“Sir, General Kilpatrick.”
Sherman turned, curious as to what kind of state his cavalry commander would be in. McCoy stood aside, and Kilpatrick was there now, hard boot steps on the wood floor, a hefty salute. Sherman saw a slight tilt to the man’s stance, let it go, returned the salute, said, “I’d have you sit down, General, but our host carried away his chairs. You’ll have to endure like the rest of us. You fit?”
Kilpatrick feigned indignation, another slight wobble, said, “I am always fit, sir! Always in your service!”
McCoy stepped closer, said, “Sir, General Slocum is expected presently. He has made his headquarters at the Milledgeville Hotel. I shall inform you when he arrives.”
“Fine.”
He moved again to the window, his eye caught by a black woman in a flowered dress, a flock of soldiers moving with her as she paraded past. That’s either spirits, he thought, or lust. Plenty of both in this army, apparently.
Behind him, Kilpatrick said, “Sir, I wish to report that the rebels have withdrawn any defensive forces to the east side of the Oconee River, and appear unwilling to make a stand. I believe we shall have little difficulty crossing beyond the town. Have you heard from General Howard, sir?”
Sherman turned, saw the annoying smugness that always seemed to inhabit Kilpatrick’s expression. “If I require you to know of General Howard’s situation, I will inform you. As it is, he’s doing much the same as we are here. Things are mostly quiet in his front. Rebel cavalry is showing itself in minor skirmishes, but nothing more. I would have thought your own people would have told you that.”
Kilpatrick made an exaggerated nod. “Oh, most certainly, sir. I regret that we have chased that bantam rooster right out of the country. Truly a shame. I had hoped to wipe him from the map with one good stand. My men are prepared to give those other fellows exactly what they deserve.”
Sherman thought, Wheeler. This is like some kind of game, whose pants carry the heavier load. Knights in shining armor. Neither one of you is much larger than a bantam rooster.
“I would expect that General Wheeler’s cavalry is intending to do the same to you. Keep to your vigilance. I do not wish to hear of surprises, General. Joe Wheeler is capable of causing damage wherever he goes, including our camps. I will have none of that.”
Kilpatrick seemed wounded, puffed up again. “With all respect, sir, Wheeler’s bandits will not cause your command, or mine, any trouble. I would take serious exception to anyone who claims differently.”
Watch yourself, Sherman thought. Intoxication doesn’t excuse insubordination, no matter how much I need you.
“Just do your job, General. And try not to forget that your command is also my command.”
Kilpatrick seemed to ponder that, nodded agreeably. “Of course, sir. I am honored to be in your service.”
“Do the job. That’s all the ‘honor’ I require. You’ll have orders in the morning. Captain Poe is providing me with maps this afternoon, and I will instruct Generals Slocum and Howard on the routes I intend them to follow. Your men will continue to patrol the army’s perimeter, and you will report to me any enemy activity that could be seen as any threat to our progress, or to our supply trains or encampments, wherever they may be. I will instruct you on a route of march that will move you closer to Augusta. I want the railroad between Augusta and Millen destroyed. I have no intention of delaying around this place any longer than is required to bring the army together, and that includes your horsemen.”
“Sir, my men will be prepared to ride on the morrow. I shall continue to perform with conspicuous gallantry.”
The words were slurred, and Sherman had seen enough of Kilpatrick for now. McCoy was there again, and Sherman looked past Kilpatrick, said, “Slocum?”
“No, sir, not just yet. However, this boy has requested entrance. He claims to be—”
Kilpatrick spread out his arms, another burst of bombast. “My nephew! Yes, by all means, Major, show him in. I wish him to make the acquaintance of the great General Sherman!”
Sherman winced at the volume in Kilpatrick’s voice, saw the boy now, hesitant, peering in, and Kilpatrick wheeled around, grabbed the boy around the shoulders.
“Sir, this is William Kilpatrick, my nephew. All of fourteen and soon to be a hero in your service! My boy, I told you I’d put you in the presence of our commanding general. Pay your respects!”
The boy stared at Sherman, who felt completely uncomfortable.
“I am honored, sir.”
The words came out in a nervous stammer, and Sherman ignored the boy, focused on Kilpatrick’s annoying expression of pride.
“You brought your nephew along on this campaign? My orders were that no unnecessary personnel accompany this march.”
