A Deeper Sense of Loyalty (30 page)

James waved and veered off the side of the road to get out of the dust. He pulled up, had a drink of water and a thick slice of beef jerky. His emotions were running high. After more than two years he was back in Georgia. So huge was the temptation to bypass Atlanta and keep riding until he reached his childhood home. How wonderful it would be to see it again, he thought. Then a dark cloud loomed on his mental horizon. Things would not be the same. How would he be received? Certainly not joyously—not while wearing a blue uniform.

There was, however, one thing that gave James great satisfaction. The road was crowded with the newly liberated. Scores of black people, ex-slaves, were on the move. With the presence of the Union army there was no more need to escape. Individuals, couples, and entire families were walking away from the plantations. Some carried their belongings on their backs, others had mules and carts. None could probably say exactly where they were going but they were free to go and that was enough for now.

James wondered if Langdon Plantation had been abandoned as well. It would depend upon whether or not the Federals had occupied the area. He thought about Farley Tabor, his father's abusive overseer. How it would pierce his dark heart to see his subjugated workforce drop their burden and walk away.

James shook himself from his place of deep thought and continued on to Atlanta. From five miles out he could see that the sky was nearly blocked out by heavy black smoke. When he reached the edge of the city he was met by a scene of unbelievable destruction. Many homes in the residential areas were still standing, but the business and industrial districts were in ruins. Railway stations, warehouses, and factories had been leveled. Fire had rampaged through an oil refinery igniting a warehouse next door that contained a large supply of gunpowder. The gunpowder had exploded, sending a shower of sparks into the sky, setting other structures on fire. Many of them were still smoldering.

The soul was being torn out of a graceful city, thought James. He remembered traveling to Atlanta with his family several times as a boy. He wouldn't have believed he would ever see it like this. Hundreds of Union soldiers filled the streets, their spirits, in contrast to James's, were lively and boisterous. To them it was more like a circus than a wasteful, destructive act of war.

Turning away from the sad spectacle, he located the headquarters building and reported to Major Henry Hitchcock, General Sherman's Assistant Adjutant General. The major told him where he could find the cavalry bivouac. “Eat hearty and get some sleep tonight. Tomorrow we march and the cavalry will be leading the way.”

“Are we really going all the way to the coast, Major?”

“All the way.”

James had no trouble finding the cavalry encampment, and for the second time that morning he reported in. This time it was to General Judson Kilpatrick. James had read quite a lot about the general but had never seen him in person. In his opinion, Kilpatrick was an ugly man with a square jaw and bushy sideburns the color of sand. He was an authoritative figure and arrogance was his persona. Although he was a very formidable opponent, many thought him to be a reckless daredevil. The general was understandably very busy and he was short and to the point with James. “Be ready to ride in the morning,” he said.

When James was dismissed, he stripped the saddle and blanket off the Bay and gave him a thorough rubdown. Naming his horses had always been an absolute habit and so he dubbed the big horse Goliath. He was bent over checking Goliath's hooves when he heard a voice say, “What do you think of old Kilcavalry?”

James looked around and there stood a trooper perhaps a few years older than him with curly dark hair, brown eyes, and a perfectly trimmed chin beard.

“I beg your pardon,” said James.

“What do you think of Kilcavalry? That's what they call him, you know.”

“I don't believe I've ever heard that.”

“Well it
is
a sobriquet he's just recently earned.”

“If you would indulge me, how did he earn it?” asked James.

“Well you see, he has this bad habit of running his troopers and their horses to exhaustion on long rides, then getting them killed in careless charges.”

“Sounds like a man with a flair for the dramatic.”

“That's a nice way of putting it.”

“So do you think we are in for a bad time?” James questioned.

“Have you ever heard of Fighting Joe Wheeler?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Well, we'll be seeing him soon. They say he's the roughest one hundred and twenty pound man in the South. His men are no better. I've heard that they are so undisciplined that they sometimes scare the Southern civilians more than we do. By the way, I'm Lieutenant Alvin Mitchell, Mitch to my friends.”

