The Fateful Lightning

by Jeff Shaara

  There was a fresh burst of firing to the north, more of what they had heard most of the afternoon. But it seemed closer, and Franklin sat up, Knight doing the same. The colonel was there now, on foot, stared that way, the adjutant, Hartmann, beside him. Jones turned, called out, “We haven’t heard anything from up that way. Fearing’s brigade is still out there somewhere, far as we know. You men keep an eye on those trees. It’s getting dark soon, rebs might try to sneak up on us. Doubt they’ll try a full-out attack in daylight.”

  Gorman appeared now, walking toward Jones, said, “Sir, we’re ready for anything they’ve got. The second line still back behind us?”

  Jones looked toward the rear, said, “Those New York and Michigan boys are itching for a fight. Colonel Moody’s griping something fierce, said we got all the fun. Man’s too eager to be a hero. But if we need help, they’ll hold, or come up. That’s up to General Mitchell. Just as soon we didn’t need them at all.”

  Franklin heard a sharp zip overhead, the men along the line reacting, some with a mouthful of hardtack. “What was that?”

  “Where’d that come from?”

  Knight rolled over to his knees, looked back, away from the tree line, said, “That ways. Came from the rear.”

  The ground was mostly open, patches of small trees, and Franklin rose to his knees, as curious as the men around him. Men were reacting to what Franklin could see, a crowd of men in blue, in a hard run toward them. They were closer now, a mad scramble, some of the men calling out, hands waving, “Rebs! Behind us!”

  He saw a horseman now, realized it was General Morgan, waving the men toward the logs. Franklin heard a low curse from Knight, the men pointing muskets that way, the men in blue settling down, joining the men of Jones’s regiment. Men were talking in a disjointed chorus, every man with a story, the officers with questions, a man close to Franklin, a fast-jabbering voice.

  “They come right up our backsides! They’s a whole passel of ’em!”

  Morgan was shouting to Mitchell now, Vandever there as well.

  “They came through the gap up near the road. Poured through like honey. Keep eyes down on that tree line. They might try to hit us from both sides. Do what you can, boys.”

  Franklin ducked low, his foot resting on a log behind him. He glanced around, thought of the rebels who had come out of the trees, the question burning through him. Both sides?

  The musket fire came now, a sharp volley that whistled past him, some balls striking the logs. But it was all from the rear, the men reacting by lying flat, taking advantage of the shallow depression they had dug behind their log wall. Down the line, Franklin heard calls, the voice of Jones.

  “Here they come! Wait for my order! Lieutenants! Keep an eye behind you! Don’t let them sneak up on us!”

  Franklin raised his head, glanced toward the tree line, nothing at all, the scattered bodies of the rebels still there. He turned to the rear again, the others on both sides of him making ready. Now he saw the rebels, a solid line of men, walking together, muskets on shoulders, a scattering of men in blue running before them, one man with a bloody arm. He felt his chest twist into a cold knot, his heart racing, his eyes frozen on the rebels, saw they were two lines deep, saw another wave coming farther out to the left, toward Vandever’s men. From down that way, a volley fired, a storm of smoke blowing toward the rebels, and now the order came close by, Jones again.

  “Fire!”

  The men responded, a hard explosion of sounds, Franklin dropping his face into hard dirt, smoke choking him, eyes closed, a new terror, his brain screaming out the obvious, The logs! We’re on the wrong side!

  The men fired again, but there was no rhythm to it, each man loading his own musket, the rebels returning fire. The balls slapped into the logs behind him, one man screaming a few feet away, more smoke, blinding, a terrified panic boiling up inside him. Knight was firing the musket, rolling to one side, reloading, firing again, and Franklin felt the helplessness, utterly impotent, could only keep as flat as the ground would allow. He blinked through watery eyes, his head to one side now, watching Knight, and beyond the sergeant he saw a man running toward them, a bayonet, hard shouts, the man cut down by a burst of fire. More were closing in, the rebels losing their line, some crawling closer, straight out from Franklin. The musket fire went both ways, men falling in front of him, one man still crawling, closer still. Franklin saw the man’s face, filthy, yellow teeth, a sickening smile, his eyes on Franklin, the man rising to his knees, the bayonet pulled close to him, their eyes locked. The blast came close to Franklin’s ear, deafening, the smoke blowing right through the rebel, the man jerked backward, rolling, feet in the air. Franklin stared through the smoke, thunder in his ears, Knight’s voice, “Got him! Bastard! Grab his musket! Use the bayonet!”

