by Jeff Shaara
“That’s what they do. Young girls, mostly. Scared what we’re gonna do to ’em. Damnedest stupid people. Think we’re demons.” He turned, called out, “Lieutenant Conley, take a half-dozen men, search this building. We’ll spread out, do the whole block.”
Franklin watched with wide eyes as the Federal horsemen dismounted, pistols emerging from holsters. They moved past him into the shop, no hesitation, no pleasantries. There was shouting from inside, the women protesting in furious tones, and Franklin heard the one hateful woman above the others, her fury digging deep into him, no different than if she had held the whip.
Conyngham said, “Excuse me, Colonel, but are we certain there were no Federal prisoners remaining here? I know General Sherman was most hopeful we could offer them rescue.”
“Rebels carted off the prisoners on the railroad before we could stop them. We’ve already got men out on the rail line, wrecking the tracks. My orders are to burn the place.”
“So, that fire is coming from the prison? I say you’ve carried out your orders admirably.”
“Not yet I haven’t. I said I’m to burn the place. Not just the prison. The rail depot, the warehouses, the whole damned town.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SHERMAN
MILLEN, GEORGIA—DECEMBER 3, 1864
“They dug their own shelters, looks like.”
Sherman stared down from the sloping hill, past the smoking remnants of the log walls. “I can see that. No other shelter there at all. Holes in the damned ground.”
Dayton pointed out toward the hills to one side. “Rebel fort there, sir. Guess that’s where the guards stayed.”
“We grab anybody at all?”
“Sorry, no, sir. They skedaddled out of here when the cavalry came in. Citizens say the prisoners were hauled out of here on railcars. General Kilpatrick reported that as well. His men just missed them.”
“Naturally.”
McCoy came trotting up now, pointed down the hill. “Sir, we’ve found what seems to be a cemetery. Several hundred graves, most unmarked. I’m guessing it’s our own men, sir.”
Sherman didn’t respond, stared at the smoldering wreck of what had been the prison’s walls. The logs were thick, long, charred timbers that told the story he didn’t need from his staff officers. It had been rumored to be the largest compound of its kind, larger than Andersonville, larger than any place rebel prisoners were housed in the North. The fire had already consumed most of the structure, but there were remnants of outbuildings, warehouses, shelter for what the civilians said was grain and supplies. But within the log walls there was no shelter at all beyond the burrows and holes he saw now, dug by hand, muddy pits where men had lived. And died.
There was smoke rising out close to the railroad, Kilpatrick’s orders sanctioned by Sherman himself, nothing that would service the Confederacy would remain standing. The rail depot had been impressive, the town growing up at a junction of three rail lines, and so an important cog in the transportation machinery throughout Georgia, and beyond. Already much of those rails had been wrecked by Sherman’s men, the cross ties burned, the steel rails twisted by the heat of enormous bonfires, what his troops still called Sherman’s neckties.
McCoy stood beside him now, breathing heavily from the climb, said, “What do we do about that place, sir? We can dig up the bodies, see what we find. But it has to be our own men, sir. The graves are haphazard, no stones.”
“And then what, Major? Haul a few hundred corpses along with us? You want command of that detail?”
“Um, no, sir. Guess not.”
“We’ll get them back, one day. Nobody in this army will forget what’s here, what these damned rebels have done to these men.”
He stopped, kept his words to himself. I suppose this is their notion of total war. Nothing too cruel, no reason to take humane care of prisoners. But the next man who suggests that I’m the savage in this fight…well, I’ll send him here. He was growing angrier now, thought of the rebel papers, their ridiculous propaganda. It’s in the Northern papers, too, I’ll wager. Someone somewhere up there is probably twisted in sobbing knots that I’m hurting these people. Well, hell, I didn’t invent the idea. There were Orientals torturing each other a thousand years ago, Huns and Mongols and God knows who else cutting off heads, burning villages. Anybody in Washington starts bitching at me for what we’ve done to these kinds of towns, I’ll bring them here, too. This is one more part of the war, and there’s plenty of that on both sides. I could be doing a hell of a lot more to wipe this country clean, every town we’ve been through. Damn these savages. I’ve been generous, compared to this kind of obscenity.
