The Fateful Lightning (42 page)

“Pardon me, sir, but that night, at the creek, the army wasn’t working a’tall.”

Jones seemed frustrated, and Franklin began to feel as though he was going too far, expected Jones to order him away. But Jones sat at his desk, looked down for a long moment.

“You lose anybody there? Family and such?”

“No, sir. Not that I know.” He thought of Clara now, her panic that took him back to the creek. “Might have gained something, strange to say.”

“The girl?”

Franklin was surprised. “You know about Clara?”

“Didn’t know her name. But when you left the camp, I had Sergeant Knight check on you. He said you had, um, found a friend.”

“Yes, sir. Did that. I’m sayin’ we’re a little more than being friends.”

“Well, that’s your business. Some things have a way of turning to the good. There is no excuse for what Jefferson Davis did at Ebenezer Creek. But maybe you got something from it. It’s another way the army works. I’ve seen men killed, only to miss out on a great victory, as though there was some kind of trade handed down by the Almighty. Men were killed right out on this causeway, and today we’re taking the city. It’s a great triumph, and men died for us to get here. Not sure how else to explain it.”

Franklin absorbed what Jones was saying, thought of Clara, the power of those feelings. “Don’t seem fair I should be happy.”

“It never seems fair. General Davis may or may not ever be punished for what he did back there. Nothing you nor I can do about it.”

A new question rolled up through Franklin’s thoughts. “Sir, if you don’t mind me askin’, I thought Jefferson Davis was the master head rebel and all. Up in Richmond. I heard Master Cobb mention him, the overseers, too. How’d he get to be a general in this here army? Didn’t somebody ask what he was doing here?”

Jones laughed. “The whole army has wondered about that, Mr. Franklin. Fact is, they’re two different people. You’re right about that fellow in Richmond. I know for a fact that General Sherman wants his scalp. General Jefferson C. Davis just happened on that name by
an accident of birth. You’d have to ask his mama where that came from. I bet he feels pretty miserable over that every day, knows very well that his own men make jokes about it.”

Franklin moved toward the opening in the tent, men in blue moving past, more wagons in the distance. “Sorry, sir. He ain’t been miserable enough.”

F
ranklin and Clara had followed the soldiers into the city, the jubilation of the army finally spreading through the Negroes, a vast parade that could finally gather up in close proximity, a joyous crowd that now filtered all out through Savannah’s streets. Joining them were servants and slaves from Savannah itself, many of them taking leave of their masters, whether the masters allowed them to or not. The infectious cries of liberation continued to spread, the streets and avenues, the docks and waterfront massed with black faces, mingling with soldiers attempting to bring order. Throughout the city, shops and merchant houses were coming apart, doors opened by force, both white and black looters helping themselves to food or anything else they could carry. The soldiers took part as well, many of them men who had served as scavengers now finding themselves in a race with the civilians to secure anything of value.

As the army gradually filled the town, the white residents had seemed to welcome them with at least a hint of happiness, cautious though they might be, staring at marching columns of men with muskets. To the surprise of many of the soldiers, some of the townspeople threw out their welcoming cheers as though the army were a force of liberation. To be sure, there were still a great many in the town who regarded Sherman’s army as an invasion force, who feared the worst kinds of brutality. The rumors flew, as they always did, sparked by the fires from the rebel forts, or the flames swallowing the boats on the Savannah River. What the rebels could not carry, they had torched, including the wooden gunboats. The columns of black smoke were spread all across the waterfront, but the rebels had been careful, had restricted the fires to those goods, ammunition, and other equipment inside their fortifications. But still there was fear
from the civilians that their own homes would be next. As the army established order, guards were posted along most streets, provosts patrolling every neighborhood. Even the most hostile citizens, those who wisely kept their protests indoors, began to see that this was not yet an army bent on total destruction. Whatever enthusiasm the soldiers put on display began to be infectious as well. If it was a marvelous day to be a Federal soldier, it was not quite so bad for the citizens of Savannah.

In a world seething with new experiences, Franklin was engulfed in yet another scene he had never witnessed before. In every town the blue army had marched into, crowds of gleeful black faces were common, but in Savannah, many of those who so welcomed the army were not slaves at all. Franklin had focused mostly on the black men in the crowd, some of them dressed in finery that exceeded what their white neighbors wore. They were merchants and businessmen, some in their own homes, raising families out from under the boot heel of any white master. As he walked behind a company of troops, he caught the cheers, nothing unusual there, but the accents from some of these Negroes was very different, foreign tongues, foreign clothing.

