The Heroes and Villians Series - Civil War: Sherman’s March and Those Left Behind

My Name is General William Tecumseh Sherman

A Boy Named After a Shawnee Chief

I was born on a brisk winter day—February 8, 1820, in Lancaster, Ohio. My parents named me Tecumseh, after the great Shawnee leader who once roamed this very land. My father, a respected Ohio Supreme Court justice, passed away when I was only nine years old, leaving my mother with eleven children and little income. I was taken in by the Ewing family, neighbors and friends of my parents. Thomas Ewing, a prominent senator and cabinet member, helped raise me and opened doors that would guide the course of my life.

The West Point Years

Thanks to the Ewings, I was appointed to West Point. Though I wasn’t a top cadet, I did well enough—graduating sixth in the class of 1840. I found the discipline of the academy useful, though I never quite loved the spit-shined order of military life. I had little taste for glory and little love for politics, but I believed in duty and in service.

From Garrison Life to Gold Rush

After West Point, I served in Florida, South Carolina, and California. I missed the Mexican-American War, which some might call luck, and others misfortune. While many of my classmates gained battlefield glory, I was building forts and guarding supplies. During the Gold Rush, I served in San Francisco, witnessing firsthand the chaos and ambition that defined the era. But I began to question whether the Army was where I belonged.

Banker, Lawyer, Educator: A Civilian Life Interrupted

I resigned from the military in 1853 and tried my hand at business. First banking in San Francisco, then practicing law in Kansas, and finally becoming the superintendent of the Louisiana State Seminary of Learning & Military Academy, now known as LSU. I enjoyed academic life, but as the country inched toward division and war, I grew uneasy.

I believed secession was madness. When Louisiana left the Union, I resigned, writing that I could not take up arms against the country I had served. I returned north, not knowing what lay ahead—but knowing I would serve the Union.

Into the Fire: The Civil War Begins

When war broke out, I was back in uniform. My first test came at the First Battle of Bull Run, where our green troops were routed. I saw clearly then what others did not: this would be a long, bloody war. I spoke this truth and was labeled insane by some newspapers. I was briefly relieved of command, a hard blow—but I never wavered.

Redemption in the West

My fortunes turned with my posting under General Ulysses S. Grant. We shared a belief in total war—using all means necessary to crush the Confederacy. Together, we captured Fort Donelson, and I led troops with brutal endurance at Shiloh. It was there I earned Grant’s trust and became one of his closest lieutenants.

From Vicksburg to Chattanooga, we fought together. I believed in strategic war—breaking the enemy’s ability to fight not only by winning battles, but by breaking their infrastructure and morale.

VII. The March to the Sea

In 1864, Grant gave me a monumental task: invade Georgia and strike deep into Confederate territory. I captured Atlanta in September, then began my infamous March to the Sea.

We cut a 60-mile-wide path of destruction from Atlanta to Savannah, burning railways, destroying crops, and shattering Southern infrastructure. I wanted the South to feel the true cost of rebellion—not just its soldiers, but its people. War, I believed, should be made so terrible that no one would seek it again.

To this day, people debate my actions. But I believed that hard war was needed to end the greater evil—slavery and disunion. And we succeeded. Savannah fell in December, and from there I marched north to help finish the job in the Carolinas.

The War Ends—And Reconstruction Begins

When Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox, the war was over, but the real work had just begun. I accepted the surrender of General Joseph E. Johnston in North Carolina. I offered generous terms, trying to bind up the wounds of war. Washington politicians criticized me for that—but I stood by it.

Later, I was sent west to deal with Indian conflicts, and I became the Commanding General of the U.S. Army after Grant became President. I never sought political office myself—when urged to run for president, I said, “If nominated, I will not run; if elected, I will not serve.” And I meant it.

Final Years and Reflection

I retired in 1884, after more than four decades of service. I spent my final years in New York, writing my memoirs, attending reunions, and watching the country I fought to preserve continue to grow. I died on February 14, 1891, just a few days after my 71st birthday.

