The Fateful Lightning

by Jeff Shaara

  The greeting had been as joyous as either man would allow, a fast grip of a handshake, a brief clutch of Grant’s shoulders, Sherman’s nervous energy betraying his composure. The two men had taken the walk up the steep incline, to a flat bluff overlooking the water, and all the while, Sherman gave Grant details, everything he could recall from the campaign. There would be official reports, of course, but Sherman knew Grant preferred hearing Sherman’s more informal version of events, his insights and opinions about commanders, his appraisal of the enemy, which might never be put onto paper.

  On the bluff, Sherman saw more of the business of Grant’s army, a neat row of cabins housing Grant’s staff, the various departments all gathered to fuel the effort Grant was making toward Lee’s beleaguered forces at Petersburg, just a few miles away. For most of an hour the two men traded experiences, offering advice and anecdotes, displays of pride and gratitude that most others in the army never saw. Only after Grant had allowed Sherman to deflate the nervous energy, something Grant had seen so many times before, did Grant finally inform Sherman that he was not in fact the most important visitor Grant was receiving that week. To Sherman’s surprise, and Grant’s delight, Sherman learned that President Lincoln had made the journey from Washington. It was clear to Sherman that Lincoln was just as curious as he was to see how Grant intended to bring this war to a close.

  —

  The president had arrived on the River Queen, now tied up at the wharf among the enormous armada Grant seemed pleased to bring to Sherman’s attention yet again. Lincoln seemed content to remain on board, a gesture that Grant believed was intentional, a show of the faith Lincoln had already expressed in Grant’s command.

  Sherman had met Lincoln before, early in the war, had come away from the encounter without any distinct impression of the president’s depth, what concerned Sherman as being a worrisome trait for a president in command of a war. Whether Lincoln felt the same way about him had not really entered his mind before now. But Grant had been reassuring, that Lincoln not only supported the efforts of his generals, but had given Grant absolute assurances that as long as Grant gave him victories, Lincoln would keep himself out of Grant’s way. With news of Sherman’s triumphs filling every Northern paper, Sherman had eased his own nervousness that indeed, Lincoln might offer a show of respect.

  They were shown to the aft cabin of the steamer, the guard standing aside, saluting Grant. Grant made a light rap on the door, the soft words responding.

  “Yes. Do enter.”

  Grant moved through the door, Sherman following, and Lincoln stood, the top of his head nearly touching the low ceiling of the cabin.

  “My word, General, it is a pleasure as always.” Lincoln looked at Sherman now, beamed a smile, extended a hand. “General Sherman, it has been some time since we spoke. I recall it well. You are quite the hero these days. There is talk I should show Mr. Johnson the door and bring you on board as my chosen vice president!”

  Sherman laughed, cut it off, wasn’t sure if Lincoln was serious or not. But Lincoln laughed heartily, pointed to two chairs.

  “Please, gentlemen, do sit down. I am somewhat surprised to see you both, I admit. We still scheduled for a meeting tomorrow, Mr. Grant?”

  Grant sat, Sherman hesitating, still the stir of nervousness. Grant glanced at him, a quick motion of his finger, the silent order, Sit down.

  “Yes, sir. I took it upon ourselves to visit, as a social call, more than a formal meeting. General Sherman just arrived, and I thought you should be informed. No better way than to shake his hand.”

  “Excellent! And I shall do so once more.” Lincoln extended a long arm, Sherman’s hand engulfed by Lincoln’s long fingers. “I offer you every form of congratulations, Mr. Sherman. Will you be in attendance tomorrow, then?”

  “If you wish it, sir.”

  “Most certainly! As I said, you are the toast of all of Washington. It would not do for me to keep you to myself. I say, I am most anxious to hear of your expedition. I have read much in the newspapers, of course, but one cannot always believe the written word. You should see some of the things they say about me. Apparently, my grandfather is a baboon. I don’t recall seeing that in him, but then, who am I to argue with the press?”

  The pleasantries continued, Sherman smiling more than not, Lincoln receptive to every story, every adventure, whether any general would consider the routine travails of the army an adventure at all. But the doubts Sherman might have had about Lincoln’s perception, or even his intellect, were quickly wiped away.

