The Fateful Lightning (29 page)

Franklin saw Knight motion to him again, a silent order to move out around the house. He knew what he was looking for, saw it now, a pair of shacks along the edge of a small cut cornfield. Two adult men seemed to wait for him, standing tall in front of the shacks, eyeing him with suspicion. Behind them were a younger boy and a young woman. One of the men stepped forward, chest out, clearly trying to protect the others.

“What you want with us? You bring them soldiers here?”

“They brought me. I work for the army. General Sherman. We’re just getting vittles, anything you can spare.”

“Spare? There’s been plenty of Sherman’s men come through here already, done took every scrap, everythin’ we gots to eat. Done taken Miss Harley’s silver. Dishes and spoons and bed linens, done busted up furniture jes for fun. Drove the young miss to the sickbed. Why they need to do that? You ain’t eatin’ none of that. Just thievery, that’s all. Evil. That what you aim to do? You too late.”

Franklin saw more anger than he expected, shook his head. “No, it’s all right. I can’t talk for nothing else that’s happened. But the army’s gettin’ rid of the masters, done killed a pile of track hounds, every one they can find. Overseers have mostly run away.” He weighed his words now, knew what the captain wanted him to do. But these men were strong, big-chested, could help the soldiers with any kind of heavy work. “You all, if ’n you want, you can come along. Work for the army. You’ll be paid. We’re bein’ freed.”

“Freed from what? Why’d we wanna do that? We got no cause to leave home. Got crops to plant, greens goin’ in the ground next week. Those little ones gettin’ bigger, need more to eat. Miss Harley’ll be needin’ us. All I seen of this army is destroyin’ everything. Done took all we got. How we supposed to feed the chil’ren?”

The other larger man pointed out toward the muddy road. “You go on, get yourself outta here. Take them soldiers wid you. We got nothing for you here.”

Franklin felt overwhelmed by frustration, as though these people were refusing to see what he had finally taken for granted. “You can
stay here, all right. But the war will be over soon. The generals, they’re all sayin’ that. Mr. Lincoln has freed all of us. Ain’t you heard about that?”

The first man still stood tall, still facing him. “All I know of Mr. Lincoln is he’s far away somewheres, someplace no colored man ever goes. Don’t know nothin’ ’bout no war, ’cept that Miss Harley tole us her boy ain’t coming home. Kilt by Yankees. That be you, then? You done take her boy away? Miss Lou Ann ain’t never been right since. She’s sickly all the time. Worse now. You done scared her too bad.”

Franklin felt a surge of urgency, an aching need to make these people understand. “I’m not a soldier. I was a slave, just like you, Master Cobb’s plantation, miles back. This army is freein’ this whole country. We got no need to stay put, to work this land just ’cause they tell us to.”

The man shook his head. “You talkin’ nonsense. You go on, get outta here. Take them soldiers. They doin’ no good right here.”

Franklin stared at the man, then looked at the others, saw no comprehension, none of the joy he had seen so many times before. He backed away, said, “You’ll see. This war ends, it’ll all be different. No more cavalry, no more hounds. It’ll be better. You’ll see.”

The man turned away, the others moving back toward their shacks, and Franklin saw the girl looking out past the side of the main house, horror on her face.

“Oh, dear Lawd! Dey’s diggin’ up my baby!”

Franklin looked that way, saw a pair of soldiers hoisting a small wooden box from the soft soil. One man called out, “Hey, Sarge! Something here, all right.”

One man struck the box with the tip of his shovel, the box shattering, and Franklin stood paralyzed, knew what lay inside, and close behind him, the young woman was hysterical, screaming, “Tha’s my baby! Oh, Lawd!”

Other soldiers were gathering at the small grave site, another shovel poking at the small bundle, the shovel coming up now, lying on the man’s shoulder.

“Nothing here. Damn these people, anyway.”

Franklin moved that way now, fists clenched, saw Knight moving
closer, looking down at the shattered coffin. Franklin saw one of the others squat down, pushing through the rolled-up cloth, then standing, a shake of his head.

“Nothing. I’d a bet it was something good.”

Franklin was there now, one fist swinging hard into the man’s jaw, his other a sharp blow to the man’s gut. The man absorbed the punches, bent low, falling backward, but the others had Franklin’s arms now, hard grips yanking him back. Franklin shouted out, “What’s wrong with you? It’s just a baby! It’s a grave!”

