Read Online The Fateful Lightning by Jeff Shaara - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeff Shaara
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Ohio until the war.”
Sherman leaned closer, shook his head. “How old are you, General?”
The man hesitated, as though the admission might be costly. “Um…twenty-six, sir.”
Sherman looked at Hitchcock, pointed toward the young man. “See what you missed? If you’d have joined up sooner, you might have made general by now. Twenty-six, and this man doesn’t have to show me any more courage than he already has. Used to command the 113th Ohio. Lost a hundred men at Kennesaw Mountain. Hell of a scrap, that one.”
Mitchell still seemed hesitant, any hint of a smile now gone. “That’s correct, sir. Thank you for the mention.”
“I don’t usually mention my bad days, General. Major, his division commander, General Morgan, slammed his men straight into Cleburne’s people. Bloody mess. Good thing for us that less than a month later, we had taken Atlanta. If we didn’t do that, Kennesaw Mountain might have cost all of us our commands.” Mitchell seemed ready to protest, but Sherman held up a hand. “Enough
then
, General. Let’s talk about now. Your foragers having any luck?”
“Quite, sir. There are plantations in every direction. It’s growing too dark now, but the smoke over that way was giving us a pretty good sign that my boys had found what they were after.”
“What smoke?”
“The boys couldn’t hold back, sir. Ran into some old rebel woman who cussed them something awful. Rode that way myself, heard the most obscene language you can imagine, sir. The boys decided to raise her spirits up a little more. Cleaned out her hog pens, her chickens, everything else they could load up, then they burned the place.”
Sherman stared that way, nothing but darkness. “I gave no order to burn anything, General.”
“I know that, sir. Several officers made the attempt to put out the fire, but it was too late. Didn’t stop her cussing, though.” He paused. “Should I arrest those men, sir?”
Sherman ignored the question, his mind filling with the “appropriate” response. But he kept silent, stared past the man, the darknessswallowing the open field, watched the men sliding beneath their shelter-halves, some laying out in the open on their blankets. There were scattered campfires, the smell of coffee now, bacon frying, laughter and singing, one man with a harmonica. Sherman looked skyward, no stars, the day heavy with clouds.
“Might rain tonight. Could muddy up the roads. There’s a river ahead…Yellow River.”
“Yes, sir. Bridge is burned away. We’ll put the pontoons out, make it across in short order.”
“Any sign of enemy cavalry?”
“One squad, came in for a look, took off pretty quick. They’re just watching us, sir. So far, anyway.”
Sherman nodded, his mind drifting past the brigade, the smell of their cooking bringing him back to Atlanta, a very different smell. He turned the horse, said to Mitchell, “Offer my respects to General Morgan. I’ll be at my field headquarters, should he need to find me. Good night, General.”
Sherman spurred the horse, Hitchcock keeping up, awkward in the saddle, the unfamiliar horse tossing him clumsily side to side. Sherman’s mount slowed to its usual quick-stepping pace and he kept his back straight, heard the cheers, the nicknames, acknowledged them by not acknowledging at all.
Hitchcock gained control of his horse now, and Sherman heard the man’s breathing, Hitchcock seemingly nervous. After a long silence, Hitchcock said, “Sir, what of the burning? You ordered no trespass. A helpless woman?”
Sherman knew this would come, wanted to ignore the man, but he respected Hitchcock, knew the questions wouldn’t go away until he answered them. “No officer in this army can control men who are out there on their own. This is dangerous ground, Major. Enemy cavalry is being cautious, but they have orders, too, and we’ll start hearing some musket fire pretty quick.”
“But, sir, a woman?”
“Probably a widow. Or maybe her
Sherman leaned closer, shook his head. “How old are you, General?”
The man hesitated, as though the admission might be costly. “Um…twenty-six, sir.”
Sherman looked at Hitchcock, pointed toward the young man. “See what you missed? If you’d have joined up sooner, you might have made general by now. Twenty-six, and this man doesn’t have to show me any more courage than he already has. Used to command the 113th Ohio. Lost a hundred men at Kennesaw Mountain. Hell of a scrap, that one.”
Mitchell still seemed hesitant, any hint of a smile now gone. “That’s correct, sir. Thank you for the mention.”
“I don’t usually mention my bad days, General. Major, his division commander, General Morgan, slammed his men straight into Cleburne’s people. Bloody mess. Good thing for us that less than a month later, we had taken Atlanta. If we didn’t do that, Kennesaw Mountain might have cost all of us our commands.” Mitchell seemed ready to protest, but Sherman held up a hand. “Enough
then
, General. Let’s talk about now. Your foragers having any luck?”
“Quite, sir. There are plantations in every direction. It’s growing too dark now, but the smoke over that way was giving us a pretty good sign that my boys had found what they were after.”
“What smoke?”
“The boys couldn’t hold back, sir. Ran into some old rebel woman who cussed them something awful. Rode that way myself, heard the most obscene language you can imagine, sir. The boys decided to raise her spirits up a little more. Cleaned out her hog pens, her chickens, everything else they could load up, then they burned the place.”
Sherman stared that way, nothing but darkness. “I gave no order to burn anything, General.”
“I know that, sir. Several officers made the attempt to put out the fire, but it was too late. Didn’t stop her cussing, though.” He paused. “Should I arrest those men, sir?”
Sherman ignored the question, his mind filling with the “appropriate” response. But he kept silent, stared past the man, the darknessswallowing the open field, watched the men sliding beneath their shelter-halves, some laying out in the open on their blankets. There were scattered campfires, the smell of coffee now, bacon frying, laughter and singing, one man with a harmonica. Sherman looked skyward, no stars, the day heavy with clouds.
“Might rain tonight. Could muddy up the roads. There’s a river ahead…Yellow River.”
“Yes, sir. Bridge is burned away. We’ll put the pontoons out, make it across in short order.”
“Any sign of enemy cavalry?”
“One squad, came in for a look, took off pretty quick. They’re just watching us, sir. So far, anyway.”
Sherman nodded, his mind drifting past the brigade, the smell of their cooking bringing him back to Atlanta, a very different smell. He turned the horse, said to Mitchell, “Offer my respects to General Morgan. I’ll be at my field headquarters, should he need to find me. Good night, General.”
Sherman spurred the horse, Hitchcock keeping up, awkward in the saddle, the unfamiliar horse tossing him clumsily side to side. Sherman’s mount slowed to its usual quick-stepping pace and he kept his back straight, heard the cheers, the nicknames, acknowledged them by not acknowledging at all.
Hitchcock gained control of his horse now, and Sherman heard the man’s breathing, Hitchcock seemingly nervous. After a long silence, Hitchcock said, “Sir, what of the burning? You ordered no trespass. A helpless woman?”
Sherman knew this would come, wanted to ignore the man, but he respected Hitchcock, knew the questions wouldn’t go away until he answered them. “No officer in this army can control men who are out there on their own. This is dangerous ground, Major. Enemy cavalry is being cautious, but they have orders, too, and we’ll start hearing some musket fire pretty quick.”
“But, sir, a woman?”
“Probably a widow. Or maybe her
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