The Fateful Lightning (21 page)

Sherman felt the words flowing out of the man like a river of soft manure. “Drive on Augusta? Intending to do what? Attack the city? Enough of this, Lieutenant. I’m wondering if I should ride up there myself to deliver my orders to his face.”

There were more horses moving closer now and he saw a cluster of
men, a flag hidden by the darkness. They were led by one of his own guards, who pointed to the house. Sherman watched an officer dismount, recognized him, stepped that way.

“I’m right here, Captain.”

The man seemed relieved to see Sherman, snapped a salute of his own, but there was no joy in the man’s expression. “Sir, General Baird sends his respects and wishes to report that his brigade was successful in rescuing General Kilpatrick’s men from a serious predicament. General Baird reports that General Kilpatrick is safe now, though it was a nasty situation. With your permission, sir, the general insists I offer you his dismay that the cavalry did not entirely complete their assigned mission. The enemy’s horsemen were in considerable force, and without the support of General Baird’s infantry, we might have lost him.”

“Lost Kilpatrick?”

“Yes, sir. I was there myself, sir, when General Kilpatrick made it to our lines. The rebels were hot on his trail, as it were. Our muskets drove them off. General Baird is most distressed, sir, as he was informed by General Davis of your orders regarding the protection of our flank toward Augusta. We were assigned to support General Kilpatrick should the need arise. General Baird orders me to report, sir, that the need did…arise.”

Sherman chewed hard on the cigar, shredding it, spit it out in a wad, turned toward the lieutenant, who seemed to hide behind Hitchcock. “So. You have anything to say on behalf of your commander?”

The young man emerged, kept back far enough that Sherman couldn’t actually see his face. “I was not informed by General Kilpatrick as to any other report, sir. I was ordered to communicate…what I said.”

The captain stepped forward, as though anticipating some sort of challenge, said, “Who’s this fellow, sir?”

Sherman saw it clearly now, had too much respect for Absalom Baird to believe there was any exaggeration in his staff officer’s report. “Captain, this fellow has been sent here by General Kilpatrick. His version of events differs from yours.”

The captain took a step closer to the lieutenant, who seemed to
quake slightly, and the captain said, “General Sherman, I was present when Kilpatrick’s courier reached our lines requesting immediate aid. We were told that Wheeler’s cavalry had surrounded General Kilpatrick with a superior force, and that our presence was urgently required. We were told that General Kilpatrick’s men had exhausted their ammunition, their horses were broken down, and that if we did not respond with haste, all would be lost. General Baird did respond, and from all we could determine, Wheeler’s cavalry was driven away. I saw it, sir. I was there.”

“Where is Kilpatrick now?”

The question was aimed at the young lieutenant, who seemed to slump.

“At his new headquarters, sir. I don’t have a map. Close to Waynesboro. To the south of it, I believe.”

The captain stepped closer to the young man, his voice rising. “Is he still accompanied by his Negro concubine?”

Sherman held up a hand. “No more, Captain. I will get full reports from both generals tomorrow. I want a precise report, Lieutenant, as precise as I can expect from General Baird. Am I clear?”

“Certainly, sir. Should I return to General Kilpatrick tonight, and pass along your request?”

Sherman felt something snap inside of him, a rising heat, worked to control the words. “It is not a ‘request,’ boy.”

The lieutenant saluted again, backed quickly toward his horse, was up and away. Sherman watched him until he faded into the darkness, turned now to the captain.

“You, too. General Baird will make his report to General Davis, and both of them will report to me. If it is not too much of a bother, I wish to know just what happened.” Sherman paused. “He has a Negro concubine?”

The captain looked down, took a long breath. “Sir, when the infantry arrived, the rebels had been attacking General Kilpatrick’s forces for several hours, well before dawn. There was considerable confusion, and General Kilpatrick became separated from his men. I personally escorted a considerable number of his troopers through our lines to safety. I was told…with some certainty, sir, that General Kilpatrick had been asleep in his headquarters when the rebels attacked.
There was considerable, um, talk, sir, about the general’s Negro female. The civilians of the house where he made his bed were most outraged. That’s all I should offer, sir.”