He felt the fist punch hard into his side, his knees giving way, his face coming down hard in the grass. He was pulled up again, gasping for wind, hands under his throat, the face of Knight close to his.

“I could shoot you, boy. Might, before we get back.”

The hurt soldier stood slowly, rubbing his jaw, pure hate in the man’s eyes. “Go on, Sarge. Kill him. Any darkie hits me, he oughta be cut in two.”

Knight seemed to weigh the man’s words, but he released Franklin, who dropped to his knees, gasping for air, the sharp pain stabbing through his ribs.

“Nah. Have to explain that to the captain. We still ain’t filled this damned wagon, and these people ain’t helping a bit.” He looked up, bright sun overhead. “It’s after noon. We best get moving.”

Franklin felt his air returning, the pain in his side still cutting off every breath. The others began moving away, the sergeant still looking at him.

“What the darkies tell you, boy? They hiding anything?”

Franklin fought through the pain in his ribs, heard the screaming of the young girl, looked back toward the shacks, saw the two black men holding her, staring hard at the soldiers. He shook his head. “Soldiers been here before us. Took everything. They got nothing left.”

Knight grunted, kept his eye on the two big men, his musket pointed at the ground in their direction. He called out, “You all stay back. No need for nobody to get hurt. We’ll do what we need, and move on.” He looked down at Franklin, said, “The house has been busted up pretty good. They’re right. Somebody’s beat us to it. Come on. Get up, boy.”

Franklin stood, and Knight stayed close beside him, while the others resumed their futile search. The older woman followed a pair of soldiers out of the house, was on the porch again, saw now the churned-up earth. She shouted toward Knight, “You find what you wanted? Defiled a grave, you did. You’ll burn in hell, every one of you.”

Franklin looked down at the broken coffin, the bundle of cloth disheveled, soiled with loose dirt. The sergeant ignored the woman, said in a low voice, “Ought not have done that. Didn’t like this, and don’t you think for a minute I did. God won’t like it, neither. Damned stupid. It’s that Dunlap, crazy fool. Thinks these people are rich with gold and jewels, every damn house is a palace gonna make us all kings.” He paused. “Boy, you ever hit a soldier again, and captain or no captain, I won’t hold ’em back. They’ll hang you for it.”

Franklin was surprised, Knight’s words still low, the fierceness of the man’s size masking what Franklin could feel was unexpected kindness.

“Thank you, sir.”

Knight spoke louder now, still eyed the angry glare from the slaves. “Those coloreds back there got nothing? You think they hiding something? Seem pretty damn kindly to this old rebel woman. Don’t trust that.”

“They got nothing, sir. I believe them. They’re stayin’ fixed, right here.”

The sergeant kept his eyes on the young black woman, and Franklin saw regret on his face, but there were no words, no apology that would matter. The woman seemed inconsolable, heavy sobbing, was still held firmly by the larger man, who said to Knight, “They’s too many of you, or I’d a kilt me a man today.” He pointed to Franklin. “I done tole him, and I’m telling you. Get gone from dis place.” He paused, a break in his voice, and Franklin could see he was sharing the emotions from the woman he held.

Franklin said to Knight, “We oughta bury the body.”

The black man stepped closer, hard anger through tear-filled eyes. “You done enough. Get gone from here. I done buried my boy one time. I’ll do it again.”

EBENEZER CREEK, GEORGIA—DECEMBER 8, 1864

With the darkness, the rains had come, a soft, steady spray that softened the roads even more. They had returned from their expedition by passing through the skirmish line, soggy, hopeful men, who met the wagon with cursing anticipation. Franklin moved past them, was ignored again, the guards more focused on the haul of sweet potatoes, the only hint of treasure the men had found.

He followed the campfires toward the new camp, thought of the captain, knew he had to tell Gorman what he had seen, how meager the pickings had been. But he agonized now over the grave, an image he couldn’t shake, what little piece of a child he had seen in the bundle of cloth. Sergeant Knight’s sorry for that, he thought. There was no cause for it, and he won’t let those boys do nothing like that again. He put a hand on his sore ribs, thought, You’re maybe one stupid man. You go and punch at a white man like that. He flexed his sore fingers, shivered, the wetness from the rain soaking through his clothes. They woulda killed you if it weren’t for the sergeant. Best keep away from all those boys. Maybe they’ll forget about you. But I ain’t goin’ out with them, that’s certain. Gotta tell the captain that, anyway.