Kilpatrick seemed wounded again, put his hands on his hips, as much defiance as anyone would offer Sherman. “I assure you, General, this fine young boy is destined to make his mark in this army. You’ll see!”
The boy stood slack-shouldered, his mouth hanging open, his eyes locked on Sherman. Sherman fought his annoyance, said, “I do not anticipate this war lasting long enough that this boy shall be forced to don a uniform.”
Kilpatrick turned serious now, his eyes in a squint, moved a step closer, the air around him ripe with whatever intoxicant he had been drinking. “Oh, sir, I just recalled a matter of utmost importance. I wish to report that we have discovered that the enemy is murdering prisoners. It is an outrage, sir, a moral and human outrage! With your permission, I shall endeavor to return the favor.”
Sherman saw the boy lean closer as well, wide-eyed, soaking up Kilpatrick’s grotesque report. He understood now, this was Kilpatrick’s idea, impressing the boy with his perfect knowledge of all the dastardly deeds the rebels would do. “What prisoners are you referring to?”
Kilpatrick seemed satisfied with the impact of his message, crossed his arms at his chest. “None of my men, of course. I would assume our stragglers. Those gray devils skulk about in the darkness, looking to pluck any poor soul from this army who fails to keep up with his unit. We have found bodies with throats cut, sir. Ghastly, and quite unchristian. I shall make them pay for their wickedness, sir.”
Sherman had heard nothing of this kind of atrocity, studied Kilpatrick, wondered if the liquor had inspired exaggeration. “You will do no such thing. If I am satisfied that Wheeler’s men are committing such acts, then I will order the appropriate response.” He paused, saw disappointment on Kilpatrick’s face. “Am I clear about that, General? My orders will dictate yours.”
Kilpatrick glanced back toward the boy, who still nervously eyed Sherman. Kilpatrick seemed disappointed now, his grand show ruined. He lowered his voice, said, “Most clear, sir. I shall keep you informed.”
Sherman looked for a chair, the instinctive need to sit down, but there was nothing there. “Why in hell did he take his furniture? Major McCoy, locate a chair from some neighboring house. This is absurd. I’ll not sit on the floor with my knees under my chin. General Kilpatrick, have you completed your ‘report’?” Sherman didn’t wait for a response. “Good. Return to your men. When they are assembled and their mounts are fit, I shall have orders. Until then, perhaps you can show your nephew what a rebel city looks like. And no more parties, General.”
—
He took his own advice, left the horse behind, a dozen of his guards keeping a careful lookout on the buildings he passed. Hitchcock had come along, had done a poor job of hiding his displeasure at the raucous behavior of the men who had staged their mock lawmaking session. Sherman couldn’t help feeling that Hitchcock was becoming something of a conscience, had not been comfortable with the destruction Sherman’s men had spread throughout the countryside. Worse, Hitchcock had pushed harder than he should have by suggesting that Sherman himself wasn’t making much effort to enforce his own restrictions on the men. It was subtle, but Sherman had learned to read the man, could hear it in his reports, a marked disapproval of Sherman’s ge
nerals, who weren’t completely following instructions not to lay waste to so much of the countryside. Sherman tolerated Hitchcock’s indiscretions, as long as the man did his job. But Sherman felt little need for another conscience. He had left his own behind, in the form of his wife.
They walked with purpose, Sherman insisting on touring the town, seeing for himself just what the Georgians considered a suitable place for their capitol. He had passed that building already, a thick, squat rectangle, the roofline fashioned with what could pass for battlements, like some kind of European fortress. So, he thought, where did they go? Grabbed anything of value and just vanished into the woods. Or maybe to Augusta. Hardly matters. There’s a good many targets here we’ll deal with anyway.
He moved down a side street, the guards spreading out further, some inspecting the homes that lay in his path. There were citizens there still, women mostly, and whether or not they recognized him, they kept mostly silent. Hitchcock moved with more energy, typical, and Sherman said, “What of these people, Major? You see anything special? Anything to justify starting a war?”
“Not certain what you mean, sir.”
“Never mind. They’re just people. Wrongheaded, no doubt about that. That’s my job, you know. Show them that. Their legislature, all those fine-suited gentlemen, scurried out of here like so many mice and left their women behind. Some gallantry in that, wouldn’t you say?”