“That’s plenty, Captain. Return to your camp, advise General Baird of my orders for a full report.”

The captain saluted, returned to the other riders, four men, one color bearer. Sherman thought, He wanted to make sure I knew the man was authorized to be here, not some lone wolf rider coming in here spouting off rumors. That’s Baird. He knows when he’s treading quicksand.

Behind him, Hitchcock eased closer, said, “What do you make of this, sir?”

“I make of it what it is, Major. What we have in this campaign is all we’re going to have. I must put these people to the best use I can, including Kilpatrick. Apparently, this morning, that was not done.” He paused, pulled out another cigar. “Go to bed, Major.”

“Sir.”

Hitchcock moved toward the house, and Sherman stared out down the road, could still hear the hoofbeats from Baird’s staff. He thought of Kilpatrick, had heard hints and suspicion that the man tended to twist his reports slightly toward his favor. Well, it seems he might be more proficient at that than I thought. Tomorrow I’ll send him orders again, tell him that I assume he didn’t understand things the first time. Save face for him, prevent any huge smelly mess from erupting where I don’t need one. He’s the damned eyes, and I’ve no one else to depend on. All I wanted him to do was burn a bridge.

NORTH OF WAYNESBORO, GEORGIA—NOVEMBER 30, 1864

T
he fight had been magnificent, the kind of roaring surprise that cavalrymen lusted for. They had hit Kilpatrick’s men just after midnight, striking hard through the darkness into stunned horsemen who made what fight they could from their makeshift camps. Even after Kilpatrick’s men had been alerted, the attacks continued, Wheeler’s men rolling in throughout the early dawn to drive the bluecoats back in utter panic.

Seeley had no idea just how successful they had been, the confusion too great on both sides. But when the Federal infantry appeared, the cavalry knew their good fortune had passed, that no matter how badly they had whipped Kilpatrick, they could not hope to ride hard through waves of Yankee infantry, and the heavy guns that supported them.

At least part of the spoils of the fight was plainly evident now. Seeley rode at the head of a column of nearly two hundred Yankee prisoners, surly men who carried their hatred for the Confederates in every glance, every word they spoke. They marched first through the town, the citizens reacting as Seeley knew they would, answering any Yankee’s show of disgust and shame with a viciousness that made
Seeley uneasy. Already there had been reports coming into Wheeler’s camps that some of his men had levied their own kind of justice on the Yankees they had scooped up, one band of Sherman’s bummers unceremoniously dumped along a roadside, throats slit, where Sherman’s scouts were certain to find them. Wheeler had stopped short of accusing anyone in his command of such an atrocity, but Seeley couldn’t help asking himself if Wheeler could have authorized that, the general’s animosity toward Kilpatrick seemingly a force stronger than any passion Wheeler had shown merely for fighting bluecoats.

There had been orders passed along to Seeley and the other commanders, that even with so much abuse of the citizenry from Sherman’s scroungers, no quarter should be shown to any prisoner captured while raiding any civilian homestead. That troubled him even more than Wheeler’s devout hatred of Kilpatrick. For days now, Seeley had been forced to participate in the same kinds of raids, the Confederate horsemen desperate for food and fresh mounts, so much so that horses had been taken from civilian plantations at gunpoint. The original orders given Wheeler by Beauregard had been specific: that all manner of supplies and forage be destroyed before Sherman’s men could take those supplies for themselves. But the civilians had no greater inclination to hand over their animals and empty their pantries for Wheeler’s men than they did for the oncoming Yankees. If the Confederate horsemen were to eat, and keep their horses in condition for the necessary journey, the cavalry had no alternative but to take what they needed. If money was to be exchanged, so be it. But currency seemed to carry far less value these days than it had during the fights in Tennessee, and even then, it wasn’t the purchase price that made the civilians uncooperative. More and more, they simply wanted to be out of this war. Certainly the people hated Sherman, hated any man in blue who arrived on their doorsteps to pillage whatever he chose. But Seeley had experienced the same kind of hostility toward his own men, which even now was a mystery.

