The Fateful Lightning (22 page)

Another man spoke, one of the officers from the Georgia regiments. “Do you really expect him to march out here?”

“Of course not. No, gentlemen, we’re on our own. Word of yesterday’s activity has already reached Augusta, and I am quite certain it will enliven the conversations among the city’s dignitaries as to our next assault, which will no doubt sweep Sherman’s hordes out of this country. That’s what the newspaper is already saying. Did you know that, according to them, we have his entire army surrounded?”

Seeley felt too tired to keep silent, the annoyance of yet another absurd order overwhelming his discretion. “How are we to stop Sherman’s advance, sir? Our orders are to retard his progress, not destroy him.”

Wheeler looked at him, seemed ready to pounce on Seeley from his own saddle. “Bold question, young captain! I am just a bit uncertain as to the answer, despite General Bragg’s confidence. Did you not observe the enemy’s infantry yesterday? We crushed Kilpatrick, sent those boys scrambling back to their mamas. I would say that we successfully retarded Kilpatrick’s mission, whatever that might have been. And for what? So that half the Yankee army could remind us what we already know? They have ten guns to our one. Time was,
young captain, that every newspaper called out with perfect glee that one lone Confederate could whip ten Yankees, and have the muscle to whip a general or two in the bargain. Time was.”

Wheeler seemed to run out of energy, looked toward Bragg’s adjutant, who seemed eager for some new orders. The man came closer now, the clean uniform of a man who never sees the enemy.

“Do you wish me to return to Augusta, sir?”

There was an urgency to the question, and Seeley could see now, he had no interest in lurking about in this countryside. Wheeler removed his hat, ran a hand over his thin mat of hair. “You don’t care for life among the cavalry, Lieutenant? Well, no, I suppose this isn’t as comfortable as the headquarters of the ‘general commanding.’ You may return to your comforts. If General Bragg can bring himself to march down this way, it might be of value. Or it might not. We don’t know precisely what Sherman intends to do. I shall keep him informed. That won’t satisfy Braxton Bragg. He’ll wish to see reports of great victories, vast numbers of enemy casualties. We shall do our best on that account. Offer the general my extreme courtesy and the assurances that his orders will be carried out with the same sincerity with which he offered them.”

Seeley watched the man, who seemed puzzled by Wheeler’s sarcasm.

“Yes, sir. Thank you. I shall return at once.”

The man ran slowly toward a horse, mounted clumsily, spurred the animal, who responded with a high kick of his front legs. The man fell forward, wrapping his arms around the horse’s neck, a valiant effort to remain in the saddle, the horse now galloping away, the man clinging desperately to the horse and its mane. There was laughter from the troopers, insults and taunts, but Seeley was too tired to join in anyone’s frivolity. Wheeler watched the man depart, said in a low voice, “There it is. A perfect portrait of the Southern army, in all its glory.”

One of the others spoke up now, a major Seeley knew from the fights in Tennessee. “Sir, might I tend to my men? Our mounts are in poor shape. If we don’t find some fresh animals, I fear I won’t be able to put more than a company in the field.”

Wheeler acknowledged with a scowl. “All of us are in that state,
Major. Send out patrols to the east and north. Go into Augusta if you have to. If there’s better horses to be found, bring them in. Bring in every wagon of forage, every sack of flour, every ham and every chicken. What we don’t take, Sherman will. Whipping Kilpatrick was the most fun I’ve had in this entire campaign, but he’s still out there, and he’ll be looking to save his honor, and maybe his hide, from Sherman’s anger. When Sherman finds out where we are, he’ll push hard our way.” He paused. “I had always believed this command could accomplish something truly glorious, a great victory we’d be remembered for. If any of you believe that to be possible, I salute you. Right now, I’m just satisfied to be the thorn in a lion’s paw.”

The men separated, Seeley pulling the horse around, aiming toward the makeshift camp his men had spread out in the field. He didn’t say how we’re to find all those supplies, he thought, or the fresh horses. Do we just…take what we need? What will we leave behind? How will the people respond to that? The war hasn’t come to Augusta yet. They should welcome us. They
all
should welcome us. Instead they blame us, just as they blame the Yankees. So we’ll make that worse by stealing everything we require. How can that help us?