He wandered about with little restriction, the army’s guards moving to intervene in whatever angry protest might erupt, carefully searching for the straggling rebel soldier, always a danger in a newly occupied place. There were attempts to bring order to the looting, bayonet-wielding soldiers forcing crowds of both races away from the wreckage of warehouses, smashed storefronts, the crowds mostly accepting that whatever they had been able to grab thus far might be all they would get.

With Clara by his side, Franklin had begun to explore in a way he had never dared before. They moved through crowds of soldiers, past homes, staring at faces that stared back at them. The smoke from the fires drifted all across the town, adding the pungent odor of pitch and pine to the smells from spilled molasses, broken kegs of liquor. He knew to keep far from that, that spirits might turn a man into something evil, the young girl by Franklin’s side a target that Franklin knew he would die to protect. They moved instead along the waterfront, staring out at the broken pieces of a pontoon bridge, most of
that lying against the near shore. Already Federal soldiers were at work, boats moving back and forth to an island offshore, what Franklin guessed to be engineers. The bridge was being rebuilt, serving some purpose that Franklin did not yet understand.

Clara was holding his arm and he pointed across the river to the burning hulk of a boat.

“Has to be a rebel gunboat. They had to burn it, keep it outta our hands.”

He knew she’d be impressed by his knowledge, had laid special emphasis on “our hands.”

She pointed out, past the gunboat, said, “What’s that, over there?”

He looked at the far shoreline, more blue-coated soldiers on the river, swarming close to the water, their labor increasing. “The captain said we were going to South Carolina. Maybe that’s what that is.”

“Why?”

“Don’t really know. If the rebels went that way, the army will be wantin’ to catch ’em, likely. Captain Jones says the war ain’t over.” They stood together, watching the men in blue laboring, the ropes hauling the strange thin boats together, wagons coming up through the town, more pontoons, a stab of familiarity Franklin tried to ignore. He had a dark thought, The pontoons. Same ones they pulled up from the creek? He wouldn’t say that to her, kept his eye on a squad of men unloading them, more men sliding them into the waiting hands of men in the water. She prodded him, said, “They seem to want to get over there quick as they can.”

Franklin looked around, soldiers in every direction, not all at labor. “I don’t know all about what the army does. But they sure building that bridge. Some of these soldiers making camp here, that’s what the captain said. I guess we will, too.”

There were voices now, a large building along the waterfront, soldiers gathering, excited calls. He pulled her that way, curious, and she seemed to accept his need to know everything that was still so foreign to both of them. He held her arm in a soft grip, moved behind one group of soldiers, saw them staring up, hands and hats in the air. He could see now, a man on the roof, more men, blue uniforms, one man with hands on his hips, staring out toward the far side of the
river. In front of Franklin, a soldier called out, “Hooray for Uncle Billy!”

More joined in, and Franklin looked up at the man, a ragged red beard, a stub of a cigar in the man’s mouth. There were more cheers, and Franklin was cautious, didn’t want to disturb the revelry. But Clara reached out, touched the soldier’s arm, the man turning with a smile. “Sir, please, who’s that up there?”

“Well, Missy, only the most important man in this here country. That’s General Sherman!”

CUSTOM HOUSE, SAVANNAH—DECEMBER 22, 1864

“
T
hey wrecked the pontoon bridge, I see.”

Dayton was beside him, said, “Yes, sir. From all accounts, the last man reached the far shore by midnight or so. It was our skirmishers who figured that out. You know what it’s like for them, sir. They make friends on the other side, all that trading nonsense. I suspect that at some point, some of their friends didn’t answer the call. A few officers pushed their men up close to the rebel works and found them empty. That started the flood, so to speak.”

Sherman kept his stare far across the river. “They’ll gather up everyone they can over there. Whatever troops can be scraped up. They don’t expect us to stay here, not for long. If I didn’t have to wait for Grant, I’d have us over there right now. South Carolina started this war, and Hardee has to know there will be punishment for that. He has no choice but to haul in every last man he can, put up as much of a defense as we allow him to. Damn it all! I hate delay!”

Sherman paced the roof now, ignored the cheers of the soldiers in the street below. Dayton kept silent, McCoy as well, Sherman’s thoughts drifting far to the north. He wondered what Grant was doing, if he had read Sherman’s response, if there were Washington
bigwigs surrounding him with all of that “advice.” He retrieved a cigar, said to no one in particular, “What time is it?”

McCoy responded. “Just before ten, sir.”

