by Jeff Shaara
There were voices now, a large building along the waterfront, soldiers gathering, excited calls. He pulled her that way, curious, and she seemed to accept his need to know everything that was still so foreign to both of them. He held her arm in a soft grip, moved behind one group of soldiers, saw them staring up, hands and hats in the air. He could see now, a man on the roof, more men, blue uniforms, one man with hands on his hips, staring out toward the far side of the river. In front of Franklin, a soldier called out, “Hooray for Uncle Billy!”
More joined in, and Franklin looked up at the man, a ragged red beard, a stub of a cigar in the man’s mouth. There were more cheers, and Franklin was cautious, didn’t want to disturb the revelry. But Clara reached out, touched the soldier’s arm, the man turning with a smile. “Sir, please, who’s that up there?”
“Well, Missy, only the most important man in this here country. That’s General Sherman!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
SHERMAN
CUSTOM HOUSE, SAVANNAH—DECEMBER 22, 1864
“They wrecked the pontoon bridge, I see.”
Dayton was beside him, said, “Yes, sir. From all accounts, the last man reached the far shore by midnight or so. It was our skirmishers who figured that out. You know what it’s like for them, sir. They make friends on the other side, all that trading nonsense. I suspect that at some point, some of their friends didn’t answer the call. A few officers pushed their men up close to the rebel works and found them empty. That started the flood, so to speak.”
Sherman kept his stare far across the river. “They’ll gather up everyone they can over there. Whatever troops can be scraped up. They don’t expect us to stay here, not for long. If I didn’t have to wait for Grant, I’d have us over there right now. South Carolina started this war, and Hardee has to know there will be punishment for that. He has no choice but to haul in every last man he can, put up as much of a defense as we allow him to. Damn it all! I hate delay!”
Sherman paced the roof now, ignored the cheers of the soldiers in the street below. Dayton kept silent, McCoy as well, Sherman’s thoughts drifting far to the north. He wondered what Grant was doing, if he had read Sherman’s response, if there were Washington bigwigs surrounding him with all of that “advice.” He retrieved a cigar, said to no one in particular, “What time is it?”
McCoy responded. “Just before ten, sir.”
“Cold day. No rain. Rebels will make good time moving north. We’ll need fresh maps. Put Captain Poe to work on that.” He didn’t wait for a response, watched the men working in the river, the pontoon boats being strung together, as Poe’s men had done along every stretch of water since Atlanta. He pulled at the cigar, tried to feel some comfort from the heat, turned now, looked back over the city, mammoth oak trees, wide streets cut by squares. There were statues, war heroes from long ago, some of the town’s squares adorned with fountains. Beautiful place at one time, he thought. He tried to remember just when he had been stationed there, recalled his rank, captain, the homes he had visited, flirtatious women, all the gentility of Southern aristocracy. He said aloud, “It all seemed so quaint then. Charming, even. Everybody bowing, all the women in their damned hoops. Wonder what happened.”
Dayton glanced at McCoy, said, “The war happened, sir.”
Sherman kept his eyes on the tumult in the streets, blue columns in motion, more of his army making their way to new camps, some of those in the forts once held by the rebels. “They didn’t really suffer the war here. No damage I can see. This city was always the center of so much. I suppose the damned rebels used it just like the army did back in the early days, shipping, warehouses. Hell of a good place to start a business. Any fool could get rich.”
He heard commotion, the doorway to the rooftop opening, low voices, Hitchcock now.
“Sir, we have some figures. You need to hear this, sir.”
Sherman looked at him, saw Hitchcock with one hand on his glasses, staring at a piece of paper. “Hear what?”
“Sir, the provosts and commissary officers from General Geary’s command are estimating that there are twenty-five thousand bales of cotton here.”
Sherman pulled the cigar from his mouth, cocked his head toward Hitchcock. “You certain of that?”
“Well, sir, General Geary seems certain of it. His men were the first into the city in any force, and they took stock pretty quick of what was in the warehouses, and anyplace else there might have been rebels hidden away. All they found was cotton. Bags of rice, of course, other provisions. Pardon me for asking, sir, but how much is that worth?”
