The Fateful Lightning (10 page)

“Captain, mount up. There will be no attack here. Move your men out with the rest of the brigade. We’re moving south, toward Clinton. General Wheeler’s orders.”

Seeley stared up at the man’s silhouette, faint shadows against the high treetops. “Sir, are we not to attack where the enemy—”

“Mount up, Captain.”

Seeley felt an aching helplessness, glanced back, saw his own horse brought closer, one of his troopers handing him the reins. He wanted to protest the order, but Dibrell had little tolerance for dissent. Without a word, Dibrell moved away, other men moving into line with
him, the woods alive now with the dull slurp of muddy hoofbeats. Seeley turned to his horse, caught the usual stink of wet hair, patted the animal, put his foot up in the stirrup, and hoisted himself into the saddle. There were low voices around him, and he saw shadows now, a surprise. He turned, saw a harsh glow of light coming from the river. Men were pointing, some calling out, no one seeming to care about the closeness of the Yankees. He stared with them at the harsh light, blinding in the darkness, the misty rain not disguising what the Yankees were doing. They were burning the town.

NEAR CLINTON, GEORGIA—NOVEMBER 20, 1864

He knew the expression, had seen it far too often. This time he couldn’t say anything. The scolding had come first from Dibrell, but now it would come from Wheeler himself.

“You were going to attack the bridgehead? With a hundred men? Were you planning on charging right onto the pontoon bridge itself, toss those Yankees right into the river? You know how many Yankees were on that bridge, how many would have grabbed your horse before you could fire your pistol?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, Captain, neither do I. But I’m guessing several hundred, and the men who had already gone across would have done just what?”

“I imagine they’d have turned around.”

“That’s a good guess. And so, young captain, where would you be now? I’ll tell you. Your whole force would be wrapped up in ropes, hauled behind General Howard’s column out there. You figure that would do me any good? You may be as stupid as a pine tree, but I need every saber I can put on a horse. Even stupid ones.”

Wheeler turned away, spoke to an aide, called out to another, sent the men riding off, the fast gallop spraying Seeley with mud. He waited for more, could see other officers keeping their distance, thoroughly enjoying the scene. Wheeler turned toward him again, said, “Take your men down that road, line ’em up in the woods off to one side, where the best cover is. Keep ’em down and quiet. The Yankees
are marching on this road, and it won’t take ’em long to walk right on by this very spot.” Wheeler paused, let out a long breath. “Captain, I intend to find out just what kind of iron holds your guts together. Forrest made you a captain, so I’m going to see if he was as stupid then as you were this morning. You get your men into place. If you see a squad of Kilpatrick’s bluebellies, and they don’t see you first, you hit them hard. But don’t stay around like it’s some parade. Do your damage and withdraw. Is that understood, young captain?”

“Yes, sir.”

He saluted, Wheeler returning it with no flourish at all. Wheeler moved quickly away, and Seeley ignored the low laughter coming from the other officers, those men now getting orders of their own.

His men were in line along one side of the wide, muddy lane, and Seeley pushed the horse their way, felt himself sweating, the chill of the light rain adding to the miserable embarrassment of the dressing-down from Wheeler. As he moved closer to his men, he saw the faces, but there was no laughing, no taunts at his expense. He was surprised, curious, scanned the familiar faces first, veterans of a hundred scraps. He scanned the others as well, the men he didn’t yet know, the troopers Wheeler had added to his command. They watched him as he rode closer, and he saw looks of disgust, felt the shame of that, as though they were cursing him for the idiocy that inspired General Wheeler’s embarrassing lecture. He stopped the horse, no one talking, eyes on him, and Seeley had a sudden fear that these men wouldn’t listen to him anymore, would take the general’s lesson to heart, that their captain might have gotten them all killed. Now one man saluted him, the others responding the same way, one of the privates, Horner, loud, brash, the man spitting out the words.

“Ain’t right, sir. We shoulda gone after ’em, like you wanted. Had ’em right in our sights we did. No cause for the general to chew your behind like that. We’d have done some good.”

The others made low sounds, nodding in agreement, even the new men taking some umbrage at Wheeler’s lecture. Seeley felt a sudden flood of pride, his doubts erased by the outrage he was hearing from his own men. He held up a hand, tried to quiet them, said, “No. General Wheeler was right. Surprise or not, we were outnumbered ten or twenty to one. We’d have done some good for a few minutes, but
they’d have shot us out of the saddle. Not every fight is the right one to make.”

