The Fateful Lightning

by Jeff Shaara

  It was a risk for any Negro to move across this land by himself. But Franklin’s job on this day was not only to assist in the foraging efforts, but to observe just what kind of misbehavior the bummers themselves might engage in. He carried a nerve-rattling fear that if these men decided his company wasn’t welcome, or if there was some certainty that he would return to camp only to pass along reports of their misdeeds, he might not return to camp at all.

  Franklin welcomed the opportunity to meet other slaves in this different kind of countryside, the curiosity of that helping allay his fears about the soldiers he traveled with. He understood that his job was to offer a smile, convincing the slaves that helping the army also helped them. It seemed simple enough, that certainly a man with black skin could gain more cooperation in finding what might be hidden.

  One part of Jones’s instructions wasn’t written on the paper now carried in Franklin’s pocket. As persuasive as he might be in passing along the army’s good intentions, he was also charged with persuading the slaves not to leave their homes. That made his task that much more challenging, especially if the slaves turned against those masters who might still be around to mete out punishment. For some time now the army had been suffering a heavy burden from the needs and the security of the followers who trailed behind them, some officers estimating their number to be in the tens of thousands. Some of those officers looked the other way as mothers rode with small children in wagons meant for something more military, and some ignored soldiers who made efforts to assist the lame and feeble. But many more of those commanders knew that Sherman’s latest orders called for a march as rapid as possible, that the goal, now clearly defined as Savannah, was not too far to their front. With decent weather, it was relatively easy for the men to make their prescribed fifteen-mile march. But with so many Negroes in tow, every company commander knew he risked the ire of his general, who might hear it from Sherman himself. Sherman’s anxiousness about reaching Savannah had filtered down through the entire army, no longer any secrets, nothing vague about their intended goal. The closer they drew to Savannah, the more cumbersome the great long tail of Negroes would become. Once the shooting began, something every soldier now expected, even the most benign officers knew that the Negroes would likely be on their own.

  —

  Franklin walked, picking his way over the rocky trail, while ahead of him the soldiers rode, a pair on horseback, the others up on an empty wagon. Their goal was simple and direct: by nightfall, fill the wagon with something for the army to eat. That task had been assigned to several teams of foragers, spreading out in various distances from the march of the army. This one numbered a dozen men, led by the enormous sergeant named Knight.

  They mostly ignored Franklin, though Captain Gorman had emphasized to the group that Franklin was to travel with them by orders of Captain Jones, and that Gorman himself would hold them all responsible should some misfortune fall upon Franklin. But Franklin could see now, that once clear of the camp, these men seemed to change completely, the only kind of order and discipline coming from the massive fists of Sergeant Knight.

  Franklin had seen Knight many times in the camp of the 113th, a man who enjoyed confrontations, who relished the occasional big mouth, offering Knight an excuse to shatter a man’s jaw in the name of discipline. Even the officers seemed to keep clear of the man, an odd contradiction to Franklin, in an army where so much authority seemed carried by those few men like Jones, just because they wore the fancier uniform. But watching Knight exact authority by brute strength had been a lesson learned, and even now Franklin kept his distance. From the start of this day’s duty, Knight barely looked at him, a blessing Franklin took to heart. It was very clear to Franklin that, so far from anyone else’s authority, Knight could do whatever he wanted.

  The two-mule wagon bounced high, struggling with deep holes in the muddy trough of a road, an advantage for Franklin, who kept up a steady pace, keeping close enough that he could hear their talk, most of that a storm of cursing that passed back and forth through the men like some kind of game, made more dangerous by the weapons they carried. For most of the journey, he kept his eyes to the side, peering past the thickets of briars, the small black-water ponds, ringed by enormous cypress trees, their limbs draped in curtains of Spanish moss. He studied the water first, knew those places as the home of alligators, and the fat black snakes they called the cotton-mouth, the creatures that Franklin had only seen in the deepest holes in the farthest corners of Cobb’s plantation. He felt the warmth in the air around him, the brutal cold now days behind them, and he knew very well that the warmer weather meant the creatures would be here, as though rising up from the dead. They were never seen on the colder days, what he considered a fair trade for suffering through those days of bone-chilling temperatures. On those frigid days, a small boy could warm himself by exploring the wet ground in a rapid run, passing through the swampy places without fear. But when the air turned warmer, the creatures seemed to rise up from the mud itself, often seeking the brightest sunlight, spreading out on grassy banks, only to lurch violently into the water if the boy stumbled upon them. As a child, Franklin had found those encounters terrifying enough, the stuff of nightmares. Now he welcomed that those amazing beasts might be close by, infesting the black water. If there were bands of roving rebel cavalry, Franklin had to believe that those fellows would avoid those swampy holes for the same reason he did.

