The Fateful Lightning (14 page)

The third man rose silently, the closest to Franklin, glanced toward the two black men, still said nothing. All three men were on their feet now, coats and hats gathered up, the captain at the door, pulling it open, the blast of cold wiping away the last hint of warmth from the dead fire. Franklin rolled over, fought through the stiffness in his back, rubbed a rough hand on his arm, working the hard muscle, the limb that had been his pillow. He looked at the shadowy form of his father, the old man unmoving, thought, He can sleep through thunder and lightning. No need to wake him up now.

Franklin stood, eyed the last hints of light from the ashes, thought of the woodpile outside the cabin. He moved out through the door, absorbed the numbing cold, stepped to the side of the cabin. The light was faint, sunrise not for a while yet, but he could see clearly enough. The woodpile was gone. He looked out to the distant fires, the Yankee army coming alive, warming itself with fence rails and tree limbs, and, of course, the woodpiles from the slave cabins. He slipped back inside, rubbed his arms together, closed the door, saw the old man sitting up.

“Dey done gone?”

“Yeah, Papa. I suppose the army’s got plenty to do. They’re in the enemy’s own ground. I guess it’s smart of them to be careful.”

“Dere’s bacon in de floor. Genil Sherman done made sho we got ’nuf to eat. I didn’t say nothing to dose boys dere. Dey not as kindly as Genil Sherman.”

Franklin looked toward the corner of the cabin, moved that way, knelt, raised up a loose floorboard. He lifted the cloth bundle, the smell reaching him, a dull rumble in his gut, raw hunger. He unwrapped the bacon, didn’t hesitate, took a hard bite.

“Heah, boy, let’s cook dat. It’d be better.”

“There’s no firewood. Soldiers took it all.”

The old man said nothing, and Franklin pulled out a small knife, sliced a corner off the bacon, reached it out to the old man.

“Here. Eat this. Best thing I ate in days.”

“Only ting you et, most likely. Where you go off to?”

“The swamp. The cypress hole I used to play in when I was little. Seen some cavalry out that way, kept my head down. Those boys seemed as jumpy as me, trying to watch the Yankee camps and all. Wish’t I’d a had me a musket.”

“Don’ talk dumb, boy. They’da strung you up.”

Franklin knew his father was right, thought now about the cabin down the way, soldiers, no sign of Gordon or Sam. “What you know about those boys down the way? Looks like Gordon’s gone. Rest of those four, too.”

“Don’ know nothin’ and you best not, neither. Always the trouble wid you, Franklin. You ask questions, wanna know stuff. Massuh Cobb done let you learn to read, and it’s blowed up your head. Just take it like it is, boy.”

He thought of Cobb, that day long ago, when Franklin was barely five. It had been Cobb himself who came to the cabins, the teacher in tow, a man who carried books and paper. The lessons had been long and unforgiving, but the teacher was nothing like Lucky, had shown patience, seemed to actually care that the few black children learn to read. The Bibles had come next, of course, a heavy dose of religion, the teacher doing the duty that Cobb had assigned him, planting the seeds of a civilized life into the slave children. Franklin had adored the teacher, had seen a kindness in the man that no white man had ever shown him. But when the job was complete to Cobb’s satisfaction, the teacher had moved on, and in his place had come the Sunday school teacher. There was little kindness in that man, the lessons full of terror for what God would do to them if they ever sinned. Franklin still wasn’t certain just what kind of sin he might have committed, wondered if the white men understood that any better than he did. But those seeds were planted as well, a healthy fear of the devil, an eternity in a hell that seemed to stretch beyond the imagination of a child.

