The Fateful Lightning (52 page)

H
e slept on the floor, near a brick fireplace that had seen better days. The aides had found little to stoke the fire, the majestic live oaks spread across the plantation already stripped of limbs, used by his men to build fires of their own. He rolled over, the stiffness in his back matched by the hardness of the wooden planks beneath him, cursed aloud, sat up. The night had grown much colder, and he stared at the glow of a handful of embers, moved closer, blew hard into the ashes, a cloud swirling up around his face. He coughed, spit.

“Damn it all!”

A damp handkerchief removed most of the ash from his face, smeared the rest, and he cursed again, shivered, the wetness in his clothes not yet dry, even his meager nightclothes damp. He slapped his arms against his sides, shivered again, his eyes searching the darkness.
In one corner of the room was the skeleton of an old bed frame, and he climbed to his feet, fought more stiffness in his knees. He stumbled toward the wreckage, bent low, picked up one end of a broken board, snatched hard to the side. The frame came apart, and Sherman dragged the broken piece out toward the hearth, jabbed one end into the fireplace.

“Too damned big.” He looked up above the mantel, saw an old clock, had noticed it earlier, long broken, the small glass front shattered. He reached up, pulled the clock down, stepped away from the fireplace, raised the clock above his head, launched it downward with as much force as he could. The clock shattered at his feet, a discordant clash of metal innards and splinters of wood. There were footsteps now, voices, Sherman ignoring them, kneeling carefully, avoiding the springs and gears, shards of glass. He gathered up as much of the splintered wood as he could, stepped carefully to the fireplace, voices in the dark, “Sir! Are you injured?”

“Nope. Just cold as hell, Major. Help me get this damned fire going again.”

Dayton was down beside him now, and Sherman blew again into the ash, closed his eyes, fought the cloud, blew again. The embers found the splinters, the fire growing slowly, the room lighter now. Sherman sat back, realized there were a half-dozen men behind him.

“What the hell do you want?”

Hitchcock was fumbling with his glasses, said, “Sir, I heard a terrible conflagration. I thought perhaps an artillery shell!”

Sherman looked at him, shook his head. “A clock. Gave its last breath so that I might not freeze. Now go to bed. All of you. Anybody else needs to stay by the fire, fine, but do it quietly.”

The men dispersed, and Hitchcock sat on the floor, said, “To be truthful, sir, I am frightfully cold. My blanket isn’t adequate.”

“Then help me break up that bed frame. It should burn for a good while.”

Hitchcock stood again, planted his foot hard on the larger piece of timber, a loud crack, the brittle old wood coming apart.

“Excellent, Major. You’re a master vandal.” Sherman paused. “You know, for all the destruction this army has done, I believe this is the first act of vandalism I’ve committed myself. Don’t mention any of
this to the damned reporters. They’ll make up some kind of nasty little tale about that.”

POCOTALIGO, SOUTH CAROLINA—JANUARY 25, 1865

He woke to a bracing chill, and blue skies.

Outside, the army had formed a vast camp, and for the first day in nearly a week, the rain clouds were gone, the air crisp and dry. He stood on the porch of another old home, the owner nowhere to be found. The coffee was hot, a slab of ham waiting for him at a broken-down table behind him, and for the first time since landing in South Carolina, Sherman actually felt good.

He inhaled deeply, the cold air energizing him, gazed out across the slow motion of the mass of blue. Fires were everywhere, the men pulling down fence lines, trees, anything they could burn. He watched one larger fire, saw a platoon of men gathered close, some of them now looking toward him. He smiled, thought, You know what this means, don’t you? It means I’m about to give orders, and you already know what they are. It’s time to move.

He hadn’t heard from Slocum, but the dry weather meant the Savannah River would begin to fall, easing the burden for the engineers. Even now, one of Howard’s divisions from the Fifteenth Corps had been trapped below the swollen river, those men forced to march through the muddy bottoms and flooded fields alongside Slocum’s troops. But now they can get their tails up this way, he thought. Howard will be happy about that. He likes things orderly.

For now Howard’s men would gather up, ease out on the march, preparing to move at as rapid a pace as the drying roadways would allow. But there would be no great surge northward until Sherman heard from Slocum that both wings of his army were safely in South Carolina. It can’t take long, he thought. February will be drier. Usually is in the South. Wonder if Hardee knows I’m aware of that? He has to feel pretty damned safe up there knowing what kind of miserable country lies between us. Well, General, you keep holding on to that thought. And keep your garrisons right where they are.

