Freedom's Banner

by Freedom's Banner (retail) (epub)

  Robert had turned, the bloodied whip coiled in his hand, staining it. Silently he came to his father. The two stood for a long moment, eye to eye some yards from each other, before, with no word, and with a gesture that verged on the contemptuous, Robert tossed the whip at Logan’s feet, and turned to stride back towards the house, the crowd parting for him in utter silence as he went.

  Logan watched his son’s retreating back with narrowed eyes.

  ‘I declare,’ Cissy said, a bright excitement still in her eyes, ‘how very strangely Robert does behave sometimes.’

  * * *

  The next morning the last Sherwood son was gone from Pleasant Hill.

  Robert set his horse upon the road before dawn, leaving behind no message, and a household utterly divided.

  As he rode north, his brothers, unknown to him, were also jubilantly on the move at last; on the move, and fast, with a Confederate army, towards a place on the Tennessee River – a place that took its name from a small log-built church upon a tranquil hillside; a church whose name had been translated by those who knew about such things as ‘the place of peace’.

  As Robert, anguished and solitary, rode slowly to his enemies, his brothers rode, singing, with their comrades, towards a place called Shiloh.

  Chapter Ten

  The Battle of Shiloh, claimed as a victory by the North, never accepted as a defeat by the South, was in real and human terms a disaster for both sides, the first intimation of just how bitter and how costly this struggle between sister states was to become.

  The Confederate army, commanded by generals Johnston and Beauregard, with which the Sherwood brothers rode, pushed fast and hard for Tennessee. Initially winning the race upon which they had embarked, they took Grant’s Federal troops by surprise, and at a savage cost in casualties on both sides, overran the Yankee positions and their camps, forcing them back to the river. It was a Sunday in early April; the weather was atrocious and the Rebels, after their forced march, were tired and hungry. As they swept through the captured encampments many stopped, whooping derisively at the fleeing bluecoats, to breakfast by the Yankee campfires on the ham, eggs and soft white bread that Grant’s green troops had abandoned in panic. But the day was by no means easily won. Dug in to a sunken road that became known by the Southerners who tried to take it as ‘the Hornets’ Nest’, courageous Federal soldiers held out for several obstinate and bloody hours, obstructing the advance, their casualties and those of their attackers rising into thousands before they were finally forced to an exhausted and honourable surrender. In brutal confusion, field by field, wood by wood, and through the blossoms of a ten-acre peach orchard, the Southerners fought on towards the river, in some places knee-deep in the dead and dying of both sides. Nor was it only the common soldier who died; at the height and in the midst of the battle, the able and popular General Johnston was killed, a shattering loss for his men and for the Confederacy. But, defying even the death of such a leader, the Rebel blood was up and the day was going their way; weary before they started, hungry and footsore, still the promise of victory bore them up. That the bluebellies made a last stubborn stand at the river as the sun sank, and fought their wildly screaming attackers to a standstill, mattered nothing; the day was the Confederacy’s. Word was, confidently, that the Yanks would surrender at sun-up.

  Before turning in within the comfort of an enemy tent, General Beauregard sent a wire to his President in the Southern capital of Richmond, reporting that the Confederate states’ army had won a convincing victory, and that the enemy was driven from every position.

  In the sodden fields and woods men in grey and in blue dropped where they stood, heads pillowed on their packs, despite the drumming rain that swept over the stiffening dead and the slumped, exhausted living alike. It was a nightmare of a night, riven by thunder and by lightning, by the shrieks from the surgeons’ tents and by the sound of the indiscriminately fired shells that sang a song of death from the Federal gunboats that still patrolled the Tennessee River; nevertheless, in exhaustion, they slept.

