The Fateful Lightning (70 page)

ON BOARD THE
BAT
—MARCH 28, 1865

Sherman kept his gaze on the darkening skies, the sunset behind him. He kept Lincoln’s words in his mind, utterly surprised now by what he had seen and heard. Though the talk focused on tactics and strategies, planning and maneuver, Sherman left City Point with an odd sense of affection for Lincoln, something he never expected. He is a humorous man, he thought. I always heard about the incessant stories, the joking, the analogies. It is nothing more than his mind at work, always turning, like the gears of a clock. Did he truly remember me? Sherman ran a hand through his rough shag of red hair. Maybe not. But he convinced me he did. And, by God, no matter what anyone else in Washington may think, whatever schemes and conspiracies are hatched by those political scalawags, Lincoln will see this through, and he has faith that no matter our failings, he has the right men in position to end the war.

He ran Lincoln’s parting words through his mind, a smile on Sherman’s face.

“I should feel much better when you are back at Goldsboro.”

Very well, sir. Just keep your eyes on the telegraph. The news for all of us should be most pleasing.

SMITHFIELD, NORTH CAROLINA—APRIL 5, 1865

S
herman’s halt had provided the Confederate forces with an enormous break of their own, a hungry, exhausted army finally rested, with at least some food gathered from farms west of Raleigh, the rail lines that ran toward the mountains still intact. With the desperately needed supplies came additional troops, the men who had marched from Hood’s army in Alabama, some of those men from North Carolina, simply returning home. Whether they would fight or not, Hardee could not be certain. But Hardee was grateful for every man he could get.

With the disjointed defeat and then the withdrawal from Bentonville, the army had been diminished yet again by a mass of desertions. Hunger and hopelessness pulled men out of the ranks daily, a reality for both Hardee and Johnston that they had to address. If there was to be another fight, another effort by Johnston to strike at any vulnerability they found with Sherman, the army had to be reorganized. Hardee took the lead with that, shifting some officers to new positions, eliminating some regiments altogether, units that consisted of only a few men, just as Hardee had seen around the campfires at Bentonville. The generals were not immune. Lafayette McLaws, who
had never impressed Hardee with his initiative, was ordered to Georgia, an arrangement that satisfied both McLaws and Joe Johnston. From Hood’s army, Stephen Dill Lee, a capable and proven veteran, had marched along with the troops that had come back to North Carolina, and so, Johnston placed him in command of what would now be a corps, equal in status to Hardee. A third corps was formed, under another able commander, A. P. Stewart, who had served Hardee well, as far back as Shiloh, three years before. Still, with the additional strength, and the shuffling of commanders, Johnston and Hardee knew they could field barely thirty thousand effective soldiers.

With so little activity from Sherman’s army around Goldsboro, Hardee had felt comfortable remaining at Hillsborough with his wife, Mary, for several days. A priority of course was the funeral of his son, a ceremony that rivaled the full military honors offered any fallen commander, a gesture authorized by Johnston. But once more, Hardee could not afford the luxury of grieving. After he had spent several days pacing about the home of his niece, his restlessness had overpowered his sentiment. It was time to return to his men.

“
T
he Yankee prisoners have been most helpful with their information. Sherman is sitting still. For how long, we cannot of course be certain.”

Johnston faced the commanders from one end of the room, his hands clasped behind his back. Stephen Lee spoke now, and Hardee detected an angry edge to his words.

“General, is it not appropriate for us to make a move toward Sherman’s camps? If his army is recuperating, if they are awaiting resupply, his men will be looking more eagerly to their supply trains than to their defenses.”