“Cold day. No rain. Rebels will make good time moving north. We’ll need fresh maps. Put Captain Poe to work on that.” He didn’t wait for a response, watched the men working in the river, the pontoon boats being strung together, as Poe’s men had done along every stretch of water since Atlanta. He pulled at the cigar, tried to feel some comfort from the heat, turned now, looked back over the city, mammoth oak trees, wide streets cut by squares. There were statues, war heroes from long ago, some of the town’s squares adorned with fountains. Beautiful place at one time, he thought. He tried to remember just when he had been stationed there, recalled his rank, captain, the homes he had visited, flirtatious women, all the gentility of Southern aristocracy. He said aloud, “It all seemed so quaint then. Charming, even. Everybody bowing, all the women in their damned hoops. Wonder what happened.”

Dayton glanced at McCoy, said, “The war happened, sir.”

Sherman kept his eyes on the tumult in the streets, blue columns in motion, more of his army making their way to new camps, some of those in the forts once held by the rebels. “They didn’t really suffer the war here. No damage I can see. This city was always the center of so much. I suppose the damned rebels used it just like the army did back in the early days, shipping, warehouses. Hell of a good place to start a business. Any fool could get rich.”

He heard commotion, the doorway to the rooftop opening, low voices, Hitchcock now.

“Sir, we have some figures. You need to hear this, sir.”

Sherman looked at him, saw Hitchcock with one hand on his glasses, staring at a piece of paper. “Hear what?”

“Sir, the provosts and commissary officers from General Geary’s command are estimating that there are twenty-five thousand bales of cotton here.”

Sherman pulled the cigar from his mouth, cocked his head toward Hitchcock. “You certain of that?”

“Well, sir, General Geary seems certain of it. His men were the first into the city in any force, and they took stock pretty quick of what
was in the warehouses, and anyplace else there might have been rebels hidden away. All they found was cotton. Bags of rice, of course, other provisions. Pardon me for asking, sir, but how much is that worth?”

Sherman tried to picture the sight of that much cotton brought into one pile. “More than you or I can tally, Major. Where is General Geary now?”

An aide spoke up, a low voice to Hitchcock, and Hitchcock said, “He’s coming this way, sir. He wishes to offer you a formal greeting.”

“Why?”

“He was here first. I suppose—”

“I suppose he wants credit for capturing the place himself. I shall disabuse him of that notion. This army deserves the credit, not any single division.”

“Sir, look there.” Sherman followed Dayton’s gaze, saw the men in the river setting markers, red and white flags. “Wonder what that’s for? The bridge is pointing off that way.”

“Hell if I know, Major. I don’t ask too many questions of engineers.”

At the riverfront, Sherman saw Poe now, the man directing the activity, and Poe noticed him, a hearty wave. Sherman called out, “Captain, here if you please.”

Poe responded with quick steps, a beaming smile, stopped at the steps of the Custom House. “Sir! We’ll have the bridge toward Hutchinson Island put back in place by nightfall.”

“Fine. What are those men doing with those flags?”

Poe looked over, his expression changing. “They’re marking torpedoes, sir.”

Sherman stared that way, saw the flags in a haphazard pattern, spread all across the river. “They’re marking a hell of a lot of them.”

“Regrettably, yes, sir. The enemy had secured any deepwater approach into the city from the sea. We’ll be removing them with all haste. I shall keep you informed.”

Sherman thought of the maps he would need, the roads that snaked all through the rice marshes and swamps across the river, felt his usual impatience, a hard burn in his brain to put this army back out on the march. “Clear those damned things away, Captain.”

Poe saluted him, moved back along the riverfront, resuming his
work. Sherman kept his stare on the small flags, said to Dayton, “It’s fortunate Admiral Dahlgren didn’t just shove his flagship up that channel. We’d be picking sailors out of those rocks down there. Nasty business. I’m getting very tired of the enemy’s willingness to ignore the rules of war.”

“Yes, sir. Too bad they didn’t leave anybody behind. Prisoners, I mean. We could put them to work.”

Sherman planted the cigar between his teeth again. “They did. There have to be some around here somewheres. Find out. And see if they can swim.”

H
e stepped up into the lobby of the hotel, the Pulaski House, the guards already spread out inside, the staff examining the rooms on the ground floor. Dayton came toward him now, said, “This should be a suitable place, sir. Turns out Jefferson Davis spent some time here. They seem eager that you should sleep in the same bed. Um, sir, the fellow in charge says he knows you.”

“Where? I don’t recall anybody here in the hotel business.”

“That old chap, crippled leg. Says he knew you in New Orleans.”

Sherman moved that way, looked at the old man, who seemed to wait for recognition. Sherman knew the face now, the telltale bum leg, smiled. “You old coot. How’d you get over here?”

“Could say they tossed me out of New Orleans, General. I wouldn’t be lyin’ much.”

