James started down the boardwalk thinking that few things in the world are more difficult to change than the human mind. The war was proof of that. You can muster a large army and you can defeat an adversary but you cannot change his way of thinking. The new law said that the black race was now and forever free. James knew it would be a long time before it did them much good. It was not just the people of the South who believed the blacks were inferior. The illustrious forefathers of the United States were to blame with all of their ambiguous talk of freedom. When a race of people is introduced to a new land wearing shackles and chains they are branded from that day forward. After over two hundred years of being slaves, how, James wondered, could the black man ever appear as an equal in the eyes of the whites?
When two hours had passed, James returned to General Smith’s office. Tied to the hitching post out front was a mule wearing a saddle blanket and a bridle. He went inside; Captain Blanchard was waiting for him.
“Here are your orders, Lieutenant. I guess you noticed the mule outside?”
“Yes,” said James in a wary tone.
“It’s the best I could do. You will join up with General Kilpatrick’s Corps in Atlanta. Procure a better mount when you get there. That is all.”
James couldn’t believe that not a single horse was available. How unpleasant it would be to ride the whole way to Atlanta on a mule, and without a saddle to boot. It would be a dangerous trip. If he ran into Confederate cavalry he wouldn’t stand a chance. He knew it would do no good to argue or complain. He took his orders, tied his things to the back of the mule as best he could, and rode out of town.
By nightfall, James was only about ten miles south of Dalton. It was very slow going on the mule and more than a little uncomfortable. The only way he could prevent falling off was to keep his legs wrapped tightly around the animal’s belly. He decided to get off and walk for a while. He was leading the mule down the road when he noticed a faint flicker of light in a stand of Oak trees a short distance ahead of him. When he was within a hundred feet of what he could at that distance recognize as a campfire, he tied the reins of the mule’s bridle to a tree branch and crept toward it, revolver in hand. From behind a tree not far from the center of the campsite he could see a lone figure dressed in a ragged Confederate uniform. The man was stretched out by the fire with a bedroll under his head and a slouch hat covering his face. His fingers were laced together over his stomach and his musket stood against a nearby tree. What interested James the most was the big Bay horse tied to a picket pin near the edge of the firelight. Apparently, the Reb still felt that Georgia was a safe enough haven that he didn’t need to bother putting out his fire before going to sleep. If he had, however, James never would have spotted his location.
He waited for a few minutes, watching closely for any movement. When he heard an audible snore, he knew it was time to act. Stepping from behind the tree, he cocked the revolver and stood beside the sleeping man’s feet.
“Wake up, Johnnie,” he said. The snoring stopped suddenly and the Reb slowly moved his right hand up and pushed back the slouch hat. He sat up looking both sleepy and disgusted at the same time. “Damn Yank. I reckon you walk through cemeteries at night wakin the dead.”
“Not as a rule. But I need a horse and I would wake a sleeping man and help myself to his.”
“You mean ya’ll is gonna leave me on foot.”
“Nope. There’s a good young plow mule tied up just down the road and you’re welcome to him.”
“A plow mule for a good horse? That ain’t no fair trade.”
“Well, I’m also leaving you here alive.”
“I reckon that does even things up some.”
“Which way are you heading?”
“Back home to Virginia,” said the Reb. “I was with Hardee in Atlanta. What a hell of a fight that was. The whole time I was fightin I says to myself I says, if you don’t get kilt in this here battle, you bes go home while you still can. A man of few wits can see where this war is headin so what’s the sense of dyin for nothin? When it was over, the army headed south and I headed north.”
“Where did you get the horse?”
“I stolt him from a farm las night.”
“Well that makes me feel a little less guilty about stealing him from you.”
“You got a sense of humor, Yank.”
