by Jeff Shaara
“Could be.”
“You see those columns of smoke, sir? That has to be the town. Shouldn’t we send someone up there and be sure there’s not too much mischief going on?”
“I can’t stop every act of ‘mischief,’ Major. We’ll be there soon enough. General Slocum’s men know their orders. They won’t take it too far.”
“Can you be certain of that, sir?”
“It’s my job to be certain of everything we do, Major.”
Hitchcock blew on his hands, useless effort through thick leather gloves. Sherman saw the grime on his gauntlets, unusual, said, “A bit casual today, aren’t we, Major? I thought you preferred looking the part of a prim and proper staff officer.”
He saw a deliberate shiver in Hitchcock’s shoulders, felt it himself, kept it hidden, and Hitchcock said, “Just too cold this morning, sir. There was a crust of ice on everything in my wardrobe. My trunk was left somewhat in the open, it seems. My uniform and outerwear were regrettably wet. It was a carelessness I will not repeat.”
Sherman knew better, had seen McCoy slipping into the headquarters wagon with a look of the kind of devilment befitting a schoolboy. It was custom, whether or not Sherman approved, that the newest member of the staff be the butt of some kind of misplaced humor. McCoy seemed especially prone to that kind of idiocy, something Sherman had usually ignored. But he had begun to depend on Hitchcock for more than the usual staff routine, respected the man’s abilities with the pen, his efficiency in transmitting orders where they needed to go. It helped no one if Hitchcock was the most miserable man on his staff. Sherman turned in the saddle. “Major McCoy, here, if you please.”
McCoy rode forward, seemed intent on ignoring Hitchcock. “Yes, sir? May I be of service?”
“It seems Major Hitchcock’s baggage suffered from the effects of last night’s damp cold. I observed a bit of snow.”
“Yes, sir. I observed that myself.”
“I will have no one on this staff suffer more than myself. Thus, since you seem reasonably comfortable in your coat, I would suggest you offer it to the major. For a while at least, until he stops his infernal shaking.”
McCoy seemed to droop, and Sherman knew very well that his officers understood the meaning of Sherman’s “suggestions.” McCoy knew better than to argue, pulled the coat over his head, had another lighter cloak beneath it, and Sherman waited, watched as McCoy slowly handed the outer garment to the wide-eyed Hitchcock.
“For how long, sir?”
“An hour, I suppose.” Sherman looked toward Hitchcock. “You think an hour with a coat that heavy should warm you up a piece, Major?”
Hitchcock eyed McCoy nervously, seemed to understand that Sherman was dishing out some sort of punishment. “Absolutely, sir. My appreciations to the major. Most generous.”
McCoy huffed, and Sherman caught the glance, McCoy’s acceptance that his little joke had swung against him. Sherman turned toward the front again, called out, for the benefit of the others, “One hour, Major. That should be enough.”
There was already a shiver in McCoy’s voice, a low, husky response. “As you order it, sir.”
Sherman looked to the side, Hitchcock still not certain why Sherman had offered such a gesture. “Warmer, Major?”
“Most certainly, sir. But I fear for Major McCoy’s discomfort.”
“Don’t. You ride with me long enough, you’ll find out a great deal about discomfort. One hour, then you give it back to him. After this, you’ll be more careful with your baggage. Major McCoy will see to that.”
The smoke above the town was drifting off to the east now, caught by the stiff wind, and Sherman studied the skies all across the open ground, another cloud of smoke hanging low to one side. Some plantation, he thought. But so far, no one’s burning much more than a barn. Slocum knows what I want. Davis and Williams, too. Any corps commander ignores me…The thought drifted away, a waste of energy. They know better. This is too important to leave affairs to…what do they call them? Bummers? I’m not in the mood to relieve generals from their responsibility. But if they can’t control their people today, if they inflict more damage on Milledgeville than I instruct them, I’ll toss them all in the stockade together.