  They sat for a long hour, most of the conversation leaning toward the social rather than the military. Sherman understood Grant’s thinking, that the meeting scheduled for the following day would focus much more on the strategic, far more serious than a social greeting, which Sherman now understood seemed more suited for the protocol of Washington than anything significant to the army.

  With the meeting concluded, Sherman walked with Grant to Grant’s cabin, Sherman afflicted with one more bout of nervousness that he couldn’t avoid. At Grant’s insistence, Sherman was obliged to sit down for tea, at the behest of Grant’s wife, Julia.

  —

  “So, tell me, Ulys, how was Mrs. Lincoln?”

  Sherman blinked, looked at Grant, who was looking back at him. Grant said, “Um, we didn’t ask for her.”

  Sherman saw Grant’s scowl, and now a more intense frown coming from Julia. Sherman said, “Actually, I didn’t know to ask. I had no idea she was even on board.”

  Julia put both hands on the table, tapped her fingers. “Well, you two are a pretty pair! In social circles, that is called a faux pas. You have committed an unpardonable offense.”

  Sherman thought, Not the first time, at least for me.

  Grant said, “We shall call on him…them tomorrow morning. It is already scheduled. I promise you, my dear, we shall make amends.”

  Julia sat back, crossed her arms, a slow shake of her head. “Generals.”

  ON BOARD THE RIVER QUEEN—MARCH 28, 1865

  They were joined by David Dixon Porter, Sherman embracing Porter as heartily as he had the last time they met, along the Mississippi River at Vicksburg, some twenty months prior. Once again Lincoln met them with a hearty handshake, a boisterous show of enthusiasm, the four men now crowding into Lincoln’s cabin around a small desk. With the social niceties past, Sherman expected Grant to launch directly into the business of the army, Sherman’s anxieties returning, that one purpose of the gathering was to convince Lincoln that Sherman still knew what he was doing. Grant had other priorities.

  “Sir, might I inquire as to Mrs. Lincoln?”

  Lincoln’s expression seemed to droop just slightly, the smile returning. “I shall go for her myself! Gentlemen, excuse me. Just a bit.”

  Lincoln seemed to flash out of the cabin, and Sherman looked at Grant, saw a shrug, Porter offering in a whisper, “She’s ill often. Don’t see her much.”

  They sat in silence, the tumble of Lincoln’s steps coming toward them, the tall man bursting through the door. He sat, seemed out of breath, said, “I’m afraid she is not well today. Please excuse her absence. But she extends the most hearty of greetings to you all. Most hearty.”

  There was an awkward silence, Lincoln seeming to force a smile, and Sherman waited for Grant, who said, “Perhaps we should address the business at hand.”

  Lincoln seemed to brighten. “Yes! Please proceed, Mr. Grant. Leave nothing out.”

  Grant began to speak, slowly, his usual precision, carefully chosen words, a map unrolled on the small table for guidance. Sherman already knew most of Grant’s plans, the letters coming to Sherman’s command filled with much of the same kind of detail he was hearing now.

  Sherman was unaware that Phil Sheridan had already departed Grant’s camps, a powerful cavalry thrust designed to cut off the Southside and the Richmond & Danville railroads, the last remaining supply lines for Lee’s army. Lincoln seemed to know of that already, and Sherman realiz
ed Grant was offering a formality, an introduction for Sherman to follow up with whatever plans he intended to put into motion.

  Lincoln’s stare was intensely probing, the smile not hiding Lincoln’s attention to every point either man was willing to make.

  Sherman spoke slowly, careful choice of words. “Sir, I am confident that should General Lee separate himself from General Grant’s army, and join forces with what Johnston has in North Carolina, the force I now have in Goldsboro is adequate to defeat them both, combined. If Lee maintains his position at Petersburg for another fortnight, I can march my forces northward, which would prevent Lee from going anywhere at all. Simply put, sir, his army would starve, or surrender.”

  Lincoln rested his chin in his hands, kept his eyes on Sherman. “Would he not fight?”

  Sherman looked at Grant, who nodded toward him. It was clearly Sherman’s show. “He could. With Grant’s army and mine in combination, I would offer, sir, that it would not be a fair fight.”

  “Do you believe you must continue the fight? Forgive me. General Grant knows I do not interfere in your tactics. But this nation is wrung out from the killing of so many of our young men. Do you see hope that this could end without another great battle?”