And so Franklin had stopped fearing the lessons, had instead read the Bible just to read, had soaked up the stories mainly from the Old Testament, an angry God who punished the enemy, who chose his
favorites and helped them slaughter the rest. It had been intensely curious to him if the slaves were the enemy, if God had put them to work for the white man, punishing them for some misdeed that had happened long ago. But there was no religion in the cruelty of Lucky, in the slobbering jaws of the dog. If there was a true devil, Franklin had begun to wonder if he had seen him, in the face of the foreman. And if there was a true hell, had Franklin felt just a bit of that from the hard slap of Lucky’s bullwhip? Those thoughts rolled through him in the fields mostly, the endless hours of handwork, whether the corn or the cotton. He had wondered about the others, if these kinds of thoughts festered in them as they did in him, if any of the older men could read at all. The women had been kept mostly in the house, doing work that Franklin couldn’t guess. He saw them once in a while, a carriage taking the white girls to town, the black girls carrying the bags. The carriage was driven by an older slave, a man called Albert. Albert stayed close to the Cobb mansion, was never in the fields, another question for Franklin. Why was he different? Would the old man do that job one day? He glanced at his father now, sitting in the chair, staring into dark ashes. He can’t do much else. They know that. But he can drive a carriage.

“You seen Albert?”

The question seemed to surprise the old man. “Nah. Massuh left, Albert wid him. The gals, too. Whole house done gone off. Genil Sherman go dere las’ night. Slept in Massuh’s bed, I bet. Dat put a smile on dis ole man’s face, fo’ sho.”

“Lucky’s gone, too?”

“I done tole you dat las’ night. Dey done runned off when de Yankees come.”

Of course they did, he thought.

He felt his brain waking up, the bacon sitting hard in his stomach. “I’m going outside. It’s gettin’ light. I wanna see the Yankee camp.”

The old man seemed to jump, pointed his finger. “Don’ you go close to none of dem! Dey got no use for you’uns. It be time to go on to de fields.”

Franklin stared at his father, felt a jolt of concern. “Papa, there’s no work to do. The master’s done gone. No crops to tend.”

“Don’t make no matter! You gots to stay out of de way! Dey all be back. Cav’ry come, too. You keep to where you need to be! Stop thinkin’ so much!”

Franklin stared at the old man, saw raw fear on his face, heard the tremble in his voice. He understood now that the old man would never leave this place, that no matter what the Yankees were here to do, the old man was just like Billy Pitts, his family too afraid of what might happen next, too afraid of anything different than they had ever known before.

“You’re wrong, Papa. It don’t matter if Master Cobb comes back. The Yankees have changed everything. There’s a war been going on, and if General Sherman is here, it’s because Master Cobb’s people are losing. Look outside. Look how many of them there are. Thousands, in every direction. The cavalry’s too scared to do anything to ’em, and that ain’t gonna change. I seen barely a hundred horsemen in the swamp. That’s all. A hundred. In the back cotton field, there’s a hundred Yankee horses eatin’ Master Cobb’s corn. Hundreds more all over their camps. And the foot soldiers. Papa, there’s flags spread out over that big cornfield like it’s some kind of celebration. Only they ain’t celebratin’ nothing. They’re going to work. They’re going after Master Cobb and whatever army he’s done run off to.” He paused, saw the old man shake his head. “I’m not addled, Papa. And if the Yankees have come, it’s because Lincoln sent them. We’re gonna be free. That’s the first thing that’s gonna change.”

“Ain’t no talk like dat in dis house. Massuh Cobb’s been good to you. To all us.”

“Papa, Master Cobb sits up in that big house, and sends Lucky out here to mind what we do. What happened to your leg?”

He regretted the question, but the old man didn’t react, kept his stare on the dead fire.

“Dey all be back. You be goin’ back to de fields. It’s de way. It’s de only way.”

Franklin lowered his head, knew this was an argument he couldn’t make, understood now that the old man was simply too afraid of what
change
might mean. “I’m sorry, Papa. I don’t know all that’s happenin’ in this war. But I got to see it for myself. I got to know what’s out past these dirt fields. You said General Sherman was sent here by
the Lord. Well, I don’t know about that. But if there’s more for us colored folks than being scared of some dog, or settin’ still while some white man holds the whip…well, no sir. This army’s gettin’ ready to march on, that’s for sure. I’m sorry, Papa. But I’m going with them.”

MILLEDGEVILLE, GEORGIA—NOVEMBER 23, 1864

H
e saw the smoke first, the usual scene as his advance foragers pushed ahead of the army into every town they had passed. But this was different, Sherman and his staff riding with an edgy sense of the important, as though this day, and this march, would be something different, something more meaningful.

