The Fateful Lightning (30 page)

Franklin felt the pressure from the guard slackening, the musket coming down, the man watching as he did, caught up in the argument raging between the two officers. Franklin eased forward, wanted to say something, anything, a protest, looked again across the creek, the lanterns now coming closer to the near shore, the vast sea of screams and shouts still across the way. Above him, one of the officers said, “Major, I have my orders. I don’t like this, either, but General Davis’s instructions were definite and very specific.”

“I will report this to General Baird! You cannot just leave those people behind us!”

“My orders, Major.”

The major swung his horse around, galloped away through the
rainy darkness, and Franklin looked up at the captain, saw the man looking out over the creek, staring, as though he were paralyzed.

Franklin called out, “Sir! What are you doing? Those people…they’re bein’ left behind!”

The man looked down at him, a flicker of the lanterns reflecting on the grim sadness on the man’s face. “Nothing I can do, boy. I have my orders. You made it across. You’re lucky. Now move on, get across the next creek. We’re taking that bridge up quick as we can.”

“But, those people over there!”

“Get moving, boy!”

The captain turned his horse away, calling out more orders to the men on the bridge, the planks and pontoons coming ashore quickly, filling the wagons. Franklin moved to the water’s edge, stared across, could see the surging mass of people, heard splashing, the water churning up, arms flailing, realized people were coming across on their own. He stepped forward, the cold water to his knees, but he had never tried to swim before, felt sick, his heart racing, heard the screams still, the splashing coming closer. One man was there now, arms grabbing the muddy bank, and Franklin dropped down, reached for the man’s hand, pulled him up onto the shore. More were finding the shore, men calling out, some jumping back into the water, helping others as they made their way across. There were women coming ashore now, but not many, sobbing as they fell into the arms of any man who would help them. Franklin waded along the bank, had a desperate fear of the water, felt empty, helpless, the water alive with foaming splashes, arms flailing all across the wide creek. People were crying out all around him, more of the screaming, and he saw arms waving in the water, coming close. He moved that way, tried to step out, deeper, the water to his waist, his arms reaching out closer to the hands, a desperate grab, the hands suddenly gone, the water close to him empty, quiet. He reached down into the water, his face submerged, searching blindly with his hands, but the man was gone. He stood again, coughed out the bitter water, searched with frantic motions, saw others doing as he was, helping hands. Some of them were in uniform, the soldiers who dismantled the bridge now trying to help. But the lanterns were moving away, the darkness spreading over the sounds, the splashes, the cries, still a great chorus of voices
on the far side, calling out, desperate and terrified, so many people left behind by the men they had trusted to save them.

T
hroughout the night, more of the freed slaves made good their crossing of Ebenezer Creek, but many more did not. There were makeshift rafts, some using logs to float their way over, aided by those who could wade out to receive them. The soldiers who stayed behind could not remain long, the next bridge already being dismantled, those men ordered to pull away, to make their way across Lockner Creek. Along that bank, the scene was repeated, those Negroes who had survived the crossing over Ebenezer Creek now faced with another barrier, another black waterway. But still they tried, exhausted, terrified people, plunging into the water in the driving rain, some, the most fit, making it across, while so many more did not. The helping hands were there as well, black and white, Franklin doing all he could even as he slipped deeper into the muddy bottom of the deadly stream. By morning, those who remained stranded beyond Ebenezer Creek were suddenly faced with a new terror. Rebel cavalry appeared, and for those who could not run, who could not escape into deep woods or treacherous swamps, the cavalry did their work. Those who tried to fight the rebel troops were mostly cut down, sabers and pistols, while others, the old and infirm, the women and young children, were grabbed up, only to be returned to the plantations and masters they had left behind.

NEAR POOLER, GEORGIA—DECEMBER 8, 1864

T
he house was modest, something Sherman was used to now, but more than ever, he suffered from the sleeplessness that not even a decent mattress could cure. Outside, the campfires had mostly grown dark, faint hints of embers spread out through thin pine woods, the various units of Frank Blair’s Seventeenth Corps spread apart, divided by patches of swamp, watery sandpits, and thickets of cypress and thorny brush.

He did as he had often done, easing the misery of sleeplessness by taking a walk, stepping down quietly from the headquarters toward the nearest fires. He rarely dressed, wore mostly his nightclothes, his brimless hat clamped down on his head. There would be one cigar, no pockets to hold any more, but it would do, offering a hint of warmth for those few minutes until that too fell dark. He stepped carefully, avoiding the occasional briar, the stinging nettle or even the prickly pear cactus, the unfriendly hints that the countryside had changed completely. It was all familiar to him, so much of it like Louisiana. But most of the men around him had never been in anyplace like this, and throughout the past few days, they had begun to react with a raw energy he could feel spreading through the entire army. It
didn’t require maps to understand that this army was drawing closer to its goal, that somewhere out across the flat plains of swamp and rice fields lay the city of Savannah.

