The Fateful Lightning (51 page)

Gladstone didn’t complain, had been with Seeley too long for any arguments. He pointed out three men, groans coming fast, and Seeley pointed the way, Gladstone doing the talking.

“Leave your danged carbines here! You ain’t had dry powder all the blessed day! We’re just lookin’!”

Seeley watched as they moved off, Gladstone standing tall, the others crouched low. They seemed to sink into the deep grass, disappeared quickly into the pines, and Seeley watched the road in front of him, felt a burning need to slap someone with the broad side of his saber.

The minutes passed, the rain in his face, burying any sounds. He strained to hear any more firing, voices, but there was nothing, no sign yet of Gladstone. Behind him, the men were grumbling, and Seeley thought of rations, knew there were none, that even hardtack was becoming rare. He looked out through the trees the other way, saw clusters of palmettos, had heard talk of eating the roots, or something else that grew in the thickets, what someone called swamp cabbage. Or maybe, he thought, those boys out there brought backpacks with something to eat. That’ll be a good lesson. You shoot at me, and you can hand me your grub.

“Sir, what’s that?”

He saw Gibson point ahead, down the road, looked that way. Far past the narrow passage through the pines, there were more dark specks.

“It’s men. They’re coming in some kind of hurry.”

Seeley stood now, eyed the figures, a slow jog toward him, three hundred yards, closer, dark shapes draped in raincoats. He felt a cold
stab in his stomach, had seen this before, too many times before, his hand moving to his pistol, reflex, and now he heard a sharp cry to one side.

“Get mounted up! Get going!”

Seeley saw the three men who had gone with Gladstone, a mad scamper through the wet, sloppy grass. They reached the road now, bent over, one man wheezing the words, “Gotta pull back! They’s a flock of ’em!”

Seeley looked past them, saw Gladstone now, making his way with slow, methodical steps. He felt suddenly helpless, furious, baffled, could only wait for Gladstone, looked again down the road, saw the men coming closer, slowing, in line, spaces between them.
A skirmish line
.

Gladstone climbed out of the grass, breathing heavily, a broad smile on his face. “Well, now, sir, we got a report to make to General Dibrell, or anybody else what cares.”

“What report?”

Gladstone saw the men coming at them down the road now, nodded, pleased with himself. “That, sir, is the advance line. There’s more down in the woods thataway. Seems the Yankees done decided to take a stroll thisaways.”

“How many Yankees?”

Gladstone shrugged, his eyes on the road. “I’d say maybe a million or so. There’s another road, out through those trees, backside of that pond, maybe a quarter mile or so. Better road than this one. They’s marching heavy, full column. Flags and whatnot. Rain don’t seem to bother ’em none.”

The musket fire came again, the skirmish line moving up to the cover of the pines. Seeley heard the sharp zips again, knelt low, saw the men tending the horses, a hundred yards to the rear.

“Time to go, boys. Get to the mounts!”

The men obeyed, quick, sloppy steps through the deep mud, no one making himself a better target by staying up in the road. Seeley followed, kept everyone in front of him, saw the wounded man, Simpson, holding a bloody cloth on his shoulder. He moved that way, close to Simpson, said, “You can ride, Jack?”

“Yes, sir. Hurts like the devil, but it’ll be all right.”

Seeley waited, watched as the men reached the mounts, climbing up quickly. Now they waited for him, and he scrambled out into the road, jumped up on his own horse, looked again at the men back in the trees. The flashes of fire were scattered, no more than a couple dozen skirmishers, and he thought of making a charge, knew that Wheeler would think of that first, would try to drive them off. Not our job, he thought. We’re out here to scout. Well, we scouted.

The rain had slowed, the men now moving away, pushing the horses as hard as the ground allowed. Seeley eased his horse off the road, a lower profile, stared out to the far woods, where Gladstone had been. He heard it now, unmistakable, the steady rhythm, adding to the pounding in his chest. It was drums.

“I done tole you, Captain. There’s a column over that ways, and if you look real good, there’s one back thataways, too.”