His entire company was serving as guards, lining one side of the road, easing their horses alongside the walking prisoners. Many more brought up the rear, men half asleep in the saddle, some of those tossing rude insults forward to the men they guarded. It was
more force than required, but the orders had come from Wheeler that the Yankees should see that the Confederate cavalry had plenty of men to spare for such a duty. Whether any of the prisoners would ever escape to make such a report, Seeley had no idea. He had no intention of letting any of these men slip away. But Wheeler seemed to believe that Kilpatrick might attempt some kind of rescue, that Kilpatrick’s pride was so fragile that he would go to any lengths, no matter how foolhardy, to bring home his men. It was one more part of the chess match between the two men, though Seeley had begun to wonder if before this was over, the two generals would stand up to each other in some field, surrounded by their two commands, whether a duel with pistols or a battle with fists, as their men cheered them on like some sort of schoolyard brawl.

The victory the morning before had been a stroke of grand tactics, but the celebrations were muted by the clear understanding that the Federal forces had done exactly what was necessary to pull Kilpatrick’s bacon out of the fire. If the cavalry had been swept off the field, the infantry most certainly had not. The fight that came so close to bagging Kilpatrick had simply settled into another one-sided skirmish, with the Confederates forced to pull away from overwhelming odds.

He led the prisoners through a crossroads, saw a small gathering of civilians, a half-dozen women, two old men, their gaze mostly on the men in blue, one woman calling out, “Ye’ll burn in hell, ye will!”

No one responded, and Seeley focused more on the old men, saw plain civilian clothes, homespun coats, meager protection against the day’s chilly winds. Beside him, Sergeant Gladstone spit a stream of tobacco juice between their horses, said in a low voice, “You’d think they’d be a-cheerin’ us just a bit, now, wouldn’t ya?”

Seeley kept his eyes on the civilians, heard nothing that anyone would describe as a cheer. He raised his hat to the women, saw no response beyond a hard glare from a girl, no more than fifteen. The girl called out now, “Why you spoil our country so? Why not just leave here?”

The girl’s mother snatched at her, silencing the child, a whispered word to the girl that Seeley assumed was caution. He wanted to offer
them something, couldn’t just leave her words unanswered, called out, “We’re General Wheeler’s men. Whipped these boys yesterday. They’re our prisoners. There’s more to be had. Put your faith in this army.”

The words had no energy behind them, and the civilians looked at him with no change in their expressions. The girl shouted toward him now, “Shoot ’em all! Hang ’em! Where you going anyway?”

One of the old men spoke out now, his words weak, barely audible. “Go back where you come from. Don’t need none of you hereabouts.”

Seeley didn’t respond, their hostility digging at him, and Gladstone said quietly, “Told ya. They’s hatin’ us more’n the Yankees. Damn strange of ’em. Weren’t like that in Tennessee. The people knew General Forrest, loved him for all he did.”

Seeley tried to recall that, happy civilians, but it was rarely like that, no matter what memories Gladstone held. “Nobody’s loving this war. They’re as sick of this as the rest of us. This whole place just wants to be done with it all. Put down the muskets and bring their men home. Can’t say I blame them.”

“You goin’ soft on me now, Captain?”

Seeley didn’t answer, turned in the saddle, looked back at the column behind him. He ached to be done with this duty, to dispose of the prisoners at the temporary depot that had been prepared closer to Augusta. The railroad tracks farther south had mostly been destroyed, the work done by the Yankees before Wheeler had found Kilpatrick’s camp. That was common now, the cavalry who trailed Sherman’s columns accustomed to riding past wreckage of wood and iron that seemed to stretch for miles.

He saw a gathering of horsemen ahead, another intersection, a squad now riding toward him. He felt relief, allowed himself to feel tired, sagged in the saddle, the men approaching with too much enthusiasm, theatrics that seemed designed to scare the prisoners. Ridiculous, he thought. They know how bad it’s gonna be for ’em. Don’t need us to make a show out of it.

An older officer reined up, held up his hand, halting the others. “Captain Seeley, I’m Captain Riles. You’re to leave these men here. The stockade is down that road to the east. General Wheeler is up
ahead, another mile or so. He orders you to join him with your company. There’s likely a good fight coming. The Yankees are aiming toward Augusta, sure as hell. We’ll finally get our chance to gather up a bigger lot than this bunch.”

