The Fateful Lightning (59 page)

Hardee turned, saw Pickett looking at him, hunger and hopefulness in the man’s face. He could not hide from the rumbling in his own belly, scanned the laborers, who mostly ignored him. “I suppose we must not starve ourselves. Lead the way, Colonel.”

Pickett nodded, smiling, a show of gratefulness, turned his horse. Hardee noticed the animal’s ribs, one more mount that would not survive much longer. He glanced down at his own horse, knew the animal had been given preference for the meager forage they had found along the way, a privilege of command Hardee never took for granted. He spurred the horse gently, moved up closer to Pickett, who said, “Not very much generosity from the citizens hereabouts. Their morale is about what we have in the camps. It’s a terrible thing to witness.”

“Defeat?”

Pickett seemed surprised at the word. “The soldiers seem to feel that. Some of ’em, anyway. The people, mostly it’s hope. They were preached to for so long about how grand our independence would be, how President Davis was leading us to a Promised Land.”

“You ever believe that?”

Pickett thought a moment. “I wanted to.”

“We all wanted something, Bill. I wanted to lead men into battle. All I was ever trained to do. Led good men, some good fights. It was never the men, Bill. Never. Those same politicians who preached so loudly never had to face the enemy, never knew what kind of steel it took to fight. The generals who led these men…some of them weren’t fit to lead a schoolyard of children. Maybe that applies to me.”

“Certainly not, sir.”

“What have I given this army lately, Colonel? What inspiration do they find by my presence?”

“Plenty, if I may say. You’re here, after all. Where is Beauregard? Or Bragg?”

“It doesn’t always work like that. Not every general rides at the head of a column, or charges into a fight with his men. The ones who
were good at that, who enjoyed that…well, most of them are gone. I suppose there’s a lesson in that.”

He could smell the cooking pork, was suddenly ravenous, took a swig of water from his canteen. The smoke was rising from near the lone wagon, officers huddled close, all eyes on the roasting meat. There were others now, gathering slowly, drawn by the same aroma that engulfed him, a hundred or more, emerging from the trees, from the small road that led into the town. He stopped the horse, Pickett moving on, and Hardee felt sick, couldn’t ignore the pain in the faces of the men. He spurred the horse, moved up close to the wagon, called out, “Officers! Stand aside. Who is the cook here?”

“Here, sir!”

He saw a familiar face, the man holding a small pitchfork, two black men behind him, stoking the fire.

“You will provide a serving of that meat to every man in the ranks who requests it. Officers shall receive theirs when the men have been fed.”

“Sir, there won’t be enough. It’s just one old hog. Maybe a two-hundred-pounder.”

“Then make the servings smaller. We find another hog, or a beef cow, or a single chicken, you will do the same.”

The man looked at Hardee with a puzzled stare, and Hardee said, “Is there confusion about my order?”

“None, sir. Just…can’t say I ever heard one like that before.”

Hardee ignored the comment, moved the horse slowly away from the wagon, the gathering crowd of soldiers looking both at the wagon, and him. He pointed to one side of the fire, said, “You men will line up here.” He paused, saw the men with nothing but bare hands. “Use your shirts, if you have to. It could be hot.”

He glanced toward the cluster of officers now, saw undisguised agony. Pickett was back beside him again, said in a whisper, “You picked one fine time to be polite. I got spit slobbering down my shirt.”

Hardee had no need to offer an explanation, said softly, “Maybe next time. These men decide to up and leave tonight, these officers will have the whole commissary to themselves. I’d rather not experience that.”

The officers began to separate, audible mumbles Hardee tried not
to hear. From the town Hardee could see a handful of soldiers, accompanied by a pair of civilians, the men in a frantic dash toward him. Pickett seemed to welcome the distraction, said, “What’s the matter with them? Looks like something’s happening.”

Hardee watched them coming, thought, Everything that happens lately seems to be bad. But there were smiles from the men, the soldiers whooping, one man jumping, hands waving high.

Hardee said, “The telegraph. Must be. The line still runs north.”

He spurred his horse, cutting the distance between them, could hear the cheerfulness, the smiles broken by exhausted breathing. One man staggered close to him, his hand holding a piece of paper.

“Sir! General! It’s deliverance, sir!”

The paper reached Hardee’s hand, the man collapsing to his knees in gleeful exhaustion. Hardee felt a nervous stir inside him, steadied his hand, opened the folded paper.

“It’s a telegram, all right.”

