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.”
—
The 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.
“It’s all right. Come in here. The captain says your name’s Franklin?”
He leaned in, still nervous. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, eat something, Mr. Franklin. Sit down, there. You any idea what a scout is?”
“No, sir. Not directly.”
“Well, that’s what you need to learn. Here, there’s some chicken in this stew. Potatoes. This gravy’s not bad. Cook found some salt pork, too. Helps the flavor. Bread’s a little hard, but it’s the best we’ve got.”
He stared at the food, felt the warmth from the soft light of a lantern hanging to one side of the tent. Jones pointed to a small stool.
“It’s all right. Sit down.”
Franklin moved that way, sat slowly, felt hesitant, still not certain what they wanted him to do. But the food was engulfing him in smells now, a large pot of brown liquid, lumps of chicken, so much more. Jones handed him a plate, said, “Use that spoon. There’s plenty. Had about all I can hold.” He paused. “I’m wondering if you know how to act stupid.” Franklin stopped, looked at him, felt a stab of anger, another joke at his expense. “What I mean is, a stupid man attracts the right kind of attention. A fellow like you passes for stupid, you can find out a great deal by just listening, as long as you act like you’re too dumb to understand anything. You’re, well, harmless. Somebody makes fun of you, you just take it. Somebody kicks you, calls you names, you don’t react to it. That’s not always easy. But we need to know things about the people out here, farmers and whatnot. There’s rebel cavalry, too, and that’s the most dangerous part. They think all of your people are stupid, and they’ll kill you for being out by yourself. Doesn’t do us much good if you let that happen. There’s more, but we can talk about it on the march tomorrow. I’ve got orders to keep an eye on your people, at least for now. You might help us there, too. You’re not some criminal, some misfit, are you?”
“No, sir. Done nothing bad. It’s not smart, what with the overseers and all.”
“Well, maybe you can help us keep your people in line back there, tell them that if they’re going to follow us, they need to keep up with us. We can’t protect them, and there’s people around here who’d like to see you strung up. All of you.
You can make sure they understand that. I assume…you understand that?”
“Yes, sir. Very much understand that, sir.”
“Good. As for the rest of it, you think you can get out there and talk to the slaves still on those plantations, find out where the rebels are going, what they’re doing?”
“You make sure, sir, that there’s more vittles like this?”
Jones laughed. “Better than that. You’ll get paid for whatever information does us some good. I’m guessing you haven’t been paid anything before.”
Franklin remembered the paper money now, thought, I should have kept that. “No, sir. There was some of your cavalry passing out money back at the river. That’s about all I seen of real money.”
Jones was curious now, seemed to explain it to himself, nodded. “Yes, well, you don’t worry about that. Rebel money won’t even light a good cigar. You do the job, you’ll get paid with something you can use. Gold, probably.”
Franklin wasn’t sure what the captain meant, but he was beginning to understand even more why the soldiers had tossed so much rebel money to the people. To this army, it was just so much garbage. Jones leaned over to a small desk now, picked up a pen, scanned a paper, motioned to Franklin without looking at him.
“Go on. Eat your fill. Just some work I have to do.”
Franklin began to feel light-headed now, the glow of the lantern reflecting off the sides of the tent, embracing him in a blanket of warmth. He scooped out a spoonful of the stew, slow and careful, poured it onto the plate, his stomach howling with his brain at the marvelous smell. He picked up a piece of chicken, meat falling from the bone, slid it into his mouth, swallowed quickly, then another, filling his mouth completely. Jones glanced at him, seemed amused, then set the paper down, sat back in his small, low chair, watching him. Franklin stopped, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, thought, Something wrong, I’ve done it wrong. But Jones still watched him, said now, “Go on. Eat it up. It’ll be slop in the morning.”
Franklin obeyed, drank from the plate, then more chicken, tore a piece of bread from a heavy loaf, wiped up what remained of the gravy, the plate more clean now than it had been before. He caught his breath, the food falling into one massive lump in his gut, and he tried to relax, to keep the extraordinary feast inside him. He took long, slow breaths, tried to calm his stomach, looked around, saw the desk, a layer of papers, a narrow, low bed, a sword in its scabbard leaning up to one side. The warmth was rolling over him, his mind wandering, the exhaustion of the day’s march taking over. He thought of all he had seen, the joyful parade of people, knew they had to be settling down into camps of their own, out somewhere beyond the army, fires and singing, some of those people probably entertaining the soldiers. He was beginning to understand now what the others seemed already to know, that their joy had been real, honest, that something was happening that was changing everything in his world. The people who were following the army had seemed to lose their fear, seemed to understand more than he did about what this army was doing for them, what was to follow. But now he was in the midst of it, a part of it, still uncertain, still nervous. He pulled off another piece of bread, heard a low laugh from the captain.
“We don’t usually eat this well, Mr. Franklin. Special day for us. You know what Thanksgiving is?”
Franklin swallowed, saw the kindness in Jones’s expression, was finally at ease, comfortable, allowed himself to feel a hint of excitement for what might lie ahead, for what this army was allowing him to do.
“I believe I do, sir.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
SHERMAN
SANDERSVILLE, GEORGIA—NOVEMBER 26, 1864
He had seen the rebel cavalry himself, as much as a brigade, firing on the advance troops as they pushed near the town. But those men left quickly, making good use of their horses to escape the rapid advance of much of Sherman’s Twentieth Corps. The few rebels who dared to continue the fight had used the town itself for cover, especially the courthouse, the town’s most prominent building. But the fight was short-lived, even the most stubborn rebels bowing to the overwhelming pressure of the growing number of infantry who had moved into the town.
