The Railroad War (32 page)

Sam had a believable explanation for being out on a dark and stormy night such as this one; but he preferred not to have to
explain himself at all. Though he was “a minister of the Gospel,” he was also a stranger in Atlanta, and for that reason some
would find him suspicious—especially if the hospital rumors Jane had been hearing turned out to be accurate.

Though he didn’t intend to stop there, his first goal was “the car shed,” as the rail depot was called, between Pryor and
Loyd streets, near State Square. It was his practice to check the rail yards every evening for anything that seemed new or
interesting before proceeding on to his other goals.

For the first days of their stay in Atlanta, Sam and Jane had engaged in no espionage activities. They had devoted themselves
with steadfast devotion to the work of establishing their credibility, he as a man of God and she as a nurse. After they’d
done that in a manner that seemed satisfactory, they’d set themselves to more serious—and risky—tasks.

On previous nights during the past week, Sam had paid surreptitious visits on three of the major Atlanta factories: the Atlanta
Rolling Mill, which produced plates for Rebel gunboats, among these the ironclad
Merrimack;
the Atlanta machine works, where ammunition was made; and Winship’s Foundry, where freight cars and other railroad equipment
were manufactured. He’d seen, additionally, a pistol factory, a sword factory, several rifle factories, and a machine shop
where cannon were rifled.

Tonight his goal was the Confederate arsenal, which produced shells.

During his postmortem tours of Mississippi battlefields, General Sherman had picked up and examined a number of spent shell
casings. Every one of these was stamped:
MADE IN ATLANTA.
He picked up so many
MADE IN ATLANTA
shells that he began to think the South would not be defeated until the factory that made them was destroyed.

As Sherman pondered this, the realization grew that it was not just the arsenal but the entire city of Atlanta that had to
be destroyed. For the arsenal was only one of many Atlanta factories producing the materials of war.

Because of Sherman’s interest in the Confederate arsenal, Sam had been ordered to make that facility one of his first stops.
But once he was on the scene, Sam had found other, more pressing priorities.

The visit could be put off no longer.

Sam breasted his way through the driving rain along slat-planked sidewalks and across the swamps that had once been intersections.
As he struggled through the murk and the mess, his head drawn deep into the poncho, turtle-fashion, he pondered how to handle
Jane Featherstone.

Dear Jane. She is quite a handful. And so damnably attractive.

And yet, the more she gives herself to you and the more she puts herself in your hands, the more you feel responsible for
her. And then the siren song of her helplessness plays in your heart. Soon pity binds you to her.

He did like Jane. He didn’t lie to her about that. There was much about her that was delightful. She had a brightness and
an effervescence and a vibrancy that few women of his acquaintance possessed.

And how readily…eagerly…hungrily…she took him to her bed. She liked the act of love, and she liked it without condition. She
flowed into it the way a fine horse flows into an all-out run. She left out nothing of herself.

He recalled her first impression on him. How plain she had appeared then.

She was in no way plain….

But he wondered how a woman so vivid, capable, and brave, who had turned the tables on four would-be rapists, could be so
clinging and desperate.

And he wondered even more why he was not really deeply curious about her. He did not wish to understand her. He wanted to
be rid of her.

As soon as their assignment was done and they were both safely back behind Union lines, he would have to find some way to
do that.

Sam was near the car shed now. As he passed by, gray shadows in the rough forms of men swam in front of him, looming in the
dark rain like dead souls.

“Halt,” came a muffled, watery voice. “Who’re you? What’s your name and business?”

As they came closer, Sam was able to make out five very wet gray-clad soldiers. All of them carried rifles with wicked-looking
bayonets, and one carried a bull’s-eye lantern. It was lit, but the light scarcely extended beyond the limits of the glass
port in front of it.

“Simon Jeffes is my name,” Sam said, coming to a halt. He did his best not to appear in any way suspicious. “Reverend Simon
Jeffes,” he amended. “I’m a minister of the Lord.”

“What the hell are you doing out on a night like this, Rev’rend?” said the corporal who was in charge of the little patrol.
He looked to be around seventeen years old, if that, and he was not very sure of himself. It was good that he was so young,
and a corporal, because he would be easy to win over. But Sam didn’t want him getting nervous.

