The Fateful Lightning (6 page)

“You know better than that, Captain. Just wondering. If I’m gonna be shot outta my saddle, just want to know it’s’ cause I’m moving forward, doing some good.”

“We’re all moving forward. Right now, it’s to find General Dibrell.”

Seeley pulled at the reins, the tired horse sluggish, stumbling, struggling to right itself. He held tight, gripped with his legs, the horse now upright, obedient, moving with a slow gait. Seeley motioned the others to follow, led them back toward the square where the general had been, where there were certain to be new orders.

S
eeley hadn’t been to his home in Memphis in nearly a year now. He had first joined the cavalry late in 1861, inspired by Nathan Bedford Forrest, who had gathered up a legion of able men from that part of Tennessee and then all through northern Mississippi. But Forrest’s command had been ripped apart, mostly by the efforts of Braxton Bragg, who despised Forrest. That feud had become legendary, but those who had pride in Forrest’s refusal to tolerate what the commanders called the overripe incompetence of Bragg soon understood that Forrest’s pride had come at a price. After Bragg’s magnificent victory at Chickamauga, with Forrest serving as an invaluable asset, Bragg had stumbled into a horrific defeat at Chattanooga. Even then Richmond had sided with Bragg, agreeing with his demand that Forrest be sent away, given what amounted to an independent command in central and western Tennessee. But Bragg had jabbed Forrest with one last insult. Just prior to the defeat at Chattanooga, several of Forrest’s prized cavalry units had been stripped away and placed under the command of Joe Wheeler.

Seeley had loved Forrest, had ridden close beside him through a dozen serious scraps, raids on Federal supply depots, confrontations with blue-coated cavalry where Forrest had nearly always prevailed. When Seeley had received the order to leave Forrest’s command, his first inclination had been to disobey, to ride back to Memphis whether the army, particularly Bragg, wanted him to or not. But Forrest
understood military necessity, had convinced those men to do their job for Wheeler as well as they had done it for him. Seeley had to accept that no matter the damage to Forrest’s pride, it was a fair trade that several of his regiments would remain with Wheeler, while in return Forrest would have his precious independence. The order to Seeley had come from Forrest himself, a hand on his shoulder, that hard gleam in the man’s eye, the stern words that convinced Seeley his duty would now lie with leading his horsemen anyplace Joe Wheeler needed them to be. As if the order hadn’t been enough, Forrest had reminded Seeley what he already knew. Memphis was firmly in Federal hands, and no Confederate officer could ride back home and expect to pass unmolested into the city just so he could visit his young wife.

Seeley wrote to Katie as often as he could find paper, but mail delivery had become nearly nonexistent, the thorough interruption caused by Federal cavalry throughout Mississippi and northern Alabama. Now a handful of letters remained in his own saddlebags, waiting for the word that it might be worthwhile to send them along.

They had been married merely four months when he enlisted, and the rare visits home had been far too brief. One of those visits had come when the Federal naval boats shelled the city, a monstrous stroke of bad fortune for Seeley. He had been captured by a Federal patrol and sent northward to Camp Douglas in Illinois. But his fortunes changed. The desperate fear that his life would end in a Yankee prison had been erased by surprising news that he had been exchanged, could return home after all. He had passed through Federal outposts and past Federal strongholds on the Mississippi as though he had never been to war at all. But Memphis was still firmly in Federal hands, and though he had been allowed a brief visit, Forrest had sent word that his officers were greatly needed. Once more Seeley had kissed his teary-eyed wife goodbye and returned to the cavalry. Forrest rewarded him by promoting him to captain, but Forrest had already been stricken with the disease of Braxton Bragg, and very soon Dibrell’s regiment, with its young Captain Seeley, was given wholly to Joe Wheeler.

Whether Wheeler was any closer to Bragg’s affections, Seeley learned that he at least knew to keep clear of Bragg’s erratic behavior.
After Bragg’s astounding failure at Chattanooga, the man who had alienated so much of his command was alienated himself, recalled by Jefferson Davis to Richmond. But the army reorganized, pulling itself together as quickly as possible to confront whatever new threat the enemy was planning. Wheeler continued to command the cavalry, including those units that had once ridden with Forrest. Seeley had become accustomed to the rugged landscape of northern Georgia, Wheeler’s men doing all they could to follow the advances of Sherman’s army.