He pushed that away, had no reason to be angry with anyone. It’s just this damnable weather, he thought. Louisiana was never this cold. Ellen would say this is God’s warning, some kind of sign. Be careful, do nothing evil. He pictured her in his mind, pretty and stern, the pleasant smile rolling into a scolding lecture. It’s that Catholic thing, he thought. She loves reminding me how I’m the eternal sinner, and she’s destined for glory. Well, there’s glory here, too. Just not that kind. If she was here, she’d be telling everyone who’d listen that this cold is punishment from the Almighty, as though I should be reminded that I’m not really in command here. That’s an argument I’ll never win. His mind drifted, thoughts of Grant. He keeps Julia close by, when he can. I suppose he has his reasons for that. I rather prefer doing things this way. Ellen can stay in some warm safe place and confess my sins for me. Tell the priests how bloody arrogant I am, how this war has made it convenient for me to avoid their sermons. It’s the truth, whether she believes it or not. I’d rather fight this war than kneel in her church. I don’t need anybody reminding me how fallible I am. Like right now. Damn this cold.
Beside him, Hitchcock moved closer again, and Sherman waited for it, thought, He hates it when I’m quiet. Must think I’m conjuring up reasons to put a musket in his hands.
“No firing this morning, sir. Not yet. The cavalry is having an easy time of it, it would seem.”
Sherman didn’t require the observation, had learned to ignore the small bursts of distant fire, knew that Kilpatrick’s men had fanned out into every farm, every kind of hole where rebels might be staging an ambush. No, he thought, the enemy’s pulling back, keeping their distance. Rather they didn’t do that. It would be useful to know how many they are, and what they’re going to do about this little parade of mine.
He glanced to the side, open fields, a distant farmhouse, nothing at all like the grand mansion where he had slept the night before. There were blue-coated horsemen there, a cluster of men doing their job, but the silence told Sherman exactly what Hitchcock had observed. No one’s home. So, he thought, where might they be?
“Oh, my, sir. These appear to be the enemy’s works. All out through the fields there.”
They rode past felled trees, a gathering of earth that someone had piled high, clearly meant as a defensive position. Hitchcock seemed to animate, the man’s usual show of excitement when he saw something that smacked of combat.
“I would say they chose not to make a stand, sir. These works have not been used at all, from what I can see.”
“Nope.”
They rounded a bend, the headquarters guard making way, and Hitchcock said, “There it is, sir. Seems we’ve arrived.”
Sherman kept his stare ahead, the larger buildings and church steeples now in full view, the wide streets, the prominent buildings spread along an avenue lined with shops and smaller homes. The smoke was still there, but only a few fires from several blocks away. In front of him, clusters of blue troops began to gather, seemingly watching for him. Hitchcock said, “It seems they’re intending to give you another salute, sir. If I may, sir, it’s appropriate.”
Sherman didn’t respond, kept his stare straight ahead, one hand inside his coat, a fist twisting on a brass button, the nervous gesture he tried to hide from anyone else. He felt the tension growing in his gut, his heart beating faster, and he eyed the larger buildings, scanned quickly, saw it now, the Stars and Stripes, waving in the brisk chill, high above the most prominent building.
Hitchcock seemed giddy, his horse responding by dancing to one side, beyond the man’s control. Sherman kept his eyes on the large building, heard voices behind him, McCoy, Dayton, the others, telling him what he already knew.
“That must be the State House, sir.”
