The Fateful Lightning (28 page)

NEAR SPRINGFIELD, GEORGIA—DECEMBER 8, 1864

H
e carried a written order from Captain Gorman, sanctioned by Captain Jones, a precaution Franklin took seriously. The paper authorized him to accompany the bummers on their next venture outward, what would be another sweep through the countryside that was growing more dismal by the mile. The swamps seemed to spread out in every direction now, marshy fields, thickets of enormous cypress trees, black water, mud, and every kind of insect. The plantations were fewer, most abandoned, and the bummers continued to ignore the authority handed them by Sherman’s order at Atlanta. The complaints and entreaties from the Southern civilians had reached every headquarters in all four of Sherman’s corps, but with food likely to be much more scarce, it became more important for the bummers, or the black aides like Franklin, to make the friendly effort to convince the slaves to even greater efforts toward helping the passing army. So often, when the plantations had seemed stripped clean of any useful goods, the slaves had led the way, revealing hidden treasures in underground larders, root cellars disguised by any means the white owners thought would
help. The bummers had become expert at seeking out those hidden pantries, but much more, they had focused enormous energy at rooting out more than just rations. The hunt for some kind of treasure had not changed at all, the bummers growing skilled at identifying carefully disguised hiding places, freshly turned soil that might lead to a trove of silverware, or some other valuable booty. But there were far fewer opportunities for the bummers now, and so the urgency for befriending what slaves there might be seemed important enough for Jones to hand Franklin over to Gorman, both men recognizing that a Negro offering a kind word might be more persuasive in convincing any slaves that this army was not about pillage or suffering. There were too many rumors of that already, some ridiculous, some regrettably true. And by far, the greatest outrages had been committed by the bummers. To the officers who actually cared about the consequences of that, who took Sherman’s orders seriously, it made sense to reach out to the civilians with a softer hand. But Franklin’s officers also knew that some of the bummers had become uncontrollable, ignoring anyone’s authority but their own muscle. It was a fact of life that as they spread farther across Georgia, more and more of the men regarded the foraging duty as a means of enriching themselves at the expense of any well-to-do civilian. It was infuriating to those officers who cared, and not all did. Franklin had heard plenty of that from his own captain to understand that too often, when the bummers moved out past the skirmish line, they left the authority of their officers behind.

It was a risk for any Negro to move across this land by himself. But Franklin’s job on this day was not only to assist in the foraging efforts, but to observe just what kind of misbehavior the bummers themselves might engage in. He carried a nerve-rattling fear that if these men decided his company wasn’t welcome, or if there was some certainty that he would return to camp only to pass along reports of their misdeeds, he might not return to camp at all.

Franklin welcomed the opportunity to meet other slaves in this different kind of countryside, the curiosity of that helping allay his fears about the soldiers he traveled with. He understood that his job was to offer a smile, convincing the slaves that helping the army also
helped them. It seemed simple enough, that certainly a man with black skin could gain more cooperation in finding what might be hidden.

One part of Jones’s instructions wasn’t written on the paper now carried in Franklin’s pocket. As persuasive as he might be in passing along the army’s good intentions, he was also charged with persuading the slaves not to leave their homes. That made his task that much more challenging, especially if the slaves turned against those masters who might still be around to mete out punishment. For some time now the army had been suffering a heavy burden from the needs and the security of the followers who trailed behind them, some officers estimating their number to be in the tens of thousands. Some of those officers looked the other way as mothers rode with small children in wagons meant for something more military, and some ignored soldiers who made efforts to assist the lame and feeble. But many more of those commanders knew that Sherman’s latest orders called for a march as rapid as possible, that the goal, now clearly defined as Savannah, was not too far to their front. With decent weather, it was relatively easy for the men to make their prescribed fifteen-mile march. But with so many Negroes in tow, every company commander knew he risked the ire of his general, who might hear it from Sherman himself. Sherman’s anxiousness about reaching Savannah had filtered down through the entire army, no longer any secrets, nothing vague about their intended goal. The closer they drew to Savannah, the more cumbersome the great long tail of Negroes would become. Once the shooting began, something every soldier now expected, even the most benign officers knew that the Negroes would likely be on their own.

F
ranklin walked, picking his way over the rocky trail, while ahead of him the soldiers rode, a pair on horseback, the others up on an empty wagon. Their goal was simple and direct: by nightfall, fill the wagon with something for the army to eat. That task had been assigned to several teams of foragers, spreading out in various distances from the march of the army. This one numbered a dozen men, led by the enormous sergeant named Knight.

They mostly ignored Franklin, though Captain Gorman had emphasized to the group that Franklin was to travel with them by orders of Captain Jones, and that Gorman himself would hold them all responsible should some misfortune fall upon Franklin. But Franklin could see now, that once clear of the camp, these men seemed to change completely, the only kind of order and discipline coming from the massive fists of Sergeant Knight.

Franklin had seen Knight many times in the camp of the 113th, a man who enjoyed confrontations, who relished the occasional big mouth, offering Knight an excuse to shatter a man’s jaw in the name of discipline. Even the officers seemed to keep clear of the man, an odd contradiction to Franklin, in an army where so much authority seemed carried by those few men like Jones, just because they wore the fancier uniform. But watching Knight exact authority by brute strength had been a lesson learned, and even now Franklin kept his distance. From the start of this day’s duty, Knight barely looked at him, a blessing Franklin took to heart. It was very clear to Franklin that, so far from anyone else’s authority, Knight could do whatever he wanted.