He dismounted, one knee buckling, his hands gripping the reins, keeping him upright. The pains of the long ride shot all through his body, and he closed his eyes, tried to loosen the agony in his joints. Gladstone was there now, held out a canteen.

“Easy, sir. Here. There’s a spring back in those far trees. Ain’t much, but it’s better’n goin’ dry.”

Seeley took the canteen, drank, the water cold and perfect and energizing. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, handed the canteen back to the sergeant, said, “Rest the men as best we can. General Wheeler’s right. We punched Kilpatrick square in the face yesterday. But it’s not a done thing. It’s like smacking a hornet’s nest. We’ll have to keep to the saddle tomorrow, find a way to do it again. If Sherman’s going to Augusta, we need to stand in the way, give him the best fight we can.”

“If ’n you say so, Captain. I’m just happy to grab me a Yankee by the shirttail. That little mix-up yesterday, well, sir, I never heard a baby squall like that bunch did. They ran like we was straight outta hell. Kinda makes you believe we can win this thing.”

Seeley looked at the older man, saw the yellow teeth locked in a broad smile. He glanced down the road where the prisoners had been, the men gone now, taken to wherever Riles had wanted them to be. I don’t like that man, he thought. Could do something really stupid. We treat their boys that way, they’ll do the same to us. No need for it, none at all.

He let out a deep breath, took the canteen from the sergeant again, another drink, saw smoke rising from the first fires. He returned the canteen once more, said, “I suppose we’ll be needing fresh mounts.”

“That we will, Captain. The horse meat out there ain’t worth much a’tall. Four of ’em dropped dead soon as we tied ’em up.”

Seeley thought of Wheeler, the order, “take what we need.” If patriotism or money won’t convince the civilians to help us, then the general’s right. There’s only one other way. He looked down, put a hand on the scabbard of his saber, saw the grime on the butt of his pistol. God help them. But first, He’s gotta help us.

WEST OF LUMPKIN, GEORGIA—DECEMBER 2, 1864

H
e knew better than to make any ventures too far from the protection of Federal skirmishers. No matter Captain Jones’s suggestion that
stupid
would ensure his safety, Franklin had heard too many stories of the brutality from rebel cavalry. Jones had seemed to agree, at least for now. There hadn’t been any tasks for Franklin beyond the routine that most of the senior officers required around the camps. Whatever the captain’s definition of
scout
was to be, Franklin had to wait until Jones decided to tell him.

Franklin heard the orders, the officers passing along word of the army’s next significant objective, a town to the south called Millen. The soldiers began to speak of a Confederate prison camp, that the army could enjoy the opportunity to liberate a number of captured Federal soldiers. That kind of talk seemed to energize the troops, men speaking openly of an
eye for an eye
, that if Millen was anything like Andersonville, any rebels they encountered along the way would feel the sharp wrath of this army. There was an air of viciousness to the talk, men around campfires speaking more of vengeance, making less of their usual idle chatter. It had once been about home, a woman
left behind, children. That had been no different than what he heard from the parade of Negroes, some of them already longing to return to whatever kind of home they had abandoned, the only other life they knew.

That some of the freed slaves would become homesick was odd to Franklin, that anyone might want to go back to life under the overseers, no matter how “kind” their master might have been. But the new sort of enthusiasm from the soldiers rattled him, some of their wrath seemingly pointed toward him, that this Negro now in the service of Captain Jones was a symbol of just why they were here, what had happened to so many of their comrades, and what they intended to do to set things right. Franklin tried to understand their anger, could see now that hatred of the rebels extended not just to those other soldiers, the men who wore the gray uniforms, but to everything about the South. That of course included the slaves. Franklin knew better than to engage a group of soldiers on his own. The soldiers seemed far more interested in the kinds of entertainment they could draw from the slaves, the spectacle of children dancing like some kind of happy dervish, or old men offering up a song they had learned in some faraway Sunday school. Franklin could see for himself how that kind of entertainment had grown stale to some of the soldiers, replaced by a hostile curiosity about just what a Negro actually was. Those debates carried a menace of their own, the stares toward him carrying a message Franklin had seen before, from the men with the bullwhips. No one seemed to resent his presence in service to the captain, performing various duties that none of the soldiers seemed required to perform. For Franklin, even menial tasks around the regiment’s headquarters were preferable to the frivolity, the attention that some of the black children seemed eager to receive.

