by Jeff Shaara
As Sherman accepted the wisdom of Grant’s strategy regarding Fort Fisher, another piece of news brightened Sherman’s mood even more. Fresh from the overwhelming Federal victory against John Bell Hood at Nashville, General John Schofield was now moving an entire corps of George Thomas’s army eastward. Schofield was transporting an additional thirty thousand men to Fort Fisher, to be added to the sixty thousand that would march again with Sherman. No Confederate army remaining on the continent had the strength to match what Sherman would now command.
JANUARY 19, 1865
General Geary had relinquished his duties as military mayor of the city and rejoined his troops under Slocum’s wing of the army. The city was now placed under the umbrella of John Foster’s Department of the South, the city to be occupied by the Federal Nineteenth Corps, troops newly arrived from Grant’s command on the James River. If Sherman had little respect for Foster’s combat skills, he knew that managing the affairs of Savannah might fit exactly into Foster’s style, that of an administrator who delighted in exercising control over his subjects.
The makeup of the army would be nearly the same as it had been leaving Atlanta. There would be two wings, the right under Oliver Howard, the left under Slocum. Sherman issued orders for Howard’s men to board steamers that would ferry them up the coast to Beaufort, South Carolina, where they would march inland toward the town of Pocotaligo, a rail depot that Sherman wanted under his control.
Slocum’s men would march out of Savannah along the Savannah River, not crossing northward until they reached Sister’s Ferry, some forty miles inland. Though the army could make a crossing of the river at nearly any point along the way, the drive inland served one very distinct purpose. The Savannah River ran straight toward the city of Augusta, Georgia. By moving Slocum so far inland, Sherman fully expected the rebels to hold fast at Augusta, anticipating that Sherman was still intent on capturing that prize. It was one more feint.
If the rebels couldn’t be sure of Sherman’s intentions, his own commanders had no doubt. The orders he issued had been specific. Both wings of the army were to drive toward the next city Sherman considered important to his campaign. With the state of Georgia now under their belts, every man in the army knew that South Carolina would be their next target. Sherman had spent the final few days in Savannah measuring the mood of his men, feeling out just how much passion they had for the next phase of his campaign. He was not disappointed. To Sherman, South Carolina was a strategic goal, one more step on his plans to unite his army with Grant. To his delight, sentiment among the men was that South Carolina bore the blame for this war, and thus should be punished for it. To that purpose, Sherman had ordered both wings of his army to converge on the state’s capital city, Columbia. Even if the war was not concluded by its capture, putting Columbia under Sherman’s belt would be a wound to Confederate hopes from which they might never recover.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
FRANKLIN
SAVANNAH—JANUARY 19, 1865
“I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”
Captain Jones peered over his shoulder at him, then turned back to his work, closing his small trunk. It was the last bit of Jones’s baggage, the rest of the tent bare. As Franklin watched, the captain completed the task, buckling his sword, putting on his hat. Franklin stood just outside Jones’s tent, still leaned in, held his own hat in his hand, waited for the right time to speak.
“It’s the best idea I got, sir. This has caused me some considerable argument. Inside, I mean. Clara, she says to do what I have to do. I swear to you, sir, there’s a powerful notion that I’ve got more to get done than hauling barrels. I appreciate the job and all. Really do. Got thirty dollars in gold put away. Give it to Clara, for holdin’. If she has any trouble, she’ll be able to pay for food, anyhow.”
“You gave your gold to that girl?”
Franklin saw the frown on Jones’s face. “It’s not what you think, sir. Truly. We’ll be married when this is done with. I know that. She’s right now with Reverend Frazier. She’ll be stayin’ in the church. He says he’ll look after her. There’s other women, too. I’ve done give her my sweetest goodbye, sir. It’s done.”