He had begun to understand the anger he saw in so many of the soldiers, that this entire army seemed driven by some kinds of experiences from long ago. He still wasn’t sure what happened in a war, listened to their talk around the campfires wondering if they were doing just what his father used to do, tall tales meant to scare a young boy. They spoke often of bloody fights, of men in pieces, of burying rebel dead in mass graves. Some spoke of facing the bayonet, the blasts of artillery slicing a man to pieces, while others kept silent, staring into the fires with hard anger. The talk seemed focused on the rebels, on what they would have to do to those men to end this war, and how some of them hoped for all that bloody fighting to come again. He thought of the soldier today, the man Knight called Dunlap.
I’ll cut you in two
. He would. Best believe that. Believe that if these men have gone through the worst kind of fighting and killing, one stupid black boy don’t mean a thing. That grave, though. That gal, she’ll be seein’ that forever. Maybe me, too.

He shivered again, moved toward a fire, a few men milling about, a coffeepot passing around. He searched the darkness for Poke, the makeshift corral of horses. He crossed the muddy road, passed through a gap in a marching column, a surprise, men on the move after dark. They’re going somewhere important, he thought. Guess so, anyway. Maybe trying to put the creek back there behind ’em. Guess we all need to be on the same side of the creek, in case the rebels come.

The voice found him, a high-pitched call that stopped the talk of the soldiers, men turning to find the source. He saw her now, Clara, the girl from Millen, running alongside the column, calling his name, a frantic wave, a tearful squall that made his heart turn cold.

“Franklin. You gots to come! Come now!”

He didn’t ask why, watched as she turned, still looking at him, her arms in frantic motion, crying, pleading. “Now! Come now!”

He ran after her, his feet slogging in the muddy slop along the road, soldiers calling after him as he passed them, crude remarks he ignored. She stumbled, and he was there now, held her up by the arm, saw frantic fear on her face, said, “What’s happening?”

“Come! You gots to come!”

She began to run again, and he followed, most of the column now past, wagons, horses passing, and he saw lanterns, to the rear of the column, men on horseback, more soldiers moving out from the creek, some carrying pieces of the pontoon bridge the men had built. There were more men at work, ordered about by an officer on horseback, something Franklin had seen often before. But now he heard a different cry, on the far side of the creek, another lantern there, soldiers in a line at the far end of the bridge, and all out through the swampy woods, a vast crowd of Negroes.

He followed Clara to the edge of the creek, and he stopped, out of breath, tried to absorb what he saw, what it meant. She shouted to him now, “They leavin’ ’em behind! They ain’t lettin’ ’em cross over!”

He could see it now, the far side of the creek, the soldiers pulling up the planks of the bridge, a chorus of shouting, some of the boatlike pontoons carrying the soldiers as they moved out from the bank. More men were on the bridge itself, doing the same, the planks up, brought to the near shore, tossed into wagons. She was still screaming
now, calling out to him, “What they doin’? They leavin’ ’em! They tole me none of us is comin’. I beg ’em let me cross, run on the bridge, few of us come over before they stand up with guns and such. Now they stoppin’ everybody! Why? What we do?”

Franklin saw the men on horseback, the flag, recognized authority. He ran that way, heard one officer calling out, “Let’s go. Get that bridge up!”

Franklin moved up closer to the officer, a guard suddenly in his way, the man’s musket across Franklin’s chest.

“Back away from here, boy. You made it across, just move on. You can’t help the rest.”

Franklin pushed against the man, had to speak to the officer, but the guard held him fast, the officer now joined by another horseman, hard words, close above Franklin.

“Captain, who authorized this? General Baird knows nothing of this!”

“Major Connolly, my orders came from corps headquarters, straight from General Davis. I’m to pull this bridge up as quick as our men make it across. There’s rebel cavalry back there, pushing to get up with us. There’s another creek up ahead on that road there, Lockner, I think. We’ve got another bridge there, and we’re to get the men over, then pull that one up, too, quick as we can.”

“Captain Kerr, you will do no such thing! I’ve heard nothing of any rebel cavalry close to us, no confrontations at all! You cannot leave those people across the creek!”