The Fateful Lightning (5 page)

ATLANTA, GEORGIA—NOVEMBER 17, 1864

T
he horror spread out nearly to the horizon, the low hills not disguising the astounding magnitude of the destruction, entire blocks of the city in smoldering ruins, thick black smoke in columns rising up in every direction. He felt sick to his stomach, stared down, took his eyes away from the skeletons of so many structures, most of them unidentifiable heaps of rubble. But the smells engulfed him, unavoidable, hinting of burnt flesh, or something close, cloth and lumber and so much more.

“Captain, bring your men out this way. There’s folks here need a hand.”

Seeley looked toward the voice, saw General Dibrell, pointing directly at him, motioning crisply, as though it were some gesture made on a parade ground. Seeley didn’t answer, spurred the horse, pushed past more of the rubble, the smoke watering his eyes. The horsemen tailed out behind him, no more than thirty now, half what he had commanded only a month before. Some of those had simply disappeared; some had been captured by Sherman’s cavalry, the ultimate indignity for any man who had once ridden with Forrest. The squad followed him down a narrow alleyway, pushing forward to reach the
open avenue, where they might escape the stink, breathe cleaner air. Dibrell waited with obvious impatience and Seeley could see a flock of ragged civilians gathering around the man’s horse, other cavalrymen unable to hold them back. Seeley jabbed at the horse, moved closer, Dibrell now offering him a shrug.

“See if you can handle these people. I have to locate General Wheeler.”

“You there! Can’t you help us?”

The words came from a woman, old, frail, soot on her face, her dress caked with ash. Dibrell spoke out again, and Seeley knew the man’s habit, trying to sound official.

“Help is aplenty, be sure of that! We shall ride hard into the devils who did this! There shall be no mercy! General Wheeler shall see to your salvation, you can be certain of that!”

Dibrell seemed to exhaust his own bravado, and Seeley eased past a handful of the citizens, saw the eyes turning toward him now, no one inspired by the general’s words.

“Sir, I have secured a single wagon back that way, past that church spire. There is corn, some sweet potatoes. With your permission, sir, these folks can take what they need.”

He knew the wagon had been a treasure, gathered from abandoned cellars and larders that somehow escaped the claws of the Yankee occupation. His own men had already filled their pockets with anything that might sustain them another day. But Seeley couldn’t deny the desperation of the civilians, and Dibrell seemed resigned to that, pointed toward the church, still the annoying bombast in his voice.

“Very well! Good people, we have come to your rescue. We will provide for you as long as there is breath in the Confederacy!”

Seeley turned his horse, the general’s assurances meaningless, empty bluster. He rode past his own horsemen, the townspeople following, and he looked at the faces of the men he led, saw glimpses of optimism, some grabbing on to Dibrell’s promises as though the next fight would turn things around, would rescue the people of Atlanta, would put the glorious city back to what it once was. Seeley held them up with his hand, said, “Half of you, come with me. We’ll show ’em the way. There’s bandits about. The rest remain here.”

He knew which men would stay close to Dibrell, the ones who still held the fire, who still ached to rip into a column of Yankees. But there were others like him, worn-out, road weary, hungry. If any one of them thought his suffering was worse than that of any civilian, the gaunt faces of the citizens said otherwise.

Much of Atlanta was destroyed, the wider avenues lined with skeletons of buildings or piles of brick and stone, gutted houses that still smoldered. Smoke and ash coated everything, the hard streets beneath his horse’s hooves or any structure that remained. The sights had inspired anger, some of those men who hung on Dibrell’s ridiculous speech prepared to march into whatever hell the Yankees offered. Seeley had seen some of this before, on a half-dozen battlefields where a town happened to be in the way. But Atlanta was very different, if only for the scope of it, the sheer volume of the destruction. Word had passed beyond the city, reaching Hood’s army in Alabama, and orders had come for the cavalry patrols to ease closer to the city, probing to see just what the Yankees were doing, whether or not Sherman was pushing out farther west in what would certainly be a fresh pursuit of Hood.

As the cavalry moved in, they expected skirmishers, scattered musket fire to keep them away. Instead they found a city devoid of soldiers, and whether or not Sherman intended a pursuit of Hood, all that Seeley knew was that they had marched away from Atlanta in another direction altogether. Now in their place came the civilians, some seeking loot, bandits and thieves that Seeley had been ordered to capture. But most of the people he saw now were simply returning to their homes, many finding no home at all. Already the roads were growing busier, cavalry scouts beyond the city reporting an odyssey of scattered wagons, even more civilians emerging from safe places in the countryside, some returning with their most treasured possessions. They seemed to be everywhere, their numbers increasing by the hour, some sitting slumped over in their wagons, staring at the wreckage of what might have been a grand house or an entire street of tall and elegant homes, now rubble and ash. For some the final insult had come from the Confederate cavalry, orders to confiscate wagons where they found them, to scrounge through the remains of the city for anything the Yankees might have left behind.

