The Fateful Lightning Read online

  The Fateful Lightning is a work of historical fiction, using well-known historical and public figures. All incidents and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Jeffrey M. Shaara

  Maps copyright © 2015 by Bob Bull

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Shaara, Jeff

  The fateful lightning : a novel of the Civil War / Jeff Shaara.

  pages; cm.—(Civil War; 4)

  ISBN 978-0-345-54919-8 (hardcover)—ISBN 978-0-345-54920-4 (eBook)

  1. Sherman, William T. (William Tecumseh), 1820–1891—Fiction. 2. Generals—United States—Fiction. 3. United States—History—Civil War, 1861–1865—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3569.H18F38 2015

  813′.54—dc23 2015011013

  eBook ISBN 9780345549204

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  eBook design adapted from printed book design by Christopher M. Zucker

  Cover design: Tom McKeveny

  Cover art: The Granger Collection, New York

  v4.1

  a

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  TO THE READER

  LIST OF MAPS

  PART ONE Chapter One: Sherman

  Chapter Two: Grant

  Chapter Three: Seeley

  Chapter Four: Sherman

  Chapter Five: Seeley

  Chapter Six: Seeley

  Chapter Seven: Hardee

  Chapter Eight: Sherman

  Chapter Nine: Franklin

  Chapter Ten: Sherman

  Chapter Eleven: Franklin

  Chapter Twelve: Sherman

  Chapter Thirteen: Seeley

  Chapter Fourteen: Franklin

  Chapter Fifteen: Sherman

  Chapter Sixteen: Hardee

  Chapter Seventeen: Franklin

  Chapter Eighteen: Sherman

  Chapter Nineteen: Hazen

  Chapter Twenty: Sherman

  Chapter Twenty-One: Hardee

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Sherman

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Hardee

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Sherman

  PART TWO Chapter Twenty-Five: Franklin

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Sherman

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Hardee

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Sherman

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Franklin

  Chapter Thirty: Sherman

  Chapter Thirty-One: Franklin

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Seeley

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Sherman

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Seeley

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Seeley

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Sherman

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Hardee

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Sherman

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Hardee

  Chapter Forty: Seeley

  Chapter Forty-One: Sherman

  Chapter Forty-Two: Franklin

  Chapter Forty-Three: Franklin

  Chapter Forty-Four: Hardee

  Chapter Forty-Five: Franklin

  Chapter Forty-Six: Sherman

  Chapter Forty-Seven: Hardee

  Chapter Forty-Eight: Sherman

  Chapter Forty-Nine: Sherman

  Chapter Fifty: Sherman

  AFTERWORD

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  By Jeff Shaara

  About the Author

  TO THE READER

  This is the fourth and final volume of a series that tells the story of the Civil War in the “west.” The first three, dealing with Shiloh, Vicksburg, and Chattanooga, featured a cast of characters that varied according to the significance of those men (and in one case, woman) and their roles in the story. In all three books, the one consistent character is Federal general William T. Sherman. Here Sherman becomes even more of a primary figure, as this story covers the campaigns from November 1864 through the end of the war in North Carolina, in late April 1865. Much of the book covers what we know today as “Sherman’s March to the Sea,” across north and central Georgia. But there is much more to this story.

  In every book I’ve written, I agonize over just where the story should begin. Inevitably, the question arises, from letters and emails I receive, of why I did not include certain events or certain specific people. This book will be no exception.

  This is not a history book. I never make any attempt to include the entire history of any campaign or battle, or to include every major historical figure. That is the job of the historian. My primary objective is to find what I hope is the best story I can tell, and by doing so, to bring the history to life. This is a novel. But the characters are real, the accounts based on as many original source materials as I could find, including the work of a great many historians who have dug far more deeply into these characters than I can. In addition, I depend on those readers who offer up pieces of their own family history, often including diaries, collections of letters, or memoirs that have never been published and thus have never seen the light of day. The extraordinary value of all of these resources creates the acknowledgments section of this book, found at the end.

  The choice to begin this story in November 1864 was a challenging one. My last book, the third volume in this series (The Smoke at Dawn), dealt with the Chattanooga campaign of late 1863. What happens immediately afterward, continuing through the summer of 1864, most notably the vicious struggles around the city of Atlanta, is a book all its own. Though I make frequent reference to that campaign and to the campaigns that follow in central Tennessee (specifically the battles of Franklin and Nashville), this story begins with Sherman’s march away from Atlanta, and features four principal voices and their experiences through the final six months of the war. To those who feel I have ignored or overlooked the significance of the events I have left out, I apologize. But I am restricted often by my publisher, who in this case was rather insistent that I not attempt to tackle six or seven books on this particular part of the war (or write one gigantic book that would make Harry Potter pale in comparison).

  So, I’m hoping you will accept this book as my attempt to bring you the final chapter of the war, a chapter that to many is virtually unknown, especially compared to the more familiar stories of Robert E. Lee and Ulysses Grant in Virginia.

