The Fateful Lightning (67 page)

Hardee knew the staff was behind him, would keep their distance unless he summoned them. He moved with the rhythm of the horse, the animal keeping to a well-worn trail. He was just riding, letting the horse lead the way, no place he wanted to be. Mary should keep clear of Raleigh, he thought. Having her come up here is the best decision I’ve made since we left Savannah. At least I’ll be able to see her, and she’ll listen, and she won’t judge me for anything we’ve done, for what I allowed my son to do.

He passed a small campfire, a half-dozen men huddled close, staring into the flames, no one looking up at him. He stopped the horse, wanted to dismount, to feel the warmth on his hands, but it wasn’t his place.

“You men fought well today.”

“How would you know? We lost near half the company. I didn’t see no officers leading no attack. Like it’s always been. We’re told what to do, and we just do it. Had the Yankees running scared, best thing I ever seen. And then it all just stopped. And half of us don’t come back.” The man looked up at him now, his dirty face lit by the glow of the fire. “You see us, right here? Three years ago, we was a whole danged regiment. Now, we’s it. All what’s left.”

“What regiment, soldier?”

The man stared at him without recognition, the others keeping their faces toward the fire. “Ain’t tellin’ you nothing else. Don’t trust nobody, not no more. You go on, back to your tent, or fancy house.”

Behind him, Major Roy. “Soldier, you’re talking to General Hardee. You watch your disrespect.”

The man’s expression changed, a brief flash of awareness. The others turned, at least a show of curiosity.

“Well, I didn’t mean no disrespect to you, sir. But how would you feel? Six of us. Out of three hundred. No officers, no colors of our own, not in over a year. We been stuck into four other units before today. It’ll be five tomorrow, count on that.”

Hardee glanced back at Roy, said, “Leave him be, Major.”

Hardee nudged the horse forward, left the fire behind him,
thought, Six men. They’ll be close the rest of their lives. I should have found out more, where they’re from. He shook his head, stared into the darkness, more campfires. Does it matter? They’re the army. They’re what’s left. And they know even better than I do, it isn’t enough.

T
he next morning, March 20, Johnston pulled his units into a semicircle, facing east and south, as strong a defensive line as he could mount against the troops the Federals had now put into the field. There was fighting still, skirmishing and forays, casualties absorbed on both sides, strikes and counterattacks, Federal artillery peppering Confederate positions, while the infantry made jabs and probes that amounted to little for either side.

Whether anyone in Johnston’s command held out hope for success, no effort they could make could counter what was coming their way from the east. The courier came from General Evander Law, who had maintained contact with Sherman’s right wing, the troops of Oliver Howard. A strong force of Federals had broken off their march toward Goldsboro, and had turned toward the bloody fields south of Bentonville. As Johnston assessed his situation, it was obvious that there was no purpose to keeping his troops in place, awaiting what would surely be an overwhelming assault by a far greater number of Sherman’s troops.

Late in the day on March 21, even as Federal troops jabbed hard into Johnston’s flank, his order was carried out, the troops remaining under his command withdrawing from the field, marching northward through the town of Bentonville. Each side had put some sixteen thousand men into the field, but the Confederates had absorbed twenty-six hundred casualties, a thousand more than the Federals. If Johnston’s plan had succeeded, Sherman’s left wing might have sustained a blow so damaging as to prevent that part of the Federal army from continuing the campaign. But darkness and reinforcements and, in some cases, simple good fortune gave Slocum’s Federals the advantages they needed. As Sherman’s army grew stronger, Hardee accepted what his commander already knew. Johnston’s bold gamble had failed.

As the army gathered northward, expecting an assault closer to the capital city of Raleigh, Hardee learned the worst news a father can hear. At his niece’s home in the small town of Hillsborough, now a makeshift hospital, with the boy’s sister and stepmother by his side, Willie died of his wounds. For Hardee, there was no time for sharing a family’s grief. The business of the army, the desperation of what lay ahead overpowered the emotions he could only keep hidden. There was still the war, still the effort and the skills Johnston required of him, still the hope that there might yet be a peace that would justify all that Hardee had fought for.

SOUTH OF BENTONVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA—MARCH 22, 1865

T
he cleanup had begun, men searching for wounded, for muskets, anything useful. The knapsacks of the rebels carried little more than what the men in blue had, meager rations, the occasional pouch of tobacco. There were letters of course, those bits of paper the men carried with them, a photo perhaps, a lock of hair, treasures that now meant nothing at all.

Franklin followed the others, moved out through the trampled brush, not really knowing what to search for. Throughout the brutal fight that had engulfed the men around him, he had kept mostly out of the way, his head low, huddled close to the rebel he had killed. In the darkness he had watched him still, the flashes of fire from the ongoing attacks flickering light across the man’s bloody shirt. When the rebel line had broken, the soldiers around him had suddenly been faced with a line of their own men, and in the darkness, there was jubilation, the rebels gathered up as prisoners, some escaping down to the far end of Vandever’s line, where the grassy woods sank into an impassable swamp. There was fighting still, other parts of the field, the last stubborn positions on either side, men not willing to back away. But by midnight the rebels had seemed to dissolve, the
Federal troops expecting more assaults, where no one remained to give one.