He thought of the rail line, his men already at work destroying as much track as was within reach. I should send them out a little farther, he thought. Hardee’ll have cavalry scouts all over hell, watching what we’re doing. That might give him just a little more confidence that we’re headed up his way. He pulled out the map Captain Poe had given him, the network of roads that had become impassable. But that’s going to change, he thought. Not just the weather, but the geography. We get farther from the coast, the ground rises. Better ground for marching, the farms will be healthier, good forage for the horses, plenty of rations for the men. It’ll be a whole lot prettier than these damned piney woods, too. Get back up to hardwood country, away from these palmettos and their snakes.

McCoy was there now, had come up late from Beaufort, part of the staff remaining behind to ensure the commissary officers were doing their jobs, supervising the transport of those last supplies that could still be useful to his army.

“Coffee’s really good this morning, sir.”

“It’s not the coffee, Major. It’s the air. You know anything about fortune-tellers, Major, those Gypsy women that claim to know the future?”

McCoy laughed, caught himself. “Not really, sir. Haven’t ever used one.”

“Me, neither. But if one was here, I know what she’d say. She’d say we’re due for a good healthy march, for one. And one more thing, too. She’d tell us that come February, those folks up in Columbia are going to have a rough ride.”

NORTHEAST OF AIKEN, SOUTH CAROLINA—FEBRUARY 9, 1865

“
T
he crossing of the river was inevitable. I do not believe for one minute that Sherman intends to strike Augusta. But General Hardee is most insistent that we protect that place, as well as every important place in South Carolina. I have long exhausted my inquiries as to just how we manage that.”

Wheeler was pacing, an unusual show of energy, the words flowing out in a steady stream. Beside Seeley, General Dibrell seemed to puff up, his usual posture.

“Sir, is it not wise of us to strike out against the enemy’s flanks?”

Wheeler looked at Dibrell as though staring at a snake. “What ‘flank’ do you have in mind, General? Are you aware of a ‘flank’ that no one has told me about? I suspect if we march just about anywhere in this country we shall stumble into some Yankee position.”

“I just thought we should make an aggressive move. The Yankees must surely believe they have the upper hand. Such arrogance leads to carelessness.”

Seeley winced at the obviousness of Dibrell’s observations, another officer speaking up, saying, “General Dibrell, perhaps you were not
informed that Kilpatrick’s cavalry is making a move along this side of the river. It is fairly certain he is moving in the direction of Aiken.”

Seeley was surprised by that, knew nothing at all about Kilpatrick’s movements. But his men had come west and south on orders from Wheeler, no explanations offered. Seeley knew that remaining closer to Pocotaligo made little sense, that his men would find themselves in full retreat every day Sherman advanced. Wheeler’s order made sense for one other reason. Seeley agreed that the cavalry should act as a more united force, that spreading out in small scouting parties served only to annoy the Yankees, and not much else. With the improvement in the weather, it was certain that whatever Sherman was planning to do, he would move more quickly.

Wheeler paced again, hands behind his back, noticed a handful of slaves off to one side of the house, watching the gathering of officers in the estate’s grand front yard. Seeley kept his gaze that way, his eye catching an old man, who seemed intensely interested in the conversation. Seeley slipped away from the officers, moved toward the Negroes, the slaves suddenly dispersing, the old man moving off with a hobbling limp. Seeley reached him, grabbed his collar.

“Where you going to, old man?”

“Nowheres a’tall, boss. Gots chores to do.”

“Chores like gathering up information? You talking to any Yankees hereabouts?”

“Oh, no, sir. No Yankees pay heed to this old soul.”

He still held the man’s shirt, felt the fear in the man’s quaking voice. Seeley had no energy for this, thought, What can he tell anyone? That cavalry was here? He released the man’s shirt, remembered Tennessee, Mississippi before that, the infuriating discovery that the idle slaves that watched the passing of the soldiers were just as likely offering scraps of intelligence to Grant’s army.

“Hardly matters now,” he said. “Nothing you can tell Sherman they don’t know already. They stupid enough to pay you, you take their money. Now go on.”

