The Fateful Lightning (34 page)

He saw men in the road to the front, hands waving, several of Sherfy’s men. He motioned to an aide, said, “Move. See what they want.”

There were more men walking into the road, emerging from the
thickets to one side, horses in a cluster, one of them now coming toward him at a gallop. It was Sherfy.

Hazen felt a bolt of alarm, but Sherfy was smiling, reined the horse up clumsily, saluted him, said, “Whooee. General, we grabbed a pile of ’em.”

Hazen was looking at the horse, thought, Cavalry? “Explain. Grabbed who?”

“Sir, there was a group of mounted infantry, a scouting party or some such. We crept up on ’em and nabbed the whole bunch before they could spit! Took the opportunity to liberate one of their mounts. Fine-looking beast, eh, sir?”

“Now is not the time, Lieutenant. You can make use of the horse elsewhere. I need you walking. There could be more patrols farther down this road.”

“Oh, no, sir. Not likely. We’re bringing in some prisoners, one in particular you should meet.”

Sherfy turned now, looking back down the road, and Hazen saw a trio of his men with a prisoner between them. Hazen pushed the horse forward, Sherfy keeping beside him, the prisoner now pulled to the side of the road. Hazen stopped, saw a rough-looking man, no uniform, shoeless, and Sherfy said, “Sir, this here is Private Tommy Mills. He sure hated being captured and all, but he done us a big favor. Tommy, old boy, why don’t you tell the general here what you told us?”

Mills tipped his ragged hat, seemed surprisingly friendly, none of the usual surliness Hazen had seen so many times before. He made a slight bow, said, “Good afternoon, General. Seein’ as this here lieutenant of yours done promised me a fine meal, meat and all, I will offer you some advice.”

“What kind of advice?”

“Well, General, that road up ahead, it leads straight to the fort out there. I’m guessing that’s what you boys are doing out here in the wilderness and all. So, if you are intendin’ to provide me with a good feed, I’m happy to return the favor. That road, or causeway, or sandy trail, whatever you Yankees call it, it’s chock-full of the best danged torpedoes our engineers could make. A whole passel of ’em, too. There’s more torpedoes, too, all around the fort. I hate seeing legs and
feet and such blowed off. This war’s been hateful enough, and those buried things just don’t seem like the way things ought to be done. I offered your kindly lieutenant here to show him where they’s buried. Some ham might be good. Beef if you got it. They’re eatin’ much of nothing in the fort. Rice cooked fourteen different ways.”

Hazen tried to read the man, but there was no reason for him to lie about the existence of torpedoes. “How many men in the fort, Private?”

“Nigh two hundred. Major Anderson’s in charge. A good fellow, when he gets his sleep. If you folks go on and grab the place, I hope you’ll be good to him. I ain’t never believed none of those stories ’bout all the evil you done inflicted on the country folks hereabouts. Y’all just look like regular folks. Better uniforms than what they give us. They ain’t give us much a’tall, tell the truth. But I ain’t inclined to see too many more of us kilt. We’s all gettin’ pretty sick of that, sir.” Hazen saw obvious pride on Sherfy’s face, the lieutenant leaning closer to him.

“Like I said. Indians, sir. Grabbed the whole bunch of ’em without a shot being fired.”

Hazen knew Sherfy was fishing for a compliment, knew that the prisoner’s information was crucial. But Hazen knew better than to be seduced by a willing captive, and he kept his tone serious, turned to an aide, said, “Captain, take the rest of the prisoners to the rear. Make sure they receive whatever rations we can spare. This fellow here, Mr. Mills, is it?”

“Tommy Mills, sir.”

“Yes, Mr. Mills will be fed as well, but not just yet. Mr. Mills, you will assist our men in removing those torpedoes from the causeway. I assume you’re willing to do that?”

Mills frowned, seemed resigned to the task. “I suppose, yes, sir. It’s only fair. I seen some of ’em buried, helped out with a bit of that. Ain’t hard to get ’em up, if you’re careful.”

Hazen turned to Sherfy now. “Leave the horse with my staff, Lieutenant. Keep your men off the road. We’ll get you some help.”

The order went back, and the officer responded, moving forward quickly from the column. Hazen saw Colonel Theodore Jones, in command of the first brigade, the man who would lead three of the
designated regiments. Jones saluted, eyed the prisoner, said, “Are we to continue forward, sir?”

