The Fateful Lightning by Jeff Shaara Page B

corps were protected as well as the generals could provide, but Sherman had too much respect for the abilities of rebel horsemen and too little faith in his own commissary officers to believe his supplies were completely safe.
    —
    H e saw the first wagon, overflowing with all manner of spoils, hams and headless chickens hanging from the side, sacks of corn and flour stacked high. The men were cheerful, great tales of their bravery against what seemed to be hordes of furious rebels, an army somehow brushed aside by this handful of heroic souls.
    Sherman moved the horse toward them, eyed the wagon, ignored most of the talk coming from the men. But they saw him, and so the talk grew more fierce, the tales taller still, all for his benefit. He stopped the horse, leaned out, inspected the wagon, the men quieting now, waiting for his response.
    “This all?”
    The comment was purposeful and Sherman expected some show of indignation. The man driving the wagon obliged him.
    “Um, sir, begging your pardon and all, but this here’s every scrapof food there was at a farm no more than a half mile from this very spot. You want we should go out farther, well, that’s fine by me. But there was rebel cavalry aplenty gathering up, and we might not have made it back a’tall.”
    Sherman looked at the man. “How much cavalry?”
    He saw the man inflate, the question showing the rest of them that even the commanding general took him seriously. “Why, sir, there was a good hundred of ’em. Sabers drawn, ready to ride right down on us. I seen their eyes, I did. We was gonna stand and fight it out, but I knowed that the lieutenant was expecting us to strike it rich with this here kind of bounty, and make it back safe and all, so we’s could have a good feed tonight. Fact is, I thought better of making the fight. But, General, if there’s another chance, we’ll send them horsemen scampering off, sure as fire.”
    Sherman looked toward the lone officer, said, “Fine. Lieutenant, I’ll have your man here promoted to general. But please tell me how many cavalry
you
saw.”
    The lieutenant was very young, sheepish, seemed unwilling to contradict his own man. “Well, sir, we did see a flock of gray coats. I didn’t have much chance to make a count. One of ’em took a shot at us.”
    Sherman had the picture now. “So a musket ball flies past, and you wisely give the order to haul that wagon back here quick as you could, thus saving the lives of your men and making sure this, um, bounty made it back here safely. All for the good of the camp.”
    The lieutenant smiled, readily accepting Sherman’s explanation. “That would be about it, sir.”
    “Well, Lieutenant, I’d like you to accompany Major Dayton here to my tent. We should hear a good deal more about your heroics.”
    The man seemed to quake, put one hand on the wagon to steady himself. “By all means, sir. Right now?”
    “Right now. Follow my adjutant back to where they’re settling me down for the night. Major Dayton, escort the young lieutenant here off into those trees. I’ll be there as soon as the tents are up.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Dayton motioned with his hand, the lieutenant walking behindthe horse like a small duck following its mother. Sherman looked again at the wagon, saw more officers moving up, salutes, low greetings.
    “Gentlemen, your foragers made a good haul. That’s
one
. We’ll need a good many more of these every day. Keep these men on the move, keep them out in front of the column or as close by as you can.” He looked at the wagon’s driver. “What’s your name, Private?”
    “Jerald Guffney, sir.”
    “Well, Private Guffney, if there’s hordes of rebels lurking out there, I don’t want anyone doing something stupid enough to get themselves captured. You understand that?”
    The man seemed to grasp that his particular show of heroics had run its course. “Yes, sir. No doubt about that.”
    Sherman’s patience for the game had ended, and