The Fateful Lightning (72 page)

RALEIGH, NORTH CAROLINA—APRIL 17, 1865

He had sent McCoy northward to Kilpatrick’s headquarters at the town of Durham’s Station, to await Johnston’s response, where McCoy could then relay that by telegraph to Sherman at Raleigh. The response came quickly, as expected. Johnston had agreed to meet at a point that seemed roughly halfway between their two positions.

Sherman hadn’t slept at all, kept awake by the voices in his own head, as well as the unstoppable clamor from the army that surrounded his camp. By six he was up, cigar in hand, rifling through the breakfast the staff had laid out, a meager mixture of hard bread and teeth-wrenching meat. The staff had gathered already, the men keeping their distance again, so familiar with Sherman’s moods. Whatever was swirling through his mind required no assistance from them.

He had ordered a locomotive with a pair of passenger cars, could see them now, the staff completing that job the night before. His hands gripped a thick loaf of dark bread, ripping it in half, one half
tossed back on the small camp table, the other now in one corner of his mouth. The cigar was still there, an unpleasant collision with the bread, and he focused for a brief moment, struggled to bring his mind back from so many other places. The cigar was tossed away, the bread now between his teeth, tasteless, the effort to chew it just one more way for him to kill time.

The camps were coming alive, the festivities of the night before not preventing the men from answering the call, many of them stoking their campfires, others drifting toward the mess wagons, where the coffee already waited. The celebrations seemed muted this early in the morning, hunger transplanting the joy of what was happening around them. Sherman was grateful for the relative quiet, walked past rows of tents, stacked muskets, more wagons, more men pulling on their suspenders, coats, answering the brisk chill of the early spring. They mostly ignored him, another relief, and he kept moving, closer to the railcars, saw the guards assigned there, a detail to prevent anyone from exercising his own show of destruction. There was no reason to burn this place, no reason to burn anything now, and Sherman had been specific with his order to the provosts.

To the east, the sun was already breaking above the horizon, a light smoky haze drifting through the camps, various smells finding him, almost none of that from the men themselves. It had been one of those luxuries sent from the seacoast, a supply of soap, the men ordered to bathe in whatever watery place was available. The commanders knew it had more to do with health than odor, that many of the men were carrying unwanted visitors, the usual plague that infested any army in the field. The cleanliness seemed to energize the men as well, some of them shaving their squirrel’s-nest beards for the first time since they left Savannah. Sherman paid little mind to that, kept his short beard trimmed when the thought struck him, often without a mirror. His hair was much the same, a mat of greasy red that he tended to when the mood was right. The uniform was a different story, a high collar worn by almost no one else, the kind of officer’s adornment that had gone out of style years before. He was surprised by someone’s observation of that, had paid little mind to style at all, considered the high collar an aid to keeping his back straight. It was part of his decorum, what he believed to be a commander’s
place, to move through his men at any time, any occasion, carrying himself with the straight-backed air of a man in charge. That was negated often, of course, mostly by the naps he still took alongside the roads, some men moving past, mistaking him for just another officer who had collapsed in a drunken heap. It was the price he paid, the urgency of finding sleep whenever and wherever it would come.

But there would be none of that now. He eyed the railcars, the guards aware of him, standing that much straighter, an officer moving out to meet him.

“Sir! A most pleasant spring morning, wouldn’t you say?”

“Haven’t noticed. What time is it?”

The man pulled out a pocket watch, made a show of snapping it open, then closed, said, as though announcing to some sort of official assemblage, “Seven forty, sir.”

“The train ready?”

“I believe so, sir. I have not yet spoken to the engineer.”

“Don’t. I’ll take care of it.”

Sherman moved past the man, returned the salute with an absent-minded wave of his hand. The piece of bread was nearly gone, and he tossed it back toward the officer, didn’t look to see if the man caught it or not. He felt the twist in his stomach, unavoidable, the intense nervousness he hid so well, said in a low voice, “Seventeen April.”

The locomotive was getting up steam, and he watched that, always marveled at the great steel beasts, the technology that had so changed the war. So many troops can move so quickly, he thought. And, everything else besides. How much track did we destroy? Well, we crippled them. They’ll make repairs, soon enough. We did what we had to.