He rode slowly, the people from the square following, word spreading to a few more. The horsemen behind him herded them in the right direction, the church spire standing tall over the ruins of what had once been a grand place of worship. He glanced up, saw a shattered hole in the spire, the impact of a random artillery shell. Or maybe, he thought, not so random at all. Target practice. He tried to feel anger, was too weary, too sickened by all he was seeing. He rounded a corner, saw the wagon his men had filled, pointed, the civilians moving forward in a mad surge. His horsemen stayed back, held away by the simple command of his raised hand, the men understanding just how desperate these people had to be. They were mostly women, with a pair of old men, a flock of small children. As they reached the wagon, one younger woman climbed up first, tearing through ragged cloth bags, scooping corn into the folds of her dress. More were there now, the woman abruptly shoved aside, tumbling in a heap to the ground. Seeley felt a stab of alarm, would not let this turn into a riot. He put his hand on his sword, ready to do what he could to protect them from one another. But there was no energy for that, either, not from him or the people who fought weakly to empty the wagon. A young girl jumped down with a pair of sweet potatoes clutched to her chest, another older woman taking her place in the wagon, more sweet potatoes, the people taking all they could haul. Beside him the old sergeant, Gladstone.

“Wish you hadn’t done this, sir. We’ll be a-needin’ them rations afore long.”

Seeley kept his stare on the civilians, said, “We’re supposed to be protecting these people. That’s what this army is for. I’ll not let anyone starve.”

“Hope you’re right.”

Seeley looked at him, saw a stubble of beard, a rumpled hat, bare remnants of a uniform.

“Of course I’m right. These people are counting on us. Won’t much matter if we win this war if we can’t take care of the very folks we’re fighting for.”

There was a quiet moment, and Gladstone said, “You think we can win this war? Even now?”

Seeley had asked that question of himself too often, didn’t want to
answer it now. “General Dibrell thinks we can. General Wheeler, too, I’m guessing. I know Bedford Forrest is back home fighting like the dickens, and he wouldn’t be doing that if he didn’t believe.”

“What about you?”

There was too much informality in the sergeant’s question, but Seeley didn’t care. The older man had been with him for more than two years now, since the bloody awful fight at Shiloh, and the devastation around them made military discipline seem out of place.

“I’ll fight. Have to. We all have to. You remember that.”

“Not what I asked you, Captain. I’ll fight, sure enough. I’ll push my saber through the guts of every Yankee who did this, even ole Sherman himself. But begging your pardon, I’m not certain anymore that we can win this thing.”

Seeley took a deep breath, watched as most of the civilians moved away. One woman came his way, her skirt gathered up like a satchel, revealing a glimpse of her underpinnings Seeley tried not to see. She made a short bow toward him, said, “Mighty obliged to you, sir. Yankees didn’t leave us with much of nothing. I got three little ones in my cellar down the street there. Breathed smoke for two days, but I kept ’em alive. You fight with General Hood, then? He coming back here, set this right? Yankees need to answer for this.”

Seeley started to answer, thought better of it, a hint of military discipline emerging. “I’ve fought with General Hood. General Forrest, too.”

“Well, sir, you tell General Hood or any of the rest of ’em, if ’n they can’t keep them blue devils from burning up our homes, ain’t much use to keep fighting this war. Governor Brown done told us we was perfectly safe here. I seen the president, too, came through here on a train, all kinds of pretty talk about how we was whippin’ the Yankees. They didn’t look so whipped to me.”

“Ma’am, please return to your little ones. The army is here now. There’ll be no more problems with the Yankees.”

The woman grunted, turned away, moved with a slow waddle down a narrow street.

One of his men eased his horse up close to the wagon, said, “Sir, there’s nothing left. They took it all.”

Seeley nodded. “We’ll find more. That’s our job, after all.”

“Yes, sir. Reckon it is.”

Gladstone was still beside him, said, “It’s also our job to find out where the Yankees run off to. How many of ’em, what units, who’s leading ’em. The general told us they was sure to hightail it to Tennessee, wouldn’t let old John Bell out of their sights. I ain’t no more than an old muleskinner, but even I figured out the Yankees done gone somewheres else. You agree, Captain?”

Seeley had spent most of the day on the ridges west of the city, the one direction where the smoke didn’t obscure the view. The passes that led toward Chattanooga had been empty of any marching troops, even the railroad quiet. He had led his men close to several stretches of track, nearly all of it ripped apart, bridges burned and broken. That was strange at first, and he had assumed another cavalry squad had patrolled the same area, with the same orders. But the word had come from George Dibrell, ride straight into the city, there was no longer any danger from the Yankees. Seeley had ridden slowly, cautiously, convinced Dibrell was wrong, that surely there would be enemy pickets, outposts, or even stragglers still protecting the routes into the city. But all along the route, he had seen only wreckage, and when he found Dibrell, the man’s first words had told the tale: The Yankees had destroyed their own supply line, had cut themselves off from any route back to Chattanooga, any route toward Hood’s army at all.

Seeley rubbed his empty stomach, thought of the sergeant’s warning. We’ll find something around here, he thought. Too big a place, too much bounty, even if the Yankees stole all they could find. He thought of the man’s question now, shook his head. “No, Sergeant, they didn’t go west, didn’t go toward Tennessee. We should return to General Dibrell. I know he’s itching to find General Wheeler. Maybe they know which way Sherman took all these bluebellies. Too many of ’em to get far without being noticed.”

“How many, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“More than you and me. More than Wheeler’s whole cavalry. Not sure what’s gonna happen if we find ’em. Might depend on how many men the state of Georgia can still give to this fight.”

“I’ll ask you again, sir. You think we’ll win this thing?”

“Any man thinks too hard on that, he’s thinking about home. You
intend on deserting, Sergeant? You best make good on it, get a serious head start. I’ll hunt you down and cut you in two.” The boast was needless, and Seeley felt ridiculous saying the words.