The Fateful Lightning (35 page)

“
T
here were torpedoes, sir. Pretty thick, all along the base of the wall, just outside the ditch. We lost a few men there. Captain Groce was killed, sir. Musket fire.”

Hazen saw the gloom in the colonel’s eyes, put a hand on his shoulder. “I know about that. I want casualty counts by tomorrow. Plenty to do right here.”

He looked toward the prisoners, saw an officer, the bandaged head, the man seated on a wooden crate. Hazen stepped that way, stood
close to the man, said, “Major Anderson, my apologies for your rough treatment.”

Anderson looked up at him, said, “It’s war, General. But your men should respect a sword when it’s offered. Fellow clubbed me with his musket.”

“Heat of battle, Major. Not everyone is a gentleman.” Hazen looked across the cluster of rebels, some bloodied. “Two hundred men, it appears. My report was accurate.”

“You have excellent scouting, sir. We were never strong here. It was a mistake, to be sure. My men gave it their best, I assure you. Captain Clinch is among the dead. He fought a most gallant fight. These men were not prepared to
give
you anything.”

Hazen had seen for himself that the surge over the earthworks had not stopped the fighting. Even now bodies were being pulled from various nooks in the fort, some of the rebels making a stand anywhere there was cover. He walked away from the prisoners, climbed up beside one of the seaward guns, an enormous forty-two-pounder. He glanced around, had confirmed for himself what his men were saying, thought, Twenty-four guns. A good day’s haul. He stood tall, stared out through a darkening sky, tried to see the place where Sherman would be, where they all would have seen the fight. He wouldn’t expect grand compliments, didn’t really know if Sherman went for the boisterous salutes, a toast with spirits. There are dead men out in that grass still, he thought, as there are right in here. Anderson is right. I prefer to salute them.

The sun was nearly gone, the air now filled with a rising chorus of creatures from the wetlands around them, frogs and birds, and other things Hazen had never seen. I will not miss this place, he thought. He recalled Sherman’s words, the great weight of responsibility Sherman had placed on his back. I’m not sure if the entire campaign will ever depend on what these men did here, he thought. But if capturing Savannah required us first to take this place, well, General Sherman, it’s yours.

CHEVES’ RICE MILL, THREE MILES FROM FORT MCALLISTER—DECEMBER 13, 1864

H
e saw the Stars and Stripes go up the flagpole at five, kept his gaze on the flag for a long minute.

“By God, Howard, they’ve done it! The whole assault lasted no more than thirty minutes!”

Howard was next to him, his single hand holding field glasses of his own. “Fifteen minutes, sir.”

Sherman heard the boastfulness of the words, knew that Howard had been right to send Hazen, and not push for Kilpatrick’s cavalry to make the attack. He glanced around, two signalmen behind him, the only other men on the roof of the mill.

“Hardtack tonight, gentlemen! Hardtack tonight!”

The signalmen seemed confused by Sherman’s outburst, but he ignored their reaction, looked again at the flag, felt like a tub overflowing with perfect joy. He dropped the glasses, walked to the edge of the roof, saw his staff gathered below, expectant, broad smiles. Sherman thrust one hand out toward the fort, shouted, “He’s done it! By God, it’s ours!”

“Sir, what of the gunboat?”

Sherman had forgotten it completely, wiped away by the manic
excitement of Hazen’s success. He looked out down the river, saw the boat that had been there for most of the afternoon. The signal had come to him before the attack, a simple question whether or not McAllister was yet in Federal hands. Sherman was fairly certain the captain of the vessel did not expect a response directly from Sherman himself, a simple “No. Attack under way.”

“They saw the fight. Have to know we’ve got it. Doubt Hazen even knew they were there. River snakes around too much. But he’ll know shortly. I want to get over there quick as we can. There’s an oar boat down there in the grass. Will it do?”

Behind him, one of the signalmen said, “I believe so, sir. We took a look at it earlier. Seems sound.”

“Then we’ll make use of it, and right now, before it gets any darker.” He reveled in the excitement, most of it coming from him, knew Howard and the others were taking that in. Yes, he thought.
Victory
. There is nothing better. He slapped his hands together, then wrapped his arms tight against the chill of the evening breeze. He looked at Howard again, couldn’t avoid the bursting energy, the most excitement he had felt since he had marched into Atlanta.

“This is a grand thing. A grand thing! Savannah’s ours!”