“I’m on an errand of mercy, sir,” Sam answered. The boy corporal ought to like that “sir,” he thought. Anything to increase
respect. “I was called upon by a young lady who asked me to give succor and prayer for her grandmother, who appears to be
near death. Her family lives in one of the boxcars abandoned off to the other side of the yard. When the girl asked me, I
instantly granted her request. How could I refuse, sir, without ignoring the lesson of the Good Samaritan?”

“Where’s the young lady now, Rev’rend?” the corporal asked suspiciously. He was a country boy who obviously put great store
in being shrewd; he’d rather die than be caught in a trick.

“She’s only a girl, really, sir, to tell the truth,” Sam said, trying to fill his voice with the proper amount of unction.
“Her name is Sally Witherspoon, and she could hardly be more than fifteen. A sweet girl, she is, too. And pretty enough to
turn a young soldier’s head.”

“Why ain’t Sally Witherspoon with you, leadin’ the way, Rev’rend?” the corporal pressed.

“Why, I left her with my dear wife,” Sam said with his blandest face, “to get herself dry and to find some rest and solace.
I know these Witherspoons, sir; I’ve been to see them before. I know the way there just as well as I know the streets of Jerusalem
where Jesus walked. With the Lord’s help, sir, I’ll find the Witherspoons again without a hindrance—even in this infernal
weather.”

“You can fergit the ‘sir,’ Rev’rend,” the corporal said with a scowl. “It’s jest Corporal.”

“Very well, Corporal,” Sam said. “Please forgive me if I’ve given offense.”

“The thang is, Rev’rend,” the corporal said, “you ain’t s’posed to be out here in the train yards at night. Nobody’s s’posed
to be out here now ‘cept us that is keepin’ watch.”

“But an old lady is dying, sir—excuse me, Corporal.”

“I git that, Rev’rend. An’ I unnerstan that. But you still ain’t s’posed to be in here. An’ that means you ain’t s’posed to
go visit them folks that live in them boxcars.”

“Are you suggesting, Corporal,” Sam said with the beginnings of righteous annoyance, “that I return to the poor girl and tell
her that the Army of the South has refused me permission to proceed on my work of mercy? Are you telling me that you are denying
an old woman her last comforts?”

“Well, I warn’t sayin’ that exactly,” the boy said, retreating into uncertainty.

“Whyn’t you let him go, Corporal?” one of the troopers said. “He’s jest a preacher goin’ about his business.”

“You stay out of this,” the corporal said. “I know how to deal with the preacher.”

“Well,” Sam went on huffily, “then you do that. I can’t stand here all night. And neither can you. So what do you propose
I do?”

For a minute or two the boy stood there with the rain running down his face, deciding on his options. For some reason—probably
innate country suspiciousness—he didn’t want to believe Sam’s story.

“I’ll tell you what I’m gonna hafta do, preacher. I cain’t let you run loose in the yards, so I’m gonna hafta take you to
the place where those Witherspoon people are holin’ up.”

“That’s awful kind of you, Corporal,” Sam said.

Shit! he thought.

“So you jest lead the way, an’ we’ll follow you.”

“I’m much obliged to you,” Sam said, furious but successfully hiding it, “for your most kind help.”

The corporal turned to his men, “Form up,” he ordered.

As the five soldiers started to slowly gather themselves to trudge across the train yard, Sam resolved his own uncertainties
about what he had to do.

“Come on, then!” he said to the corporal. “Quickly! Old Mrs. Witherspoon will be a week in the ground by the time I get there
to minister to her.” Before the corporal could pull together his tiny force, Sam set off at his briskest walk. He had to lose
the boy and his squad. Tomorrow he’d worry about making that act plausible to anybody who asked him about it.

“Hold up, preacher,” the corporal shouted. “Wait a minute.”

“You come on now, Corporal,” Sam shouted back, speeding up to a trot, “I can’t wait any longer. I’ve got a lady dying who
needs attending to.”

There were more than two dozen trains in the yards in various stages of being made up. They made a very satisfactory maze—especially
in the intense dark of the storm.

“You stop now, y’hear?” the corporal yelled. By the time the sounds of his voice reached him, Sam could hardly make out his
words. But he was pretty sure he could also hear the boy ordering his men to spread out and search for him.

