by John Jakes
“I want some of the boys in this regiment watched, but not watched so they know they’re being watched.”
“Which boys’d those be, Captain?”
Winks had long ago abandoned hope of clarifying his rank for the pesky youth. “Professor Marcus and his chums, Spiker and Pence. I threw them off the forage squad last night. They abused some innocent civilians here in town. Would have robbed ’em but for a shoulder straps that happened along. Colonel Jolley don’t seem too interested in giving them a dose of army discipline, and something’s telling me those boys won’t mend their ways.”
When Zip repeated “Yessir” with less enthusiasm than before, it testified to the bad character of those Winks had named. “Where I find them sojers at, you suppose?”
“The new horseshoe pitch, or close by. Loiter around there. If you hear anything suspicious the next day or so, let me know.”
“I’ll see what I can find out. Can’t do it past nine o’clock. Provost guard’s mighty hard on anybody they catch after curfew.”
“Don’t worry your nappy head about that. I’ll write you an iron-clad, brass-bound, guaranteed, foolproof pass. Follow me.”
The last instruction was wholly unnecessary.
Hattie’s heart pounded when she saw the carriage whose clatter drew her to the window. It was the carriage that had awaited Sherman and his officers before Hattie’s fateful kick; its top had been raised against the morning showers. Black lacquer on the carriage body collected raindrops that gleamed like opals before they broke and trickled away.
A Union officer alighted with an umbrella. Hattie ran through the gloomy hallway to the kitchen, where Sara and Vee sat with mugs of ersatz tea.
“Mama, there’s another Yankee coming to the door.”
Sara turned pale as milk. “You stay here. I’ll see to this.”
She disappeared. Vee clasped Hattie’s hand in an anguished way. Hattie listened for the knock, the sound of the door unbolted, the indistinct voices. The Yankee spoke softly, making it all the more ominous.
Sara returned. “His name is Captain Coker. He asked your name, Hattie. I felt obliged to tell him. He’s not here to arrest you, but General Sherman saw you dash into this house yesterday. He wants to speak to you at his headquarters.”
Hattie’s eyes grew large and round. “What for?”
“The captain won’t say. At the very least I think you can anticipate a reprimand.” She grasped Hattie’s shoulders gently, spoke without recrimination. “Are you up to that?”
“That and more,” Hattie exclaimed, feeling a rush of courage. Old Sherman was just an ordinary man, wasn’t he? He’d turned his vandals loose to pillage Georgia, hadn’t he? She was glad she’d barked his shin. She wished she’d done it twice.
“You should go with her, Sara,” Vee said.
“He only asked for Hattie. He promised she wouldn’t be harmed.”
“They probably say that to every prisoner before they bring out the firing squad.”
“Vee, don’t alarm the child.”
“I’m not alarmed, and I can go by myself,” Hattie said. Perhaps if she were lucky, she could give old Sherman the sockdologer he deserved. “Mama, have you seen my shawl?”
Vee had a last advisory: “They’ve hung their flags all over town. If you come upon one, don’t respect it by walking under it. Walk around—that’s what my friends are doing.”
But Hattie had left the kitchen and didn’t hear.
On the ride through the rain, Hattie kept her mind off the coming inquisition by asking questions of the captain. Did the general intend to march into South Carolina and punish that state as he’d punished Georgia?
“He has no animus toward Georgia”—Hattie sniffed to show her opinion of that assertion—“but South Carolina is another bucket of fish. General Sherman believes the Palmetto State forced the war. He’s awaiting General Grant’s permission to resume the march.”
Was the general some sort of savage, then?
“Not at all. He thinks strategically. He’s also very—ah—unbuttoned, one might say. Not strong on ceremony.”
“Does he have a family?”
“Yes, his wife, Ellen, is back in Ohio. She’s the daughter of Senator Ewing, the general’s foster father. You know also that his brother is a United States Senator?” Oh, worse and worse, Hattie thought, though she merely shook her head.
“The general and Mrs. Sherman have children, but that’s a subject I would avoid. After Vicksburg, he brought the family down to celebrate. His oldest, Willy, contracted typhoid and died. Willy was nine—the general’s favorite.”