“They certainly assumed we would not harm the women, sir.”
Sherman knew he was right, a trait Hitchcock had that was becoming tiresome.
There was commotion ahead, the guards responding quickly, a handful running forward. Sherman waited, had no need to walk into some kind of turmoil, but the guards were looking back at him now, their lieutenant trotting toward him.
“Sir! Come see!”
Sherman hated mysteries, but the young lieutenant was already gone, returning to whatever was drawing the attention of even more soldiers. He led Hitchcock down the street, saw a gathering crowd of men in blue, most of them forming in a wide circle, an officer on horseback now riding up, familiar, one of Jeff Davis’s staff. The officer saw Sherman, saluted, said, “Sir! I just heard about them. Look what we have here!”
Sherman pushed past the soldiers, saw now a dozen men, ragged clothes, filthy, thin, some of them on their knees, tears and cries, one man hanging his head, heavy sobs. Sherman moved closer and Hitchcock moved with him, said, “Rebel prisoners?”
One of the men looked up from his knees, stared hard at Hitchcock, then saw Sherman, seemed uncertain, said in a hard whisper, “We’re prisoners, sir, but we ain’t rebels. We’ve done made a hell of a march. If this ain’t heaven, then please, sir, tell me it’s Sherman’s army.”
Sherman scanned the clothing, hints of blue. “Where did you march from? Wheeler have you?”
The man seemed barely able to speak, shook his head slowly. “Don’t know no Wheeler, sir. We heard there was a great army marching ’cross Georgia. We made our way best we could. Couple of us was grabbed up. But we made it, sir. Had to try, and I s’pose the Lord was smiling on us. Unless I’m dreaming, sir, we was able to get here after all.”
“From where?”
“Sir, we come from Andersonville.”
Sherman let the word drive into his brain, studied the men, and other soldiers around him responded, questions and salutes. Sherman heard Davis’s officer order coats for the men, rations, water, anything they might require, and Sherman stood silently, nodded in approval. He stepped forward, put one hand on the man’s shoulder, felt bones beneath what remained of the man’s shirt. “I’m General Sherman. You made it, son. We’ll take care of you.”
The man looked up at him, seemed not to believe him, but there were tears on the man’s face, and he lowered his head again, both hands flat on the dirt street. “Heaven enough for me, sir.”
—
He had wondered how many more might be wandering the countryside, but there was nothing he could do for them now. The Confederate prison at Andersonville was far to the south, and Sherman knew that if there was to be any liberation, it would have to come later. The men had been taken away, the soldiers receiving them with vengeful pledges, curses toward the rebels. But Sherman wouldn’t hear that, not now. His goal had not changed. If there were Federal prisoners to be found along the route, he was pleased for that. But someone else would have the glory, or experience the horror, that might come from smashing down the fences of a place as gruesome as Andersonville was supposed to be. As he continued his tour of the town, he couldn’t avoid feeling the man’s emotions, what kind of craftiness and determination it had taken for those men to find his army, and just what kind of thankfulness they would feel for him now.
He moved slowly past shops, faces staring at him through curtained windows. I’ll not make them fight again, he thought. We’ll doctor them, get them fit. I’ll take no credit for their liberation. Where are those damned newspaper reporters now? Write about those men, not about me.
Sherman looked ahead, saw another grand building, the streets around it blanketed with debris. Hitchcock moved ahead slightly, the guards standing in place, waiting for Sherman to catch up. Hitchcock said, “What you suppose happened there?”
The question rose up inside Sherman as well, and he saw the guards spreading out in a larger square, doing their job, still watching the surrounding homes. Hitchcock was out in front, began kicking slowly through the wreckage, reached down now, picked up a bundle of papers. He looked toward the main building, held the papers by his side, then back at Sherman, said in a low voice, “My God, sir. It’s a library. They destroyed the library.”
Sherman walked out into the square, stood surrounded by the remnants of what had once been books. He looked down, scanned the paper, felt a surprising helplessness, a dull ache. He reached down, picked up what was left of a single book, the spine ripped, half the pages gone. He tossed it aside, moved with slow, automatic steps to the entrance of the library, ignored the caution of his guards, stepped inside. There were no soldiers, no one there to offer any sort of explanation, anything of value either stripped away or simply destroyed.
