The Fateful Lightning (54 page)

AIKEN, SOUTH CAROLINA—FEBRUARY 11, 1865

T
hey had reached the town well in advance of any Federal cavalry, Wheeler placing his men carefully. Down every side street, squads were positioned as a blockade to any unsuspecting horsemen, while along the main street of the town, Wheeler anchored a heavy concentration of his men, hidden as well as possible as a perfect ambush for Kilpatrick’s main column. The ruse was a simple one, to remain hidden until Kilpatrick’s men were well within the town’s limits, then spring on them from the flanks. Wheeler placed his men with the confident expectation that Kilpatrick would be brazen in his foray into the town, and Wheeler had stressed to his men that surprise was their greatest weapon. No one was certain just how many men Kilpatrick led, and Wheeler had considered the possibility that his men would be greatly outnumbered. But a surprise assault was always the great equalizer, and with his men put into place well before dawn, there was little chance anyone would have the time to alert Kilpatrick to what was awaiting him.

Seeley anchored one squad to a side street just off the main avenue, an eighty-man force like so many others, staring into darkness with pounding hearts, fingering their weapons, checking and checking
again their carbines, the edges of their sabers, the caps on their pistols. With the last hour of darkness came the early morning cold, the hard chill driving into the men, made worse by their nervousness. Along the main street, many of the men had dismounted, anchored into good cover, hundreds of carbines and muskets poised for that first hint of Kilpatrick’s approach. On horseback, Seeley shivered along with his men, few voices, low whispers that betrayed the tension.

He was facing east, a good vantage point for observing the first hint of sunrise, a gray veil lifting slowly above the houses across the wider street. Behind him, his own men stayed close, bunched together for at least an attempt at warmth, the horses shoulder to shoulder, some of them dancing slightly, their own brand of anxiousness. Beside Seeley, Gladstone curled low on his horse, and Seeley looked at the older man, thought, He’s sleeping. I know it. Does this before every fight. He eyed the shotgun, Gladstone’s new prize, a sack of buckshot hanging from the man’s waist, a cartridge box filled with blank loads, a makeshift effort that Gladstone seemed to know well. Seeley watched the avenue again, his horse a few yards back, flexed his gloved fingers, the gauntlets threadbare, worn completely through at his palms. He looked at them, nothing to see, thought, Yankees would have gloves, certainly. Boots, too, I suppose. The sergeant can have his scattergun. I’ll take a good warm coat and gauntlets. He flexed his fingers again, stiff and frigid, his mind spilling over with anxious thoughts, a babble of words that rolled through his brain. Maybe a new pistol. This one works all right. But the Yankees have better ones, so they say. Always seemed that way. Maybe I’ll see Kilpatrick, stare him down, my pistol against his saber. That would be glorious, truly. Wheeler would promote me for that. Or maybe not. Maybe he wants that glory for himself. Why do they hate each other so? It’s more than Kilpatrick being a Yankee. Something else between them, something maybe from West Point. He won’t tell stories, though. Keeps all that to himself. Just spews out his orders and his ideas and we all just try to do the job. He stared out across the wider street again, saw movement on the other side, another squad of men waiting there as well, hidden as best they could be. Nobody shoots
straight ahead, he thought. Ride hard, straight into the flank, use sabers first. Pistols maybe. Let the dismounted troops have their go first. We’ll just pick up the pieces.

The whispers were growing behind him, and he glanced back, thought of quieting them, but that would require more noise than he wanted to make. They know what to do, he thought. Nobody’s going to raise Cain with some rebel yell until we’ve got them where we need them.

He stared upward, over the roof of the house across the way, the daylight creeping forward, stars just now fading away. Hurry! He strained his eyes, tried to see details on the house, could make out the unevenness of the street, the gray sky growing lighter, another long minute, lighter still. He glanced back, Gladstone now up straight in the saddle, no more napping, the faces of his men becoming visible, eyes on him, some staring past him into the street. He turned again to the front, flexed frozen fingers one more time, cursed the thin gloves, curled his stiff toes inside his worn boots, flexed them as well, rubbing them against the inside of the boots, another piece of agony. Boots. I need boots. Grab some prisoners, for certain.

And now he heard the snort of horses, soft hoofbeats, the low whispers behind him silenced. His heart thundered, his cold fingers gripping the saber, one hand squeezing the leather reins, pulling the horse to attention. His senses were focused, straining for more detail, but his eyes gave way to his ears, pulling in every sound, the light clank of a mess kit, another snort, soft hoofbeats in the dirt street. The thought flashed through him, a lightning bolt of excitement. They don’t know we’re here! It’s worked! He scolded himself now, Pay attention! There won’t be any orders, nobody to tell us when to attack. You’ll know when you see them, when they pass, let them go on by. Wait for the first volley, the only order that matters. His hand shook on the grip of his saber, his fingers tightening again, his heels slowly pressing into the flanks of the horse, the animal protesting silently, bouncing him, Seeley loosening the pressure, a silent apology.

The flash of a volley came well down the street, but it wasn’t many, and he felt a stab of panic, too few! He eased the horse forward, tried to keep calm, heard a chorus of voices, shouts, and now horses emerged
from across the street, an officer too jumpy, more horses moving quickly in front of him, musket fire in scattered volleys. He felt a burst of cold, shouted out, “Go! Let’s go!”

They followed him into the street, and he saw, far down, a melee engulfing men on both sides, flashes of fire, swords in the air. He searched the side streets, frantic, more horsemen emerging, confusion, no orders, but the fight was down the way, and he pointed his saber, spurred the horse, his men following, joining in with more squads, the men moving forward in one chaotic mass.