The words carried more volume than necessary, another part of the show. Seeley knew the man, Alabama, a veteran who carried a deep scar on his neck from a nasty wound at Shiloh.

“They’re all yours. Thank you, Captain.”

The man seemed to recoil at Seeley’s politeness, a self-conscious glance toward the prisoners. “I’ve been ordered to execute anyone who doesn’t keep in line.”

The man’s words were louder still, and Seeley had no patience for the dramatics, turned, waved to the men spread back along the column.

“Assemble up ahead. Let’s ride.”

The men seemed as relieved as he was to be shed of their walking cargo, Captain Riles’s men moving out to replace them, sabers drawn, a show of menace toward men who had no fight left to give. Seeley waited for his troopers to fall into line, looked again at Riles, saw a smirk directed toward the prisoners, thought, Would he do it? Would he shoot these men down…just because he can?

He wanted to say something to Riles, but the man was already moving away, walking his horse along the column of blue-coated men, more curses and taunts that Seeley tried not to hear. He waved his own men forward now, a color bearer moving up behind him, the column pushing their mounts up the dusty road.

W
heeler was in a worse mood than any Seeley could recall, sat on his horse in the middle of the road with a handful of officers gathered close. Seeley motioned his column to keep back, rode ahead alone. Wheeler waited for him to move up, said, “Your duty completed, young captain?”

“Yes, sir. The prisoners have been delivered to Captain Riles.”

“Anyone escape along the way?”

Seeley felt the sarcasm in Wheeler’s question, heard a low laugh
from some of the others. “None, sir. They’re not happy to be in our hands, but they appreciated the fix they were in. I kept a tight rein on ’em.”

Wheeler seemed completely uninterested in the report, said, “Well, young captain, I’ll tell you what I told these men. Seems we have been given the gift of another commanding general who lives in a world of dreams.”

No one spoke, and Seeley knew there would be more. He pushed against the aching weariness in his back, the long, slow ride that seemed to weigh him down in the saddle. But he pushed upward, tried to show enthusiasm for whatever Wheeler needed him to hear. Wheeler stared out across a wide field, and Seeley reached down for his canteen, took the last swallow, Wheeler ignoring him. All across the open ground, horsemen were tending to their mounts, to campfires and anything they had to eat. Seeley looked back to his own men, motioned to Gladstone to lead them there as well. No need to keep them in the road. Nobody else seems much concerned that we’re having a fight today. He turned, was surprised to see Wheeler looking at him.

“So, young captain, you much of an acolyte of General Bragg? Your General Forrest didn’t have much good to say about him. I had hoped they’d fight a duel, maybe shoot each other dead, save this army all manner of complications. Perhaps another day.” Wheeler pulled a paper from his pocket, pointed it toward an officer standing off to one side of the road. “That fellow there brought this. Says General Bragg offers me his ‘respects,’ and this young fellow is ‘pleased’ to offer us General Bragg’s orders. Allow me to read this again, gentlemen, for the young captain’s benefit.

“The general commanding wishes you to impede General Sherman’s progress by covering the enemy’s front, retarding, whenever practicable, his lines of march.”

There was nothing new to the order, the words similar to what they had been told to do by General Beauregard. Wheeler did not wait for a reaction, said, “General Bragg is offering us plain evidence
that he has no real idea just how many roads Sherman’s troops are using, nor does he seem to have any idea just how wide his ‘front’ might be. According to that fine young adjutant, General Bragg is commanding an enormous number of reinforcements at Augusta and his command extends to Savannah, where General Hardee is well supplied for troops as well. It seems not to matter to General Bragg that his vast army is sitting still, while his orders call for us, and
just us
, to retard Sherman’s advance on either place. Or, perhaps, both at once. I’m not certain what General Bragg intends to do with those troops if we are successful. Perhaps there will be a parade in our honor. I will send that fine fellow back to Augusta with my request that General Bragg consider marching all those troops out into the field, offering us some assistance. Perhaps General Bragg could lead them himself, a gallant charge into four corps of bluebellies. That should provide General Sherman at least with some entertainment.”