The Fateful Lightning (62 page)

They rode as quickly as the woods would allow, the sounds of the fight growing in front of them. Seeley moved out to one flank, the woods to his left alive with horsemen, Wheeler somewhere in front. Seeley ducked tree limbs, the horse obedient, efficient, a quick glance back to his men, keeping up close, eyes on him, on the sounds to the front. To one side, men were in the woods, on foot, men in blue. Seeley wanted to call out, but the men were advancing toward the fight, as the horsemen were, what seemed like a skirmish line. Seeley pulled the pistol, but the Yankees paid no mind to the horsemen, and Seeley watched them, saw glances his way, no recognition, thought, They think we’re Yankees! He nudged the horse closer to the main body, putting distance between his men and the foot soldiers, those men nearly gone, blocked by the timber. He was frantic, fought to keep the horse in a slow gait, the pounding in his chest ruling his brain, his hand finding the butt of the pistol, the voice screaming through him, Let’s go!

The woods began to give way, smoke now finding them, the sounds of men, screaming, shouts, more firing. They were in the clear now, the village laid out in front of him, men in motion in every direction, many men on foot, a mad scramble through small houses, open yards, a narrow street, a wider road. The attack was utter confusion, men with sabers high, a line of horsemen, riding hard, colliding with another line, men in blue. The fights were singular, duels with sabers, pistol fire, men chasing down the men on foot. Seeley moved out into an open area, trying to find some order, glanced back, his men still with him. There were Yankees coming out of the small houses, some barely dressed, strapping on belts, swords, running for a corral of horses.

“That way! Charge them!”

He spurred the horse, the others following, the men on foot ragged, disorganized, desperate. He reached the first man, the man curling up, his hands high, useless shield, a sharp, terrified cry. Seeley moved past him, no threat, and he searched, more men, one with a carbine, firing into a group of fighting men. Seeley jerked the horse that way, rode hard, low, the man seeing him, the carbine coming up, the pistol in Seeley’s hand firing with a hard jerk. The man dropped, Seeley’s horse rolling past him, more men at the corral, a mad dash to mount up, men without uniforms. He aimed the pistol again, too many targets, searched for danger, for anyone trying to make a fight. One man was on his horse now, held a pistol of his own, hatless, a thick beard, spurring the horse toward Seeley. They closed the gap between them, a hard gallop by both men, Seeley trying to keep the pistol on the man, firing, a burst of smoke, Seeley firing again. The man fell, the horse passing by Seeley riderless, and Seeley searched for the man, but there were others, too many, his horse taking him into the corral. He spun around, shouting, others answering his call, their own piece of the rebel yell, driven by the raw terror, the manic thrill, the fight boiling up in every direction. He saw faces, bits of uniform, could begin to see more of the Yankees, some of those men dressed, many more in nightclothes. He searched, saw another heavy line of Confederates, a charge coming across in front of him, and he spurred the horse, saw a cluster of his own men, called to them, blood on one man’s arm, but they came, responding, and he led them into line. They advanced together, more than two hundred, a heavy line straight through the village, a line of Yankees forming up to meet them. The two came together with a heavy metallic crash, swords and sabers coming together, harsh shouts, carbine fire, pistols, the awful cry of horses, screaming men. The two lines separated again, the Yankees drawing back, disorganized retreat, the men around him regrouping, Seeley checking his pistol, reloading as quickly as he ever had. There were commands, a hard voice, and he saw an officer, older, unfamiliar, the man pointing his sword, the line coming in close, the assault beginning again. They moved against the retreating Yankees, those men stopping to fight, but not all. There was pursuit now, some of the Yankees dropping down, hands high, surrender, Seeley moving past
them, no interest in grabbing prisoners, not yet. He searched the village, frantic motion, his men coming toward him, respect, seeking orders. There were bodies on the ground, both sides, men crawling, bad wounds, some just splayed out where they fell. Seeley absorbed all he could, listened for anyone’s commands, but the fight had dissolved into small battles. He called to his men, no more than half his force, “Form up here! Check your weapons.”

