by Jeff Shaara
As had happened through every town and every large plantation, the Negroes gathered to follow the army in a joyous parade. The men in blue seemed used to that by now, whether they considered the crowds with annoyance or amusement. For some of the troops, the focus was on the women, and by now some of the younger black women were recognizing how that kind of attention might be of great benefit. Many more of the gathering throng were families, strong-backed men with wives and flocks of children, some too young to walk. But the duty for the officers was to keep their troops in line, and to move them at a hearty pace, Sherman ordering the men to make fifteen miles per day. If the Negroes chose to come along, they would have to keep up as best they could. When it came to water and sustenance, until they gathered at the nightly bivouacs they would mostly have to fend for themselves.
Franklin had fallen in with a group of older men, but all around him more Negroes continued to emerge from houses and fields, many more than he had ever imagined existed. It was a question he had asked himself, just how many men like him there were, and how many of the white masters lived in the grand mansions, like Cobb, the men who had once held control over the lives of every man Franklin saw now.
Learning to read had opened new worlds to him, stretching his imagination. But most of that was still biblical, the more modern world around him still with so much mystery. Now he was beginning to see it for himself. For years he had heard much about the war, most of that in loose talk from the overseers, absurd reports of the massacres that had all but obliterated the Yankee armies. Even if his father took that for fact, Franklin hated the overseers enough to assume anything they said was a lie. With his world suddenly overrun by blue-clad troops, he was certain of it. As he walked the street, carried by the sheer momentum of the men and women around him, Franklin was beginning to feel a terrifying combination of fear and regret, that somehow this celebration of freedom would suddenly end, that the guns would come, aimed at the slaves, that the dogs and the bullwhips would find them again, that this mighty blue horde was only a fantasy, a fragile dream that would suddenly fade away.
And yet…he heard the voices, the astounding joy in the people near him, the calls to the soldiers, ongoing salutes toward Sherman, to the godlike man they all knew as Lincoln. This was more than escape from the fields, more than a furtive glimpse into some other life. This was life, new and frightening, and yet so many of the people around him seemed to forget what their lives had always been. There were too many experiences, pain and sadness and the agony of unending labor, a mindless existence fueled by discipline and routine. But Franklin had tasted something far beyond that, had asked questions, if only of himself, where the new slaves came from, where the old ones went when they died, and even more mysteriously, what happened to a man if he made good his escape?
It had been taught to every slave, from the time he was old enough to walk, that running away meant death or something far worse. As a young boy, Franklin had listened to his father’s lessons with perfect obedience, but then he would be astounded by the men who would still try, slipping away through stands of corn, or just disappearing in the night. But then the dogs came, and in short order the man would be brought back to face the lustful wrath of Lucky and the overseers, the other slaves called to watch as the whips sliced the man’s skin until blood sprayed the ground. With the loss of his leg, his father had seemed more afraid than anyone Franklin knew, and so the lesson was driven hard into him, never think of it, never concern yourself with what lay beyond. It had been another mystery to Franklin that no matter the horror of the whippings, the screams and blood and the agony of a wife’s tears, some men still tried. And now they were all out here, all moving in unison away from everything they had known, away from the whips, the great fields, leaving behind their shacks. Going…where? He had no answer to that, thought now of his father, a man always afraid. He will die there, Franklin thought. I should have stayed with him. He will fear for me, believe the worst. But this is not just escape, and if the punishment doesn’t come, if these men in their blue uniforms with all those muskets are truly as strong as they claim, then this is…deliverance.
His brain continued to absorb all that was happening around him like the pages of a book, each new sight turning a page, another memory, strange, bizarre, and still frightening. He had said nothing, hadn’t joined the singing, the cheers for the blue guards who watched the throng from the side. There was a new feeling growing inside of him now, an unexpected sense of guilt for the old man he had left behind, his father seemingly locked into a world that was no more than the old man could see, barely past his own hands. By numbers alone, the black families who followed along with the procession had opened Franklin’s eyes to a fascinating reality. The crowds around him had grown to several hundred, more of his own kind than he had ever seen, more than he ever knew were alive. His mind had already begun to see the mathematics of that, that the simple ciphering the Sunday school teacher had taught him had begun to expand, the numbers rolling through his head, just what a hundred actually meant, his brain counting people instead of kernels of corn. But there were many more than that, and he struggled with his own ignorance, had so many questions about all he was seeing now, if it was possible that there was some number even larger, just how big this world could be, just how many people, how many soldiers might there be.
Where were the men from Georgia, from anywhere else the war had spread? There were other questions as well, spawned by the town itself, his eye studying the buildings, houses and shops, nothing like the Cobb mansion. There was another stark mystery as well, that those whites who cursed them as they passed seemed to be so few, and so powerless. As for the blue army, their sheer mass had overwhelmed him, men and horses and wagons, and with them those enormous guns, his eye settling on each cannon as it had rolled past. Their crews had responded to his gaze with joyous pride, answering his openmouthed stare with cheerful boasting of the sheer might of their weapons.
