The Fateful Lightning (33 page)

Sherman stood, walked across the room, then back again. Hazen could see the man’s hand twisting a button on his coat, still staring past him. Sherman said, “Plan well, General. Use your best people. There’s artillery support coming. DeGress’s battery, some Missouri artillery. Six guns. Put them to good use.”

Hazen expected more, Sherman still pacing, Howard sipping from his cup of tea. Hazen looked again to the map, saw faint lines showing roadways, stared for a long moment, thought of the ordeal of the men already, the watery marshes, the struggle to move any column with much speed.

Howard seemed to read him, said, “Tomorrow morning, first light. General Sherman and I will find a vantage point, most probably at Cheves’ Mill, there, on the map.” He paused. “God be with you, General.”

Sherman still paced, and Hazen could feel the weight of their expectations, had thought there would be more to the planning of the assault, which regiments should be employed, their exact route. That was the kind of detail he had seen from George Thomas, as much caution as preparation. But he could see from Sherman’s brooding silence that the details were to be his alone.

He struggled to stand, freeing himself from the soft lushness of the chair. “With your permission, sirs, I shall retire. My men will be on their feet by five.”

He wanted to say more, some grand pronouncement of just what a valiant effort his men would make. But that was foolishness, and for the first time, Hazen understood why there were voices of dissent against Sherman, why there were some commanders, if only a few, who groused quietly about Sherman’s style. We’re expected to do the job, he thought. That’s all. It’s not just West Point, what kind of pedigree
we carry. We’re here because he trusts us, and if he loses that, we get sent someplace else. And right now, at least for tomorrow, my place is here.

KING’S BRIDGE—DECEMBER 13, 1864

They were marching across the bridge well before dawn. The work by Howard’s engineers wasn’t completely finished, the bridge missing any kind of guardrails, the engineers simply running out of time. But Hazen’s men kept in line, no one making the miserable plunge into cold, black water.

He had told no one of the assignment, beyond his three brigade commanders and the men who led his seventeen regiments. Of those, he had chosen nine to lead the assault. There would be others in reserve, a sizable force. Hazen knew the textbooks well, had been taught that ample reserves were essential when facing so many unknowns. And Sherman’s message had been clearly received. Regardless of what kind of opposition Hazen faced, this operation was, in Sherman’s mind, a linchpin to the entire campaign.

He knew that word had filtered through the ranks, as it always did, that some grand operation had been planned, his aides reporting even before the march that men were being told they were opening up a
cracker line
, seeking a route toward a fresh supply of food for the entire army. It was a phrase they had heard before, what Grant’s troops had accomplished in breaking the rebel siege at Chattanooga. A year later, it was the stuff of romance, adding a mystique to Grant’s reputation. Hazen knew that planting that kind of seed in his men could drive them to accomplish far more than they might expect, no matter the obstacles they might face.

As he marched across the bridge, he saw men standing back in the shadows, a cluster of officers, too dark to identify faces. But one man seemed to stand out, in front of the others, pacing slowly, the speck of light from a cigar. Hazen had said nothing, no acknowledgment, knew from experience that Sherman was likely as nervous as he was.

By seven in the morning, the division was entirely across, the march on mostly dry packed sand, blended with decades of spent
oyster shells. They walked with the river on their left, the flat marsh grass seemingly endless, broken by clusters of timber, thicker woods that held the swamps. As the sun rose, he could see the clear blue above, a soft breeze off the distant ocean, a day for sleeping in soft grass, memories of a boy growing up in Ohio, leisurely picnics along peaceful waterways. But Hazen kept the daydreams away.

They passed watery rice fields, and he had been surprised by the civilians who occupied the land, a strange mix of Negroes and mulattoes, who emerged from their wet ground or crude huts, lining the road as though this were some kind of peaceful parade, wide-eyed wonder at the army that passed them by. They offered pleasant waves and greetings, something Hazen appreciated. What seemed to be innocent friendliness was certainly a boost to the morale of his men, who returned the waves with cheerful talk, as though in this part of the world, there was no animosity at all.

