by Jeff Shaara
McCoy seemed concerned, said, “Yes, sir. Dayton will pass the word, as you instructed.” He paused. “Is there something else, sir?”
Sherman knew how well McCoy could read him, the young man sharing so much of the triumph and the sadness of Sherman’s entire command. He thought of lighting the cigar, no energy for it, clamped it into his mouth unlit. “I wanted to be there.”
“With General Grant?”
Sherman was surprised. “You know me more than I know myself, Major. That makes for a good staff officer. Yes, with Grant. I didn’t know until now how much I hoped we would join these men together, that we would trample this rebellion in one great blow. I know he shares that. I can feel it in his letters, I felt it at City Point. It will not happen now.”
“You said yourself, sir, we have heard nothing from General Johnston. There could still be a fight, a last desperate assault, one more defense.”
Sherman shook his head. “We shall march as we planned, we shall pursue Johnston, and if he chooses to fight, we shall massacre him. He knows that. Joe Johnston is many things, but he is not a fool. Lee surrendered his army because he had no remaining options. How many options does Johnston have? That’s an easy question. None.”
—
The following morning, April 12, the officials from Raleigh were allowed to make their return journey, Sherman offering a gesture of generosity he was under no obligation to extend. The men were allowed to keep their rail engine, the terrified engineer once more driving them through the raucous abuse from Kilpatrick and his cavalrymen. Following close behind them came Sherman himself, riding through a driving rainstorm. By eight that morning, he was within the limits of North Carolina’s capital.
Already the city had been officially surrendered, another cluster of well-suited officials, including Raleigh’s mayor, William Harrison. Sherman expected to see Governor Vance, knew that Lincoln’s intuition about Vance was certainly accurate, that North Carolina had a vocal minority who spoke out against secession. But Vance had panicked, anticipating that he would be arrested as an official of the Confederacy, and had vacated the city, escaping into the lines of Hampton’s cavalry.
As Sherman rode past the fine homes and shops of the state’s capital, he could see columns of smoke, broken glass from shattered store windows, his officers eager to explain that it was rebel cavalry who had looted the city, one last trampling of the citizenry at the hands of their own desperate men. Sherman paid that little mind, had no interest in Raleigh at all. Already Kilpatrick had the scent of Johnston’s trail, the rebels on a rapid march to the northwest, toward the town of Greensboro, where the railroad could still carry their army the short forty miles to Danville, Virginia. Once more Johnston’s weary soldiers were slopping through mud-covered roads, across swollen creeks, none of them with any real notion just what lay in their path.
Even as Sherman gathered his forces around Raleigh, in Greensboro a meeting was already in progress, most of the officials of the government of the Confederacy, bringing what they could carry from the treasury and archives of their capital. With the rain soaking through the dreariness of the afternoon, Jefferson Davis was given the dismal appraisal of the fortunes of his army, Joe Johnston offering the startling statistics that throughout what remained of the Confederacy, the combined Federal forces outnumbered any force that could be put in their path by a factor of nearly eighteen to one. Despite Davis’s fantastic dreams that the war could still be won, that he alone could summon a new army from the scattered territories of his command, Johnston’s entreaties to the other officials of his government finally persuaded Davis that one course, and only one, lay open.
Major General W. T. Sherman,
The results of the recent campaign in Virginia have changed the relative military condition of the belligerents. I am therefore induced to address you, in this form, the inquiry whether in order to stop the further effusion of blood and devastation of property, you are willing to make a temporary suspension of active operations, and to communicate to Lieutenant-General Grant, commanding the armies of the United States, the request that he will take like action in regard to other armies—the object being to permit civil authorities to enter into the needful arrangements to terminate the existing war.
JOSEPH E. JOHNSTON — GENERAL, COMMANDING
On April 14, Sherman responded:
I have this moment received your communication. I am fully empowered to arrange with you any terms for the suspension of further hostilities between the two armies commanded by you and those commanded by myself, and will be willing to confer with you to that end….