“I’m glad you think so. Now roll over on your belly and put your arms straight out.” The Reb did as he was told. James carefully checked him for weapons. All he found was a large bowie knife; he tossed it away. Then he picked up the musket, pulled back the hammer and removed the percussion cap from the nipple. He threw the cap and the musket into the darkness.” You can find that in the morning. Now get up and saddle that horse.” Again he did as he was told. Enemy or not, James felt a little ashamed. This worn old campaigner obviously wanted no trouble. He just wanted to go home; a feeling shared by many.
When the horse was saddled, James climbed up and said, “Wait until you hear me ride by, then go down and get that mule. I do hope you make it back to Virginia.”
“Thanks, Yank. I’ll think a you when I do the spring plowin.”
James tipped his cap and rode out through the trees. He wasted no time getting his gear off the mule and tying it behind the saddle. Then he raced by the stand of Oak trees; the Reb’s campfire was still burning.
The big Bay was a welcome change from the unenthusiastic mule. On through the night James kept an easy but steady pace, and by daylight he was just twenty miles from Atlanta. Coming up on a long, sweeping bend in the road, he could see dust clouds being raised ahead of him. A little farther and the strains of “Battle Hymn of the Republic” came back to him on the morning breeze. A large body of Union troops was also heading into Atlanta. James spurred the big horse and galloped up to the rear of the column. “What army is this?” James called out.
“Why, it’s Uncle Billy’s of course,” was the reply.
“Do you mean General Sherman?”
“None other. We’re his farm boys from Ohio, Illinois, and Indiana. We’re headin to Atlanta to help the fellows finish her off and then we’re gonna burn a path to the sea.
James waved and veered off the side of the road to get out of the dust. He pulled up, had a drink of water and a thick slice of beef jerky. His emotions were running high. After more than two years he was back in Georgia. So huge was the temptation to bypass Atlanta and keep riding until he reached his childhood home. How wonderful it would be to see it again, he thought. Then a dark cloud loomed on his mental horizon. Things would not be the same. How would he be received? Certainly not joyously—not while wearing a blue uniform.
There was, however, one thing that gave James great satisfaction. The road was crowded with the newly liberated. Scores of black people, ex-slaves, were on the move. With the presence of the Union army there was no more need to escape. Individuals, couples, and entire families were walking away from the plantations. Some carried their belongings on their backs, others had mules and carts. None could probably say exactly where they were going but they were free to go and that was enough for now.
James wondered if Langdon Plantation had been abandoned as well. It would depend upon whether or not the Federals had occupied the area. He thought about Farley Tabor, his father’s abusive overseer. How it would pierce his dark heart to see his subjugated workforce drop their burden and walk away.
James shook himself from his place of deep thought and continued on to Atlanta. From five miles out he could see that the sky was nearly blocked out by heavy black smoke. When he reached the edge of the city he was met by a scene of unbelievable destruction. Many homes in the residential areas were still standing, but the business and industrial districts were in ruins. Railway stations, warehouses, and factories had been leveled. Fire had rampaged through an oil refinery igniting a warehouse next door that contained a large supply of gunpowder. The gunpowder had exploded, sending a shower of sparks into the sky, setting other s
tructures on fire. Many of them were still smoldering.
The soul was being torn out of a graceful city, thought James. He remembered traveling to Atlanta with his family several times as a boy. He wouldn’t have believed he would ever see it like this. Hundreds of Union soldiers filled the streets, their spirits, in contrast to James’s, were lively and boisterous. To them it was more like a circus than a wasteful, destructive act of war.
Turning away from the sad spectacle, he located the headquarters building and reported to Major Henry Hitchcock, General Sherman’s Assistant Adjutant General. The major told him where he could find the cavalry bivouac. “Eat hearty and get some sleep tonight. Tomorrow we march and the cavalry will be leading the way.”
“Are we really going all the way to the coast, Major?”
“All the way.”
