The Fateful Lightning (57 page)

Sherman saw sincerity in the man’s face, thought, Doesn’t seem to be just about voters.

“Do not be uneasy, sir. We have no business here other than to replenish our rations, and rest my men. We shall not delay in moving on. I have no cause to injure any private citizen, or destroy private property.”

“Thank you, sir. I am greatly relieved, and am completely in your service. I might suggest an appropriate headquarters for you, sir. The residence of Mr. Blanton Duncan. He is, I believe, what you would call a displaced Union man. Kentuckian by birth. I know you will be welcome there.”

“I’ll find him, thank you.”

There was a commotion ahead, the guard coming together, and Sherman looked that way, nudged the horse forward, heard his name, a half-dozen men pushing past the citizens. Snelling was down from his horse now, other guards following, the commotion swallowed by the sounds of the crowd. Sherman kept his focus on the men, thought, Rebel deserters, most likely. No doubt they’re all ripe with precious information that I should reward them for.

Snelling looked back toward him, a positive nod from his guard, Sherman curious now. Snelling led the men closer, and Sherman saw bits of ragged blue shirts, what remained of trousers. One man spoke out, a burst of tearful emotion.

“General! Praise the Almighty! You have saved us.”

Snelling said, “Sir, these men claim to be our own. Officers all. They claim to have escaped their confines at that camp outside of the town. It is just as we have seen before, sir. Their guards skedaddled, and the men found sanctuary here.”

Sherman climbed down from the horse, moved past Snelling, scanned the faces, gaunt, sunburned, another man speaking up.

“General, I am Captain James Otis, 5th Iowa Volunteers, sir. We are most grateful for your presence here, sir. We have freed ourselves from confinement.”

Sherman studied the men, saw the childlike joy on each face, tears, thankfulness. He felt himself tightening, tried to hold it in, said, “You men are a testament to the spirit of this army. You are safe now.” He turned, pointed to the horsemen behind him. “All of you, that man is General Howard. Once we have reached a headquarters, report to him. He shall provide for your comfort, and make necessary arrangements for you to accompany us.”

One man pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket, said, “Sir, I am Major Byers, adjutant of the 5th Iowa. Please accept this. It would honor me if you would read it at your leisure. Please, sir.”

Sherman stuffed the paper in his pocket, held out his hand, the man taking it. He felt the man’s rough skin, the bones barely hidden, said, “Major, follow along with us, and present yourself to General Howard. He will give you rations. A doctor shall examine you. You are safe now, Mr. Byers.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Sherman moved to his horse, climbed up, Howard smiling at him. Howard said, “I yearn for these kinds of days, General. Instead of mourning casualties, we deliver men from their captivity.”

Sherman nudged the horse forward, the guards moving out in front again. “I don’t mourn casualties, Oliver. I try to inflict them. I would suspect that those men would agree to do the same, should the opportunity arise, especially for any rebel who stands guard in a prison. Let us see if we can provide for that.”

T
hey reached another square, the storm of cotton still blowing out around them, more cheers from civilians, many of those faces black now. Behind him, Dayton called out, “Sir, that’s the depot, up ahead. Not much left.”

Sherman saw smoke rolling up from the blackened frame of the building, another building beside it, and on the platform, an enormous mound of cotton bales. The wind was whipping hard at the smoldering wreckage, the fire spreading to the cotton, other mounds of cloth bags. Men were moving ahead quickly, calling out for assistance, and he motioned to Dayton.

“Go. See what’s in those cloth sacks. Cotton I don’t care about. But there should be some rations, grain and whatnot.”

Dayton was past him quickly, other aides, more soldiers adding to the rush. Other soldiers were there already, coats waving, low flames beaten out. Dayton held up a handful of corn from one of the smoldering sacks, and Sherman nodded, thought, Good. At least there’s still something to put in the supply wagons.

To one side, Howard said, “Another fire down that street. Appears to be cotton. There’s smoke over that way as well.”

Sherman saw citizens gathering at the low flames, a vain effort to
extinguish the windblown fire that had engulfed a full bale. There were soldiers as well, and Sherman moved that way, prepared to give them a stern order, to help the civilians. But he heard their chorus, directed now toward him.

