The Fateful Lightning Read Online Free Page B

glanced up at the moon, a clear night, chilly, a slight breeze rolling down across the wide expanse of the James River. Behind him, the construction had ceased for now, the row of headquarters structures mostly completed, the protection from the winter soon to come. There would be little such protection for his troops, something Grant never ignored. It frustrated him that Lee’s army was still out there, that throughout the months of campaigning Grant could never really force the issue, could never drag Lee into the open, where the superior strength of the Federal forces would bring the war to an end. There had been great bloody fights in the spring, through the Wilderness, Spotsylvania. But Lee had been slippery, a master of maneuver, evading any full-on confrontation. There had finally been one grand opportunity in June, the Army of Northern Virginia haltingjust long enough to invite an organized attack. Grant had obliged with a frontal assault that rolled into utter disaster. The place was Cold Harbor, where Grant’s army suffered thousands of casualties in a fight that accomplished nothing at all. It had been Grant’s worst day as a commander, and five months later the images were still fresh, would haunt him as he planned every new fight. Worse for the army, for Lincoln, Cold Harbor had threatened to erase the aura of invincibility that the newspapers had wrapped around Grant, the great hero Lincoln had selected to finally crush Lee’s army.
    The loss at Cold Harbor had been as devastating to Lincoln as the loss at Chickamauga the year before, a stain that dampened the great successes at Gettysburg, Vicksburg, Chattanooga, victories that, for a while, boosted morale in the North. But the public had short memories, and despite strategic advantage, especially the capture of the Mississippi River, the war still went on. By all accounts, Grant and Lincoln both knew that the armies in the South were reeling, with a lack of capable leadership, a collapse of morale, reports of rebel soldiers simply walking off the line, going home to salvage what they could of their lives. The successes Grant had enjoyed west of the mountains had shoved rebel forces out of every vital city and rail center, limiting the Confederates to strongholds in Texas, Alabama, and the Carolinas. But still, the great crushing blow seemed so elusive, the resilience of Lee in particular astonishing to Grant. With Lincoln facing reelection, even Grant knew that a weary Union might opt to cave in, the Congress offering the South what they wanted, if only to stop the bloodshed. It infuriated Grant that George McClellan had put himself forward as the candidate for
peace
. As popular as McClellan had once been, few in the army had cast their votes in his direction, most of the troops sharing Grant’s anger that the general who squandered the opportunity to win the war in 1861 would now claim no one else could win it, either.
    Grant searched for a cigar, had gone through a pocketful already today, felt a paper in his coat pocket. His hand stopped, fingers touching the note. It was the final message from Sherman, the telegram received more than a week ago now. He had read the note often, the words still fresh inside him.
    “I still have some thoughts in my busy brain…”
    Grant smiled. Yes, my friend, you always do. Good thoughts, mostly. Perhaps never as important as what you’re doing right now.
    —
    T he arguments had begun as soon as the details of Sherman’s strategies reached Washington. There was considerable doubt whether Sherman could command that entire theater of the war on his own. Grant insisted otherwise.
    He thought of Nashville, Sherman’s order sending Thomas and most of the Army of the Cumberland back to protect that crucial city. It was only one part of Sherman’s design, inspired by what the Federal command now understood to be an amazing lack of discretion by the Confederate president, Jefferson Davis. Grant still marveled that Davis