  This story focuses on four primary points of view. One is Sherman, certainly. Two others are his adversaries General William Hardee and the young cavalryman Captain James Seeley, both of whom were introduced in the first volume (A Blaze of Glory) at Shiloh. Alongside these three soldiers comes a civilian, a very different kind of voice. He is a slave who discovers that, as Sherman’s army makes its way through Georgia, the bullwhips and tracking hounds of his master have suddenly disappeared. Thus he joins an extraordinary parade, tens of thousands of men, women, and children who escape their bondage and follow along with Sherman’s troops. I hope that the character of a man named Franklin offers you a perspective on this horrific time in our history that few have explored.

  Regardless of your feelings about General Sherman (and I’ve heard a great deal about that), I hope you will find this to be what I intended: an engaging and entertai
ning story about a part of the Civil War that is often overlooked. As always, the history is as accurate as I can make it, and the interpretation of the personalities of these characters, along with their day-to-day dialogue, is my own.

  This was a wonderful book to write. I hope you feel it is worth reading.

  JEFF SHAARA

  APRIL 2015

  LIST OF MAPS

  Theater of Operation

  The March Begins—November 15, 1864

  Howard Moves Toward Macon—November 20, 1864

  Sherman Moves Toward Savannah—December 4, 1864

  Sherman Approaches Savannah

  Sherman Moves into South Carolina

  Sherman Moves on Columbia

  Sherman Drives into North Carolina

  Bentonville, Midafternoon—March 19, 1865

  Morgan’s Desperate Stand

  PART ONE

  I propose to demonstrate the vulnerability of the South, and make its inhabitants feel that war and individual ruin are synonymous terms.

  — WILLIAM T. SHERMAN

  He has done either one of the most brilliant or one of the most foolish things ever performed by a military leader. The date on which he goes and the plan on which he acts must really place him among the great generals, or the very little ones.

  — THE BRITISH ARMY AND NAVY GAZETTE

  CHAPTER ONE

  SHERMAN

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA—NOVEMBER 16, 1864

  He halted the horse at the crest of a hill, pulled back on the reins, stared out westward for a long moment. The staff did the same, following his lead, spreading out to give him room, no one moving close unless he was told to. He heard the low murmurs, their reaction to what they were leaving behind them, the picture they would carry within them for the rest of their lives, the perfect portrait of absolute victory.

  Sherman held the horse as still as possible, the high-spirited animal moving nervously beneath him, seeming to know there was much more to be done. He clamped his legs in tight, calming the horse, his focus now on the scene. He didn’t try to see detail, absorbed instead the vast panorama, the entire city offering itself as a marvelous showpiece. He wrapped his mind around that, what this meant, what it would mean to Grant, to the War Department, what it would mean to all those whose homes were boiling up in black smoke. Pieces of the enemy, he thought. No, it is more. It is the enemy itself. All of it. Everything I can see, everything beneath the march of my army.

  The sun was rising behind him, but the city was lit from within, the spreading fires blowing through the fragility of the wooden structures, homes, businesses, factories. He had no urge to destroy the homes, had surprised his staff the night before when he pitched in, trying to extinguish the flames on several small houses near his headquarters. Those fires were premature, without purpose, defiance of his orders that infuriated him. His hands were still smeared with soot, but he ignored that, the futility and anger now past. Throughout the night the fires grew far beyond what a few men attempted to contain. Those men were outnumbered, swarmed over by a passion fueled by alcohol and a lustful revenge. The first fires had been set by vandals, miscreant soldiers more interested in a cruel game than in waging war. But the game became more ugly very quickly, a contagious disease spreading among men who knew that Sherman’s order would eventually come, that in time he would have given them permission to set the fires anyway. As the night wore on, the torches were thrown by not only drunken soldiers but even the sober, seduced by the raw power of the fires they could create. Those fires were indiscriminate, aimless, and Sherman was disgusted by that, had hoped instead to offer the rebels the message with clarity.

  The order had been given to his chief engineer, Captain Orlando Poe, and Poe’s men had been selective, had followed Sherman’s instructions to leave nothing behind that the rebels could ever use again, nothing that could help anyone make war. The factories had been the greatest priority, whether munitions and powder plants or the simplest ironworks. The mills and cotton gins had gone as well, along with storage facilities for everything an army used, food and fuel, and any structure that aided transportation. But Sherman had seen this before. Atlanta was no different than Jackson, Mississippi, or any other town on the continent. Even the brick and stone structures had skeletons of wood, and so the slightest breeze pushed the destruction from the intended target to the random storefront, the house that happened to be downwind. He saw it now, a vast sea of red, the harsh glow of a hundred small fires uniting into a raging mass that swept away entire neighborhoods, ash and smoke billowing through every alleyway, the wider avenues bathed with clouds of gray and black, pierced by sharp fingers of red. The smoke rose high, columns of raw heat caught by the morning’s breeze, drifting out over him, a light rain of ash filtering down around him, around the others. In the road, the soldiers marched, some of them staring back, a last glimpse, trying to see the amazing horror of it. But there were others who kept their eyes away, hard stares into the backs of the men who marched ahead.