My Truth

I never considered myself a hero. I did what I believed was necessary—sometimes brutal, always honest. I was a soldier, a strategist, and above all, a Union man. I saw firsthand the horrors of war, and I waged it with the purpose of ending it swiftly and decisively. History will judge my methods, but I rest knowing I helped preserve a nation.

The Battle of Atlanta – Told by General Sherman

By the spring of 1864, I was entrusted with the command of the Military Division of the Mississippi—a grand army of nearly 100,000 men. My objective was clear: march into Georgia and take Atlanta, a vital hub of Confederate transportation and supply.

Atlanta wasn’t just a city—it was the beating heart of the Southern war machine, with railroads stretching in all directions and factories feeding the Confederate armies. If I could break that heart, I could cripple the rebellion in the West and strike a blow that might finally push the South toward surrender.

Three Armies, One Purpose

I divided my force into three armies. George Thomas commanded the Army of the Cumberland, James B. McPherson led the Army of the Tennessee, and John Schofield commanded the Army of the Ohio. Together, we advanced through rough terrain, winding through the forests and hills of northern Georgia, driving Confederate General Joseph E. Johnston back step by step.

Johnston was no fool—he avoided pitched battles, preferring to dig in and force us to maneuver around him. But each time he pulled back, Atlanta grew nearer.

Frustration Turns to Opportunity

By July, we had nearly reached the city. Then came a surprise: Confederate President Jefferson Davis replaced Johnston with the fiery and aggressive General John Bell Hood. Hood was brave, but reckless. Where Johnston had been cautious, Hood charged headlong. And that would be his undoing.

In a matter of days, he launched three major attacks against us: at Peachtree Creek, Atlanta, and Ezra Church. Each time, he struck hard—and each time, we repelled him with bloody losses. The most critical came on July 22, in what history now calls the Battle of Atlanta.

The Battle of Atlanta: July 22, 1864

That morning, I believed the enemy would strike our right flank. Instead, they surprised us—attacking our left with fury. Hood had sent a corps under General Hardee on a long, flanking march through the night. They emerged from the woods behind our lines in the blistering heat of the Georgia summer.

The fighting was fierce and confused. General McPherson, a dear friend of mine and one of our finest officers, rode forward to check the breach in our line—and was shot dead by a Confederate skirmisher. His death hit me like a cannonball to the chest.

But our men held. Logan, who took over McPherson’s army, rallied the troops. Line after line of grey-coated rebels charged, and line after line of them fell. At one point, our men recaptured a Union position with bayonets alone, in hand-to-hand fighting that lasted for hours.

By nightfall, we held the field. Hood had lost over 8,000 men in a single day. We had lost brave McPherson and thousands more—but we had not been driven back. In fact, the city now lay just out of reach.

The Siege Begins

After July 22, I refused to throw lives away in frontal assaults. Instead, I laid siege to the city, tightening the noose with each passing day. We cut the rail lines that fed Atlanta from the south. We shelled the city. We starved its defenders of supplies and options.

The people of Atlanta endured terrible hardship—but I would not retreat. The war needed a victory, and Atlanta would be it.

The Fall of Atlanta

On September 1, 1864, Hood abandoned the city after a failed breakout attempt. My men marched in the next day. On September 2, I sent a message to Washington: "Atlanta is ours, and fairly won."

It was more than just a city. It was a turning point. Lincoln’s chances for reelection soared. Northern morale surged. And the South—well, the South had lost a vital artery.

Reflections on a Hard Victory

The Battle for Atlanta was not won in a single day—it was a campaign of endurance, maneuver, sacrifice, and stubborn will. I lost a friend in McPherson, and thousands of brave men gave their lives in the red clay of Georgia. But it was necessary.

War is cruelty. There is no use trying to reform it. But from that cruelty, peace can be born. Atlanta had to fall—so that the Union could stand.

The Planning of Sherman’s March – Told by General Sherman

Atlanta in Ashes, and the War Yet Unfinished

By September of 1864, we had captured Atlanta, and the city lay smoldering in our grasp. The victory electrified the North—President Lincoln’s reelection chances revived, and our grip tightened on the heart of the Confederacy. But I knew, even then, that the war was not over. Not truly.

