The Fateful Lightning (41 page)

WEST OF SAVANNAH—DECEMBER 22, 1864

H
e had spent most of his time now with the other freed slaves, a part of their community, and Franklin was surprised to learn that his voice was one of those that seemed to draw attention. Since the horror of Ebenezer Creek, many of the army’s black followers had begun to see the army in an entirely different way, some of those former slaves choosing to pull away from the celebratory parade. Franklin understood their sentiment, that what had happened at the creek was seen by many as a betrayal, a promise broken. He heard their nervous talk, that so many of the slaves had accepted their liberation as a great gift offered by the men in blue, a gift that could be torn away from them anytime the army chose. Most of the freed slaves knew very little of any other life, and now many had spoken out about returning to the only world they knew. No matter how deep his anger, Franklin saw Ebenezer Creek as a decision made by one very bad man, that there were others in this army who genuinely cared for what these people were trying to do. It was a hard task convincing himself that his ignorance wasn’t leading him into some kind of hell, that there could be many more blue-coated generals who didn’t care whether the slaves were freed or not. But
Franklin would not lose that faith, not yet, had no reason to think back to the Cobb Plantation as his home. Those horrors were permanent, something that ran deeper through him than what he had witnessed at the creek. He had tried to spread reassurances to the others, and some did listen, some agreeing with him that what happened at Ebenezer Creek was just a part of this war, that the Yankee soldiers had mostly been generous, even kind, and if there were bad men in blue, most of the former slaves knew enough of life in the fields to accept that bad men could be found anywhere. Ebenezer Creek had taught Franklin, as it had taught many, that being free meant looking out for yourself, that liberation meant there was no longer a master at all, whether on the plantations or with this army.

Even now, close to Savannah, Franklin faced a challenge convincing many of the fearful that the world they had left behind was gone completely, erased, and it infuriated him that so many would not listen. Some had lost a family member at Ebenezer, had become separated from everyone they knew, facing a terrifying world with more than just uncertainty. They were alone. If the blue army could not be counted on for protection, those few would seek protection in the familiar, whether or not they would be punished for returning to the only homes they knew. That sentiment carried great weight, hundreds of the slaves drifting away, groups large and small, accepting that they would likely be captured by rebel cavalry, men with whips, men who would happily take them back to their chains.

With the army now encamped in a wide arc around Savannah, the Negroes who remained were allowed to go pretty much where they pleased, and Franklin took advantage of that, but only to a point. He still held to the fear that a lone black man was vulnerable. Adding to his fear was his new companion, that someone might mistake Clara for those among the Negro parade who traded their flesh for some benefit. Clara had kept close to Franklin since the horror at Ebenezer Creek, and for the first time in his life, Franklin had begun to feel a soft bond with a girl, something the overseers might never have allowed him to do. At the plantations, the slaves were put together for purposes of breeding, and whether or not a strong healthy man cared for the woman he was to impregnate made little difference to those masters hoping to profit from their valuable offspring. Once the army
had allowed the slaves to abandon their plantations, the men in blue seemed not to care what kinds of bonds the Negroes might have with one another. And so Franklin had allowed himself to see past the frightened girl he had pulled from the grasp of a nasty mistress in Millen, to realize that Clara was much more like him than he had realized. They were roughly the same age, though neither of them could be exactly certain of their years. Both knew the hand of the master, had felt the whip. To his surprise, Clara had listened to his stories of the dogs not with horror, but with teary empathy. It was the first time he had grasped the notion that he could share every kind of feeling with another person, whether pain or joy. And as they grew closer, she had begun giving him a great deal of joy.

The troops of the 113th Ohio had seemed to recognize that, and their abuse had poured out, the usual crudeness of soldiers, something Franklin had become accustomed to. But when it had been directed at Clara, it twisted something inside him that he saw as dangerous. She would never be one of
those
girls, and if a soldier was to suggest something so vile, or make an offer that Franklin found obscene, he might do something about it. But the warnings had buried themselves deep inside him, the enormous soldier, Sergeant Knight, the man’s strong advice that striking a white man, any white man, was still a foolish and possibly deadly mistake. Franklin’s new bursts of anger had been a dismaying surprise all its own, and within days after Ebenezer Creek, he had pulled Clara away from the camp, farther from the eyes of the soldiers and their officers, and settled more with the black families who still trailed behind the army. If Captain Jones required him for anything, he would certainly answer. But with Savannah so close in front of them, the activity throughout the army was all about skirmishing, the men driven forward through deep swamps, increasing musket and artillery fire against an enemy Franklin never saw. There was little for him to do but help old Poke water the horses and assist the others in cooking the new rations of rice and sweet potatoes. Franklin realized quickly that those kinds of rations tasted far sweeter when he could share them with Clara, alone in some quiet place.

T
hey shared a makeshift tent, and he met the dawn with a foggy-eyed stare at her, as she still slept. He was used to being up with the army, well before daylight, and it was no different now. But there was noise, a commotion that seemed to spread all through the camp, voices, men calling out. He stepped clear of the tent, wouldn’t wake her, saw several of the older men moving past. He knew them all, had become close to a gray-haired man named Baxter. Franklin saw him waving toward him, moved that way, and Baxter seemed out of breath, said, “Oh, Lord, boy, you gots to get up and moving. The army’s done moving out of their camps, marching into the roads.”