“Lieutenant James Langdon.” The two men shook hands. “Where you from, Mitch?”

“Pennsylvania, near Philly. You?”

“Georgia, near Macon.”

“I sort of thought so but I didn't say anything because I didn't want you to think I had a problem with it. I don't.”

“It's OK. Others have asked. No one has given me a bad time yet.”

“You're lucky. I've run into some pretty narrow minds in the army. You know you're likely to see home tomorrow.”

“What makes you think so?”

“I'm a staff officer so I know a little more about what's going on. But I might get in Dutch for talking too much so keep it under your hat.”

“Sure.”

“General Sherman has four corps. He is splitting them into two wings with two corps each. The northern wing will be commanded by General Slocum, the southern wing by General Howard. They'll travel on parallel routes for a week or so then turn towards each other and meet at Milledgeville. Kilpatrick's five thousand troopers will ride ahead of Howard's wing to screen the advance. When we ride tomorrow we'll be heading in a southeasterly direction towards Macon.”

“Are we to take Macon?”

“Not from what I've heard. We will make an assault on the city but it's only meant as a feint. The idea is to camouflage our real objective. Howard's wing will turn northeast.”

“Then I won't see home,” said James. “My father's plantation is south of Macon.”

“I'm glad, James. It could be pretty rough on you. But you should still prepare for the worst.”

“What does that mean?”

“Have you noticed the mood of the men in this army?”

“Yes. They act as though they're on a holiday.”

“Exactly. That's because they plan on filling their pockets.”

“I don't follow you.”

“The wagon train will only carry enough supplies to last about twenty days. After that we will have to live off the land. Each day every regiment will send out foraging parties, about twenty to thirty men under an officer. There job is to gather supplies, but from what I've seen they'll do more than that. General Sherman is a very good military commander but he believes in making war on civilians. He's issued orders forbidding the men to trespass in dwellings. They have also been ordered to discriminate between rich and poor and in either case to leave enough food to maintain the family. But Sherman will not enforce the rules. Once those bummers get started they will pillage and plunder. They'll take what they want and destroy the rest. I've seen it happen right here in Atlanta. For a lot of these men this march will be something of a sport. I just want to warn you, James. You may find it difficult to watch.”

James did not know how to answer. He was still naïve enough to be appalled at such conduct and even more so that the high command did not restrain their men. Apparently he was not grasping the concept of total war. And what about the Southern command, he wondered. Were they not yet willing to admit that they had made a mistake? Everyone knew from the beginning that most of the fighting would be on Southern soil. With very few exceptions, this had been the case. Did they not know what to expect if they failed to drive the Yankees off? Was it worth all the waste and all the destruction just to keep a race of people in bondage? God forgive me, thought James, they must be evil.

“Thank you for the information, Mitch, but I have made my bed and I
will
sleep in it. My father taught me that . . . maybe he can be proud of me for something.”
 

 

TWENTY-FOUR

 

The March Begins

 

 

On the morning of November 15
th
, 1864, the cavalry, with General Kilpatrick in the lead, rode out of Atlanta. It was not long before they encountered veteran troopers in faded gray. General Wheeler's men threw up roadblocks at East Point, Jonesboro, Stockbridge, and Lovejoy's Station in an effort to slow the advancing Federal army. But the Rebels were simply overwhelmed by numbers and continued to retreat to Macon.

General Wheeler had massed about two thousand men to defend the city. Four miles from the outskirts of Macon, the dismounted Confederate cavalry were dug in behind earthen barriers, waiting for an attack. Inspired by the spirit of their commander, the Yankee riders charged Wheeler's position. James was out in front, bent low in the saddle to make less of a target, firing his army revolver and yelling like a madman. Men on both sides of him fell from their horses; some dying instantly; others were trampled to death by accident. When the Union troopers reached the Confederate line they split left and right then made a half circle and headed for the rear.

