The March (14 page)

At this moment Major Morrison entered the room with the message that Secretary of War Edwin Stanton was arrived in port on a revenue cutter.

SO DOES THE LAUREL
wither, Sherman thought. What will Stanton say: that I let a Confederate force of ten thousand men slip away into South Carolina? The human capacity for gratitude is limited. Inside the gratitude is envy. Inside the envy is the indifference of a heedless world. The Secretary’s carriage rolling to a stop under the porte cochere, the honor guard presented arms. Stanton was second only to the President in authority, but in Sherman’s eyes the man stepping down was a portly figure whose soft face, with its plump cheeks, bespoke a constitution that would not survive a day’s march.

General, he said, and gave Sherman a limp hand. That concluded the amenities. Stanton began speaking even before they were in the door. He had a lot on his mind. His stiff forked beard rose and fell with his words. Sherman, entranced by the brandished beard, missed a good deal. Something about how the blacks had been treated. So that was it.

I would meet with your general officers, Stanton said. At dinner Sherman produced his wing and corps commanders. They were an imposing sight, decked out in their ceremonial swords, gauntlets, and sash. But they sat as stiffly as schoolchildren while Stanton walked around the table as if conducting a lesson. I am not sure, gentlemen, of your armies’ appropriate conduct regarding the freed slaves, he said. My understanding is that they were discouraged from accompanying the forces, that they were sent back to their masters, or left as prey to guerrillas. The men looked at Sherman slouched in his chair with a severe frown on his brow. Mr. Secretary, Sherman said, how do you expect me to march sixty thousand fighting men through enemy country with the weight of the entire slave population of Georgia on their backs? As it is, the darkies seem to be here, as you will see if you look out the window.

You have refused to enlist them in your army except as menial laborers.

As laborers is the way they are best used.

There is one report of an incident at Ebeneezer Creek, was it? Your General Davis, who pulled up the bridge and left hundreds behind to die. Some of them drowned, some of them were slaughtered by guerrillas. Where is he? Why is he not here?

He is on duty. I will have him summoned.

I will hear from him his explanation.

And you will be satisfied of the military necessity of his action.

In the morning the cavalry had to be brought in for parade. The Secretary stood with his belly pressed against the cast-iron railing of the balcony outside Sherman’s apartments and watched, unsmiling, as the horsemen passed in the street below him. Kil Kilpatrick rode at their head, a Beau Brummel in his gold sash and braid, peeking from under his plumed hat with a sly smile, his slight figure seeming to post with some insolence, Sherman thought—or was it his bobbing hunchback that conveyed his attitude? Kil is a reckless fool, he enjoys war too much, he makes camp in women’s bedrooms, but I wouldn’t trade him for anything.

By the third day of the visit Sherman wondered how much longer he would be able to hold his temper. The Secretary didn’t talk, he fulminated. He was like a spoiled child, and was always in need of something—a drink, a hot water bottle, a telegrapher. Behind everything the Secretary said or did was a desire for attention. Sherman had wanted the captured cotton for the army exchequer. Stanton countermanded it for the Treasury. He had strong views on who should garrison the city. He presumed to advise Sherman on strictly military matters.

And then came his demand to meet with some Negro elders. He was impatient until they were rounded up from the black churches. When they were gathered in the parlor he asked them what they understood by slavery.

The black men looked at one another and smiled. Slavery is receiving by irresistible power the work of another man and not by his consent, one of them said. The others nodded their agreement.

And what, said Stanton, do you understand of the freedom that was to be given by the proclamation of President Lincoln?

The freedom promised by the proclamation is taking us from under the yoke of bondage and placing us where we can reap the fruits of our own labor and take care of ourselves and assist the government in maintaining our freedom.

Sherman hid his astonishment at how well spoken these blacks were. At that moment Stanton turned to him. General, he said, I will now confer with these freedmen regarding the colored people’s feelings toward yourself. Would you mind leaving the room for a moment?