“How many graves?”
McCoy said, “Several hundred. Not all easy to see. Some probably stacked on top of others.”
Dayton said, “Wonder if Andersonville is this bad?”
Sherman had no more patience for this kind of chatter, moved away, McCoy following. “Get the hell away from me, Major. Both of you, any of you curious about Andersonville or anyplace else, I’ll figure out a way to get you there. I’m ‘curious’ about one damned thing, and it’s not what kind of bastards the rebels assign to guard duty. All I care about right now is how long this is going to take. We’ll not remain in this damned place overnight. I want the men up and moving by this afternoon.”
Dayton was there with McCoy, held back a step, both men knowing Sherman too well. Sherman turned away, looked out over the town, saw Hitchcock riding clumsily up the hill toward him. Sherman felt a new anger, impatience that Hitchcock was still not comfortable on the horse. He reined up now, seemed eager to dismount, and Sherman tried not to shout the words.
“You want to be a damned officer in this army, Major, you’ll learn how to tame that thing!”
Hitchcock glanced at the others, saluted Sherman with wide eyes, said, “Yes, sir. My apologies, sir. The horse is not the most cooperative….”
Sherman saw him look again toward Dayton, knew without seeing it that Dayton was motioning him into silence. Don’t explain. “What the hell do you want, Major? More good news? We find a hundred thousand rebels between this place and General Howard? We surrounded, like that damn newspaper says?”
Hitchcock let out a breath, still held the salute, which finally Sherman returned. Hitchcock said, “Sir, we found something quite different. There’s a citizen here whose slave cabins were hiding a considerable amount of cotton. The owner, he’s quite a pistol, sir. German, I believe. Full of cuss words like I never heard. Says he needs to see you, and fast.”
“Why?”
“He says he’s from Philadelphia. Union man through and through. Says he intends to send the cotton north, as soon as he can. Not sure I believe him, sir. His story is somewhat inconsistent.”
“How much cotton?”
“Near a hundred bales, sir.”
“In the slave cabins?”
“Not in. Under. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to disguise the storage. He says he was hiding them from the rebels. Hard to imagine his neighbors didn’t see everything he was doing.”
Sherman felt a new weariness, said to Dayton, “Where’s my damned horse?”
The groom appeared quickly, never far away. Sherman took the reins, climbed up, said, “Lead the way, Major, if you can keep your ass up in the saddle. I haven’t heard any good cussing in a while.”
“Oh, there, sir, he’s coming up the hill.”
Sherman watched the man with dread, was in no mood for complaints from civilians. The man was out of breath, and Sherman saw age, leathery skin cut with sharp wrinkles.
“Ah, you be General Blair, then? I was told there be guard for my home! I am Herr Myers.”
The accent was there, but not as thick as Sherman had heard before.
“I’m not Blair. What do you want with him?”
“I was told to find him. I require a guard! Protect my house, my wife is there. They want to burn it all!”
Hitchcock stepped forward, clos
er to Sherman, said, “General Blair ordered the cotton be burned, sir. There should be no harm to this man’s wife.” Hitchcock turned to the man, said, “You still insist you’re from Philadelphia?”
“Ya! Of course! I am loyal to Lincoln. To Union. Always!”
Sherman had heard too much of this before, as though every plantation owner was secretly behind the Union, unending claims how their allegiance to the Confederacy was forced, the only way they could protect their family. Sherman had long ago stopped believing that this much of the South held tight to their loyalty to Lincoln. Too many of them had boys off in the war, and those men didn’t wear blue. Sherman looked off down the hill, saw a new fire, ripping wildly through a row of small shacks. He motioned that way with his cigar. “That be your place?”
The old man turned, seemed paralyzed now, and Sherman said to Hitchcock, “You get his coloreds out of the way?”