He searched the village, smaller fights still ongoing, but many of the Yankees had gone, some still on foot making their retreat. And now he saw the larger house.

“With me!”

He spurred the horse that way, saw others, both sides, some riding hard past the house, others dueling, one Yankee leveling a pistol, the blast into a man’s chest, firing again. Seeley pulled his saber, pointed toward the man, the target to guide them all, led the horses in a calm charge, quicker now, the men staying together. The Yankee saw his predicament, turned his horse, a quick dash away, and Seeley looked at the fallen man, recognition, an officer, Anderson, one of the colonels. The man was writhing, blood in a muddy pool beneath him. Seeley pointed to him, shouted out, “See to him!”

Men obeyed, but Seeley was past the wounded man, his eyes on the house. He saw a man in gray on horseback, speaking to a man barely dressed, and Seeley rode that way, saw it was a captain, tried to recall the name, Butler’s man…
Bostick
. The captain shouted down to the near naked man, “Where is Kilpatrick?
Where is he?
”

Seeley saw the other man, nightclothes, frantic fear in the man’s face. He pointed down a far roadway, said, “He rode there! That man on the black horse! He’s getting away!”

Seeley moved up close to the captain. “Captain Bostick?”

The man looked at him, furious frustration in his face. “Yes! Who are you?”

“Doesn’t matter. Should we search the house?”

“Too late for that. I’m going after him.” Bostick looked at the man on the ground. “If you’re lying to me, I’ll be back here to split you in two!”

“He went off that way! I saw him! I swear it!”

Bostick moved off quickly, and Seeley eyed the house, moved the horse slowly that way, a handful of his men coming up with him. He said, “This is Kilpatrick’s headquarters. We should check it.”

Musket fire was whistling past them now, some striking the house, the confusion of the fight swirling around them in nearly every direction. Seeley searched for the source of the firing, but it was too scattered, some of it distant. He turned to the house again, heard one of his men say, “Captain, look, it’s a woman. Dang, she’s near nekkid.”

Seeley saw the door of the house, the woman in a thin white gown, bare legs, a bare shoulder. The others were all moving that way, one man down from his horse, the woman calling out, “Protect me! Please!”

Seeley shouted, “Go! Take care of her!”

From behind, a hard blast blew through the dirt street, then another. He spun the horse, smoke rising, the air ripped by another shell. Men were gathering, pulling the wounded off into cover, an officer now, familiar, calling out, “Artillery! See to the wounded, then withdraw to the edge of town! That way!”

The shells came again, four in quick sequence, and Seeley looked again to the house, saw the woman, escorted by a pair of his men, pulling her down into a low ditch, a shell impacting a few feet behind them. Seeley thought now of the man he had seen, the nightclothes, searched for him, thought, The house. He should be with her. Maybe his wife. He dismounted, moved toward the door of the house, pulled the pistol, stopped at the door, felt an itch, Don’t be careless. He eased into the house, saw pieces of a uniform, more, a canteen, a saber, boots. He thought of calling out, felt too cautious, looked in every corner, eyed the doorways, the staircase. The artillery was coming again, the thunder rattling the house. There were more blue uniforms, a trunk, a dining table set with china, wine bottles, a breakfast prepared.

“Sir! The lady’s done told us, you gotta hear this, sir!”

Seeley looked toward the man, Private Goode, a serious, sober man, seeming to burst with words. “Told you what?”

“The lady, name’s Marie Boozer. She says she’s Kilpatrick’s special lady. Begging us that we ought not be rough with her.”

“We won’t be ‘rough’ with any lady. Did she tell you where Kilpatrick is?”

“Just said he done left.” The man hesitated, then said, “Lookee, out that way! Man’s haulin’ it off on a horse!”

Seeley rushed to the window, saw the horse emerging out from a small barn to the rear of the house. It was the man he had seen, still in his nightclothes, the horse at a hard gallop, disappearing now into the smoke from the incoming shells. Seeley stared that way, felt a sudden wave of nausea. He thought of Wheeler, all the hatred, the rivalry, the feud. But through it all, there was the one detail Seeley didn’t know, the question he had never thought to ask. Just what does Judson Kilpatrick look like?