Sherman was livid. He paced the hallway, muttering to himself. To catechize these blacks regarding my character! How would any of them be here if not for me? Ten thousand are free and fed and clothed by my orders! That they are not fighting is my best military judgment. Nor have I had the leisure to train them. I have marched an army intact for four hundred miles. I have gutted Johnny Reb’s railroads. I have burned his cities, his forges, his armories, his machine shops, his cotton gins. I have eaten out his crops, I have consumed his livestock and appropriated ten thousand of his horses and mules. He is left ravaged and destitute, and even if not another battle is fought his forces must wither and die of attrition. And that is not enough for the Secretary of War. I must abase myself to the slaves. Damn this Stanton—I am sworn to destroy the treasonous insurrection and preserve the Union. That is all. And that is everything.

Sherman was hardly mollified to hear that he was held in high favor by the black elders. Late that night he called in Morrison. The fellow had been sleeping.

Your pen, Major. Get this down. Field Order whatever it is.

It would be Number 15, sir.

Number 15, he said. The Sea Islands from Charleston south, and all the abandoned plantation acreage along the rivers for thirty miles inland in South Carolina, and I’ll throw in parts of Georgia, and the country bordering on the St. John’s River in Florida, are reserved for black resettlement. Have you got that? Black resettlement. Every free Negro head of family is to be given title to forty acres of tillable ground. Yes, and the seed and equipment to farm them. All boundaries to be determined and possessory titles issued by a general officer of the U.S. Army as—call him—Inspector of Settlements and Plantations. And tidy it up for my signature, with a copy for Mr. Stanton.

I am no abolitionist, Sherman thought. But with this enticement I both shut up Edwin Stanton and disengage the niggers, who will stay here to plant their forty acres, and God help them.

TO CELEBRATE THE
Secretary’s departure, Sherman had a dinner for his generals. It was as if they all needed to regain their dignity. Everyone was jolly. They were themselves again. Sherman sat at the head of a long table while the black waiters marched in with the pillage of the city: platters of oysters, roasted turkeys, baked hams, steaming mounds of seasoned rice, platters of sweet potatoes, loaves of warm bread and salvers of real butter, hampers of red wine. Sherman ate and drank and offered toasts. But he wanted to be on the march again where nobody could tell him what to do. He wanted to be back in the field. What could be better than lying on the hard ground each night and gazing up at the stars? What could be better than setting out each morning to run your war the way it ought to be run? The issues were unambiguous. The demands were clear. He had had enough of Savannah and its glory. The real glory was in the uncommunicable joy of doing well what God had deemed for you. There was no envy there, no praise to explode in your face.

Gentlemen, Sherman announced, we have had enough of these fleshpots. Tomorrow we begin preparations for the new campaign. You all know what it is. We have Grant’s leave to take the Carolinas. It will be hard, no mistake. Georgia was no more than a hayride. We must divest ourselves of surplus horses, mules, and Negroes. We must pare ourselves down to our fighting essence. The terrain is forbidding, the march will be arduous. But I assure you the infamous state of South Carolina, as instigator of our war, will have never known the meaning of devastation until it feels the terrible swift sword of this army.

Hear! Hear! The generals raised their glasses.

At the end of the evening Sherman went to his rooms mellow with wine and feeling more relaxed than he had in days. He was humming “The Ride of the Valkyries.” Some newspapers were newly arrived from Ohio. He lit a cigar and, expecting to amuse himself with the local gossip, sat back and read in the Columbus, Ohio,
Times
that Charles Sherman, the six-month-old son of General and Mrs. William Tecumseh Sherman, had died of the croup.

His hands dropped to his sides. Oh Lord, he cried, is the envy yours as well?

XVI

O
N THIS COLD, DARK DAY, WITH THE CLOUDS SAILING
in low from the Sound, Savannah was alive with the movement of men and animals, so that it seemed as if the streets themselves were moving, that the city in its dimensions had come apart from the land and was fluttering loose in the blow. The wind piped its music to the rattle of the wagons on the cobblestone and the cries of the teamsters and the cadence calls of the platoon sergeants. Columns of troops were marching to the bridge over the Savannah River, and others stood in their mass along the docks waiting to board the fleet of navy gunships, cutters, and packets while seamen stood in the yardarms looking down on the scene like roosting birds. Among civilians, too, a sense of urgency was attached to their comings and goings, as if the departure of the army was in its way as frightening as its arrival had been. Only the soldiers who were to garrison the city were unmoving at their posts. All else was hectic intention, with the wind blowing tufts of cotton through the alleys and even the live oaks in the squares bending and swaying to the wind.

