Andersonville (98 page)

Neither the woman nor the girl answered or moved. They were rooted and clutching, still crying.

You got a chaw on you? asked Keeling. No? Well, the surgeons done told me I shouldn’t chew tobacco neither, count of my digestion. But it’s something to do. . . . He told his story to Ira as flames kept howling. He had been drafted more than two years previously. His wife and the girl and an old grandfather tried to work the farm while he was gone, but now the grandfather was dead. Good thing he didn’t live to see this! He’d of had a fit and fell in it. For he built this very house, mostly with his own hands. Well.

Jim Keeling served finally with the Forty-ninth Georgia and had been wounded in Virginia the previous summer. . . . Twas a spent ball, but it nigh knocked the breath out of me. Ever since twas healed, I’ve had great difficulty keeping my food down. That’s how come I lost so many pounds: don’t weigh two-thirds my natural self now.

Shortly before sunset the bridge beside that house had been set afire. None of the Keelings saw who started the blaze, they saw no one running from the scene. It was just that suddenly they heard and smelled and saw the fire, and ran into their yard to watch the bridge burning. . . . This ain’t exactly a turnpike through here, Mister; but it’s a good road and I spose valued by the Yanks accordingly. After that bridge fell through, just a while ago, a whole kit and boiling of Yankee cavalry come into this here very yard.

I think I saw them, said Ira. They passed me, beyond that hill. At least fifty of them.

Could have been—they looked like five hundred to me. They said I’d burned that bridge to hold up the Yank advance, and I told them, by God I never. Well, they said I ought to have kept from doing it whoever he was who done it. They said I was big enough; and then they found my gun and they says, See, you could have kept anybody from burning that bridge. So they broke my gun, smashed it gainst the fireplace. I couldn’t do nothing to repel them; they was far too many for me. Anyway I’m sickly, as I tolt you. Well. The officer, he said twas retaliation: that was the word he used. Said he’d been ordered to perform such duty, and by that time some of his men had took my sow, and blooded her, and had her up on a horse, like the horse was carrying double. Don’t reckon they took much else. But it don’t matter now—everything’s burning, cept the little bit we got out. They just marched us from the house and cut some sticks of pine from my wood pile and went to torching right and left. When they had her well alight, they rode off. Then we run to get what we could; but, as you see, twasn’t much.

It seemed odd to Ira that the Federals had left the low stable and other outbuildings untouched; perhaps they were pressed for time. Thus far a light but steady north wind had turned the drift of flames and embers away from the sheds; but now, as the roof of the house went in with a bright crash, a shift occurred. Blazing little birds traveled to the southeast and still more easterly, settling in profusion upon the sheds. Simultaneously with Keeling, Ira saw this danger, the wife and daughter saw it as well. All went hastening past the furnace. Before they reached the stable new tongues were showing on the dried shakes.

I got a couple buckets here, Mister, shouted Keeling. Help us fetch water from the creek!

Ira cried, I’ve a bad knee; but help me to get up there!

A cart stood near; Ira and the younger man pushed it with desperate strength against the stable. Ira managed to mount from cart to roof, with Keeling shoving at his legs. The man could not help much . . . Ira tore his own clothing . . . in another moment he had scrambled among the jeering flames. He yelled for a broom which he had seen lying in the yard; Keeling passed it to him while the young girl came laboring from the creek, spilling water from two wooden pails. Ira beat savagely with the broom, other naughty embers were flurrying down. Between water and poundings, the flames soon went out.

Best that your womenfolks splash water on those shed roofs too, Ira gasped. . . . So the danger passed as the main body of blaze went lower. They moved like actors on an orange-lighted stage. The area of illumination included the road, where now several horsemen could be seen halted, watching the affair. The stable was saved. . . . Ira had more difficulty getting down than he’d had ascending, until Keeling got his wits about him and fetched a homemade ladder from among his fruit trees. Ira walked across the dooryard toward the road, to find that the watchers were a youngish Federal major accompanied by three soldiers.

It’s too bad, said the major.

You should know. Bitterly. Your people did this.

Your house? asked the major.

Ira smelled burning of wool, he found where his coat sleeve was charring, he slapped at this tiny destruction. Not my house. It belongs—or did belong—to the man approaching there—a former soldier, wounded into the bargain.

