The Fateful Lightning (19 page)

“It’s all right. Come in here. The captain says your name’s Franklin?”

He leaned in, still nervous. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, eat something, Mr. Franklin. Sit down, there. You any idea what a scout is?”

“No, sir. Not directly.”

“Well, that’s what you need to learn. Here, there’s some chicken in this stew. Potatoes. This gravy’s not bad. Cook found some salt pork, too. Helps the flavor. Bread’s a little hard, but it’s the best we’ve got.”

He stared at the food, felt the warmth from the soft light of a lantern hanging to one side of the tent. Jones pointed to a small stool.

“It’s all right. Sit down.”

Franklin moved that way, sat slowly, felt hesitant, still not certain what they wanted him to do. But the food was engulfing him in smells now, a large pot of brown liquid, lumps of chicken, so much more. Jones handed him a plate, said, “Use that spoon. There’s plenty. Had about all I can hold.” He paused. “I’m wondering if you know how to act stupid.” Franklin stopped, looked at him, felt a stab of anger, another joke at his expense. “What I mean is, a stupid man attracts the right kind of attention. A fellow like you passes for stupid, you can find out a great deal by just listening, as long as you act like you’re too dumb to understand anything. You’re, well, harmless. Somebody makes fun of you, you just take it. Somebody kicks you, calls you names, you don’t react to it. That’s not always easy. But we need to know things about the people out here, farmers and whatnot. There’s rebel cavalry, too, and that’s the most dangerous part. They think all of your people are stupid, and they’ll kill you for being out by yourself. Doesn’t do us much good if you let that happen. There’s more, but we can talk about it on the march tomorrow. I’ve got orders
to keep an eye on your people, at least for now. You might help us there, too. You’re not some criminal, some misfit, are you?”

“No, sir. Done nothing bad. It’s not smart, what with the overseers and all.”

“Well, maybe you can help us keep your people in line back there, tell them that if they’re going to follow us, they need to keep up with us. We can’t protect them, and there’s people around here who’d like to see you strung up. All of you. You can make sure they understand that. I assume…
you
understand that?”

“Yes, sir. Very much understand that, sir.”

“Good. As for the rest of it, you think you can get out there and talk to the slaves still on those plantations, find out where the rebels are going, what they’re doing?”

“You make sure, sir, that there’s more vittles like this?”

Jones laughed. “Better than that. You’ll get paid for whatever information does us some good. I’m guessing you haven’t been paid anything before.”

Franklin remembered the paper money now, thought, I should have kept that. “No, sir. There was some of your cavalry passing out money back at the river. That’s about all I seen of real money.”

Jones was curious now, seemed to explain it to himself, nodded. “Yes, well, you don’t worry about that. Rebel money won’t even light a good cigar. You do the job, you’ll get paid with something you can use. Gold, probably.”

Franklin wasn’t sure what the captain meant, but he was beginning to understand even more why the soldiers had tossed so much rebel money to the people. To this army, it was just so much garbage. Jones leaned over to a small desk now, picked up a pen, scanned a paper, motioned to Franklin without looking at him.

“Go on. Eat your fill. Just some work I have to do.”

Franklin began to feel light-headed now, the glow of the lantern reflecting off the sides of the tent, embracing him in a blanket of warmth. He scooped out a spoonful of the stew, slow and careful, poured it onto the plate, his stomach howling with his brain at the marvelous smell. He picked up a piece of chicken, meat falling from the bone, slid it into his mouth, swallowed quickly, then another, filling his mouth completely. Jones glanced at him, seemed amused,
then set the paper down, sat back in his small, low chair, watching him. Franklin stopped, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, thought, Something wrong, I’ve done it wrong. But Jones still watched him, said now, “Go on. Eat it up. It’ll be slop in the morning.”

