The Fateful Lightning

by Jeff Shaara

  “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.”

  —

  He 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.

  “Thank you, sir. Very kind.”

  Jones laughed. “Mr. Franklin, you’ve got to learn that in the army, when you get the chance, you eat till you bust open. Cut off some more, and take some of these damned turnips.”

  Franklin moved forward eagerly, ignored the civilian, sliced off another piece of ham, saw the cloth sack beside the table, reached down, pulled out a pair of the purple bulbs. He felt awkward now, his hands full, held the knife out to Gorman, who took it, wiping it off on his pants leg. The turnips disappeared into the lone pocket in Franklin’s pants, the ham into his mouth. Gorman slipped the knife away, said, “By your leave, Captain. I’ll return to Company A.”

  “Dismissed. Get some sleep. Get them up at five. According to General Morgan, we’ll be on the march by seven.”

  Gorman was gone now, and Franklin eyed the ham again, but an orderly was there, the ham scooped off the table. He fingered the turnips in his pocket, a treasure he had rarely been allowed to enjoy. He looked toward the civilian again, who leaned back in the chair, said, “Franklin, is it?”

  He felt hesitant, still no smile on the man’s face. He was suddenly afraid, thought, An overseer. They’re sending me back. He looked toward Jones, thought of the small knife in his pocket, buried now by the turnips. He thought suddenly of escape, a mad dash away from these men, a rising animal terror inside him. But there are so many…they’ll shoot you down. He saw kindness in Jones’s face, the same as it had always been, and he brought his hands together, like a prayer, his words coming out in a burst of fear. “Don’t sen’ me back there. Please, sir. I’ll do better. Please. I promise you, sir.”

  Jones seemed puzzled, said, “Calm down. No one’s sending you anyplace ‘back there.’ This fellow might not be a favorite of General Sherman, and these fellows usually make enemies, but he’s not after you.”

  There was still no menace on Jones’s face, and Franklin tried to believe him. The civilian seemed concerned now, said, “It’s all right, Mr. Franklin. My name is Conyngham. I’m a reporter from New York City. I write for a newspaper. Do you know what that means?”

  “I seen newspapers, sir. Master Cobb had a mess all the time. The overseers read ’em.”

  “You read?”

  “Yes, sir. Mostly.”

  “Well, maybe you’ll read something about yourself one day. The captain has been gracious enough to suggest that you and I take a trip into Millen tomorrow.”

  Jones held up a hand toward Conyngham. “He doesn’t know about Millen.”

  Franklin felt the tug of yet another mystery, and Conyngham said, “Certainly, I understand. That’s your department, Captain. I’m just to observe.”

  Jones said, “You’ll do a great deal more than that, unless you’re careful. Mr. Franklin, I want you to walk with Mr. Conyngham on the main road toward Millen. You’ll cross the Ogeechee River there, though that shouldn’t be any trouble. The cavalry is about, in some force, and there has been no fighting in that area to speak of. All we know is it’s a nasty place for some of our boys. The rebels have a place there we’re aiming to destroy, and in the process, we hope to rescue some of our men who might still be held captive there. But there’s more for you. I need to report to General Morgan, and my corps commander, General Davis, and tell them just what the citizens there know of the rebel troops, and that includes citizens both white and black. Mr. Conyngham can easily pass for your master. If any one of us tried to do something like that, and the rebels captured us without our uniforms, we might be shot for it. And Mr. Conyngham has something of a silver tongue. He might be a natural at the spying business. The two of you will claim to be refugees from back west of us, and if you spread enough of that manure around the town, you might grow some daisies.”

  The words flowed over Franklin in a flood of confusion. “I’ll do what you want, sir. I’m not sure what that is.”

  Both men laughed, and Conyngham said, “Forgive me, Captain, but I’m fairly certain whoever it was taught him to read probably neglected to include a lesson on metaphors. Mr. Franklin, you and I will make a show of being slave and master, making our escape from the Federal army. I’ll see what I can observe among the white citizens, find out what I can about the movement of the rebel army, that sort of thing. You will mingle with the Negroes there, see what they might know. Very simple, really. Just…talk to the people you meet. Show a little fear, spread a few rumors about how this army has destroyed everything in its path, how the people of Millen are in serious danger, all of that. The army needs to find out just what the rebels are planning to do to stop General Sherman. If the white people there won’t tell me much, their slaves might talk more freely to you.”

  Jones was serious now, a hard stare at Franklin. “Can you do this?”

  Franklin felt the weight of the man’s tone, felt a surge of excitement. “Will it make sure I can stay?�
�

  Conyngham said, “Stay?”

