by Jeff Shaara
“A taste, sir? Not too awful, considering. Mighty sweet, though.”
Sherman took the cup, sniffed, the raw power of the alcohol stabbing through his nostrils. He sipped slowly, the sweet sugary liquid burning its way down his throat. He took a breath, let it out, took another sip. “Corn whiskey. Had this in Tennessee, once in a while. Probably the best they’ve got in these parts. Only reason why Cobb would have it in his house. Probably makes it himself.” He sipped again, handed the cup to Hitchcock, who seemed anxious to have it back. “Don’t worry, Major, I’m sure they have more.”
“Um, no, sir. That was the last bottle. The bummers made it through here pretty early today, cleaned out most everything worth having.” He looked at Nichols. “I guess what they couldn’t haul away, they just dropped.”
“You’ll survive, Major. They grow a great deal of corn in this country, and only eat some of it.”
Behind Sherman, boots on the hard floor, a voice, Major McCoy.
“Sir, Captain Heaney is here, from General Howard.”
Sherman looked toward the door, saw Heaney, a short, stocky man, the man Howard used most often to convey messages. Sherman liked the man, always a smile, eager to do the work, something Sherman appreciated in his own aides. Heaney stepped in briskly, held up a salute, which Sherman returned, but there was no smile this time, no paper in Heaney’s hand.
“Something wrong, Captain?”
“My apologies, sir. The ride was difficult. But General Howard insisted that you be informed immediately. There was a good scrap today, sir, the town of Griswoldville.”
Sherman felt that familiar sting of alarm, as though something awful was coming. “What kind of ‘scrap,’ Captain? How bad?”
Heaney stood firm, took a breath, said, “General Walcutt’s brigade was engaged completely. The enemy had a strong force. Except…”
Sherman had no patience for this, took a step toward the man, felt his fingers locking up into fists. “Except what?”
“Sir, General Walcutt made a good fight of it. He held his position against superior numbers, and drove them away.”
“Then what’s so damn serious, Captain?”
“Sir, General Howard insisted I inform you of the casualties. Not ours, I mean. General Walcutt reports the loss of barely a hundred men. But the enemy sustained heavy losses, sir. Several hundred.”
The men at the fire had been silent, but broke into cheers now, the cups raised. Sherman kept his stare on Heaney, saw nothing there to cheer about.
“Is General Howard not in a celebratory mood, Captain?”
“Oh, certainly, sir. He offered his respects to General Walcutt, no doubt. But sir, General Howard wishes me to inform you that those casualties, the rebels…well, they weren’t really soldiers, sir. They were boys mostly, some old men, too. General Walcutt reports that his men took possession of the field, and found no regulars at all. The dead and wounded were a tragic sight, sir.”
“Dead rebels are never a tragedy, Captain!”
Sherman looked toward the voice, one of Jeff Davis’s staff officers, already staggering from the effects of the whiskey. Sherman turned again to Heaney, said, “What does General Howard know of those troops?”
“They had to be local home defenses, sir. Militia, as it were. The general is pleased with General Walcutt’s victory. But General Howard will not celebrate the death of boys, sir.”
The men at the fire were more subdued now, wilting under Sherman’s seriousness. Sherman respected Howard as much as any commander he had, knew he was devoutly religious, would never resort to empty bravado. He looked toward the increasingly drunken officers. And, he thought, he’d never tolerate this.
“No, Howard wouldn’t celebrate anyone’s death. They were militia, though. No doubt about that?”
“Yes, sir. Certainly, sir.”
Sherman stared away now, toward the darkened window, nothing to see outside. He imagined the scene, a flood of untrained troops, charging with flags unfurled and manic screams into the well-positioned guns of a veteran enemy. So now, he thought, that field is covered with so many gallant corpses. Boys.
“There’s a military academy in Macon, right?”
“Yes, sir. I believe so, sir.”