He stopped, took a deep breath, cool and wet, the rains settling into a gentle drizzle. The winds were from the east, unusual, but with that came the scent of salt air, that first sign that the marshlands were soon to change again, the black water of the swamps giving way to brackish pools, and then to the wide, grassy flats of pure salt water, where oysters and crabs would be found. It had already spread through the army, those men who knew the coast anxious to reap this new bounty, something they didn’t have to take from the civilians. Most of the men had begun to rely on a diet mostly of sweet potatoes, the rich variety of treasures that grew in central Georgia now behind them. The supply wagons had brought forward most of the surplus, but after so many days on the march, even the vast oversupply of goods was draining low, more wagons empty now than full. As they passed the rice fields, the cooks and commissary officers had to be taught just what to do with the reedy plants, how to shake and pound the tiny grains from the wet greenery, and then, how the grains could be made edible. But the men were learning quickly, taught mostly by slaves, and already the army was experiencing a new kind of hardtack, or a pressed cake made very differently from the awful flour they knew so well. But hardtack was still hardtack, and more of the men now spoke with enthusiasm of the salt water, what new treasures could be found. Sherman was gratified to hear just how many of his men shared his love of oysters, other shellfish, and the proximity of the ocean had added considerably to the morale of an army that, for the first time in the campaign, was beginning to experience hunger.

He moved to the nearest fire, picked up a stick, prodded the faint embers. The ground around him was soggy from the rain, the fire nearly extinguished, but he poked harder, deeper, the embers growing brighter. He was determined now, searched the darkness for something to add to the flame, some kind of kindling, saw a stack of small sticks, covered by a canvas cloth. He pulled out a single stick, smelled it, the delicious scent of fat pine, used that to prod the embers
until the heat ignited the stick. He let the flame crawl upward toward his hand, tilted it away, then added the fat pine to the glowing embers. He retrieved another, creating a new fire from the old one, the flames growing, the warmth on his hands comforting, the black smoke swirling past him even more pleasing than the cigar. He stood, his eyes still on the flames, his minor victory, and he looked across the camp, the men nearly all silent, unaware that their commander found so much joy from the simple task of building a fire.

Behind him, a whisper. “Sir. Excuse me.”

Sherman kept the groaning response silent, knew it was Hitchcock. “What is it, Major?”

“Sorry to interrupt, sir. I’m finding it difficult to sleep. I know you usually take a walk. Hope you don’t mind just a bit of company.”

Sherman shrugged. “If you insist.”

There was a silent moment, Hitchcock absorbing Sherman’s hint. “Oh, sir, forgive me. I’ll be going. I should return to bed anyway. Very late.”

Sherman turned to him now, saw the man’s hair tousled, the glow of the small fire reflected on Hitchcock’s glasses. “No, it’s fine. I don’t usually have companionship out here. Can’t sleep, eh?”

“No, sir. I keep thinking of what’s ahead, Savannah and whatnot. Very exciting, to be sure.”

“The skirmishes are growing hotter. Rebels aren’t just going to lie down and let us walk in. I’d rather keep my mind on what we have to do about that. It could get nasty, Major.”

“I understand that, sir. But look how far we’ve come. They’ll hear of this up north, soon enough. The newspapermen will get the word out, once we can find a wire northward.”

Sherman saw Hitchcock staring at the small fire, marching in place, a slight rhythm back and forth, warming himself from the wet chill. “Don’t really care what the newspapers say. Grab a couple of sticks from that pile, over there.”

Hitchcock obeyed, added the fuel to Sherman’s fire, the flames rising again. Hitchcock held his hands out over the low flames, said, “I understand, sir. But there will be some commotion at the War Department. They can’t know yet just what we’re doing, where we are.
Must be a great deal of uncertainty about that. But with the news from Tennessee, I’m certain the president will have heightened expectations of our campaign as well.”

Sherman knew of the great fight at Franklin, had been surprised to see detailed accounts in copies of a newspaper from Savannah, captured from rebel skirmishers. The accounts were extraordinary, especially for any Southern paper, the casualty counts clearly favoring the Federal army, what seemed to be portrayed as a one-sided fight, the newspaper not hesitant to describe the battle as a horrific defeat for John Bell Hood. Sherman had read those accounts with puzzlement, had to believe that if the Savannah papers were revealing a fight so clearly against Hood’s army, the actual numbers were likely even worse for the rebels.
We should have chased him
. He rolled those words through his mind, thought of the doubters, Halleck for one, all that fear, the infuriating lack of confidence in Sherman, finally silenced by Grant’s approval for the campaign. A whole rebel army running loose in Tennessee and I go the other way, he thought. He smiled now, staring down at the fire. I knew Thomas could handle it. Hood’s no match for someone who sits tight in a strong defense, and Thomas knows all about defense.