The Confederate armies still fought with fierce determination. General Hood, though beaten in Atlanta, was still dangerous in the field. But I understood something that many in Washington hadn’t yet accepted: we could not win this war solely by defeating Confederate armies. We had to break the South’s spirit and its capacity to wage war entirely.

Breaking the Backbone of Rebellion

The South’s strength wasn’t just in its soldiers—it was in its infrastructure, industry, and belief. As long as its people supported the war, fed its armies, transported its supplies, and believed they could outlast us, the bloodletting would continue. I came to believe that we had to make the South feel the war, not just on the battlefield, but in their homes, fields, and towns.

This was not cruelty for cruelty’s sake. It was, in my eyes, a necessary cruelty to shorten the conflict. If we could destroy their means of sustaining war—**railroads, crops, factories, morale—**we might finally end it.

This became the foundation of what they now call Total War.

A Bold Plan: The March to the Sea

My mind turned toward a daring idea—one that would carry war deep into the Confederate heartland and slice Georgia in two. I proposed to cut my army loose from its supply lines and march from Atlanta to Savannah, living off the land and destroying anything of military value in our path.

It was a bold and risky proposition. I would have no line of communication with Washington, no reliable supply chain, and tens of thousands of men moving through enemy territory. But I knew Georgia well. The land was rich with crops and livestock. My men could feed themselves as we moved. And by marching light and fast, we could stay ahead of any Confederate pursuit.

This march, if successful, would show the South and the world that the Confederacy could not defend its own soil—and that its government could not protect its people.

Gaining Approval

Convincing my superiors was not easy. There were many in Washington who feared I was going rogue. But General Grant, my friend and commander, trusted me. I wrote to him with confidence, explaining that this campaign would do more to end the war than a dozen bloody battles.

I told him plainly: “I can make Georgia howl.”

Grant understood the purpose and gave his blessing. With that, I was free to execute one of the most audacious campaigns in American military history.

Organizing the March

I divided my army into two wings, each with about 30,000 men. The Right Wing, under General Oliver O. Howard, would march through the southern half of the state. The Left Wing, under General Henry Slocum, would take the northern path. Together, we would form a wide swath—60 miles across—consuming, destroying, and moving relentlessly toward the coast.

We carried no baggage trains except for essentials. The men were told to live off the land, and my foraging parties—“bummers,” as they were called—were sent ahead to gather food, destroy rail lines, and disrupt Confederate infrastructure.

Our target was Savannah, a vital port city. By seizing it, we could reconnect with the Union Navy and further sever the Confederacy from outside aid.

The Logic Behind the Fire

Some said we were too harsh. That we brought war to civilians and scorched the land with vengeance. But I made it clear: we were not burning homes for sport, nor were we slaughtering indiscriminately. We were waging a war on the Confederate war machine—its railways, mills, supply lines, and psychological will.

If the people of the South continued to support rebellion, then they would feel the cost of rebellion. That was the hard logic of war, and I believed that making war so terrible would convince them that peace was the better choice.

Marching with Purpose

We began the march on November 15, 1864, leaving Atlanta behind in flames. My men sang and joked, their spirits high. They knew this was more than just a march—it was a mission to end the war. We moved quickly, outpacing Confederate resistance and scattering Southern infrastructure like dust.

By the time we reached Savannah in December, we had cut a 300-mile path of destruction. I offered the city to Lincoln as a Christmas gift, and with it came the message: the Union was unstoppable.

Looking Back Without Regret

Even now, years later, I stand by the March. It was brutal, yes—but war is brutal by nature, and this war had gone on too long. Every field we burned, every rail line we tore up, every Confederate depot we destroyed—each was a step toward ending a war that had already cost too much.

In breaking the South’s ability to fight, we also opened the door to reconciliation, reconstruction, and, ultimately, peace. And that was always the end I had in mind.

What is Total War as a Military Strategy – Told by General Sherman

What I Came to Believe About War

When I first wore the uniform of the United States Army, I had no idea how deeply war would etch itself into my bones. Like many of my fellow officers, I believed in the rules of engagement, in honorable conduct, in lines of battle and proper sieges. But the Civil War changed that—it changed me.