Hattie was somewhat annoyed to feel a pang of sympathy. “That’s too bad,” she said, almost inaudibly.
“That isn’t the end of it. When the general arrived in Savannah, he learned that his youngest child, a baby boy, had succumbed to illness during the march. He’s taken the loss hard, though I’m sure he won’t let on to you.”
“You can be sure I won’t ask. What does he want with me?”
“He’s curious about you. How old are you?”
“Twelve.”
“That was his guess. He said you’re as audacious as many an adult.”
“Is he going to tan my hide for kicking him?”
With a tilt of his head and a glint in his eye, Captain Coker said, “If you take that tone, it’s a distinct possibility.”
“Right up the stairs, miss. First door to your left. The general ordered some luncheon. Would you care to join him?”
“I would not.” Hattie was so agog over the sumptuous furnishings of the Green residence—the large oil paintings, the sculpture on pedestals—she nearly forgot her manners. “Thank you.”
The orderly showed Hattie to a spacious front bedroom with a large dining alcove. Under a flickering chandelier, the feared Union general took up the whole of a large round table with his paraphernalia: maps; orders and reports inked by various hands; cigars, both unlit and residing as smelly stubs in an inverted jar lid; several dinner plates. William Tecumseh Sherman put aside his knife and fork and pulled his crumb-laden napkin from his throat, revealing a soiled dickey. He nodded to the orderly.
“That will be all. You may close the door.”
Hard rain splashed the room’s oriel windows. The general cleared his throat, rose to offer his hand. He was taller than she remembered. “Miss Lester, I believe.”
“Yes, sir, that is right.” Although good manners prompted her to shake his hand, she didn’t. His seamed face reddened a little more, but he concealed any anger he felt.
“Won’t you sit down, then?” Sherman pulled out a chair. “I’ve looked forward to making your acquaintance.” Hattie doubted that. With a ladylike rearrangement of her petticoat and overskirt, she took the offered seat.
Peculiarly, she wasn’t overly awed by the famous general who smiled at her while he raised his napkin to dab a few last crumbs from his lips. Seldom had she seen a military man so untidy, not even in the ragged ranks of the Confederacy. His rust-colored hair seemed to grow in several directions; his barber might have been a blind man wielding an ax. His baggy brown trousers didn’t match his unbuttoned blue blouse, still with no emblems of rank on it.
“As a rule, I like children. They like me. After you whacked me yesterday, I realized you look a lot like my second daughter, Elizabeth—Lizzie. She’s about your age. You kicked me good and hard, you know.” He rubbed his right ankle after he crossed it over his left knee. Instead of proper boots, he wore low-cut shoes, badly scuffed and scratched, like a common laborer’s. Instead of two spurs, he wore just one, tarnished. “I won’t ask for an apology, but I won’t ask for another kick, either. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some lunch? Leg of lamb? Yams? Corn bread?”
“No, thank you.”
In the litter on the table he found a small paper bag. “A peppermint, then? Good for digestion.”
“No, sir. May I ask why you brought me here?”
“You may, Miss Lester�
�—he stuck a partially smoked cigar in the left side of his mouth, lit it—“I wanted to meet the little girl who had the nerve to march up and deliver a swift kick. I’ve met a number of Savannah children but none like you.”
“I’m not little—I’m twelve, like your daughter. And all of the children in Savannah aren’t spineless jellies, either.” She felt dangerously rash. “I want you to know something. My father died serving our side, because you Yankees went to war against us.”
“My sincere regrets, Hattie—may I call you Hattie?”
“I prefer Miss Lester. I don’t know you very well.”
“Yes, well—Miss Lester, then. I want you to know something too. Your side, not mine, fired on Fort Sumter and commenced the bloodletting. I hold those Charleston hotheads principally responsible. However, despite the differences that have divided us, you and I remain Americans. I earnestly wish you could find it in your heart not to hate me.”