With the rice fields behind them, the roadway spread away from the river, deeper woods. As they marched closer to the fort, Hazen was relieved by this new cover, that any dust from the march would be hidden by the trees, great drooping oaks arcing overhead, their limbs intertwined, casting cool shade on the white road. Among the oaks were massive magnolias, all draped with Spanish moss. Spread beneath the trees were patches of palmettos, the fanlike blades of green usually marking the edge of the soggier ground, most of that in low places farther away from the side of the road. Hazen knew of the legendary tale from the Revolutionary War, Fort Moultrie, at Charleston, the men there building their seaside walls using the soft fibrous palmetto logs, frustrating the British warships, whose artillery shells embedded or thumped uselessly against the soft wood. He had wondered about Fort McAllister, if the rebels had done the same, but as they marched farther along the route, the lookouts could begin to see details of the fort, what seemed to be a mass of earthworks, the kind of defense the rebels seemed most comfortable building, one that required far less time and manpower than the great stone fortresses farther down the coast.

With a gap in the trees, Hazen had walked out on a high perch, had used the field glasses, seen it for himself, the fort a thick, hulking mound, still too far away, but between the fort and the deeper woods
behind was the open ground he expected to see, saw grass for hundreds of yards, the gauntlet his men would have to cross.

T
hey had reached an intersection, what the map showed was the route toward Genesis Point, the roadway that would lead them directly to the fort. Waiting for Hazen’s men was a squad of cavalry, led by Judson Kilpatrick himself.

Hazen had no real ill will toward Kilpatrick, knew what most of the army knew, that he was a capable leader with some indiscreet personal habits. But right now Kilpatrick offered Hazen something he had not yet received: a scouting report.

Kilpatrick seemed to wait for Hazen to draw closer, Hazen not sure if he should salute the man. Hazen was a brigadier, was outranked by Kilpatrick, who wore two stars. As he eased the horse forward he was surprised to see Kilpatrick saluting
him
, an informal lift of the man’s cap.

“Ho there, General. Fine day for an assault.”

Hazen followed Kilpatrick’s lead, stayed up on his horse, saw Kilpatrick’s staff gathering closer, clearly a part of their conversation. Hazen glanced behind him, his own staff hanging back, the usual courtesy with senior commanders. Hazen said, “We’re marching as quickly as possible. The weather helps.” Hazen wasn’t sure just what Kilpatrick was doing there, wasn’t sure he should ask.

Kilpatrick answered the question for him. “After scouting this ground, I drew up a plan to assault the fort directly, a quick strike that might catch the enemy looking the other way. My superiors…
your
superiors thought differently. They preferred you make the assault and leave other duties for my horsemen. No doubt they believe their decision is the proper one. I can offer you some information, unless you have received all you require from General Howard.”

There was a hint of sarcasm in Kilpatrick’s tone, and Hazen realized for the first time that Kilpatrick might have pushed Sherman hard for this mission, and for reasons known only to Sherman, Hazen’s infantry had been chosen instead.

“I welcome good information wherever I can find it, sir. I am not
completely certain just what kind of attack this will be. I am unfamiliar with the ground.”

“Yes, you are. I, however, am not. I seek no glory for myself in this affair, and my orders are to drive my men farther south, seeking contact with the navy wherever we may find them. That is my intention. I can tell you that you have a clear path of march to within a mile of the fort. Once clear of the timber, the going will be a challenge for foot soldiers, a great deal of tall grass, several shallow creeks, and patches of low water. The enemy shall have the opportunity to inflict considerable casualties, should they recognize what you’re trying to do. However, there is a good stretch of forest within artillery range of the place. You did bring artillery, I assume?”

“Six guns.”

Kilpatrick rubbed a hand on his chin, showing approval. “Good. That should be very helpful. The rebels cleared themselves a good field of fire for the first half mile or so out from the fort, but in their confidence that no enemy would ever assault them from the rear, they ceased cutting the timber far short of where they should have. Call that a gift to your cannoneers. I would suggest, if you will allow me to offer such a thing, that you make use not only of your artillery, but of your best sharpshooters. The fort was designed by someone who was not terribly concerned that the heavy guns there would ever receive fire. The works are designed
en barbette
, as it were. You’re familiar with the term?”