Sherman ignored the men at the fire, who were beginning to ignore him, engulfed in their own celebration. He stepped closer to the window, stared at his own reflection, a dark silhouette. There were too many of those kinds of fights, he thought. Young men rushing forward full of piss, enjoying it, all of that excitement. They thought they were going to destroy the enemy in one mad rush, until the guns started. Until the blood came. And none of them ran away, you can be sure of that. Too young to be scared, the foolishness of the inexperienced. So, they had their wonderful taste of glory. Until they started to die.
He did not look at Heaney, his mind still far away, the question emerging, and he said, “Walcutt’s men have repeating rifles?”
“I believe so, sir.”
Sherman nodded toward the darkness, another horror for boys who know nothing of war. “Hope his men know how to use them. Never thought those things would make much difference. The damn cavalry crows about how valuable those rifles are, but when a man has a single shot, he takes his time, aims, finds a target. A man has a half-dozen shots, he fires them all, quick as he can. I’ve seen that too many times. Waste of ammunition, doesn’t hit a thing. Makes a hell of a racket, though. Maybe that’ll scare hell out of the enemy. That’s something, I guess.”
“Yes, sir. I suppose so, sir.”
Hitchcock was standing to one side, his empty cup hanging limply in his hand. He moved closer to Sherman, away from the noise from the men at the fire. “Sir, if they ventured out of Macon with militia, that has to mean it’s all they had. They wouldn’t hold their veterans back.”
Sherman looked at him, brought himself back to the room, the heat from the wide hearth swallowing him. His eye settled on Hitchcock’s head, still no hat to cover the man’s mess of hair. “I see you’re learning, Major. The rebels finally figured out we weren’t going after Macon. If there’s any real army left down there, they’ll be scrambling out of there like rats, finding some good ground, someplace where they’ll wait for us. It’s the only plan that would make sense, the only plan that might actually work. But I haven’t told this army exactly where we’re going, so they don’t know, either. No matter who’s out there, they can’t stop us if they don’t know what we’re doing.” He paused, the thought of that lifting his spirits, the image of the fight at Griswoldville swept away. He felt a burst of energy, a slight stir in his brain from the corn whiskey. He smiled at Hitchcock, said, “That’s the fun of it, Major. The enemy’s guessing, stabbing in the dark. They’ve got cavalry lurking in shadows trying to learn what we’re up to, and so far, the only fight they can make is no fight at all.” He clenched his fists, rolled the cigar rapidly along his teeth. “That’s why I do this job, and why Grant lets me do it my own way.” He pulled the cigar from his mouth, tossed it toward a brass spittoon, perfect aim. He pulled a fresh cigar from his coat and handed it to Nichols, who moved quickly to the fire, lit it in the low flame. Nichols returned, and Sherman stabbed the cigar into his mouth, pulled hard, felt the hot smoke drifting all through his mind, his thoughts.
He turned to Heaney again, had already forgotten about the short man, who waited patiently, his demeanor pleasant, obedient. “Tell General Howard I congratulate him for his progress, and for General Walcutt’s triumph. Keep his columns drawn up as tightly as he can, and avoid any significant confrontations. Wheeler’s cavalry is all around us, so remain vigilant. Oh, hell, Howard knows that. But he needs to be aware that what the rebels tried to do to him today was an act of desperation. Or just blind stupidity. Both can be dangerous. We don’t know who’s leading those boys to their deaths, but no doubt, they’ll try again. Damned fools.”
Hitchcock seemed uncomfortable now, and Sherman said, “Something to say, Major?”
&nb
sp; “Well, sir, I just…if they’re sending boys and old men to fight us, I can understand why General Howard would not celebrate. Boys might be foolish, but dying in a hopeless fight…”
“It’s not the militia who are the fools, Major. It’s the men leading them. The blood belongs to them, anyone who claims the authority to kill his own people without any good purpose.”
The thought rushed into his brain, and he called out, the officers bleary-eyed, some effort to turn toward him. “Are we certain this home belongs to Howell Cobb? Governor and ‘General’ Cobb?”
He saw nods from the sleepy faces, Nichols speaking: “Quite so, sir. It was confirmed by the slaves.”