  It was from the river that the Union reinforcements came; over twenty thousand of them, fresh, hardened and ready for action. When the sun rose on the second day over the bloody fields and mangled orchards of Shiloh, General U.S. Grant and his second-in-command – a thin, hard-faced, red-headed Ohian named Tecumseh Sherman – had more men at their command than they had marshalled on the first, notwithstanding the desperate losses of yesterday; the Confederates, on the other hand, scattered, exhausted and badly mauled despite their successes, had no reserves on which to call. Instead of attacking, the weary Rebels found themselves attacked. Instead of sealing a hard-won victory, they found themselves fighting for their lives against aggressively fresh troops. To their credit, pushed relentlessly back across the ground they had won at such cost, they held the line and did not break; but the heart had gone from them, and the slaughter this time was too much. By early afternoon the retreat had begun, the long, dispirited column struggling through sleet and rain and a quagmire of mud, harried by Sherman’s cavalry; they left behind them on that field over seventeen hundred dead and nearly a thousand missing men. Over eight thousand wounded travelled with the retreating column, or were abandoned to the untender mercies of a Northern prison. And despite their claimed victory, the Federal casualties almost exactly matched the defeated Confederates’. One hundred thousand men had come to the riverbank at Shiloh Chapel; of them, almost one in four had been wounded, captured, or had died – losses comparable with the equally savagely fought Battle of Waterloo, forty-seven years before.

  The difference was that the battle that had seen the final downfall of Napoleon had decided the outcome of a war; cruelly, this one had decided nothing.

  * * *

  Beauregard’s confident and premature claim to victory slowed and confused the news of disaster and loss in the South. Days after the battle, reports were still contradictory. It was on the Thursday of that week in April that Logan Sherwood decided to ride into Macon with Joshua on the dual errand of a visit to the cotton factor and an attempt to gather any positive news.

  No-one had dared to speak Robert’s name since he had left.

  Mattie divided that day between the Infirmary, where she was reorganizing the medicines cupboard, and the supervising of half a dozen female slaves who were making lye soap; no-one mentioned that up to a few months ago such supervision would have been unnecessary. It was an accepted fact now; even the female slaves had to be watched – and since Cissy was, as usual, conspicuously absent, the task fell, as it now almost always did, to Mattie.

  She was in the Infirmary when Logan Sherwood and Joshua returned from town. Hearing the familiar, even sound of the horses’ hooves upon the red earth she came blinking from the shadows into a clear spring afternoon, wiping her hands on her apron, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. As her eyes adjusted to the light and she saw the riders more clearly, she stopped in midstride, every instinct telling her that something was badly wrong.

  The two rode slowly, at walking pace, and as always in single file, Joshua a yard or two behind his master.

  Mattie narrowed her eyes, watching them. It was something about the set of the old man’s head, about his carriage, rigid and ungivingly erect, so unlike his usual easy and graceful stance, that had alerted and alarmed her. Joshua too rode with none of his usual ease. The afternoon, which was full of birdsong and the scent of magnolia, seemed to hang dark about them. As she started forward again towards the oncoming riders, her eyes upon Logan’s stony face, shadowed beneath his wide-brimmed hat, Mattie was suddenly aware of her own heartbeat, slow and heavy, all but choking her.

  Logan Sherwood, at all times and even at his most arrogant the very soul of courtesy, rode past her as if she had not existed, his gaze fixed like a blind man’s directly ahead.

  Nothing had ever frightened her so much.

  Joshua’s eyes, black as pitch in the grim, carved mask of his face, flickered to hers; and, in a
nguish, the beat of her heart almost stopped altogether.

  For a moment she could not move. She stood as if rooted and watched as the horses came to a well-behaved stop at the foot of the steps. The usual fleet-footed boys had appeared at the sound, waiting to take the reins. Mattie saw in their shocked, upturned faces the same expression she knew must be upon her own as they looked at their master. There was a strange silence about the scene; a terrible silence.

  Mattie broke it. ‘Mr Sherwood? Mr Sherwood, what is it? What’s happened?’ She picked up her skirts and ran across the packed red earth to where the two men stood.

  Logan Sherwood had dismounted stiffly, and already started up the steps, slowly and heavily, his gait that of an old, infirm man.

  The sight struck her to horrified silence.

  At the top of the steps he paused for a moment, his hand on the rail, his back still to Mattie. ‘You tell them, Joshua,’ he said, very quietly. ‘For, by Christ’s own suffering, I can’t, and that’s the truth.’ As he spoke he turned his head a little; and for the first time she saw the tears.