In all of this Wilma Jones felt the smallness and insignificance of her own purposes on this morning. But that is the slave still in me, she thought. I must watch my own thinking—I must be as free in my soul as I am by law. She glanced at Coalhouse Walker who clearly had no such problems standing beside her with his shoulders squared and a kind of solemn joy on his face. He held her hand. Slowly the line moved forward and they came around the corner. Some of the people ahead of them were singing. Not loudly—they were singing for themselves, a prayerful hymn, so that this blessed thing that was happening would continue to happen. Up ahead, in front of the steps to the city hall, a table had been set up right there on the sidewalk, and a Union officer sat behind it with two enlisted men standing with their rifles at the ready on either side. Because of the wind they had put big stones over the sheaves of paper on the table. Wilma didn’t know why the whole business couldn’t have been right there up the steps inside of the city hall.

It was a very slow process. Some of the black folks thought they would be given a deed right then and there along with a map to get to their property. But these were applications only, and that had to be explained over and over again, apparently. And then of course most of the men couldn’t write and the officer had to write their names in for them and let them sign with a mark and then the mark had to be attested to by the officer. And then, every once in a while, the officer got up and went into the building for one reason or another while everyone stood there waiting and singing and the wind blew wet along the ground, darkening the hem of Wilma’s skirt and chilling her ankles.

When it was finally their turn, Wilma read the application and explained it to Coalhouse. He nodded and looked at the officer and smiled. But there was a problem. Resettlement deeds were exclusively for the heads of families. Is this Mrs. Walker? the officer asked, indicating Wilma. Coalhouse, frowning, shook his head no. Is there a Mrs. Walker even so? the officer said with a sly smile.

Coalhouse grew deadly still and stared at the man. Wilma grabbed his forearm, feeling the muscles tense. Give me that paper, she said. We’ll bring it back to you and everything that we require we will have.

Whatever you say, Auntie, the officer said.

I expect you will recognize us, Wilma said. We will come directly to the front here, you will not have us start tomorrow at the end of the line, as we have done that today.

In a nearby town square they found a bench sheltered from the weather by a weeping willow. Yet it was chilly here too, and dark. Coalhouse put his arm around Wilma’s shoulders. She leaned away from him, sitting hunched over with her hands in her lap. Let’s talk about this again, she said.

I know to farm the land, Miss Wilma. That’s what I know.

You saw that man’s mind. Whoever they are, these are white folks first and foremost.

For forty acres around, we won’t have to see a white face.

What they give they can take away.

That the Lord you talking about who can do that. No man will take what is mine.

Wilma shook her head.

Aw now, Coalhouse said, where is that spirit? It was there telling that officer man what would be. You will see us tomorrow right here! Yes! That was my Wilma. But where is it now, the spirit? Don’t see it anywhere, Coalhouse said, looking into her eyes.

For a while they were silent. They listened to the city astir. On the street behind them a procession of mule-drawn field guns clattered by.

My Judge Thompson? Wilma said. He used to go up to New York or to St. Louis or Chicago. Went to all those places. Take the trains hither and yon. And he’d come back and have his dinner and talk about it. I made sure to stand behind the door and listen to him tell Miz Emily about these big cities up North. How fine they were. Each of them a whole world, with all kinds of wonders that you wouldn’t expect in your lifetime. Of course, he was there to talk to other judges and such, and staying in the fancy hotels as a man of the world. But it made me think. I would like to live in a big city. I could do that. Nobody bother you there, everyone too busy with theirselves to bother with you. And you make your life. You’re free.

The only way north in this war is walking with the army. Is that what you mean?