The Fateful Lightning (18 page)

To one side of him now, people were slowing, gathering with noisy enthusiasm around a small group of blue cavalrymen. The horsemen were tossing papers, scattered by the breeze, fluttering out over the outstretched hands of the Negroes. Franklin moved closer, curious, reached out, plucked a single piece of the paper from the air. It was fragile, thin, something he had seen before, what his father said was
money
. Franklin had never felt the notes, wasn’t completely certain what any of it was for, had seen only what the overseers had done, offering piles of the paper in exchange for something they wanted, or using it for what he was told was wagering, some kind of game with
small colorful cards. But the cavalrymen were letting loose bundles with loud-mouthed glee, the people responding by snatching up every piece they could grab. He studied the paper in his hand, recognized the number one, two zeroes, his eye settling on a vignette, a portrait of slaves working in a field, men bent low, weeding cotton, something he had done since he was a small boy. He stared at the image, had seen a portrait in the Cobb house, what his father said was a painting. But this was very different, a scene familiar to him, as though someone had frozen a moment in time. There was an odd peacefulness to the scene, a strange beauty, someone’s handiwork with a pen perhaps, someone who had been in those fields. There was another portrait, low on the paper, a white man, stern, and to one side, a woman, standing tall, draped in some sort of gown. He turned away, knew there was punishment for looking too long at white women, but the boisterousness of the crowd swept that away, and he looked again, his eye on the men working the cotton. Why would someone draw this? he thought. It was another mystery, in a day that was now bursting with them, confusion rolling through him that the white people who regarded the slaves with such authority, such cruelty, would use their labor as something to adorn their currency.

He looked up at the horsemen, the game over, their bundles now spread over the sea of eager hands. Beside him, a man gripped a wad of the paper, held it out toward him, said, “Whooee. I gots me a treasure heah! I be buying the whole work’.”

Franklin glanced again at the vignette on the note in his hand, thought, They wouldn’t be giving us this if it had value. He held out the note to the man, said, “Here. Take it.”

The man eagerly accepted it, then hesitated, said, “Hey, now. You oughta keep it! We be needin’ all manner of vittles and such. Dey’s a great land up ahead. Heaven itself done come down. We’s been delivered by de Lawd Sherman. He might be a-wantin’ us to pay him.”

Franklin said nothing, watched as the man stuffed the paper into his pocket. He looked at the man’s eager smile, pondered the strangeness of his words. “If we’re bein’ delivered, God won’t be needin’ none of this. I ain’t seen nothing in the Bible about tradin’ paper to get into heaven.”

He turned away, moved back out into the road, saw even more
people in the procession, some of them singing, a disjointed chorus, a mishmash of songs from Sunday school lessons, some just nonsensical. He moved with them again, ignored the ragged attempts at music, studied the faces close to him, an older woman, tears, clapping her hands in some kind of rhythm, and she looked at him now, smiling, held up her hands to the sky.

“Is a glorious day, young man. We’s free.”

He didn’t know the woman, saw her dress, something far more grand than suited her, the garment too large, taken from her mistress’s wardrobe. He nodded, polite, moved away, quickened his steps, couldn’t help thinking of the overseers, the punishment for theft. Is it stealing now? Is that what it means to be free? What happens if the army leaves us behind, abandons us to those other men, those
other
soldiers on horses? There’s cavalry out there, still. Has to be. And Lucky’s not done with us. Not Master Cobb, neither.

The blue cavalrymen had moved off, the parade resuming, and Franklin walked again, keeping pace with those around him. He stared out to the side of the road, brush and trees, distant fields, a farmhouse, nothing as large as Master Cobb’s. He looked upward, the sky a rich blue, the air cold, energizing, thought of his father again. I’d have carried him. But he’s just like an old mule. Won’t go where he don’t want to. The woman’s words rolled through him.
We’s free
. I don’t know what that means. If we don’t work the fields, what else are we to do? What else am I to do?