A
s the Confederate cavalry gathered up, they assessed their haul, nearly five hundred prisoners, though they lost more than a hundred casualties of their own. But the success was short-lived. The village was ripe with plunder, the Confederate troopers, many without boots or decent coats, ceasing their pursuit of the Yankees to rifle the homes for loot. The precious time they afforded the Yankees was all Kilpatrick’s men required. Within the hour the cavalry returned, this time backed up by Federal infantry and artillery. The Confederates, mostly Butler’s men, were suddenly faced with a heavy line of Spencer repeating carbines, a hail of fire the men could not hope to match. Hampton’s troopers had squandered their surprise and had no choice but to cede the village back to Kilpatrick’s men and a newly arrived force of Sherman’s infantry.

For Seeley, the depressing reality was that he would make the effort to confirm Kilpatrick’s description, the image of the man in his nightclothes burned into his brain. All he knew for now was that Butler’s Captain Bostick had missed his opportunity, and that Seeley might well have sat on his horse with a pistol in his hand, staring down at the pathetic figure of a man in his nightclothes, who was most likely Kilpatrick himself.

FAYETTEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA—MARCH 13, 1865

T
he boat was the
Davidson
, a navy tug that plowed its way slowly up the Cape Fear River, the first craft of its kind Sherman had seen since he left Savannah. For the men it meant mail, vast crowds straining against the order imposed by the provost marshals, the mail sacks doled out to the impatient joy of the men who might once more hear from home.

For Sherman, the arrival of the
Davidson
came a day after he had ridden into Fayetteville, reaching the next link in a chain that wound him that much closer to the final confrontation with whatever enemy lay in his path. The boat’s arrival meant a supply line was now open to the coast at Wilmington, and for men who had grown weak from the poor foraging over the past weeks, Sherman knew the boat was a symbol of better times, that more boats would follow, hauling every kind of supplies his army required.

Major Byers had become a fixture around Sherman’s camp, the lyrics of his poem put to music, a pleasant surprise for Sherman’s staff officers. Byers had organized a glee club of sorts, its members coming mostly from the former prisoners who had shared his confinement at
Columbia. More than once, Sherman had invited Byers and his men to regale the various senior commanders, the audience delighted by the talent of the men who carried the tune, Sherman focused more on the extraordinary words Byers had put to paper. Already he had encouraged Byers to pass on the poem to Conyngham, to any of the other reporters. It was a small show of pride from Sherman, allowing himself to feel the compliment from Byers’s talented lyricism, something he had even shared with Ellen.

But once in Fayetteville, with the river spread before him, Sherman had another mission for Byers. When the
Davidson
resumed her voyage, moving seaward, Byers went along. In his pocket he carried a message meant for the eyes of Ulysses Grant. The note was simple and straightforward, none of the anxiety about politics and the intrigue plaguing Washington. Sherman offered Grant a neat summary of the campaign through South Carolina, offered positive descriptions of the condition and morale of the army. But most important, Sherman communicated to Grant his absolute confidence that even if Joe Johnston threw obstacles into Sherman’s path, they would be overcome with a minimum of effort, and assuring Grant that Sherman was perfectly certain that “I will be in position to aid you materially in the spring campaign.”

Word had come of the embarrassing incident at Kilpatrick’s encampment, not far from Fayetteville. The soldiers spoke of it freely, information, whether accurate or not, passed along from the senior officers to their men. Sherman waited for a direct report from Kilpatrick, but his own staff was picking up the tidbits as they floated past his headquarters, and whether the rumors were exaggerated or not, Sherman was gaining a pretty clear picture that Kilpatrick had been badly bruised. Whether the cavalryman would ever admit that really didn’t matter. Sherman still required his services, both as a probe to the front and as protection for Slocum’s far left flank. The rumors and sketchy reports suggested that Kilpatrick had suffered a heavy thumping from Hampton’s troopers, losing prisoners and more casualties than Sherman wanted to hear. But the teasing from the soldiers was the most annoying, Kilpatrick’s reputation for luxurious accommodations and the company of a variety of toothsome women bothering
Sherman more than he knew it should. As long as the cavalry did its job, Sherman had little to complain about, but Kilpatrick’s bad habits were becoming a distraction, if not to the rest of the army, then for Kilpatrick himself. Too many reports painted the picture of Kilpatrick caught in a compromising position, his camp without suitable pickets or any kind of defenses at all. That Kilpatrick was able to escape was testament to the man’s skills as a rider. That he left a woman behind who might have provided the rebels with all manner of indiscreet information made Sherman furious.