The ground in front of every Federal position was scattered with the dead and wounded, the majority of them rebels. There were dead Federals as well, hordes of wounded, the hospitals springing up in every small farmhouse to the rear. To the soldiers, it was so much the same as every fight before, the fortunate never taking for granted that they would leave yet another awful place in one piece, that somewhere
back there
, the surgeons were doing what they always did, building a pile of arms and legs outside anyplace the wounded had been taken.

But Franklin was not a soldier. He continued to help carry the wounded men back from the log works, did what he was told, obeying anyone who seemed to know what was to happen next. He went about the work with a numb mindlessness, closing his eyes to the worst of it, men missing a piece of themselves, brains and guts splashed open. Though he had heard about death, the campfire talk from men who had been through this before, nothing had prepared him for what he actually saw across the bloody ground. And as he lifted and hauled and stepped past more of the bodies, his brain would not let go of the horror still before him, the vision of the man he had killed with his own hands.

The regiment had come together, Colonel Jones blessedly safe, some of the others that Franklin knew caught with minor wounds. They spoke of one of their own, Hogarth, cursing the rebels for taking away one of the jokesters, a man who never stopped laughing, who inspired every man in the outfit by his humor. Hogarth was dead, the men who knew him well offering up bits of praise, pleasant memories, the effort to fill the hole the man had left in all of them. Franklin didn’t know Hogarth well, knew only his laugh, high and birdlike, the sound carrying all through the camps, some men laughing at the laugh as much as the man’s legendary jokes. Franklin tried to embrace that, the men searching for the pleasant memories, trying to erase the shock of the man’s death. But through it all, he had fought with himself over the rebel he had taken down with the knife. Was he like Hogarth? Would the men he fought with mourn him, salute
him? The debate inside of Franklin turned on another image, the viciousness of the overseers, of the man, Lucky, who would torture and whip a slave just for entertainment. Those memories came back as well, one part of him, a calm voice of reason, justifying what he had done to the rebel, just one more Southern man who might just as well have carried a bullwhip as a musket. But it didn’t erase the blood, the dark stains on Franklin’s hands still, some of that from the wounded men he carried, but not all, and he knew that, wiped hard at his pants legs, tried not to see the stains on his shirt.

T
he officers had passed the word, rations coming up, wagons for the 113th carrying what clearly smelled like cooked meat. The men still searching the fields had stopped their labor, drawn by the amazing aroma; others, sitting along the log wall, were rising, watching eagerly as the horses pulled the wagon closer. Franklin stood up with them, automatic response, allowed himself to feel the sudden aching emptiness in his stomach, knew to wait for the soldiers to get their portions first. He kept silent, and as he waited, his eyes drifted out over the distant fields, where more of the men in blue did their work. The men of Company A surged toward the closest wagon, laughing commotion, the good cheer that always came with hot food. He let his eyes drift to the wagon, saw one of the other Negroes, Valentine, what they called the
undercook
. The regiment carried two Negroes besides Franklin, and some of the soldiers assumed they were a trio, as though he would naturally be friends with them. But those two men wore uniforms, worked only with the cook, and he had felt a strange hostility from them, as though they regarded Franklin no differently than did the most hostile of the white men. Franklin had learned to ignore them, knew they had nothing in common but the color of their skin.

He saw Sergeant Knight now, a heaping plate of something steaming, and Knight moved closer to him, said, “Grab some, boy! They brought us a whole beef cow. Whole thing! Takes some chewing to cut through it. Must be some old bossy, a hundred years old. I’ll take it.”

Franklin moved forward, more men drifting toward him with plates, some with a wad of juicy meat in their hands, or cradled in their hats. He quickened his step, the rumbling in his stomach growing, reached the wagon now, saw a copper tub, one of the Negroes with a long fork. Franklin waited for the last man to clear aside, stepped closer, said, “Thank you, most kindly.”

“What you want? This is for soldiers.” The scowl carried a flicker of disgust, the black man standing up on the tail of the wagon, now with his hands on his hips. “Ain’t no more left, besides. You go on.”

Behind Franklin, a voice rolled forward.

“I knew it, you black son of a bitch! You give this man something to eat, or I’ll pull you down here and show you why!”

Franklin flinched at the volume, saw Knight moving up close, one hand snatching at the copper tub. The undercook backed away, as though he knew Knight’s threat was genuine. The sergeant stabbed the fork into the tub, pulled out a fat hunk of dripping meat, aimed it at Franklin.

“You got no plate?”

“No, sir.”