He saw an officer stepping down from the nearest railcar, Dayton, the young major moving toward him.

“Ah, good morning, sir. She’s ready to move, on your order.” Dayton seemed to pulsate, arms moving, hands flexing, one foot then the other marching in place.

“You all right, Major?”

“Just excited, sir. Don’t mind admitting that, not one bit. This is enormous, sir. Hitchcock’s so nervous, he looks like he’s going to fly
into pieces.” Dayton slapped his hands against his sides, as though warming himself. “Forgive me, sir. Just…this is a monumental day. I know we’re not to speculate. But I feel it, sir. Every place in the world will know what will happen today, what you will make happen. I am honored to be in your service, sir.”

Sherman looked past him, tried not to absorb the young man’s show of raw energy. “I believe I shall board the train. Gather up the others.”

“Right away, sir! Several of your invited guests are in the rear car already.”

There was too much volume to Dayton’s response, and Sherman said, “They’re not guests. They’re part of this army. Keep them back there. I’m not interested in chatting with anyone, and I don’t want the reporters anywhere near me.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Sherman stepped closer to the train, eyed the thick black smoke now billowing high above. He took a deep breath, a low curse to the bees’ nest swarming inside him, stepped closer to the front car, the guards there, stiff-backed, bayonets by their sides, the men looking at him, unable to hide their smiles. He moved past, stepped up, hesitated, pulled himself into the car, was surprised he was alone.

Choose your seat, he thought. Can’t be that long a trip. Couple hours, I suppose.

“Sir! General Sherman!”

He dreaded speaking to anyone, the voice unfamiliar. But the man was up into the car, a guard escorting him, keeping close. Sherman knew the man now, the telegraph operator who had passed on McCoy’s wire. The man seemed to quiver, and Sherman felt a twinge, the urgency too pronounced in the man’s face. He looked to the guard.

“It’s all right. Wait outside. My staff will be here shortly.”

The soldier backed away, was gone, and Sherman looked again to the telegraph operator.

“What?”

“Sir, I have received just now a dispatch, in cipher, passed through Morehead City. It is from the War Department, sir, and from the first few words, I believe it to be of utmost importance. But I must
complete the translation. Please, sir. You must see this before you depart.”

There was nothing but sincerity in the man’s request, and Sherman could feel the man’s nervousness.

“I’ll hold the train. Go.”

The man ran quickly from the car, and Sherman stared for a long moment, a queasy turn in his stomach. He thought of Grant, some disaster, or some outrageous act by Lee’s army, men refusing the surrender. He scolded himself, thought, No, you don’t know any such thing. But anything from the War Department might be important these days.

He saw Hitchcock climbing into the train, the man smiling through his glasses, the eagerness of a man who understands history.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Sit in the rear of the car, Major. We’re waiting just a bit.”

Hitchcock moved past him, Sherman not responding to the man’s cheerfulness. Dayton was there again, a handful of aides, the men clamoring aboard, and Sherman saw Conyngham, down on the platform, the reporter eyeing Sherman with a glimmer of hopefulness. Sherman pointed toward the rear car, Conyngham seeming to understand his place in the entourage, other reporters following the man’s lead. Sherman said to Hitchcock, “Back there, in the rear, all of you. Keep away from me. We shall wait for a moment longer.”

Dayton stopped, looked at him, curious, seemed to read him, but Sherman turned away, stared out the windows to the side, men in motion all around the depot. The staff was seated now, no one speaking up, the kind of obedience Sherman appreciated. He kept his eyes on the crowd of soldiers, saw the telegraph operator emerging from the depot, moving that way, the man climbing up quickly into the car, a look on his face of raw misery.

“Sir. Here it is. You must read this.”

Sherman took the paper from the man’s shaking hand, saw the wire was from Stanton. He sagged, thought, Orders? Now? But he read the words, the handwriting ragged, and he forced himself through the message, felt the cold spreading down through his legs. He sat in the nearest seat, looked up at the operator, said in a low voice, with all the gravel he could muster, “Have you shown this to anyone? Spoken to anyone?”

“No, sir. I assure you, sir.”