He kept walking, moved forward through a flock of older women, past the young men like him, strong backs, thick arms. He felt a strange energy, began to run, slow, methodical steps, slipped his way past more of the throng, faster now. He eased out to the roadside, his pace quickening to a full sprint, up past the parade. There was a wagon in front of him, soldiers, heads turning toward him, and he ran past them, ignored the shouts, fought through the painful jabs in the soles of his bare feet, ran until he saw the backs of the men in blue, another wagon, men on horses, guards with guns eyeing him as he passed. The questions in his mind had stopped, replaced by something new, a fire that pushed aside the doubt, the fear, the mysteries. He wanted to know more about these soldiers, to do what they did, to stand up and fight the men like Master Cobb, like Lucky. The joy
in the people around him had been overwhelming, and the thought that the bullwhips and the dogs could take that away made him cry, tears smeared across his cheeks, sadness blending with a growing fury. If the men in blue were indeed his salvation, he had to know that, had to know why, had to know
how
. And he had to help them.

“
H
e says he wants to join up. Told him ain’t no use in asking. We ain’t got much use for darkies here, sir. We wanna put them into a battle line, there’s a whole damn army following along behind us. That ain’t happening, I’m wagering.”

The man laughed, the officer across from him smiling. The officer looked at Franklin, said, “What makes you special, boy? You like all these blue uniforms, then? Wanna march around and play soldier?” The man’s tone was infuriating, but Franklin kept silent, knew these men could do whatever they wanted with him, no different than any white man before.

The soldier who had him by the arm spoke again. “Want me to toss him back out with the flock, Captain? We’re passin’ out hardtack to ’em right now. Hey, boy, you hungry? Don’t wanna miss out on General Sherman’s generous feast.”

Franklin felt the churn in his stomach, hadn’t eaten anything since the night before. “I’m hungry, yessir, General, sir.”

The officer motioned to the man, who released his grip on Franklin’s arm. “Sergeant, get him a piece of hardtack.”

“Sir.”

The sergeant moved away, grumbling something under his breath, and Franklin kept his eyes low, wouldn’t meet the officer’s eyes, felt his power, the authority in his voice.

“I’m Captain Gorman, boy. No generals here. You’re with the 113th Ohio. Lucky you weren’t shot, running through here all hell for leather. What’s eating you? Soldiering, I guess. That it?”

Franklin kept his head down, pondered the question. “Not sure, sir.” He paused, tried to choose his words carefully. “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking you. They’s plenty of folks back there, saying you’ve freed us from the masters, that we ain’t gotta go back to them anymore. I have to know, sir, is that the truth?”

Gorman sat back, folded his arms across his chest. “Well, now. Can’t say I’ve ever had a darkie ask me a question. Didn’t know you boys knew of such things. You speak pretty well, better’n most I’ve heard. Can you read?”

Franklin saw the opening, the captain’s expression changing, the question serious. He stood straight, a quick glance into the man’s blue eyes, nodded. “Yessir. Been taught by Master Cobb. The Bible mostly. Know all about Jesus and Mary. Cain and Abel. King David and Mr. Solomon. I can do ciphering, too. Count to a hundred, and take away, too. Subtract and whatnot.”

The sergeant returned, held out a flat piece of bread, a small square. “Here, boy. It ain’t roasted beef, but for Thanksgiving, it’s better than starving.”

Franklin took the bread, put one corner into his mouth, tried to bite, the bread breaking off. The sergeant laughed, and Franklin felt tricked, the soldier playing some prank. He stood tall again, looked at the officer, tried to hold his anger. “I can’t eat this. Not as dumb as you think. I guess you don’t care if we go hungry a’tall.”

The sergeant said, “Well, listen to that. This army’s rations don’t suit these folks. You’ll feel different, boy, by morning.”

“Sergeant Knight, you may return to your post. I’ll take care of this boy.”

The sergeant saluted, the laughter passing, the man giving him a last quick look, nothing friendly in the man’s eyes. Franklin looked at the hard piece of bread in his hand, said, “Sir, if I done wrong, I am sorry.”

The captain laughed now, said, “You haven’t had any of our delicious hardtack before. Go on, you can eat it. It’s just a cracker. Won’t kill you. Takes a while. Your spit will soften it up. They call it hardtack for a reason. If it was any good, they’d call it soft…something. It sure as hell ain’t my wife’s Thanksgiving dinner.”

The word rolled through him, two words,
thanks…giving
.

“Sir, what’s that mean? Thanks, giving.”