Horner spoke up again. “Then what are we doing out here, sir? I ain’t been in a ‘fair fight’ yet. If we ain’t outnumbered, it just ain’t fun.”

The others joined in a chorus of agreement, and Seeley let them talk, glanced back toward Wheeler, but the others had already moved away. He held up his hand again, looking them over, most with only bare hints of a uniform, ragged bedrolls strapped to worn saddles, the horses as poor as the men who rode them. The roll that morning had counted one hundred twenty, the new men mostly from other companies that had been devastated by the fights around Atlanta. They were paying more attention now, the griping exhausted, and Seeley said, “We’ve got orders. Move out and keep to the left of this road. There’s a good stand of trees a half mile back, a farm trail back of it. We’ll settle in there, keep an eye on the main road. You boys want an
unfair fight
, well, General Wheeler thinks we might get one.”

T
he Yankee skirmishers came by first, some of those men treading carefully into the woods close to Seeley’s front, then out again, as though they would detect any threat by some instinct alone. Seeley had held his men more than a hundred yards off the road, could see enough details through the trees and brush to know that the men in column on the road were infantry. If there was cavalry at all, they had taken some other route, or had already moved far beyond where Seeley had placed his men. The only horsemen seemed to be the various commanders, keeping watch on the march of their foot soldiers.

With the daylight had come a slackening in the rain, enough to add confidence that the powder in their pistols and carbines might actually fire. But Seeley kept General Wheeler’s scolding in his mind, knew that he was seeing a force far larger than anything Wheeler had anywhere around them. But still…he knew what Wheeler wanted him to do, had thought long about Wheeler’s hatred of Kilpatrick. No one had explained just why Wheeler despised his adversary with so much vigor. The depth of Wheeler’s passion for a fight with Kilpatrick seemed almost irrational, the kind of fire that leads to bad decisions.
But now Seeley huddled low in the wet brush wondering just what Wheeler would say if the only enemy to his front was Federal infantry.

“Sir! There’s a gap. No one out there!”

Seeley followed the man’s pointing hand, raised his head a few inches, could see the road more clearly now. One wagon rolled past, another, then a pair of horsemen. But there was no infantry. He felt a jolt, listened as well as watched, none of the usual sounds of a column, no voices, no clanking of metal. More men were rising up from the brush, most looking toward him, waiting for…something.

He stood, full view now, felt the surging thrill of what he was seeing, the very opportunity his orders called for. His brain was working, spilling out guesses. Muddy road, slow march, wagon wheels bogging down back there. He waved frantically, Gladstone, other sergeants coming close now, and Seeley said, “Mount up! Follow me out onto the road, and ride hard into the column that just passed! Grab the wagons, or anything else!”

He turned quickly, scampered back through the muddy woods, reached the horses, his men doing the same, responding with the same energy. Seeley climbed up in the saddle, waited impatiently, watched as they came together, pistols checked, some men already drawing sabers. He hesitated a full minute, the men falling into formation, as impatient as he was, horses bucking slightly, responding to the hard grips on their reins. He turned toward the road, a single path that led through the thickets, pointed his own sword, made a hard shout, “Go!”

They followed him through the dripping woods, the hard spray of drizzle ignored now, swept aside by manic energy. He reached the road, saw the last wagon, the officers in blue, the men turning suddenly. Seeley rode that way, sword in the air, the men spurring their own mounts, a fast gallop past the wagon. He rode hard, reached the wagon, pointed the sword at the teamster, the man jumping down, a panicked run into the woods. He pushed forward, the second wagon, the driver calling out, but his hands were in the air, one of Seeley’s troopers holding him motionless with his pistol. Up ahead the column of soldiers was scattering, turning, an officer furiously putting them into line. He rode straight toward them, saw muskets being
loaded, men fumbling with equipment, too slow. He was there now, swung his sword down hard, impact on a man’s shoulder, kept moving, right past them, more of the Yankee column trying to respond, some fleeing into the woods. But Seeley’s men were all among them, swords and pistols aimed, scattered shots, his eyes finding a blue-coated officer firing his pistol, the man suddenly cut down, other Yankee horsemen riding quickly away, leaving their men. The Yankees were in complete confusion, and Seeley halted the horse, waved the sword in the air, shouted out, “Surrender, bluebellies! Surrender or die!”