“I would assume so, sir. General Leggett was there, making a count of the cotton. He knew General Blair’s orders. He told me he was going to burn the cotton unless he heard differently from you.”
“He is burning the slave cabins?”
“That’s where the cotton was buried, sir. Huge cave, the cabins built up right over the top. Captain Poe would have liked to see the place. Quite a bit of engineering went into the design. It’s been there quite a while, sir.”
Myers put both hands up on his head. “You would burn my cotton?”
Sherman felt a slight twinge of doubt, said to Hitchcock, “You certain of this?”
“Sir, I questioned the slaves. Mr. Myers has been doing a great deal to assist the rebel soldiers, the prison, the railroad. There was no suggestion, sir, that he is a Union man at all.”
Sherman felt the guilt drift away. “Well, then, Mr. Myers, you may return to Philadelphia anytime you prefer. Little to hold you back. I must ask. Why did you bury it so?”
Myers kept his stare on the distant fire. “To make it fireproof.”
Sherman could see soldiers gathered around the fire, men on horses moving away, thought of Blair, no hesitation about meting out justice when it was due. Sherman had an instinct for liars, had no reason to trust this man’s stories any more than so many he had already heard. He tightened the reins on the horse, said, “Now, why’d you go to all that trouble? Who’d want to burn all that cotton? Well, no mind. Seems it didn’t work.”
He turned the horse, rode out along the ridge of the hill, one more look at the wrecked prison camp, smoldering, a vast field of black timbers. Behind him, Myers was still shouting at Hitchcock, and Sherman tried to ignore that, thought, The more we destroy, the more they will hate us for it. Not much I can do about that. Only problem is, the more they hate us, the harder it’ll be to whip them. There is no solution to that. Well, there’s one. Don’t just whip them. Crush them.
—
General Howard had come up from his wing of the army’s position to the south of Millen, sat now with Sherman on the porch of a small house, just outside the limits of the town. Already the men were up and moving, no need to delay the march. Those who remained were wrecking more of the rail lines, carrying out Sherman’s orders to destroy everything connected to the prison or the railroad.
As the reports came to him of the various troop positions, Sherman had been extremely pleased that the marches had been coordinated so well that the two wings had moved closer together, a more compact fist that Sherman would now push toward Savannah. Howard seemed restless, what Sherman recognized as impatience for chatter, for being so far from his command. It was a trait that Sherman shared. They had enjoyed lunch, courtesy of a slave who had eagerly revealed his master’s hidden treasures. Sherman rubbed a hand on his stomach, had already forgotten what the meat had been, his mind far out to the south and east, imagining the distance and the land they would still have to cross. Howard watched him light a cigar, and Sherman did not offer another, knew better, Howard’s habits as clean as anyone Sherman had ever met. After a long moment, Sherman said, “I will leave here very soon. No need to delay any more movement. The railroad is being wrecked far out to the north. I just wish we had been able to rescue our captives. Did you see the conditions in that damned prison?”
Howard sipped from a china cup, his usual serving of tea, said, “No, sir. Heard plenty, though. Human tragedy, no doubt. We’ll find them soon enough.” Howard seemed to recoil from a wisp of cigar smoke. “Your Captain Poe has delivered the latest maps to my command. My men are prepared, sir, to make the march with the same vigor we have shown thus far.”
Sherman saw McCoy to one side, waiting for the command, and Sherman motioned to him. “Maps, Major.”
McCoy said something to a waiting aide, the man disappearing around the house, then returning quickly, a roll of paper under his arm. McCoy took the roll, moved to the table, spread the maps out for both men to see. Sherman ran a finger along the lines of roadways, said, “Hard to know if this is completely accurate. No fault of Poe’s. Best damn engineer in the army.” He saw the wince on Howard’s face, the usual reaction to any kind of profanity. Sherman scolded himself briefly, continued. “The Fifteenth is…here. Right?”
“Yes, sir. We’re close to overlapping our marches, if that’s a problem.”