The two-mule wagon bounced high, struggling with deep holes in the muddy trough of a road, an advantage for Franklin, who kept up a steady pace, keeping close enough that he could hear their talk, most of that a storm of cursing that passed back and forth through the men like some kind of game, made more dangerous by the weapons they carried. For most of the journey, he kept his eyes to the side, peering past the thickets of briars, the small black-water ponds, ringed by enormous cypress trees, their limbs draped in curtains of Spanish moss. He studied the water first, knew those places as the home of alligators, and the fat black snakes they called the
cotton-mouth
, the creatures that Franklin had only seen in the deepest holes in the farthest corners of Cobb’s plantation. He felt the warmth in the air around him, the brutal cold now days behind them, and he knew very well that the warmer weather meant the creatures would be here, as though rising up from the dead. They were never seen on the colder days, what he considered a fair trade for suffering through those days of bone-chilling temperatures. On those frigid days, a small boy could warm himself by exploring the wet ground in a rapid
run, passing through the swampy places without fear. But when the air turned warmer, the creatures seemed to rise up from the mud itself, often seeking the brightest sunlight, spreading out on grassy banks, only to lurch violently into the water if the boy stumbled upon them. As a child, Franklin had found those encounters terrifying enough, the stuff of nightmares. Now he welcomed that those amazing beasts might be close by, infesting the black water. If there were bands of roving rebel cavalry, Franklin had to believe that those fellows would avoid those swampy holes for the same reason he did.

Two men rode ahead of the wagon, and he saw a hand go up, heard the call, the others reacting with a slap of the reins on the pair of mules. Franklin could see another cypress pond, and beyond that a house. It was nothing grand, two stories with a small wraparound porch, curtains billowing softly with the warm breeze. In the yard he was relieved to see a quartet of small black children, watched as they stopped whatever activity had occupied them, the four of them scampering away, dropping down behind a large azalea bush. He saw the muskets come up from the wagon, the men hopping down. An older white woman emerged from the house, a drab dress, her hair pulled tight into a small bun. She stood on the porch, scanned the men, then focused on Knight, who walked up close to her, climbed the step, an act of intimidation that backed the woman away. Franklin moved into the yard, ignored by all but the children, who eyed him from their leafy fortress. He offered them a smile, but their attention was grabbed now by Knight, who shouted out, loud enough for anyone in the house to hear, “Hey, now, missus. You be the lady what lives here? Any men about? Any soldiers, waitin’ to take a shot at us?”

Franklin saw fear on the woman’s face, so very different than the defiance of the shopkeeping women in Millen. He eased closer, felt the menace of the sergeant’s bullying voice, but one of the other soldiers held out a musket, holding him back, the barrel hard across Franklin’s chest.

“Easy, boy. We got work to do. You keep out of the way. We done this plenty before.”

Franklin said nothing, backed up a step, the soldiers now spreading out, careful, weapons up, and Knight said again, “I say, old woman. You dumb? Just want to know who’s hereabouts.”

She was visibly shaking, said, “Please don’t hurt us. We have nothing.”

“Ah, then! Who would be the other half of that ‘we’?”

“My daughter is inside, and she is quite ill. I have four darkies, plus those little children. Soldiers came through here yesterday, took everything we had, frightened us near to death. My daughter, Lou Ann, took to her bed.”

Knight turned to the others. “This is what happens when you bring up the rear of the march. Damn it all anyway.”

Franklin moved away from the soldiers, peered out around the side of the house, called out, “Sir, she says there are slaves. I’ll talk to ’em. Where might they be, ma’am?”

The woman looked at him, the fear taking on something far more ugly. “You don’t speak to me unless I speak first.” She looked back toward Knight. “What kind of people are you? You let your darkies tell you what to do? Let them run about as they please?”

The sergeant looked toward Franklin, waved him past the house, said, “He’s ‘runnin’ about’ at my pleasure, missus. But he’s gettin’ wages for it. That’s gotta be worse’n a horse’s fart to you, ain’t it?”

The woman’s disgust was aimed at Knight now, and she crossed her arms, shook her head. “So, you would be more of those rude devils. You’ll find nothing here. We’ve lost every bit of food, every piece of linen, every fork and knife. My late husband’s watch, my own rings. They done stole every piece of anything I hold dear.” She paused, and Franklin saw a change in her face, all her fear slipping down into something angrier. “Any one of you touches my daughter, and I promise you, Yankee, you don’t have enough men to keep me from killing you.”

Knight laughed, the others joining in. “Well, now, we got one with spirit! Look, missus, all we want to do is fill this here wagon with rations. Hams, chickens, anything else you got. Excuse me for calling you a liar, but we’ve done this before, seen places supposed to be all cleaned out, and then, just like that, we find more rations than we can carry. So, if you’ll just stand aside now.” He turned to one of the others, said, “Four of you, go on in. No need to mess with her gal. If she’s sick, I ain’t wantin’ to carry nothin’ of that back to camp.” He pointed to a small outbuilding. “Looks like a chicken house. If there’s a floor,
rip it up. These damned people have a talent for hiding the good stuff. I’ll keep my eye on the missus here.”