The Fateful Lightning (68 page)

“Maybe so. But it’s done, ain’t it? Don’t need to keep on doing it. Hope I don’t never have to do nothing like that again.”

NEAR BENTONVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA—MARCH 23, 1865

The word had come down from Slocum, through the corps commander, Jefferson Davis, that the army was again to resume its march toward Goldsboro. For now the 113th had established a temporary camp, and at least for a pleasant day’s rest, Colonel Jones had his tent again, the regiment going about their duties as though none of the past week had ever really happened.

“You want to leave? Why?”

Franklin held his hat in his hands, felt as nervous now as any time in the past. “I figured out, sir, I don’t want to be a soldier.”

Jones sat back in his small camp chair, stared at him for a long moment. “Sergeant Knight told me what you did. Says you’re a hero.”

Franklin shook his head. “No, sir. I helped out when I could. Did what I had to. No telling that the sergeant might have done it, too, might have fought and took care of that reb.”

“That’s not what he says.”

Franklin felt a wave of frustration, had a sudden fear that the army might not let him go. “Ain’t I allowed to leave? I thought this army was about making people free.”

“Easy, Mr. Franklin. No one said you can’t leave. Actually, according to the army rolls, you were never really here anyway. But you can’t
just walk off somewhere. This is, well, to you, this is a foreign country. You go walking up to some farm, and they’re liable to put a musket ball in you.”

“Yes, sir. I know. I was hoping, you could maybe set up for me to go back to Savannah. In Fayetteville, those boats were hauling people back to some good place, so they said.”

Jones nodded. “True. The government is settling Negroes on land they took from the plantation owners. That what you want?”

“Maybe. I want to go back to Clara first. Decide what we’re gonna do. Maybe stay in the city. Maybe have our own farm. I ain’t never had to decide anything like this before. But I want to talk to her. I think we’ll be married.”

“Good for you.” Jones pulled a paper from a small box to one side of him. He slid the chair over to a small desk, began to write. Franklin was curious, stood patiently. After a long minute, Jones said, “Here. Take this, keep it with you all the time. It’s a pass, allowing you to go through the guard posts. It has my name on it, and anybody gives you any trouble, you mention General Mitchell’s brigade, General Morgan’s division. It’s all there.” Jones stopped, seemed to scan Franklin closely. “You been paid a bit, here and there. You keep that?”

“Yes, sir. Greenbacks rolled up in my pocket. Not sure how much. Don’t never use it for anything.”

“That’s good. Some of these boys gamble away every dime the army gives them. Or spend it on foolishness. I don’t see you being that stupid. But you’ll need every dollar you’ve got to get to anyplace that matters to you.” Jones stopped, wrote on another paper, signed it with a flourish. “This one you’ll need me for. Let’s go.”

Jones stood, and Franklin backed out of the tent, said, “Where we going, if I can ask.”

“You can ask plenty, Mr. Franklin. You’re a free man. You can ask anybody anything you want, anytime you want. Even in Savannah, even if there’s still a war. Just be smart about it. Don’t go making speeches to people who might not see things that way. Savannah’s still the South, and some people are still fighting mad.”

Jones moved past him, and Franklin followed, said, “Then, if I can ask…where we off to, sir?”

“Division paymaster. You’ll need every bit of money you’re due.
Besides your labor, I figure you earned a month’s pay as a soldier. You fought in a battle, saved a man’s life. That’s all I need to hear. The army’ll agree with me.”

Franklin had no idea what Jones meant, followed him, Jones’s steps quickening. The adjutant, Hartmann, came running toward them through the camp, called out, “Sir! You require my assistance?”

“No. I require your horse. Mr. Franklin and I are taking a ride over to division headquarters.”

“My horse?”

“Don’t be concerned, Lieutenant. We’ll be back. I just need to take care of some army business. The way I see it, we owe Mr. Franklin another thirteen dollars.”

GOLDSBORO, NORTH CAROLINA—MARCH 24, 1865

H
e was surprised by Howard’s anger. The triumph of what had been done to Johnston’s army was muted by the complaints Sherman was beginning to hear, that there had been mistakes,
his
mistakes.

“We whipped them, Oliver. Johnston has nothing left. Surely, you can accept that for what it is.”

Howard rarely showed any kind of outburst, but Sherman knew his moods, could see that Howard was doing all he could not to explode into Sherman’s face. It was an extraordinary show. Howard seemed to choose his words carefully.

“I’ll not debate what Johnston has remaining in his arsenal. I am not aware of those details.”

“All right. Can you accept that the enemy has lost a few more teeth? With Schofield’s troops, Terry’s, the cavalry, we can field possibly ninety thousand men. Against what? I do not understand your concerns.”