RALEIGH, NORTH CAROLINA—APRIL 17, 1865
He had sent McCoy northward to Kilpatrick’s headquarters at the town of Durham’s Station, to await Johnston’s response, where McCoy could then relay that by telegraph to Sherman at Raleigh. The response came quickly, as expected. Johnston had agreed to meet at a point that seemed roughly halfway between their two positions.
Sherman hadn’t slept at all, kept awake by the voices in his own head, as well as the unstoppable clamor from the army that surrounded his camp. By six he was up, cigar in hand, rifling through the breakfast the staff had laid out, a meager mixture of hard bread and teeth-wrenching meat. The staff had gathered already, the men keeping their distance again, so familiar with Sherman’s moods. Whatever was swirling through his mind required no assistance from them.
He had ordered a locomotive with a pair of passenger cars, could see them now, the staff completing that job the night before. His hands gripped a thick loaf of dark bread, ripping it in half, one half tossed back on the small camp table, the other now in one corner of his mouth. The cigar was still there, an unpleasant collision with the bread, and he focused for a brief moment, struggled to bring his mind back from so many other places. The cigar was tossed away, the bread now between his teeth, tasteless, the effort to chew it just one more way for him to kill time.
The camps were coming alive, the festivities of the night before not preventing the men from answering the call, many of them stoking their campfires, others drifting toward the mess wagons, where the coffee already waited. The celebrations seemed muted this early in the morning, hunger transplanting the joy of what was happening around them. Sherman was grateful for the relative quiet, walked past rows of tents, stacked muskets, more wagons, more men pulling on their suspenders, coats, answering the brisk chill of the early spring. They mostly ignored him, another relief, and he kept moving, closer to the railcars, saw the guards assigned there, a detail to prevent anyone from exercising his own show of destruction. There was no reason to burn this place, no reason to burn anything now, and Sherman had been specific with his order to the provosts.
To the east, the sun was already breaking above the horizon, a light smoky haze drifting through the camps, various smells finding him, almost none of that from the men themselves. It had been one of those luxuries sent from the seacoast, a supply of soap, the men ordered to bathe in whatever watery place was available. The commanders knew it had more to do with health than odor, that many of the men were carrying unwanted visitors, the usual plague that infested any army in the field. The cleanliness seemed to energize the men as well, some of them shaving their squirrel’s-nest beards for the first time since they left Savannah. Sherman paid little mind to that, kept his short beard trimmed when the thought struck him, often without a mirror. His hair was much the same, a mat of greasy red that he tended to when the mood was right. The uniform was a different story, a high collar worn by almost no one else, the kind of officer’s adornment that had gone out of style years before. He was surprised by someone’s observation of that, had paid little mind to style at all, considered the high collar an aid to keeping his back straight. It was part of his decorum, what he believed to be a commander’s place, to move through his men at any time, any occasion, carrying himself with the straight-backed air of a man in charge. That was negated often, of course, mostly by the naps he still took alongsi
de the roads, some men moving past, mistaking him for just another officer who had collapsed in a drunken heap. It was the price he paid, the urgency of finding sleep whenever and wherever it would come.
But there would be none of that now. He eyed the railcars, the guards aware of him, standing that much straighter, an officer moving out to meet him.
“Sir! A most pleasant spring morning, wouldn’t you say?”
“Haven’t noticed. What time is it?”
The man pulled out a pocket watch, made a show of snapping it open, then closed, said, as though announcing to some sort of official assemblage, “Seven forty, sir.”
“The train ready?”
“I believe so, sir. I have not yet spoken to the engineer.”
“Don’t. I’ll take care of it.”
Sherman moved past the man, returned the salute with an absent-minded wave of his hand. The piece of bread was nearly gone, and he tossed it back toward the officer, didn’t look to see if the man caught it or not. He felt the twist in his stomach, unavoidable, the intense nervousness he hid so well, said in a low voice, “Seventeen April.”