The women who had accompanied the march had become a different matter altogether, performing the kind of service Franklin didn’t understand at all. Around the plantation, the white men had often taken the slave women behind closed doors, a cautionary word coming to Franklin from his father that no black man could ever interfere in anything the overseers or any of Master Cobb’s guests wished to do with the women. Franklin had never seen just what was happening, and the women rarely spoke of it, though more than once
he had seen tears and blood. But now, around the camps of these soldiers, there were slave women who seemed to welcome the attention. Franklin had stumbled into one encounter, odd noises coming from beneath a shelter-half, cries and groans that sounded like agony, as though someone might need help. Instead, he saw the shocking sight of a bare black leg, the hulking body of a soldier seemingly crushing the woman. The confusion of that had backed Franklin away, more scared than outraged. The soldier was a gruff sergeant, Coleman, a man who had no use for Franklin at all. The thought of stepping in, giving assistance to the woman, brought back those lessons from his father, that no slave could ever touch a white man, that if Franklin did anything at all, it might cost him…well, he didn’t really know what it would cost. But he backed away from the gutchurning scene in silence, feeling the shame of what he saw, shame as well for the woman. He saw her afterward, prancing casually through the camp, displaying what seemed to be an evil smile, and more glimpses of a bare leg, offering compliments to the soldiers as though there had been no assault at all. The sergeant had been there as well, had returned to the campfire to a slap on the back, low happy talk from his fellow soldiers that Franklin tried not to hear.

The menace he saw in some of the men in blue was a lesson he scolded himself not to forget. They were, after all, white men, and in that they were no different from the overseers. And if he was to enjoy the protection of the army’s guns, he was entirely vulnerable to whatever they wanted him to do, and however they wished to treat him. So far, the least threatening of them had been Captain Jones. But Franklin could feel that it was an even trade. The man commanded most of the men that Franklin encountered, what the flags showed was the “113th,” and for now they did exactly what the captain told them to do. The other officers commanded respect as well, the notion now clear to him that officers were just like the bosses, Lucky, the others. They carried authority, and if it had not come from Master Cobb, it most surely had come from Abraham Lincoln. But not all the officers welcomed his presence the way Jones did. The captain he had first met, Gorman, eyed Franklin even now with a hint of suspicion, as though Franklin had to prove every day that he had some value to justify the food they gave him. Franklin understood that if
Captain Jones in particular told him to do something, anything, Franklin would certainly oblige him. It was an odd change for him, to obey a man without threat of punishment, accepting the authority that came from the man himself, some piece of gold cloth on the man’s shoulder. There were no chains or bullwhips, no dogs to threaten Franklin if he did not perform. But there was a threat still, that Jones or any of the rest of them might suddenly have a change of heart, that the parade of slaves, or just Franklin alone, might suddenly be sent away from this army, forced to return to any part of the lives they had known before. That possibility terrified him.

The captain’s small staff had made use of another of the slaves, an older man called Poke. Poke was bent-backed, rough, leathery skin, spoke with a crude dialect Franklin hadn’t heard before. Most of it was English, in a fashion, but Franklin often had no idea what the man was talking about. He had one great asset, though, something Franklin could not fake. Poke was always smiling, always had a kind word for anyone who approached him. As well, he seemed to have a talent for handling horses, and Captain Jones made use of that, putting Poke to work as a groom. It was perfectly reasonable to Franklin that until Jones gave him some specific job to do, he could pass time by helping the old man tend to the mounts.

He carried a pair of water buckets, the kind of job difficult for the older man, moved with as much smoothness as he could. The creek was a great distance away, the buckets heavy, and Franklin had wondered why the captain would camp so far from it, until he actually saw the creek. There more tents were pitched, more men in those ornate uniforms, gold buttons and embroidery on their sleeves. It was Jones who had educated him why he outranked Captain Gorman, a detail Franklin tried to grasp, the “date of his commission.” But then Jones told him an obvious truth. Generals outranked captains, and those men usually had the better camps.

He had made four trips across the field, saw Poke waiting for him again, standing with four horses lined up in a neat row along a taut strand of rope.

“Heah, boy. Po’ it in de big trough again.”