Pickett leaned close, said, “Well? Please, General. You’re not gonna let me eat, at least let me in on the secret.”

Hardee lowered the paper, stared ahead, his mind working, drifting, his thoughts scattered by fatigue, hunger, trying to gather what might happen now. “Won’t be secret for long. We need to share this with the men. Seems our new commanding general, General Lee, has some ideas for us that didn’t come out of Richmond. I doubt the president would have suggested this on his own. They hate each other, you know.”

“Lee? I thought he and the president were friends.”

Hardee pulled himself back to the place, the moment, the men around him. Some were curious about the commotion, the ones with meat in their hands coming closer in a loose crowd. Hardee turned the horse, called out, “Gentlemen, if you please. We have received word. By order of the commanding general, Robert E. Lee, General Joseph E. Johnston has been named to command of this entire theater of the war, superior to Generals Beauregard, Bragg, and, well…Hardee.”

The men erupted in loud cheers, more men running that way, the word passing with windy speed. Hardee watched the spreading joy, the sudden outburst of elation. He tried to share that, to feel the contagiousness
of it, looked again at the wire. No, he thought, the president would not have suggested this. Lee knows Johnston well, knows what he can do, better than any commander in this army. Joe Johnston is a master of the retreat.

He continued to watch the soldiers, the word spreading out through the trees, through more of the camps. He glanced at Pickett, said, “You cheered by this, Bill?”

“I suppose so, sir. Old Joe coming back? That will give them, well, hope, sir. This might be the blessing we need.”

Hope
. Hardee said nothing, rolled the word through his brain. He searched for the feeling, for renewed optimism, but the tactician in him could only see the numbers, the plans, the strategy. He moved the horse away, would not say anything to dampen anyone’s spirits, not even his friend, Pickett, or anyone else on his staff. He saw his son now, the boy on horseback, riding hard, a self-appointed messenger, spreading the word to anyone who would hear it. And they will hear it, he thought. They will see this as a sign, a symbol, that the confusion and uncertainty will be replaced by…what? Victory? He shook his head, moved away from the joy of his men, thought, No, what Johnston will give us is spirit, at least for a while. And when that is exhausted, perhaps we can say he at least gave us a little more time.

A
s the night fell, the cavalry scouts rode hard into camp, the dispatch even more urgent than Hardee expected. For a few days, there had been delay, the Federal army caught behind the high water of the Wateree River. But those waters had fallen, and now both wings of Sherman’s army were marching in a rapid advance to occupy the town of Cheraw. There could be no hesitation, no futile optimism that his feeble defenses would hold Sherman’s juggernaut away. With his artillery and baggage trains sent safely northward, across the Pee Dee River, Hardee gave the order to his men. The march would resume, northward, across the border into North Carolina.

HANGING ROCK, SOUTH CAROLINA—MARCH 2, 1865

H
e had hoped by now to be in close pursuit of Hardee’s army, confirmation reaching him that Charleston had been abandoned, and those troops were on a route that should cross his own path. He had ordered the commanders to march with all speed, but as had happened so many times throughout the campaign, the weather had failed them. Rain-swollen creeks slowed every column, and Sherman had ordered his own camp to remain at Hanging Rock until the pontoons could be put to use.

He was traveling with his Twentieth Corps, commanded by Alpheus Williams, one part of Slocum’s left wing. The other, Jeff Davis’s Fourteenth Corps, had been trapped behind the Catawba River, their pontoon bridge swept away by the rising water. A frustrated Sherman could only make camp and wait, hoping that the rains that were again plaguing his army might also work to slow down the enemy.

“
H
ow long does he anticipate?”

The courier was shivering, soaked through from his ride, and Sherman tried to temper his questions, couldn’t fault this man for his efforts.

“Sir, General Davis is most distressed by the lack of progress. The engineers are making use of every kind of material to reconstruct a workable bridge. The waters are most unforgiving, sir.”

“In other words, General Davis has no idea whatsoever how long it will take him to cross that damned river.”

The man was shaking visibly now, and Sherman wondered if it was the cold wetness in the man’s clothes as much as it was intimidation in Sherman’s presence.

“No, sir. I assure you, sir, the general is hard at work.”

Sherman rose from the dining table, moved toward an energetic fire in the brick hearth. He had no idea whose house this was, just that the staff had found the first place they could dry their clothes. But even now, the roof above him was leaking, a steady drizzle of rainwater flowing into a hole hammered through the floor. Sherman stepped past that, warmed his hands at the fire.