He pushed the man gently, had no stomach for abusing one crippled old man. He moved toward the front of the plantation house again, saw Dibrell waiting for him.

“What are you doing?”

“Those slaves were watching us pretty intently. Thought I’d run ’em off. No need to have so many ears about.”

Dibrell’s eyes narrowed, and he looked past Seeley, a scowling stare toward the various black men, going about some sort of labor with any kind of implement that was close. Seeley saw the counterfeit effort, thought, Yep, they were listening to every word. But he wouldn’t say any more about that to Dibrell, didn’t want to see the general’s usual show of bravado against people who were simply helpless. Dibrell sniffed, said, “Well, you watch them close. Tell Colonel McLemore what you saw. We maybe ought to put some people around here, watch for signs of Yankee scouts.”

“I’ll tell him, sir.”

Seeley ached to get away from Dibrell, his division commander too eager to inflict punishment on any civilian, black or white. It was one more reason why Joe Wheeler’s troopers were becoming so reviled along the trails, the tendency for some of the officers to treat every citizen as the enemy. If the civilians seemed unpatriotic in their eagerness to be rid of the war, Seeley knew that punishing them with abuse would only make them more uncooperative. No one seems to know what to do about that, he thought. But whatever we’re doing, it ain’t working.

Seeley walked around the corner of the house, the yard spreading before him, saw a rider approaching, Wheeler leaving the others, walking out to the road to meet him. Wheeler seemed to keep the man out away from the others, his habit, receiving the latest dispatches only for himself, sharing what he felt his officers needed to hear. Seeley felt annoyed again, had grown too accustomed to showmanship.

Wheeler spoke for a long minute to the courier, then turned toward the men. “As I suspected. Kilpatrick has been sighted just south of Aiken. Finally. Finally! Mount up, go to your commands. How many effectives do we have at hand?”

Dibrell had returned, a low murmur among the ranking officers, Wheeler waiting with angry impatience. One of the others spoke up now. “Best as we can figure, sir, two thousand effectives. If we wait for
a couple days, we can bring in more from the railroad, or those men you sent off toward Augusta.”

“We don’t have two days to play around, Colonel. Gather up your commands. We’ll move into Aiken. I will plan a reception for General Kilpatrick he does not expect.”

S
eeley heard the shots from down the road, and as he rode closer, he could see the horses splayed out, blood on their carcasses, a dozen men standing nearby, pistols in their hands, silent misery on their faces. He looked for Lieutenant Gibson, saw the man standing far out near the tree line, away from the carnage, talking to what seemed to be a civilian. He spotted Gladstone close by the horses, said, “How many? Eight?”

Gladstone turned away from the dead animals, a grim sadness on the man’s face. “Eight today. We’ll have to take down a few more tomorrow. One of ’em was Old Lucy. She just couldn’t go no farther. Run out of heart. Loved that danged horse. Had her for two years.” Gladstone paused. “Hard thing for a man to do. Kill your best friend.”

Seeley hated to see Gladstone in a foul mood, the one man in the company Seeley could depend on for a shot of morale. “Very sorry, Sergeant. We’ll work hard on finding some mounts.”

Gladstone shrugged, kept his eyes away from the carcasses. “Just part of the war, I s’pose. Good animal, she was. Got me out of more’n one scrap. Woulda done it again. Can’t ride a bag of bones too long and expect much.” He looked up at Seeley now, made a quick scan of Seeley’s horse. “Dang shame what we’s doin’ to these critters. You ride that old boy careful. He’s hurtin’. I can see it in his eyes.”

Seeley appreciated Gladstone’s instincts, a man more at home in the cavalry than anywhere else they could have put him. “I’ll ride him as gentle as I can. But we’ve got business. General Wheeler wants us to ride into Aiken. Set up an ambush.”

Gladstone’s expression changed, wide-eyed curiosity. “Kilpatrick?”

“He says so. Reckon we’re gonna find out.”

Gladstone seemed to perk up, a hint of enthusiasm in his words. “Hey, Captain, how ’bout you tell Lieutenant Gibson to find me some
horseflesh. Not sure he knows how to decide much of anything on his own. But I’d hate to miss out if there’s gonna be a party.”