  Franklin didn’t know what to do, the terror holding him in a hard grip. He stared at the dead rebel, the man out of reach, too far away, the musket tossed to one side. The fight seemed to roll all along the line, rebels closing in, then shoved back, coming again, closer still. All down the line, the men in blue began to stand, muskets swinging, fists flailing, the hard shouts of the rebels mixing with the cries of the men around Franklin. He tried to curl up, backing into the logs, no other place to go. But the fight was all out in front of him, some of the rebels blending together with swarms of blue, the men pursuing them, then being pursued. He sat in a full bath of terror, watched two men grappling, falling, another man, a rebel, with a bayonet, jabbing down hard, the man in blue speared into the ground. Beside him, Knight stood, enormous, towering above Franklin, swung the musket, the bayonet keeping a rebel back, the two men in a standoff, cursing each other, a lone fight in an ocean of turmoil. Franklin stared, motionless, saw the rebel swing the musket again, Knight doing the same, the sergeant’s gun shattering to pieces. The rebel lunged now, missed, backed away, viciousness in the man’s eyes, Knight backing up, stumbling into the depression, his back against the logs. Franklin saw the bayonet coming in, the rebel hesitating, savoring the moment. Franklin saw the man’s face, a hard curl to his lip, the man seeming to carry the entire war, the hate and anger, his words coming in a soft hiss, “Now you die, Yankee.”

  Franklin felt the knife beneath his hand, pressed into the dirt beside him. His fingers curled around the hard bone of the handle, and he picked it up, rolled onto his knees, the rebel moving toward Knight. Franklin lunged, his hand jamming hard into the man, the rebel grunting, bending. Knight rose up quickly, a hard kick to the man’s face, the rebel falling backward, twisting, the knife handle upright in his stomach. Franklin leapt forward, jumped on the man, pulled the knife, rammed it home again, into soft belly, a splash of blood, and he pulled it out again, jammed it up into the man’s neck, heard screaming, a terrible cry, his own voice, and he stood now, the knife at his waist, ready, searching, the blood running wet on his hands, his sleeve, down his shirt, the odor of the man in his nostrils, sickly sweet, the smell of death, the smell of killing.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  HARDEE

  BENTONVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA—MARCH 19, 1865

  The cavalry had kept mostly dismounted, Wade Hampton driving his men into whatever gap had opened. By day’s end, Hardee knew it wasn’t enough.

  He was with Hampton, the two men still sending orders to the fighting men, maneuvering, positioning, the urgent calls for counterattacks wherever opportunity presented itself. He admired Hampton, the big man heavy in the saddle, directing his men with a fire Hardee knew was instinct, not something you could teach a man at West Point.

  “I will see to that corner of the field!”

  Hampton was pointing, a fog of smoke clouding their vision, but the musket fire was heavy, one hard thump of artillery.

  “Yes! Go!”

  Hampton rode forward in a dash, steady in the saddle, and Hardee kept back, focused through field glasses, tried to see any details, the anxiousness stirring inside him, a wave of blue emerging from a brush line. The orders flowed
through his brain now, Stop them! But his men were there to receive the advance, a volley throwing a cloud of smoke into the blue line, obliterating his view. He wanted to ride forward, as he had done that morning, see it up close, direct the men himself. But that was no place for a commander, the annoying frustration of relying on officers who might not be up to the task.

  He saw Hampton again, riding toward him, more slowly now, unusual, something in the man’s face that caught Hardee’s eye. “What is happening?”

