The Fateful Lightning (47 page)

SAVANNAH—JANUARY 12, 1865

H
e had been hired to work for the commissary officers, a hearty recommendation given him by Captain Jones. The business of the army had gone mostly to drill and preparation, the distribution of supplies, not only to the army, but throughout the city as well. Like many of the soldiers, Franklin had begun to wonder if the army was staying put, if Savannah was to be their new home, what he learned was called an army of occupation. There had been work on the various rebel forts, strengthening some, obliterating others, as though the army was confused as to just what they might be ordered to do next.

Nearly all of the rebel artillery pieces had been spiked as the rebels left the city, a piece of iron jabbed into the opening that prevented the powder from being fired. But Franklin had watched Sherman’s engineers, patient men who had experience reclaiming cannon. Franklin couldn’t avoid the concern that these guns might be used again, this time holding back what some said was an inevitable assault by the rebels to take back their city. But Jones had assured him that the rebels were most likely going the other way, pulling away from the enormous
amount of power Sherman had anchored in and around the city.

Among so many new experiences came the notion of wages, that Franklin would be paid for the kind of labor he had once done with no other reward than the absence of punishment. He understood Jones’s promise that the army would pay Franklin for whatever task they might require of him. The only real scouting mission he had performed had been the dangerous foray into the town of Millen, alongside the newspaperman Conyngham. For that Jones had given him a pair of five-dollar gold pieces. But Franklin felt guilty accepting anything for that adventure, Franklin fairly certain that the army didn’t benefit at all from anything he or Conyngham had done. The greatest benefit to Franklin had of course been Clara. She was reward enough.

Franklin knew that he was one of the fortunate ones, that a new problem was confronting the former slaves who had stayed close to the army. So many of those people were discovering a world none of them could ever have imagined, still learning just what freedom might mean. And with that freedom came a new reality. They had to eat. Those few slaves who had come into possession of Confederate currency learned quickly that a great deal of that was required to purchase anything meaningful, especially food. But there was one other problem. If there was a limited amount of rations to be given out, a single sack of rice, a single basket of whatever fruit might be available, it was the white man who got first priority. If there was anything left over, the former slaves might get a share as well. The freed Negroes in the city were more cooperative, but even then, the supplies were thin.

Franklin knew that gaining the respect, and even the friendship, of Captain Jones had been an enormous blessing. Jones had made it clear that Franklin could always find a meal at the camp of the 113th Ohio. But Jones could do little else to put hard currency into Franklin’s pocket. And so the opportunity had come elsewhere, a commissary officer who required labor, Jones pushing Franklin in that direction with a hearty endorsement. The job included hauling crates or cloth sacks from the wharf to various warehouses, labor requiring
muscle and stamina, which Franklin found simple enough. To his amazement, at the end of the day he would be handed a greenback, or if the greenbacks didn’t come on time, the officer might add to Franklin’s meager gold hoard with the addition of another small coin.

He kept Clara in a Negro camp close to the 113th, Franklin wary of seeking shelter among the Southern civilians. Many of the slaves had seemed to disappear into various neighborhoods, gathering with freed blacks or by themselves, finding a place to sleep anywhere some white landowner didn’t object. Very few found comfort in a home, and so, in the parks and larger squares, small villages of canvas had sprung up, most near the army’s newly established distribution stations, where commissary officers handed out surplus rations. But there was danger in those places, and the elderly or those with ailments were often pushed aside by the greedy or others even more predatory, some from the city itself, who preyed on the slaves for whatever kind of booty they could steal.

As he and Clara became more accustomed to this strange new life, he had been surprised to learn that Clara had very little knowledge of the church. He had assumed that every former slave had been schooled as he had, but Clara could barely read. Franklin’s surprise at that brought out a reaction of shame in her, something he deeply regretted. But even if she had no formal religious training, he knew the church might offer her the opportunity to learn at least the fundamentals. He had sought out a place of worship in a mostly black part of town, attended by freed Negroes, the congregation now increasing by the addition of so many from the countryside. The minister was an elderly black man, Garrison Frazier, who welcomed the couple with the understanding that Franklin was asking for more than just a Sunday sermon. Frazier had obliged, offering Clara reading lessons, lessons in simple mathematics, as well as the spiritual guidance she seemed to yearn for. Most of the slaves seemed to have some kind of roots in the church, any church, depending on what kind of leanings their masters had. Some were familiar with Catholicism, some spoke of the Presbyterian Church, but many more seemed schooled in the gospel of the Baptist or Methodist church, as Franklin had been. He had no idea that religion could exist in such variety, but Frazier spoke less
of the differences between the churches than he did the similarities, lessons that Clara absorbed with the eagerness of a small child.

T
he church was small, a tall wooden spire that supported a tiny cross at the peak. If there had ever been a coat of whitewash on the building, that had been done long ago, the walls mostly faded or bare, the inside colorless, makeshift benches, small windows of plain glass. But there was warmth to the place, most of that flowing up from the personality of Frazier, a man Franklin liked instantly. Frazier had no real idea how old he was, but age was evident in every move the man made, the lines in his face, the crookedness of his fingers, the curl to his back, the small patches of white hair that survived on the man’s bald head. When Franklin wasn’t working, he spent most of his time with Clara at the church, the most welcoming place he had found outside the camps of the army.