“It’s Uncle Billy! We’re in for it now!”

The others seemed to stumble about the man, and he saw the jug, said to Howard, “These men are intoxicated. Damn it all! You’d think these people would hide their whiskey, or at least send it off with the rebels. I want provost guards at every main intersection. I’ll not have looting from a bunch of corned-up soldiers. You understand me, General?”

He knew Howard had no tolerance for drunken behavior, could see more men emerging from a side street, another jug, one man tumbling down face-first. Howard was already in motion, orders to his staff, and Sherman pulled on the reins, turned the horse away, saw Dayton coming back.

“Not your job to put out fires, Major. McCoy should report back to us soon. I’ve had enough of this day. Send an aide out to find him. Every one of these damned people seemed jubilant that I’m here. I want to know if that mayor was right about the house we can use.”

Dayton spoke to an aide, the man riding off quickly, and Sherman looked toward the drunken soldiers again, could not avoid the contrast to the escaped prisoners. He thought of the names, Byers, Otis. Those men have honor. They survived an ordeal most of us will never understand. And now we show them this kind of foolishness, shameful outrage. These citizens won’t be in such a celebratory way if they get our soldiers intoxicated.

He saw McCoy now, riding quickly toward him, the aide riding beside.

“Sir, we have a suitable place. The mayor was correct, sir. I spoke to Mr. Duncan. Indeed a Kentucky man, most gracious. His door is open to us, at our leisure.”

Sherman felt the ache in his bones now, thought, I could use a bit of leisure. “Let’s go, Major. Lead the way.”

McCoy moved out, Sherman behind, the staff following. Sherman scanned the sky again, the wind even harder now, the storm of white
whirling above him, small cyclones, flecks blowing against every house, every shop, the street coated with a thin carpet of cotton.

DUNCAN HOUSE, COLUMBIA, SOUTH CAROLINA—FEBRUARY 17, 1865

The room was nothing like he had become spoiled by in Savannah, but the staff had settled him quickly, his first moment alone now since he came into the city. He removed his coat, the pockets thick with papers, thought of his description to Hitchcock, my headquarters in my uniform. They don’t understand that, he thought. Maybe Hitchcock takes offense at it, as though I’m depriving him of his usefulness. He does try, I credit him for that. He pulled a handful of papers from one pocket, tossed them on a small desk in the room, spread them out, quick scan. He did the same from another pocket, various dispatches, notes from some of the townspeople. Discard those, he thought. Wouldn’t do to have Ellen clean my soiled uniform only to find I’ve been corresponding with strange women. Whether or not I’ve actually spoken to them, or whether or not they’re strange, probably doesn’t matter. He pulled out another paper now, had forgotten what it was, the paper torn, yellowed, a smear of dirt. He opened it, saw penciled handwriting, the paper completely covered by verses. What the hell is this? He thought of the escaped prisoners now, the name Byers, thought, He wanted me to have this in the worst way. Something of meaning, no doubt, to him anyway.

Sherman read now, his eyes sliding slowly along each line.

Our campfires shone bright on the mountain

That frowned on the river below
,

As we stood by our guns in the morning
,

And eagerly watched for the foe;

When a rider came out of the darkness

That hung over mountain and tree
,

And shouted, “Boys up and ready!

For Sherman will march to the sea!”

Then sang we a song of our chieftain
,

That echoed over river and lea;

And the stars of our banner shone brighter

When Sherman marched down to the sea!

He lowered the paper, said aloud, “My God. This man is a poet.”

He read on, five verses in total, sat on the bed, his eyes fixed still on the paper. He tried to picture the man, rough-bearded, ragged clothes. He was a major, Sherman thought. Adjutant. Well, this is impressive as hell.

“Major Dayton!”

He waited, Dayton peering through the door.

“Yes, sir?”

“Read this. Major Hitchcock, here if you please!”

Dayton seemed curious, took the paper, cradled it carefully, read, his eyes widening. “We should show this to Mr. Conyngham, sir. This is worthy of print.”

Hitchcock was there now, Dayton handing him the paper without comment. Hitchcock scanned, then seemed to concentrate, adjusted his glasses.

