The Fateful Lightning (17 page)

OCONEE RIVER—NOVEMBER 24, 1864

T
he army had been moving out of town all morning, columns of troops and their wagons, some of those filled with whatever goods the foragers had confiscated from the civilians. The citizens had responded to the march by emerging from their homes, some lining the streets as the formations of troops passed, aware that whatever nightmare the blue soldiers had swept into their lives might actually be ending. For many that nightmare was nothing like they expected. The greatest fears had come from the rumors of what had already occurred, that Sherman’s devils had left a vast swath of utter destruction across their state, no home spared, every larder stripped bare, every stick of furniture destroyed. But the marching columns were now moving out of Milledgeville in good order, past guards that manned the entryway to dozens of homes, stern-faced men who had been assigned to prevent any further looting, or any mindless use of the torch. As they passed through, some of the men were calling out to the women who watched them, big words that carried little threat beyond impolite flirtatiousness, even more of them offering a dose of good cheer. The women mostly kept silent, regarding the soldiers with the same contempt they had felt when the
men in blue first arrived. Many of the civilians did not understand the level of morale that had spread through the ranks of the soldiers, that the destruction of Milledgeville or any other town was not the reward for these men, but merely one of their tools. The fires that lay in their wake, and those still to come, were mostly aimed at any kind of industry, buildings, or factories that had the potential to provide the Southern armies with any sort of assistance.

It was not up to the officers to explain that to the civilians, and so they usually said nothing at all. But the exaggerated rumors spread far more rapidly, and made a much greater impact on the expectations of the civilians, than the flames themselves ever could. By now the men in blue had marched through far more towns and plantations than most of the people of Milledgeville had ever seen, and when the fires had come, it was often the work of the bummers, heedless to orders, heedless to the kind of decency and tolerance that the officers had been instructed to monitor. The soldiers knew that the greatest reward for this army would come with a victory. Burning a plantation provided short-lived entertainment; hauling away chests of silverware might enrich a man for the short time he could conceal it. But the vast majority of Sherman’s troops gave little thought to the question of whether or not Milledgeville should be torched. If fences and barns were dismantled, it was more for the necessity of firewood than any thoughts of revenge. Whatever Sherman’s ultimate goal might be, so far the men understood that this march had been one of conquest without the accompanying horrors that so many of the veterans had seen before. Sherman was already respected by his men, and increasingly that respect had evolved into the kind of affection that drives men to accomplish any deed their commander asks of them. Not even the foot soldiers believed that this campaign would continue without some massive effort by the rebels to stop them, but none of those men shared the quiet dread as deeply as their commander, Sherman’s inescapable fear that some disaster might still occur.

As had happened through every town and every large plantation, the Negroes gathered to follow the army in a joyous parade. The men in blue seemed used to that by now, whether they considered the crowds with annoyance or amusement. For some of the troops, the
focus was on the women, and by now some of the younger black women were recognizing how that kind of attention might be of great benefit. Many more of the gathering throng were families, strong-backed men with wives and flocks of children, some too young to walk. But the duty for the officers was to keep their troops in line, and to move them at a hearty pace, Sherman ordering the men to make fifteen miles per day. If the Negroes chose to come along, they would have to keep up as best they could. When it came to water and sustenance, until they gathered at the nightly bivouacs they would mostly have to fend for themselves.

Franklin had fallen in with a group of older men, but all around him more Negroes continued to emerge from houses and fields, many more than he had ever imagined existed. It was a question he had asked himself, just how many men like him there were, and how many of the white masters lived in the grand mansions, like Cobb, the men who had once held control over the lives of every man Franklin saw now.

Learning to read had opened new worlds to him, stretching his imagination. But most of that was still biblical, the more modern world around him still with so much mystery. Now he was beginning to see it for himself. For years he had heard much about the war, most of that in loose talk from the overseers, absurd reports of the massacres that had all but obliterated the Yankee armies. Even if his father took that for fact, Franklin hated the overseers enough to assume anything they said was a lie. With his world suddenly overrun by blue-clad troops, he was certain of it. As he walked the street, carried by the sheer momentum of the men and women around him, Franklin was beginning to feel a terrifying combination of fear and regret, that somehow this celebration of freedom would suddenly end, that the guns would come, aimed at the slaves, that the dogs and the bullwhips would find them again, that this mighty blue horde was only a fantasy, a fragile dream that would suddenly fade away.

And yet…he heard the voices, the astounding joy in the people near him, the calls to the soldiers, ongoing salutes toward Sherman, to the godlike man they all knew as
Lincoln
. This was more than escape from the fields, more than a furtive glimpse into some other life. This
was
life, new and frightening, and yet so many of the people
around him seemed to forget what their lives had always been. There were too many experiences, pain and sadness and the agony of unending labor, a mindless existence fueled by discipline and routine. But Franklin had tasted something far beyond that, had asked questions, if only of himself, where the new slaves came from, where the old ones went when they died, and even more mysteriously, what happened to a man if he made good his escape?

