The March

  There is one report of an incident at Ebeneezer Creek, was it? Your General Davis, who pulled up the bridge and left hundreds behind to die. Some of them drowned, some of them were slaughtered by guerrillas. Where is he? Why is he not here?

  He is on duty. I will have him summoned.

  I will hear from him his explanation.

  And you will be satisfied of the military necessity of his action.

  In the morning the cavalry had to be brought in for parade. The Secretary stood with his belly pressed against the cast-iron railing of the balcony outside Sherman’s apartments and watched, unsmiling, as the horsemen passed in the street below him. Kil Kilpatrick rode at their head, a Beau Brummel in his gold sash and braid, peeking from under his plumed hat with a sly smile, his slight figure seeming to post with some insolence, Sherman thought—or was it his bobbing hunchback that conveyed his attitude? Kil is a reckless fool, he enjoys war too much, he makes camp in women’s bedrooms, but I wouldn’t trade him for anything.

  By the third day of the visit Sherman wondered how much longer he would be able to hold his temper. The Secretary didn’t talk, he fulminated. He was like a spoiled child, and was always in need of something—a drink, a hot water bottle, a telegrapher. Behind everything the Secretary said or did was a desire for attention. Sherman had wanted the captured cotton for the army exchequer. Stanton countermanded it for the Treasury. He had strong views on who should garrison the city. He presumed to advise Sherman on strictly military matters.

  And then came his demand to meet with some Negro elders. He was impatient until they were rounded up from the black churches. When they were gathered in the parlor he asked them what they understood by slavery.

  The black men looked at one another and smiled. Slavery is receiving by irresistible power the work of another man and not by his consent, one of them said. The others nodded their agreement.

  And what, said Stanton, do you understand of the freedom that was to be given by the proclamation of President Lincoln?

  The freedom promised by the proclamation is taking us from under the yoke of bondage and placing us where we can reap the fruits of our own labor and take care of ourselves and assist the government in maintaining our freedom.

  Sherman hid his astonishment at how well spoken these blacks were. At that moment Stanton turned to him. General, he said, I will now confer with these freedmen regarding the colored people’s feelings toward yourself. Would you mind leaving the room for a moment?

  Sherman was livid. He paced the hallway, muttering to himself. To catechize these blacks regarding my character! How would any of them be here if not for me? Ten thousand are free and fed and clothed by my orders! That they are not fighting is my best military judgment. Nor have I had the leisure to train them. I have marched an army intact for four hundred miles. I have gutted Johnny Reb’s railroads. I have burned his cities, his forges, his armories, his machine shops, his cotton gins. I have eaten out his crops, I have consumed his livestock and appropriated ten thousand of his horses and mules. He is left ravaged and destitute, and even if not another battle is fought his forces must wither and die of attrition. And that is not enough for the Secretary of War. I must abase myself to the slaves. Damn this Stanton—I am sworn to destroy the treasonous insurrection and preserve the Union. That is all. And that is everything.

  Sherman was hardly mollified to hear that he was held in high favor by the black elders. Late that night he called in Morrison. The fellow had been sleeping.

  Your pen, Major. Get this down. Field Order whatever it is.

  It would be Number 15, sir.

  Number 15, he said. The Sea Islands from Charleston south, and all the abandoned plantation acreage along the rivers for thirty miles inland in South Carolina, and I’ll throw in parts of Georgia, and the country bordering on the St. John’s River in Florida, are reserved for black resettlement. Have you got that? Black resettlement. Every free Negro head of family is to be given title to forty acres of tillable ground. Yes, and the seed and equipment to farm them. All boundaries to be determined and possessory titles issued by a general officer of the U.S. Army as—call him—Inspector of Settlements and Plantations. And tidy it up for my signature, with a copy for Mr. Stanton.

  I am no abolitionist, Sherman thought. But with this enticement I both shut up Edwin Stanton and disengage the niggers, who will stay here to plant their forty acres, and God help them.