“After all you’ve done to Georgia? And my family?” Generals weren’t talked to like this, she supposed. Well, she had even more to say. She shook her index finger under his nose. “We may have lost our rice plantation because of you.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Is that so? Again, my sincere regrets, but—”
“You didn’t have to march across the whole state, did you? Shooting, thieving, burning?”
“There have been excesses, I’ll not deny it. I deem them the unavoidable, if unfortunate, effects of our broader plan.”
He didn’t seem to be an ogre, just a hard-eyed, determined man arguing his point, as if with his own daughter. Hattie refused to surrender; she stuck out her chin. “What plan? To bring Georgia to its knees?”
His eyes danced and shone; a slight jerk of his head suggested ire. “Yes, that was my intention. It occurred to me that the quickest and most humane way to end this sorrowful war was to destroy the South’s capability to wage it. To make the lot of ordinary citizens so miserable, for a short time, that they would plead for—demand—peace. I want this country to be whole again. I have great respect and admiration for Southern people.”
“Excuse me, but you have a queer way of showing it.”
Sherman threw back his head and laughed. “I have never, ever met anyone as outspoken as you—well, not under the age of twenty. You aren’t persuaded by my explanation of why I undertook to march all the way from Atlanta?”
“No, sir.”
“Hmm.” He rummaged among the inked field orders, produced a copy of the New York Eye. A steel engraving on its front page depicted a merry fat man shouldering a pack of toys beside a snowy chimney. He tapped the picture.
“Might you reconsider? This is the season of forgiveness, you know.”
“Also of plundering.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some of your brutes broke into our house the other night, drunk as coots.”
For the first time the general looked genuinely stern. “Did they abuse anyone in your household?”
“They would have. They wanted to barbecue Amelia, my pig, but a captain came along to stop them.”
“A captain from the Union army?”
“Yes. I think his name was Hopewell.”
“I commend him. I will look into the matter.”
Sherman licked the tip of a pencil stub, scribbled a note on his soiled shirt cuff. He stretched out his lanky frame and gave a mournful sigh. “I admit to a measure of guilt, Miss Lester. Perhaps I haven’t enforced my special order on foraging as vigorously as I might have. In Savannah I want to exercise more restraint, tolerance—respect for the spirit of the season. I have ordered my men to rest and enjoy the charms of this attractive city. I believe your mayor, Dr. Arnold, and his aldermen have no objection to Union soldiers sharing Christmas with you.”
Hattie held her hands tightly clasped in her lap. The rain pattered the glass. Sherman subjected her to a long, calculating look. “One last question. Is it remotely possible that you and I could be friends?”
At that moment Hattie couldn’t help liking him just a little. He seemed thoughtful, genuine—fatherly. She remembered his losses.
She had to put them out of her mind to answer: “No, sir, I don’t think so.”
“But we needn’t be enemies.”
Hattie fidgeted. “Am I to be arrested for kicking you?”
“Arrest a child? Never.” He shook a finger over the table, a deliberate reprise of her earlier reproof. “Just don’t do it again. Thank you for allowing this meeting.”
“All right, sir.” Hattie slid sideways from her chair, stood. So did General Sherman. He held out his hand. Again she refused it, taking refuge in a curtsy.
“You are a damned little rebel, excuse my language,” he said with an exasperated smile. “But you do bear an uncanny resemblance to my Lizzie. Here, take these, no argument.” He twisted the top of the bag of peppermints to close it, tossed it to her. He bit down on his sparking cigar. “Merry Christmas.”
Hattie opened the door so fast, she surprised the orderly dozing on a chair tilted against the wall. She ran down the stairs with the precious candy, buffeted by conflicting emotions. At one point she’d almost wanted to jump on the general’s knee and fold his arm around her, like a proper father’s.
Sara wore a path between the Chickering and the front window, each time lifting the lace curtain, then dropping it while sighing anxiously. So occupied was she with thoughts of Hattie, she scarcely heard Vee’s invitation to a special meeting of some kind at four o’clock.