Hazen pointed to Mills, said, “Not just yet. Send a dozen or so men forward to accompany our new friend here. We have a dangerous problem on the causeway to our front. Go as far as the cover extends, then report back to me.” He paused, knew how important his commanders were, men who had served Sherman, men who now would depend on him to put them in the right place. He lowered his voice, away from the prisoner. “Teddy, we’re mighty close. I want the artillery brought forward as quick as the road is cleared. Time is our worst enemy now, and I don’t intend to have my ass chewed on by angry generals.”

T
he tree line ended just as Kilpatrick described it, a wide, grassy plain that led straight to the fort. Hazen had found a house, owned by a family named Middleton, quickly established a headquarters, and with the columns gathering up, he organized the assault. With the fort now plainly in view, Hazen pushed his men out into an arcing formation, sending three regiments out to each flank, with the final three holding the center. By three o’clock a single line of sharpshooters were sent forward, picking their way quickly through the wiry grass, stumbling through shallow creeks, the men driving forward to less than three hundred yards from the fort. There the poor planning of the rebels provided an enormous advantage. Where the trees had been cut, the ground was now spread thickly with stumps, offering each man protection as he drew bead on the walls of the fort. As Hazen watched from the tree line, the sharpshooters settled into their low cover, began firing at whatever targets the fort was offering. For the men in the fort itself, the musket fire accomplished just what Kilpatrick had predicted. The artillerymen defending the rear of the fort found that working their guns was deadly.

As Hazen feared, the ground he couldn’t readily scout was proving difficult for his men, especially out to the right, far from his view. With nearly three thousand men flowing out into unknown terrain, the fears came, anxious glances toward the setting sun, aides scampering
out into thickets only to disappear without offering any real word just what kind of progress the men had made. Besides the saw grass, men were stumbling through head-high stands of cane, briars, and mud holes, meandering soft-bottomed creeks that sucked the shoes from men’s feet. With daylight starting to dim, Hazen became desperate for word that his men had reached their starting point, that more than just the men to his front were waiting for the order they expected to hear, the order to step off, to move quickly toward the fort.

H
e strained to see through the field glasses, the puffs of smoke few, the cannon fire from the fort mostly ineffective. He couldn’t see the rebels themselves, but Kilpatrick’s description was accurate, the walls on this side of the fort topped with a smooth line of earth, his sharpshooters waiting patiently for any target.

There was commotion in the woods behind him, more men moving up, the reserves, and he paced through the trees, stared again through the glasses, looked skyward, the sun low over the woods. There was a sharp voice now, and he turned, saw his aide running, stumbling through a thin curtain of vines.

“Sir! The signal post has made contact!”

“With who?”

The man was breathing heavily, and Hazen looked past him, a futile stare toward the edge of the river, where he had ordered a lookout and signalmen posted.

The aide caught his breath, said, “They say it’s General Sherman himself, sir. He’s about three miles off, across the river. The general’s signal officers sent a message, sir.” The man was still breathing heavily, as much from the run as the weight of his sudden responsibility. “Here, sir. General Sherman says that he expects the fort to be carried by this night.”

Hazen closed his eyes, let out a long breath. “So do I, Corporal.”

He moved quickly toward his horse, thought better of that, the musket fire from the fort scattered, but any man on horseback would draw every rebel’s aim. He searched the staff, saw men running up
toward him, more of the couriers. He was out of patience now, glanced at his watch, past four, shouted out, “Report! Have the men reached their positions?”

The first aide dropped his hands to his knees, exhausted, shook his head breathlessly. “Don’t know, sir! Thick as dog hair, sir. Couldn’t find Colonel Jones. The 116th Illinois is in line, but they didn’t know more than that. No word from the 6th Missouri at all!”

Hazen ground his teeth, knew that the Missouri men were the far right flank, well beyond anyplace he could see. He looked again toward the river, the signal outpost, tried not to see Sherman in his mind, thought, Howard is certainly beside him, both men pushing their eyes through field glasses, straining to see anything out here at all.

He stared out to the skirmish line, the men still firing at will, specks of smoke as they peppered the fort, the return fire very light. That could change, he thought. We have to have the entire force moving together. But I cannot control any of that. He searched the officers close by, saw a bugler, shouted to the man, “Sound attention!”