As the years dragged on, I came to a terrible and necessary conclusion: if we were to preserve the Union, we could not afford to fight by half-measures. We had to destroy not just enemy armies, but the very systems that allowed the Confederacy to wage war. That is the essence of what I came to call Total War.

Defining Total War

Total War is not just about battles—it is about breaking an enemy’s entire ability to resist. It means targeting not only soldiers, but also the infrastructure, supply chains, industries, farms, railroads, communication systems, and morale that sustain a war effort. It is war without illusion. It is war that reaches deep into a society and says, “You will not win. You cannot win. And we will show you why.”

It is not about cruelty for cruelty’s sake—it is about making war so terrible and costly that no one dares to start another. If I could shatter the Southern will to fight without butchering every man, woman, and child, then I believed I was saving lives, not taking them.

Where the Idea Came From

The truth is, Total War wasn’t born with me. History gives us glimpses of it—Napoleon marching across Europe, burning and pillaging supply lines; ancient armies salting the fields of their enemies; and Scorched Earth tactics used throughout history. But most wars still clung to the old codes of conduct, trying to keep civilians and private property untouched, as though war were somehow a game played between gentlemen.

But the American Civil War was not such a war. It was brother against brother. Town against town. And when I marched through Georgia and the Carolinas, I saw that civilians were as much a part of the war effort as the soldiers. They built the railroads. They grew the food. They supported the rebellion. And so, I decided the war had to be brought to their very doorsteps.

Total War in Action

When I took my 60,000 men from Atlanta to Savannah, I ordered them to tear up railroad tracks, burn cotton fields, destroy mills, and take what they needed from the land. My men called it "Sherman's neckties"—rails twisted around trees after being torn from their beds. Every town we passed felt the presence of war.

But make no mistake—we were not murderers. We did not burn homes without cause. We did not kill indiscriminately. My orders were clear: destroy what feeds the enemy’s war machine, but do not sink into barbarism.

We left a trail that the Confederacy could not easily rebuild. When we reached Savannah, I offered it to President Lincoln as a Christmas gift, and I knew then that the South’s heart had been pierced. The war, though not yet over, had shifted permanently.

The Price and the Legacy

I have been called a monster and a savior, depending on who holds the pen. Southerners remembered me with fear and loathing; many Northerners saw me as the man who finally ended the bloodshed. The truth likely lies somewhere in between.

Total War set a precedent. It showed the world that modern war is not confined to soldiers. It changed how nations would fight for generations. In future wars—world wars even greater than ours—nations would adopt similar strategies. Civilians would become targets. Cities would burn not just from torches but from bombs. I never imagined the scale to which war would evolve, but I knew I had torn away the curtain.

What I Hope History Remembers

I did not revel in destruction. I did what I thought necessary. My goal was not to destroy the South, but to bring it back into the Union—to make it see that further resistance would only bring more ruin. I fought with fire so that others might not have to.

If history remembers me as a brutal man, so be it. But let it also remember that I fought to end a brutal war. And that I believed—truly believed—that by making war swift and terrible, I helped restore peace and unity to a broken nation.

The Battle of Savannah – Told by General Sherman

By early December 1864, my men and I had marched nearly 300 miles from the smoking ruins of Atlanta to the coastal lowlands of Georgia. We had crossed rivers, torn up railroads, dismantled the South’s backbone, and shown the Confederacy that their land was no longer safe from the hand of war. But one great target still lay ahead—Savannah, a crucial port city and one of the last remaining Confederate strongholds on the Atlantic.

Our goal was not just to capture the city. It was to complete the march, reestablish connection with the Union Navy, and strike a final blow that would send a clear message: the South’s resistance could be broken—utterly and absolutely.

Approaching the City

Savannah was well-defended. General William Hardee, an experienced and capable Confederate officer, held the city with about 10,000 men. The approach was treacherous. Swamps, rice fields, and flooded terrain surrounded the city on all sides. But I had planned for this. My engineers had studied every available map, and I had issued orders to probe for weaknesses in Hardee’s defenses.