Sherman tried to picture the sight of that much cotton brought into one pile. “More than you or I can tally, Major. Where is General Geary now?”
An aide spoke up, a low voice to Hitchcock, and Hitchcock said, “He’s coming this way, sir. He wishes to offer you a formal greeting.”
“Why?”
“He was here first. I suppose—”
“I suppose he wants credit for capturing the place himself. I shall disabuse him of that notion. This army deserves the credit, not any single division.”
“Sir, look there.” Sherman followed Dayton’s gaze, saw the men in the river setting markers, red and white flags. “Wonder what that’s for? The bridge is pointing off that way.”
“Hell if I know, Major. I don’t ask too many questions of engineers.”
At the riverfront, Sherman saw Poe now, the man directing the activity, and Poe noticed him, a hearty wave. Sherman called out, “Captain, here if you please.”
Poe responded with quick steps, a beaming smile, stopped at the steps of the Custom House. “Sir! We’ll have the bridge toward Hutchinson Island put back in place by nightfall.”
“Fine. What are those men doing with those flags?”
Poe looked over, his expression changing. “They’re marking torpedoes, sir.”
Sherman stared that way, saw the flags in a haphazard pattern, spread all across the river. “They’re marking a hell of a lot of them.”
“Regrettably, yes, sir. The enemy had secured any deepwater approach into the city from the sea. We’ll be removing them with all haste. I shall keep you informed.”
Sherman thought of the maps he would need, the roads that snaked all through the rice marshes and swamps across the river, felt his usual impatience, a hard burn in his brain to put this army back out on the march. “Clear those damned things away, Captain.”
Poe saluted him, moved back along the riverfront, resuming his work. Sherman kept his stare on the small flags, said to Dayton, “It’s fortunate Admiral Dahlgren didn’t just shove his flagship up that channel. We’d be picking sailors out of those rocks down there. Nasty business. I’m getting very tired of the enemy’s willingness to ignore the rules of war.”
“Yes, sir. Too bad they didn’t leave anybody behind. Prisoners, I mean. We could put them to work.”
Sherman planted the cigar between his teeth again. “They did. There have to be some around here somewheres. Find out. And see if they can swim.”
—
He stepped up into the lobby of the hotel, the Pulaski House, the guards already spread out inside, the staff examining the rooms on the ground floor. Dayton came toward him now, said, “This should be a suitable place, sir. Turns out Jefferson Davis spent some time here. They seem eager that you should sleep in the same bed. Um, sir, the fellow in charge says he knows you.”
“Where? I don’t recall anybody here in the hotel business.”
“That old chap, crippled leg. Says he knew you in New Orleans.”
Sherman moved that way, looked at the old man, who seemed to wait for recognition. Sherman knew the face now, the telltale bum leg, smiled. “You old coot. How’d you get over here?”
“Could say they tossed me out of New Orleans, General. I wouldn’t be lyin’ much.”
Sherman took the man’s hands, felt the fragility of age. He glanced at Dayton now, said, “Major, this fellow’s older than Methuselah. Used
to run a place in New Orleans.”
The old man was all smiles now, said, “Yessiree. The St. Louis Hotel. I thought New Orleans was a strange enough place for an old Vermont woodcutter to find. Savannah’s a little nicer. Used to be anyway. Rebel generals made themselves at home a bit more than I cared for. Hard to keep my dang mouth shut more than I liked. No need lettin’ on just where my mama birthed me.”
Dayton said, “Vermont?”
“Yep. Cold as a maiden’s hind end in the winter. Old bones need warm weather.”
Sherman scanned the lobby, thought of the name, Pulaski, a hero from another war. “Great deal of history hereabouts.”
The old man eyed Sherman, nodded. “I’d say there’s a bit more right now. They done made you a general. Knew you’d turn out to be more’n some supply sergeant. Camp cook, mebbe. You ever figure out how to make coffee?”
