by Jeff Shaara
He still eyed the bayonet, couldn’t see the man’s face clearly, but the blue uniform held his gaze, brass buttons, his eyes moving back to the point of the bayonet.
“Go on, boy. I’ll not hurt you. Just don’t need no spying going on here.”
Franklin turned quickly away, deliberate steps toward the cabin. He reached the door, was surprised to see another soldier, the man as surprised to see him.
“Whoa, there, darkie. What you doing here?”
“My home, sir. My papa is inside. One leg.”
“Well, there’s some officers in there, and they might not care for company. The old man your father, then? Strange old coot. Makes a fellow laugh. Even General Sherman liked him pretty good.”
“Can I see him, sir? I live here. A soldier with a bayonet told me to go to bed. That’s right here.”
“All right, go on in. But it’s a mite crowded. Damn, but you smell like the swamp. They toss you out of there, find you a creek and wash off. Course, you’uns seem all to smell like that. Comes with the hide, I guess.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll keep to myself.”
The guard pushed open the door, and Franklin blinked through the light of the fire, saw the white faces turning toward him, no expression, one man with gold straps on his shoulder, older, sitting in the lone chair.
“What you want, boy?”
“I lives here, sir. The old man there, my papa.”
He saw the old man sitting up now, from a matted blanket on the floor. “My Gawd, Franklin! I done gib you up fer dead. These heah is Genil Sherman’s boys! Dey done chased the massuh clean away.”
The soldiers ignored him now, and he moved closer to his father, knelt, felt the old man’s hard hands in his, spoke softly, “You sure, Papa?”
“Sure as sunrise! You done give me the frights somethin’ awful, runnin’ off. It’s aw right now. Everythin’ be aw right.”
Franklin sat close beside his father, felt a sudden wave of exhaustion, hadn’t slept in more than two days. He lay flat, stretched his back on the hard floor, one arm folded behind his head. He stared up, the crude roof, rough-hewn beams, heard low talk from the soldiers, who seemed to be cautious with their words.
Franklin rolled over slightly, looked at his father. “General Sherman. You see him?”
“Yep! Hee! Seen him raht heah. Done talked to him. This is de Lawd’s work, Franklin. Mebbe now you can work dese fields fer yer own sef. Dere’s happy times comin’. You got no need to run off’n fer dese boys.”
Work the fields. He tried to feel the old man’s excited optimism, but the weariness was overwhelming him, the hard floor softening beneath him, like some thick, deep mattress, feathers and layers of blankets. He spoke, low soft words, “I ain’t gonna work no damn fields, Papa. There’s more to this world than dirt.”
“Huh? What you say?”
He didn’t answer, his voice trailing away, the sleep pouring through him, the heat from the fire soothing, cradling him, no energy for words, thoughts rolling through his mind, what he had already seen, a vast sea of blue soldiers.
—
He awoke with the soldiers, the first man rising from Franklin’s own straw mattress. Franklin watched him in dark silence, the man stumbling slowly toward the dull light that came from the coals in the small hearth. The man leaned low, stirring the ashes with an iron rod, but the fire was done, the man cursing. He stood upright, stretching his back, one foot prodding another of the soldiers.
“Rise up! The camp’s up and moving! Let’s find some coffee.”
The man sat up, another curse, said, “Dang it all, Captain, we shouldn’t have been up so late. It five o’clock yet? We in some kind of hurry to get…where? Ain’t no one told me yet where we’re marching to.”
“And they ain’t gonna. You go right on and tell Uncle Billy how he needs to tell you all about his plans. I’ll sit back and watch while the guards haul your hind end to the stockade.”
The man rose to his knees, sneezed, then again, the captain standing tall above him.
“Don’t you try and tell me you’re sick, Lieutenant. Not hearing that. Ohio’s a heap colder than anything they got down here. Get up. Wake Hankins. Hey! Ugly! Up and moving! Now!”
