The young man could not put a name to this place, although he knew somehow that it had once been one of the world’s great capitals. It had been a grand city, a beautiful city, but other men who hated it had come to shatter its lovely temples and drive both the rich and poor citizens from their beds and, at last, to put the whole great city to the torch.

  The young man was awakened by a violent explosion nearby. He was still only partly conscious, but he could hear the screams of rage from other men in shebangs, and the shrieks of unbearable pain from those who would die soon. He didn’t yet feel completely involved with what was happening around him. He could still recall the first part of his dream, the early moments that sometimes let him figure out the location. “Troy, it was,” he murmured in wonder. “Troy, all aflame.”

  “Damn all the work I done!” cried the boy. “No taking our rest in the shebangs tonight. We’re being shelled.” “We got to get out of here,” muttered the young man in a croaking voice. He grasped the boy by the hand,

  but the sergeant would not follow until the young man stopped and knelt down low to the ground and let the old man climb upon his back. Together, the three of them made their way through the terrible thunder and the fires and the bellowing of the dying men.

  They made slow progress, but it eased their awful fear to talk. The young man and the boy talked all night, neither caring if he made sense or not. Talking that way was like pretending life would be normal again.

  “I knew it would be like this if I came here,” said the young man. The veteran rode his back, his knees clutching tightly at the young man’s sides. “I knew it would be like this, and I came anyway. And not ’cause of the slave thing. For the other thing.”

  “Only fools seek out ruination,” said the boy. “Sane people find comfortable refuges where calamities can’t touch them. They’d rather listen in safety to the gossip of destruction, and then they agree among themselves about how terrible it all sounds.” The boy held the young man by one hand, and in the other he clutched something to his chest. The young man could not see clearly what the boy was carrying.

  “Is he badly ill?” asked the young man.

  “Think he caught the brain fever you were suffering from,” said the boy. “Or else the tobacco he bought from me might’ve been just a bit improperly wrapped or something.”

  “Well,” said the young man in a clearer voice, “I truly believe the brain fever’s left me, because I know this isn’t Troy or anyplace like that. It’s Atlanta, and it’s in its last hours.”

  “An appropriate time to recover your wits,” said the boy. “Your days of wandering have begun. Many great heroes are tested by a time of wandering.”

  “I’m no hero, and I’m not looking forward to any testing of any kind. We for sure aren’t going to sleep tonight, not at all. None of these men are going to sleep tonight. We’ll head some way, some safe way. See how far we get.”

  “I’m curious about that,” said the sergeant in a whisper. “You bein’ in that blue 8th Lou’siana Infantry outfit and all.”

  “I got these red stripes on my sleeve so I won’t be taken for a Yankee,” said the young man.

  “Good, that’ll do her,” said the older man, laughing until he began choking painfully.

  “Wish there was some clean water,” said the young man.

  “You’re going to wish for lots more stuff pretty damn soon,” said the boy, as they turned east and headed toward where the sun would come up. The young man pretended that would soothe all the fury and chaos.

  “Whole ruck of folk on the move tonight, too,” the boy went on. “Mostly, we got to look as if we’re not here, wherever we are. I can do it, but the two of you got to learn how tolerably fast.”

  A tall man in a Confederate officer’s uniform rode by, sitting up straight in the saddle of a handsome chestnut mare. The horse clambered over the broken stones and bricks that littered the streets as well as what had once been the lawns of gracious houses. The boy flattened himself against the ground, and the young man did the same. The weight of the sergeant knocked all the air out of the young man’s chest. They all waited until the officer on the chestnut mare had ridden out of sight. Then the boy got up cautiously, and the young man followed, and the old soldier reluctantly got to his feet and climbed again on the young man’s back.

  “We out of Atlanta yet?” asked the sergeant. Neither the young man nor the boy felt it necessary to reply.

  3.

  A weary Confederate captain named Clare Littlewood stood before his company’s lieutenants, who were seated on folding camp stools. Captain Littlewood’s uniform was unbuttoned and stained, his face unshaven, and it was clear from his eyes that he was badly in need of sleep. Instead, he had to hold another confounded staff meeting. Littlewood’s final official task of the night was to give his subordinates some idea of what they were expected to do the next day. This was more difficult than it should have been, because no one had seen fit to give Captain Littlewood himself the details.