Seeley looked again toward the skirmishers, far behind them, saw the flicker of a flag, men on horses. He thought of Wheeler, chasing the Yankees upriver, far from this place, wondered who
these
men could be. The skirmishers were still peppering the air with their fire, and Seeley felt himself pulled back, a hand on his reins, Gladstone.

“Best not linger hereabouts, Captain.”

Seeley nudged the horse, followed his men, a steady retreat, retracing their steps through the watery sand. His mind raced, thoughts of the enemy, and Seeley stopped, pulled out the field glasses, stared through wet lenses, blurry images, the colorful flag, the unmistakable flicker of the Stars and Stripes. Gladstone said the words as they flowed into Seeley’s brain. “Ole Sherman did this in Georgia. Split up his army, drove ’em two ways. Guess he’s done it again.”

“Guess he has, Sergeant. We best tell somebody about it.”

BEAUFORT, SOUTH CAROLINA—JANUARY 23, 1865

T
he boat trip had taken most of two days, including a brief stop at Hilton Head, for a council with General Foster. But the journey was made far more miserable with the change in the weather, with the kind of seas even sailors had learned to dread. For the army, men who had rarely if ever been at sea, the journey was an education in the frailty of the human body. To Sherman’s amusement, tempered with concern, most of the soldiers who accompanied him had become seasick. As the affliction spread, though, any humor had faded, and Sherman understood that weakening his men at the start of a campaign would provide one more reason for delay. He had run out of patience for delay.

The surprise at Beaufort was that the town was a healthy, vibrant place of businesses and merchantmen, peopled by both black and white who seemed barely to notice their differences. Some of those were soldiers, the colored regiment garrisoned there after one of the few successes by Federal troops during the first year of the war, those men acclimating to life as just another part of the whole. As a result, throughout the war, the town had been virtually free of any real conflict,
the Federal government going so far as to emancipate the slaves in that area, an act that seemed to affect no one beyond the town’s borders. But Beaufort had not been ignored altogether. Recognizing the town as something of a sanctuary, escaped slaves found the means to reach the town, not even the most vigilant trackers wishing to deal with the possibility of a confrontation with the regiment of colored troops. Thus did Beaufort continue to grow and thrive. It was the one port along the southern Atlantic coast not affected by the Federal naval blockade, adding to its prosperity.

For Sherman, the only really disagreeable aspect of the town was the weather. The storms that had so plagued his troops at sea continued on land, and despite Sherman’s orders that Howard’s wing make rapid progress marching inland, the roads had become rivers of swamp water, what so many of these troops had seen before. As the army had learned on their approach to Savannah, the low country was fit for little but growing rice and the occasional field of sugarcane. Sherman’s supply wagons were full for the most part, the ships ferrying goods to Savannah now supplemented by transports and steamers that pushed up the various waterways that flowed past Beaufort, supplying the army even as they marched closer to their first objective of Pocotaligo. But the rains had swollen every waterway, flooding roads so severely that not even corduroying the surfaces provided much help. On the left wing, the Savannah River was now swollen to dangerous levels, Slocum’s men unable to make any significant crossing with the pontoon bridges they had on hand. Sherman knew to be cautious, that pushing his army too far too quickly in these kinds of miserable conditions might create a problem of his own making. In this kind of dismal country, supplying the men had to be a priority. For many of the troops still in and around the town of Beaufort, an old staple was found in abundance, oysters, something many of the men had come to enjoy. The cooks had become as creative with the bivalves as they had with the rice, both a hearty alternative to hardtack. But not everyone accepted the oysters as a treat.

“
W
hat’s the matter, Major? You not hungry? You didn’t appear to suffer too badly on the ship.”

Sherman couldn’t help smiling, watched Hitchcock prod one of the open shells, his fingers dipping slightly into the fleshy meat of the oyster.

“Really, sir, I don’t see how anyone considers this a delicacy.”