As he moved out of the town, columns of smoke rose up behind him, a glimmer of fear rolling through the procession that the fires might be pursuing them. But the panic was fleeting, the river looming large, the troops leading the way across a hard bridge, flags flying, men on horseback. With the soldiers mostly across, the way was clear for the great crowd of Negroes, some of them reaching the far side only to embrace the ground with their hands, as though crossing the river meant passing over to some new and wonderful land. On the far side of the bridge, Yankee cavalry held court, a row of horsemen who watched the black horde with amused curiosity, some of those men calling out a casual obscenity, suggestions for what they would do to the various women, words that Franklin didn’t really understand. But he understood the tone of their comments, saw that their smiles weren’t friendly, and even the most outgoing of the women seemed to slip more tightly into the protection of the parade. It punched a hole through the fantasy, the caution rising inside of him, that these men might be salvation, but not all of them were there to help. And there was destruction to come. The Negroes had mostly made their crossing in safety, spurred on by raucous shouts from men none of them knew were engineers. With the wave of humanity on the east side of the river, the torches came out, the blackened timbers of the bridge soon falling into the muddy waters of the Oconee.
He stopped to watch the flames, felt an instinctive sense of safety in that, the blue army protecting itself, and him, from some sudden surprise by rebel cavalry. As the men with their torches had gone to work, a civilian had scrambled among them, a small fat man that Franklin eyed with curiosity. The cavalry had gathered as well, and from everything Franklin could hear, the man was making claim to the bridge, as though it belonged only to him. If the soldiers heard him at all, nothing of the man’s fury halted their work. With the rubble of the bridge now washed by the flow of the river, the men with the torches had resumed their march, no differently than any of the soldiers Franklin had already seen. He had marveled at that, an act of war that required no muskets. A
s he moved farther from the river, the thoughts rolled through him, if the fat man was a rebel soldier, if that’s what the men of Georgia were doing to make a fight. It seemed ridiculous that any man would stand up to this army, all those muskets, swords, men on horseback, just to protect a bridge. The fires had been…to protect an army. It was a concept that Franklin embraced, a bit of knowledge he took pride in repeating to himself. He had seen a piece of the war.
To one side of him now, people were slowing, gathering with noisy enthusiasm around a small group of blue cavalrymen. The horsemen were tossing papers, scattered by the breeze, fluttering out over the outstretched hands of the Negroes. Franklin moved closer, curious, reached out, plucked a single piece of the paper from the air. It was fragile, thin, something he had seen before, what his father said was money. Franklin had never felt the notes, wasn’t completely certain what any of it was for, had seen only what the overseers had done, offering piles of the paper in exchange for something they wanted, or using it for what he was told was wagering, some kind of game with small colorful cards. But the cavalrymen were letting loose bundles with loud-mouthed glee, the people responding by snatching up every piece they could grab. He studied the paper in his hand, recognized the number one, two zeroes, his eye settling on a vignette, a portrait of slaves working in a field, men bent low, weeding cotton, something he had done since he was a small boy. He stared at the image, had seen a portrait in the Cobb house, what his father said was a painting. But this was very different, a scene familiar to him, as though someone had frozen a moment in time. There was an odd peacefulness to the scene, a strange beauty, someone’s handiwork with a pen perhaps, someone who had been in those fields. There was another portrait, low on the paper, a white man, stern, and to one side, a woman, standing tall, draped in some sort of gown. He turned away, knew there was punishment for looking too long at white women, but the boisterousness of the crowd swept that away, and he looked again, his eye on the men working the cotton. Why would someone draw this? he thought. It was another mystery, in a day that was now bursting with them, confusion rolling through him that the white people who regarded the slaves with such authority, such cruelty, would use their labor as something to adorn their currency.
He looked up at the horsemen, the game over, their bundles now spread over the sea of eager hands. Beside him, a man gripped a wad of the paper, held it out toward him, said, “Whooee. I gots me a treasure heah! I be buying the whole work’.”
Franklin glanced again at the vignette on the note in his hand, thought, They wouldn’t be giving us this if it had value. He held out the note to the man, said, “Here. Take it.”
The man eagerly accepted it, then hesitated, said, “Hey, now. You oughta keep it! We be needin’ all manner of vittles and such. Dey’s a great land up ahead. Heaven itself done come down. We’s been delivered by de Lawd Sherman. He might be a-wantin’ us to pay him.”
Franklin said nothing, watched as the man stuffed the paper into his pocket. He looked at the man’s eager smile, pondered the strangeness of his words. “If we’re bein’ delivered, God won’t be needin’ none of this. I ain’t seen nothing in the Bible about tradin’ paper to get into heaven.”
