of ordnance.”
“And rice and flour. Yes, powder and muskets and a number of artillery pieces. I am eager to know how any of my superior officers would have rescued so much material, without a railroad, a navigable river, or a sufficient number of wagons.”
Johnston seemed to soften, said, “There is no inquiry here, General. I am merely attempting to take inventory of our assets. It was my hope that by this date, I could have your forces united with Bragg’s. We must assume that since Sherman seems obsessed with capturing state capitals, he is intending to march on Raleigh. There are several alternative routes he may take. Regardless, I fear that his vanguard has succeeded already in moving between our forces. We have disadvantages enough as it is. Fortunately, I do not believe Sherman’s cavalry has gained sufficient information on our positions to enable the enemy to make a decisive move against any of our positions. Such a strike could be disastrous, and we cannot afford disaster in any form.”
Hardee waited for more, studied Johnston, saw calm, rigidity, the kind of decorum Johnston was known for. He was a small man, with a neat arrow of a goatee, a severely receding hairline that accented a wide forehead. Hardee had always respected Johnston, even if he didn’t always agree with his tactics, especially in some of the fights around Atlanta. But Hardee, and most of the army, believed that Johnston was a far superior field general to either Braxton Bragg or John Bell Hood, an opinion that Johnston seemed to share. The thought flickered through Hardee’s mind.
“Is there any hope of bringing General Hood’s forces eastward?”
Johnston’s expression didn’t change, a stern soberness. “What forces are still available to General Hood are mostly recuperating from their recent campaign. Moving those people en masse from Alabama would be a challenge. I have considered the option. Even if we could make such a move, I’m certain General Hood would not accompany them. That is, of course, his choice. The difficulty lies with the lack of railroads. South and east of Atlanta, the enemy has destroyed most of the usable lines, and any movement through Tennessee would invite considerable attention. I am pleased, though, that some scattered units have reached North Carolina by foot. Admirable, certainly. A garrison has been formed at Charlotte, another at Smithfield. Brigade strength, no more. But it is something. Others might reach us within the week. We cannot depend on anything more useful than that. Any organized march by a substantial number of troops could draw the attention of General Thomas in Nashville. Should the Federals learn that Hood’s army is attempting to move in force, those men would be a tempting target, and a vulnerable one.” Johnston slid another paper across the small table to his side. “I can make available to you one division of additional cavalry. Those men have been graciously sent southward by General Lee. With the garrisons now present in this theater, including General Bragg’s forces, I believe we can put into the field close to twenty-five thousand effectives.”
Hardee mulled the numbers in his mind, had no idea what kind of garrisons were spread out around North Carolina. “Is General Lee able to assist us with additional infantry?”
Johnston rubbed a hand over his head. “No. The situation at Petersburg is desperate. General Lee is profuse in his apologies, but he believes he requires every man in his command to fend off the pressure from Grant’s army.”
Hardee weighed Johnston’s response, felt a wave of despair. “Is there any place we are not grotesquely outnumbered?”
Johnston kept his grim stare, said, “Yes. Right here in this room. I believe you and I will make an effective combination, General. Also, I have sent an urgent request to General
Lee that he order Bragg’s command to be placed completely under my authority. I am concerned that General Bragg might be somewhat confused by my place here. There can be no argument over whose orders take priority. Not now.”
Hardee needed no further explanation about Bragg’s tendency to claim responsibility for anyone in his own camp. The fact that Bragg was still in command of any troops in the field had been a surprise to Hardee, especially following the intrigue that had plagued the army prior to the disaster at Chattanooga. But Bragg seemed to operate in a sphere all his own, and for reasons Hardee could never grasp, Jefferson Davis was a willing accomplice to Bragg’s ongoing ambitions, a feeling Hardee knew he could never reveal to Johnston. But Johnston had opinions of his own, the well-known feud with the president, a gravelly relationship with Lee, who had come to command by replacing the wounded Johnston during the summer of 1862. Even now Hardee had nagging questions, wondering if the president had bowed to Lee’s putting Johnston in this command only because he knew that Johnston would be the best man to keep what remained of this army out of harm’s way. There was nothing about that that Hardee found encouraging. The next state border above them was Virginia.
“Sir, I must ask if you believe Sherman’s intentions are to continue his drive northward, possibly surrounding General Lee’s forces.”
“Don’t you? Nothing any of us has put in Sherman’s way has proven effective. Merely backing away and allowing him free rein through North Carolina will only hasten the end of the war in his favor.”
Hardee was curious now, thought, Well, yes, that is obvious. Then why are you here? He stood now, eyed the driving rainstorm again, dreaded the thought of a walk to his horse, a soaking return to his camp. Closer to the window, he put his fingers against the glass, felt the wet cold. He turned toward Johnston now, who was writing notes on a pad of paper.