Jim Keeling came up with no fear and shook his fist at the Northerners; the major’s horse shied. You blue-bellied devils, said Jim Keeling. Burnt the roof right off the heads of my family! Does a man’s heart good to see you Yanks warring against women and girls!

The Unionist motioned toward the ruined bridge beyond, where posts were glowing still. What of the bridge?

I never put hand to it! But I wish your damn Sherman had stood here and heard my wife and daughter a-crying. We should of marched into the North, God damn it! Would of trained you God damn Yanks how to act decent.

Major Hitchcock, sir! cried one of the privates. You want us to arrest this man? He’s abusive.

By no means, Chris. His house has just been burnt; I don’t blame him for being abusive, not in the slightest. The frightened cat raced across the roadway once more, and the major’s horse began to dance. He brought the animal under control and pulled over against the fence. He asked calmly of Ira, Have any troops passed this way, sir? At the moment I’m looking for some people from Illinois.

Obviously they’ve passed. They were cavalry.

No, no, and at this closer range Ira could see that Major Hitchcock’s face held a great weariness, there was solemn grief in his face. No, I’m seeking infantry. Perhaps they’re on the next road north.

He addressed himself directly to Jim Keeling. A word with you, Friend Southerner.

I got no good words for you, said Keeling. And I’m no friend.

I wish to say this: the fortunes of war held your army mainly away from the North; but at least you made no bones about burning Chambersburg, Pennsylvania. And we’ve had you people planting mines in the roads ahead of us. Citizens—making war! Some of our boys have been killed by those mines, some had their feet blown off. We’ve discovered you Georgians burning forage and corn along our route. Therefore General Sherman has ordered that houses will be burnt and cotton gins will be burnt to keep them company. Back on Buffalo Creek we found a bridge in ashes. The adjacent house was destroyed. I must admit that I felt impelled to argue with the general about this, and I’ll tell you exactly what he said. He said: Let the enemy look to his own people. If the Southerners find that their burning of bridges only destroys their own houses, they’ll soon stop it.

His face was tinted to bright copper by diminishing flames. Major Hitchcock closed his eyes in concentration, then leaned toward the people in the yard. He spoke earnestly. That is General Sherman’s belief, I heard him say it. He said: In war everything is right that prevents anything. He said that he feels there’s nothing to do but to make war so terrible that when peace comes it will
last.

There was something in his speech. . . . Where were you born? Ira asked. . . . Hitchcock smiled. Alabama. But my parents had come from the North. Oh yes, I was reared in Missouri and in Tennessee, but educated at Yale. I do have, as you might understand, a strong sympathy for the Southern people. Also I hold unalterable devotion to the Union cause. Now we must be on our way. Good evening. And you, he said to the tall thin Keeling— I am sorry for your loss; but I fear it had to be. Abruptly he rode toward the creek, soldiers clattering after him. The Georgians could hear them splashing through the stream, then they vanished.

Ira spent the night beside the embers. It was unhappily warm there, an open refuge from November’s chill. The Keelings took the bedclothing which had escaped destruction and bedded down in the stable. Jim Keeling said that he owned plenty of clean corn-shucks, they were not uncomfortable. The people offered to share their meager supply with Ira, in appreciation for help he had given them, but he refused. He was affected deeply by their gratitude. The man insisted on bringing a piece of canvas, and with this Ira made a rude tent to keep off winds. He lay within the folds, watching the play of light from ruins which still fried. He thought that he was safer here than he might be along avenues traveled by dangerous bands who clung alongside the Federal advance. Men would see that destruction had occurred already; obviously the place was stripped, they would pass by.

There came disturbances through the night: horses passed, men talked; they stopped to discuss the lingering blaze, went on. Once two wagons came also, with hullabaloo about their fording the stream. Soon after sunrise a frightened elderly couple appeared with a basket. These were the Jarells from down the road, and feared to come sooner . . . they had seen the blaze, knew that the Keeling place must have burned, there was nothing else to burn at that point. Mr. Jarell said that his own place had been visited by foragers who took nothing except chickens. They said that Mrs. Keeling and her daughter must sleep in their house for the time being. It appeared that they were distant cousins of the wounded veteran; Ira heard talk about Aunt Mame and Cousin Neddy. The Jarells had fetched bread and side meat . . . Ira ate but sparingly. An extra mouth was a dreadful thing in times like these.