We arrived outside the city around December 10, and my army—divided into two wings under Generals Slocum and Howard—began surrounding Savannah from the north and west. The Union Navy, under Admiral Dahlgren, waited offshore, just beyond our reach.

The city was cornered. But unlike in Atlanta, I did not want to destroy Savannah. It was too beautiful, too valuable. I wanted it intact, a prize not only for strategic value, but symbolic power.

The Siege Begins

The land was waterlogged and hostile, but my men began digging in. We laid siege trenches, set up artillery, and began tightening the noose. Still, the Confederates held firm. Hardee flooded the surrounding rice fields, turning the already-difficult terrain into a marshy maze. He hoped this would delay or deter us. It didn’t.

I reached out to the Union fleet on December 13 with help from General Hazen’s division. He crossed the Ogeechee River and captured Fort McAllister, a Confederate outpost south of Savannah guarding the river entrance. That victory opened the door to direct communication and resupply from the Navy, ending our isolation.

Our lines were firm. Our supplies restored. We were ready to strike.

Hardee’s Retreat and the City’s Fall

But General Hardee, unlike many Confederate commanders, was no fool. He knew that if he stayed, his forces would be trapped and captured. So under cover of night, on December 20, he evacuated the city, escaping across a makeshift pontoon bridge over the Savannah River into South Carolina.

The next morning, Union troops found the city abandoned and unburned. We marched in with discipline. There was no looting. No fires. No chaos.

Savannah was ours.

A Christmas Gift to the Nation

On December 22, 1864, I sent a telegram to President Abraham Lincoln. My words were simple, but they carried the weight of the entire campaign: “I beg to present you, as a Christmas gift, the city of Savannah, with 150 heavy guns and plenty of ammunition; also about 25,000 bales of cotton.”

Lincoln responded with heartfelt thanks, and the news rippled through the North. We had marched through the heart of Georgia, tearing out the Confederacy’s roots and leaving behind a trail of destruction—but also undeniable progress toward peace.

The Sea, the Soldiers, and the Silence

On the day we entered the city, I walked down to the waterfront. The Atlantic Ocean stretched out before me, shimmering under winter light. It was the first time many of my men had seen it since leaving the Western Theater.

Some laughed. Some wept. Some simply stared. For me, it was a moment of deep satisfaction. We had begun in fire and ended in salt, having cut a path that reshaped the war itself.

I didn’t celebrate. Not in the loud, flag-waving sort of way. But I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. The march had succeeded. And now, we would turn north.

Reflections on Savannah

The capture of Savannah was more than a military victory—it was the capstone to a strategy I had crafted in fire and fury. We had proven that the Confederacy could not defend its own. We had split the South, broken its railways, taken its cities, and, most of all, shown that its armies were not its only weakness—its faith in victory had crumbled too.

Some would forever curse my name. Others would praise it. But history would not ignore it.

Savannah, spared from destruction, stood as proof that I did not march for vengeance—but for finality. To end the war—not prolong it. To bring peace—not prolong suffering.

The March Ends, the War Winds Down

With Savannah in Union hands, the last phase of the war began. We would march north through the Carolinas, pressing the Confederacy from all directions. But the March to the Sea had proven what needed proving:

That the Union would not be broken. That war, if terrible enough, could teach even the proudest rebellion to yield.

And I, William Tecumseh Sherman, would forever carry both the burden and the legacy of that truth.

My Name is Dolly Lunt Burge

A Georgia Girlhood

My name is Dolly Lunt Burge, and I was born in Maine in 1817, though few remember that now. I came South as a young woman to teach in Georgia, and soon, this land of cotton and sun-drenched fields became my home. I married Thomas Burge, a kind and upright man who owned a plantation near Covington, Georgia. Together, we built a life, and I stepped into the role of wife, stepmother, and mistress of The Burge Plantation.

I was not born to wealth, but I learned quickly what it meant to keep house, manage workers, tend to the needs of a Southern home, and endure the responsibilities that came with owning land—and people.

A Widow’s Burden

When my husband died in 1858, I was left to manage the plantation alone. It was no small task for a woman. I had my daughter, Sadai, to raise, and a host of enslaved people whose labor I relied upon—but who also looked to me for order, provision, and protection. I did not question the institution of slavery then—it was simply the way of life I had entered, though I prayed I was kind and just in my dealings.