She missed the sponsor’s name, forcing Vee to repeat: “The meeting’s at the home of my friend Miss M. G. Parsley, formerly of Jackson, Mississippi. Mayo is a minister’s daughter and a fiery secesh. A stick of dynamite, compared to which, one might say, Jefferson Davis is a damp squib. Mayo’s had many beaux”—this was said rather wistfully—“but she’s dismissed every one as deficient in patriotism. One disappointed suitor threw himself in front of a rifled cannon at Fredericksburg.”
“Enemy cannon?”
“Ours. Mayo has that effect on boys.”
“What’s the purpose of this meeting?”
“To allow us to abuse and rail against the Yankees behind closed doors. There will be singing, and speechifying, to protest the brutal occupation.”
“So far it hasn’t seemed all that brutal.”
“Sara, have you forgotten those beasts who broke into this very house?”
“But that good-looking captain—what was his name? Hopewell. He prevented a tragedy.”
“When it comes to the enemy, you certainly have a keen memory.”
Sara blushed. “Fiddlesticks. He did us a good turn. I liked his music. That’s hardly a crime. Now about this meeting. Is it possible you could get arrested for attending?”
“I can’t imagine the Yankees hearing of it. Should the worst happen, however, I pity the jailer who tries to close a cell door on M. G. Parsley. He’ll find he’s trying to cage a little wildcat.”
“And you? Can you emulate that?”
“Well”—Vee retreated into determination—“no, but I’m going anyway.”
Sara was frankly weary of the endless rhetorical drum-beating. The notion that the South could yet wrest victory from defeat was nonsense. The Confederacy and the Richmond politicians who dominated it were whipped. Perhaps the inevitable outcome was wrong (in regard to the peculiar institution, Sara didn’t think so), as well as sad, but the loss of her husband, the threat to Silverglass posed by the Drewgoods, and of late the gentle spirit of the yuletide enfolded her in a mantle of resignation, even forgiveness. She remembered part of Wordsworth’s “Farewell Lines.”
But, surely, if severe afflictions borne
With patience merit the reward of peace,
Peace ye deserve.
It was apt for Georgia; it was apt for the nation.
Vee repeated her invitation. Sara shook her head. “I’m in no mood to protest. You go along, but do be careful.”
Noise in the
street announced the return of the carriage that had borne Hattie away. Sara rushed to the door and nearly collided with her excited daughter. Hattie showed her a paper sack.
“The general gave me this, Mama. Peppermint candy, can you imagine?”
Vee exclaimed, “Lord preserve us. There’s been no candy in the shops for months.”
“Here, have one.” Hattie pressed the sack on her. Vee peered inside, as though Sherman’s peppermints might be poisoned. Vee declined the candy, but Sara popped a piece into her mouth and savored it. She’d almost forgotten how peppermint tasted.
Hattie threw off her shawl and shook her blond curls to rid them of a few drops of rain. Vee peered outside. “The driver’s waiting for you to signal you’re safe and sound.”
Hattie opened the door, stepped on the stoop and waved. The Union soldier tipped his forage cap and drove off. Vee said, “I didn’t know Yankees were capable of such courtesies.”
Having swallowed the last dissolving bit of peppermint, Sara said, “We mustn’t noise it about.” Vee missed her friend’s irony.
Sara turned to her daughter. “Do I understand correctly? You got a present instead of a tongue-lashing?”
“Yes, can you feature it? The general even offered me luncheon. He was polite. He wanted to be friends.” Hattie seated herself close to the sorry Christmas tree, now decorated with two strands of popcorn, mostly burnt, and a trio of tiny unlit candles. She described her visit with W. T. Sherman down to the last crumb on his dickey and the last smudge on his shirt cuff.
An hour later, Legrand came by. Hattie shared the peppermints and again suggested they exercise Amelia. With the pig trundling at the end of her tether, the friends set out.
Candle-lighting time failed to blunt the sharpness of the air, although the blue shadows of impending night lent a picturesque quality to the tents and hovels in the square. Hattie could almost imagine poor but honest mudsills living there, not the invaders.
Legrand turned up the collar of his wool coat and remarked on spits of rain in the air. Hattie agreed that the weather didn’t look auspicious for Christmas. “So we have a duty to brighten it as best we can.”