“Did you order this, sir?”
He didn’t need Hitchcock, not now, ignored the question. “We must order the officers to be more attentive.”
Hitchcock moved past him, farther into the main hallway, bent low, eyeing the ripped pages, scattered manuscripts. Sherman moved back out into the cold sunlight. The breeze was blowing through the papers now, scattering the debris along the street. He pulled out a fresh cigar, turned away from the wind, lit it, stared out to the other buildings nearby. Someone will write of this, he thought. We will be labeled barbarians. He thought of the history lessons, long ago, some classroom at West Point. Did this not happen to Rome? To Alexandria? This is the kind of thing that gives newspapermen gooseflesh, and by God someone will glory in this. Waxing poetic at my expense. Damn them. And damn the officers who cannot control their men.
Hitchcock emerged now, and Sherman wouldn’t look at him, knew there was outrage, a sputtering need to condemn those who would create such useless destruction. Sherman wouldn’t hear it, said, “Major, return to the Governor’s Mansion. I will draft a new order regarding our course of march. The arsenal and any accompanying structures shall be burned. I have been told there is a penitentiary here. That will burn as well. Rail depot, telegraph office.” He paused. “Newspaper office.”
Hitchcock hesitated, and Sherman looked at him, was surprised to see raw emotion on the man’s face.
Sherman turned away, stared out, his eyes rising toward the crystal blue above, his brain pushing away the sight of the destruction. “You have your orders, Major.”
Sherman stood for a long moment, rolled the cigar in his hand, made a final glance over the papers now drifting with the breeze. He stepped out into the street, moved away, low words for no one in particular. “Dammit. It’s war.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FRANKLIN
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OCONEE RIVER—NOVEMBER 24, 1864
The army had been moving out of town all morning, columns of troops and their wagons, some of those filled with whatever goods the foragers had confiscated from the civilians. The citizens had responded to the march by emerging from their homes, some lining the streets as the formations of troops passed, aware that whatever nightmare the blue soldiers had swept into their lives might actually be ending. For many that nightmare was nothing like they expected. The greatest fears had come from the rumors of what had already occurred, that Sherman’s devils had left a vast swath of utter destruction across their state, no home spared, every larder stripped bare, every stick of furniture destroyed. But the marching columns were now moving out of Milledgeville in good order, past guards that manned the entryway to dozens of homes, stern-faced men who had been assigned to prevent any further looting, or any mindless use of the torch. As they passed through, some of the men were calling out to the women who watched them, big words that carried little threat beyond impolite flirtatiousness, even more of them offering a dose of good cheer. The women mostly kept silent, regarding the soldiers with the same contempt they had felt when the men in blue first arrived. Many of the civilians did not understand the level of morale that had spread through the ranks of the soldiers, that the destruction of Milledgeville or any other town was not the reward for these men, but merely one of their tools. The fires that lay in their wake, and those still to come, were mostly aimed at any kind of industry, buildings, or factories that had the potential to provide the Southern armies with any sort of assistance.
It was not up to the officers to explain that to the civilians, and so they usually said nothing at all. But the exaggerated rumors spread far more rapidly, and made a much greater impact on the expectations of the civilians, than the flames themselves ever could. By now the men in blue had marched through far more towns and plantations than most of the people of Milledgeville had ever seen, and when the fires had come, it was often the work of the bummers, heedless to orders, heedless to the kind of decency and tolerance that the officers had been instructed to monitor. The soldiers knew that the greatest reward for this army would come with a victory. Burning a plantation provided short-lived entertainment; hauling away chests of silverware might enrich a man for the short time he could conceal it. But the vast majority of Sherman’s troops gave little thought to the question of whether or not Milledgeville should be torched. If fences and barns were dismantled, it was more for the necessity of firewood than any thoughts of revenge. Whatever Sherman’s ultimate goal might be, so far the men understood that this march had been one of conquest without the accompanying horrors that so many of the veterans had seen before. Sherman was already respected by his men, and increasingly that respect had evolved into the kind of affection that drives men to accomplish any deed their commander asks of them. Not even the foot soldiers believed that this campaign would continue without some massive effort by the rebels to stop them, but none of those men shared the quiet dread as deeply as their commander, Sherman’s inescapable fear that some disaster might still occur.