  She was sick with panic now, and with dread. As always, the strange and wordless communication of the slaves was at work; the area in front of the house was filling with men and women on quiet, naked feet. Others were coming from the house, their eyes in awe upon their master as he walked unseeing through them. A girl threw her apron over her turbaned head and began to wail. Lucy, beside her, calmly pulled the apron clear and slapped her, hard.

  In the sudden hush Mattie asked, as steadily as she could, ‘Joshua? What’s happened? It’s –’ she swallowed ‘– it’s bad news?’

  He stood, tall, broad, the bruised and shadowed image of his brothers. ‘Yes, Miss Mattie. It’s real bad news.’ His deep and musical voice was very quiet.

  She waited, watching him, still trying to control the awful, muffled thump of her heartbeat.

  ‘Mister Will. Mister Russ.’ He hesitated for a fraction of a second. ‘Mister Johnny. They’re gone, Miss Mattie.’

  She looked at him, stupidly. ‘Gone?’ Her own voice had risen. With an effort she mastered it. ‘What do you mean – gone? Gone where? Not – not deserted, surely? No, of course not – how stupid – you mean captured? Taken prisoner?’

  The shadowed face was still and expressionless as granite. ‘They’re dead, Miss Mattie. Killed at Shiloh, all three.’

  ‘Dead?’ She spoke the word as if she had never heard it before, as if it had no meaning to her. She felt as if someone had hit her, very hard, in the solar plexus. She could not breathe. Nearby a woman was keening, wailing wordlessly into the clear spring sky. ‘Dead?’ she repeated, faintly.

  ‘Yes, Miss Mattie. Their names were on the list at the telegraph office.’

  She shook her head sharply. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. They can’t be. Not – not all of them. Joshua – there’s a mistake. Of course there is. There must be.’

  Joshua was silent.

  The sound of tears, of noisy grief, was suddenly all about. Mattie turned, furiously. ‘Shut up, you stupid things! You hear me? Be still – or I’ll have the skin off you, I swear it!’ She spun urgently back to Joshua. ‘Joshua, there must be some mistake! They can’t all be – be dead! It’s unthinkable. These lists – they aren’t always right – they’re made up in the confusion of battle – they’re often wrong-’

  He was shaking his head. ‘It was in the paper too, Miss Mattie – and a story about what happened – see – Mr Sherwood threw it away – but I picked it up.’ He pulled a torn, crumpled newspaper from the pouch at his belt and handed it to her.

  Mattie could not for a moment focus upon the small, black print. Utter silence fell about her. With an effort she forced her eyes and her brain to obey her. The words danced queasily. She gritted her teeth. In the Yankee counterattack on the second day of the Battle of Shiloh, newly promoted Lieutenant Russell Sherwood had made a defiant and courageous stand with a handful of men to protect a road down which the shattered Confederate army was retreating. His brothers, hearing of the action, had, against orders and against common sense, turned back to help him; too late. Outnumbered and outgunned, Russell and his companions had already gone down. Will and Johnny had run directly into the butchery of the Yankee advance; they had sold their lives dearly. The State of Georgia had lost three true and gallant sons, sacrificed to the cause. Heartfelt sympathy was extended to the Sherwood family, well known in the state…

  Mattie stopped reading; she could not, in any case, see through the tears. She stood, head bowed, fighting a wave of mind-numbing grief. She no longer doubted; the story rang too bitterly true. Obdurately rejecting the pictures that were trying to force themselves into her mind, of three tall, laughing young men cut to bloody shreds by the Yankee bullets they had always so despised, she did not hear the silken rustle of skirts above her, the shuffle of feet about her as the gathered crowd stepped back from the sparkling smile of the newcomer who stood on the porch, fair and young as the spring sunshine, looking down in surprise at the gathering below. It was one of Cissy’s good days; she had had a letter from Will the day before promising that on his next furlough they would go to visit her parents in Florida. ‘Why, gracious me,’ she said, the small beginnings of a questioning frown marring her high, pale forehead. ‘What in the world is goin’ on here?’