“I can’t tell you your personal business, Mr. Franklin. I can tell you that the army has sent down orders to bring in any Negroes who wish to serve. But there can’t be any kind of uniforms, weapons, anything like that, not yet. There’s no time right now. We’re already moving out of Savannah, and this unit will be on the march in a few minutes. It’ll be another long one. The new colored units can’t be sent out until you have the training, drill, formations, bugle calls. And, if you’re lucky, marksmanship.”
“You mean, can I shoot a musket?”
“Shooting’s easy. Hitting a target’s a little tougher. Killing a man…that’s the hardest thing of all. Believe that.”
Jones paused, moved out of the tent, seemed to gather a long breath. He stared off, where already a thick column of soldiers was marching on the wide roadway. He looked at Franklin now, a hint of sadness, Franklin not sure what that meant.
“I’m sorry, I done interrupted you, sir. Maybe it’s a foolish thing, me wantin’ to be a soldier. But I swear, sir, it’s pulling me. Clara understands, she truly does.”
“Let me tell you something about being a soldier.” Jones paused. “God looks you square in the face when you pull that trigger. I’ve seen it. Shot a man with my pistol, right through the forehead. Chattanooga. He watched me do it, stood there, like he was expecting it. That’s something I’ll never forget, the look in his eyes. It was God looking at me, right through the rebel’s eyes. The man fell, blood everywhere, no time to think on it then. But I know what happened, what it meant. Since then, I’ve shot at plenty of men, maybe hit some. Never had one so close, close enough to watch me kill him. You sure you’re ready for something like that?”
“If he be a rebel, I think so.”
“Got nothing to do with that, Mr. Franklin. A man is a man. Even rebels got family, a wife maybe. Children. You’re telling me you’re ready to rip the life out of that man? That if God’s watching you, you can put your musket into a man’s face, put your bayonet into his heart? That’s what you have to believe to be a soldier. That you can do any of that without thinking about it, without stopping to think about what God thinks about it. Don’t know of too many men in this army who don’t think about that some.”
“There’s killing aplenty, Captain, sir. Must be some folks in this army got the feel for it.”
Jones nodded, looked again at the road. “It gets easier, some say. Most of that is just talk. What makes a soldier kill without thinking about it? Panic, Mr. Franklin. A line of troops marches straight at you, and you see all those bayonets. You’re scared so bad you lose your pee. Pardon me. But that fear’s what makes it easier to pull the trigger. You see a line of troops facing off, a hundred men, a thousand men standing face-to-face in a field, I promise you, there’s not much aiming going on. They march up close in big fat columns, and any man pulls his trigger, he’s just as likely to hit somebody by pure chance. That’s when men run away, that first volley. You stand there with an empty musket in your hand, and if you don’t keep your head, reload like you’re taught, like these men have drilled a hundred times, you won’t stand up to those bayonets. You’ll haul your bottom out of there, running like the devil himself is chasing you, running till you drop.”
“I won’t do that, sir. I’d never run off.”
“Every man says that. Every one. You ever heard a musket ball sing past you, Mr. Franklin?”
“No, sir.”
“The wings of death. You might hear it coming, and if God moves it just right, it’ll miss you, clip off a piece of your ear, maybe take off your hat. Or it’ll slap into the man next to you, drop him like a sack of potatoes. You can’t pay attention to any of that. The man on the other side of you’s still standing, still trying to fight, and he’s counting on you to stand your ground.”
Fran
klin absorbed what Jones was telling him, said, “You’re trying to scare me outta here, make me glad to be going back to Clara, to Reverend Frazier, to hauling barrels and sacks for the commissary. I respect you, Captain, but I ain’t as dumb as some folks want to think. Nobody knows what it takes to be a soldier until they done it. Even you. Every man has to learn all those things you just said. Now, they done learned it. That’s all I’m asking, sir. I come this far because I needed to do something to help you. Never really thought about that until I met Clara. We’re gonna get married, I promise you that. Maybe have children. And we can do something for ourselves, work the land, learn things, all because of this army. No matter all those terrible things, I can’t just watch you march on out of here and make a fight with the rebels, just so I can stay here and be safe. That ain’t fair. You say the Lord maybe judged you for killing a man. Well, He’ll be judging me if I just take the good you’ve given me, and don’t pay nothing back.”