There were citizens in view now, and Sherman eyed them, saw mostly women, old and young, and along the way, scattered throughout, scores of black faces. The cheering grew louder, aimed at him, at all the officers on horses, what these people would know of authority, of just who commanded the hordes of troops who had preceded these blue-coated officers into the town. He could see what was typical now, that the cheers came only from the slaves, while throughout the crowds, the white faces seemed mostly emotionless, sullen, some staring at him with silent defiance, the only protest the people dared to show in the midst of so much power. From the early campaigns on Southern ground, the cries and calls of the Negroes had surprised him, and even now made him uneasy. Sherman never could quite believe that those people had any real sense of what the war was about, what this army had come to do here. He had no special mission in mind to free slaves, had never thought of this campaign as some glorious act of liberation. His job was the war, to wipe away the rebel army with as much brute force as the task required. But the black people he saw now, as he had seen before, seemed to understand that the men in blue carried with them a different kind of power. Their joy was absolute, spilling out into the street, some of the people held back by the guards. Others made it past, and Sherman felt that first stab of concern, the unavoidable caution that disorder could explode into something unmanageable, something dangerous. But that fear vanished quickly, and he saw it in their faces, so many smiles. They came closer, grabbing at his horse, cries and laughter, many calling out the one word he always heard: Lincoln.
The troops were cheering him as well, some in formation, guided by officers, and he acknowledged them with a brief nod, tried to push past the increasing throng, his guards doing their best to clear a path along the wide avenue. Hitchcock was close to him now, and Sherman knew he was smiling, would always smile at whatever success flowed through this army.
“First act of this drama well played, sir!”
Sherman didn’t look at him, moved the horse with care, past the outstretched hands, the voices, the faces, tears, and toothy smiles. By damn, he thought, we’re really here. This is the capital of Georgia.
“Yes, Major. You are correct. The first act is played.”
GOVERNOR’S MANSION, MILLEDGEVILLE, GEORGIA—NOVEMBER 23, 1864
Sherman paced furiously, waited for his officers to enter, knew only that there had been a considerable ruckus at the State House. The two majors were there now, hesitant, as though expecting Sherman to pounce on them. They came to attention, waited for him to speak.
“What happened? Who did it?”
McCoy glanced at Dayton, both men seeming to hope the other would respond. Finally, McCoy said, “From all accounts, sir, the 107th New York and the 3rd Wisconsin.”
“How bad they wreck the place?”
McCoy seemed eager with his answer. “Oh, no, sir. Not at all. There were papers strewn about, of course, but much of that had happened before we arrived. The cavalry had already reported that the legislators and other officials had left the town in some haste, sir. They even hauled away their state seal. Too bad about that. It would have been a nice prize. As it is, we captured no civilians of any import.”
“My orders were explicit, Major. The State House shall not be destroyed.”
McCoy seemed surprised at Sherman’s reaction, and Dayton said, “Nothing destroyed, sir. Certainly not. There was some revelry, at worst. The men had found some spirits. Well, sir, you know how things can get out of hand.”
Dayton offered a smile, but Sherman was not amused. “How far out of hand?”
Dayton couldn’t help a stifled laugh. “Well, sir, the men engaged in a meeting of the Georgia state government.”
Sherman saw smiles on both men, knew they wouldn’t make light of his orders, and he couldn’t help feeling a hint of their joviality, the heat of his anger softening. The questions rose now, more curiosity than fury. “A meeting?”
“Well, sir, not exactly. They called the legislature into session. Quite a spectacle, sir.”
Sherman was confused now. “You said the legislators had left town.”
McCoy responded. “Oh, my, yes, sir. Our men deemed themselves capable of substitution. They elected one of the brigade commanders, Colonel Robinson, as president. It was actually quite orderly, sir. One of the newspapermen, Mr. Davis, accepted the position as page, or sergeant at arms, or something appropriate to the event.”
Sherman’s eyes grew wider. “A brigade commander? There were officers present?”
Dayton nodded, still smiling. “Quite a few, sir. I would say, with all respect, that our men made a most suitable assembly. They passed various ordinances, issued decrees, all quite in step with protocol.”
Sherman turned away, paced slowly, his hands behind his back. “Not my protocol, Major. It sounds as though they located more spirits than I was first informed.”
McCoy looked down, the joke passing. “Yes, sir. It seems so, sir. Things grew more subdued as the bottles were emptied. Many of the, um, lawmakers settled in for a nap beneath their desks.”