He turned away, moved back out into the road, saw even more people in the procession, some of them singing, a disjointed chorus, a mishmash of songs from Sunday school lessons, some just nonsensical. He moved with them again, ignored the ragged attempts at music, studied the faces close to him, an older woman, tears, clapping her hands in some kind of rhythm, and she looked at him now, smiling, held up her hands to the sky.
“Is a glorious day, young man. We’s free.”
He didn’t know the woman, saw her dress, something far more grand than suited her, the garment too large, taken from her mistress’s wardrobe. He nodded, polite, moved away, quickened his steps, couldn’t help thinking of the overseers, the punishment for theft. Is it stealing now? Is that what it means to be free? What happens if the army leaves us behind, abandons us to those other men, those other soldiers on horses? There’s cavalry out there, still. Has to be. And Lucky’s not done with us. Not Master Cobb, neither.
The blue cavalrymen had moved off, the parade resuming, and Franklin walked again, keeping pace with those around him. He stared out to the side of the road, brush and trees, distant fields, a farmhouse, nothing as large as Master Cobb’s. He looked upward, the sky a rich blue, the air cold, energizing, thought of his father again. I’d have carried him. But he’s just like an old mule. Won’t go where he don’t want to. The woman’s words rolled through him. We’s free. I don’t know what that means. If we don’t work the fields, what else are we to do? What else am I to do?
He kept walking, moved forward through a flock of older women, past the young men like him, strong backs, thick arms. He felt a strange energy, began to run, slow, methodical steps, slipped his way past more of the throng, faster now. He eased out to the roadside, his pace quickening to a full sprint, up past the parade. There was a wagon in front of him, soldiers, heads turning toward him, and he ran past them, ignored the shouts, fought through the painful jabs in the soles of his bare feet, ran until he saw the backs of the men in blue, another wagon, men on horses, guards with guns eyeing him as he passed. The questions in his mind had stopped, replaced by something new, a fire that pushed aside the doubt, the fear, the mysteries. He wanted to know more about these soldiers, to do what they did, to stand up and fight the men like Master Cobb, like Lucky. The joy in the people around him had been overwhelming, and the thought that the bullwhips and the dogs could take that away made him cry, tears smeared across his cheeks, sadness blending with a growing fury. If the men in blue were indeed his salvation, he had to know that, had to know why, had to know how. And he had to help them.
—
“He says he wants to join up. Told him ain’t no use in asking. We ain’t got much use for darkies here, sir. We wanna put them into a battle line, there’s a whole damn army following along behind us. That ain’t happening, I’m wagering.”
The man laughed, the officer across from him smiling. The officer looked at Franklin, said, “What makes you special, boy? You like all these blue uniforms, then? Wanna march around and play soldier?” The man’s tone was infuriating, but Franklin kept silent, knew these men could do whatever they wanted with him, no different than any white man before.
The soldier who had him by the arm spoke again. “Want me to toss him back out with the flock, Captain? We’re passin’ out hardtack to ’em right now. Hey, boy, you hungry? Don’t wanna miss out on General Sherman’s generous feast.”
Franklin felt the churn in his stomach, hadn’t eaten anything since the night before. “I’m hungry, yessir, General, sir.”
The officer motioned to the man, who released his grip on Franklin’s arm. “Sergeant, get him a piece of hardtack.”
“Sir.”
The sergeant moved away, grumbling something under his breath, and Franklin kept his eyes low, wouldn’t meet the officer’s eyes, felt his power, the authority in his voice.
“I’m Captain Gorman, boy. No generals here. You’re with the 113th Ohio. Lucky you weren’t shot, running through here all hell for leather. What’s eating you? Soldiering, I guess. That it?”
Franklin kept his head down, pondered the question. “Not sure, sir.” He paused, tried to choose his words carefully. “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking you. They’s plenty of folks back there, saying you’ve freed us from the masters, that we ain’t gotta go back to them anymore. I have to know, sir, is that the truth?”
Gorman sat back, folded his arms across his chest. “Well, now. Can’t say I’ve ever had a darkie ask me a question. Didn’t know you boys knew of such things. You speak pretty well, better’n most I’ve heard. Can you read?”
Franklin saw the opening, the captain’s expression changing, the question serious. He stood straight, a quick glance into the man’s blue eyes, nodded. “Yessir. Been taught by Master Cobb. The Bible m
ostly. Know all about Jesus and Mary. Cain and Abel. King David and Mr. Solomon. I can do ciphering, too. Count to a hundred, and take away, too. Subtract and whatnot.”
The sergeant returned, held out a flat piece of bread, a small square. “Here, boy. It ain’t roasted beef, but for Thanksgiving, it’s better than starving.”
Franklin took the bread, put one corner into his mouth, tried to bite, the bread breaking off. The sergeant laughed, and Franklin felt tricked, the soldier playing some prank. He stood tall again, looked at the officer, tried to hold his anger. “I can’t eat this. Not as dumb as you think. I guess you don’t care if we go hungry a’tall.”