Sherman looked again at Hitchcock. “Politicians who become generals. That’s who started this war, and that’s who bears the blame for the death of boys.” He turned again to Nichols. “Major, send word to General Davis. When his corps completes their march through this place, tell him to burn everything, every structure that’s standing. Spare nothing.”
Hitchcock said, “Sir, what of the old man…the slaves? Their cabins?”
Sherman felt a tug of frustration, couldn’t escape the old man’s emotions. “They’ll likely leave here. Can’t control the men once they get their lust up for a fire.” He saw the despair on Hitchcock’s face, the silent protest. “Major, we can’t be that careful. It just has to be that way. I’m not going to stand around and watch every man with a torch.” He paused, a new thought, the old man’s missing leg. Hounds. “If it makes you feel any better, Major, pass out the order that we shoot every damn hound dog we find.”
Hitchcock seemed surprised at the order, nodded. “Yes, sir. That ought to make those people rest easier.”
“I’m more concerned how much ‘easier’ we can make it for this army, Major. I want a knife stuck in the hearts of these people. Burn it all, everything that has value. If that son of a bitch Cobb doesn’t have a conscience for killing children, perhaps he needs a different kind of lesson in pain.”
CHAPTER NINE
FRANKLIN
HURRICANE PLANTATION, NEAR MILLEDGEVILLE, GEORGIA—NOVEMBER 23, 1864
He had no idea how late it was, knew from the moon it had to be after midnight. He couldn’t stop shivering, crept slowly toward the row of cabins, eyes on the vast field of campfires, shelter-halves in long lines spread out in every open place. More than one guard had crossed his path, but there had been no trouble, those men seemingly staring right past him, as though his dark skin made him invisible in the chilly night air. But he was still anxious, the long hours hiding in the swampy ground stripping bare his nerves, the animal instinct for danger. Now, as he moved back toward the cabins, he tried not to seem elusive, as though on some furtive mission, and walked upright, a slow, even pace, always with his eyes on the cabin at the far end of the row.
He moved to the closest cabin now, the home of the Pitts family. Old Billy Pitts was allowed to share a home with his wife and their infant son, a gesture seen by some as generous. Franklin saw the arrangement as little more than a miniature breeding ground, where Pitts could father an addition, and many more, to the Cobb family of slaves. But that kind of talk was never tolerated, not even by his own father, and so Franklin kept it to himself, a habit he had learned, taught most effectively by the bullwhip of the foreman, Lucky.
The cabin was dark, the family there certainly asleep. No, he thought, they won’t leave. They’re too scared. Pitts has a baby, after all, and the cavalry will rip the child right out of their arms if he gives them the chance. He moved past the next cabin, dark as well, the home of the four men that Lucky called the “monkey boys.” Franklin had worked beside them for several years now, the youngest of them his own age, the others older. They were large, broad-chested, the kind of men who brought the higher bids at the slave market. Franklin could remember when they arrived, silent, angry, no one even sure if they spoke English. But gradually one, then the next had begun to open up in the quiet of the cabins, tales of tedious journeys, the loss of a wife, then another, the men now certain to live out their lives working the fields with little chance of ever knowing the affection of a woman of their own. They spoke of a mother, something Franklin had only imagined, a woman to care for the injuries, to soothe the vicious pains dealt out by the overseers, the bloody bites from the dogs. Franklin’s own mother had died giving him birth, a story that even now could bring emotion from his father. When he was young, any questions about his mother would throw the man into deep sobs, the worst sounds a boy could hear. Until the leg.