Sherman knew he was trapped, that the stories would continue as long as the old man had the strength for it. He saw Hitchcock enter, making way straight for Sherman, and for the moment, Sherman didn’t care why. It was his escape.
“Excuse me, but the army requires my attention. We’ll talk later.”
There was a hint of disappointment on the old man’s face, but he seemed to understand. Hitchcock was close to him now, eyeing the old man with curiosity, and Hitchcock said, “Excuse me, sir. General Geary is with General Slocum. They heard you were making use of this place.”
Sherman rolled the cigar in his fingers, looked again at the old man. “You have someplace my generals can sit, have a private chat?”
The old man pointed to one side, and Sherman saw the space, the guards already standing at the doorway. He said to Hitchcock, “I’ll be right over there.”
—
He respected John Geary, had been surprised by what seemed to be Geary’s show of bluster at capturing the city. But Sherman could see now that wasn’t the case at all.
Slocum sat across from Sherman, Geary to one side, Slocum as businesslike as Sherman had seen him.
“Sir, it was my decision that General Geary bring his headquarters to the city first. The general has considerable skills with civilian affairs.”
Sherman looked at Geary, saw a sober, straight-backed man, full of confidence, waiting for Sherman’s judgment. “What kind of skills?”
Geary said, “I was mayor of San Francisco in the gold rush days, sir. Followed that by a term as governor of Kansas. I am very familiar with the operation of the civil authority. Not to suggest that there should be a civil authority here.”
Sherman knew something of this, recalled Geary’s reputation for efficiency beyond his years with the army. “There will be a military authority here, that will carry authority over any civil office. General Slocum, I see no reason why your recommendations should not be followed. General Geary, you are to serve as military mayor of Savannah until otherwise ordered. Not sure where those orders might come from, but I’m certain someone in Washington will insist on making an appointment of their own. I want order in this place, General. Wrecking Savannah will only embolden the enemy.”
Slocum said, “Not sure I understand that, sir. Your orders were clear that we cause considerable discomfort to the enemy, including our civilian enemy.”
“Orders change. Think about it, Henry. We make Savannah our new base of supply and operations, and all the while, we treat the city and its citizens with generosity, show them that we didn’t come here to devour the place. They still think I’m Attila the Hun, for God’s sake. But we keep order here, including those men who pride themselves on scavenging, and it won’t take long for word of that to spread to the enemy’s troops. Think of what that will do to the rebels’ morale. There won’t be any cause for revenge for what we’re doing here. Nothing we do will inspire anyone to bloodlust. General Geary, you might consider this hotel your headquarters.” Sherman fingered the letters in his pocket. “I am told by Major Dayton that it was you who secured the letter from the mayor, that Arnold fellow. Thank you for passing that along.”
“Yes, sir. I knew you’d wish to see that. I had him purposely address it to you. He’s most cooperative. As the military mayor, I believe I can work well with him to keep things quiet here. Pleasant enough chap, if a bit hangdog. When he offered to surrender the city, I thought he was going to bawl.”
“There’s bawling aplenty going on around here, General.”
Slocum laughed now, and Sherman saw the cause, the view through the tall window, the far side of a broad square, a cluster of soldiers around a pair of black children. The children were doing what Sherman had seen so often before, a whirling dance, frantic excitement, the soldiers clapping, one man with a harmonica, trying to make any kind of music that would keep the children in motion.
Slocum said, “No bawling there, sir.”
Hitchcock was at the door now, said, “Sir, there is a gentleman here, most insistent on seeing you. Claims to be British, has a generous offer for you. That’s what he says, anyway.”
“What kind of offer?”
“A headquarters, sir. Says he has the nicest house in the city, and he’s offering it for our use.”
Sherman expected something like this, well-dressed civilians coming in droves, asking all manner of favors. But he didn’t expect much generosity. “What do you sense, Major? We should get a look at the place?”
“Cannot hurt, sir. He’s not what I expected here, none of that syrupy Southern gentleman nonsense.”
From behind Hitchcock, a voice, heavy British accent. “I say, you’d be General Sherman, then?”