“You sure you won’t be sleepin’ here? It’s fine by me. There’s room in the back. No one will mess with you.”

Clara kept one arm on Franklin’s back, a self-conscious gesture she seemed always to make in the presence of any other man. She looked up at him now, said, “Is it all right? He doesn’t mind.”

Franklin had resisted the preacher’s graciousness, couldn’t avoid a feeling of intrusion into the limited space the old man was offering them. But there was genuine kindness in Frazier’s eyes, the same kindness he had shown them from their first meeting.

“I suppose, sir, if it’s truly all right. I don’t wish to intrude on your house.”

“My boy, this is the Lord’s house. If I could make room for every freed slave around here, I would. But I have another motive with you.” Frazier laughed now, a low cackle. “You’re a workingman. Good strong arms, hard hands. There’s repairs to do, everyplace you can see. I’ll see to it you’ll earn your keep.”

The question rolled into Franklin’s mind again, and he fought the hesitation, his curiosity pushing through. “Reverend Frazier, were you a slave?”

Frazier smiled, moved away, pointed to a small room behind his
meager pulpit. “That’s for you. Both of you. I’ll be assuming to marry you formally afore long.” He paused, serious now. “Yes, son, I was a slave. Bought my way to freedom. Had a good master. Generous man. Grew old, feeble, said if any of us could put something of value together, anything at all, he’d accept it as pay for our freedom. I think he was trying to teach us to look out for ourselves, to learn how to live in the white man’s world. The old man, Mr. Kile, he was close to dying. I gave him a sermon, right there in his bedroom. Most proud thing I ever done. Gave the man peace, felt like I was handing him over to the Almighty with a smile on his face. He freed me right there, last words from his mouth. His boy heard it. Thought I was gonna have a problem with him, maybe not as generous a soul as his papa. But he was all busted up, crying, missin’ his papa already. Didn’t stop him from making me work for it. All told, cost me near a thousand dollars hard money. But he done it, and I had no cause to complain. I got my papers, and went on my way. Didn’t have no place to go, so I started preachin’ on the street. Got a following, even a few white folks. Some of ’em built this place for me. They don’t come in here, most times, the white folks. But still got the following. You’ve seen ’em. Some of ’em feel obliged to make an offering, maybe bring me a handful of corn, a pocketful of rice, all they can spare. But still they come. Mighty grateful for that. I’ll be too old for this, one day. Maybe soon. You oughta consider doing this, Franklin. Doing the Lord’s work.”

It was a phrase he had heard before, and Franklin absorbed that, said, “I heard that plenty of times from Master Cobb. That’s what he said the Confederates were doing. ‘The Lord’s work.’ I don’t know what that means, Reverend. I think, for now, I’d rather be doing General Sherman’s work.”

Frazier smiled, nodded. “Just don’t go shouting out about that, and keep a watch out for who’s behind you. There’s folks here who don’t quite see the Almighty and General Sherman in the same light.”

“You?”

“That’s easy. General Sherman’s doing the Lord’s work, too. Not saying your master Cobb was wrong. It’s all the Lord’s work. There’s plans working here. The Almighty ain’t gonna tell us about any of that while we’re still on this earth. But you’ve done seen what General
Sherman’s about. He’s freed you. He brought you and Miss Clara close, and brought you both here. Sounds pretty much like the Lord’s work to me.”

The old man laughed again, and Franklin felt Clara hold him tighter around the waist. She looked up at him again, said, “He’s right, you know.”

Frazier stooped low, picked up a small piece of trash from the wooden planks of the floor beneath them, stuffed it down through a small hole to the dirt below. He stood slowly, looked at Franklin with a curious tilt of his head. “What’s your whole name, anyway?”

“It’s Franklin, sir.”

“No, the rest of it. You got another name?”

“Do I need one?”

“You plannin’ on marryin’ this gal? There’s laws about such things, even for coloreds. You got to have a name, case there’s a baby.”

Franklin felt suddenly horrified, as though he had made some awful mistake, that all of this might suddenly be taken away. “I don’t know, sir. I don’t. Honest. My papa never called me nothing else.”

“What was his name, then?”

Franklin searched his memory. “He was just Henry, most of the time. All I ever heard. A few cussed names, from the overseers.”

“Well, some people goes by their master’s name. Seen a lot of that. I don’t think that would be you.”

Franklin shook his head. “No, sir. Rather not do that. Cobb is his name, belongs to him. It would be like stealing.”

“Maybe. Well, I’m gonna believe that Franklin is your last name, family name. You got to come up with what you want people to call you by. What about you, Miss Clara? You got a family name?”

She spoke in a soft voice, said, “Yes, sir. Like you said, I was given my mistress’s name. They told me it was Davis.”

Frazier grunted. “You need to marry this boy soon enough. Don’t care for that name a’tall.”

The door behind them opened, and Franklin turned with a start, his hand on his pocket, fingering the knife, reflex. He saw a blue uniform, an officer wearing glasses, the man removing his hat, a slight bow.

“Pardon me. Sorry to interrupt you. You would be Reverend Frazier?”

The old man stepped closer to him, said, “I would. Who might you be?”

“I’m Major Hitchcock, from General Sherman’s staff. The general has asked me to seek out the most respected Negroes in the town, and your name seems to be more prominent than most. The general has a favor to ask of you.”