“Not sure they do around here. The people along the coast probably eat the things pretty often. When there’s an abundance, take advantage. You prefer them cooked, perhaps? In Savannah, I had them fried in oil, something quite different. Makes them a bit crunchy, rather than…”

“Gooey. That’s what they feel like, sir. Goo. My apologies to the fine-dining culture of the South, but this is one journey I cannot make.”

Sherman reached over, slid Hitchcock’s plate toward him. “You don’t mind, then, do you, Major?”

Hitchcock motioned the plate away with his hand. “Please, sir.”

“Perhaps you’d prefer a taste of this sugarcane. A little hard on the teeth, but worth the effort.”

Dayton sat at the far end of the table, said, “Yes, go ahead, Major. Just chew on the stalk.”

Hitchcock held up a short piece of cane, the outer husk stripped away. He sniffed it, took a short nibble off one end, the frown disappearing. “Well, quite tasty, I admit. Like a confection.”

Dayton chewed on a stalk of his own, said, “That’s where confections come from, Henry. They boil the stuff down, I think, pull out the sugar. Didn’t they teach you anything at your fancy college?”

Sherman put one hand on his stomach. “Not sure I can eat any more of this. Major Dayton, be sure our host is aware of our gratitude. I have always said there are two things a soldier must do anytime there is the opportunity. One is eat. The other is write letters home. I shall now do the latter.” He watched Hitchcock struggle with the sugarcane again. “Enjoy that, Major. But a word to the wise. When I was in Louisiana, I learned to partake of that treat in moderation.”

Hitchcock peered over his glasses. “Why, sir? Pretty tasty.”

“Yes, and as well, I found it can provide some rather energetic
stimulation of the bowels. That can be of benefit, on occasion. Though when we begin moving by horseback through swamp country, the benefit might become more of a hazard.”

Sherman heard the laugh from Dayton, his eye still on Hitchcock, who withdrew the cane from his mouth, stared at it. He seemed crestfallen, said, “Sir, you have mentioned on more than one occasion that you encourage your staff to eat hardtack. Keeps us in step with the men, all of that.”

“Yep.”

“For the first time in my perception, sir, that seems like a good idea.”

JANUARY 24, 1865

Captain Poe had delivered the latest collection of maps, showing a myriad of roads and farm trails that sliced in a haphazard pattern away from the marshy plains along the coast. To Sherman, the line Poe had sketched that attracted his greatest attention was the railroad, the Augusta and Charleston line, the last remaining link the city of Charleston had with any points to the south. The town of Pocotaligo was the first objective, that depot astride the rail line that stretched from Savannah to Charleston, leading to the bridge across the Savannah River that Hardee’s men had already burned. Northward, the rails were a tempting target, but Sherman knew that Hardee would prepare for that, would likely position a good percentage of his troop strength across that avenue. That was a move Sherman was counting on.

He began the day’s ride in a mood that matched the foulness of the weather. Poe had expressed what Sherman already feared, that the heavy rains would make any crossing of the low country a challenge at best, both wings of the army certain to face delays along every flooded road, every creek and swampy bottom. He stared down at the impact of his horse’s hooves, soggy splashes through soft, watery sand, the only sounds the steady rain, the sloppy steps of the horses, and the growling curses that rolled through his brain.

He had ordered Kilpatrick to accompany Slocum, leaving only a
few squads of cavalry leading the way out of Beaufort. His final order to the horsemen had been to keep Sherman informed of their location by the burning of the occasional house, a joke that played well with Kilpatrick’s brand of humor. Sherman looked up across the great sea of saw grass, miles of watery plains, thought, A joke on me, for certain. Slocum’s got the river to deal with, and Poe’s men sure as hell better have learned about pontoon bridges by now. If this rain doesn’t stop, we’re gonna have a different problem. The water might rise up out of this flat country and swallow us up altogether. We’d have been better off bringing the damn boats right off the ocean with us. Rowing beats drowning.

There were riders now, coming toward him, a response to Sherman’s order that Howard keep him informed of anything that lay in their path. The horsemen reined up, moving alongside.