  He stood leaning against a collapsible podium. Behind him were several planks nailed together to make something that Captain Littlewood could draw on with the chunk of chalk in his hand. “They’re here,” he said, making a firm X about halfway up toward the right corner of the boards. “A good portion of the U.S. Army is centered around this town of Decatur, Georgia.” He drew an oval around the X and wrote “U.S.” in it.

  “And our blamed officers’re just itchin’ to get it back,” said Lieutenant Billy McManus. “We gonna try an’ shoo them Yanks away, huh, Cap’n?”

  Captain Littlewood rubbed his reddened eyes with one hand. He had this trouble with McManus all the time.

  “Just shut up,” said the weary company commander, “and you might learn enough to live through tomorrow’s battle.” He drew another X, all the way across the boards and in the upper left corner. He drew a second oval and wrote “C.S.A.” in it. “If y’all look closely, y’all see that we’re not anywhere near Decatur.”

  “Leastwise, you hope we ain’t!” said McManus, laughing and looking around at the somber faces of his fellows.

  Captain Littlewood ignored the interruption and went on. “The main body of our army is up here. We’re waiting far north of Atlanta on Peachtree Street. There won’t be any significant battle actually fought in Atlanta, y’all understand. It’ll occur between Decatur and someplace down here.” He made a third X southwest of the first mark. “Anyone wish to explain to me why?”

  “’Cause the Yanks ain’t stupid,” said Lieutenant Ernest Farr. “The folks of Atlanta been spendin’ the last year turnin’ their city into a thickset circle of redoubts, breastworks, and rifle pits. We know it and the Yanks know it, and they ain’t such fools as to charge that high porcupine fence.”

  Captain Littlewood let out a tired sigh. “Very good, Lieutenant. But remember, however, that in addition to Sherman’s Army, a lot of other folks are out there also wanting to shoot us to pieces. Let’s make a little list.”

  He tossed the piece of chalk a few inches into the air and caught it again. “The Green Line,” he said, fiercely drawing a broad vertical stripe from the top of the boards to the bottom. “If this were an ideal world, everything west of the Green Line would belong to the Confederate States of America and our agents. Everything east of the Green Line would be the property of the Lincoln government. But this isn’t an ideal world, is it, Lieutenant

  Neuhauser?” The chosen officer shook his head and muttered something, his expression fearful. He hated being singled out for any reason.

  “What did you say, young man?” asked Captain Lit-tlewood in a low and tightly controlled tone.

  “I said, no, this ain’t an ideal world,” said Lieutenant Neuhauser. He was gripping the edges of his camp stool so tightly that his white knuckles were visible across the tent.

  “Quite correct, Lieutenant,” continued Captain Little-wood in his small, dangerous voice. “So it’s necessary to identify the other fighting forces. By the luck of the draw and the will of our Almighty Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, there are four main groups on each side of the Green Line. Lieutenant Clement, think back two staff meetings ago. What day of the week was that, Lieutenant Clement, do you recall?”

  “We held the meeting immediately before Sabbath services, sir,” said Clement. “It was a pleasant Sunday evening.”

  Captain Littlewood allowed himself a brief smile. “Thought I’d catch you out that time. You’re a clever rascal, young man. Maybe you boys’ll make me proud of y’all yet. And at that meeting, did y’all learn anything of special importance?”

  “Ain’t never yet learnt us nothin’ of importance,” grumbled McManus.

  Everyone ignored him again. Captain Littlewood’s intent expression filled the tent with anticipation as he looked gravely from one man to the next. “Tonight, however, we have news of vital significance. The dawning is the decision! Remember that, write it down if y’all must: 7he dawning is the decision!”