Sherman lowered his voice further, leaned close to the man, who bent low. “Then you must not. No one must hear of this until I return. It is most important. Do you understand?” The man was clearly shaken, nodded nervously, and Sherman stood again, one hand gripping the seat in front of him. He leaned out over the man, stared hard into his eyes. “
No one
. Your silence will do a service to this army. I will return here later today.”

Sherman saw another short nod, the man obviously terrified.

“I assure you, sir.”

“Go, now. Return to your office. I shall keep this.”

The man backed away, was gone from the train, and Sherman watched him walking quickly into the depot, no one paying him any attention. Sherman read the message again, a sick turn in his stomach. He kept his eyes down, would not reveal this to the staff, to anyone, not yet. He sat, stared at the floor between his boots, a voice now, “Sir, the engineer is asking when you wish to depart.”

Sherman looked up, saw Major Nichols coming aboard, a pleasant smile, wiped away by the expression he saw from Sherman.

“We can leave now.”

“Certainly, sir. I shall inform him. Is there anything…”

“No. Let’s go.”

In a short minute, the train lurched ahead, the staff behind him silent, expectant, no one daring to approach him. I must tell them, he thought. But no. Not yet. We have so much to do. There can be no distraction.

He held the translated message in his hand still, looked down, felt the emotion of it, thought, One more tragedy, one more part of this war that will inflict so much damage to so many. And I must tell them. Everyone in this command.

On the evening of April 14, while attending a performance at Ford’s Theater in Washington City, President Abraham Lincoln was murdered by an assassin who shot him through the head with a pistol ball. An attempt was made also on the life of Secretary Seward and his son. It is possible that General and Mrs. Grant are under threat as well. The vice-president
has been given the oath of office as the new chief executive. I find evidence that there is an assassin on your track as well. I beseech you to be more heedful than Mr. Lincoln of such warnings….

EDWIN M. STANTON, SECRETARY OF WAR

NEAR DURHAM’S STATION—APRIL 17, 1865

K
ilpatrick had met him with the usual pomp that seemed to surround the cavalryman everywhere he went. His headquarters house was draped in flags, what Sherman saw as Kilpatrick’s own particular show of celebration, far more elaborate than Sherman would have preferred. But he couldn’t argue the purpose, that every man in Kilpatrick’s camp was aware why Sherman was there.

The greetings were brief, Sherman in no mood for joviality. Kilpatrick obeyed without complaint, had already placed a line of cavalry in a neat formation, a salute for the commanding general. But now the more necessary parade was ordered into the road, led far to the front by an officer holding a white flag. Behind the flag bearer came a platoon of Kilpatrick’s men, as much a security escort as any kind of formal parade. Sherman followed, and behind him, his staff, and most of the others who had accompanied his party on the train. Sherman ignored them, no one pushing to speak to him, even the newspapermen seemingly aware this was not the time.

He kept his back straight, his usual custom, glanced at his uniform,
the grime of the campaign evident in the worn cloth, the uneven colors, the frayed cuff on one arm. He still wore only the one spur, had never considered the need for two, but as the party pushed on, the doubts began. Damn it all, he thought. Does this call for some kind of formal dress parade? Isn’t it enough that Kilpatrick fills the damned countryside with his horsemen? Surely they know that if any poor dumb rebel takes a shot at me, we’ll bring down the fires of hell on these people.

The noise in his head seemed to chatter on, the grip on the reins tight, his hands sweating inside of his gauntlets, a cigar clamped hard in his teeth. Is Johnston an honorable man? Did I ever meet him? Don’t think so. He was in Mexico, for certain. Grant probably knew him. What the hell am I supposed to say to him? Hello, Joe. Now you can surrender your damned army. He put a hand on his coat pocket, felt the telegram. No, that’s what we must discuss, before anything else. Perhaps he already knows. My God, this is a horrible day.

He saw commotion ahead, one of Kilpatrick’s men riding back toward him, a salute, which Sherman returned. Beside him Kilpatrick seemed to blow out the words with the kind of bombast that made Sherman cringe.

“Report, Lieutenant!”

“Sirs, we have encountered a rider, a rebel, with a flag of truce. He says that General Johnston is close behind him.”