Gibson was approaching, a look of hopefulness that Seeley dreaded, the young man’s bright optimism severely out of place. “Sir! Been talking to a fellow who’s got a place just down the road. There’s a good-sized farm out that way. He says that place could have some mounts. Mules maybe, but at least we’ll be able to ride.”

“What fellow? That civilian?”

“Yes, sir. Fellow named Jenkins. He says he’s not on too friendly terms with the neighbor, says the old man done let his place run to ruin, but he’s likely got all manner of goods squirreled away in the woods behind his barn.”

Seeley thought, Yes, and that would take our eyes away from Jenkins and whatever he might have hidden. “We know the fellow’s name, the plantation owner?”

“Jenkins just called him Old Fart.”

Seeley felt like laughing, held it in. “I suspect that’s not his name. But we oughta go check in on him, do a little scavenging. Maybe pay a little more heed to Mr. Jenkins as well. We’re riding into Aiken by tomorrow, and I want every man in the saddle. Might be heading into a scrap with Kilpatrick.”

Gibson’s eyes got wide. “Don’t say? Well, yes, sir. Let’s go pay a call on, um, what’d I say?”

Gladstone responded, shaking his head. “Old Fart.”

S
eeley led a dozen men along a gravelly road, saw an old fence line, the house beyond, slowed them with a wave of his hand. A man hurried toward them from the house, a pathway leading away from the crumbling porch of the dilapidated old home. Seeley saw the double-barreled shotgun come up, pointed at his own horse, reined up with one hand on his pistol. The man called out, “You keep back! Get on outta here! I got nothing you want!”

Seeley took a deep breath, dismounted, tried to keep his calm. “Sir, we mean you no harm. We are good Confederates, like yourself.”

“How do you know what kind of Confederate I am? I ain’t met a soldier on neither side worth his spit. What you want?”

Seeley latched on to the man’s words, thought, Don’t ask him now, but someone oughta find out just what soldiers he’s seen on the
other
side. He studied the man’s face, thought, Might not be the man we’re looking for. Doesn’t seem all that old.

“Sir, are you the owner of this land?”

“Why you need to know that? None of your business, anyhow.”

Seeley looked out toward the house, a sagging roofline, overgrown bushes hugging the walls, no sign of any tilled fields. He glanced back at Gibson, said in a low voice, “Not much more than a run-down farm.”

Gibson didn’t respond, his eyes locked on the man’s double barrels. Seeley stepped out clear of the horses, both hands extended to his sides. “We mean you no harm, sir. We’re engaging the Yankees shortly. We appreciate your help. We have great shortages, and are counting on your generosity.”

“Bah! I got nothing here. Nothing!”

“Well, sir, I respect what you say, but we’re in a desperate way. We’ll offer you a note for anything we might take. General Wheeler will honor it soon as he can.”

“Wheeler, huh? You’d be his boys, then? What kind of note? How much?” The man seemed to catch himself. “Don’t got nothing anyway. Don’t matter.”

“Sir, my men do not wish to harm you, but we require supplies, and I regret that I will force you to part with what we need. I’d lower that shotgun if I were you.”

The man seemed to blink, the shotgun coming down slightly. “I got nothing. You all just go on down the road.”

“Not sure until we make a search. You keep that shotgun low. No need for you to fear us.”

“Plenty of need. But you seem like a decent boy. Like my little brother. Ain’t heard from him in two years. Had some coloreds here, too. They done run off.”

The man seemed nervous still, and Seeley said, “What happened to your brother? He in the army?”

“Dang fool wasn’t fifteen. Went up visiting my sister in Sandy Springs. Some smooth talker convinced him he oughta join up. Last I heard he was marching north, Pennsylvania. Ain’t heard a word from him since.”

Seeley thought, Gettysburg?

“Well, we can put in an inquiry with General Wheeler’s staff. Maybe even General Hardee.”

“No need to go bothering generals on my account. I’ll find him, sooner or later.”

There was no sadness on the man’s face, no sentiment in his words, still a jittery nervousness. Seeley felt an itch that the man was holding back a great deal more than anything about his brother.

“You do any stretch in the army yourself? Seem fit enough.”

The man hesitated, a quick glance back toward the house. “They didn’t want me. Sickly. I just want to get on with working this place. Now look around if you have to, then go on down the road.”