There was a hint of arrogance from the younger man, and Hazen wasn’t certain how to respond. He had no need to get into some sort of snot-fest with this man. “I am West Point, sir. Class of 1855. I know the textbooks. I was taught that term to mean that the enemy’s artillerymen are exposed to fire.”

Kilpatrick glanced at his officers, then back to Hazen. “Yes, very good. Class of 1861 myself, but I assume you know that. Yes, poor design on the backside of the fort. No notches for the cannon barrels at all. Those guns that are positioned to fire in this direction are in fact set in place with their aim over the tops of the walls. Sharpshooters can play havoc with their gunners’ ability to maneuver or load their pieces.”

“How many pieces?”

“Our best estimate is two dozen, though most of those face seaward, as you might expect.”

Hazen was enormously grateful for everything Kilpatrick was telling him, the plan for how he would advance already forming in his mind. Kilpatrick seemed to scan his staff officers, as though asking a silent question. One man spoke.

“Sir, shouldn’t we advise General Hazen of the enemy’s preparations closer to the fort?”

Kilpatrick nodded, turned to Hazen again, said, “Ditches, wide and deep. Abatis, certainly. As for the enemy outposts, they are lightly manned, if at all. The enemy seems to prefer mounted patrols. I suggest stealth. You might bag the lot of them before they can tell anyone in the fort just what you’re up to.” Kilpatrick paused, as though trying to recall any other pertinent piece of intelligence. Then he shrugged, said, “May good fortune go with you, General. I have no further purpose here, and I assume General Sherman is awaiting word of your success. Perhaps before this day is over, I shall find success of my own. Or at the very least, a fine homestead where my men can gather some acceptable rations. I am rather weary of rice. I will ride in this direction. You will go…that way. I assume you know that.”

“I have a map, yes, sir.”

Hazen saluted now, but Kilpatrick had already turned away, his men filing out quickly down the road that led southward. Hazen shook his head, his color bearer now moving up closer to him, anticipating the order to continue. Hazen looked at him, the always smiling face of Sergeant Lewis. “What do you make of him, Sergeant?”

“Odd one, sir. Rather enjoys being in command.”

Hazen nodded. “Good observation. He wanted this to be his assault, that’s clear. He could have been much more stingy with his information. But he seems to have taken his orders in stride. It’s fortunate for us that he chose to be helpful, and keep his pride to himself.” He turned, his aides waiting for the order to resume the march. “No bugles. Give the order to proceed by word of mouth.” He looked at his watch now, thought, It’s after noon. General Sherman will twist every button off his coat wondering how long this will take.

He looked again at the map, the column now moving past him, heard the low talk among the men, some joking, salutes offered in his direction. He looked at their faces, saw smiles, fists in the air, surprising enthusiasm from men who had already marched more than eight miles. He rolled up the map, slid it into his saddlebag, held up a hand toward the staff. “Move with the column. I will ride forward. I wish to speak to the skirmishers.”

Hazen spurred the horse, was quickly past the lead of the column, saw scattered men in the road to his front, the lead scouts stepping aside, making way for him, others spread out through the woods to both sides of the road. He reined the horse, searched, saw their officer, a young lieutenant, moving out toward him. The man saluted him, and Hazen let him catch his breath, said, “Lieutenant Sherfy, we should have about three miles to go before we can position ourselves for the assault. But rebels could be on the prowl anywhere. Keep your men well off the road, and proceed as rapidly and as quietly as you can. I want no surprises, and any ambush against the head of this column will cause us considerable difficulty. Be the hunter, not the hunted.”

Sherfy smiled now, just what Hazen expected. “My platoon is known for their soft steps, sir. There’s a great deal of Indian in these men.”

“Put that to use, Lieutenant.”

I
t was after two, and Hazen was feeling the pressure of that, avoided looking toward the sun, now dropping off to his right. The men were still moving as quickly as he had hoped, the roads still good, no swampy obstacles yet in their path. As he rode forward, his mind pulled them with him, urging them silently to keep up the pace. He thought of Sherman again, the man’s legendary impatience. That man’s smoked a hundred cigars since this morning, and probably chewed out every staff officer he has.