Kilpatrick seemed to ponder a decision. “Well, perhaps we should allow him to enter our lines, as it were.”

Sherman tapped his hat down on his head. “
Perhaps
I should ride forward and meet with General Johnston. We can argue formalities later.”

He followed the lieutenant, the other cavalrymen keeping pace, still the itching need for security. Sherman ignored them, kept his eyes to the front, saw riders now, a small cluster of gray uniforms, the flag of truce. He searched the faces, no real need, the one smaller man standing out, flanked by a large cavalry officer. He stopped the horse, a few yards between them, saw a hard scowl on the cavalryman’s face, the young officer still holding the white flag speaking out.

“Sirs, this is General Joseph Johnston. This is Lieutenant General Wade Hampton.”

Sherman focused on Johnston, as Kilpatrick spoke up. “This is Major General William T. Sherman, Army of the United States. I am Major General Judson Kilpatrick.”

Sherman nudged the horse closer to Johnston, studied Johnston as he knew Johnston was studying him. The man was small-framed, a distinguished point of silvery beard on his chin, a hint of gray hair beneath his hat, his face worn, tired. Sherman noticed the uniform, thought, New, probably. And look at me. Well, this isn’t a dress parade.

The horses were close, and Johnston held out a hand, which Sherman took, a brief hard squeeze.

Introductions followed, both men naming their respective staff officers, the kind of formality that seemed appropriate for a review. Sherman endured that, forgot most of Johnston’s staff as soon as the names were given, assumed Johnston did as well. When the introductions were complete, Sherman said, “General, is there someplace where we may meet in private? A discussion on horseback seems rather unsuitable.”

“There was a farmhouse just a ways back. A short ride, if you don’t mind.”

“Very well. Please lead the way.”

Johnston lowered his head, a hint of a smile, his soft Virginia accent framing his words with a hint of syrup. “General, I believe we should ride together, side by side. The staffs may follow behind.”

Sherman nodded, was already dreading the formality of this. “Let’s go, then.”

They made the short ride, Sherman mostly in silence, Johnston offering small pleasantries, tossing names out from the old army. Sherman could see now that Johnston was a good bit older, possibly sixty, the hardness in his features rounded by age and experience. The road curved slightly, the farmhouse ahead, and Johnston said, “Family named Bennett, I believe. They should have no problem with our use of their home.”

Sherman nodded in agreement, thought, Wouldn’t really matter if they did.

The men dismounted, each instructing their staff officers to dismount and hold where they were. Johnston stepped toward the door
and Sherman saw movement in one of the windows, the face of a child. The door opened, a woman, eyes wide, glancing nervously back and forth between the two contrasting uniforms.

“I am Mrs. Daniel Bennett.”

Sherman said, “Madam, might we use your home for a meeting?”

The woman kept her gaze on Johnston now, who said, “Yes, if you will allow it. Only for a time. No harm will come.”

“I suppose that is acceptable. Will you allow me to remove my children? We can go there, the outbuilding.”

Johnston made a short bow. “Certainly, madam. If we may enter, then?”

The woman backed away, a quick look into another room, a soft command, the sounds of padded feet scurrying through the house. There were four children, their mother escorting them in single file outside. The children eyed Sherman, and he couldn’t avoid watching them, saw the eyes of one, wide, frightened. He thought of his own daughter, what this would be like, so many soldiers, an army suddenly bringing the war to your house. Plenty of children will remember this, he thought.

After a long moment, the family was gone, and Sherman thought now of the husband, glanced at Johnston, knew better than to ask. He wouldn’t know anyway. But he’s off somewhere, sure as hell toting a musket. Maybe right out there, part of the escort.

Johnston led him into a large square room, a massive stone hearth to one side, a stairway leading to what seemed to be a small upstairs sleeping area. The floor was wood planks, a bedroom to one end, the smells of a kitchen. Sherman eyed a drop-leaf table, a pair of plain wood chairs, Johnston already moving there. Johnston sat, removed his hat, Sherman noticing the amount of silver in what remained of his hair. He felt more nervous now than any time this day, looked back toward the door, staff officers from both men staring in. Sherman focused on Dayton, said, “Major, this shall be a private meeting. Close the door.”