The years of widowhood were lonely, but I was strong. I worked the land, oversaw the planting and harvesting, taught my daughter, and held fast to my faith. When the war came, I prayed it would not reach us.

The War Creeps Closer

At first, the war felt far away. We heard of battles, of sons lost, of shortages and sacrifices. My neighbors left for the front. Women gathered to sew and pray. But I still had my home, my land, my people. We made do, stretching what we had, hoping the worst would pass us by.

But in 1864, as the Union armies pressed deeper into Georgia, we heard rumors—Sherman was coming. Some fled. Others stayed. I clung to the land, unwilling to abandon the only life I knew. And so I waited.

The Day the Bluecoats Came

On November 19, 1864, I recorded in my diary what I saw with my own eyes. That morning, I had gone to the smokehouse, thinking of supper. By afternoon, I stood in my yard as thousands of Union soldiers marched onto my land. I shall never forget the sight of them—dust-covered, grim, determined men in blue.

They searched everything. They took my food, my livestock, and my horses. They burned my cotton gin and ransacked the plantation. One soldier came into my parlor and, with polite words, sat at my table and ate the very meal I had prepared for my family. Another took Sadai’s pet lamb—that broke my heart most of all.

I wept. I prayed. I tried to shield my daughter from the worst of it. And yet, I also saw moments of mercy—soldiers who handed back toys, who spared what they could, who looked at us with pity.

A Witness to History

What I saw that day was more than a raid. It was the turning of a tide. I realized, as I watched my plantation burned and emptied, that the South could not win. Sherman’s March was more than destruction—it was a message. And I, a widow and mother, stood in the middle of it.

I wrote down every detail in my diary, never knowing it would one day become a piece of history. I did not write for fame. I wrote to remember, to record the truth, and to leave something for Sadai.

Life After the War

After the war, the world I had known was gone. The slaves were freed. The cotton market collapsed. Many plantations were sold or abandoned. But I stayed. I kept writing. I kept farming. I lived to see Sadai grow, marry, and become a woman in a world I could never have imagined in my youth. I never remarried. The land, the journal, and the memory of what I had witnessed remained with me always.

A Woman in the Storm

I was not a general, nor a soldier. I did not lead men into battle. But I bore witness. I survived the storm that swept through Georgia, that changed the South, that reshaped our nation. My name may be forgotten by many, but in the pages of my journal, I spoke—not only for myself, but for every woman who watched her world go up in smoke.

And that, perhaps, is legacy enough.

The Effect of Sherman’s March on the People of the South – Told by Dolly Burge

A Tide of Fear and Uncertainty

When word spread that General Sherman was marching across Georgia with tens of thousands of Union soldiers, an icy dread settled over the countryside. We had never seen anything like it. It wasn’t just a battle here or there—it was a tide, and we all knew it was coming for us.

Even before the soldiers arrived, fear galloped ahead of them. Families whispered over supper tables about what was to come—Would they burn our homes? Would they harm the children? Take everything? There were no answers, only rumors. And so, one by one, communities fell into a strange silence—a waiting stillness, as if bracing for a storm we could not outrun.

Some Fled, Some Stayed

The people responded in different ways. I knew the Hutchinsons, a young couple with three children near Eatonton, who packed what they could into a wagon and fled south with neighbors. They left behind their home, their fields, even their dog. They hoped to return when it was safe, but when they came back weeks later, there was nothing left but a chimney and charred boards.

Others, like the Bledsoes, stayed. Mrs. Bledsoe was in poor health, and her husband was too old to run. They buried their silver under the rose bushes and prayed the soldiers would pass them by. But when the Union troops came, they took every ear of corn and slaughtered the last cow, leaving them nothing but ash and silence.

Still others, like old Mr. Pritchard, tried to resist. He fired a musket when foragers came onto his land. They left him alive—but burned his barn, scattered his food stores, and drove off his livestock in retaliation. The lesson was clear: resistance only invited greater ruin.