Jones put his hands on his hips. “You’re a good man, Mr. Franklin. But I can’t give you everything you want, not right now. In time, once this campaign has ended, they’ll be forming up new regiments, creating camps for drill and instruction. All I can offer you right now is that you come along like before. Old Poke is gone. Sick, I think. We need some help with the horses, with a great deal more around the camps. Like I said, no uniform, no musket. When the time comes for the new camps, if you still want to do this, I’ll send you off with a good recommendation. I give you my word on that. You need to give me your word that you’ll not run off just because you start missing that girl of yours. That can be a mighty strong pull, Mr. Franklin.”
“We talked it over. She cried, that’s the truth. But she’s safe with the reverend, got plenty to do, can sew, cook. Reverend Frazier already got her working some in a boardinghouse. Long as I know she’s not in trouble, that nobody’s messing with her, I’ll be fine. She’s done seen me off, said a long prayer for me. I’m ready, sir. I got to do this.”
“You can write her, you know. We should have mail going back here, at least for a while.”
It was something Franklin had never considered. He had never actually written a letter before. He thought a moment, said, “She’s learning to read pretty good. That’ll help her. That’s mighty kind, sir.”
Jones laughed. “Don’t give me credit for delivering mail. It’s just what the army does. Helps a man to know how his family is doing, helps them back home to hear from him, make sure he’s all right.”
Franklin was amazed by that, that a man so far from home could find a way to reach out, that the ones he cared about might do the same for him. “This is one strange world, Captain. You got ships hauling goods from someplace out past the edge of the earth, you put men to marching on roads that don’t ever seem to end. Towns and bigger places just seem to appear, rising up in some place where it seems like nothing could ever live. This army…you got men shooting at you, hating you, trying to kill you every day. You walk through mud and sand and the coldest days I ever seen. You sleep on the ground, and eat something my papa wouldn’t give a plow mule. And then you write letters to folks at home, telling ’em about it.”
“And you want to come along.”
Franklin smiled, nodded. “Yes, sir. I reckon I do.”
“Well, our orders are to march out along the Savannah River, probably be on the move for a couple days. We’re traveling pretty light again, just like when we left Atlanta. General Sherman’s orders. Not likely we’ll find much in the way of rations in this country, at least for a while. Rough land. Rice and oysters, until we get clear of Savannah. Then, just rice. We’ll be sending out bummers again, pretty sure of that. But we’ll be in South Carolina, Mr. Franklin, and I’m pretty certain those people will be even less accommodating than anyone in Georgia. And rebel cavalry will be waiting for every foraging party, trying to ambush ’em down every trail. You can ride in the supply wagon. Go on over to Sergeant Jordan.” Jones pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket, a stub of pencil, scribbled a quick note. “Here. Give him this, tell him I authorized you to move out with the commissary wagon. Then keep that in your pocket. You get separated from this unit, it won’t do for some green-eared lieutenant to toss you aside. Remember what I said about rebel cavalry. I can’t give you a mount of your own. Wouldn’t look right yet to have you ride along with my aides.”
Franklin looked toward the road, a thick column of blue moving past, colors and horsemen leading the way.
Jones called out to one man, “Bring my mount. Time to go.”
Franklin knew the face of Sergeant Jordan, colorless man, no smiles, no talk at all. Franklin moved closer to Jones, said, “Uh, sir, pardon me. The soldiers got no choice but marching. If it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon walk with them. I’ll stay back, keep out’n the way.”
Jones’s expression was changing, something Franklin had seen before. His eyes seemed distant, a long stare out past the road, far past the camp of his men. The regiment was in formation now, by company, filling an open field to one side. To Franklin, it was a glorious parade, the muskets up in neat rows, the blue uniforms mostly clean, the officers moving among their men, straightening the lines, sergeants calling out their usual curses.