After making the turn, just ahead of James, a comrade was hit in the shoulder and slumped forward in the saddle. The wounded man tried to hang on at least long enough to get beyond range of the Confederate rifles. He may have made it except for the fact that another bullet struck his horse in the lower neck causing animal and rider to slam to the ground. James was almost past the motionless soldier, moving at a full gallop when he realized that it was Lieutenant Alvin Mitchell.

Not knowing if Mitch was dead or alive, he wrestled Goliath to a stop, wheeled around, and rode back to where he lay. He jumped to the ground trying to hold onto the big Bay who was wild with fear. Thinking quickly but not necessarily clearly, James tied the reins to his belt. He reached down for Mitch while Goliath tried to drag him away from the shooting. The bullets that screamed past were most uncomfortably close. Two rounds thudded into Mitch's dead horse. After what seemed like eternity, James got Mitch to his feet. He was dazed and bleeding but his survival instincts took hold, and with James's help, managed to climb up onto the rearing Bay. James leaped at the horse's rump and clawed for a handful of saddle. He pulled himself up behind Mitch, reached around him, and took the reins. Goliath needed no urging to race for the rear. It wasn't until they were safely out of range and until the adrenalin stopped coursing through his veins that James realized his left trouser leg had been nicked by a bullet; his right shoulder insignia had been shot away.

After the attack, Kilpatrick retreated and the wounded that were able to make it back, including Lieutenant Mitchell, were taken to the main column for medical attention. Before Mitch was taken away, he held out his good arm and said, “I owe you, James. Your father would have to be proud.”

Howard's wing circled northeast as Mitch said they would; Slocum's wing approached Covington on its feint towards Augusta.

Immediately after Slocum's wing passed by the town of Covington, the liberated slaves began to follow the army by the thousands. They waited along the roads and at every crossing. They would crowd into the camps at night carrying information, food, and most of all, gratitude. The joyous slaves told the soldiers stories of how they were whipped and beaten, often having salt rubbed into their wounds. They talked about the bloodhounds that were used to hunt them if they tried to escape. James felt a twinge when they mentioned the dogs, remembering the dog pen that was attached to Farley Tabor's quarters. He also remembered a time hearing the yelping himself when he was leading runaway slaves North from Tennessee. The Union soldiers developed a special loathing for such dogs because they knew that they were also used to track fellow soldiers who escaped from Southern prisons. Whenever they got the chance the men killed the bloodhounds.

Again, the mixture of emotions made it difficult for James to sleep, whenever he was afforded the opportunity. The stories that came from the slaves reinforced his belief that he was doing the right thing. Unfortunately, Lieutenant Mitchell's predictions had been correct about the foragers. They were like outlaws in a territory where there was no one to stand against them. It was free will and free reign; whether the men came back with useful supplies or women's dresses they had stolen, it was all the same to the officers. To James it was largely a desire to steal and destroy disguised as retribution. And it
was
difficult for him to watch frightened civilians trying to pack a few possessions and flee before the approaching army. As in every circumstance, the innocent were being punished with the guilty without a care as to which was which.

More and more the ability of the Confederacy to oppose the Union army was showing signs of desperation. Old men and young boys were all that was left to fill the ranks of local militia. The days of brilliant Southern victories were gone and every attempt to stem the tide ended in a defeated effort.

Near Griswoldville, an inexperienced general named P.J. Phillips attacked a single brigade of Union infantry under the command of Brigadier General Charles C. Walcutt. The Confederates outnumbered the Yankees two to one, but the advantage was offset by one regiment of the Union brigade, who carried Spencer repeating rifles. Bravery proved to be no match for firepower and the Confederates fell in waves before the fast-shooting weapons. When the battle was over, James rode out across the field. Among the Southerners who lay dead or dying, not one was of a legal age for recruitment.