The locomotive was getting up steam, and he watched that, always marveled at the great steel beasts, the technology that had so changed the war. So many troops can move so quickly, he thought. And, everything else besides. How much track did we destroy? Well, we crippled them. They’ll make repairs, soon enough. We did what we had to.
He saw an officer stepping down from the nearest railcar, Dayton, the young major moving toward him.
“Ah, good morning, sir. She’s ready to move, on your order.” Dayton seemed to pulsate, arms moving, hands flexing, one foot then the other marching in place.
“You all right, Major?”
“Just excited, sir. Don’t mind admitting that, not one bit. This is enormous, sir. Hitchcock’s so nervous, he looks like he’s going to fly into pieces.” Dayton slapped his hands against his sides, as though warming himself. “Forgive me, sir. Just…this is a monumental day. I know we’re not to speculate. But I feel it, sir. Every place in the world will know what will happen today, what you will make happen. I am honored to be in your service, sir.”
Sherman looked past him, tried not to absorb the young man’s show of raw energy. “I believe I shall board the train. Gather up the others.”
“Right away, sir! Several of your invited guests are in the rear car already.”
There was too much volume to Dayton’s response, and Sherman said, “They’re not guests. They’re part of this army. Keep them back there. I’m not interested in chatting with anyone, and I don’t want the reporters anywhere near me.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Sherman stepped closer to the train, eyed the thick black smoke now billowing high above. He took a deep breath, a low curse to the bees’ nest swarming inside him, stepped closer to the front car, the guards there, stiff-backed, bayonets by their sides, the men looking at him, unable to hide their smiles. He moved past, stepped up, hesitated, pulled himself into the car, was surprised he was alone.
Choose your seat, he thought. Can’t be that long a trip. Couple hours, I suppose.
“Sir! General Sherman!”
He dreaded speaking to anyone, the voice unfamiliar. But the man was up into the car, a guard escorting him, keeping close. Sherman knew the man now, the telegraph operator who had passed on McCoy’s wire. The man seemed to quiver, and Sherman felt a twinge, the urgency too pronounced in the man’s face. He looked to the guard.
“It’s all right. Wait outside. My staff will be here shortly.”
The soldier backed away, was gone, and Sherman looked again to the telegraph operator.
“What?”
“Sir, I have received just now a dispatch, in cipher, passed through Morehead City. It is from the War Department, sir, and from the first few words, I believe it to be of utmost importance. But I must complete the translation. Please, sir. You must see this before you depart.”
There was nothing but sincerity in the man’s request, and Sherman could feel the man’s nervousness.
“I’ll hold the train. Go.”
The man ran quickly from the car, and Sherman stared for a long moment, a queasy turn in his stomach. He thought of Grant, some disaster, or some outrageous act by Lee’s army, men refusing the surrender. He scolded himself, thought, No, you don’t know any such thing. But anything from the War Department might be important these days.
He saw Hitchcock climbing into the train, the man smiling through his glasses, the eagerness of a man who understands history.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Sit in the rear of the car, Major. We’re waiting just a bit.”
Hitchcock moved past him, Sherman not responding to the man’s cheerfulness. Dayton was there again, a handful of aides, the men clamoring aboard, and Sherman saw Conyngham, down on the platform, the reporter eyeing Sherman with a glimmer of hopefulness. Sherman pointed toward the rear car, Conyngham seeming to understand his place in the entourage, other reporters following the man’s lead. Sherman said to Hitchcock, “Back there, in the rear, all of you. Keep away from me. We shall wait for a moment longer.”
Dayton stopped, looked at him, curious, seemed to read him, but Sherman turned away, stared out the windows to the side, men in motion all around the depot. The staff was seated now, no one speaking up, the kind of obedience Sherman appreciated. He kept his eyes on the crowd of soldiers, saw the telegraph operator emerging from the depot, moving that way, the man climbing up quickly into the car, a look on his face of raw misery.