  “What’s that mean, Cap’n?” asked Lieutenant Sebold. The company commander took a deep breath and let it out. “The arrogant Yank moves his horse if he’s got one, and the horse bobs its tail if it’s got one, and the cumulative breeze is supposed to sweep us away, scatter us to the four cardinal points, knock us useless for the rest of the war. You think it’s possible, Lieutenant Vinet?” The man leaped to his feet. “Hell, no!” cried Vinet, flushing with anger. “I mean, Hell, no, sir! We still got somethin’ to say about how and where the damn Yankees do their movin’, and I can guarantee that no man in my platoon’ll let a single bluebelly approach our lines without a damn furious skirmish, a bloody, fierce, Nick-take-me battle. That what you got in mind, sir?”

  There was the sour stink of spilled beer in the tent. Captain Littlewood stood staring at his subordinates for a moment. “Excellent,” he said at last in a subdued tone. Then he turned to look at the nailed boards. With the blunt bit of chalk, he began sketching larger and smaller ovals, so that finally there were four on the west of the Green Line, and four on the East.

  He pointed to the former. “We’ll take our all-fired ‘allies’ first. They’re all a pack of busted, blistered, foolheaded thieves who’ll all climb a ladder to bed one day! But that’s not our concern. Our job is to keep one eye on ’em tomorrow so they don’t send a few shots in our direction, and maybe if we’re lucky they’ll take some of the bullets that were aimed at us instead.

  “A little northeast of this main Confederate encampment,” he said in a disgusted tone, “I’ve put this little tiny oval.” He pointed to it above the C.S.A. oval, almost right up against the Green Line. “This represents a militia sent to our shores from Prussia. These are soldiers Bismarck estimates he can spare from his war with Denmark, and those he also doesn’t need to fulfill his IPF obligation. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why there should be an independent Prussian-backed militia wandering around on its own, and I’ll bet our superior officers and the IPF are just as curious. Our best scheme is just to stay out of its way.” He paused to write “Prussia” in the small oval.

  “These particular Prussians are real animals, and I don’t mean because they’re famous, valiant fighters. I mean they’re best suited only for spreading cowyard confetti. Hanging around with ’em is an invitation to a .44 bullet right between your family’s future hopes, and then another between your eyes. I’m not exaggerating. It’s not advisable that any well-bred Southern lady should spend a moment of time in their presence, under any pretext at all.

  “Hell, let me tell y’all about their favorite sport. They find a couple of chickens, see, and they all gather at the bottom of a long gully. Then they sprinkle a sufficient quantity of kerosene on the chickens and flick lighted matches at ’em. Brightens the chickens up like animal figures in a Christmas nativity scene.”

  “By Gee and Jay, those folks sure been in the sun too long!” muttered Clement. He turned away, clearly disgusted. There was some mild laughter in the tent, but it died away quickly.

  “The next step is a passable amount of betting,” the captain went on. “By now, of course, the poor burning chickens have gone wildly out of their wits, trying to escape the growing flames. The birds can’t even climb out of the damn gully. These Prussians’!! bet on anything, and each man wagers that the chicken that caught his eye will run farther before it dies than the other.

  “It’s also perfectly legal to draw your own pistol and try to blast the other guy’s bird to pieces, but none of the bottom-of-the-barrel Prussians in this militia could hit the broad side of the Union depot. Whoever owned the chicken that ran the farthest before meeting its Maker, well, he’s declared the winner.

  “But it’s not over yet. Now they initiate the sequel, when the winner tries to collect the prize money he’s due. These are seriously staggerish fools. My advice to y’all, gentlemen, is to avoid this whole noisy mess of loose-in-the-haft hounds, however much y’all hunger for burnt chicken. See, the badly-scorched and still-reeking fowls, the losers as well as the winners, always end up as dinner; but I attest from dismayed experience that the meal is infinitely better in the context of the menu than it is upon delivery.

  “Until we’re mustered out of Jeffy Davis’ workhouse,” the captain went on, “and y’all can travel freely again on your own hook, y’all are better off taking my advice — later on I promise I’ll steer y’all toward a restaurant in New Orleans that features a poulet Josephine en croute in a delicate cream sauce that I guarantee y’all will remember for the rest of your life!”