He picked up another stick of fat pine, rolled it over in his hand. Hood throws his people away like kindling in a bonfire. He repeated the words to himself, dropped the stick in the fire, thought, You should write poetry, maybe. Well, no. You’d just say something stupid again, get yourself in trouble. Grant’s pants. Lee’s knees. Hardee’s party. Might be easier than you think to make up rhymes. He thought a moment. Nothing rhymes with Thomas. All right, Sherman, let it go. Vermin Sherman. Yep, that’s what they’ll say. Just keep your mouth shut and fight the damned war.

Hitchcock added more fuel to the fire, the flames now high enough to warm them both. He reached into his coat pocket, retrieved a scrap of something Sherman couldn’t see. “Oh, sir, look here. Picked up a piece of this Spanish moss. Good keepsake. I’ve seen it before, in Alabama, but not in such an abundance as they have here. Did you know that when it gets wet, it turns green?”

“I am pleased you find time for souvenirs, Major. It’s not exactly
rare. There will be a great deal more ahead of us. You got the itch yet?”

Hitchcock reacted by scratching his arm. “Itch…yes, sir. All day. How did you know that, sir?”

“The moss. Some kind of bug lives in it, I think. I tried sleeping on a bed of the stuff once. Never do that again. Spent half a day sitting in a creek bed, trying to get the bug bites to go away.”

Hitchcock held out the small piece of moss, tossed it now on the fire. The smoke grew thick, and Sherman waved it away with his hand.

“Dammit, Major, it doesn’t burn worth a hoot. Not wet anyway.”

“Sorry, sir. At least I know why I’ve been scratching.”

“Better than snakebite. Plenty of those to be had out here, too.”

He heard an audible shiver from Hitchcock, couldn’t help a smile. Step lively, Major. Or stay on your damn horse.

The rains had stopped, the breeze blowing colder, and Sherman heard men stirring, curious about the fresh fire. He said in a low voice, “Don’t really want to draw attention, Major. Let them sleep. Move away.”

“Oh, certainly, sir.” Hitchcock stood back from the fire, followed Sherman out through the darkness. Sherman began to miss the cigar, felt the chill on his bare legs, remembered he was in his nightclothes. All I need now is for that Conyngham fellow to show up. He’ll want to tell the world how I run this army in bedclothes.

After a long moment, Hitchcock said, “Sir, are you intending to inquire of General Davis what occurred tonight?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, dear. You were not informed? That is my fault, certainly.”

“I don’t like mysteries, Major.”

“Sir, we do not have all the details, but General Baird was most disturbed by reports from his staff that General Davis ordered that at least one column of the Fourteenth Corps cross the creek a ways back, and when the troops were across, General Davis ordered that passage be refused the Negroes.”

“What do you mean, ‘passage be refused’?”

“According to General Baird, sir, General Davis removed his pontoon
bridges before the Negroes could cross. A great many of them were left behind. General Baird intends to seek some official remonstrance against General Davis.”

Sherman closed his eyes, shook his head. “Is the Fourteenth Corps in its camps, in position for our march tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir. I believe so, sir.”

“Then General Davis did what he had to do to get his people in the right place, including Baird’s division. In every column, the slaves are strung out like threads from a worn pants leg. We cannot slow our progress just to accommodate them. I made it plain to every senior commander that the Negroes be encouraged to remain at their homes.”

He was angry now, felt a nagging annoyance at Absalom Baird. He trusted Baird, actually liked the man, knew that Baird had been one of Sherman’s most accomplished generals in the fights around Atlanta. But Baird was one of the three division commanders in the Fourteenth Corps, who answered directly to Davis. He held some respect for Jefferson Davis as well, though Davis was not a West Pointer. And he’s got a crazy-assed temper, Sherman thought. He stopped at another smoldering fire, tried to feel any kind of warmth.

“Davis killed his commanding officer, you know.”

“Sir?”

“William Nelson. After the start of the war, in Louisville. Took offense at something Nelson said to him. I heard it was the kind of thing that men fight duels over, but Davis decided to go the shorter route. Shot Nelson with a pistol, in a hotel hallway. Killed him dead. Got away with it, too. I guess nobody much cared for Nelson.”

“Sir, that’s awful! How did he keep his command? And how—”

“He’s a good soldier, good leader. Stupid name, but I can’t hold that over him. As long as he handles his corps like he’s done so far, I can’t drag him down for some Negro matter. No time for that kind of thing, anyhow. Baird wants to pursue it later, I suppose he can. Somebody should warn him to stay out of hotel hallways.”

Hitchcock held his hands out, feeling for the rain. He walked in silence for a long moment, then said, “Hope there’s not more to it, sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“The newspapers and all.”

“To hell with newspapers, Major. When are you going to learn that? Those people are not your friends, will do everything they can to sell a story to a public that swallows their nonsense whole. I’ve got more important things to concern myself with, and it’s right out there, about ten miles away. It’s up to Slocum to handle his generals. If they want to fight a duel, that’s Slocum’s problem. My problem is all those damned rebels out there. The Negroes insist on following us, they can handle themselves.”