The third man rose silently, the closest to Franklin, glanced toward the two black men, still said nothing. All three men were on their feet now, coats and hats gathered up, the captain at the door, pulling it open, the blast of cold wiping away the last hint of warmth from the dead fire. Franklin rolled over, fought through the stiffness in his back, rubbed a rough hand on his arm, working the hard muscle, the limb that had been his pillow. He looked at the shadowy form of his father, the old man unmoving, thought, He can sleep through thunder and lightning. No need to wake him up now.
Franklin stood, eyed the last hints of light from the ashes, thought of the woodpile outside the cabin. He moved out through the door, absorbed the numbing cold, stepped to the side of the cabin. The light was faint, sunrise not for a while yet, but he could see clearly enough. The woodpile was gone. He looked out to the distant fires, the Yankee army coming alive, warming itself with fence rails and tree limbs, and, of course, the woodpiles from the slave cabins. He slipped back inside, rubbed his arms together, closed the door, saw the old man sitting up.
“Dey done gone?”
“Yeah, Papa. I suppose the army’s got plenty to do. They’re in the enemy’s own ground. I guess it’s smart of them to be careful.”
“Dere’s bacon in de floor. Genil Sherman done made sho we got ’nuf to eat. I didn’t say nothing to dose boys dere. Dey not as kindly as Genil Sherman.”
Franklin looked toward the corner of the cabin, moved that way, knelt, raised up a loose floorboard. He lifted the cloth bundle, the smell reaching him, a dull rumble in his gut, raw hunger. He unwrapped the bacon, didn’t hesitate, took a hard bite.
“Heah, boy, let’s cook dat. It’d be better.”
“There’s no firewood. Soldiers took it all.”
The old man said nothing, and Franklin pulled out a small knife, sliced a corner off the bacon, reached it out to the old man.
“Here. Eat this. Best thing I ate in days.”
“Only ting you et, most likely. Where you go off to?”
“The swamp. The cypress hole I used to play in when I was little. Seen some cavalry out that way, kept my head down. Those boys seemed as jumpy as me, trying to watch the Yankee camps and all. Wish’t I’d a had me a musket.”
“Don’ talk dumb, boy. They’da strung you up.”
Franklin knew his father was right, thought now about the cabin down the way, soldiers, no sign of Gordon or Sam. “What you know about those boys down the way? Looks like Gordon’s gone. Rest of those four, too.”
“Don’ know nothin’ and you best not, neither. Always the trouble wid you, Franklin. You ask questions, wanna know stuff. Massuh Cobb done let you learn to read, and it’s blowed up your head. Just take it like it is, boy.”
He thought of Cobb, that day long ago, when Franklin was barely five. It had been Cobb himself who came to the cabins, the teacher in tow, a man who carried books and paper. The lessons had been long and unforgiving, but the teacher was nothing like Lucky, had shown patience, seemed to actually care that the few black children learn to read. The Bibles had come next, of course, a heavy dose of religion, the teacher doing the duty that Cobb had assigned him, planting the seeds of a civilized life into the slave children. Franklin had adored the teacher, had seen a kindness in the man that no white man had ever shown him. But when the job was complete to Cobb’s satisfaction, the teacher had moved on, and in his place had come the Sunday school teacher. There was little kindness in that man, the lessons full of terror for what God would do to them if they ever sinned. Franklin still wasn’t certain just what kind of sin he might have committed, wondered if the white men understood that any better than he did. But those seeds were planted as well, a healthy fear of the devil, an eternity in a hell that seemed to stretc
h beyond the imagination of a child.
And so Franklin had stopped fearing the lessons, had instead read the Bible just to read, had soaked up the stories mainly from the Old Testament, an angry God who punished the enemy, who chose his favorites and helped them slaughter the rest. It had been intensely curious to him if the slaves were the enemy, if God had put them to work for the white man, punishing them for some misdeed that had happened long ago. But there was no religion in the cruelty of Lucky, in the slobbering jaws of the dog. If there was a true devil, Franklin had begun to wonder if he had seen him, in the face of the foreman. And if there was a true hell, had Franklin felt just a bit of that from the hard slap of Lucky’s bullwhip? Those thoughts rolled through him in the fields mostly, the endless hours of handwork, whether the corn or the cotton. He had wondered about the others, if these kinds of thoughts festered in them as they did in him, if any of the older men could read at all. The women had been kept mostly in the house, doing work that Franklin couldn’t guess. He saw them once in a while, a carriage taking the white girls to town, the black girls carrying the bags. The carriage was driven by an older slave, a man called Albert. Albert stayed close to the Cobb mansion, was never in the fields, another question for Franklin. Why was he different? Would the old man do that job one day? He glanced at his father now, sitting in the chair, staring into dark ashes. He can’t do much else. They know that. But he can drive a carriage.