James had no trouble finding the cavalry encampment, and for the second time that morning he reported in. This time it was to General Judson Kilpatrick. James had read quite a lot about the general but had never seen him in person. In his opinion, Kilpatrick was an ugly man with a square jaw and bushy sideburns the color of sand. He was an authoritative figure and arrogance was his persona. Although he was a very formidable opponent, many thought him to be a reckless daredevil. The general was understandably very busy and he was short and to the point with James. “Be ready to ride in the morning,” he said.
When James was dismissed, he stripped the saddle and blanket off the Bay and gave him a thorough rubdown. Naming his horses had always been an absolute habit and so he dubbed the big horse Goliath. He was bent over checking Goliath’s hooves when he heard a voice say, “What do you think of old Kilcavalry?”
James looked around and there stood a trooper perhaps a few years older than him with curly dark hair, brown eyes, and a perfectly trimmed chin beard.
“I beg your pardon,” said James.
“What do you think of Kilcavalry? That’s what they call him, you know.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that.”
“Well it is a sobriquet he’s just recently earned.”
“If you would indulge me, how did he earn it?” asked James.
“Well you see, he has this bad habit of running his troopers and their horses to exhaustion on long rides, then getting them killed in careless charges.”
“Sounds like a man with a flair for the dramatic.”
“That’s a nice way of putting it.”
“So do you think we are in for a bad time?” James questioned.
“Have you ever heard of Fighting Joe Wheeler?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Well, we’ll be seeing him soon. They say he’s the roughest one hundred and twenty pound man in the South. His men are no better. I’ve heard that they are so undisciplined that they sometimes scare the Southern civilians more than we do. By the way, I’m Lieutenant Alvin Mitchell, Mitch to my friends.”
“Lieutenant James Langdon.” The two men shook hands. “Where you from, Mitch?”
“Pennsylvania, near Philly. You?”
“Georgia, near Macon.”
“I sort of thought so but I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you to think I had a problem with it. I don’t.”
“It’s OK. Others have asked. No one has given me a bad time yet.”
“You’re lucky. I’ve run into some pretty narrow minds in the army. You know you’re likely to see home tomorrow.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I’m a staff officer so I know a little more about what’s going on. But I might get in Dutch for talking too much so keep it under your hat.”
“Sure.”
“General Sherman has four corps. He is splitting them into two wings with two corps each. The northern wing will be commanded by General Slocum, the southern wing by General Howard. They’ll travel on parallel routes for a week or so then turn towards each other and meet at Milledgeville. Kilpatrick’s five thousand troopers will ride ahead of Howard’s wing to screen the advance. When we ride tomorrow we’ll be heading in a southeasterly direction towards Macon.”
“Are we to take Macon?”
“Not from what I’ve heard. We will make an assault on the city but it’s only meant as a feint. The idea is to camouflage our real objective. Howard’s wing will turn northeast.”
“Then I won’t see home,” said James. “My father’s plantation is south of Macon.”
“I’m glad, James. It could be pretty rough on you. But you should still prepare for the worst.”
“What does that mean?”
“Have you noticed the mood of the men in this army?”
“Yes. They act as though they’re on a holiday.”
“Exactly. That’s because they plan on filling their pockets.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“The wagon train will only carry enough supplies to last about twenty days. After that we will have to live off the land. Each day every regiment will send out foraging parties, about twenty to thirty men under an officer. There job is to gather supplies, but from what I’ve seen they’ll do more than that. General Sherman is a very good military commander but he believes in making war on civilians. He’s issued orders forbidding the men to trespass in dwellings. They have also been ordered to discriminate between rich and poor and in either case to leave enough food to maintain the family. But Sherman will not enforce the rules. Once those bummers get started they will pillage and plunder. They’ll take what they want and destroy the rest. I’ve seen it happen right here in Atlanta. For a lot of these men this march will be something of a sport. I just want to warn you, James. You may find it difficult to watch.”