  Hampton was there now, seemed hesitant, more unusual, said, “They are driving the enemy back. For now. I’ve no one else to send to that part of the field.” He paused. “Sir.”

  Hardee caught something cautious in the word, looked Hampton in the eye. “What has happened, General?”

  Hampton turned, and Hardee saw a small cluster of horsemen, riding back along a fence line. They seemed to notice him now, turning toward him, and Hampton said, “I am terribly sorry, sir. He was in a bad place. The fire was heavy. It should not have been.”

  Hardee watched the horsemen, his mind latching on to Hampton’s words. “What should not have been? What are you talking about?”

  “Sir, it’s your boy.”

  Hardee saw him now, Willie slumped over, held in the saddle by a man on either side. The horsemen moved closer still, stopping now, and Hardee felt frozen, a cold knife stabbing his chest. He forced his spurs into the horse’s flank, moved that way, saw the deep red stain on the boy’s shirt, his head low, the men holding him upright.

  He knew one of the officers, York, one of the Texans who had tried to discourage Willie from riding with the Rangers. York saluted him, a grim sadness on the man’s face.

  “Sir, he is badly wounded. I fear it is mortal, sir.”

  “What do you mean? How could it be mortal? He’s a boy.”

  Hampton moved forward, closer to Willie’s mount, said something to the men in a low voice. He turned to Hardee, said, “Sir, we shall take him from the field. There is at least one hospital already along the road to the town.”

  Hardee kept the horse back, wouldn’t see it, wouldn’t lean closer, the boy unresponsive, his head still hanging low. He gripped the reins, fingers curled in tightly, closed his eyes, couldn’t say anything, not to the boy, not to these men. They waited patiently, no one speaking, and now Hardee forced himself to the moment, thought, He is one of them. You must treat him as one of them.

  “My wife and daughter are at my niece’s house, at Hillsborough. It is not far. Take him there.” He could not just order them, knew good men were being told to leave the field, just to care for their commander’s son. He knew that wasn’t appropriate, the officer in him pulling back from such a luxury. But they would obey him, some of them with sons of their own, and he thought of Hampton now, realized the man had lost his own son months before, another boy who would be a soldier. Hardee glanced at Hampton, saw the man’s head low, absorbing the moment, and Hardee said, “I cannot order you to do this. Care for him as you will, as you are able. There is still a fight here.”

  Behind him, men were running forward, and Hampton saw them, waved them closer. Hardee glanced back, saw a pair of stretcher bearers, the men wide-eyed, a quick salute toward the generals. Hampton said, “Lower him. You boys will carry him to the nearest ambulance. See that he is carried to Hillsborough.” The men seemed puzzled, the order unusual. Hampton seemed to catch their hesitation, his voice louder now. “Do it! Without delay! This is General Hardee’s son.”

  Hands were on the boy now, easing him from the horse, and Hardee saw his face, ghostly white, the blood again, watched as the stretcher bearers moved into place, the boy now down on the dirty white cloth. They lifted him, began to move, and Hardee wanted to stop them, to see one more time. But he wouldn’t hold them back, a voice in his mind, Every minute might save him.

  One of the stretcher bearers called to him as he moved past, “God bless you, sir. He’ll be just fine. We’ll see to it.”

  Hardee saw the sincerity in the man’s face, nodded slowly, waved them on, the red stain already spreading through the cloth beneath his boy’s back.

  —

  He sat on a small knoll, staring into darkness, the flash of artillery marking the position of what remained of the fight. He thought of moving forward yet again, of doing anything to ignite the fire once more, to try to regain the momentum that, for precious hours, had crushed the Yankee left flank. Throughout the afternoon there had still been opportunity, the greatest chance being the attack that exploited the gap in the Federal lines that had opened up south of the main road. But there had been poor coordination, the chaos of the fight along the road too intense to permit good staff work, the couriers either lost, captured, or simply vanishing altogether.