“Yes, sir. Much to do, still.”

Howard seemed cautious, a damp rag tossed across Sherman’s enthusiasm. But Sherman had no interest in caution now. There was time later for careful planning. He rolled those thoughts over in his mind, what his priorities were, what had to be done first, said aloud, “The navy must be notified. They must know just what we’ve accomplished here, where my command is, what kind of condition this army is in.” The words began forming in his brain now, all the dispatches still to be sent, all those messages that would go north. He called out again, more of the childlike enthusiasm. “I want to get over there, see the place, see just what we grabbed. Going with me, Howard?”

Howard seemed to ponder the question, a quick glance at the signalman, who said, “I believe the boat will hold at least four or five passengers, sir.”

Howard absorbed that, said, “Well, then, sir, I wouldn’t miss it.”

Sherman ignored Howard’s hesitation, paced the rooftop, still
manic, frustrated that the ground was too far below, that making the jump from the roof was likely a bad idea. “I’m going down, Howard. Order some oarsmen to make ready. The moon’s up already. It ought to be a glorious night. More glorious now.”

He made his way off the roof, climbed down through the inside of the mill, his staff still waiting, men asking each other just who those passengers were going to be. Sherman burst into the open yard of the mill, one of the signalmen with him, the man trotting out to the edge of the water, working with the boat. Sherman moved that way, thought of the gunboat. I should get to that thing, find a way to communicate with whoever’s out there. The navy has to be going mad with questions, watching that assault. They’re not just going to sit out there and hang fishing poles.

His staff was gathering close now, following him to the river, one man with a lantern. Sherman stopped close to the boat, said, “I’m going across this damned river, give Hazen a handshake he won’t forget. Major Nichols, you will accompany me. Howard, you require company?”

Howard motioned to his own chief of staff. “Colonel Strong, you should join us.”

Sherman was moving about, aching impatience, watching the men chosen to man the oars. “I expect speed, gentlemen. Darker by the minute.”

He had a sudden thought, the rest of his army, the men spread out along the causeways and swampy thickets all to the north. Those men had been engaged in steady skirmishing most of the day, pushing close against whatever rebels were manning their defenses. He looked for Hitchcock, the man with the good handwriting, no sign of him. “Where the hell’s Hitchcock?”

Dayton responded, “Sir, he chose not to make the journey here. Said he had some work to catch up on.”

Sherman shook his head, thought, What kind of a soldier chooses to miss watching a battle? Especially a good one.

“That is his misfortune, Major. I want a dispatch sent immediately to General Slocum. Tell him we have been successful here, and that the navy is now free to assist our efforts. As well, the way is open for rations, other supplies as we might need them.” He paused. “Tell him
that this day calls for a good big drink, that once he imbibes, he should take a good deep breath and yell like the devil.”

Howard appeared now, moved past Sherman, examined the boat. “Not much of a craft, sir. They call it a skiff, I believe.”

“I don’t care if it’s a hollowed-out tree stump. You going with me or not?”

Howard smiled, a rarity. “I wouldn’t miss this, sir.”

H
e arrived at the fort well after dark, had been gratified to find Hazen in his new headquarters, the McAllister House, sitting down to supper, a meager feast of Confederate stores, which suited Sherman just fine. With the tension of the planned assault, he had barely eaten all day. Sherman had been pleased to see that Hazen’s dinner included one chair for the captured fort’s commander, Major George Anderson, an appropriate gesture for a man who, from what Sherman could see, had been left out to dry by his superiors in Savannah, men who should have grasped the value of the place. But that was a topic for another time. With the meal concluded, Sherman had found a soft place in one of the bedrooms, had bedded down in a state of near collapse, the pleasing end to what had been a magnificent day.

“
S
ir! Are you awake?”

“Who?”

“Major Nichols, sir. Sorry to disturb you, but there’s a dispatch from downriver.”

Sherman blew the fog from his brain, blinked into the lantern light, saw the paper in Nichols’s hand. “What the hell’s it say?”

“It’s from General Foster, sir. He’s requesting in the most urgent terms that you board the gunboat
Dandelion
. He wishes to see you with all speed. He says he is commander of the Department of the South. I’m not familiar with that command, sir.”

“I am. Foster’s one of those who enjoys bellowing just to hear the echo. But he commands whatever troops are garrisoned along the coast. He wants to see me right now?”