  TO CELEBRATE THE Secretary’s departure, Sherman had a dinner for his generals. It was as if they all needed to regain their dignity. Everyone was jolly. They were themselves again. Sherman sat at the head of a long table while the black waiters marched in with the pillage of the city: platters of oysters, roasted turkeys, baked hams, steaming mounds of seasoned rice, platters of sweet potatoes, loaves of warm bread and salvers of real butter, hampers of red wine. Sherman ate and drank and offered toasts. But he wanted to be on the march again where nobody could tell him what to do. He wanted to be back in the field. What could be better than lying on the hard ground each night and gazing up at the stars? What could be better than setting out each morning to run your war the way it ought to be run? The issues were unambiguous. The demands were clear. He had had enough of Savannah and its glory. The real glory was in the uncommunicable joy of doing well what God had deemed for you. There was no envy there, no praise to explode in your face.

  Gentlemen, Sherman announced, we have had enough of these fleshpots. Tomorrow we begin preparations for the new campaign. You all know what it is. We have Grant’s leave to take the Carolinas. It will be hard, no mistake. Georgia was no more than a hayride. We must divest ourselves of surplus horses, mules, and Negroes. We must pare ourselves down to our fighting essence. The terrain is forbidding, the march will be arduous. But I assure you the infamous state of South Carolina, as instigator of our war, will have never known the meaning of devastation until it feels the terrible swift sword of this army.

  Hear! Hear! The generals raised their glasses.

  At the end of the evening Sherman went to his rooms mellow with wine and feeling more relaxed than he had in days. He was humming “The Ride of the Valkyries.” Some newspapers were newly arrived from Ohio. He lit a cigar and, expecting to amuse himself with the local gossip, sat back and read in the Columbus, Ohio, Times that Charles Sherman, the six-month-old son of General and Mrs. William Tecumseh Sherman, had died of the croup.

  His hands dropped to his sides. Oh Lord, he cried, is the envy yours as well?

  XVI

  ON THIS COLD, DARK DAY, WITH THE CLOUDS SAILING in low from the Sound, Savannah was alive with the movement of men and animals, so that it seemed as if the streets themselves were moving, that the city in its dimensions had come apart from the land and was fluttering loose in the blow. The wind piped its music to the rattle of the wagons on the cobblestone and the cries of the teamsters and the cadence calls of the platoon sergeants. Columns of troops were marching to the bridge over the Savannah River, and others stood in their mass along the docks waiting to board the fleet of navy gunships, cutters, and packets while seamen stood in the yardarms looking down on the scene like roosting birds. Among civilians, too, a sense of urgency was attached to their comings and goings, as if the departure of the army was in its way as frightening as its arrival had been. Only the soldiers who were to garrison the city were unmoving at their posts. All else was hectic intention, with the wind blowing tufts of cotton through the alleys and even the live oaks in the squares bending and swaying to the wind.

  In all of this Wilma Jones felt the smallness and insignificance of her own purposes on this morning. But that is the slave still in me, she thought. I must watch my own thinking—I must be as free in my soul as I am by law. She glanced at Coalhouse Walker who clearly had no such problems standing beside her with his shoulders squared and a kind of solemn joy on his face. He held her hand. Slowly the line moved forward and they came around the corner. Some of the people ahead of them were singing. Not loudly—th
ey were singing for themselves, a prayerful hymn, so that this blessed thing that was happening would continue to happen. Up ahead, in front of the steps to the city hall, a table had been set up right there on the sidewalk, and a Union officer sat behind it with two enlisted men standing with their rifles at the ready on either side. Because of the wind they had put big stones over the sheaves of paper on the table. Wilma didn’t know why the whole business couldn’t have been right there up the steps inside of the city hall.

  It was a very slow process. Some of the black folks thought they would be given a deed right then and there along with a map to get to their property. But these were applications only, and that had to be explained over and over again, apparently. And then of course most of the men couldn’t write and the officer had to write their names in for them and let them sign with a mark and then the mark had to be attested to by the officer. And then, every once in a while, the officer got up and went into the building for one reason or another while everyone stood there waiting and singing and the wind blew wet along the ground, darkening the hem of Wilma’s skirt and chilling her ankles.