“Sir! General Howard offers his respects and reports that the enemy has withdrawn from the village at Pocotaligo without much resistance. There were cavalry patrols, but nothing of consequence.”

Sherman guessed at the time, didn’t feel like exposing his pocket watch to the rain. “What the hell time is it?”

“Near four o’clock, sir.”

“Any place to make camp up ahead?”

“General Blair has pulled his men into some fields at a plantation, called Gardner’s Corner. There’s dry ground there. General Howard has been informed, sir.”

“How far?”

“Not more than three miles, sir.”

“They got a house?”

“It’s a plantation, yes, sir. Fine old home, though seems to have been abandoned sometime ago.”

“Lead me there.”

T
he place had fallen into considerable disrepair, the owner long gone, Sherman not certain if the man had fled the inevitability of the war or had simply given up trying to live in such a place. He stepped heavily into the parlor, water flowing off every part of him, his boots spilling water over the tops. He saw
a small wooden chair, sat, pulled hard on the boots, little success. Hitchcock was there now, looking as miserable as Sherman felt.

“Major, you can offer me considerable relief if you will pull off my boots.”

Hitchcock wiped at his glasses, nodded slowly, said nothing. He moved toward Sherman, bent low, a valiant effort on the left boot, which finally gave way. Water poured from the boot, adding to the puddle growing around Sherman’s chair, and Hitchcock grabbed the other boot, removed it as well.

“Thank you, Major.”

“Sir. You suppose it would be proper to have one of the aides do the same for me?”

“Just tell them, Major.”

Sherman slid out of the raincoat, another lighter coat beneath it, removed that one as well. Dayton was in the house now, more misery, and he moved quickly, took the raincoats from Sherman’s hand.

“Allow me, sir. I’ll find a suitable place.”

Sherman felt his uniform coat, his trousers, said, “Tell me, Major. If I had so damned much rain cover on me, how come I’m so damned wet?”

Dayton didn’t laugh at the mild joke, the day’s ride draining away his humor. “Don’t know, sir. Can’t recall rain this hard.”

“I recall it plenty of times. It’s never as bad then as it seems right now. And for all we know, tomorrow will be worse.”

“We could hold the army here, sir. Let this storm pass, or whatever it is. One thing for certain, the enemy can’t move any quicker’n we can. Not likely they’ll suddenly appear to our front.”

“That’s why we’re not stopping. I want this army inland as far as possible before Hardee or anyone else figures out what we’re doing. I have to explain that? This is a campaign, not a scouting expedition. I intend to grab as much of South Carolina as possible before anyone decides to fight over it. We have to maintain our supply lines as long as possible, and once we’re far enough from the coast, we’ll be relying on the countryside again. I don’t want anyone to get to those plantations before we do. Am I clear?”

“Completely clear, sir.”

Dayton moved farther into the house, and Sherman scowled at the
small lake he had created around his chair. He had no reason to be angry at Dayton, at any of them. I’m like some child, he thought. Spoiled by having it easy, everything going my way. Somebody tossed a rock into my bowl of sweets. Hell, Dayton understands. Been with me too long. He’s right, though. The damned rebels aren’t doing much more than we are, plodding their way through the mud, if they’re moving at all. Hardee has to believe still that he’s the target, that we’re going to make a grab for Charleston. Damned Southerners, it’s always about land and towns. Same with those politicians, all that crowing about how easily the war will end if we grab Richmond, or so much panic that the damned rebels might have grabbed Washington. Old-fashioned foolishness. Hardee’s a better soldier than that, ought to understand that what matters is the
army
, those men out there who can fight, who can kill these men here. That’s the target. I didn’t punch a hole in Georgia just to scare civilians. I made a point, a point I’m going to make in South Carolina, and maybe North Carolina, and maybe, if we have to, Grant and I will make it again in Virginia. I’m tired of fighting a bunch of rebels who made this damned war because they thought they could play politics with our flag. I’d rather play politics with a battery of artillery, and four corps of veteran troops. We’ll see who wins.