During the first fights around Atlanta, Confederate commander Joe Johnston had seemed to appreciate Wheeler’s understanding that cavalry had far more value as observers than they did leading some vainglorious charge. But then Johnston was gone, one more casualty of Jefferson Davis’s penchant for managing the army based on who his friends were. Johnston had been replaced by John Bell Hood, and to the dismay of the cavalry, Hood seemed more focused on driving his army straight into Sherman’s guns than on any maneuver where the cavalry might be most useful. Though Hood still held his command, the loss of Atlanta had been a blow no one in the Confederate army could easily accept. Now Hood was off on another campaign, as though conceding that Atlanta had become unassailable, a Federal fortress Hood dared not assault. If Davis seemed to accept that, Georgia’s governor, Joseph Brown, most certainly did not. The political wrangling between Brown and Davis was far beyond what Seeley’s horsemen would ever know, but the order had come down, what must have been some kind of compromise to appease the Georgian. Hood would drive northward, assisted by Forrest’s horsemen. Wheeler’s cavalry was to remain in Georgia, if for no other reason than to scout the movements of Sherman’s forces.

Seeley was reluctant to ride with Wheeler. While Wheeler was a thorough and mostly diligent horseman, he carried none of the spark of Forrest, didn’t have the man’s aura, that invisible magnet that draws men to do the seemingly impossible. He seemed devoid of ambition, following orders because it was the right thing to do. In the immediate aftermath of the disaster at Chattanooga, Wheeler had stood tall alongside Patrick Cleburne at Ringgold Gap, holding the Federal army away while the Confederates succeeded in their retreat
to northern Georgia. If the man lacked personality, Seeley began to appreciate that Wheeler at least knew how to lead his men against the enemy.

Wheeler was a West Pointer, and no one doubted his abilities in the fight. But the Confederate cavalry was now suffering from the same disadvantage as the army. Increasingly, the Federal commands were growing larger, with new recruits and better supplies, fed by the Mississippi and Tennessee rivers and the network of rail links spreading northward. Even as they fought to defend the southernmost states of the Confederacy, both the cavalry and the foot soldiers began to realize that any efforts to call upon new recruits for the army met with indifference at best. The cheerleading from the government seemed to point to a vast sea of untapped manhood, but the soldiers themselves saw little of the kind. If there were civilian men lurking in various corners of the Confederacy, in Georgia they seemed to have vanished altogether.

A problem equally damaging was the lack of rations and equipment. The numerous factories throughout Georgia had long sent the greater amount of their goods northward, mostly to Lee’s beleaguered army in Virginia. Now, with Georgia suffering a direct Federal invasion, the people seemed to be holding closely to what they produced. Few civilian officials, including Jefferson Davis, ever expected that the Federal forces would drive so deep into Southern breadbaskets. Seeley only knew what the occasional newspaper said about Virginia, that Lee was valiantly pushing back against the overpowering forces of Ulysses Grant, forces that Lee would soon eradicate. Seeley knew better than to accept anything in the papers at face value. The latest reports all pointed to the inevitable liberation of Nashville by Hood. Men who had little to cheer latched on to those claims in a burst of optimism, a boost in morale that spread quickly through southern Tennessee. But not even the most optimistic of the men around Seeley seemed to grasp that Hood’s crushing losses in and around Atlanta had cost the army more than just manpower they couldn’t afford to lose. Atlanta was a crucial rail hub, had fueled Confederate armies in every part of the war. Now those rail lines were wrecked, the factories that supplied the railcars turned to ash. But Seeley couldn’t dwell on a greater part of the war than what lay in front of
his own horsemen. For now, those men who still rode with him had one duty: Find the enemy and drive them out of Georgia.

“
Y
our men can accompany me. There might be a need for some security detail, should the Yankee stragglers make themselves known. I am not convinced that the enemy has completely vacated this city. It makes no sense that Sherman would walk away from such a prize. We shall redeem our army before this is long past. I am certain of that.”

Seeley nodded, nothing else to say, General Dibrell seeming to offer speeches at every turn. He saw Wheeler now, standing on the veranda of an undamaged house, a cluster of officers moving around like bees at a hive. Farther away, a hundred horsemen tended to their mounts, buckets of water hauled by slaves from the wells the Yankees had left untouched. The horsemen looked as worn as Seeley’s own, poor uniforms, dull boots, few wearing anything that could be called “clean.” He led his own men closer to the house, glanced back, motioned with his hand the order to spread out. They complied, a single row taking position as a makeshift skirmish line, protecting the officers from whatever imaginary threat might suddenly erupt.