  “With you all, sir. You won’t be sendin’ me off nowhere else?”

  Jones said, “We’re not sending you back to any master, Mr. Franklin. We win this war, and I promise you, there won’t be any more ‘masters’ at all.”

  MILLEN, GEORGIA—DECEMBER 3, 1864

  They crossed a wide river, moving alongside bands of soldiers, men in blue who mostly ignored the civilian and his servant. The air was heavy with smoke, the black tar stink of burning pine that Franklin had smelled often at the Cobb plantation. He didn’t ask any questions, kept behind Conyngham.

  There seemed to be very few civilians, the town swarmed by soldiers. Many of them carried bundles, were loading wagons, all manner of clothing and linens, some with kitchen pieces, pots, pitchers, others hauling boxes and crates. Nearly everything went into the wagons, sacks of what Franklin assumed to be flour or corn. In front of him, Conyngham stopped, halting Franklin with a slight wave of his hand, and Conyngham said, “Not many citizens. We’re a little tardy, it seems.”

  “What’s the smoke, sir?”

  “Let’s go see for ourselves.”

  They walked that way, and Franklin saw blue troops on horseback, a hundred or more, spread out through the houses. Conyngham tugged his arm, a silent motion toward what seemed to be a shop of some kind, words on the window glass that Franklin didn’t know. Conyngham led him toward the doorway, and through the window Franklin saw the faces of women, hard, angry stares toward the cavalry. Conyngham pushed through the door, Franklin keeping close behind him. They were inside now, mostly ignored, and Franklin saw three women, two of them older, one most likely a daughter, holding a baby in her arms. Behind them, sitting on a staircase, was a young black woman, no older than Franklin.

  Conyngham removed his hat, spoke in a low voice, as though fearing he might be overheard. “Excuse my intrusion, ladies. We are from near Milledgeville. Seeking shelter from the ravages of these monsters. Is there a man here we may speak to, someone who owns this establishment?”

  Franklin saw tears on the younger woman’s face, all of them shaking their heads. One of the older women said, “Sir, you best leave here. Those devils are killing anyone they don’t care to see. It is only by God’s grace that they spare the women.”

  “Have they harmed any women here? What dastardly crimes have they committed here?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Those men there, the cavalry I suppose, they done burned the prison.”

  Conyngham raised his voice just slightly. “Were there prisoners?”

  The younger mother stepped forward, looked at Franklin, who lowered his gaze, glancing at the black girl at the rear of the room. “Our boys marched them out of here last week. Gone to Savannah, they did. That cursed Sherman won’t be helping those boys, no, sir. But the soldiers done left, too, run out of here like they was leaving for home. Nobody here to protect us. Like Auntie Annabelle said. God’s grace is the only protection we have.”

  The other old woman had said nothing, and Franklin saw a scowl on her face, a hard stare at Conyngham.

  “How you get here?”

  “We were most fortunate, madam. My boy and I kept to the woods, mostly. Moved at night.”

  “And you didn’t think to go somewheres else? South Carolina ain’t but eighty miles to the north of here. You go south, there be no Yankees at all, I suspect. How’d you cross the Ogeechee? Yankees holding on to every crossing. No way for none of us to go west. Only way out from here is the railroad, or the road to Savannah.”

  Conyngham hesitated, then glanced back at Franklin. “We were most fortunate, madam. God’s grace, I suppose.”

  “General Sherman’s grace more like it. You’re a Yankee, sure enough. My whole family’s in Milledgeville, been there every month or so my whole life. Never seen you before. Who’s your kin?”

  Conyngham kept silent for a long second, then said, “I will not be questioned by you, madam. I am fortunate to be alive.”

  “Then you best be moving on, keep yourself a step out front of this army. Or maybe, go back to General Sherman and tell him we ain’t leaving here on no account.”

  The first woman spoke now, seemed shocked by the comments. “Carrie Louise, don’t you be so rude to this man. Sir, I must apologize for my sister’s harsh words. It’s been a tryin’ time hereabouts.”

  The other woman kept her stare on Conyngham, then Franklin, who kept his eyes low. “He’s no man, Annabelle. He’s a Yankee. You best leave now, sir.”

  “Wait. Please.” The words came from the black girl, a short, thin figure in a dull plaid dress. She moved toward Franklin now, made a short bow toward Conyngham. “You be Yankees, sho?”

  Conyngham looked at Franklin, shrugged his shoulders, looked at the older woman. “I admire your powers of observation, madam. But I am not a soldier, nor this boy, either. I am a civilian from the North.”

  The hostile woman looked at Franklin. “This boy’s not from the North. He’s nothing but a field hand, done made good his escape. Look at his hands. If our soldiers was still here, they’d string you up. Maybe both of you.”