  Sherman knew there had been protest, some born of guilt in those men who saw the civilians for what they were: obstacles. Sherman had dealt with that as efficiently as he could, had issued an order to the city’s authorities that the civilians simply leave, vacating their homes and businesses to avoid what might follow, what he knew would follow. The order was met with outrage, heated letters from Confederate commander John Bell Hood. Sherman responded with vigorous outrage of his own, wondering if any rebel leader thought it best that the civilians remain where they were, ensuring they would suffer from Sherman’s occupation of the city. But Sherman had no intention of occupying anything, though he would never reveal that to Hood.

  The order was pushed hard into the faces of the civilian leaders still in Atlanta, and the word had spread, much of the population accepting their fate. The refugees had boarded trains provided by the Federal army, some leaving in their own wagons. The scene had been as dismal for the civilians as any other time of the war, some knowing of the exodus from Fredericksburg two years before. But there was one very sharp difference. The citizens of Fredericksburg evacuated to avoid the inevitable fight that would sweep over their town. In Atlanta, the fights were over, the town held firmly in Sherman’s hands. Whether or not anyone in Atlanta saw compassion in Sherman’s order, he was certain it was the moral thing to do, that removing the civilians from the enormity of his newly acquired armed camp was most certainly in their best interests. He dismissed Hood’s protests as the necessary quest for honor, that particular Southern trait, the gentleman’s objection to the ungentlemanly. As though, he thought, we are spreading an indecent stain over their precious illusion of Southern sainthood. There are no saints in this army. Just men who know how to fight, who want to go home to their families with victory in their hearts.

  He knew there would be protest even in the North, mostly from civilians with ties to Atlanta or those with political animosity toward President Lincoln and his generals. The word had come only the week before that Lincoln had been reelected, that the so-called Peace Party of George McClellan had been soundly defeated. Sherman received that news with smiling satisfaction. He had no doubt at all that the fall of Atlanta had ensured Lincoln’s victory, that the citizens in the North could finally feel confident that the war was nearly won. But the newspapers wouldn’t just let that pass; the enemies of Lincoln, of Sherman himself, were certain to raise a cry against the punishment of the innocent. He fought through the stench of smoke, thought, There is no innocence here. They have made this war, and no matter that the good citizens of this city choose not to carry the musket or fire the cannon, they are just as much my enemy. The mother who sends her boy away to fight, the wife who sacrifices so her husband can make war, the others who go about their business supporting the health of the South while their army does the dirtiest part of the work.

  He chewed on the cigar furiously, had gone through this before, through every part of the South. The image flowed through his brain, so many fights,
the chaos and horror. A soldier who has been in the fight…he knows of pain and tragedy, bloody wounds and the death of a friend. A man has brains splashed upon him…he knows what war can do. Now, there is pain here, and horror and punishment. And now these people, these civilians who feign outrage that this army has soiled their innocence, those gentlemen and Southern belles who dared send their sons off to destroy our flag, now they will know what their soldiers have already learned. War is absolute and when you innocent civilians started this, when you ripped and spit at my flag, you invited this. Do not speak to me of innocence or blamelessness. In war, there is no such thing.

  He spit the cigar out, brought out another, stabbed it through his teeth, unlit, rolled it with his tongue, side to side, new thoughts breaking through his concentration. He was angrier still, thought, You cannot let this drive you. It is no one’s doing. God’s maybe. That’s what Ellen believes, certainly. Why would God cause affliction to a child, to the truly innocent? Or is it the child’s father that must be made to suffer?

  He carried the note in his pocket, word coming in a telegram from Ellen, only three days before. His infant son, Charles, was gravely ill. Sherman struggled to keep that from his thoughts, had tried so very hard to dampen down the crushing sadness from the death of his oldest son, Willie, memories from a year ago stuffed in a place inside him he could never really shut away. Nine-year-old Willie had been something of a mascot to the troops, the young boy named honorary sergeant, his death casting a pall over Sherman’s entire command. It had steeled Sherman against ever bringing his children anywhere near the war, which he knew was a useless gesture meant only to appease Ellen, his feeble attempt to ease her sorrow. Willie had been struck down by typhoid, a deadly enemy that had nothing at all to do with the war. Now it was baby Charles, Ellen not specific, perhaps not knowing just what the malady was. There was time for only one response, the rail lines and telegraph wires soon to be cut by his own orders, severing him and the rest of his army from any communication northward. The isolation he imposed on the army struck him harder than anyone around him, and so he could not tell them. He could only mask his fear: a hopeful note to Ellen, a show of confidence that the infant would recover fully. He had fought against seeing her in his mind, what kind of torture this was for a mother who has already lost one son, whose husband is a thousand miles distant. There was shame as well, the worry softened by a numbness that made Sherman more guilty than afraid.