Wheeler was even more unimpressive physically than Seeley could recall, a short, slightly built man who moved with the quick darting motions of a frightened squirrel. But Seeley knew that what seemed to be nervous agitation was in fact a serious attention to detail, to all that surrounded the man. Seeley had never seen Wheeler laugh, the man never offering a joke, or even a hint of lighthearted banter. But when Wheeler led them into a fight, he pushed as hard as any man could, even to the point of outrageous risk. That was something Seeley was accustomed to, a trait shared by Nathan Bedford Forrest. They shared another trait as well, a kind of vicious fire that Seeley had struggled to find in himself. Wheeler and Forrest both believed that killing Yankees was the most important task they had.

But there were differences between Forrest and Wheeler that went far beyond appearances or Forrest’s lack of West Point training. Wheeler was not yet thirty years old, not much older than Seeley, some fifteen years younger than Forrest. What Wheeler lacked in age
he seemed to make up with aggressiveness, whether or not that was always the correct option. If there were to be fights ahead, Seeley had accepted that Wheeler might put all of them in a situation that could be disastrous.

Seeley dismounted, followed Dibrell toward the veranda. Wheeler scanned the men as they approached, glanced at the other officers, then moved with short, quick steps into the house. Seeley held back, waited for the more senior men, saw no one of his rank. He felt suddenly as though he shouldn’t be here at all, had never taken part in anyone’s council of war, if that’s what this was. But the mood was too serious, too grim for anyone to pay much attention to this one captain. If he wasn’t welcome, someone, especially Dibrell, could order him away.

The room smelled of smoke, some of it tobacco, some from the breeze that carried the stink of burning lumber from the next block, where one house still spewed out a column of black smoke. Seeley crept forward, a large sitting room, saw Wheeler pacing, his hand holding a single piece of paper.

“This came from Beauregard, who is right now…well, I have no idea where he might be. He’s on his way here, that’s all I know. All he’ll say.”

“Is Beauregard our new commander?”

The words came from one of the brigadiers, and Wheeler spun on his heels, stared at the man as though intent upon killing him.

“Possibly. For now anyway. There is also word that General Bragg is assuming command from a base in Augusta, Heaven help us. General Hardee is supposed to be on his way toward Macon, to organize defenses there. General Johnston is no doubt perched up on some pole somewhere watching this with great amusement. A herd of generals, and none of them are here, and all of them with the authority to tell me what to do.” He spun again, paced a few steps, his boots clattering on the wooden floor. “Most of you have been with me in a great many scraps. This army has the astounding talent of winning battles and then losing them, all at the same time. Or perhaps we win the battles and lose the campaigns. Never mind. We have orders to pursue Sherman’s army, wherever they might be going. We are to stay close, inviting them to delay their march by forcing them to respond
to our presence with vigorous aggressiveness. If there’s a fight to be had, we must have it. But we are not to attempt to bring on a significant engagement. The fact is, gentlemen…” He paused, looked down. “The fact is, there is no other army in Georgia to lend us a hand. In this command we have four to five thousand effectives. Sherman is leading ten times that number, or more.” He stopped, reached into a pocket, withdrew a crumpled paper. “I suppose you should hear this. I was sent this order by General Hood, just as he began his operations into Tennessee. Allow me to quote. ‘You must endeavor to keep the Atlanta and Dalton railway constantly cut, and should the enemy evacuate Atlanta, you must destroy all the roads north of the Chattahoochee, and constantly concentrating toward your left be prepared to join at any time the main body of the army. Should the enemy advance anywhere you will drive off all the stock in their front, and destroy all the mills within ten miles of their lines of march, retarding them as much as possible.’ ” He stopped again, held up the paper. “Four to five thousand effectives. We are to destroy every rail line that leads north, while we prepare to move to the west, all the while destroying the enemy’s sustenance to his front, wherever that may be, and maintaining a ten-mile-wide path of destruction along the enemy’s route of march. I have a solution to this ‘interesting’ problem offered us by General Hood.”