“You seen Albert?”
The question seemed to surprise the old man. “Nah. Massuh left, Albert wid him. The gals, too. Whole house done gone off. Genil Sherman go dere las’ night. Slept in Massuh’s bed, I bet. Dat put a smile on dis ole man’s face, fo’ sho.”
“Lucky’s gone, too?”
“I done tole you dat las’ night. Dey done runned off when de Yankees come.”
Of course they did, he thought.
He felt his brain waking up, the bacon sitting hard in his stomach. “I’m going outside. It’s gettin’ light. I wanna see the Yankee camp.”
The old man seemed to jump, pointed his finger. “Don’ you go close to none of dem! Dey got no use for you’uns. It be time to go on to de fields.”
Franklin stared at his father, felt a jolt of concern. “Papa, there’s no work to do. The master’s done gone. No crops to tend.”
“Don’t make no matter! You gots to stay out of de way! Dey all be back. Cav’ry come, too. You keep to where you need to be! Stop thinkin’ so much!”
Franklin stared at the old man, saw raw fear on his face, heard the tremble in his voice. He understood now that the old man would never leave this place, that no matter what the Yankees were here to do, the old man was just like Billy Pitts, his family too afraid of what might happen next, too afraid of anything different than they had ever known before.
“You’re wrong, Papa. It don’t matter if Master Cobb comes back. The Yankees have changed everything. There’s a war been going on, and if General Sherman is here, it’s because Master Cobb’s people are losing. Look outside. Look how many of them there are. Thousands, in every direction. The cavalry’s too scared to do anything to ’em, and that ain’t gonna change. I seen barely a hundred horsemen in the swamp. That’s all. A hundred. In the back cotton field, there’s a hundred Yankee horses eatin’ Master Cobb’s corn. Hundreds more all over their camps. And the foot soldiers. Papa, there’s flags spread out over that big cornfield like it’s some kind of celebration. Only they ain’t celebratin’ nothing. They’re going to work. They’re going after Master Cobb and whatever army he’s done run off to.” He paused, saw the old man shake his head. “I’m not addled, Papa. And if the Yankees have come, it’s because Lincoln sent them. We’re gonna be free. That’s the first thing that’s gonna change.”
“Ain’t no talk like dat in dis house. Massuh Cobb’s been good to you. To all us.”
“Papa, Master Cobb sits up in that big house, and sends Lucky out here to mind what we do. What happened to your leg?”
He regretted the question, but the old man didn’t react, kept his stare on the dead fire.
“Dey all be back. You be goin’ back to de fields. It’s de way. It’s de only way.”
Franklin lowered his head, knew this was an argument he couldn’t make, understood now that the old man was simply too afraid of what change might mean. “I’m sorry, Papa. I don’t know all that’s happenin’ in this war. But I got to see it for myself. I got to know what’s out past these dirt fields. You said General Sherman was sent here by the Lord. Well, I don’t know about that. But if there’s more for us colored folks than being scared of some dog, or settin’ still while some white man holds the whip…well, no sir. This army’s gettin’ ready to march on, that’s for sure. I’m sorry, Papa. But I’m going with them.”
CHAPTER TEN
SHERMAN
MILLEDGEVILLE, GEORGIA—NOVEMBER 23, 1864
He saw the smoke first, the usual scene as his advance foragers pushed ahead of the army into every town they had passed. But this was different, Sherman and his staff riding with an edgy sense of the important, as though this day, and this march, would be something different, something more meaningful.