  Franklin felt a cold shudder, saw the raw hate in the woman’s eyes, backed away a step, silently urged Conyngham to do the same. But the black girl was close to him now, said to the woman, “I ain’t stayin’ no more. I been talking to those cav’ry men. They says I can go with this army.” She looked at Conyngham again. “Please take me with you, sir.”

  The old woman reached out, grabbed the black girl’s hair, yanked her hard to the side. “You ungracious, ungrateful little monkey, I’ll kill you before you leave this place!”

  Conyngham pulled out a pistol from his belt, pointed it at the woman. “No, I don’t think you will. Release her.”

  The woman obliged, still the hate in her eyes.

  Conyngham took the black girl’s arm, pulled her back toward Franklin. “Take her outside. I’ll be along.”

  Franklin obeyed, his hands shaking, cold in his chest. The black girl had a hard grip on his arm, fear of her own, and he pulled her out into the cold air, the door closing behind him. The smell of smoke rolled over him, the girl holding close beside him, her thin frame still soft, pushing hard at him. He tried to pull away, but she had a grip that he couldn’t break, and she said, “I’m Clara. Don’t leave me here. Please. You can take me with that army?”

  Franklin saw her tears coming now, looked again to the window, could see the women there still, Conyngham talking to them, still at the point of his pistol. “I s’pose you can come. That’s what I done. There’s a bunch of us, whole bunch. They say we’re bein’ freed.”

  “Oh, Lawd, God bless you. I been seein’ the coloreds coming through, days now, some of them caught up by the dogs, other cav’ry. They hung one man down at the river, say it be a lesson to the rest of us. I hate bein’ here. This blue army, they say we bein’ saved. Is that true? I can go with you?”

  He looked at her face, saw rich brown eyes, her skin as smooth as water. She was crying, the fear still in her, shaking as she held tight to his arm. He felt embarrassed, wanted to pull away, could feel her through her dress, had never touched a woman like this. He looked again at the shop window, Conyngham still talking to the women, Franklin broiling up with impatience now, fear of his own, had to believe there were many more of these white people still lurking in this town, too much of the kind of hate he had seen before.

  “Yes. I’ll take you to the army. Don’t worry. There won’t be no more masters. They done promised me.”

  Conyngham emerged from the shop now, backing away, still watching the women, who kept their stares on him through the window. He moved out into the street, motioned for Franklin to follow, putting distance between them and the shop. “Nasty little group, that was. No offense, Mr. Franklin, but if they’d have decided to fight us, not sure the two of us could have held them off. I’m just grateful that old bird didn’t have a pistol of her own. And I’m pretty certain there�
��s someone in the cellar. Heard the bumping around. Probably a man, maybe a rebel soldier.”

  “We oughta tell someone.”

  “We will.”

  “Why’d you stay and talk to ’em? What they say?”

  Conyngham laughed now, surprising him, made a quick glance at the girl beside him. “I asked them a few things. Names, whatnot. I might be a terrible spy, Mr. Franklin, but I’m still a newspaperman.”

  Franklin saw the butt of the pistol protruding from Conyngham’s waist. “Newspapermen carry those things, too, I reckon? Didn’t know that.”

  Conyngham put a hand on the weapon, nodded. “Just in case, Mr. Franklin. Just in case.”

  A line of horsemen moved along the street past them, the flag Franklin was getting used to seeing. Their officer halted them, some of the others moving up, their horses forming a tight half circle around them, the officer with a hard look at Conyngham.

  “You live here?”

  “No, sir. David Conyngham, reporter for The New York Herald. I come here on orders of Captain Toland Jones, the 113th Ohio. I have a letter here from General Sherman, giving me passage.”

  “Do you, now?”

  Conyngham held up the paper, and the officer took it, read, his eyes widening.

  “Well, now my hat’s off to you, sir. I recognize General Sherman’s handwriting. I’m Colonel Spencer, 3rd Brigade, Kilpatrick’s cavalry. I didn’t expect to see anyone like you. They belong to you?”

  He pointed toward Franklin, and Conyngham said, “They’re working with me, Colonel. That’s also part of Captain Jones’s orders. We were on something of a scouting mission, but it seems we’re too late. You’ve done our work for us.”

  “Scouting? If you say so. You might want to keep off the streets. We’re cleaning up things hereabouts. Shouldn’t be any rebels, but there’s always somebody feels like fighting their own war.”

  Conyngham pointed toward the shop. “You’re correct on that count, sir. You had best search that place. The women there aren’t too hospitable, but there’s someone in the cellar, seems to be hiding out.”