  Sherman looked down for a brief moment, shook his head. “The rebel has shown a regrettable stubbornness. And, they are in the service of Jefferson Davis, who from all I have read, continues to believe the fantasy that his army could whip us, the French, and possibly the Bulghars, all in one swipe. I do not anticipate Davis allowing General Lee to simply quit fighting, just to spare any more young men. If that be the case, I rather prefer the task fall upon me.”

  “Good heavens, why?”

  Sherman saw a hint of concern on Grant’s face, thought, Be careful. “Sir, my army is currently in camp around Goldsboro, is being rejuvenated by a considerable flow of supplies. They are anxious to end this, as I am. They are rested and eager. I can think of no better situation for a commanding general to find himself in.”

  “I am concerned, Mr. Sherman. You are here. Your army is there. Is there not some risk to that?”

  “I left the army under the command of General Schofield. He is most capable. If it will ease your concerns, sir, I had thought I would begin my return this afternoon.”

  Porter spoke up now. “Yes, General, I am happy to provide you with the steamer Bat, which is a bit more seaworthy than the Russia. It should cut some time off your trip.”

  Lincoln seemed pleased with that answer, rubbed a hand on his chin. “You inspire confidence, gentlemen. Absolute confidence.”

  Sherman felt a question brewing, a thought he had turned over many times before. “Sir, if I may inquire, are you prepared for the end of the war?”

  Lincoln seemed to ponder the question, said, “Exactly what do you mean?”

  “What shall we do with those men who now call themselves the rebel armies? What should be done with the leaders of the rebellion? The political leaders, I mean. Should we allow them to escape? I’m thinking of course of Mr. Davis.”

  Lincoln smiled again. “No one on this earth is more prepared for the end of this war than I am, Mr. Sherman. I am most hopeful that with the arrival of peace, the rebel soldiers may return to their homes, their farms, their shops, they may begin work again, strengthening their place as a prosperous and patriotic part of this nation. As for Mr. Davis, I must be cautious what I say. If Mr. Davis was to make his way beyond our borders, I would find it difficult to be saddened by his escape. But that is not a matter I can speak on freely. The courts must decide, I suppose. This recalls an incident of a fellow making a visit to a friend. He was invited to take a drink, but declined, having taken the pledge. His host suggested lemonade, and the fellow heartily agreed. In preparing the lemonade, his friend suggested that it would be more palatable if poured with a bit of brandy. The fellow remarked that if he could do so, unbeknown to him, that would be acceptable. Interpret that as you will, gentlemen. Much of what has taken place in this war is likely unbeknown to me. The journeys of Mr. Davis might be among those incidents.” Lincoln seemed to ponder again, looked at Grant, then Sherman. “I have occupied far more of your time than is appropriate. You men have serious work to do, and this nation is watching every action. Mr. Sherman, I hope if the opportunity presents itself, that you communicate with the people of North Carolina, and their Governor Vance, that once the rebel armies lay down their arms, and once they resume their civil pursuits, they will at once be guaranteed all rights as citizens of a common country. I go so far as to promise that their state governments, as now constituted, shall be allowed to function as they have done so for the past four years. We must avoid anarchy, and we must avoid punishment. This war has been its own punishment, and I dearly wish it to end.”

  ON BOARD THE BAT—MARCH 28, 1865

  Sherman kept his gaze on the darkening skies, the sunset behind him. He kept Lincoln’s words in his mind, utterly surprised now by what he had seen and heard. Though the talk focused on tactics and strategies, planning and maneuver, Sherman left City Point with an odd sense of affection for Lincoln, something he never expected. He is a humorous man, he thought. I always heard about the incessant stories, the joking, the analogies. It is nothing more than his mind at work, always turning, like the gears of a clock. Did he truly remember me? Sherman ran a hand through his rough shag of red hair. Maybe not. But he convinced me he did. And, by God, no matter what anyone else in Washington may think, whatever schemes and conspiracies are hatched by those political scalawags, Lincoln will see this through, and he has faith that no matter our failings, he has the right men in position to end the war.

  He ran Lincoln’s parting words through his mind, a smile on Sherman’s face.

  “I should feel much better when you are back at Goldsboro.”