Hardee sat back, looked carefully at Lee. He detected a hint of hostility toward Johnston, wondered if there was animosity in the man, still lurking from the surrender at Vicksburg. Stephen Lee had been one of John C. Pemberton’s senior commanders, forced to lay down their arms to a victorious Ulysses Grant. Every officer who endured that defeat knew that while Pemberton’s army was growing more desperate,
Joe Johnston had been nearby with a sizable force, yet made no effort to assist Pemberton’s starving troops, a move that could possibly have broken Grant’s siege. At thirty-two, Lee was the youngest lieutenant general in the army, and Hardee couldn’t avoid the nagging regret that had he come to the fore earlier in the war, Lee might have been one of those bright stars, a man as capable as Patrick Cleburne or Stonewall Jackson. At the very least he had survived the fights that others had not, Hardee never far from the burning question of how many battles might have gone differently had those men still been alive.

If Johnston had any prickliness about Lee’s edginess, he didn’t show it. He spoke instead with a calm patience, an elder schooling a novice. “General, you are referring to the kind of strategy the army attempted one time before, which eventually resulted in our catastrophe at Shiloh. The enemy was not prepared to be assaulted there, and assault him we did. But the enemy’s power, his sheer numbers, stripped us of our momentum. Well, of course, I was not present.” He looked at Hardee now, seemed to hesitate. “General Hardee was there, and acquitted himself in fine fashion. But such confrontations, the tactics and advantages, are not always as clear as they may seem. We know Sherman and Schofield are together. Even with the element of surprise, we would find ourselves overwhelmed by sheer numbers.”

Hardee knew that Johnston was right, that Lee’s youthful energy might compel him to take that kind of risk. Hardee debated saying anything at all, but the words couldn’t be held back. “I admire your aggressiveness, Stephen, but there is one other consideration for keeping to the defensive. On my return to the army, it was apparent to me that the fighting spirit of these men is in a sad way. We are losing a significant number of men to desertion. Very few of those who remain have shoes, very few have been properly fed. There are barely any uniforms, and many of the men are without weapons.”

Lee sniffed. “When did any of that prevent us from striking the enemy?”

Hardee folded his hands together, did not want this argument. “I believe General Johnston will agree with me, that this army has been bested perhaps one too many times. Your command in Tennessee is
one example, and ours in Georgia. We may believe in our cause and we may rely on the fortitude and commitment given us by the Almighty. But our army is a shadow of what it once was. Go, walk down the street, go to the camps not just of your men, but mine, of any place where the men gather. Listen to the talk, listen to their hopes merely to return home.”

Lee seemed to puff up. “Is this defeatism I hear? I wish you no insult, General Hardee, but I know of no reason why the men outside this house cannot still whip a like number of Yankees!”

Johnston said, “If there were a
like
number, yes, perhaps I would agree with you. That, General, is the issue. Our greatest hope lies in marching this army northward, to a rendezvous with the Army of Northern Virginia. That act alone will provide a substantial boost to our spirit, perhaps for both armies. Right now, Sherman has granted us a generous gift of time. We must use that to boost the health of this army, as well as their willingness to fight. One should follow the other, I would think.”

Hardee saw an aide peering through the door, one of Johnston’s adjutants. Colonel Pickett was with him, both men seeming anxious. Hardee looked at Johnston, motioned toward the door, Johnston now aware of their presence. Johnston said, “You may enter.”

Johnston’s man, Colonel Eddy, held several pieces of paper in his hand, said, “Sir, we have received the morning’s press dispatches. I cannot verify the accuracy, sir, but it is being reported that Richmond has been evacuated. General Lee is said to have ordered the defensive forces there to withdraw along the north side of the Appomattox River, presuming they will unite with his army somewhere close to Petersburg. It is apparent, sir, that the enemy has occupied the capital.”

Johnston stared at him, no expression, and Hardee felt a punch in his stomach. Pickett moved close beside him, said, “It is also reported, sir, that President Davis is presently in Danville.”

Hardee felt a glimmer of relief, and Johnston nodded slowly, said, “Yes, very good. I am pleased he managed to escape the enemy. I shall wire him with all haste. Colonel, see to it. I wish to know what instructions the president might have for us. I am assuming the secretary of war has accompanied the president. It seems apparent, more
than before, that moving this army to unite with General Lee’s is our only course.”