Franklin poured the water into a wooden trough, nearly full now,
and Poke led one horse to drink, then another, then pointed out toward the far distant creek, toward a small house perched just beyond it.

“Mebbe one mo. Go on. Dey mus’ be mighty powerful folks in dat house dere. Is fool not to put dese horse no closer to water.”

No more fool, Franklin thought, than for me to go fetch it. He started back across the field, saw the campfires growing, the men gathering closer, their muskets stacked in neat cones, bayonets locked at the top. There were bugles blowing, discordant sounds that rolled out over the ground, through distant patches of scrub woods. He glanced up, darkness coming quickly, the usual chill settling down over them as the soldiers prepared for one more night under the stars. Best hurry up, he thought. You want more than those crackers, you get done with this. Never seen any man eat as fast as those soldiers can, and they’ll clean a pot quicker’n any one of us.

He jogged now, the ground rough with sticks, tufts of thick grass, sandspurs that quickly coated his pants legs. In a long minute, he reached the creek, dipped each bucket, filling it, started back quickly, avoided staring too long at the men gathered around a large tent, pitched to one side of the house. There were horses there as well, tied up far beyond a roaring fire, which reflected off the faces of a dozen officers. He stopped, his curiosity overwhelming his judgment, eased closer, saw the men eating, a bottle passed around, some of the talk punctuated with laughter. The voice startled him.

“Hey, you! What you doing here?”

Franklin heard the edge he had become accustomed to, kept his head low, turned. “Workin’ for Captain Jones, sir, over thataways. Waterin’ his horses, sir.”

He saw the man’s uniform, an officer, the voice young, shrill. “How long you been standing here, boy?”

Another man was there now, hatless, glasses. “Never mind, Lieutenant. I’ve seen him in the 113th’s camp. Go on over there, boy. Nothing for you to see here.”

There was a kindness in the man’s words, and Franklin kept his gaze low, said, “Thank you, sir. Much appreciated.”

He turned, the buckets heavy in his hands, moved back out across
the field, saw Poke waving at him, a manic display that made Franklin quicken his steps. He saw an officer by the horses now, thought, I’m in trouble. Took too long.

He moved straight to the trough, emptied the buckets, dropped them, faced the officer, saw now it was Captain Gorman.

“Sorry, sir. I had to haul the water clear across—”

“Mr. Franklin, come with me. Captain Jones has got something he wants you to do.”

H
e saw a civilian first, then Jones, sitting at a table outside Jones’s tent, his eye settling on an enormous ham set between them. Franklin smelled the ham, a glorious sight, saw the white bone protruding, the meat half gone. Beside him Gorman said, “As you requested, sir. He was helping that old fella, Poke, water the horses.”

Jones pointed to the ham. “Grab a piece, Captain. Plenty left. Not sure how many more of these we’ll find. Mr. Conyngham has made the observation that the farther east we go, the worse this country gets. The scouts have confirmed that.”

“Thank you, sir.” Gorman moved to the table, pulled a knife, sliced off a large chunk of the ham, looked back at Franklin, then again toward Jones. “I assume, sir, you’ll allow Mr. Franklin here…”

“Of course. Grab a handful. There’s a sack of turnips over here. Can’t say I’m too fond of those things, but if you’re hungry, beats hardtack.”

Franklin eyed the civilian, realized he had never seen a Northern man who wasn’t a soldier. The man was watching him carefully, studying him, no smile, no expression at all. Franklin focused on the ham now, moved closer, the smells of the smoked meat churning up the emptiness in his stomach. He pointed to the knife in Gorman’s hand.

“If you will allow me, sir?”

Gorman held out the knife, and Franklin felt the heft of the blade, the grip fitting perfectly into his hand, something far more dangerous than the small folding knife Franklin had always carried. He had kept that hidden deep in his pocket, had no idea if the army allowed
anyone to carry any kind of weapon, no matter how small. Gorman’s knife was heavy, a blade wider than two fingers, the kind of weapon no slave would ever dare to wield. He admired the knife for a quick moment, then stabbed the ham, sliced off a small piece, felt self-conscious eating in front of the officers, saw the civilian watching him still. He stepped back, slipped the ham into his mouth, a quick swallow. The strong smokiness was overpowering, as wonderful as the pot of chicken from days before.