James did not know how to answer. He was still naïve enough to be appalled at such conduct and even more so that the high command did not restrain their men. Apparently he was not grasping the concept of total war. And what about the Southern command, he wondered. Were they not yet willing to admit that they had made a mistake? Everyone knew from the beginning that most of the fighting would be on Southern soil. With very few exceptions, this had been the case. Did they not know what to expect if they failed to drive the Yankees off? Was it worth all the waste and all the destruction just to keep a race of people in bondage? God forgive me, thought James, they must be evil.
“Thank you for the information, Mitch, but I have made my bed and I will sleep in it. My father taught me that . . . maybe he can be proud of me for something.”
TWENTY-FOUR
The March Begins
On the morning of November 15th, 1864, the cavalry, with General Kilpatrick in the lead, rode out of Atlanta. It was not long before they encountered veteran troopers in faded gray. General Wheeler’s men threw up roadblocks at East Point, Jonesboro, Stockbridge, and Lovejoy’s Station in an effort to slow the advancing Federal army. But the Rebels were simply overwhelmed by numbers and continued to retreat to Macon.
General Wheeler had massed about two thousand men to defend the city. Four miles from the outskirts of Macon, the dismounted Confederate cavalry were dug in behind earthen barriers, waiting for an attack. Inspired by the spirit of their commander, the Yankee riders charged Wheeler’s position. James was out in front, bent low in the saddle to make less of a target, firing his army revolver and yelling like a madman. Men on both sides of him fell from their horses; some dying instantly; others were trampled to death by accident. When the Union troopers reached the Confederate line they split left and right then made a half circle and headed for the rear.
After making the turn, just ahead of James, a comrade was hit in the shoulder and slumped forward in the saddle. The wounded man tried to hang on at least long enough to get beyond range of the Confederate rifles. He may have made it except for the fact that another bullet struck his horse in the lower neck causing animal and rider to slam to the ground. James was almost past the motionless soldier, moving at a full gallop when he realized that it was Lieutenant Alvin Mitchell.
Not knowing if M
itch was dead or alive, he wrestled Goliath to a stop, wheeled around, and rode back to where he lay. He jumped to the ground trying to hold onto the big Bay who was wild with fear. Thinking quickly but not necessarily clearly, James tied the reins to his belt. He reached down for Mitch while Goliath tried to drag him away from the shooting. The bullets that screamed past were most uncomfortably close. Two rounds thudded into Mitch’s dead horse. After what seemed like eternity, James got Mitch to his feet. He was dazed and bleeding but his survival instincts took hold, and with James’s help, managed to climb up onto the rearing Bay. James leaped at the horse’s rump and clawed for a handful of saddle. He pulled himself up behind Mitch, reached around him, and took the reins. Goliath needed no urging to race for the rear. It wasn’t until they were safely out of range and until the adrenalin stopped coursing through his veins that James realized his left trouser leg had been nicked by a bullet; his right shoulder insignia had been shot away.
After the attack, Kilpatrick retreated and the wounded that were able to make it back, including Lieutenant Mitchell, were taken to the main column for medical attention. Before Mitch was taken away, he held out his good arm and said, “I owe you, James. Your father would have to be proud.”
Howard’s wing circled northeast as Mitch said they would; Slocum’s wing approached Covington on its feint towards Augusta.
Immediately after Slocum’s wing passed by the town of Covington, the liberated slaves began to follow the army by the thousands. They waited along the roads and at every crossing. They would crowd into the camps at night carrying information, food, and most of all, gratitude. The joyous slaves told the soldiers stories of how they were whipped and beaten, often having salt rubbed into their wounds. They talked about the bloodhounds that were used to hunt them if they tried to escape. James felt a twinge when they mentioned the dogs, remembering the dog pen that was attached to Farley Tabor’s quarters. He also remembered a time hearing the yelping himself when he was leading runaway slaves North from Tennessee. The Union soldiers developed a special loathing for such dogs because they knew that they were also used to track fellow soldiers who escaped from Southern prisons. Whenever they got the chance the men killed the bloodhounds.
A Deeper Sense of Loyalty Page 23