The Fateful Lightning Read Online Free PDF Page B

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 theopen 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