“It’s the opposite of a problem. There are still four main roads. General Blair will move the Seventeenth along the railroad, and I shall accompany him. General Davis shall march the Fourteenth along this route…here. The Twentieth and Fifteenth will use these remaining routes. I want good time, General. We have reached the point where Augusta is over our left shoulder. There is no longer any need for confusion, for deception on our part. Once they realize we’ve passed by Augusta, the troops there might push out toward us. I’m not giving them the luxury of time, Oliver. They want to stop us, they have to catch up with us first. Put your men on the march, fifteen miles a day, if you can. Slocum will do the same. It’s rough country, the farther east we go. Your wagons are full?”
“Oh, quite, sir. It has been a problem, though. From the start of this campaign, my orders have been mostly ignored. I have no tolerance for the abuse of civilians, sir, none at all. I have ordered the arrest of any scavengers who do not follow the strictest intent of your orders regarding foraging. There are officers guilty as well, and they shall be tried at court-martial. I do not understand why your instructions are so very difficult for civilized men to execute.”
Sherman leaned back in the chair, motioned to McCoy, the map quickly removed. “Oliver, there are some things you can control, and some things you cannot. You said yourself your supply wagons are full. Is that not the priority?”
“Obedience to orders would be preferable.”
Sherman knew Howard would never agree with him, respected the man’s dedication to the army. But Howard had already experienced failures of command, the disaster at Chancellorsville, and again at Gettysburg. He would certainly feel the need to keep a tight rein on his men now, to prove, at least to Sherman, that he was capable of managing a successful campaign. Sherman would never mention the past collapses, knew the stain Howard carried with him as boldly as he wore the rolled-up sleeve over the stump of his missing arm.
“If you insist on carrying out the courts-martial, that’s your choice. I would prefer that it wait until this campaign has concluded, whenever that may be.”
Howard reluctantly nodded. “A stockade is not practicable, sir. There will be time for discipline later. I assume there will be much the same with General Slocum’s troops. I have heard all manner of reports of the so-called bummers and their abuse of the citizens throughout this wing of the march, as well as my own. Mind you, I place no blame with General Slocum. But from all I hear, he suffers from the same lack of discipline that has plagued my command.”
Sherman thought: Kilpatrick. No one else would pass such gossipy nonsense between my senior commanders. Certainly not my staff. And that damned Kilpatrick has spread enough of his own abuse across this countryside to ignite h
is own private war. He tugged at the cigar, a hard grip in his teeth, tore off the tip, more than he intended. Howard seemed not to notice, and Sherman tossed it aside, said, “General Kilpatrick’s cavalry shall remain somewhat to our rear, to cover us from any possible advance by the rebel forces at Augusta. I do not anticipate any danger there, but unless rebel cavalry suddenly appears to our front, he will do us far more good watching our rear and left flank.”
Howard finished his tea, set the cup to one side. “I prefer him in that position, sir. Rather unruly fellow, and he is not a good influence on the men.”
“I don’t care about his influence on anyone but the rebels. For that, he’s adequate.”
McCoy was there again, waited for a quiet moment, said, “Sir, we have just received word. It is confirmed that General Bragg is in Augusta.”
Sherman looked at him, annoyed. “I thought we had already ‘confirmed’ that.”
“Well, yes, sir. But several scouts have returned to General Kilpatrick’s camp, having seen General Bragg at close range.”
“Were any of them able to get off a shot?”
Sherman heard a grunt from Howard.
“Really, sir, I don’t believe this army should be employing assassins.”
“No, sir. No assassins. But we also received word that General Wade Hampton has arrived in Augusta, with some additional cavalry.”
Sherman digested that, looked at Howard. “Well, Oliver, that should make you happy. Hampton’s a gentleman, is he not? Wheeler’s not much more than a bandit in a gray uniform. Maybe he’ll add a little chivalry to this fight.”
Howard was frowning, looked at Sherman, rubbed his hand on his face. “Are you not concerned? Hampton could have brought a considerable force of cavalry with him. Could make General Kilpatrick’s job that much more difficult.”