Howard sat staring away, his lone hand rubbing the side of his bearded face. Sherman saw the man’s jaw clenching, even through the beard. Sherman didn’t want this, had no reason to scold the man
for any objections he had to anything Sherman had done. But Sherman also knew that Howard respected authority, wouldn’t spray words about his own headquarters like some fountain of indiscretion. Sherman moved deliberately, pulled a cigar slowly from his pocket, played with lighting it, giving Howard time. Dammit, he thought. Say what you came to say.

“I fear, sir, we lost an opportunity to crush the enemy.”

“I thought we crushed him pretty well. The first casualty counts from Slocum show we bested him severely. The rebels can’t afford to lose what this fight cost them.”

Howard looked at him now, seemed to summon courage, then turned away again. “I believe that possibly, some of the orders you issued were not based on adequate information. That perhaps was my fault.”

It was typical of Howard, placing blame by accepting it first.

“Which orders? Damn it all, Oliver. What kind of beef should any of us have with the outcome? Johnston is in full retreat.”

Howard continued to clench, shook his head. “This is not criticism, sir. But we had a grand opportunity. We made a breakthrough on the enemy’s flank. General Mower had breached their left, was close to surrounding Johnston’s headquarters, their wagon train. Had he been supported, we could have captured most of Johnston’s command. This war might have ended right there. I had thought that was our goal.”

“Mower? All I knew was that he had pushed too far forward. He could have been cut off. We might have lost his entire brigade. That’s not the kind of boost I wish to give the enemy. In the last week, we have captured more than two thousand prisoners, Oliver. Two thousand! Every officer I talk to tells me those men are utterly demoralized. Whatever General Mower might or might not have accomplished, the larger picture is what matters. You disagree with my orders, fine, I accept that. But they are my orders. What more needs to be said?” Sherman hated this, did not need any kind of disharmony among his commanders, not now.

“You are correct, sir. You issued orders that had to be obeyed. To General Mower’s credit, when he was ordered to withdraw, he withdrew. I would only offer, sir, that he saw things as they were in his
immediate front. With your permission, I shall advise him that he did nothing wrong, that in the commanding general’s opinion, he had possibly endangered his men by advancing too far forward. There is no sanction against him.”

It was as close to a compromise as Howard could come. Sherman let out a breath, blew cigar smoke toward the ceiling.

“There is no sanction at all. Not against him, or you, or anyone in this entire army. We won the damned fight. We’re already past that. I’m sorry. I don’t wish to insult your sensibilities, but Schofield is arriving at any moment. This will be a gratifying meeting, Oliver. You are welcome to accompany me. This is a monumental day for us. I would prefer you see it that way.” He paused. “If there were mistakes made, or opportunities lost, others will judge us for it. I prefer to embrace our triumphs. Is that not acceptable?”

“Certainly, sir. I shall be delighted to accompany you. I admire John Schofield. His accomplishments in Tennessee deserve high praise.”

“Good. Join me here in an hour.”

“As you wish.”

Howard rose, and was out the door, and Sherman was still frustrated, tore the tip off the cigar with his teeth, stared hard at the open window. Hitchcock was there now, said, “Sir, I’ve spoken with General Schofield’s adjutant. Pleasant fellow, anxious to meet you…”

“Get out of here, Major.”

Hitchcock froze, his mouth open. “Sir?”

“Did you not hear me? Get out.”

Hitchcock disappeared, and Sherman rose from the chair, heavy steps across the room, leaned his hands on the windowsill. Outside, the town of Goldsboro was alive with his army, wagons, guns, formations of troops. He kept his gaze downward, said aloud, “We won, dammit.”

He pulled away from the window, moved to the door, out into the parlor, ignored the staff, the aides, made a line for the staircase. He climbed heavily, thunderous boot steps, knew they were watching him, that someone would muster the courage to say something. To his relief, they let him go, and he walked to his room, slammed the door behind him. The cigar was shredded in his mouth, and he jerked
it away, crushed it in his hand, threw the remnants in a shower toward the window. The bed was close beside him, a soft invitation, and he dropped down on the edge, swung his boots up onto the quilt, lay back, his head finding the soft pillow.

Mistakes
. The word gnawed at him, burning a hole in his brain. So, I ordered Mower to withdraw prematurely? How the hell can I be certain of that? Take his word for it? No, I will not entertain Howard’s griping.

He put a hand over his eyes, rubbed at his temples. I’ll be judged, all right. Mower is a small piece of an enormous puzzle, and Howard knows better than to mention that. There was only one reason we had a fight at Bentonville at all. One reason, one very bad mistake. I was arrogant, cocksure. Why shouldn’t I be? What had the enemy ever done to give me doubts? I never thought of Joe Johnston as crafty or devious. They put him in command because he outranks everyone else. Lee and Johnston, the two highest-ranking men in their whole damned army. It makes sense, still makes sense. Even that lunatic Jefferson Davis must know that the end is coming, and so they put their two
figureheads
up in front of us, to make it official. Two possibilities. Those two generals have been ordered to lead their armies against us in some kind of suicidal sacrifice, some bloody all-or-nothing charge, or they will sit down with us and sign the papers we will put before them. Davis would rather jump off a cliff than surrender, so he needs figureheads to do it for him. It’s all about symbols, gold swords and sashes, nice neat gray uniforms, so the newspapers in Richmond will say they stood proudly, forced to do our bidding only because we had bigger guns. So they can keep their honor. What’s wrong with those people?