Franklin obeyed, drank from the plate, then more chicken, tore a piece of bread from a heavy loaf, wiped up what remained of the gravy, the plate more clean now than it had been before. He caught his breath, the food falling into one massive lump in his gut, and he tried to relax, to keep the extraordinary feast inside him. He took long, slow breaths, tried to calm his stomach, looked around, saw the desk, a layer of papers, a narrow, low bed, a sword in its scabbard leaning up to one side. The warmth was rolling over him, his mind wandering, the exhaustion of the day’s march taking over. He thought of all he had seen, the joyful parade of people, knew they had to be settling down into camps of their own, out somewhere beyond the army, fires and singing, some of those people probably entertaining the soldiers. He was beginning to understand now what the others seemed already to know, that their joy had been real, honest, that something was happening that was changing everything in his world. The people who were following the army had seemed to lose their fear, seemed to understand more than he did about what this army was doing for them, what was to follow. But now he was in the midst of it, a part of it, still uncertain, still nervous. He pulled off another piece of bread, heard a low laugh from the captain.

“We don’t usually eat this well, Mr. Franklin. Special day for us. You know what Thanksgiving is?”

Franklin swallowed, saw the kindness in Jones’s expression, was finally at ease, comfortable, allowed himself to feel a hint of excitement for what might lie ahead, for what this army was allowing him to do.

“I believe I do, sir.”

SANDERSVILLE, GEORGIA—NOVEMBER 26, 1864

H
e had seen the rebel cavalry himself, as much as a brigade, firing on the advance troops as they pushed near the town. But those men left quickly, making good use of their horses to escape the rapid advance of much of Sherman’s Twentieth Corps. The few rebels who dared to continue the fight had used the town itself for cover, especially the courthouse, the town’s most prominent building. But the fight was short-lived, even the most stubborn rebels bowing to the overwhelming pressure of the growing number of infantry who had moved into the town.

Sherman was already in a foul mood. Even before the action at Sandersville, he had ridden up on a significant obstacle at a narrow waterway called Buffalo Creek. What should have been a simple crossing had been delayed for several hours. Despite the cavalry’s precautions, someone had burned the lone bridge on the primary road, whether rebel troops or simply rebel sympathizers among the local civilians. Either way, the delay had infuriated him. The repairs had begun immediately, and with better than half the day wasted, the men had resumed their march. Sherman recognized his overreaction, had crossed the rebuilt bridge with the clear understanding that
thus far he had been spoiled. Even in the miserable weather of the week before, the march along both wings of the army had consistently measured his prescribed fifteen miles. The left wing, Slocum’s men, had often gone farther than that, inspired perhaps by Sherman’s presence. He had grown used to that, that the men were as dedicated to this campaign as he was, and he knew what every field commander knows, that a goal as ambitious as fifteen miles per day is rarely achieved. And yet, with so little interference from the rebels, he had grown accustomed to plotting his progress ahead of time, anticipating just where his next headquarters would be.

The burned bridge had been a stark reminder that this country was not yet his, that even with the cavalry’s patrols, the rebels were capable of surprise. In Sherman’s mind, there was meaning to that beyond the military concerns of the men who led the way. It was simple geography, that every day he pushed his columns forward, the enemy that lay ahead was in tighter quarters, less room to maneuver, fewer places to make a stand. Buffalo Creek was one of those places, as was every creek, every river, every swamp. It hadn’t yet come to pass, the crossings contested most often by squads of rebel cavalry who scurried away at the first volley from infantry who had no intention of granting the rebels a bridgehead. Those few places where the rebels had made a stand, they had been outflanked, the Federal troops spread out along the waterway in far greater numbers and along a far greater front than the rebels could hope to contain. The results had been predictable. The rebels had simply run away.

He knew by now that Hardee had traveled to Savannah, knew as well that Braxton Bragg had come south from Richmond to take command of the rebels now ensconced at Augusta. Both men commanded forces that separately could not hope to stand tall against either of Sherman’s two wings. The scouts and spies had estimated that Bragg had ten thousand men at Augusta, Hardee not quite that many on the coast. Together, united, they could put up a scrap that Sherman would have to take seriously, one that, if properly executed, could seriously cripple Sherman’s efforts. Sherman’s strategy to prevent that was simple: Convince the rebels that he might strike either city, or both. At the very least, keep them totally in the dark about
just what his intentions were at all. It had worked at Macon, and Sherman had no reason to believe it wouldn’t work now.