Dayton obeyed, the room now darker, Johnston silent, and Sherman saw a hint of shakiness in Johnston’s hands, thought, Even rebels can be nervous.

Sherman scanned the house, what seemed comfortable for a simple farming family, a large spinning wheel in one corner of the bedroom, another table, a large desk. He knew he was delaying the inevitable, and his fingers went to his pocket, feeling the paper dispatch. He let out a breath, said, “General, I have something I must reveal to you. No one else in my army has seen this. I do not know to what extent this news has traveled.”

Johnston seemed curious, took the paper from Sherman’s hand, read. His hand dropped to the table, and he shook his head, a sag to his shoulders, curling his slight fingers into fists. “This is a disgrace to the age. It is the greatest possible calamity for the South.”

Sherman could see emotion in Johnston’s face, was surprised, sat at the other side of the table, said, “I do not yet know what this means for us.”

“Surely, you do not consider this to be an act of my government?”

That had not occurred to Sherman at all, and he said, “I do not believe that you or General Lee would ever be privy to an act of assassination. But I admit to you, in all candor, I am not certain such can be said for Jefferson Davis.”

Johnston shook his head vigorously. “I have seen the president within the last few days. There is nothing of this kind of barbarity in him. I assure you, sir. Nothing at all. This is an outrage to all civilized men.”

“I agree. I have not revealed this to even my own staff, but obviously, I must do so by tonight. I dread the effect this will have in Raleigh. Mr. Lincoln was peculiarly endeared to the soldiers, and all it would take is one foolish man or woman to say something that might inflame our men. I fear there could be a worse fate than what befell Columbia.”

“I cannot assist you in that effort, General. But I pray that reason will prevail, on all sides.”

“I have always prayed for that. It hasn’t been especially effective. General, surely you are convinced that you cannot oppose my army. Since General Lee has surrendered, you can do the same with honor and propriety. I see no alternative.”

Johnston sat back, the dispatch on the table between them. “I cannot
argue that point, sir. Any further fighting between our troops would be little more than murder. Can we not arrange for the surrender of all the Confederate armies? General Lee could only speak for his troops, and I can only speak for mine. I could possibly gain authority from President Davis.”

Sherman thought a moment, realized this might become more complicated than he had thought. “I have recently had an interview with Mr. Lincoln and General Grant, and I believe I can speak for both men, even in this circumstance. There was consistency in their views, and the views of the Northern people, that there is no vindictive feeling against the Confederate armies. However, that cannot be said of their feelings toward Mr. Davis and his political adherents.” He paused. “The terms that were given to Lee’s army by General Grant were most certainly generous and liberal. Surely you can be of like mind, and see that the other armies can be convinced?”

“It is possible that overnight, I can receive those assurances from the president, and possibly the authority to act on that. But you realize that the government of the United States has never recognized the existence of a Confederate government. I am not certain how we can treat on the subject of civil authority.”

Sherman stared at Johnston, absorbed in the situation that seemed to grow more complex by the second. “You agree that this war must end.”

Johnston held up his hands in front of him, palms apart, a gesture of agreement. “Most certainly.”

“I can, right here, offer your army the terms as given by General Grant.”

Johnston frowned. “Our situation here is vastly different from General Lee’s. The pieces do not necessarily fit. However, can we not pursue a goal that includes more than what you propose with my army? First, all we have now in effect is a partial suspension of hostilities. Can we not, as others have done, arrange a permanent peace?”

Sherman laid one hand on the table, tapped with his palm, felt a burst of enthusiasm, erasing the head-splitting confusion over so many definitions of civil authority. “Yes! I agree with such sentiment.
I do not know of any reason why we cannot create an agreement here to end bloodshed and devastation to the land, and restore the Union. We must agree to the terms to be offered the Southern states, on their submission to the authority of the United States. I know that President Lincoln was stoutly in favor of such action.”

T
hey conversed for the rest of the afternoon, mostly pleasant, social chatter, some of it more involved with the war itself. Most important to Sherman, the relationship he had formed with Johnston seemed nearly instantaneous, a common understanding that the war had come to an end.