Ira went into the privy and extracted a thousand dollars Confederate from his hoard. He insisted that Jim Keeling should accept this as a loan—to be paid back, without interest, when and if. It may be worth nothing at all, now that the Yanks are come, Ira told the haggard man. Again it may be the only currency in circulation for some time. Do with it as you can. Keeling cried openly.

After Ira stopped to play with the rescued kittens in their basket—with the mother cat no longer terrified but buzzing contentedly as the kittens fed—he went away. He smiled grimly. Literally he did not know which way to turn. From conversation which he’d heard, and rumor reaching the Jarells during the night, he judged that the bulk of the Federal army trod paths to the north and east. There was no point any longer in even considering Savannah.

Freebooters had passed but more might be trailing. A man might remain in danger as long as he remained in this region . . . all people would be in danger. Ira wondered if a talon of the blue iron hand reached toward Andersonville. He might come home to find his own house in ashes; but at least thousands of the prisoners still incarcerated were too weak to do much revengeful harm. Most of the Reserves could not fight, they would run away. He thought of hasty feet trampling in his hall, big shoes pounding the stair, drawers jerked out, tables upset. In his imaginings a hooting bandit dressed himself in Ira’s Mexican War uniform and went parading. Ira Claffey thought about his black people. Most of all Lucy was in his thoughts. But he felt that Mrs. Effie Dillard could cope with almost any band of raiders. Also Cousin Harry would be at hand. . . . No, he found no real worry, none worth entertaining. Resolutely he put the unhappy panorama out of his mind.

Beyond the next hill he was confronted by a party of terror-stricken citizens, driving a few head of sheep and a white cow about to come fresh. There were dogs trotting, and children, and an old man being pushed in a hand-cart. They just gave us sut! cried an old woman. My son-in-law, he’d made thirty-two hundred gallons of syrup; twas more than he had casks for, so he’d sunk a tank in the ground, buried it deep, and if those Yanks didn’t come along yesterday and help themselves to the whole! . . . They ruint my flower garden, cried a younger woman. They took Pa’s watch! screamed a child. Oh, Mister, they all cried. You better turn round and go back tother way. . . . Wouldn’t even wait for me to give them the keys to the bureau, cried the woman who’d lamented the loss of her garden. They just smashed in the drawers with musket butts. . . . They shot Jed! cried a little boy, as Ira continued doggedly on his way. He speculated drearily who Jed might have been: dog or pig or tomcat, he did not suppose that Jed was a person.

He went on and met the mass of the Union army’s right wing: rank and file and furbelow. Long afterward, Ira learned that there had been sixty-odd thousand men in the punishing hordes which slammed from Atlanta to Savannah; but on sight he thought that there were millions. The next northwest-to-southeast road was crammed as he had seen a small hallway in Milledgeville crammed during legislative session. There was not space enough in the road for the people. They would have shoved fences aside but the fences were gone: smoking patches showed where rails burned during the night. At the first intersection a foraging party assembled with their loot. A group of boys stood guarding a heap of smoked hams—a heap which might have filled one of the Claffey wardrobes to capacity and then some. The boys were laughing, not especially in arrogance, but seemingly with sheer spookish joy of living and of plundering. Always Ira would remember one: a hard-faced youngster of seventeen or thereabouts, who stood arrogantly with a cob pipe turned upside down in his mouth, as he would guard it against a rain; but it was not raining now. Whenever in after years someone said Sherman, or Sherman’s Invasion, or Sherman’s March to the Sea, he would think of that lean boy . . . freckled, beardless, shock-headed, with upside-down pipe. A big wagon came banging, and the boys yelled a question at the wagoner. Thirty-ninth Iowa? The wagoner nodded. He did not pull his four-horse team to a stand. It was impossible for anyone to halt in the road: too many people came swarming on their course. As the wagon continued, the group of youths labored after it with armloads of the hams. They pushed hams up across the tailboard, unseen hands received them apparently, hams vanished into the black-draped interior. Back and forth the soldiers went, hurrying through a distance of perhaps thirty rods before the meat was all put aboard. Them Iowa boys must have found themselves a big butcher, said someone behind Ira Claffey; but he could not even turn to see who was talking, he was agape.