He rode forward with the staff through the outskirts of the town, saw the guards moving up alongside infantry, the men on foot slipping into the houses, cautiously searching for any lingering rebels. He stopped, motioned to his staff to hold up, letting his men do their jobs. He thought of dismounting, but an itchiness kept him on the horse, another nagging sliver of worry that something might yet happen, the lone sniper, the suicidal rebel who just might make himself a hero. He thought of saying that to Hitchcock, Dayton alongside him, but it was hardly necessary, none on his staff with any enthusiasm for wandering headlong into a field of fire.

The houses were small and pleasant, with very few signs of opulence. That kind of finery and grand architecture was still reserved for the plantation houses far outside what he could see now was little more than an extended village. But the delay at the bridge had dug hard at him, pushing up a kind of anger he hadn’t felt in a long while. He didn’t need to say anything, the staff sensing his moods, keeping their distance, something he preferred. The anger came from some odd place, as though one part of himself had allowed him to forget about the war, that this campaign was so perfectly successful that the sudden intrusion of an enemy had been an annoyance far beyond the labor required by his engineers. He knew that was a mistake, that the burned bridge was a symbol of rebel stubbornness, an infuriating tenacity that seemed to infect every part of the Confederacy.

“They’re being
squeezed
.” He spoke to no one in particular, Dayton the closest to him.

“Sir?”

Sherman realized now he had spoken aloud. He glanced toward Dayton, the others, shook his head. “Ruminating, Major. The enemy is being squeezed backward, growing stronger in a limited area. It makes him more dangerous every day. We must be on our guard, do all we can to confuse him. Have we any word from Kilpatrick?”

“Not this morning, sir. His main force is close to Augusta, we know that. He will not keep you in the dark, sir.”

No, Sherman thought, he won’t. He will not just wander away
without telling me about it. Hell, he’ll tell everyone in this army about it. But this isn’t a lark, General. You’re pushing toward Augusta the same way you jumped all over those roads to Macon. I need you to convince Braxton Bragg that I’m marching right up his pants legs.

Dayton moved his horse closer, Sherman ignoring that, knew there would be
talk
now.

“Sir, there has been cannon fire, perhaps to the north. Very hard to tell the direction. Major Hitchcock believes it’s coming from the south. I would expect some word from either direction if there was a problem, sir.”

He had heard the faint rumbling himself, knew what Dayton was referring to, that often artillery fire at great distances could play tricks on your ears, distort just where it was coming from. He thought of Bragg now, the image of a man who never smiled, who sucked the joy out of every room he entered.

“We are certain that Bragg is at Augusta?”

“Oh, yes, sir. He has been seen often, and the papers there speak of little else.”

“I would rather ride up there myself before I believe anything in the papers. I suggest we pay more heed to the quality of our observers.”

“Yes, sir. Be assured, sir. General Bragg is in Augusta.”

He imagined Bragg in a Confederate uniform, no more pleasant now than he had been years before. Sherman had been surprised each time he had learned the man had been put in command anywhere at all. Damnedest way to run a war, he thought. We whip him completely at Shiloh, wipe him completely off the field at Chattanooga, disgrace him for all the world to see, and now…here he is again. If that were me, if I failed that miserably, Grant would have my scalp, and Stanton would make sure it hung from the rafters of the War Department. But that’s not how Jefferson Davis runs his army. We have been too weak for too long, made far too many mistakes on the battlefield, or that son of a bitch would have been hanged. That’s my job, by damned. Grant knows it. But…Bragg?

“Major, how do you think Bragg got the job?”

Dayton eased the horse closer still. “Not sure what you mean, sir. In Augusta?”