Sherman had been careful with his orders, had sent specific word to Slocum that the state capital not be laid waste, at least not until Sherman had examined the military objectives that the rebels might have left intact. But it was routine now that the men who led the way took far more liberties with his instructions than even their officers could control. As the first column of black smoke came into view, he was annoyed, knew that the complete destruction of Milledgeville would be a stain on his reputation not only in Richmond, but in Washington as well. Symbols still mattered, whether Sherman cared for that or not. And with Georgia sliding further beneath the boots of his army, the necessity of obliterating symbols became meaningless. This was still a war, the enemy capable of inflicting a deadly surprise, and no matter the soaring morale of his troops, Sherman couldn’t avoid the nagging fear that somewhere out there, a few miles ahead or along some distant river, the rebels had somehow created a significant barrier to block his way. If their defenses were strong, as they had often been around Atlanta, the cost in casualties would blunt the enthusiasm Grant had offered him. If Grant lost confidence in Sherman’s plan, all of Washington might react with loud condemnation, a far cry from the hopes Sherman still held in his fantasies that when this was over, there would be great raucous celebrations, with himself at the head of some glorious victory parade. It was a tonic for the other fantasies, the dark gloom that he could not avoid, infuriating doubts: that there would yet be some calamity he could not predict.
Sherman had never escaped that private war, but Grant had done all a commander could to provide Sherman the crucial spark of confidence, the marvelous gift of pushing forward his strategies on his own, so far from the eyes of Washington, from the telegraph wires of the newspapermen that Sherman considered little more than traitors. But still, the shakiness inside him would come, annoying bouts of neuralgia, aches in his joints, his arm stiffening even now, a sharp pain in his elbow that he kept to himself. The weakness infuriated him, so much like the shuddering fears that had plagued him since the very start of the war, the panic at Bull Run, his failures at Shiloh, and even the struggle at Chattanooga. Around him, the veteran army seemed to have forgiven him his faults, or even better, they had forgotten all of it, his officers and senior commanders believing that this new campaign to sweep the rebels aside would be carried out with few problems at all. So far the enthusiasm for the march was plainly evident, the men treating each day’s progress as one more step toward inevitable victory. The only real conflict with rebel forces had come from scattered cavalry assaults, clearly meant for show, accomplishing little more than keeping Federal skirmishers and rearguard troops on alert. The damage had been minimal, the casualties often resulting from those few men in blue who lagged behind. Many of those lost had been scavengers, seeking loot from the destruction of plantation houses
or what treasures might still be hidden in the small towns already passed. For Sherman there was a level of justice in that, no matter how angry his officers had been. Ultimately the stragglers were the responsibility of their commanders, and if any of the men were so undisciplined as to keep their eyes more on booty than on the orderly march, Sherman couldn’t help the feeling that those men were receiving their just deserts.
They had started at dawn, a few hours before, and he rode at the head of his staff, the headquarters guard spread out to the front, what had become the daily routine. He could see the fog of their breathing, men and horses both, and he pulled at his own coat, the icy wind still seeping through. The cold had been surprising, but Sherman tried to ignore whatever suffering was going on around him. He knew the South, knew that this kind of weather was temporary, regarded it as more of a nuisance than anything to slow their progress. For now the rains had ended, the roads hardening and the flurries of snow brief, the skies finally opening up to a delicious blue. There had been little to occupy the staff that morning, and so they rode together, silent mostly, few messages coming to him from the corps commanders. Beside him, the color bearer rode just a step back, and on the other side, the always present Henry Hitchcock.
Sherman had begun to appreciate that Hitchcock’s observations came from life outside the army, the man only there now because he had suffered from the guilt of being a civilian. Sherman respected the man’s conscience, whether or not he always agreed with Hitchcock’s lack of enthusiasm for the more difficult parts of army life. He reached for a fresh cigar, thought, The major should try the picket line. Especially on a day like this. At least the horse beneath him offers some warmth. Let a rebel take a shot at him from some hiding place and that shivering will get a whole lot worse.
Hitchcock caught Sherman’s glance, eased his horse closer, slapped his gloved hands together several times. “I say, sir, it is a brutal morning. Coldest so far, I believe.”