Dayton looked at McCoy, then said, “Uh, sir, I do have to mention, that as events proceeded, there were others involved in the festivities.”
Sherman knew there was something unsaid in Dayton’s description. “Others. Name them.”
“Well, sir, the cavalry arrived, and joined in. They added considerable energy to the proceedings.”
“Names, Major.”
“Um, sir, General Kilpatrick assumed command of the affair. He was most…entertaining. At least for the short time we saw him.”
Sherman closed his eyes, fought the anger, knew too much of Kilpatrick’s ridiculous habits already. He turned toward the men, spoke slowly. “I assume General Kilpatrick was also infused with spirits?”
McCoy tried to stifle the smile again. “Quite so, sir.”
Sherman’s patience had run dry, and he moved to a tall window, stared out from the mansion, the streets filled with throngs of his troops. “Is General Kilpatrick of any use in his current condition? I mean, right now?”
Dayton said, “I’m not certain what you mean, sir.”
Sherman spun toward them, his voice louder. “Is he capable of reporting to me without falling down?”
Dayton stiffened, the joke now over. “I shall retrieve him, sir. I’m certain General Kilpatrick would gladly offer you his report.”
“Then go get him. Lay him across his saddle if you have to.”
“By all means, sir.”
The two men saluted him, then left quickly. Sherman paced again, ignored the scenes outside, stared at the bare floor beneath him. Stripped the place clean, he thought. Their esteemed Governor Brown chooses not only to vacate his home and his statehouse, but he decides to take everything that isn’t fastened in place. He took his furniture, as though I should not be allowed to sleep in his bed. Does he think I am some sort of barbarian? Well, yes, I suppose he does. I shall oblige him, then. I’ll sleep in this grand place with my own bedding, no matter that it might soil his perfect floorboards. Perhaps bring the horses inside, allow them to feed in his parlor.
He paced again, felt an odd frustration. What kind of war has this become? We conquer without conquering. Have these people no pride in their own homes? Will they not fight to protect what is theirs? They made such noise over the right to keep their slaves, and now they scamper of
f and leave them behind, free to move about as they wish. The thought stopped him, and he looked toward the street again, black faces moving with the troops, like some kind of grand party. How much control did they really have over those people? I have never believed the Negro would make a good soldier, or that there is some sort of destiny to him working the fields. Where else did God intend him to be? Ellen would quote scripture, quite sure of that. Her priests would “educate” me, as though a Bible would tell me how to fight this war. He rubbed a hand on his chin. A man should be paid for his labors, and I suppose that’s the point. Those damned rebels insist the Negro is happy where he is, suited for this life. Chains and bullwhips. From all I’ve seen, those people don’t seem happy to do anything but leave those damned plantations. That old man at Cobb’s plantation…Henry, whatever the hell he said. I guess he seemed happy enough. Crazy old bird.
He saw a group of soldiers circling around a pair of black children, the children now starting to dance, some sort of jerking silliness, the soldiers clapping, shouting them on. That old bird might be out there, too, he thought, if not for his leg. Dancing like some dervish, entertaining us with music and some other foolishness. Is that what they do, when they’re not at labor? Or is it, maybe, that they’re just happy we’re here? And how many of them will there be? How many will flock to the roads and follow us to…where?
He thought of Mississippi, the Vicksburg campaign, the first time he had marched through the plantation country, the throngs of slaves gathering up in some kind of parade behind the troops. That wasn’t too good, he thought. Had to feed them. Still have to. Maybe easier now. This countryside has a good deal more to offer. Nobody’s going to starve, no matter what the damned rebel newspapers say. But if there’s a fight, if there’s something hard in front of us, these damned Negroes are in the way. So, what then? Protect them? Any of these people bow down to us, then go back to their shacks, some rebel cavalryman will butcher them for disloyalty. So, I suppose it’s my job to keep that from happening. That’s what Washington will think. Maybe Grant, too. Well, at least we can keep ’em fed.