Sherman was already in a foul mood. Even before the action at Sandersville, he had ridden up on a significant obstacle at a narrow waterway called Buffalo Creek. What should have been a simple crossing had been delayed for several hours. Despite the cavalry’s precautions, someone had burned the lone bridge on the primary road, whether rebel troops or simply rebel sympathizers among the local civilians. Either way, the delay had infuriated him. The repairs had begun immediately, and with better than half the day wasted, the men had resumed their march. Sherman recognized his overreaction, had crossed the rebuilt bridge with the clear understanding that thus far he had been spoiled. Even in the miserable weather of the week before, the march along both wings of the army had consistently measured his prescribed fifteen miles. The left wing, Slocum’s men, had often gone farther than that, inspired perhaps by Sherman’s presence. He had grown used to that, that the men were as dedicated to this campaign as he was, and he knew what every field commander knows, that a goal as ambitious as fifteen miles per day is rarely achieved. And yet, with so little interference from the rebels, he had grown accustomed to plotting his progress ahead of time, anticipating just where his next headquarters would be.
The burned bridge had been a stark reminder that this country was not yet his, that even with the cavalry’s patrols, the rebels were capable of surprise. In Sherman’s mind, there was meaning to that beyond the military concerns of the men who led the way. It was simple geography, that every day he pushed his columns forward, the enemy that lay ahead was in tighter quarters, less room to maneuver, fewer places to make a stand. Buffalo Creek was one of those places, as was every creek, every river, every swamp. It hadn’t yet come to pass, the crossings contested most often by squads of rebel cavalry who scurried away at the first volley from infantry who had no intention of granting the rebels a bridgehead. Those few places where the rebels had made a stand, they had been outflanked, the Federal troops spread out along the waterway in far greater numbers and along a far greater front than the rebels could hope to contain. The results had been predictable. The rebels had simply run away.
He knew by now that Hardee had traveled to Savannah, knew as well that Braxton Bragg had come south from Richmond to take command of the rebels now ensconced at Augusta. Both men commanded forces that separately could not hope to stand tall against either of Sherman’s two wings. The scouts and spies had estimated that Bragg had ten thousand men at Augusta, Hardee not quite that many on the coast. Together, united, they could put up a scrap that Sherman would have to take seriously, one that, if properly executed, could seriously cripple Sherman’s efforts. Sherman’s strategy to prevent that was simple: Convince the rebels that he might strike either city, or both. At the very least, keep them totally in the dark about just what his intentions were at all. It had worked at Macon, and Sherman had no reason to believe it wouldn’t work now.
He rode forward with the staff through the outskirts of the town, saw the guards moving up alongside infantry, the men on foot slipping into the houses, cautiously searching for any lingering rebels. He stopped, motioned to his staff to hold up, letting his men do their jobs. He thought of dismounting, but an itchiness kept him on the horse, another nagging sliver of worry that something might yet happen, the lone sniper, the suicidal rebel who just might make himself a hero. He thought of saying that to Hitchcock, Dayton alongside him, but it was hardly necessary, none on his staff with any enthusiasm for wandering headlong into a field of fire.
The houses were small and pleasant, with very few signs of opulence. That kind of finery and grand architecture was still reserved for the plantation houses far outside what he could see now was little more than an extended village. But the delay at the bridge had dug hard at him, pushing up a kind of anger he hadn’t felt in a long while. He didn’t need to say anything, the staf
f sensing his moods, keeping their distance, something he preferred. The anger came from some odd place, as though one part of himself had allowed him to forget about the war, that this campaign was so perfectly successful that the sudden intrusion of an enemy had been an annoyance far beyond the labor required by his engineers. He knew that was a mistake, that the burned bridge was a symbol of rebel stubbornness, an infuriating tenacity that seemed to infect every part of the Confederacy.
“They’re being squeezed.” He spoke to no one in particular, Dayton the closest to him.
“Sir?”
Sherman realized now he had spoken aloud. He glanced toward Dayton, the others, shook his head. “Ruminating, Major. The enemy is being squeezed backward, growing stronger in a limited area. It makes him more dangerous every day. We must be on our guard, do all we can to confuse him. Have we any word from Kilpatrick?”
“Not this morning, sir. His main force is close to Augusta, we know that. He will not keep you in the dark, sir.”
No, Sherman thought, he won’t. He will not just wander away without telling me about it. Hell, he’ll tell everyone in this army about it. But this isn’t a lark, General. You’re pushing toward Augusta the same way you jumped all over those roads to Macon. I need you to convince Braxton Bragg that I’m marching right up his pants legs.
Dayton moved his horse closer, Sherman ignoring that, knew there would be talk now.
“Sir, there has been cannon fire, perhaps to the north. Very hard to tell the direction. Major Hitchcock believes it’s coming from the south. I would expect some word from either direction if there was a problem, sir.”
He had heard the faint rumbling himself, knew what Dayton was referring to, that often artillery fire at great distances could play tricks on your ears, distort just where it was coming from. He thought of Bragg now, the image of a man who never smiled, who sucked the joy out of every room he entered.
“We are certain that Bragg is at Augusta?”