The Children Remembered Most

It was the children, I think, who felt it the most. So many little ones saw their pets taken, their toys smashed, their homes changed overnight from places of comfort to sites of loss. One woman near Milledgeville told me how her son wept when the soldiers slaughtered his pony for meat. Another child, a girl named Mary Alice, clung to her doll and tried to hide it in the chimney—a soldier found it, handed it back to her gently, and walked away. That, she said, was the kindest thing she’d seen in days.

Not all Union men were cruel. Some gave out hardtack to hungry children, or helped elderly women carry buckets of water. But kindness could not cover the damage. The March left scars that outlived the fire.

A Shattered Economy and a Stunned People

After the army passed through, the land was stripped bare. Smoke still rose from the fields. The mills were gone. The rail lines were twisted into knots. Storehouses were empty, and families—rich and poor—found themselves without food, seed, or certainty.

One planter, Mr. Hargrove, had once owned over a hundred enslaved people and thousands of acres. By the time the war ended, his land was overgrown, his workers gone, his wealth erased. His wife took in laundry to survive. They had been a family of great pride. Now they lived in a single room and boiled turnip greens for supper.

And yet, in towns like Madison and Sandersville, there were people who rebuilt. Women gathered what food remained. Neighbors helped neighbors. The churches filled once more—not with celebration, but with prayer, with grief, with trembling hope.

The Emotional Toll

I spoke to many women in those months. Their faces were lined with worry. Their words were clipped and slow. They carried themselves like people in mourning—not just for husbands and sons lost in battle, but for a way of life that had vanished overnight.

Many no longer spoke of “winning the war.” Instead, they talked of “holding on” and “getting through.” Some cursed Sherman’s name. Others said, with a bitter nod, that perhaps this was God’s judgment. A few even admitted, in hushed tones, that they had begun to question the cause for which their husbands had fought.

What the March Left Behind

The March to the Sea was not just a military campaign—it was a reckoning. It tore through Georgia not only with fire and steel, but with the hard truth that the South would never be the same.

In its wake, we were left with ruins and questions—Who were we now, without cotton, without slaves, without the proud certainty that we were right? The answers would not come quickly.

But I know this: the March burned more than homes. It burned away illusions, shook the old foundations, and forced us all to face a new world.

Remembering for the Future

I write these things not to stir bitterness, but so that our children, and their children, will know the cost of war—not just in blood, but in bread, in hope, in the silence of empty fields.

Let it be remembered: we were not all soldiers, but we were all touched by the war. And when the flames passed over Georgia, they left behind ashes—but also, in time, the seeds of something new.

My Name is General William J. Hardee

Born for the Sword

My name is William Joseph Hardee, born on October 12, 1815, in Camden County, Georgia. I was the youngest of several children, raised in the lingering shadows of the American Revolution. From early on, I was drawn to discipline, to order, and to the way of the soldier. It was no surprise to anyone when I received an appointment to the United States Military Academy at West Point, where I graduated in 1838, among men who would later become both comrades and enemies.

I wasn’t the highest in my class, but I was diligent and determined. The U.S. Army became my life’s path, and I devoted myself fully to it.

Baptized in War and Strategy

Soon after graduation, I saw battle in the Second Seminole War, fighting in the swamps and forests of Florida. That conflict was difficult, but it taught me the terrain, the value of patience, and the need for adaptable tactics—lessons I would carry forward.

In the Mexican-American War, I fought at Monterrey and Buena Vista, where I distinguished myself and earned a brevet promotion to lieutenant colonel. But it wasn’t only the battlefield that defined my service. The Army needed men of method, and I was one such man.

When the war ended, I was sent to study in France, and upon returning, I was tasked with writing a manual that would guide the next generation of soldiers.

“Hardee’s Tactics”

It was in 1855 that my manual was published—Rifle and Light Infantry Tactics for the Exercise and Manoeuvres of Troops When Acting as Light Infantry or Riflemen. It became known simply as “Hardee’s Tactics”.

I never imagined then how widely it would be used—or how strange it would be to see both Union and Confederate soldiers marching, drilling, and fighting by the same book. It was ironic, but true: the methods I set down would be used to train men to kill each other on both sides of a war I would soon be part of.