I
n Fayetteville, Sherman placed his headquarters in what had been the old United States Arsenal, a facility enlarged and put to efficient use by the rebels who had commandeered it. But those men were long gone, protected by the burning of the primary crossing over the Cape Fear, what he knew had been accomplished by Hardee’s men just prior to Sherman’s arrival. But Captain Poe had gone immediately to work, the pontoon bridges now in place, and already Sherman was planning the next step in the advance, still intending to nip at the heels, if not grab the entire body, of whatever force Hardee was leading.

As the
Davidson
churned away downriver, Sherman stood staring at a glorious sunset, the last remnants of the latest rain clouds that inflicted a wet plague on his army. He moved back inside, saw Hitchcock at a desk, copying the letters Sherman had written, all the usual correspondence he was obliged to send to the War Department.

“You not finished with that yet?”

Hitchcock looked up over his glasses. “Almost, sir. Sorry. There will be another boat tomorrow. The
Davidson
’s Captain Ainsworth assured me of that. They are anxious to provide for us all the goods you requested. It is a gratifying experience, sir.”

“What?”

“The cooperation of the navy. I had always heard about rivalry between the services. But so far, Admiral Dahlgren, the others, all seem completely willing to support the campaign.”

“Suppose there’s some navy men feel differently. But my experience has been a good one. Vicksburg, Admiral Porter. He and Grant
made that work like a fine clock. Any navy man decides he’s running his own show, remind him who’s keeping the enemy away from all those forts they built on the coastline. It’s not a damned contest.”

“Yes, sir.” Hitchcock paused. “Strange town, sir. Hardly anybody in the streets. Not sure if they’re afraid of us, or just…bored with this whole affair.”

“It’s the Sabbath, Major. These people aren’t what we saw farther south. Good Scotch Covenanters, mostly. Some of ’em went hard for the rebels, no doubt. But a good many just want this thing to be over with. Not especially loyal to anybody’s flag. The British found that out, early in the revolution. Redcoats tried to tame these people, got bloody noses for their trouble. I’ve got no cause to treat these people with any punishment in mind. This isn’t South Carolina. You sent that order to Kilpatrick?”

“Oh, yes, sir. A copy is…here. ‘You will deal as moderately and fairly by North Carolineans as possible, and fan the flame of discord already subsisting between them and their proud cousins of South Carolina. There never was much love between them….’ ”

“That’s enough. Good. I just hope he can control his damned raiders so we don’t burn as much of this place as we did south of here. I want Schofield to get that word as well.”

“Do you expect General Schofield to meet with us here?”

“Hell, no. I’m not staying around Fayetteville more than I have to. The rebels are hightailing to the north, and I want to grab Hardee by the soft privates before he can gather up much help from Johnston. If we can’t catch him, at least we’ll keep him running. Schofield will rendezvous with us at Goldsboro, and if he understands how important that is, I expect to see him within a week or so. A great deal can happen in a week, Major. I want all of it to be positive.”

“Sir, should I inform Major Dayton that we intend to march tomorrow?”

“The day after. The men are enjoying the rest, and they earned it. If the tugs will bring rations and clothing upriver, the men will welcome that opportunity.”

“They’ll march without any of that, sir. Never seen morale so high.”

Sherman thought a moment, looked toward the door, the daylight almost gone. “They know what the compasses tell them, Major. This
isn’t a slog through some Georgia swamp, or some march to someplace no one’s ever seen. Every day we move, they’re a little closer to home. That’s how you boost morale.”