“He doesn’t specify, sir, though he seems rather insistent.”

Sherman sat upright, reached for his coat. He had little respect for loud-mouthed generals, and Sherman counted Foster among them. But Foster had friends in influential places, most of those in Washington. Sherman knew that ignoring the man’s urgency might be a mistake that would return to bite him.

John Gray Foster was another of the West Pointers who had made a reputation in Mexico, serving later as an engineering instructor and commander at the naval academy in Annapolis. Before the war, he had been one of the army’s primary supervisors for the construction of forts along the New Jersey coast, but when the war erupted at Fort Sumter, Foster had earned at least one more dubious honor. He was
there
, serving under the fort’s commanding officer, Robert Anderson.

Sherman stood, fiddled with the buttons on his coat, said, “Engineers. Everything happens by the ticking of their clock. He wouldn’t have sent the damned message in the middle of the night if he wanted me to wait till next week. The
Dandelion
?”

“Yes, sir. She’s supposed to be a few miles downstream. The message mentioned Admiral Dahlgren, also most interested in meeting with you.”

“Impressive. The whole damned Atlantic Ocean just woke up to us being here. How the hell we supposed to get there? They send a boat?”

“Doesn’t say, sir.”

Sherman completed buttoning his coat, saw Howard now in the shadows, and Howard said, “Anything you require of me, General?”

“Your presence, if you wish. We’re taking that skiff downriver.”

“Now?”

Sherman was already in motion, moved out into the open air, a breezy chill. Hazen was there now, scrambling to put on his coat, and Sherman said, “Our visit is brief, General. I need some oarsmen. A few strong backs would be appreciated.”

Hazen shouted out an order, guards and other staff officers emerging, and Sherman moved out toward the river, could see the silhouette of the fort in the moonlight. Troops were gathering, Hazen making the selection, one of those men now moving past Sherman,
standing at the edge of the grassy yard, and the man said, “Uh, General? Just one word of caution, sir.”

“Not interested in caution, soldier.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I’d advise it. There’s still torpedoes out here, scattered all over the edge of the river. We ain’t had time to dig ’em all up yet.”

Sherman moved beside the man, stared out at the moonlight on the river, saw the patch of sand that led down to the skiff. “We made it up here once, soldier. We can do it again.”

Sherman started out, paused, heard the men following behind him, heard a low groan from Howard. He studied the sand, a hint of their footsteps from the first trip, said, “Step carefully, gentlemen. I don’t intend to offer the rebels any reason to celebrate.”

H
e appreciated the reception from the
Dandelion
’s captain, a pleasant man who had ordered his crew to welcome Sherman aboard with a rousing cheer. But the boat was nothing like the larger gunboats Sherman had boarded before, especially during the prelude to the siege at Vicksburg, and its commander seemed to read him, other officers stepping closer, all of them with smiles.

“Sir, it is my honor to be your host, if only for a brief while. Captain Horace Williamson, at your service, sir. This is Lieutenant George Fisher, Ensign Jarvis, Ensign Lofton. This craft is a tender for the gunboat
Flag
, anchored at the mouth of the river. I offer my respects from numerous officers hoping to meet you as quickly as your schedule permits. I should mention that during your most impressive assault on that fortress, I put this craft into motion, and made a quick journey downstream, notifying all the boats who were near of your triumph. There is considerable celebrating of your presence here, General.”

“Captain, the pleasure is mine.” Sherman was overwhelmed by the naval officer’s manic enthusiasm, rivaling his own.

“If you will follow me, sir. I have a small cabin below. Something of a luxury on a craft this small.”

Sherman followed the man belowdecks, Howard following, Williamson
leading them into a small office, soft chairs, a narrow cot to one side. He retrieved a bottle from a small wooden cabinet, poured a deep golden liquid in three glasses, what Sherman assumed to be brandy. He glanced at Howard, knew the man wouldn’t partake, thought, His loss, certainly. Leaves more for the rest of us. The captain motioned to the chairs.

“Please, sirs, we require no formality here. This is an occasion I shall recall to my grandchildren one day! I salute you both!”

Sherman took the glass, saw Howard doing the same, watched as Howard kept the glass in his lap. Sherman took a long sip, the pungent alcohol rising up through his head, felt the raw burn sliding down his throat. He coughed slightly, saw a frown on Howard’s face. “My apologies for General Howard.”