The boy had seen all of it, the attack by the hound, a sadistic beast who kept the slaves in the fields by sheer terror. Franklin had been barely twelve, sent to work beside Henry when the master believed the child old enough to haul the baskets, to dig with the spade. Henry had protested, a father’s outrage at the abuse of his son, a disastrous mistake. Lucky responded by unleashing the dog, and Henry had reacted in the worst way possible, by running. The dog had toppled the old man like a cornstalk, a ripping clamp on his ankle, the animal’s head whipping back and forth as the blood poured out on soft soil. Franklin’s screams had spread across the wide fields, the boy’s horror slicing through the heat of a July day, bringing other slaves closer, curious, just as horrified. But their helplessness was absolute, no one daring to grab for the dog, all of them knowing there could be no aid, no one questioning the punishment, to stand up to Lucky at all. When the dog was finally pulled away, the boy had run to his father with more screams, had seen the awful damage, the lower leg ripped to sinews below the knee, the blood unstoppable, flowing over the boy’s arms as he tried to wrap small hands over the worst part of the wound. But then Lucky had come, a dirty cloth tied tight, the bleeding stopped, and the others who watched accepted what they all knew, that Henry was valuable property, that Lucky, after all, would answer to the master, and the master was tight with his money.
The master, Cobb, had come soon after, and Franklin had heard the argument with the doctor, the medical man with no interest in caring for one of them. But Cobb’s influence prevailed, the doctor kneeling low, ripping away the cloth, the saw slicing through the leg bone with a sound Franklin still heard in his dreams. Henry had been given a swig of what the boy guessed to be whiskey, but his father could not ignore the pain dealt out through the carelessness of the doctor’s work. Those sounds were there as well, the father’s desperate screaming, even now, deep in some hollow place in his son’s brain.
Franklin had grown into a young man holding tightly to the memories of that horror, a promise to himself that if he was to remain forever at the Cobb plantation, the opportunity would come one day. He would kill the dog, then kill Lucky, and since the price was his own head, then he would wait until Henry was dead, would never let the old man hear any cries or see the blood that Franklin carried in his own veins.
He moved past the narrow gaps between the cabins, stared into the darkness, could never escape the terror of the dog, who seemed to attack the black men for sport. Even with the Yankees about, the dog could be anywhere at all, waiting only for him, to complete the job he had begun when the beast took the old man’s leg. Franklin sensed that the dog knew he was a threat, that one day there would be opportunity for Franklin to set things right, but the dog was old now, had no fear of him, would watch the men working the ground, carrying the baskets, all the while watching Franklin with a look that dared the man to make good on his vow. It was the same with Lucky, the man’s hideous smile opening across a slit of dark teeth, one hand always on the bullwhip coiled at his belt. There were other overseers as well, men with big mouths who smelled of whiskey, who seemed to fear their own foreman as much as the slaves did. It was another fantasy Franklin kept alive, that one day the dog would turn on them, an act of God’s justice. But the fantasy was only that, the dog seemingly eager to obey the commands of any white man, while holding a special viciousness for the slaves.
He heard voices now, another cabin, firelight through the lone win
dow, a surprise. He peered in carefully, saw men in blue coats, no one else. The cabin was occupied by Gordon and Sam, older men, and a pair of boys in their teens, new to the plantation. But there was no sign of anyone but the soldiers, and Franklin felt nervous, wondered if they had carried out their plan to run away. Lucky and the overseers had gone away abruptly, as the first of the blue soldiers appeared. These men had reacted with outright glee, backslapping joy, as they pledged to join the vast horde of “Missuh Lincom’s boys.” He hesitated at the window, a half-dozen soldiers huddled close by the fire, a conversation about the march. He backed away, turned toward his own cabin, saw firelight there as well, no surprise, the old man not needing to be up so early, unable to work the fields. And so, while Franklin fought to find sleep, the old man would stir, hobbling around the small cabin fiddling with some chore, something to keep him busy. Franklin had thought of moving to another cabin, but that would require some kind of perverse permission from Lucky, and Franklin would never speak to the foreman unless spoken to first. Even then there would be nothing more than a polite response, his head down, hands at his chest, an act of humility that stirred a storm of anger in his gut.
“Hey! You, boy. What you about?” He jumped at the voice, turned, saw a bayonet, the sleek blade reflected in the firelight. “I said, what you about, boy? You got business out here? I think you don’t.”
He assumed the pose, his head down, had no idea how to respond. He had barely spoken to any white man but the overseers. “I’m just walkin’, sir. I live there, with the old man.”
“Well, boy, you get on home. No army business for you to be worrying about.”
“Yessir. Thank you, sir.”