It had been taught to every slave, from the time he was old enough to walk, that running away meant death or something far worse. As a young boy, Franklin had listened to his father’s lessons with perfect obedience, but then he would be astounded by the men who would still try, slipping away through stands of corn, or just disappearing in the night. But then the dogs came, and in short order the man would be brought back to face the lustful wrath of Lucky and the overseers, the other slaves called to watch as the whips sliced the man’s skin until blood sprayed the ground. With the loss of his leg, his father had seemed more afraid than anyone Franklin knew, and so the lesson was driven hard into him, never think of it, never concern yourself with what lay beyond. It had been another mystery to Franklin that no matter the horror of the whippings, the screams and blood and the agony of a wife’s tears,
some men still tried
. And now they were all out here, all moving in unison away from everything they had known, away from the whips, the great fields, leaving behind their shacks. Going…where? He had no answer to that, thought now of his father, a man always afraid. He will die there, Franklin thought. I should have stayed with him. He will fear for me, believe the worst. But this is not just
escape
, and if the punishment doesn’t come, if these men in their blue uniforms with all those muskets are truly as strong as they claim, then this is…deliverance.

His brain continued to absorb all that was happening around him like the pages of a book, each new sight turning a page, another memory, strange, bizarre, and still frightening. He had said nothing, hadn’t joined the singing, the cheers for the blue guards who watched the throng from the side. There was a new feeling growing inside of him now, an unexpected sense of guilt for the old man he had left behind, his father seemingly locked into a world that was no more than the old man could see, barely past his own hands. By numbers
alone, the black families who followed along with the procession had opened Franklin’s eyes to a fascinating reality. The crowds around him had grown to several hundred, more of his own kind than he had ever seen, more than he ever knew were alive. His mind had already begun to see the mathematics of that, that the simple ciphering the Sunday school teacher had taught him had begun to expand, the numbers rolling through his head, just what a
hundred
actually meant, his brain counting people instead of kernels of corn. But there were many more than that, and he struggled with his own ignorance, had so many questions about all he was seeing now, if it was possible that there was some number even larger, just how big this world could be, just how many people, how many soldiers might there be.

Where were the men from Georgia, from anywhere else the war had spread? There were other questions as well, spawned by the town itself, his eye studying the buildings, houses and shops, nothing like the Cobb mansion. There was another stark mystery as well, that those whites who cursed them as they passed seemed to be so few, and so powerless. As for the blue army, their sheer mass had overwhelmed him, men and horses and wagons, and with them those enormous guns, his eye settling on each cannon as it had rolled past. Their crews had responded to his gaze with joyous pride, answering his openmouthed stare with cheerful boasting of the sheer might of their weapons.

As he moved out of the town, columns of smoke rose up behind him, a glimmer of fear rolling through the procession that the fires might be pursuing them. But the panic was fleeting, the river looming large, the troops leading the way across a hard bridge, flags flying, men on horseback. With the soldiers mostly across, the way was clear for the great crowd of Negroes, some of them reaching the far side only to embrace the ground with their hands, as though crossing the river meant passing over to some new and wonderful land. On the far side of the bridge, Yankee cavalry held court, a row of horsemen who watched the black horde with amused curiosity, some of those men calling out a casual obscenity, suggestions for what they would do to the various women, words that Franklin didn’t really understand. But he understood the tone of their comments, saw that their smiles weren’t friendly, and even the most outgoing of the women
seemed to slip more tightly into the protection of the parade. It punched a hole through the fantasy, the caution rising inside of him, that these men might be salvation, but not all of them were there to help. And there was destruction to come. The Negroes had mostly made their crossing in safety, spurred on by raucous shouts from men none of them knew were engineers. With the wave of humanity on the east side of the river, the torches came out, the blackened timbers of the bridge soon falling into the muddy waters of the Oconee.

He stopped to watch the flames, felt an instinctive sense of safety in that, the blue army protecting itself, and him, from some sudden surprise by rebel cavalry. As the men with their torches had gone to work, a civilian had scrambled among them, a small fat man that Franklin eyed with curiosity. The cavalry had gathered as well, and from everything Franklin could hear, the man was making claim to the bridge, as though it belonged only to him. If the soldiers heard him at all, nothing of the man’s fury halted their work. With the rubble of the bridge now washed by the flow of the river, the men with the torches had resumed their march, no differently than any of the soldiers Franklin had already seen. He had marveled at that, an act of war that required no muskets. As he moved farther from the river, the thoughts rolled through him, if the fat man was a rebel soldier, if that’s what the men of Georgia were doing to make a fight. It seemed ridiculous that any man would stand up to this army, all those muskets, swords, men on horseback, just to protect a bridge. The fires had been…to protect an army. It was a concept that Franklin embraced, a bit of knowledge he took pride in repeating to himself. He had seen a piece of the war.