Hardee felt pressed hard into the chair, a sick turn in his stomach. He kept the words to himself, allowed the chatter to flow out from the others, a mix of outrage and doubt, pessimism that the information was accurate at all. Pickett seemed to read him, put one hand on Hardee’s shoulder, spoke beneath the ongoing flow of words around them.

“We shall await your orders, sir.”

Hardee looked up at his friend, felt drained of emotion. Johnston led his adjutant out of the room, the others moving out as well, Hardee now alone with Pickett.

“We shall attempt to unite with the Army of Northern Virginia. Perhaps between our two armies, there is sufficient strength to…” He stopped. To do what? “Bill, I shall return to my headquarters. I presume our next order from General Johnston will be to prepare to march. If not, perhaps we should make room in our camps for the army of Robert E. Lee.”

W
ith Sherman still content to sit still, Johnston did not push the army to begin their own march northward before the men had been adequately prepared. On April 9, that changed. Scouts from Wade Hampton’s cavalry reported with confidence that Sherman had finally issued orders to his men that they were to begin their march northward toward Raleigh the next day. If there was doubt about the reliability of those reports, Hardee knew that an army the size of what Sherman commanded could not merely pull down their tents and fall into column. There would be extensive preparation, enormous logistics, the gathering and loading of wagon trains, artillery trains. Hampton’s cavalry had received most of their information from those who would see those preparations firsthand, the local citizenry around Goldsboro, most of those people with no love for Sherman’s occupation of their town. On April 10, those reports were confirmed, Sherman’s men taking to the roads, vast columns beginning the next phase of whatever Sherman intended them to do.

OUTSIDE RALEIGH—APRIL 10, 1865

Johnston led the three newly organized corps that morning, knowing that miles to the south, Sherman’s vastly superior army would require more time to move along those same roads.

Hardee marched along the primary Goldsboro Road, a well-traveled avenue, where he would serve as Johnston’s rear guard. By evening, what Johnston could still call his army had encamped around Raleigh itself.

Hardee’s headquarters was on the main road, a small house occupied by a family named Joyce. He sat at their dining room table, tried to keep his arms away, the table leaning precariously to one side, shifting with any weight he put on it. The dinner was cold, a piece of ham that resembled old granite, his staff struggling to make coffee from what seemed to be sweet potato skins. The couple was young, the man with one leg severed at the knee, a wound Hardee had seen too often.

“If I may ask you, sir, where did you fight?”

The young man showed no hesitation, no self-consciousness about the missing leg. “Virginia, sir. Mostly. I got hit at Sharpsburg. Second Manassas, too. That’s where they took my leg. Said I couldn’t fight no more, so I come on home. Rode the train. All along the way, I scared the young’uns who saw me. Hated that. Never meant to scare no one. ’Cept Yankees. Didn’t never expect you’d be sharing my table, sir. I am honored, truly.”

“It isn’t an honor, Mr. Joyce. I am an intruder. I am here because I have no other place to be. The army is on the march, and we must find accommodations wherever we can. My apologies to your wife for this violation.”

“Oh, she don’t mind none. She’s with child, though. Keeps her in the bed most of the time. Pardon me for being so familiar, sir. She would much prefer being at our table with you. When your staff officer knocked on our door, she was as surprised as me. Didn’t never expect the war to come here.”

“With any luck, Mr. Joyce, it won’t come here at all.” He finished the piece of ham, a sour taste in his mouth, drank a glass of water, the
only palatable thing he had ingested that day. “I wish I had something better to offer you for your hospitality, Mr. Joyce. This army has learned to subsist on very little.”

“Oh, don’t I know that, sir! I ate corn out of a horse’s droppings one day. A man’s hungry, he’ll do most anything.”

Hardee kept his eyes on the empty plate, thought, Let us hope we don’t have it quite that bad.