  There was immediate and enthusiastic applause, but it ended when Captain Littlewood went to the boards and drew a discouraging X through the oval of the Prussian militia. “Let’s move on,” he said in a hard voice, and his eyes narrowed to the smallest and meanest of slits, so that not even Lieutenant Billy McManus was tempted to encourage his commanding officer’s reminiscences.

  “Down further on Peachtree Street, near Five Points, they’ve stationed our green but formed-up regiments of raw recruits. I guess Hood figures they don’t need much training to occupy those strong fortifications. His untried boys inside those palisades could hold off Juarez and what’s left of Julius Caesar and Stonewall Jackson, too.”

  “The whole war should be fought like that,” said Lieutenant Dufrene softly. He got a few laughs, all cut short by the grim look from Captain Littlewood.

  “As long as the recruits know whom to shoot at and whom to let pass,” said the captain. “A bigger problem comes from these other fellows.” Captain Littlewood marked an X through the oval south of the main C.S.A. position. “They’re local Georgia militias not coordinated with anybody. They’re patrolling south of that Five Points position, as far east as the Green Line. We don’t even know what to call ’em. It’s these wild-assed troops that might get us all in real trouble tomorrow.” He wrote “Uncontrolled militias” in the oval.

  “Way I understand it,” the captain explained, “they want to be an auxiliary Rebel force made up of friends and neighbors from Atlanta and nearby towns. There are a dozen small militias out there, each one expecting to be the leader of all the rest, nobody listening to anybody else, and their rosters are filled out with C.S.A. rejects. As far as we can find out, they share no allegiance at all except to ‘The South.’ They’re what used to be called ‘minutemen’; they’re all hotheads who feel the vast assembled might of Hood’s Army of Tennessee — numbering 64,000 men — won’t be enough to protect ’em or their homes and they can make the difference.

  “They’d be a joke and we’d just laugh ’em out of existence, except that somehow they’re also armed to the

  teeth. Many of ’em are carrying good, modern weapons, too — better than what most of our own boys have. The official policy from Richmond down through General Hood is to take seriously anyone pointing a better rifle at you than you have pointed at him.”

  “Who’s supplyin’ ’em, Cap’n?” asked Farr.

  “I don’t know, Lieutenant,” he said with a humorless smile, “else I’d meet ’em in the middle of the woods and work a deal for ourselves.”

  “Do you know anything else about ’em?” asked Se-bold.

  “Just that they’re as scared of being taken over by the Confederate regulars as they are of some of these damn forces on the other side of the Green Line. They want a safe Georgia, and I guess I can’t hold that against them too much, but they don’t know who they can trust in this fight. My guess is they’ll hang off and watch everybody mix it up, and then when y’all and I and the Yanks leave, they’ll pick up the pieces and go back to what they were doing.”

  “Wisht I could,” said Neuhauser, “but the more ovals you draw on those boards, the less I feel like I’m ever going to see Tennessee again.”

  Captain Littlewood stared at him for a few seconds. “If we got any luck at all, Lieutenant Neuhauser, we won’t run into any of those units,” he said. “All you got to worry about is Sherman and his bluebellies. They ought to be about enough for us to worry about.”

  “I’ll say!” said Lieutenant McManus.

  “Way down here,” said the captain, pointing to a large oval far to the south of their own position, “are the barracks of the International Peacekeeping Force.” There were a lot of catcalls and hooting for a few moments, and the captain waited until it passed. He could hardly say anything; he felt the same way himself. “Y’all know what they’re here for. They’re to prevent any major outbreak of violence between the main belligerents. McManus, that means us and the Yanks. So far they haven’t done much good except ride around Atlanta and get every goldurn group stirred up and crazy. We’re going to face the Yanks soon, and I pray to God the IFF stays out of it.” His disgust was evident as he wrote the letters “IFF” in the oval.

  “Well, boys,” he said, “that takes care of our ‘friends.’ Now let’s cross over the Green Line and take a look at what we got over there. First, there’s this big oval I already marked ‘U.S.’ We don’t need to say much more about them.”

 

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