The order was foolish, childlike, but for the single moment he didn’t care, the burst of victory swirling around him. Men still ran away, but others kept to the road, his own men herding them with their horses. The muskets were dropping now, hands in the air, some of Seeley’s men dismounting, gathering the Yankee prisoners together, leading them quickly toward the captured wagons. Seeley kept the sword high, his breathing hard and hot, heavy pounding in his chest. He looked down the road, concerned now with more than prisoners, saw a mass of blue moving toward him, the Federal column formed into a battle line, stronger now, organizing, officers in control. He searched through his men, saw the prisoners, at least two dozen, and he called out, “Put them in the wagons! Now! Get them up quick!”

The captives seemed to understand, prodded hard by the swords, one officer cooperating, pointing, ordering his men up to the wagons. Seeley rode that way, drew his pistol, a gesture he enjoyed, the glorious power of the moment.

“You are my prisoner, sir! Order your men to cooperate and we won’t abuse them.”

Seeley saw the shoulder straps of a lieutenant, the man very young, terrified, nodding profusely, his stare on the muzzle of Seeley’s pistol.

“Yes, sir! We are your prisoners, sir!”

The shouts were growing up the road, the musket fire coming now, whistles and sharp whines past Seeley’s head. His men were on their mounts again, the prisoners mostly heaped together on the wagons, and Seeley glanced toward the Yankee infantry, close enough to see
faces, a heavy line moving toward them, a hundred yards, closing quickly.

“Let’s go! Take the trail!”

The road through the woods was just wide enough for the wagons, but the mud was deep, the horse’s hooves pushing down into soft goo. He watched the wagons lurch crookedly into the trees, bogging down, and he wanted to shout them through, but there was little hope, the mud too deep, the wagons too heavy. His frustration fueled into raw anger, and he pounded his saddle, waved his men into the woods, most of them pushing their mounts tightly past the heaped wagons. He looked down the road again, the Federal line closer still, more musket fire, a ball whistling through the side of his coat. And now there was a new sound, from the thickets on the far side of the road. He heard the sound of horses, saw the blue mass emerging from woods, pushing through the brush toward him, one flag, then another. It was Federal cavalry.

He yanked hard on the reins, turned the horse, the wagons abandoned, the Yankee prisoners scrambling down, making their escape. The Federal horsemen poured out onto the road, and Seeley drew his pistol, saw another squad farther down, pushing past the line of blue infantry. The Yankee horsemen halted, a frozen moment, barely thirty yards away, eyes on him, his pistol motionless. He focused on their carbines, and he heard the orders, the silence broken now, spurred the horse, the animal responding with a lurch. He followed his men into the woods, the wagons clogging the trail, offering blessed cover, blocking the Federal fire. He skirted around the wagons, the carbines rattling in a chorus of fire like nothing he had ever heard. His head was low, the horse obeying the urgency of his spurs, his eyes on the men in front of him,
his
men. They kept up the gallop, mud flying, the wet branches slapping past Seeley, the men still riding hard. They reached an open field and Seeley shouted out, some of the men halting, then more, coming back together, the immediate danger past. He drew them into line, the sergeants riding behind them, straightening the formation, and Seeley stared back into the woods, expected to see the blue horsemen in close pursuit.

“Make ready! Aim low!”

The men were silent, waiting, the agonizing tension spread through all of them. Seeley stared out down the trail, strained to hear, but there was nothing, only the hiss of more rain. Beside him was one of the new men, a corporal.

“They ain’t coming. They think they just chased us off.”

Gladstone was there now, the old man spitting a stream of tobacco juice close to Seeley’s horse. “They did chase us off, boy. You hear them damn carbines? Eight-shooters. Ten-shooters. Whatever the hell they got now.”

Seeley absorbed that, knew Gladstone was right. He had seen that before, in Tennessee, the Yankee horsemen with their new weapons, one man able to shoot as quickly as half a squad of Seeley’s own. He had actually captured some of the repeating pieces, but they were useless to his men. The ammunition they carried didn’t fit.