The Fateful Lightning (37 page)

Pickett moved closer, said in a low voice, “How? What can we do to prevent them?”

Hardee moved the horse, no response, the single word in his mind.

Nothing.

O
n December 17, Hardee received the letter he had expected for nearly a week.

You have doubtless observed…that seagoing vessels now come through the Ossabaw and up the Ogeechee…giving me abundant supplies of all kinds, and more especially heavy ordnance necessary to the reduction of Savannah. I have already received guns that can cast heavy and destructive shot as far as the heart of your city; also I have for some days held and controlled every avenue by which the people and garrison of Savannah can be supplied, and I am therefore justified in demanding the Surrender of the City of Savannah….

W. T. SHERMAN

MAJOR GENERAL

HOWARD’S HEADQUARTERS, NORTHEAST OF FORT MCALLISTER—DECEMBER 18, 1864

H
e read the note with undisguised anger, one line shouting out to him from the paper.

Your demand for the surrender of Savannah and its dependent forts is refused
.

W. J. HARDEE / LIEUTENANT GENERAL

Howard sat close to the dying fire, a small white pipe in his mouth. “Did you expect anything else?”

Sherman folded the note with a harsh slip of his fingers, caught himself before he tore it into pieces. “I should keep this, I suppose. Others may want to see just what kind of dreams General Hardee is nurturing.”

“Richmond, no doubt.”

Sherman glanced at Howard, felt a surge of fury, fought to keep his voice below the hearing of Howard’s entire camp. “I don’t care a whit for Richmond. I don’t care what kind of pride Hardee must display. He lies, all through this ridiculous letter. Lies. He is ‘in free and constant
communication with his department.’ We have destroyed miles of rail lines in every direction. We have men wiring themselves into any telegraph line still standing, and if there are messages going back and forth, we’ll hear them. He behaves as though we’re barely a mosquito, buzzing around his horse’s backside, something to be swatted away.”

Howard kept his stare on the fire, and Sherman knew that Howard rarely showed excitement at all.

“Do you ever get angry? Does this not dig one big hole into your brain? The damned rebels took your arm, for God’s sake.” Sherman paused, felt a stab of guilt. “Sorry, Oliver.”

“It is a fact, General. I cannot pretend to have what is not there. The fortunate thing is they did not take both. To be sure, that would be something of an inconvenience.”

Sherman jammed the note into his pocket, focused his anger again toward Hardee. “The arrogance of the man, the arrogance of the entire rebel nation, their damnable cause, their insistence that all things Southern must be preserved against the Mongol hordes from the North. I’m sick of this, Oliver.”

Howard looked at him now, the pipe still clamped in his teeth. “So. What would you change? Do you expect Hardee or anyone else to just throw up their hands and admit that this entire enterprise was one great error? Do you expect Jefferson Davis to call on Lincoln and offer a hand, apologizing for all the trouble he caused? You know what this will require. You know, better than anyone in this army that
guns
change minds,
guns
alter history,
guns
erase pride. We have plenty of guns, General. Big ones, little ones. We’re moving them into position by the hour, and when you give the order, we’ll drop shells anywhere Hardee thinks he’s safe. That note isn’t for you. It’s for the civilians who are crowing at him every minute of the day. They’re scared to death. They think he’s their salvation, and he has to make a good show of it. It’s for posterity.”

“To hell with posterity. Hardee can offer reassurances and apologies all day long to the good citizens of Savannah. Doesn’t change a damned thing. If he insists on standing up to us, then we shall oblige him, and a great many of his men will die. There’s posterity for you.”

H
e had slept for more than an hour, a luxury he had tried to enjoy. But the tent flap had stirred him awake, a low voice, one of Howard’s aides.

“Very sorry to awaken you, sir.”

“Who’s that? Frasier?”

“It’s Colonel Woodhull, sir. None of your staff are present, and I had no choice but to awaken you.”

“Why?”

“An officer has arrived, just now, sir. Says he is Colonel Babcock, from General Grant’s staff. He has made this journey to convey a message from General Grant.”

“Orville Babcock? Here?”

“That’s what he says, sir.”

Sherman was awake now, stared out through the open tent flap, only shadows beyond. “Bring me a lantern, Colonel. And I suppose you may bring Colonel Babcock as well.”

He sat up, grabbed his coat, pulled it on quickly, his mind racing. Babcock? What the hell for? The tent flap opened again, the lantern light blinding him, and Sherman covered his eyes, felt for a cigar, the pocket empty. The lantern was hung above him, and Sherman felt a hard dig in his insides, a stab of caution. Babcock was there now, offered a crisp salute, which Sherman returned.

“Long way from home, Colonel.”

Babcock was never one for chatter, and Sherman could read the man’s seriousness, hints of arrogance that Babcock always carried.

“General, I bring you a letter, from the pen of General Grant. It is imperative that you read this without delay. There are two letters, actually. The first is less formal, composed by General Grant on December third. You may of course read that one first. The second was composed December sixth. There are orders for you, sir.”

Sherman felt his heart racing, all thoughts of his independence erased by Babcock’s haughtiness, something Sherman had seen before. Babcock was a brilliant young man, had graduated third in his class from West Point, had now earned an appropriate position on Grant’s staff as secretary. He reached into a small leather pouch, produced
a piece of foolscap, then another, kept his stance at attention, handed the paper toward Sherman. Sherman took both papers, fought to keep his composure, thought, He’s congratulating me. Has to be. Why send Babcock? Sherman glanced at the headings, saw the dates, chose the latter one, Babcock’s word punching him. Orders. He struggled with his sudden burst of nervousness, tried to keep his composure in front of a man who would notice every flaw.