“The roads are dangerous. Cannons.”

“Not so now. Somethin’s done changed. The soldiers is moving toward the city. Best be up wid ’em.”

Another man came close now, Jeremy, more gray hair on a balding head. “Mr. Franklin, it could be bad, real bad. They’s said to be rebel cav’ry movin’ up behind us, or worse, a whole rebel army. The Yankees might be runnin’ scared.”

Baxter put a finger into Jeremy’s face, his voice loud. “No, now dang you, don’ go tellin’ such things! Nobody’s seen no rebels in a while.”

Franklin had sparred with Jeremy often, the man prone to outrageous speculation. He looked at Baxter, said, “Let me go talk to Captain Jones. He’ll know. He’ll tell me.”

“You go on, then. But he mighta done left this place.”

The men began to squabble now, a familiar argument, Baxter seeming to understand truth more than Jeremy. He glanced back toward the tent, saw Clara looking at him with a hint of fear. He moved toward her, said, “Sorry to wake you. I have to go to the army camp. Something’s happening.” He couldn’t avoid the ongoing argument between the two old men, others gathering, an audience that seemed entertained by the two men as much as they absorbed the concerns.

Clara grabbed his arm. “Don’ leave me alone.”

“Just a little bit. Let me talk to the officers. This foolishness is getting everybody all stirred up. Could be nothing. But I have to know.”

She let her hand slip off him, and he touched her face, soft fingers, turned quickly, ran past the growing crowd, ignored the calls, the fears, the rumors now exploding into panic. He called out to them as he passed, “Stay here! Nobody’s getting us! I’ll find out what’s happening!”

He moved into the road, could see men in blue everywhere, wagons pulling out of the clearings, men limbering their artillery pieces, some breaking down tents. He felt a rush of excitement, didn’t see fear on any soldier’s face, saw men joking, backslapping laughter, and he moved past that, aimed for the cluster of tents he knew well. One had come down, horses gathering, the old man, Poke, tending them, keeping them together with a handful of reins. Franklin thought of asking him, knew better, Poke seemingly eager to stay out of everyone’s way, embracing his own ignorance. Franklin was out of breath, stopped in front of the captain’s tent, hesitated, saw Jones now, off to one side, a cluster of officers, what Franklin knew were the company commanders, Captain Gorman among them. Gorman saw him, waved him closer.

“Come here, boy! It’s a good day!”

Franklin was there now, most of the captains ignoring him, but Jones said, “Mr. Franklin, we have been successful. The army is advancing into Savannah. The rebels have abandoned the city!”

Franklin heard the words, tried to decipher their meaning. “The rebels done left?”

The officers laughed, and Jones said, “That’s exactly what they done. I imagine General Sherman’s not altogether happy about that. They skedaddled north of the big river, probably headed deep into South Carolina. You ever been to Savannah?”

Franklin pondered that, wasn’t exactly sure just what Savannah was. “No, sir.”

“Well, gather up your people. Once we’ve set up the guard posts, made sure the city is free from any troublemakers, we’ll all be making camp there. You, too, if you want.”

The others began to move away, a final order from Jones, pushing them to get their men into columns. Franklin tried to feel their joy, was just as mystified by all of this as he had been many times before.
The question came to him now, what he had wanted to ask Jones for some days, cutting through the loose talk and ridiculous rumors that festered in the Negro camps.

“Sir, can I speak to you?”

Jones pointed to the tent, said, “Come in. I’ve been putting my trunk together, what little there is. General Sherman made us leave most everything we owned back in Atlanta. I’ve got a whole world of goods sitting in some supply depot in God knows where. My adjutant’s off at General Morgan’s headquarters, over by the creek, trying to find out just where they want us to go. This is quite a day, Mr. Franklin. Quite a feather in our caps.”

Franklin wasn’t sure what Jones meant, didn’t see any feathers at all. He followed Jones into the tent, saw a pile of papers covering the captain’s small camp desk. Jones stacked the papers, put them into a leather box, and Franklin felt like an intruder, still wasn’t certain why the troops were so happy.

“Sir, is the war over? The rebels whipped?”

Jones laughed, looked at him. “Not yet. A big step for us, though. Word is, it’s bad for the rebels everywhere right now. All I really know is what’s in front of us.”

“They be any soldiers going back?”

“What do you mean?”

It was the question that had burned inside him since the awful night at Ebenezer Creek. “To go back, try to find them that got left behind. It ain’t right to just go off and leave those folks. Some was drowned. I saw it.”

Jones stopped smiling. “Mr. Franklin, there will be no marching back there. Those people, the ones who didn’t make it across, they’re gone by now. I hope to God most of them made it to some safe place, maybe back to their homes, the towns we passed through. But you can’t expect anyone to still be at the creek. Rebel cavalry went through there more than once. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too, sir. There’s bad feelings about that.”

“More bad feelings than you know. General Davis is not a man who listens to counsel, and the only men in this army who can do anything about what he did are General Slocum and General Sherman. I don’t expect you to ever respect General Davis, but he’s my
corps commander, and I follow his orders. Just like my division commander, General Morgan. It’s just the way the army works.”