  Two men rode ahead of the wagon, and he saw a hand go up, heard the call, the others reacting with a slap of the reins on the pair of mules. Franklin could see another cypress pond, and beyond that a house. It was nothing grand, two stories with a small wraparound porch, curtains billowing softly with the warm breeze. In the yard he was relieved to see a quartet of small black children, watched as they stopped whatever activity had occupied them, the four of them scampering away, dropping down behind a large azalea bush. He saw the muskets come up from the wagon, the men hopping down. An older white woman emerged from the house, a drab dress, her hair pulled tight into a small bun. She stood on the porch, scanned the men, then focused on Knight, who walked up close to her, climbed the step, an act of intimidation that backed the woman away. Franklin moved into the yard, ignored by all but the children, who eyed him from their leafy fortress. He offered them a smile, but their attention was grabbed now by Knight, who shouted out, loud enough for anyone in the house to hear, “Hey, now, missus. You be the lady what lives here? Any men about? Any soldiers, waitin’ to take a shot at us?”

  Franklin saw fear on the woman’s face, so very different than the defiance of the shopkeeping women in Millen. He eased closer, felt the menace of the sergeant’s bullying voice, but one of the other soldiers held out a musket, holding him back, the barrel hard across Franklin’s chest.

  “Easy, boy. We got work to do. You keep out of the way. We done this plenty before.”

  Franklin said nothing, backed up a step, the soldiers now spreading out, careful, weapons up, and Knight said again, “I say, old woman. You dumb? Just want to know who’s hereabouts.”

  She was visibly shaking, said, “Please don’t hurt us. We have nothing.”

  “Ah, then! Who would be the other half of that ‘we’?”

  “My daughter is inside, and she is quite ill. I have four darkies, plus those little children. Soldiers came through here yesterday, took everything we had, frightened us near to death. My daughter, Lou Ann, took to her bed.”

  Knight turned to the others. “This is what happens when you bring up the rear of the march. Damn it all anyway.”

  Franklin moved away from the soldiers, peered out around the side of the house, called out, “Sir, she says there are slaves. I’ll talk to ’em. Where might they be, ma’am?”

  The woman looked at him, the fear taking on something far more ugly. “You don’t speak to me unless I speak first.” She looked back toward Knight. “What kind of people are you? You let your darkies tell you what to do? Let them run about as they please?
”

  The sergeant looked toward Franklin, waved him past the house, said, “He’s ‘runnin’ about’ at my pleasure, missus. But he’s gettin’ wages for it. That’s gotta be worse’n a horse’s fart to you, ain’t it?”

  The woman’s disgust was aimed at Knight now, and she crossed her arms, shook her head. “So, you would be more of those rude devils. You’ll find nothing here. We’ve lost every bit of food, every piece of linen, every fork and knife. My late husband’s watch, my own rings. They done stole every piece of anything I hold dear.” She paused, and Franklin saw a change in her face, all her fear slipping down into something angrier. “Any one of you touches my daughter, and I promise you, Yankee, you don’t have enough men to keep me from killing you.”

  Knight laughed, the others joining in. “Well, now, we got one with spirit! Look, missus, all we want to do is fill this here wagon with rations. Hams, chickens, anything else you got. Excuse me for calling you a liar, but we’ve done this before, seen places supposed to be all cleaned out, and then, just like that, we find more rations than we can carry. So, if you’ll just stand aside now.” He turned to one of the others, said, “Four of you, go on in. No need to mess with her gal. If she’s sick, I ain’t wantin’ to carry nothin’ of that back to camp.” He pointed to a small outbuilding. “Looks like a chicken house. If there’s a floor, rip it up. These damned people have a talent for hiding the good stuff. I’ll keep my eye on the missus here.”

  Franklin saw Knight motion to him again, a silent order to move out around the house. He knew what he was looking for, saw it now, a pair of shacks along the edge of a small cut cornfield. Two adult men seemed to wait for him, standing tall in front of the shacks, eyeing him with suspicion. Behind them were a younger boy and a young woman. One of the men stepped forward, chest out, clearly trying to protect the others.

  “What you want with us? You bring them soldiers here?”

  “They brought me. I work for the army. General Sherman. We’re just getting vittles, anything you can spare.”

  “Spare? There’s been plenty of Sherman’s men come through here already, done took every scrap, everythin’ we gots to eat. Done taken Miss Harley’s silver. Dishes and spoons and bed linens, done busted up furniture jes for fun. Drove the young miss to the sickbed. Why they need to do that? You ain’t eatin’ none of that. Just thievery, that’s all. Evil. That what you aim to do? You too late.”

  Franklin saw more anger than he expected, shook his head. “No, it’s all right. I can’t talk for nothing else that’s happened. But the army’s gettin’ rid of the masters, done killed a pile of track hounds, every one they can find. Overseers have mostly run away.” He weighed his words now, knew what the captain wanted him to do. But these men were strong, big-chested, could help the soldiers with any kind of heavy work. “You all, if ’n you want, you can come along. Work for the army. You’ll be paid. We’re bein’ freed.”

  “Freed from what? Why’d we wanna do that? We got no cause to leave home. Got crops to plant, greens goin’ in the ground next week. Those little ones gettin’ bigger, need more to eat. Miss Harley’ll be needin’ us. All I seen of this army is destroyin’ everything. Done took all we got. How we supposed to feed the chil’ren?”