“Sergeant, you may share this warmth. I will not attack you.”

The man eased closer, as though not quite believing him, but the fire was too inviting, the courier standing beside Sherman now, the floor there growing wetter from the man’s dripping clothes. “Thank…thank you, sir. I apologize for intruding into your headquarters.”

“You had a job to do. You did it. No need for you to court some illness by staying out in this miserable weather any more than you have to.”

CHESTERFIELD, SOUTH CAROLINA—MARCH 3, 1865

As General Davis finally pushed the Fourteenth Corps past the stubborn Catawba River, Sherman began to move again, alongside the Twentieth Corps. But the weather was unrelenting, the roads so poor that nearly every yard had to be corduroyed, a process that slowed the army still, and drove Sherman to utter fury.

As the troops marched into the village of Chesterfield, they were met with a hard skirmish line, what was quickly identified as cavalry under the command of Matthew Butler, whose horsemen had most recently been observed around Lee’s position at Petersburg. It was one more piece of evidence for Sherman that the rebels were scrambling with any maneuver they could, holding off both Grant and Sherman with numbers that likely were diminishing daily. The skirmish was brief, Butler’s men moving away quickly, unwilling to stand up against a wave of blue infantry.

The staff found him yet another house, what had once been a grand plantation home, now a run-down structure whose sole asset was an unleaking roof. As the staff prepared the place, aides were sent out to the commanders with specifics on Sherman’s location.

He stepped into the house on bare floors, wet boots tracking their way into a foyer, a parlor, a sitting area still with furnishings. The owner was an old man, his wife seemingly older, a frail-looking couple who stood silently to the side, acknowledging their helplessness. Sherman found a comfortable chair, the only one available, sat heavily, eyed the old couple as they eyed him.

“You have any coffee? No, of course you don’t. Whiskey, then?”

The old man shook his head slowly.

“Good. Don’t need it anyway. No one in this army needs it, not until they all go home.”

The staff was spreading through the house, and Sherman glanced toward the window, more rain splattering against the glass. He saw riders, dreary men with rain pouring from their hats, dark, heavy raincoats. He caught a glimpse of one face, recognized him, one of Kilpatrick’s staff officers. Sherman thought, What the hell does he want? They’re supposed to be a long way off from this place.

He stood, more curious than he wanted to be, heard the boot steps in the foyer, moved that way, the aides taking the man’s coat. Sherman chewed on an unlit cigar, said, “Captain…Kingsley, isn’t it?”

The man saluted him, stood straight-backed, the annoying air of a man who knows he’s in that “special” arm of the service. “General, it is a privilege to see you again, sir. General Kilpatrick offers you his most sincere respects, and requests that I share with you a number of
correspondences that have passed between our camps and the camp of the rebels, specifically between General Kilpatrick and General Wheeler. There is an increasing amount of hostility between the two camps, and words have been passed that have, frankly, sir, infuriated General Kilpatrick. The rebels are making astonishing accusations against us, sir.”

“There’s supposed to be hostility, Captain. This is a war.”

“Oh, yes, of course, sir. But General Wheeler has accused us of rape. And to make matters worse, sir, one of our patrols came upon seven of our soldiers, infantrymen, to be sure, who had been executed in a fairly gruesome manner, throats cut and whatnot. They were marked by a sign as having been the rapists. Again, they were certainly infantrymen. General Kilpatrick is very clear on that point.”

“I’m certain he is.”

“Well, sir, General Kilpatrick responded with appropriate outrage, pledging that he would execute any rebel prisoner in our possession for every Federal soldier executed by the rebels.”

“You said correspondences. You have them?”

“Oh, certainly. Right here, sir.”

Sherman took a leather satchel, turned away from the man, felt an annoying sense that this captain was enjoying his job just a little too much. “Stay here. One of my aides will get you something to eat. Dry off, for God’s sake.”

The captain obeyed, Sherman now alone in the parlor. He studied the letters, accusations of murder, flowing both ways. He scanned for the mention of a rape, saw it now, an incident not far from Columbia. Wheeler’s letter was direct and specific, the girl’s identity, the name of her father, the fact that seven men had taken part, said to be the same seven tracked down and executed by Wheeler’s men. He forced himself to read the back and forth between Kilpatrick and Wheeler, so much of it posturing, defending some mythical honor, the captain’s words coming again to Sherman, infantrymen. Certainly couldn’t be a
cavalryman
, he thought. They’re so far above reproach for any wrongdoing. Idiots.