Sherman took the man’s hands, felt the fragility of age. He glanced at Dayton now, said, “Major, this fellow’s older than Methuselah. Used to run a place in New Orleans.”

The old man was all smiles now, said, “Yessiree. The St. Louis Hotel. I thought New Orleans was a strange enough place for an old Vermont woodcutter to find. Savannah’s a little nicer. Used to be anyway. Rebel generals made themselves at home a bit more than I cared for. Hard to keep my dang mouth shut more than I liked. No need lettin’ on just where my mama birthed me.”

Dayton said, “Vermont?”

“Yep. Cold as a maiden’s hind end in the winter. Old bones need warm weather.”

Sherman scanned the lobby, thought of the name, Pulaski, a hero from another war. “Great deal of history hereabouts.”

The old man eyed Sherman, nodded. “I’d say there’s a bit more right now. They done made you a general. Knew you’d turn out to be more’n some supply sergeant. Camp cook, mebbe. You ever figure out how to make coffee?”

Sherman knew he was trapped, that the stories would continue as long as the old man had the strength for it. He saw Hitchcock enter, making way straight for Sherman, and for the moment, Sherman didn’t care why. It was his escape.

“Excuse me, but the army requires my attention. We’ll talk later.”

There was a hint of disappointment on the old man’s face, but he seemed to understand. Hitchcock was close to him now, eyeing the old man with curiosity, and Hitchcock said, “Excuse me, sir. General Geary is with General Slocum. They heard you were making use of this place.”

Sherman rolled the cigar in his fingers, looked again at the old man. “You have someplace my generals can sit, have a private chat?”

The old man pointed to one side, and Sherman saw the space, the guards already standing at the doorway. He said to Hitchcock, “I’ll be right over there.”

H
e respected John Geary, had been surprised by what seemed to be Geary’s show of bluster at capturing the city. But Sherman could see now that wasn’t the case at all.

Slocum sat across from Sherman, Geary to one side, Slocum as businesslike as Sherman had seen him.

“Sir, it was my decision that General Geary bring his headquarters to the city first. The general has considerable skills with civilian affairs.”

Sherman looked at Geary, saw a sober, straight-backed man, full of confidence, waiting for Sherman’s judgment. “What kind of skills?”

Geary said, “I was mayor of San Francisco in the gold rush days, sir. Followed that by a term as governor of Kansas. I am very familiar with the operation of the civil authority. Not to suggest that there should
be
a civil authority here.”

Sherman knew something of this, recalled Geary’s reputation for efficiency beyond his years with the army. “There will be a
military
authority here, that will carry authority over any civil office. General Slocum, I see no reason why your recommendations should not be followed. General Geary, you are to serve as military mayor of Savannah until otherwise ordered. Not sure where those orders might come from, but I’m certain someone in Washington will insist on making an appointment of their own. I want order in this place, General. Wrecking Savannah will only embolden the enemy.”

Slocum said, “Not sure I understand that, sir. Your orders were clear that we cause considerable discomfort to the enemy, including our civilian enemy.”

“Orders change. Think about it, Henry. We make Savannah our new base of supply and operations, and all the while, we treat the city and its citizens with generosity, show them that we didn’t come here to devour the place. They still think I’m Attila the Hun, for God’s sake. But we keep order here, including those men who pride themselves on scavenging, and it won’t take long for word of that to spread to the enemy’s troops. Think of what that will do to the rebels’ morale. There won’t be any cause for revenge for what we’re doing here. Nothing we do will inspire anyone to bloodlust. General Geary, you might consider this hotel your headquarters.” Sherman fingered the letters in his pocket. “I am told by Major Dayton that it was you who secured the letter from the mayor, that Arnold fellow. Thank you for passing that along.”

“Yes, sir. I knew you’d wish to see that. I had him purposely address it to you. He’s most cooperative. As the military mayor, I believe I can work well with him to keep things quiet here. Pleasant enough chap, if a bit hangdog. When he offered to surrender the city, I thought he was going to bawl.”

“There’s bawling aplenty going on around here, General.”

Slocum laughed now, and Sherman saw the cause, the view through the tall window, the far side of a broad square, a cluster of soldiers around a pair of black children. The children were doing what Sherman had seen so often before, a whirling dance, frantic excitement, the soldiers clapping, one man with a harmonica, trying to make any kind of music that would keep the children in motion.

Slocum said, “No bawling there, sir.”

Hitchcock was at the door now, said, “Sir, there is a gentleman here, most insistent on seeing you. Claims to be British, has a generous offer for you. That’s what he says, anyway.”

“What kind of offer?”

“A headquarters, sir. Says he has the nicest house in the city, and he’s offering it for our use.”