  The other larger man pointed out toward the muddy road. “You go on, get yourself outta here. Take them soldiers wid you. We got nothing for you here.”

  Franklin felt overwhelmed by frustration, as though these people were refusing to see what he had finally taken for granted. “You can stay here, all right. But the war will be over soon. The generals, they’re all sayin’ that. Mr. Lincoln has freed all of us. Ain’t you heard about that?”

  The first man still stood tall, still facing him. “All I know of Mr. Lincoln is he’s far away somewheres, someplace no colored man ever goes. Don’t know nothin’ ’bout no war, ’cept that Miss Harley tole us her boy ain’t coming home. Kilt by Yankees. That be you, then? You done take her boy away? Miss Lou Ann ain’t never been right since. She’s sickly all the time. Worse now. You done scared her too bad.”

  Franklin felt a surge of urgency, an aching need to make these people understand. “I’m not a soldier. I was a slave, just like you, Master Cobb’s plantation, miles back. This army is freein’ this whole country. We got no need to stay put, to work this land just ’cause they tell us to.”

  The man shook his head. “You talkin’ nonsense. You go on, get outta here. Take them soldiers. They doin’ no good right here.”

  Franklin stared at the man, then looked at the others, saw no comprehension, none of the joy he had seen so many times before. He backed away, said, “You’ll see. This war ends, it’ll all be different. No more cavalry, no more hounds. It’ll be better. You’ll see.”

  The man turned away, the others moving back toward their shacks, and Franklin saw the girl looking out past the side of the main house, horror on her face.

  “Oh, dear Lawd! Dey’s diggin’ up my baby!”

  Franklin looked that way, saw a pair of soldiers hoisting a small wooden box from the soft soil. One man called out, “Hey, Sarge! Something here, all right.”

  One man struck the box with the tip of his shovel, the box shattering, and Franklin stood paralyzed, knew what lay inside, and close behind him, the young woman was hysterical, screaming, “Tha’s my baby! Oh, Lawd!”

  Other soldiers were gathering at the small grave site, another shovel poking at the small bundle, the shovel coming up now, lying on the man’s shoulder.

  “Nothing here. Damn these people, anyway.”

  Franklin moved that way now, fists clenched, saw Knight moving closer, looking down at the shattered coffin. Franklin saw one of the others squat down, pushing through the rolled-up cloth, then standing, a shake of his head.

  “Nothing. I’d a bet it was something good.”

  Franklin was there now, one fist swinging hard into the man’s jaw, his other a sharp blow to the man’s gut. The man absorbed the punches, bent low, falling backward, but the others had Franklin’s arms now, hard grips yanking him back. Franklin shouted out, “What’s wrong with you? It’s just a baby! It’s a grave!”

  He felt the fist punch hard into his side, his knees giving way, his face coming down hard in the grass. He was pulled up again, gasping for wind, hands under his throat, the face of Knight close to his.

  “I could shoot you, boy. Might, before we get back.”

  The hurt soldier stood slowly, rubbing his jaw, pure hate in the man’s eyes. “Go on, Sarge. Kill him. Any darkie hits me, he oughta be cut in two.”

  Knight seemed to weigh the man’s words, but he released Franklin, who dropped to his knees, gasping for air, the sharp pain stabbing through his ribs.

  “Nah. Have to explain that to the captain. We still ain’t filled this damned wagon, and these people ain’t helping a bit.” He looked up, bright sun overhead. “It’s after noon. We best get moving.”

  Franklin felt his air returning, the pain in his side still cutting off every breath. The others began moving away, the sergeant still looking at him.

  “What the darkies tell you, boy? They hiding anything?”

  Franklin fought through the pain in his ribs, heard the screaming of the young girl, looked back toward the shacks, saw the two black men holding her, staring hard at the soldiers. He shook his head. “Soldiers been here before us. Took everything. They got nothing left.”

  Knight grunted, kept his eye on the two big men, his musket pointed at the ground in their direction. He called out, “You all stay back. No need for nobody to get hurt. We’ll do what we need, and move on.” He looked down at Franklin, said, “The house has been busted up pretty good. They’re right. Somebody’s beat us to it. Come on. Get up, boy.”

  Franklin stood, and Knight stayed close beside him, while the others resumed their futile search. The older woman followed a pair of soldiers out of the house, was on the porch again, saw now the churned-up earth. She shouted toward Knight, “You find what you wan
ted? Defiled a grave, you did. You’ll burn in hell, every one of you.”

  Franklin looked down at the broken coffin, the bundle of cloth disheveled, soiled with loose dirt. The sergeant ignored the woman, said in a low voice, “Ought not have done that. Didn’t like this, and don’t you think for a minute I did. God won’t like it, neither. Damned stupid. It’s that Dunlap, crazy fool. Thinks these people are rich with gold and jewels, every damn house is a palace gonna make us all kings.” He paused. “Boy, you ever hit a soldier again, and captain or no captain, I won’t hold ’em back. They’ll hang you for it.”