“Sir. Here it is. You must read this.”
Sherman took the paper from the man’s shaking hand, saw the wire was from Stanton. He sagged, thought, Orders? Now? But he read the words, the handwriting ragged, and he forced himself through the message, felt the cold spreading down through his legs. He sat in the nearest seat, looked up at the operator, said in a low voice, with all the gravel he could muster, “Have you shown this to anyone? Spoken to anyone?”
“No, sir. I assure you, sir.”
Sherman lowered his voice further, leaned close to the man, who bent low. “Then you must not. No one must hear of this until I return. It is most important. Do you understand?” The man was clearly shaken, nodded nervously, and Sherman stood again, one hand gripping the seat in front of him. He leaned out over the man, stared hard into his eyes. “No one. Your silence will do a service to this army. I will return here later today.”
Sherman saw another short nod, the man obviously terrified.
“I assure you, sir.”
“Go, now. Return to your office. I shall keep this.”
The man backed away, was gone from the train, and Sherman watched him walking quickly into the depot, no one paying him any attention. Sherman read the message again, a sick turn in his stomach. He kept his eyes down, would not reveal this to the staff, to anyone, not yet. He sat, stared at the floor between his boots, a voice now, “Sir, the engineer is asking when you wish to depart.”
Sherman looked up, saw Major Nichols coming aboard, a pleasant smile, wiped away by the expression he saw from Sherman.
“We can leave now.”
“Certainly, sir. I shall inform him. Is there anything…”
“No. Let’s go.”
In a short minute, the train lurched ahead, the staff behind him silent, expectant, no one daring to approach him. I must tell them, he thought. But no. Not yet. We have so much to do. There can be no distraction.
He held the translated message in his hand still, looked down, felt the emotion of it, thought, One more tragedy, one more part of this war that will inflict so much damage to so many. And I must tell them. Everyone in this command.
On the evening of April 14, while attending a performance at Ford’s Theater in Washington City, President Abraham Lincoln was murdered by an assassin who shot him through the head with a pistol ball. An attempt was made also on the life of Secretary Seward and his son. It is possible
that General and Mrs. Grant are under threat as well. The vice-president has been given the oath of office as the new chief executive. I find evidence that there is an assassin on your track as well. I beseech you to be more heedful than Mr. Lincoln of such warnings….
EDWIN M. STANTON, SECRETARY OF WAR
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
SHERMAN
NEAR DURHAM’S STATION—APRIL 17, 1865
Kilpatrick had met him with the usual pomp that seemed to surround the cavalryman everywhere he went. His headquarters house was draped in flags, what Sherman saw as Kilpatrick’s own particular show of celebration, far more elaborate than Sherman would have preferred. But he couldn’t argue the purpose, that every man in Kilpatrick’s camp was aware why Sherman was there.
The greetings were brief, Sherman in no mood for joviality. Kilpatrick obeyed without complaint, had already placed a line of cavalry in a neat formation, a salute for the commanding general. But now the more necessary parade was ordered into the road, led far to the front by an officer holding a white flag. Behind the flag bearer came a platoon of Kilpatrick’s men, as much a security escort as any kind of formal parade. Sherman followed, and behind him, his staff, and most of the others who had accompanied his party on the train. Sherman ignored them, no one pushing to speak to him, even the newspapermen seemingly aware this was not the time.
He kept his back straight, his usual custom, glanced at his uniform, the grime of the campaign evident in the worn cloth, the uneven colors, the frayed cuff on one arm. He still wore only the one spur, had never considered the need for two, but as the party pushed on, the doubts began. Damn it all, he thought. Does this call for some kind of formal dress parade? Isn’t it enough that Kilpatrick fills the damned countryside with his horsemen? Surely they know that if any poor dumb rebel takes a shot at me, we’ll bring down the fires of hell on these people.