Sherman said, “What do you think of that, Major?”

Hitchcock handed the paper to Dayton, said, “It’s as perfect an example as I can imagine, sir. The men are devoted to you, and all you’ve accomplished. This fellow is something of a poet, no doubt.”

“That’s what I said. What the hell do we do about this? Man was an adjutant in the 5th Iowa.”

Hitchcock thought a moment, smiled. “I know what I’d do, sir. Always room for one more adjutant. I’d put him on your staff.”

Sherman took the paper from Dayton, read again. “Find him. Always room for one more adjutant.”

H
e lay in the darkness, the windstorm battering the house, the walls seeming to shiver. Seen this before, he thought. California. A storm with no rain. Probably means something for the next few days, hell of a rain coming, or maybe snow. Infernal place, not North and not quite deep South. Caught between a normal winter and the devil’s own kind of spring.

The windowpane rattled, another strong gust, and Sherman stared up, fought to push the noises away. I haven’t slept through the night in, what? Twenty years? Well, maybe. Got a bed and everything, soft sheets, but no, there will be no peace. Maybe when there’s
peace
. But then there’ll be Ellen.

His eyes focused on a soft orange glow on one wall, and he sat up, looked again toward the window. He stood, walked that way, pulled open the sash, the wind buffeting him, the sash blowing free of his hand, a hard crash against the wall.

“Damn it all!”

He looked out, the wind watering his eyes, called out, “Major!”

It was Nichols who appeared, unexpected, and Sherman said, “What’s the cause of that?”

Nichols looked toward the window, said, “There’s a house afire down by the market square. Perhaps more than one.”

“Go, now, be sure the provost guards are working on that. I’ll not have corned-up soldiers doing damage to this place.”

Nichols left quickly, Dayton now in the room.

“I saw it from downstairs, sir. Looks pretty nasty. This wind won’t help the fire company, assuming they have one. Our men will no doubt lend a hand.”

“If they didn’t lend a hand starting it. I want the provost marshal here in the morning. If he hasn’t posted guards all around this place, and all through the public squares, he’ll find out what it means to carry a musket.”

He lit a lantern, thought, No sleep now. There was a sudden commotion downstairs, heavy boot steps climbing up, Nichols there, breathing heavily.

“Did you run, Major?”

Nichols fought for his breath, said, “Yes, sir! It’s the cotton. You recall the bales we saw burning this afternoon? There was failure to extinguish those fires, and now the wind has spread the flames to a row of houses across the street.” Nichols took a deep breath. “Sir, General Woods was there, with a good number of his troops. They are working to quell the blaze.”

Sherman moved to the window, stared for a long moment, the wind blowing the stink of the fire toward him. He closed the window,
could see now, silhouetted by the blaze, a storm of flakes, matting against the glass. But it was not the snowlike flecks of cotton. It was ash.

W
oods’s troops worked through the night, aided by Hazen’s division, brought quickly into the city to help fight the fires. But the wind had already won the battle, the flames spreading in one great wave from house to house, block to block. The soldiers struggled vainly, some with tools, some no more than blankets. Others moved out in front of the fire, rousing the citizens, who needed no prompting, the soldiers leading them to anyplace that was safe.

By midnight, Sherman had gone out to see for himself, could only do what his soldiers were doing, most of them helpless, the windstorm pushing the flames through the wooden homes, shops, churches, in a hellish blaze too hot for anyone to stay close. By four in the morning it was mostly over, the wind dying down, and with it the storm of ash and soot that coated every place, and every man who had struggled to hold it back.

COLUMBIA, SOUTH CAROLINA—FEBRUARY 18, 1865

He walked through the square, struggled to breathe through the foul air, the stink of the fire now drifting through every part of the city. The staff had gone before him, seeking out the commanders, Woods, Howard, Logan, many others, the officers who had labored through the night. He stopped, saw smoke rising still, heaps of burned timbers, where a church had been. To one side, a row of homes was smoldering white ash, the citizens there already, some staring, paralyzed. He wanted to speak to them, but there was nothing to say, no promises, no assurances, all of that swept away by the towering flames that spared little in their path.