  Very well, sir. Just keep your eyes on the telegraph. The news for all of us should be most pleasing.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  HARDEE

  SMITHFIELD, NORTH CAROLINA—APRIL 5, 1865

  Sherman’s halt had provided the Confederate forces with an enormous break of their own, a hungry, exhausted army finally rested, with at least some food gathered from farms west of Raleigh, the rail lines that ran toward the mountains still intact. With the desperately needed supplies came additional troops, the men who had marched from Hood’s army in Alabama, some of those men from North Carolina, simply returning home. Whether they would fight or not, Hardee could not be certain. But Hardee was grateful for every man he could get.

  With the disjointed defeat and then the withdrawal from Bentonville, the army had been diminished yet again by a mass of desertions. Hunger and hopelessness pulled men out of the ranks daily, a reality for both Hardee and Johnston that they had to address. If there was to be another fight, another effort by Johnston to strike at any vulnerability they found with Sherman, the army had to be reorganized. Hardee took the lead with that, shifting some officers to new positions, eliminating some regiments altogether, units that consisted of only a few men, just as Hardee had seen around the campfires at Bentonville. The generals were not immune. Lafayette McLaws, who had never impressed Hardee with his initiative, was ordered to Georgia, an arrangement that satisfied both McLaws and Joe Johnston. From Hood’s army, Stephen Dill Lee, a capable and proven veteran, had marched along with the troops that had come back to North Carolina, and so, Johnston placed him in command of what would now be a corps, equal in status to Hardee. A third corps was formed, under another able commander, A. P. Stewart, who had served Hardee well, as far back as Shiloh, three years before. Still, with the additional strength, and the shuffling of commanders, Johnston and Hardee knew they could field barely thirty thousand effective soldiers.

  With so little activity from Sherman’s army around Goldsboro, Hardee had felt comfortable remaining at Hillsborough with his wife, Mary, for several days. A priority of course was the funeral of his son, a ceremony that rivaled the full military honors offered any fa
llen commander, a gesture authorized by Johnston. But once more, Hardee could not afford the luxury of grieving. After he had spent several days pacing about the home of his niece, his restlessness had overpowered his sentiment. It was time to return to his men.

  —

  “The Yankee prisoners have been most helpful with their information. Sherman is sitting still. For how long, we cannot of course be certain.”

  Johnston faced the commanders from one end of the room, his hands clasped behind his back. Stephen Lee spoke now, and Hardee detected an angry edge to his words.

  “General, is it not appropriate for us to make a move toward Sherman’s camps? If his army is recuperating, if they are awaiting resupply, his men will be looking more eagerly to their supply trains than to their defenses.”

  Hardee sat back, looked carefully at Lee. He detected a hint of hostility toward Johnston, wondered if there was animosity in the man, still lurking from the surrender at Vicksburg. Stephen Lee had been one of John C. Pemberton’s senior commanders, forced to lay down their arms to a victorious Ulysses Grant. Every officer who endured that defeat knew that while Pemberton’s army was growing more desperate, Joe Johnston had been nearby with a sizable force, yet made no effort to assist Pemberton’s starving troops, a move that could possibly have broken Grant’s siege. At thirty-two, Lee was the youngest lieutenant general in the army, and Hardee couldn’t avoid the nagging regret that had he come to the fore earlier in the war, Lee might have been one of those bright stars, a man as capable as Patrick Cleburne or Stonewall Jackson. At the very least he had survived the fights that others had not, Hardee never far from the burning question of how many battles might have gone differently had those men still been alive.

  If Johnston had any prickliness about Lee’s edginess, he didn’t show it. He spoke instead with a calm patience, an elder schooling a novice. “General, you are referring to the kind of strategy the army attempted one time before, which eventually resulted in our catastrophe at Shiloh. The enemy was not prepared to be assaulted there, and assault him we did. But the enemy’s power, his sheer numbers, stripped us of our momentum. Well, of course, I was not present.” He looked at Hardee now, seemed to hesitate. “General Hardee was there, and acquitted himself in fine fashion. But such confrontations, the tactics and advantages, are not always as clear as they may seem. We know Sherman and Schofield are together. Even with the element of surprise, we would find ourselves overwhelmed by sheer numbers.”