“You’re under arrest, preacher, y’hear?” the corporal called. “You show yourself now. That’s an order!”

Heading in the opposite direction from the side of the yard where the boxcars had been abandoned, Sam ducked behind a locomotive,
loped alongside the cars behind it, and, coming around the last car of that train, he sprinted across the twenty yards that
separated that train from a string of flatcars. He lowered himself to a half crouch and scuttled along by the side of the
flats.

As he did this, he heard a commotion three or four tracks away. He paused to try to catch what was going on.

“I’ve got him!” somebody was calling. “He’s over here!” The shouting and other noise all converged on the commotion.

And then the corporal’s voice called, “Goddamn! That ain’t him. It’s jest an old drunk sleepin’ it off in the rain.

Y’all git off your asses an’ ketch that bastard. Go on, move!”

Sam sprinted again. Moments later he was out of the yard.

And soon after that, he was on the corner of Peachtree Street and Walton. The Confederate arsenal was located near that corner.

He looked up and down. The streets were empty. He stepped back under an overhang, and once he was out of the rain, he removed
his hat and poncho and then his black preacher’s coat. The coat was reversible. One side was black; the other side was gray—the
uniform of a Confederate captain. This uniform had proved invaluable the one time he had run into a night watchman in one
of the factories he was investigating. He’d told the man he was on an unannounced inspection. Sam so frightened the watchman
that he actually conducted Sam on a guided tour of the facility.

Sam slipped into his newly gray coat and poncho; then he replaced his hat. He did not do the last well, for when he was back
in the street, the first gust of strong wind sent it sailing into the darkness. He chased after it, but his search proved
fruitless.

If there’s time after I’m done, he thought, I’ll see what I can do to retrieve it. There probably aren’t many people who can
connect the hat to me, even if it’s found.

Still, he knew it was best to retrieve it. He didn’t like loose ends hanging.

The doors of the arsenal, of course, were locked and bolted. There were windows, but because he didn’t want to risk breaking
into them where he was visible, Sam moved around the Walton Street side of the arsenal to an alley and walked far enough down
it to take stock.

There was a delivery bay with a loading platform, but that offered no way inside. About seven feet above the platform were
two small windows, the only windows on the alley side of the arsenal.

He could reach the sills of the windows; that was easy enough; but even if he could have raised himself up there, he didn’t
have hands and arms enough to hold himself and break through the window at the same time.

A four-wheeled loading cart was placed against one wall of the loading bay. He pushed it over beneath one of the windows,
and standing on it, he could see over the windowsill and into the dark building beyond. Next he slipped out of his poncho,
wrapped it around his hand and arm, and pushed in the window. Glass fell and shattered inside. He hoped that he’d be able
to open the window from inside once he had broken through, but that proved impossible, as the window frame was painted shut.
So Sam had to remove the pieces of glass that would cut him when he slid through.

Once the glass was out of the way, he shook out the poncho and dropped it back over his head. Then he pushed himself up over
the sill and went inside, lowering himself down to the floor.

Sam stood there for a considerable time, waiting, listening, taking in the feel of the place. It was a large, open, barnlike
area, perhaps four times as long as it was wide.

When he was sure there was no one else moving about, he fetched the candle and matches out of the pocket where he had placed
them. He made himself a light, and then he started to make his examination of the interior of the building.

He wasn’t searching for anything in particular. The arsenal contained no great or precious secrets. Rather, he was after an
overall sense of what the Confederates were capable of producing here. His job was to put together for Dodge, Sherman, and
Grant the kind of report that would give them an overview of the city, based, insofar as possible, on Sam’s own direct observations.

Sam moved among the ghostly machines, the lathes and forges, the drills and presses. He followed the whole process of manufacture
from the raw materials to the finished shells. After that, he proceeded to the offices and checked the production and delivery
records—input, output, rate of production. And then he made notes, in a code of his devising, in the margins of his Bible.
In his code, words, signs, and symbols seemed to have a religious significance, but he had assigned to them other meanings.
Thus “angels” were cannon. “Holy angels” were rifled cannon. Numbers that seemed to refer to chapters and verses referred
to production data.