  He was furious at Bragg. But there was no time for discord, and so Hardee forced himself to hide that away. The attack against what he now knew was Morgan’s division, the Federal forces literally surrounded, had collapsed on its own, helped by the arrival of fresh Yankee reinforcements, who stumbled straight into the rear of the attackers. As a result, instead of corralling an entire Federal division in a neat package, Hardee’s attacking force had suddenly become corralled themselves, and Hardee had no idea yet how many of them had succeeded in fighting their way out of the accidental pincer the Yankees had created.

  He rode the horse forward a few yards, the staff moving with him, kept his eyes on the artillery batteries still firing into his men. There would be nothing he would say to Johnston about Bragg’s inaction, the delays that Hardee could see now had been so costly. They will do nothing to him, he thought. My men were on the march well before dawn, and we reached this field in time to crush the enemy. All the while, Bragg sat perched on my left flank, no doubt enjoying the mild weather, admiring the birds as they flitted through the trees to his front. If he had pushed his men into the enemy as we did, there would have been no escape. With so much pressure on the enemy’s left, and with Bragg striking hard into the right, the entire field could have rolled up, thousands of prisoners. It would have worked. It should have worked. But now there is artillery, and the Yankees have strengthened their positions, and we are caught once more trying to understand what went wrong.

  He knew there would be blame to go around. Delays and confusion, he thought. The maps were wrong, the generals spent too much time protecting what little they have in their commands, their arsenal. No one would move with speed. Well, Hampton, perhaps. He chose this ground, gave us the opportunity General Johnston so hoped for. But he had no strength of his own, Wheeler’s men trapped back behind some creek they can’t cross. And so we had no great and glorious cavalry charge, what could have swept the Federal left completely away. We gave them time. He suddenly hated the word. The great curse, the great gift.

  By dark, Hardee knew that the Federal Twentieth Corps had pushed onto the field, adding to the battered Fourteenth, the Federal commanders helping their fight by positioning an enormous force of artillery. It was over then, he thought.

  He pulled out a pocket watch, heard the striking of a match, the light quick, flashing across the face of the watch. Hardee caught the necessary glimpse, said to himself, “Eleven.”

  Roy was beside him, blew out the match quickly, no target for some alert Yankee sharpshooter. “Yes, sir. The men are falling back, mostly. Some units are still out there, but we’ll get word to them as quickly as we can.”

  “You mean, if you can find them.”

  “We’ll find them, sir. This is still a good army.”

  Hardee looked at him, a shadow in the darkness. “There’s that hope again, Major.”

  “What else is there?”

  “Victory. This was a close thing. Hampton did the job. Harvey Hill. Bragg should be shot.” He stopped, glanced around for other ears.

  “It’s all right, sir. You’re not the only man in this army who supports that position.”

  “I don’t support it. Never will. You hear me?”

  His
voice had risen, and he stopped, closed his eyes, fought for calm. After a silent moment, Roy said, “Orders, sir?”

  Hardee thought of the courier, a half hour before, Johnston’s order to break off the fight. “We’ve been given the only order that matters, Major. For the rest of this night, it’s up to the officers in the field to gather their men, pull them back as best they can, without drawing any more fire than necessary. We don’t need the enemy following along with us in the darkness.”

  The thunder to his front seemed to slow, the artillery fire falling away. He heard voices behind him, a horse moving up slowly. He waited for it, kept his eyes on the last flicker from a distant cannon, the horse there now.

  “Sir?”

  It was Pickett, something deadly in his tone. “Report, Colonel.”

  “Sir, we have received word that your son is being carried to Hillsborough as you ordered.”

  Hardee felt the knife through him, had done all he could to keep that away. He closed his eyes again, dropped his head, nodded slowly, said in a low voice, “He would not obey me. He had to do this.”

  “Yes, sir. The surgeon examined him, says he may yet recover. I am confident, sir, he’ll be in fine fettle, just a few days, sir.”

  “I saw him, Bill. The wound was certainly mortal. I don’t need my staff lying to me.”

  Pickett said nothing, neither staff officer speaking. Hardee leaned forward on his saddle, crossed his arms.

  “He wanted this, all of it, insisted on being a soldier. This is how we all choose to die, I suppose.”