  * * *

  Between Logan’s grief and Cissy’s, Mattie hardly had time for her own; except in the dark, exhausted nights, when unhappiness and guilt and a helpless sadness mercilessly combined to drive out sleep and annihilate peace of mind. For a week her father-in-law locked himself in the library and would not come out, nor speak to anyone, not even Sol, who moped beside the door in company with the dogs, also banned from their master’s sight. It was in desperation that Mattie turned to Joshua. Since that strange and disturbing moment in his room on the day of the flogging they had, in an unspoken and delicate mutual agreement, avoided each other’s company as far as was possible. In this crisis, however, Mattie could think of no-one else who might be able to bring Logan from the dark seclusion of his grief.

  ‘Please, Joshua, would you try? It’s wrong for him to shut himself away so. Speak to him – try to persuade him –’ She stopped, shrugged helplessly.

  Joshua shook his head. ‘Best to leave him, Miss Mattie. You don’t know him as I do. Best to leave him to himself.’

  ‘To himself and a case of whisky? Joshua, he’ll kill himself if we don’t stop it! Please!’

  He was quiet for a moment, watching her. She was on the edge of nerve-strung tears. ‘All right, Miss Mattie. If you say so. I’ll try. But I still think it’s a mistake.’

  He was right. It was a mistake.

  Flinching, she heard – everyone heard – Logan’s raised voice from beyond the door: ‘Get out of here you no-good Goddamn’ nigger! When I want you I’ll call for you, you hear? Get away – get out of my sight, or I’ll have you in the fields pickin’ cotton.’ As the door opened she saw Logan’s face, ashen with rage; saw too the empty bottle upon the desk, and the untouched tray of food that Prudence had taken to him some time before.

  Joshua strode past her, stone-faced.

  ‘An’ stay out, you hear me? Uppity Goddamn’ nigger! Stay away from me!’

  Mattie, gathering her courage, went to the door. ‘Mr Sherwood –’

  ‘You, too, Mattie.’ His voice was level, and hardened against emotion, his hair was dishevelled and his eyes red-rimmed; but the habit of command was still with him. ‘An’ keep him away from me, you hear? Just keep him away!’ Behind him on the wall, portraits hung; Russ and Will, captured upon canvas together in healthy and glorious youth, Johnny, the youngest, alone, his arm about a favourite hound, the quirk of that reckless smile upon his lips. A blank, light square where once Robert’s image had been. And in each of those faces, the shadow of Joshua.

  Cursing herself for the fool she knew she had been, Mattie shut the door, very quickly.

  Joshua was gone.

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nbsp; Cissy, too, refused to leave her room; refused, in fact, to leave her bed. She swung between paroxysms of hysterical weeping and periods of total, miserable silence. The only thing that gave her comfort or any measure of peace in the days that followed the news was the laudanum that Mattie could no longer deny her.

  It was a week before the letter arrived from their commanding officer confirming the deaths of the Sherwood boys, commending their courage and gallantry, sympathizing deeply with the family, assuring them that the brothers had not died in vain; victory for the cause was assured whilst the South had such men to defend her. Mattie hoped that the words did not ring as emptily for Logan and Cissy as they did for her.

  Two days after the letter arrived, another field hand escaped, and was not recaptured. A week later, Shake came home.

  He hobbled up the drive, barefoot and clad in nothing but a pair of ragged trousers and a dark blue uniform jacket, torn and bloodstained, too short in the sleeves and too tight at the shoulder. As always it was the slaves who saw him first; by the time Mattie came out onto the porch he was already surrounded. Seeing her, he pulled himself erect and attempted a salute. He was thin, and grey-faced with exhaustion.

  For one moment Mattie allowed herself to hope; then, looking into his face, the faint, absurd glimmer was extinguished.

  ‘Got ter see the Massa, Miss Mattie,’ he said. ‘Got ter tell him – tell him what done happened to the young masters.’

  ‘You were there?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ The man was almost at the end of his tether. A filthy bandage showed beneath the torn cuff of his trouser leg.

  Mattie stood back. ‘Come. Mr Sherwood’s in the library. Afterwards, come to the Infirmary. And I’ll get Prudence to get you some supper.’

  ‘Thanks, Miss Mattie. Sure could do with that.’ Painfully he hauled himself up the steps to the porch, brushing down his stolen tattered jacket. ‘Hopes Mr Sherwood’ll not take it bad that I’s not clean.’