The captain stared at him, a silent pause. “You don’t know about that. Not surprising. These damned rebels not about to give you anything to be thankful for. Last year, President Lincoln set aside a day for us to celebrate, well, everything we wanted to. We give thanks for
everything good around us. I’ve got three boys at home. I’m thankful they’re not old enough to be in this war. I’m thankful for General Sherman. He’s gonna whip these rebels, and then we can all go home. You have heard of General Sherman?”

“Yes, sir. He was in my papa’s house back there a piece. Master Cobb’s plantation house, too.”

“That’s General Cobb, boy. More likely, he’ll be Prisoner Cobb before long. Either way, he’s just another rebel. So, he was your master? Guess you don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

“If that’s what you say, sir. I’m scared that might not be true. There’s some bad men work for Master Cobb. They probably kill me for being here a’tall. I’d feel a whole lot better if I knew you were right. I’ll do anything you need if I can help out.”

Gorman stared at him for a long moment. “Captain Jones’s not likely to let me have a servant. There’s no colored regiments hereabouts, or I’d send you there. Here, they’ll not let you fight. Won’t give you a uniform, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He paused. “You read
and
cipher?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where’d you learn to speak well? Half the slaves I run into, I can’t hardly make out what’s being said.”

“Sunday school, I reckon, sir. Read the Bible out loud most days. Some of it was…hard to figure out. But I learned most of it. If I got a word wrong, a man’s name, like Job, well, the teacher would slap my hand with a stick. Didn’t much care for that.”

Gorman was smiling now, pointed to the hardtack in Franklin’s hand. “Eat that. The sergeant’s right. You’ll wish you did later on. Tell you what, boy. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Franklin, sir.”

“That your first or last name?”

It was a question he had never considered. “Both, I suppose, sir.”

“Don’t tell people that. You’ll never stop being a joke. There’s more inside you than just some ignorant slave, isn’t there? No need to answer that. I want you to come with me. Captain Toland Jones is the regimental commander. I’ll bet he can put you to some use.”

T
he smells pouring out of the tent drove a hard stake into Franklin’s hunger, the one piece of hardtack doing little to stop the rumbling in his stomach. He followed the captain to the edge of the tent, heard voices inside. All out across a wide field, soldiers were bedding down, campfires spread out as far as he could see, more smells, someone singing, the sound of a banjo.

“Stay here.”

He obeyed, watched Gorman slip into the tent, heard the talk, tried to hear the words. The captain emerged again, and behind him, another man, gold on his uniform, then two more men behind him. The first man said, “This him, eh?”

The captain seemed to stiffen, was suddenly uncomfortable, a surprise to Franklin. “Yes, General.”

The man looked behind him, said, “Captain Jones, do what you can. If it helps, more the better.”

Franklin felt a sudden bolt of excitement, the words bursting out. “You be General Sherman, sir?”

The man looked at him, and Franklin heard low laughter, stood silently, was suddenly afraid.

“No. I’m General Morgan. General Sherman’s…elsewhere. Captain Gorman says you’re a lot smarter than the usual darkie. This fellow here is Captain Jones. For now, you’re in his command. You do what he tells you, prove just how smart you are, find out what we need to know, then maybe you’ll get to meet General Sherman.”

“Or the Almighty, if he talks too much. Rebs catch him, they’ll carve him into pieces.”

The voice came from another of the men, and Franklin was learning to tell the ranking officers by the tone of their voice. This one was young, mouthy, ignored by the others. The man introduced as Jones said, “Come in here, young man. There’s food going to waste, and you look like you’re about to drool on my boots.” He looked at the mouthy man, said, “Lieutenant, you’re done with supper, right? Good, he can use your plate.”

The lieutenant started to protest, clearly knew better. General Morgan moved away, and Franklin saw the soldiers near the tent saluting him with their hands, with words of respect, one man calling out, “Happy Thanksgiving to you, sir!”

Franklin felt his head spinning, tried to absorb all that was happening, the sounds and smells, new words, so many white men.

Jones moved into the tent, and Captain Gorman slapped Franklin on the back, said, “You’re getting a big opportunity here. Don’t make me look bad.”

The man moved away, and Franklin turned, saw the open tent, stepped forward, bent low, hesitated, caught the smell of meat, saw Jones sit in a small chair.