There were boots again, voices, the annoying pleasantness of Kilpatrick’s man, but the other voice was more familiar still. It was Slocum. Dayton was there now, said, “Sir, General…”

“I know. Send him in here.”

Slocum appeared in the doorway, and Sherman held out a hand.

“Tell me, Henry, we still able to march, or are the men swimming now?”

There was more anger in the words than Sherman wanted, but Slocum seemed to share the sentiments, pulled off his hat, slapped rainwater in a spray.

“Miserable place, Cump. Miserable. How these people survive these winters, I don’t know. Whiskey and tobacco, I suppose.”

Sherman held out the letters. “Just got these, sent by that energetic captain out there. Kilpatrick’s been in a duel of words with Wheeler. We’re being accused of rape, among other atrocities.”

“Rape? Really? Haven’t heard any of that. Other things, mostly with the bummers. We’re not making friends hereabouts, that’s for certain. Rebels are getting more bold about disregarding the rules of war.”

Sherman set the letters on a small table, said, “What do you mean?”

“Well, I haven’t reported every incident to you. Too many of them, for one thing. And, it’s war. You know we’ve made every effort to control the scavengers, your orders, mine, every division commander we’ve got has nailed notices to trees, or passed the word all the way down to platoon level. Regrettably, it hasn’t been very effective. Perhaps there is some benefit to what the rebels are doing about it.”

“What are they doing?”

“Executing them. The cavalry in particular seems to have targeted the scavengers as a priority, and when they’re caught, Wheeler, or whoever else is in charge, has taken to killing the men, and making sure we find them. It’s been going on fairly regularly now. Worst case, we came across eighteen men, all with their throats cut. My men also found twenty-one others, tossed in a ravine, like it was some sort of official burial ground. Signs are showing up, along roadways, ‘Death to all Foragers.’ Not sure it’s stopping any of our worst offenders from abusing the citizenry, but it’s got the men pretty riled up in camp. There’s talk of executing prisoners in retaliation.”

“Have you?”

“No, of course not. That’s not a War Department inquiry I would enjoy suffering through.”

Sherman sat, thumped his fingers on the table. “Don’t like this, Henry. Not one bit. If our foragers commit excesses, then we will punish them ourselves. But I will not tolerate the enemy judging us for what is lawful. Just because we raid plantations and feed this army doesn’t make us war criminals. And we’re sure as hell not murderers. Or rapists. Are we certain that Wade Hampton is now in command of the cavalry?”

“Quite. Prisoners talk about nothing else. Like he’s an avenging angel. Wheeler can’t be too happy about that.”

“I don’t give a good damn what makes Wheeler happy. But I’m not tolerating this. I’m the one they’re calling a butcher, and they’re massacring prisoners? Major Hitchcock!”

He waited impatiently, heard the boots in rapid steps. Hitchcock was there now, said, “Yes, sir?”

“Get your pad of paper. I want to send a letter.”

Lt Genl Wade Hampton

Commanding, Cavalry Forces, CSA

General
,

It is officially reported to me that our foraging parties are murdered after capture and labeled “Death to all Foragers.” One instance of a lieutenant and seven men near Chesterville, and another of twenty one near a ravine near Fosterville
.

I have ordered a similar number of prisoners in our hands to be disposed of in like manner. I hold about 1000 prisoners captured in various ways, and can stand it as long as you; but I hardly think these murders are committed with your knowledge, and would suggest you give notice to the people at large, that every life taken by them simply results in the death of one of your Confederates….

Within days, Hampton’s reply was received.

I shall shoot two Federal prisoners for every one of my men you execute….

T
he war of words produced no satisfying result, and Sherman had to suspect that Hampton might very well carry out his threat. Sherman had long ago accepted that this war, or any war, was no gentleman’s game, that honor and dignity would be early casualties. But the foraging would continue out of necessity, no other way for Sherman to feed his army, a point he tried to make clear to Hampton. The orders went out again to the foragers, urging at least a measure of respect for civilian property, but Sherman and his commanders were forced to accept that they could not effectively govern the behavior of men sent out without direct control, and that temptation, greed, and viciousness had become part of the everyday life of a greater number of his soldiers than Sherman wanted to admit. As they marched through the raw middle of the Southern aristocracy, as they observed the lives of the masters and their slaves, as they heard the outpourings of joy that came from the freed blacks, his army had come to share Sherman’s complete lack of respect for what it meant to be Southern, and just what the South was fighting to preserve.