“Well, yes. Augusta. But anywhere else. I knew him, you know. Rather well. He actually had dinner in my home in New Orleans. The most disagreeable fellow I’ve ever met. Well, rebel, anyway. There’s a few in Washington.” He paused. Keep that to yourself, even around your staff. “Only thing Bragg liked to talk about was Mexico, his personal glory. He did something grand, got noticed, apparently. Made fast friends with Jefferson Davis. Claimed he was Zachary Taylor’s favorite boy. I suppose some of that is true. The part about Davis, anyway. That’s the only reason I can see why he’s in charge of anything beyond a slop detail.” He paused. “Knew a lot of them back then, Louisiana. Some fine gentlemen. Some not so fine. He’s the one I recall the most. A complete jackass.”

“Yes, sir. You think we’ll face him?”

Sherman had pondered that question since he had first learned of Bragg’s presence. “Nope. Hates every general in the reb army, and they hate him right back. Nobody wants to do anything for him, with him, or under him. And he has to know the newspapers hate him. He’ll be careful. Probably too careful, fight like hell to stay put in some mansion up there, giving orders to people who don’t need them, all to impress the local dignitaries that he’s necessary. But if anyone under him thinks they ought to venture out a ways, push us, maybe find our flank…well, that damned Kilpatrick had better do his job. Keep those fellows right where they are.”

“Oh, he will, sir. He’s a firecracker, for certain.”

Dayton had answered too quickly, an annoying tendency to toss out glad tidings just to brighten Sherman’s mood.

“Major, I had a firecracker go off in my hand once. Still got the scar. I don’t like the man, not one bit. Too many bad habits, too much energy spent seeking glory. He’s done the job, so far. But Wheeler’s a firecracker all his own, and just as likely to go off. The reb cavalry is following every move we make. All I want from Kilpatrick is a good demonstration close to Augusta, just like he did at Macon. Throw a little fear into the townsfolk up there. Keep Bragg’s people sitting still. Keep all of them sitting still. Hardee, too. Best weapon in the world, Major, is confusion. Bragg is ripe for it. Hardee, I’m not sure. But he hates Bragg as much as any of the rest of them. Likely he’ll find a way to stay put in Savannah.”

“Pardon me asking, sir, but your orders…do you still intend to march to the coast?”

Sherman cocked his head, looked at Dayton, saw the others inching closer. “Rumors, eh?”

“Quite a few, sir. Some of the generals still aren’t certain just what you intend them to do.”

“Good. Generals have staffs. Staff officers have servants. There are big mouths in every corner of this war. The less they’re certain of right now, the better. If I can keep
you
guessing, the rebels won’t do any better. My Order 127 was very specific, Major. The corps commanders know what routes I intend them to follow, and I am more interested in the destruction of the railroads than any confrontation with rebel skirmishers. If we must slow the march to accomplish this, I will order that as well. Without railroads, nothing can move anywhere around us. Where this army finds itself in the future is not a concern for anyone but Grant…and me.”

He kept his gaze on the town, saw his guards returning, Lieutenant Snelling leading the way, a quick salute.

“The town is clear of rebels, sir. The cavalry squads chased away those few who did their mischief. It cost us one killed, a dozen or so wounded.”

Sherman stared ahead, saw the first of the ambulances rolling forward. The anger returned, and he looked again at the homes, a pair of shops to one side. There were citizens now, faces in windows, coming up from the safety of the cellars, the usual mouselike cautiousness as the blue soldiers moved through their towns. A voice came, a woman, from the open doorway of a house.

“You cowards! You have no cause to be here! Scoundrels and vagabonds, the lot of you!”

Sherman watched her, saw age, gray hair, a drab gray dress. The guards moved that way, their usual caution, and Sherman had heard too much of this already, moved with them. The woman stood defiantly, arms crossed, a hard scowl on her face, the words spitting out.

“You come to kill me now? You choose to harm the innocent? We’ve done nothing to you, nothing at all!”

Sherman moved out beside the lieutenant, saw the man’s hand on his pistol, waved him back. “It’s all right, Lieutenant. I don’t believe
she’s carrying a weapon. Tell me, madam. Where are all the young men of this town? Don’t see any.”