He let his mind drift back to Howard, the unspoken words. It was the usual plague that settled on Sherman, so often, so many great fights. You made mistakes, and Howard didn’t know how to tell you. Wouldn’t just come out and blame you for anything, it’s not his way. Slocum certainly knows what we allowed the enemy to do. His people got bloodied for it. So, you were careless, gave orders without knowing the details. That hasn’t mattered, not since Atlanta. Johnston gathered up his people at Bentonville to bust us in the mouth, and if he had been a little better at it, what then? What would the
newspapers say about that? You are still being judged, Sherman. There are men in Washington who would pay their salaries to see you fail. What would Grant say? He protects me. But if I fall on my face…no, it has to be more than that. If I allow too many of my men to be killed, captured, shoved off a battlefield, there is no protection, not for either one of us. He has his hands full with that damned Robert E. Lee. A siege. He hates a siege as much as I do. But Lee isn’t going to roll over. I never thought Johnston would be aggressive. And that was my mistake.

He sat up now, a burst of energy. Stop this. Stop your brain from spewing out useless thoughts. You won the fight. I cannot be concerned if General Mower got lucky, stumbled his men right up to Johnston’s camp. Johnston is gone, hauled his miscreant army to Raleigh. Howard wants me to chase him, no doubt. So does Slocum. To Slocum, it’s about pride. He got bloodied, so he has to strike back, avenge his losses. Damn it all, this isn’t King Arthur. None of us are high up on some white horse, carrying God’s sword in our hand. And none of us are faultless. If Howard doesn’t understand the larger picture, he will soon.

Sherman held up his hand, stared at the lines in his palm, the yellowed fingertips, slowly made a fist. It’s as clear as this, he thought. Punch your way through this war, every chance you get. Sometimes you’ll miss your target. But keep the fist, keep punching. We have the power, and the enemy does not. What matters now is the rest of the story, the campaign to end this war. No general is going to scold me for some error that costs us a day, or even a week, or a hundred men or a thousand. And if they do not understand that…well, then, I really cannot be concerned. That’s why they answer to
me
.

He stood, moved to the door, put one hand on the glass knob, hesitated. The voice was there, rising up from that awful hole in his brain, the worst enemy he had, the taunting and the doubts he could never completely escape. If Howard is right, he thought, the others, too, if they see the failings, what then? Will the men be next, those marvelous soldiers, their affection for Uncle Billy? Will they lose that? And what of Grant? I cannot betray him, I cannot fail him. Ever. So, no more mistakes, Sherman. There has to come a time when this
uniform comes off for the final time, and you have to know you did this right. All of it. So, by God, let’s end this war.

H
e had met with John Schofield, with Alfred Terry, the two commands whose work along the coast had tossed all of eastern North Carolina into Sherman’s control. The railroads to southern Virginia were now held by Federal forces, the rolling stock already coming south, bringing more of the supplies and munitions that would fuel his army. Despite some calls from his commanders that Johnston’s army was still the target, that Johnston be pursued toward Raleigh, Sherman would hear none of that. His plan had not changed: Add Schofield’s troops to his own, rest and refit them at Goldsboro, and by the first week of April, the march would resume, a hard push toward the Virginia border.

He still kept one eye focused on Johnston, even if he said little of that to his own generals. There would be no separation of the wings of his army, no carelessness on the roads that wound haphazardly northward. His command would now extend over a force of ninety thousand men, a number he repeated to himself with silent joy.

If his generals were impatient to leave Goldsboro, the men were pushing at the gates like a rebellious bull. As he walked among their camps, he heard their calls, the morale as high as it could ever be. But he knew he should feed them first, prepare them for what lay ahead, even if he wasn’t certain himself. It still impressed him how healthy the army had been, all the way back to Atlanta. The sick calls had been minimal, the men marching so many hundreds of miles through the worst geography imaginable, and yet they were aching to do it again, to seek whatever challenge the rebels put in their way. The supplies were slow in coming, though the riverboats along the Cape Fear, and now the Neuse River, which ran near Goldsboro, were alive with activity. For the army it meant that the men so accustomed to enduring hardtack would finally be made stronger by sacks of grain and herds of livestock. The railroads only added to that relief, the tracks now rattling with the first of the great locomotives that brought goods from the coast. But Sherman saw the railroad very differently
from his men. The lines ran northeastward, to the town of New Bern and the seacoast, and with that pathway came an opportunity.