Knight reached into his belt, pulled out the knife Franklin had used, stabbed the meat, handed it to Franklin handle first. “Here, by damn. Take it. It’s yours. You earned the right to carry the thing more than me. That’s the least I can do, anyway.” Knight turned again to the wagon. “You hear that, boy? This man killed a rebel right in front of me. Saved my life. That makes him a better soldier than any of you!”

Franklin felt the heft of the knife, his hand squirming slightly, avoiding the touch of the dried blood, caked against the handle, smeared still on the blade. He stared for a long moment, Knight now looking at him, and Knight said, “Go on. It’s yours. The knife and the beef. I owe you. Never thought I’d say nothing like that. Anybody messes with you around here, you tell me. I ain’t putting up with it. You don’t neither.” He paused. “The colonel always said you were a good’un. He was right. I tell you what. This here cook’s got a little too much gumption. I heard the captain say something about you hoping to wear a uniform. You want his? I’ll get it for you.”

“That’s enough, Sergeant.”

Franklin saw Captain Gorman moving closer and Knight lowered his voice, backing down.

“As you say, Captain. But I want it known in Company A, and anywheres else that wanna hear about it. This here fella done saved me from a bayonet. You shoulda seen him, sir. Jumped on that Johnny like a hound on a rabbit. I’d be singing with the angels if it weren’t for what he done.”

Gorman pointed to the pot in Knight’s hand. “Give that back to the cook. Unless you intend to become the mess sergeant, let these boys do their job.”

“Yes, sir.”

Knight was frowning, obeyed the order, the Negro cook still eyeing him with a hint of fear.

Gorman looked at Franklin for a quick moment, no expression, said to Knight, “Get back to the log works. Scouts say the rebels have pulled off completely. Haven’t heard a cannon in a couple of hours. Colonel says we’re likely to be up and moving pretty quick. There’s no telling what the generals want to do. We could start out pretty quick in pursuit of the rebs. Get your platoon together.”

“Yes, sir.”

Knight looked toward Franklin, motioned with a finger, “Let’s go.”

F
ranklin had forced himself to eat the beef, skirted around anyplace the meat had touched the knife. Along the logs, the men were mostly down, resting with their backs against the makeshift wall, some of them napping. Franklin sat, out from the wall, watched the men, all variety of snores, some of the soldiers with eyes open, empty stares, telltale exhaustion. Knight was down against the logs as well, trying to get comfortable, his eye catching Franklin.

“Captain was wrong. We’re not ‘pursuing’ nobody, at least for now. They’re letting us be. Maybe they’ll let the rest of this army go chasing rebels. We done our part.”

Franklin said nothing, felt a lump growing in his stomach, the meat not settling well. Knight said, “What’s botherin’ you? You want some more to eat?”

“No, sir. Had plenty. Not feeling too good, though. Not feeling much of nothing right now. Don’t know what’s happening. Ain’t never felt like this before.”

Knight looked at him with a slight tilt of his head. “You ever kill a man before?”

Franklin looked down, shook his head.

“You ever want to?”

Franklin looked up at the sergeant, said, “More’n once. There was some bad men at Master Cobb’s place. Hurtful, mean men. Always said if I run into that man Lucky again, I’d kill him.”

“Well, boy, consider that’s what you did. That rebel soldier, he was just one more of them. You got to look at it that way. I killed my first rebel at Chickamauga. Shot him from about a hundred yards. I know it was me. Had him square in the sights, and busted him standing still.”

“That bother you?”

Knight laughed. “Hell, no! He’d just as soon done the same to me. I learned that right off. Some can’t do it, some gets a man in his sights and can’t pull the trigger. Then, you see that same reb shoot a hole in the fella next to you. You start understanding what you have to do. I killed an artilleryman, too. They’re the worst. Sit back behind the lines and kill men at random, by the pile. Don’t never have to look at a man’s face. Coward’s way of fighting. Well, we run up on a battery at Resaca, and there they were, pretty as can be. Never saw us coming. I put a ball into a fellow’s chest at ten yards. We captured those guns, too. For a while. Rebs came and took ’em back.” He shrugged. “That’s the way it happens sometimes.”

Franklin looked out across the field, bodies still there, mostly rebel dead. The man he had killed was gone, pulled away from the timbers, and at first he thought it was done for him, someone doing him a favor. But he could see now, more of the dead that had been close by had been dragged farther out, to keep the men from stepping on them.

He probed his growling stomach, said, “I ain’t a soldier, sir. Sounds ignorant, I know. But I didn’t know what all of this was about. Didn’t know what a war meant. All that marching, and the uniforms. The
officers, horses. Glorious, all of it.” He paused. “Nothing glorious about what I done. Still got the man’s blood on me. Can’t get it off.”

Knight seemed to ponder Franklin’s words, then said, “Listen to me, boy. I saw what you did. You didn’t think about it, or debate what to do. You jumped on that fella like an animal. Like I told the captain, a hound on a rabbit. That’s what you gotta do to be a soldier. It’s just how it is. Think about those overseers. Maybe you answered your own wish. Maybe you killed one of ’em, just the same as being back there in Georgia.”