Franklin thought of the captain’s descriptions of war, what he had seen of fighting, of the enemy, of death. He felt a glimmer of understanding now, that if you wanted to be a soldier, you had to accept that this was not just some grand spectacle. Out there, across the river, there were rebels still, and for all the happy talk in the city, for the laughter and games and festivities, there was still a war, and some of these men, the men he saw now, might not survive. He looked at Jones, thought, That’s what he’s thinking.
Jones climbed up on his horse, his eyes on the road, the color bearer riding up, holding the flag of the 113th Ohio, the young man now close beside the captain. There were drums, another unit moving past, the captain seeming to wait for his place in the larger column. Franklin stepped closer to the road, closer to the field of men, familiar faces, some of them laughing, the jokesters, others staring ahead, nervous eyes, impatient to begin. He saw a flock of horsemen moving up across the road, a larger flag, the Stars and Stripes, officers, one in particular, familiar, the grim stare of General Morgan. A gap appeared in the road, the trailing end of another regiment, a pair of artillery pieces now moving past, hauled by caissons, their crews mounted up, some on the caisson, some on the horses, hearty cheers, raucous shouts going out toward the foot soldiers.
The general rode closer, said something to Jones, then backed away, and Jones moved his horse into the road, the color bearer out beside him, now another man holding a bugle. Jones made a sharp wave, a bugler blowing a quick rhythmic call, the voices in the field falling silent, the jokes past. Franklin saw Captain Gorman, Company A, a hard salute toward Jones, another toward Morgan, Gorman leading his company out into the road. He stood, held his sword upright, the men falling into line, the column four across, filling the sandy road, and immediately they began taking the first steps forward.
Jones spurred the horse, led the way in front of his own column, looked back toward Franklin, no smile, a hard, cold stare.
“Fall in, Mr. Franklin. Route step, forward march.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
SEELEY
NEAR POCOTALIGO, SOUTH CAROLINA—JANUARY 21, 1865
He had watched Hardee’s withdrawal from Savannah from a stand of pines, the cavalry spread out as protection, should any of the Yankees attempt to interfere. Throughout that dismal day, his men had shivered in silence, matched by the gloom of the column of soldiers as they passed. There had been no Yankees, nothing at all to prevent Hardee’s troops from making good their escape across the river, and they were now moving farther into the South Carolina countryside.
At Pocotaligo, many of those men had boarded railcars, would add to Hardee’s new defensive position in Charleston. Others would move out to the west and north, anchoring new ga
rrisons at anyplace Hardee or Beauregard had considered ripe for attack. Wheeler had simply followed orders, what remained of his horsemen doing the same. There was little energy in the troops, some of that from the lack of decent food. The horses were no better, mounts dying in every camp, others barely strong enough to bear their riders.
If morale was sour enough among Wheeler’s men, there had been the infuriating visit by Inspector General Alfred Roman, sent specifically by Beauregard to investigate rampant rumors that Wheeler’s men had lost all effectiveness as a fighting force, and worse, that many of the troopers had become little more than bandits, raiding and stealing horses and any other valuable commodity the local populace might present. Roman’s report had gone back to the generals, claiming that Wheeler’s men were displaying “a brutal interference with private property. Public rumor condemns them everywhere, and not a few do we find in Georgia as well as in South Carolina who look upon them more as a band of highway robbers than as an organized military band. Had I the power to act in the matter, I would relieve General Wheeler from his command, not as a rebuke, but as a punishment…”
Beauregard’s reaction to Roman’s infuriating report was to offer the War Department in Richmond a recommendation that dug hard at Wheeler: “Unless Wheeler’s command can be properly organized into divisions, under good commanders, a large portion of it had better be dismounted forthwith. Its conduct in front of the enemy and its depredations on private property render it worse than useless.”