Sherman had been careful with his orders, had sent specific word to Slocum that the state capital not be laid waste, at least not until Sherman had examined the military objectives that the rebels might have left intact. But it was routine now that the men who led the way took far more liberties with his instructions than even their officers could control. As the first column of black smoke came into view, he was annoyed, knew that the complete destruction of Milledgeville would be a stain on his reputation not only in Richmond, but in Washington as well. Symbols still mattered, whether Sherman cared for that or not. And with Georgia sliding further beneath the boots of his army, the necessity of obliterating symbols became meaningless. This was still a war, the enemy capable of inflicting a deadly surprise, and no matter the soaring morale of his troops, Sherman couldn’t
avoid the nagging fear that somewhere out there, a few miles ahead or along some distant river, the rebels had somehow created a significant barrier to block his way. If their defenses were strong, as they had often been around Atlanta, the cost in casualties would blunt the enthusiasm Grant had offered him. If Grant lost confidence in Sherman’s plan, all of Washington might react with loud condemnation, a far cry from the hopes Sherman still held in his fantasies that when this was over, there would be great raucous celebrations, with himself at the head of some glorious victory parade. It was a tonic for the other fantasies, the dark gloom that he could not avoid, infuriating doubts: that there would yet be some calamity he could not predict.

Sherman had never escaped that private war, but Grant had done all a commander could to provide Sherman the crucial spark of confidence, the marvelous gift of pushing forward his strategies on his own, so far from the eyes of Washington, from the telegraph wires of the newspapermen that Sherman considered little more than traitors. But still, the shakiness inside him would come, annoying bouts of neuralgia, aches in his joints, his arm stiffening even now, a sharp pain in his elbow that he kept to himself. The weakness infuriated him, so much like the shuddering fears that had plagued him since the very start of the war, the panic at Bull Run, his failures at Shiloh, and even the struggle at Chattanooga. Around him, the veteran army seemed to have forgiven him his faults, or even better, they had forgotten all of it, his officers and senior commanders believing that this new campaign to sweep the rebels aside would be carried out with few problems at all. So far the enthusiasm for the march was plainly evident, the men treating each day’s progress as one more step toward inevitable victory. The only real conflict with rebel forces had come from scattered cavalry assaults, clearly meant for show, accomplishing little more than keeping Federal skirmishers and rearguard troops on alert. The damage had been minimal, the casualties often resulting from those few men in blue who lagged behind. Many of those lost had been scavengers, seeking loot from the destruction of plantation houses or what treasures might still be hidden in the small towns already passed. For Sherman there
was a level of justice in that, no matter how angry his officers had been. Ultimately the stragglers were the responsibility of their commanders, and if any of the men were so undisciplined as to keep their eyes more on booty than on the orderly march, Sherman couldn’t help the feeling that those men were receiving their just deserts.

They had started at dawn, a few hours before, and he rode at the head of his staff, the headquarters guard spread out to the front, what had become the daily routine. He could see the fog of their breathing, men and horses both, and he pulled at his own coat, the icy wind still seeping through. The cold had been surprising, but Sherman tried to ignore whatever suffering was going on around him. He knew the South, knew that this kind of weather was temporary, regarded it as more of a nuisance than anything to slow their progress. For now the rains had ended, the roads hardening and the flurries of snow brief, the skies finally opening up to a delicious blue. There had been little to occupy the staff that morning, and so they rode together, silent mostly, few messages coming to him from the corps commanders. Beside him, the color bearer rode just a step back, and on the other side, the always present Henry Hitchcock.

Sherman had begun to appreciate that Hitchcock’s observations came from life outside the army, the man only there now because he had suffered from the guilt of being a civilian. Sherman respected the man’s conscience, whether or not he always agreed with Hitchcock’s lack of enthusiasm for the more difficult parts of army life. He reached for a fresh cigar, thought, The
major
should try the picket line. Especially on a day like this. At least the horse beneath him offers some warmth. Let a rebel take a shot at him from some hiding place and that shivering will get a whole lot worse.

Hitchcock caught Sherman’s glance, eased his horse closer, slapped his gloved hands together several times. “I say, sir, it is a brutal morning. Coldest so far, I believe.”

“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.”