  When it was finally their turn, Wilma read the application and explained it to Coalhouse. He nodded and looked at the officer and smiled. But there was a problem. Resettlement deeds were exclusively for the heads of families. Is this Mrs. Walker? the officer asked, indicating Wilma. Coalhouse, frowning, shook his head no. Is there a Mrs. Walker even so? the officer said with a sly smile.

  Coalhouse grew deadly still and stared at the man. Wilma grabbed his forearm, feeling the muscles tense. Give me that paper, she said. We’ll bring it back to you and everything that we require we will have.

  Whatever you say, Auntie, the officer said.

  I expect you will recognize us, Wilma said. We will come directly to the front here, you will not have us start tomorrow at the end of the line, as we have done that today.

  In a nearby town square they found a bench sheltered from the weather by a weeping willow. Yet it was chilly here too, and dark. Coalhouse put his arm around Wilma’s shoulders. She leaned away from him, sitting hunched over with her hands in her lap. Let’s talk about this again, she said.

  I know to farm the land, Miss Wilma. That’s what I know.

  You saw that man’s mind. Whoever they are, these are white folks first and foremost.

  For forty acres around, we won’t have to see a white face.

  What they give they can take away.

  That the Lord you talking about who can do that. No man will take what is mine.

  Wilma shook her head.

  Aw now, Coalhouse said, where is that spirit? It was there telling that officer man what would be. You will see us tomorrow right here! Yes! That was my Wilma. But where is it now, the spirit? Don’t see it anywhere, Coalhouse said, looking into her eyes.

  For a while they were silent. They listened to the city astir. On the street behind them a procession of mule-drawn field guns clattered by.

  My Judge Thompson? Wilma said. He used to go up to New York or to St. Louis or Chicago. Went to all those places. Take the trains hither and yon. And he’d come back and have his dinner and talk about it. I made sure to stand behind the door and listen to him tell Miz Emily about these big cities up North. How fine they were. Each of them a whole world, with all kinds of wonders that you wouldn’t expect in your lifetime. Of course, he was there to talk to other judges and such, and staying in the fancy hotels as a man of the world. But it made me think. I would like to live in a big city. I could do that. Nobody bother you there, everyone too busy with theirselves to bother with you. And you make your life. You’re free.

  The only way north in this war is walking with the army. Is that what you mean?

  Yes. Like before. If we are going, we ought to go.

  Live in the swamps, snakes bite you, guerrillas chase you. Shoot at your head.

  You got us this far.

  Oh, lady, don’t tell me you know what’s coming. Six, eight hundred mile before you even see your city.

  He had stood and was pacing now, disturbed, agitated. So you heard your damn judge. A course. The fine things of the big city is made for the likes of the Judge. Is that the same city you expect, woman? Make your life? How? What can you do?

  I can work at something. In cities they have jobs.

  Yes, slaving. Wash the Judge’s underwear, wash the underwear of ten judges, a hundred judges.

  I can read and write.

  Well, damn it, I can’t. You understand, Miss Wilma? I can’t. What job do you think to be givin me to do in your fine city?

  You know music. You play music. Got a fine voice. I heard you. You made those people happy, picking on that banjo.

  Oh Lord, oh Lord. Coalhouse paced back and forth, wringing his hands. I thought she had more sense than Coalhouse, this good woman. But her mind is afflicted. Listen, he said, and got down on his knees before the bench. I am a loving man, Miss Wilma. I have no bitterness in my heart for what has been done to me all my life until now. I have the whip marks of that life forever after across my back to testify that I have endured. I am strong. But I can only give you what I have in me, and what I have is I know how to work the land. This paper in your hand is Mr. Lincoln presenting me with what I am owed—forty acres of good loam and a plow and a mule and some seed. And with that I will make a life for us. A man who owns his own land is a free man. Works for himself, not for nobody else. Sings and dances for himself, not nobody else. Puts the food on his table that he has brought from the earth. And you tell me what is better than that? At night, we will sit by the fire and you can teach me to read and write. Then we will go to sleep and wake up when the cock crows and do the very same thing tomorrow we did yesterday, under God’s warm sun. And if you don’t see the blessedness of that then I will go down to the river right now and drown myself.