He saw the first Yankees now, a violent fight, swords clashing, horses pushing past more horses, pistol shots from every quarter. He searched for a target, so many men seemingly engulfed in the mix, men on the ground, his horse moving past them, a man in blue, pistol in his hand, firing to the side. Seeley screamed out, nonsensical, his own piece of the rebel yell, pushed the horse past the man, his saber coming down across the man’s chest, the blow nearly ripping the sword from Seeley’s hand. But the man collapsed, the horse empty of its rider, and he searched for more, saw men on the ground, fists, clubbed muskets, the stink of smoke from the pistol fire. He drove forward, another man in blue, coming straight toward him, sword high, terror and fury on the man’s face, and Seeley saw the blade coming down, bent low, the blade impacting his horse, Seeley pushing past, away now. More shots came, some close to him, others down a side street, men scattering, a piece of the fight driving that way. He turned, searched, saw men grappling on horseback, both falling, more pistol shots, heard a thunderous blast behind him, a familiar yell, realized it was Gladstone, the shotgun. The gun fired again, smoke enveloping Seeley and he turned that way, saw a Yankee falling toward him, coming down against the rump of Seeley’s horse.

The fight continued to swirl out in every direction, a sudden surge by more of Wheeler’s men, a fresh charge into a crowd of tangled troopers. He raised the saber again, felt a sharp pain in his shoulder, the sword ripped away, cried out, surprise, anger, the saber just…gone. He jerked the pistol from its holster, saw blue, a man aiming his own pistol, and Seeley pointed, fired, too quick, too high. He aimed again, a brief moment, clarity, silence, the Yankee turning toward him, eyes locking, the man raising his pistol, furious eyes, his arm
coming up slowly, dreamlike motion, the pistol a few feet from Seeley’s face, the blast, the flash blinding him. Seeley closed his eyes, flinching, curling up in his mind, the sulfur smoke blowing past him, and he opened his eyes, the man still there, the pistol coming up, the man cocking, and now Seeley aimed, shaking hand, the pistol moving all across the man’s body, firing now, the man stabbed back, backing off his horse, eyes on Seeley still, surprise, terror, the man now gone.

The noise seemed to fill him again, the fight in every direction, surging horses, more firing, hard shouts, men down in every part of the street. Now men were moving off, men in blue, horses scrambling to escape. From the street came more musket fire, carbines, but the Yankees were moving away. He spurred the horse, pursuit, others doing the same, but the Yankees were prepared, a line of men with carbines of their own, covering their retreat. The musket balls whistled past him, one man close beside him falling, a horse going down, awful scream. The line of Yankees seemed to dissolve, riding away quickly, and now more shouts, close behind him, orders, a voice of calm, strange, out of place. The order came again, firm, distinct, and he turned, saw Wheeler riding forward, passing over the bodies of men from both sides.

“Pursue! No quarter!”

The men obeyed, Seeley responding with instinct, spurring the horse, the pistol in his hand. He moved with a hundred more, along the wide avenue, out of the town, the dust rising up in a cloud, the mad retreat of the Yankees. Around him, men were picking up the call, the cheer of the victor, chasing a wounded prey. The road started uphill, the horses slowing, a new sound, beyond the dust, a hard cry. Seeley saw them now, a thick line of Yankees, driving their mounts toward Wheeler’s men, sabers high. He felt paralyzed, the men in blue driving closer, some firing from around him, but the Yankees came on, were there now, sabers whipping across and down, men responding, more grappling, men going down, both sides. Seeley focused on one man moving straight toward him, a hard gallop, the man up in the saddle, Seeley the target. He jerked on the horse’s reins, turned to the side, the Yankee passing, turning his horse abruptly, and Seeley held the pistol, had no idea how many shots he
had fired, tried to see the percussion caps, foolish distraction, the Yankee coming for him again.

“You’ll die now, rebel!”

Seeley ducked low, the man’s saber ripping Seeley’s hat away, a dull blow across Seeley’s back. He tried to turn the horse, pointed the pistol, fired, no aim, no time, the man on him again. Now there was a hard blast to one side, a burst of smoke, the Yankee disappearing, his horse moving past Seeley riderless. Seeley heard the cackle, familiar, saw Gladstone, the shotgun pointed forward.

“Pitiful. You’re a better shot than that, Captain. I ain’t gonna be there to save your apples every time.”

Seeley felt a hard shaking in his hands, glanced at the pistol, then back to Gladstone. “Thank you.”

“Yep. That’s a bottle of spirits, for sure. Lookee. They’re giving it up. Moving off. Done the right thing, though. Stopped us in our tracks. Brave devils. Not all of ’em made it outta here.”

Seeley followed Gladstone’s gaze, men writhing on the ground, more horses down, but Gladstone was right, the Yankees were pulling back, the orders flowing across the men, “Hold here! Damn their souls! Damn it all!”

He turned to the voice, saw Wheeler, red-faced anger. The calm returned, men gathering into line, expectant, more men coming out into the avenue, coming from fights of their own, down the side streets. Wheeler faced them now, a hard glare, spoke slowly, precise words, words to slice a man in half.

“Somebody fired too soon. I don’t know who did it, but somebody gave it away. They were coming, sure as rain, right into the trap. Somebody got…excited. We had him.” Wheeler held out his hand, made a slow fist. “We had him right there.”

Dibrell was there, more of the senior officers, and Dibrell said, “We whipped him, sir. Drove ’em straight away! Glorious victory!”

Wheeler turned away from him, said nothing, stared off toward the Yankee retreat. The others seemed unwilling to speak out, and finally Wheeler said, “I saw him. He was the first one to ride away. He’s up there on that far hill, watching us. He knows we whipped him. And he knows he got away.”