“I haven’t seen you in a while, Colonel. Since Vicksburg?”

Babcock’s expression didn’t change, still the formality. “Knoxville, I believe, sir.”

“Yes, Knoxville. If you say so.”

Sherman fingered the papers, had a gut-stirring uneasiness, was annoyed by the show of stiffness from Grant’s officer, left him standing at attention. He opened the second paper completely, slow, deliberate, tilted it toward the lantern light, began to read.

I have concluded that the most important operation toward closing out the rebellion will be to close out Lee and his army….My idea is that you now establish a base on the sea-coast, fortify and leave in it all your artillery and cavalry, and enough infantry to protect them, and at the same time so threaten the interior that the militia of the South will have to be kept at home. With the balance of your command, come here by water with all dispatch. Select yourself the officer to leave in command, but you I want in person. Unless you see objections to this plan which I cannot see, use every vessel going to you for purposes of transportation….

U. S. GRANT, LIEUTENANT GENERAL

He stared blindly past the paper, felt a hard edge of nausea rolling up through him. “Leave me, Colonel.”

“Sir, I am ordered to await your response….”

“Get out of this tent, Colonel. You shall have my response in due time.”

Babcock vanished, a surprise, and Sherman lay back on the bed, dropped the paper beside him. I am to leave here, to go to Virginia. He cannot see any objections to that. Grant, what are you doing? Am
I not to be allowed to complete this task? Savannah is…right there. She sits waiting for us, her defenses certain to collapse, Hardee’s army expecting capture. Why would you do this?

He rolled to one side, stared at the back of the tent, saw his shadow as a soft, uneven mound, raised a hand, watched the shadow moving with him, wiped the hand through his hair. I will not do this, he thought. It cannot happen this way. Grant is getting pressure from Washington. That has to be it. He is being shoved hard from behind to get Lee in his grasp, and my army will make that inevitable.

He rolled back, faced the lantern, his hand fishing for the paper beneath him. He pulled it up to his face, caught the lantern light, read it again. Now he saw the second piece, the date three days earlier.

Not liking to rejoice before the victory is assured, I abstain from congratulating you and those under your command, until bottom has been struck….Since you left Atlanta, no great progress has been made here
.

So, he requires my help. But he’s
Grant
, for God’s sake. He knows what to do, how to whip Lee. It’s the damned newspapers, their traitorous headlines, surrounding Stanton like so many horseflies.

He read further, his eyes wide.

I do not intend to give you anything like directions for future actions….

He lowered the paper, stared into the yellow light of the lantern, thought, So, three days after he writes that, he changes his mind. Or Washington changes it for him. They read the sewage that flows out of Southern newspapers, all about our starvation and certain destruction, and someone up there believes every word of that. I have to be “saved” by leaving this place. Damn them. Damn them all.

H
itchcock sat to one side of the tent, paper on a board in his lap. “I’m ready whenever you are, sir.”

Sherman was speaking to himself, words blowing through
his brain, sentences, phrases, hot and fiery, condemnation and fury. But that would stay inside him, a hard fist holding on to the certain reality that Grant was his commander, his friend, and if Grant needed him in Virginia, there was a good reason for it. He stared at the floor of the tent, had mostly ignored Hitchcock, said aloud, “I won’t do it. It’s a mistake. A very bad mistake.”

Hitchcock seemed to read his mood, kept silent, waiting for Sherman to look his way. The words kept flowing, Sherman forcing himself to slow them down, to ponder the meaning, the message, the tone. He looked at Hitchcock now, saw concern.

“Do you wish me to stay, sir? I can return later.”

“Sit still.”

Hitchcock nodded, the pencil in his hand, his voice barely audible. “Yes, sir.”

“You got the heading?”

“Yes, sir. Lieutenant General U. S. Grant, Commander in Chief…”

“I know who he is. So does he. You don’t have to read it to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sherman fought through his thoughts, the torrent of anger, the twisting frustration. “I have to convince him he’s wrong.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sherman looked at Hitchcock now, as though for the first time, the kind face behind studious glasses. “How do I do that, Major?”

Hitchcock seemed surprised by the question, his mouth open slightly, words forming. “Well, sir, I would inform General Grant of our accomplishments. Nothing anyone can say will substitute for what we
did
here. It is not enough to suggest that we are in fine fettle. Offer him details, sir. This campaign has been more than a success. It has been a triumph. We must complete it.”

Sherman was surprised, rubbed a hand on his chin. “You been talking to the others?”

“Yes, sir. Is that not appropriate?”

“It’s fine, Major. You’re my staff. I expect you to know what’s happening. The rest of them feel like I do?”

“Sir, if I may suggest, the entire army feels as you do. No one here wishes to see you depart this command. None of us wish to depart. This is
your
army, sir. This is
your
campaign.”

“I cannot disobey him, Major.”

“Then you have to convince him. But not just that. You must offer the general an alternative that will accomplish the same goal, the goal of defeating the enemy. Ending the rebellion.”

“You’re an intelligent man, Major. Give me just a moment. We’ll at least try.”

The words came now, flowing out from Sherman through the hand of Hitchcock, the letter spread through several pages, lengthy recounting of the successes, the goals, the state of the army, the condition of the enemy. Through it all, Sherman relied on the one line in Grant’s note, the single opening, that if Sherman had objections to Grant’s plans, Grant would at least hear them. He kept Hitchcock’s advice close at hand, that it was not enough to gloat, to feed the newspapers with glorious headlines. This was Grant, after all. Grant would understand exactly what Hitchcock suggested. If Sherman had plans that were better than anything Grant ever suggested, he had to tell him just what those plans were.