  You won’t.

  I swear.

  Wilma leaned forward, put her hand to his neck, and pulled him to her and kissed him. You very handsome, she said.

  I know.

  Shame to put an end to all those good looks.

  He shrugged.

  How about instead we find us a preacher, she said. You know any?

  He raised his head and smiled. Can’t turn a corner and not meet one.

  Come get up from there and sit beside me, Wilma said. Now, look here, you see on this paper there’s two lines to write in our names—one for you as head of family and one for me as real head of family.

  Oh, how they laughed!

  And so their course was chosen. They left the park square and hurried toward one of the black encampments. They were startled anew by the military movement through the city. Streets were clotted with wagon trains and marching troops. They waited at a corner.

  What about your service? Wilma said.

  When I threw off the tunic it was over, Coalhouse said. White officer can’t tell who’s gone when we all look alike, can he?

  This is my man, she thought. He is brave and smart. And he’s right-thinking. Staking a claim, you stake out your freedom. After all, how had the whites lorded over everything all these years but by owning the land?

  There was no doubt in her mind that he would give his life for her. But, Lord, what if it came to that? She knew what happened to stubborn, strong-willed slaves. But then, foolish Wilma girl, we are not slaves anymore, are we? Coalhouse is younger than me, but stronger in his convictions. He doesn’t think about things till he don’t know what to think. I will simply stop troubling myself. We have made our decision and I will stand by it.

  But at the same time she knew that living the rest of her life in Georgia she would never be without misgivings.

  After the parade had passed they continued on their way. How you want to be called? Wilma said. On the application I will have to write it in for you.

  Say Coalhouse Walker, Sr.

  Oh? She looked right and left. I don’t see no Junior hereabouts.

  Miss Wilma ma’am, Coalhou
se said with a big, wide smile. Just come along to the preacher, if you please, and I promise you before you know it there will be a Coalhouse Walker, Jr.

  XVII

  ARLY AND WILL HAD NOT BEEN OUTDOORS FOR SEVERAL days. They stood on Waterfront Street blinking in the gloom of the dark, cloudy afternoon as if the sun were shining in their eyes.

  This is a strangely quiet city all of a sudden, Arly said.

  Will ran to the end of the street. They’re gone, he said.

  Who?

  The ships.

  Savannah was ghostly in the grayness of the day. They hurried along through streets that had not been swept. Many of the houses and shops were dark. The city looked devastated, though there was no visible damage. This town’s like a dog with its tail between its legs, Arly said.

  Sherman was here, Will said.

  Appears so.

  At one point, a patrol appearing up the street, they hid in a park square behind some bushes. A few woeful stragglers were being marched along under guard.

  The hospital gates were open. The courtyard was empty but for a Rucker ambulance wagon, its trace poles angled to the ground. The ward where they had worked was almost empty. A few of the hopelessly wounded were still there, gazing at them with the eyes of the dying, but the only doctor to be seen was a civilian.

  Colonel Sartorius’s surgery was bare.

  Now we’re in for it, Will said. While we been debauching ourselves the whole damn army has gone.

  Don’t speak ill of debauching, Arly said. It is no mean feat to make camp for a whole week running in a whorehouse.

  I told you yesterday something was going on when we were the only ones left with those women.

  You did. But I was too happy being like the last man on earth to worry about it. Arly sat himself on the operating table. I don’t think you ’preciate that when we walked in there we had just enough for one tipple each until I discovered the poker game in the back parlor.

  Well, you have the black eye for a medal.

  He caught me one on the side of the nose, too. Some folks don’t understand pure luck. It is a endowment, and those not blessed with it think something untoward is going on. But for that fellow, the Union boys was mostly good sports about it.