The man’s head protruded above Hitchcock’s shoulder, the man wearing a monocle, a silk cravat around his neck. He raised a silver-tipped cane, as though attracting Sherman’s attention, and Sherman saw a smile, thought, All right. Fine. Now’s as good a time as any. He looked at Slocum.
“General Slocum, you may resume organizing the city as far as the encampments of your men. I expect Howard’s doing the same. General Geary, you will assume your new authority immediately. Establish an office as quickly as possible, and let that mayor fellow know what we’re doing. He gets out of line, remind him who has the bayonets.”
The two generals stood, Hitchcock making way for them, both men eyeing the Englishman as they passed him. The man stepped fully in the doorway, made a crisp bow, removed the monocle, said, “Now, then, sir, if I may suggest, I have a potential headquarters for you that befits your station, far more than this drab old hotel.”
Sherman was intrigued, heard no hostility in the man, his demeanor pleasant, as generous as his words seemed to be. “What do you do around here, sir?”
“Charles Green, at your service, sir. I dabble somewhat in the banking trade, though, I must admit, there hasn’t been a great deal of commerce in this place, not for a while. Your damnable blockade…” He paused. “Forgive me, sir. One must adapt to one’s circumstance. I’m a bit slow on that point.”
“Blockade slow things down around here?”
“Oh, quite, sir. The trade with Mother England has been squeezed rather severely, I’m afraid. Perfectly understandable, of course.”
Sherman couldn’t help a smile. “And perfectly dreadful, as well.”
Green tapped the cane gently to his head, a salute. “Admittedly, yes. However, I am no enemy of yours, and bear no great loyalty to anyone other than my queen. If you will accept my invitation, sir, I assure you of satisfaction. Plenty of room for your staff, and whatever business you have. My home is open to you, sir.”
The man’s cheerfulness was infectious, and Sherman saw a smile on Hitchcock’s face, Dayton there as well. “All right, gentlemen. Let’s go have a look.”
GREEN HOUSE, SAVANNAH—DECEMBER 22, 1864
The mansion had far more grandeur than Sherman had expected, and the wide eyes from his staff added to his own observation. He had never been comfortable with abundant pomp, but the mansion was spectacularly decorated, including tropical plants set around in enormous c
lay pots. Sherman studied the man’s collection of artwork, various paintings and portraits, suspected there was considerable value, but he wouldn’t ask that, wouldn’t give the man any reason to fear him. But the furniture made the man’s case, Sherman sitting down on a chair that seemed to swallow him in comfort. He saw the self-satisfaction on Green’s face, thought, He’s a businessman, no doubt about that. He has something to offer, and he creates his own demand.
“Tell me, Mr. Green, what exactly do you expect in return?”
“Sir? Sorry, I’m not following.”
“You’re a horse trader. What do you get in return for all this graciousness?”
Green nodded toward him now, another salute with the cane. “Very good, sir. I happen to be in possession of a substantial amount of the cotton stored hereabouts. I have the papers to prove that, I assure you. I was hoping perhaps your army could be convinced to permit me to make delivery to my customers. There are contracts in place, after all.”
“Customers in England.”
“Well, yes, certainly. No one here is a buyer, sir.”
“I accept the offer of your home as my headquarters. We shall be as courteous as possible, and avoid any damage to your furnishings. As for the cotton, well, we can talk about that at another time.”
—
He stood in his new room, a grandly appointed bedroom, looked out the window, the waterfront, the lingering columns of smoke from the rebel gunboats. He was drinking tea, an odd luxury, not something that usually tempted him, but it was his host who had insisted, describing his offering as something far more rare than coffee, something imported from India. Whether it suited Sherman’s taste didn’t seem to matter as much as the pampering Sherman had finally allowed himself to enjoy.
He studied the waterfront, his hand resting on the rich silk on the back of another outrageously comfortable chair. A nap would be most useful right now, he thought. He eyed the rugs beneath his boots, thick and lush, thought, I could sleep right here. I get into that bed, I might not get out again.