Hitchcock smiled, nodded. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

Sherman moved again to the door, saw flickers of lantern light, most of it from his men, the guards close by, others encamped close to the arsenal. He stepped back inside, saw McCoy now, peering over Hitchcock’s shoulder. “Question, Major?”

McCoy straightened, said, “Just one, sir. You had mentioned yesterday that we would leave this place only when the arsenal was dealt with. Do you have orders to that effect?”

Sherman glanced up, heavy wooden timbers, wood planking on the walls. “Tomorrow, order Captain Poe to begin burning the place. Every structure, and anything left inside.” He paused. “This was a hell of a well-run operation, Major. If it was practicable, I’d garrison the place. But it’s not. We’ll call it our one lesson to the people of North Carolina. We give you responsibility over a Federal arsenal, it won’t pay you to appropriate the place. Tell Poe to blow it up with gunpowder, and knock down every wall. I intend to recommend to the War Department that they not stick an arsenal anywhere in the future where a misguided rebellion might make use of it.”

B
y March 15, Sherman had marched his entire army across the Cape Fear River, on the roads that would lead to Goldsboro. As before, Howard’s wing, the Seventeenth and Fifteenth corps, took the eastward path, while Slocum’s Fourteenth and Twentieth marched more to the west. The maps showed the obvious, that if Johnston was gathering any substantial force of rebels at Raleigh, Slocum’s men were closer, and would likely bear the brunt of any assault. In response, Sherman ordered Kilpatrick’s men to shield Slocum’s columns.

He rode with his staff, the misery of another storm soaking through him yet again, the slop of the roads bogging the artillery in front of him, men gathering in work brigades to free the wheels. He moved past cursing teamsters, ignored the work. He tried to keep his
back straight, but the cold wetness had already flooded down the back of his neck, souring his mood, keeping the staff at bay.

There was a wagon now, down in a shallow ditch, a quartet of men straining against one wheel. Sherman halted the horse, tried to see past the disguise of the raincoats, looking for an officer.

“Get more men, for God’s sake! Who’s in command?”

One man stood straight, a salute, the telltale sign of a young officer. “Yes, sir. Lieutenant Folyard. General Sherman, it is an honor, sir.”

“Shut the hell up. You have any more men than this under your command?”

“Yes, sir. A platoon, up ahead.”

“Well, bring them back here and use them. What the hell do you think they’re for?”

The man saluted again, and Sherman spurred the horse, cursed under his breath, the young lieutenant running past him through ankle-deep mud. The column resumed ahead, and Sherman fought the despair, an odd blanket of gloom that seemed to soak him as easily as the rain. He wanted to stop, to find some dry place, had passed at least a half-dozen small farmhouses. But the men were on the move, and he knew to keep them there, that every mile was one less before they reached Goldsboro. Damn it all, he thought. Has there ever been a campaign that survived drowning as much as this one? Is it just the time of year? I don’t recall New Orleans this miserable. Where’s Kilpatrick? If he’s got some wayward beauty stuffed in his camp wagon again, I’ll skin him myself. If there was anyone else out here who outranked him, Kilpatrick would be haying horses.

Sherman closed his eyes, fought a budding headache, struggled to see past the gloom, a mood as black as any in weeks. Why now? he thought. Is it just the damned weather? I’m just so sick of so many days doing nothing. He had a sudden thought, remembered Georgia, the approach to Savannah. We pressed them, compacted them, and so I thought there was danger in that. Interior lines, a tight defense, all of it. Hardee wrote the textbook, for God’s sake. But he didn’t make use of it. Or maybe he didn’t have the strength. What about now? Johnston’s giving him orders. What does that mean? He’s retreating,
we know that. Running like rabbits, with this big damned sixty-thousand-man hound dog on his tail.

He tried to take some comfort in that, forced himself to say aloud, “We’re winning. Damn it all. No reason to be so down in the mud about it. What the hell’s the matter with you?”