The Fateful Lightning Read Online Free PDF

and some of those boys are generals on the other side of this thing. Grant put a hand to the strap on his shoulder, the three stars, knew he was the only man since Scott to hold the rank of lieutenant general. Big shoes to fill, he thought. Thank you, Mr. President. More faith in me than I had in myself. Scott had to approve that, too. Lincoln wouldn’t have made that kind of move without talking to him. He pictured Scott, a massive hulk of a man, heavy with age, well into his eighties now. I love that old man, he thought, as much as I love that skittery redhead in Georgia. A lot in common, and I’d wager Sherman would take that as a compliment. Probably Scott, too. But first Sherman’s got to pull his army through the fire. Like the president said, we know what hole he went into. Just not sure which one he’ll crawl out of.
    Grant spun around, gave a glance toward the lanterns at his headquarters. He couldn’t avoid a nervous shiver, was too used to having Sherman’s ear, or advice, or just his cantankerous mood to crack through the tension. Now there would only be silence. He began to move back to his headquarters, a handful of his aides lingering in the darkness, moving with him. He flexed his fingers, fought the nervousness boiling up inside, turned to one side, changing course, still moving quickly. He wouldn’t disturb Julia, not yet. The shakiness bothered him, the unavoidable fear that Sherman would join so many of the others, Reynolds, Sedgwick, McPherson. All good men. All dead. Even Winfield Hancock had come to Grant, suffering mightily from his wounding at Gettysburg, too crippled now to continue. Is that the first word I’ll hear, that the redheaded fool stuck his head out too far, is lying in some ambulance somewhere? Or they buried him in Georgia? Not much chance of that. Dead or not, he’d not sit still for that insult.
    He shoved away the thoughts, scolded himself. He’s smarter than you are, Grant. Well, maybe. He’s enjoying himself down there, and he’ll not do anything to ruin that. You’ve got bigger problems, more to concern yourself with right here. He stopped walking, forced himself to focus on the campaign right in front of him. Lee’s army was spread out in a line nearly thirty miles long around the rail hub at Petersburg. Grant hated the idea of a siege, something he shared withSherman, but Lee’s army was dug in hard, and a siege was the most effective way to avoid a mass of Federal casualties. He walked past a small elm tree, stopped, his fingers finding his last cigar. He lit it, the fire warming his face, and he knew now there was no separating Sherman from what Grant was facing in Virginia. Thank God for you, Sherman. The newspapers hate sieges as much as I do, and the president might have lost the election by impatience alone if you hadn’t given us Atlanta.
    He stared out past the headquarters houses, toward the distant lines of Lee’s army. There’s nothing else I can do here, not right now. All right, Sherman. We’re doing it your way. It better work, or both of us will end up shoveling manure. I know I can’t hear from you, not for a good while. But by God, I’ll be worrying about you every day that passes. Can’t help that. He thought of Sherman’s words again.
    “I will not attempt to send couriers back, but will trust to the Richmond papers to keep you well advised.”
    Grant chewed hard at the cigar, searched the darkness, saw one man alert, responding, moving closer.
    “Sir? May I be of assistance?”
    “Colonel Porter, at first light, send out riders to every camp along the siege line. I know there’s trade going on with those other fellows, whether I authorize it or not. Provide coffee or bacon or whatever is required. A few of Lee’s boys know how to read, and I want copies of every newspaper printed in Richmond.”

CHAPTER THREE

SEELEY

    ATLANTA, GEORGIA—NOVEMBER 17, 1864
    T he horror spread out nearly to the horizon, the low hills not disguising