The man obeyed, the bugle slicing through the woods, men in line out to both sides. He had already given the order that none of the regiments be bunched up, that they move in a single line, shoulder to shoulder, no more than a heavy skirmish line. The men were falling into line now, officers close to him eyeing him, expectant, tension in their faces. Hazen tried to fight through the hard knot in his gut, looked again at the bugler, hesitated, thought, There is no time to wait. If you want to fight for Sherman, you’ve got to
fight
.

“Bugler! Order forward!”

The bugler completed his task, the men responding by stepping out from the trees, a long, snaking line, pushing through the tall grass. He expected heavy firing from the fort, a massive volley from heavy artillery, saw only specks of smoke, not much more than it had been already. He stood high on a stump, field glasses up, stared out over the backs of his men, guessed the distance one more time, six hundred yards.

He spoke out now, to no one, to them all. “Go! Don’t stop! Don’t slow!”

His heart pounded heavily in his chest, more firing coming from
the fort, but the sharpshooters kept up their own fire, and very soon the main body had reached them, swallowing them, the sharpshooters rising up, moving forward with the thin blue wave. The fort responded, scattered artillery fire, but no massive burst, his men still in line. He stepped down from the tree trunk, saw his staff watching him, knowing just what was happening next.

“Time to go, gentlemen. I expect to see the inside of that fort pretty quick.”

He walked out clear of the trees, stepped more quickly, felt the crushing weight of the order he had given them. He jogged slightly, trying to keep up, thought, No, not this way. He turned now, shouted out, “Bring my horse! They need to see me! Move!”

The groom appeared, leading the animal quickly toward him, and Hazen climbed up, stared out through the glasses again, the line of blue much closer to the fat earthen walls. Men were dropping away now, out of sight, and he thought of Kilpatrick, the description, ditches, abatis. There were blasts at the base of the walls, nothing like artillery, and he drove the horse through the grass, pushing closer, saw a blue mass gathering in clusters, some men firing up at the enemy. There were more blasts to one side, odd sounds, and the words drilled into him now, the words of the prisoner, legs and feet. He cursed aloud, saw the men gathering along the ditch, helping hands, knew it was the torpedoes, some of the men too anxious to avoid the deadly misstep. He spurred the horse again, saw more of his men coming out of the saw grass to the left, that flank hugging the river. They were nearly at the wall, and he thought of the torpedoes, some kind of warning, but they were firing up at the rebels along the walls, no time for anything but the advance, still moving, those men dropping down into the ditches.

He heard a single thump, out to the right, saw a wisp of smoke, glassed that way, a huge mortar, out away from the fort, worked by a handful of rebel gunners. Now the fire was returned, the gunners gone, punched down, more of his men emerging from that way, flags, the men from Illinois. He gripped the field glasses, one hand clenched in a hard fist, punched the air above his head, glanced toward the river, to where Sherman would be, where the smoke of the fight could clearly be seen. We’re there, General. We’re going in.

He looked again to his men, drove the horse closer still, saw the assault pushing right up to the walls of the fort, men scrambling through loose dirt on the earthworks, the enemy above, but the blue were too many, and they were up and over the wall. He turned toward the trees behind him, saw the reserves in line, watching, waiting for the order. No, he thought. Not yet. Not now. But be ready. It can’t be this simple.

He turned to the fort again, the horse close to the wide ditch, clusters of tree limbs blocking the way, some of that tossed aside by his men, some still in place. He jumped down from the horse, dropped low, saw a group of men, pulling a wounded man back, bloody legs, the smoke heavy now, most of that from the musket fire of his own men. He pushed down through the ditch, the dirt walls in front of him difficult, one man lending a hand, pulling him up the steep slope. The smoke was drifting past, and he glanced back, saw men in blue down, but not many, wounded men crawling back, seeking cover, others closer to the ditch, more blasted limbs, the effects of the torpedoes. Damn them, he thought. There will be punishment for that.

He was at the top of the earthworks now, the fort a bath of smoke, but the firing was slow, scattered, his men swarming through, surrounding the big guns, the musket fire now silent. Around him the voices came, the men understanding what they had done, that they were inside the fort, the rebels whipped, men gathering prisoners, the piercing screams of the wounded, troops on both sides. Beside him men rose up to the crest of the earthworks, the walls of the fort, standing tall, waving, cheering. It was over.