Torn Between Allegiances

When secession loomed, I was serving as commandant of cadets at West Point. I loved the Union, but I loved Georgia more. When my state left the Union in 1861, I resigned my commission in the U.S. Army. It was not a decision made lightly, but one made out of duty to home and heritage.

I joined the Confederate Army as a lieutenant general, one of the first men entrusted with shaping the new Southern force. I knew the North had the advantage in numbers and industry. I believed our only hope lay in discipline, in maneuver, and in resolve.

Battles and Burdens

I commanded at Shiloh, where the blood ran thick and the forest trembled with cannon fire. I served under General Albert Sidney Johnston, and after Johnston fell, under General Braxton Bragg. We clashed often. Bragg was brilliant, but divisive. I did not always agree with his leadership, and neither did the men.

In 1863, I led troops at Chickamauga, one of the Confederacy’s few major victories in the West. My men fought with valor, and the Union lines bent and broke before us. But as always, the victory could not be fully pressed. The tide was turning.

In 1864, I was given command of the Department of South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida, tasked with slowing Sherman’s advance. I did what I could, but his numbers, his speed, and his ruthlessness left little room for resistance. I commanded forces at Savannah but was forced to evacuate when the city fell.

My final campaign was in the Carolinas, trying to slow Sherman’s march north. At Bentonville, I faced him directly. We fought hard—the last great battle of the war in the Carolinas—but by then, the war was gasping its final breath. Days later, we surrendered under General Joseph E. Johnston.

A Soldier Turned Civilian

After the surrender, I returned to Georgia. The South was broken—its fields scorched, its cities quiet, its people dazed. I accepted the outcome and tried to make peace with it.

In the years that followed, I resumed civilian life. I served briefly as a railroad president and helped rebuild what I could. The war haunted me, but I was proud of my service—not because we won, but because I fought with honor, professionalism, and loyalty to my men.

Reflections Before the End

I died in 1873, in Wytheville, Virginia, while visiting family. I was 57. I had seen my country torn in two, seen friends fall on battlefields, and seen the tactics I wrote studied in blood and fire.

Some may remember me for my battlefield commands. Others for my manual. But I hope, above all, they remember that I tried to serve with duty, discipline, and dignity, in a time when all three were tested beyond measure.

A Man of Two Armies

I began my life as an officer of the United States and ended it as a general of the Confederacy. In both roles, I believed in structure, order, and honor. I never craved glory—I craved understanding. And if history judges me with fairness, perhaps it will say I was a soldier who served his people, not perfectly, but faithfully, to the end.

Defending a Dying Cause

My name is William Joseph Hardee, and I was a soldier of the South to the very end. By December of 1864, the Confederate cause was crumbling. I had served in many battles—from Shiloh to Chickamauga—but none bore the weight of what was coming in Savannah, my final stand as a commanding officer in the field.

I had been ordered to defend the city of Savannah from the advancing army of General William Tecumseh Sherman, whose infamous March to the Sea had left a scar across the heart of Georgia. I knew the odds were against us, but duty does not bend to the odds. And so I prepared my men and my city for the siege.

The City at the Edge of the Sea

Savannah was a jewel of the South—a city of cobbled streets, grand squares, and ancient oaks. It was also a strategic port, one of the last along the Atlantic still under Confederate control. We had about 10,000 men in and around the city, a fraction of Sherman’s force of over 60,000.

The land around Savannah was treacherous—marshlands, rice fields, rivers—and I used them to our advantage. We flooded the low-lying terrain to slow his approach. We built earthworks, fortified the lines, and stationed artillery where it could do the most good. But no amount of planning could change the sheer imbalance in numbers.

Sherman’s forces arrived in early December, laying siege to the city from the northwest and west. From the south, the Union Navy closed in, blockading the river. We were surrounded.

The Silence Before the Storm

For days, we waited. There were no massive assaults—Sherman was too wise for that. Instead, he tightened the noose, waiting for hunger or fear to drive us out. His engineers built siege lines. His artillery positioned itself like vultures. Every morning, we checked the horizon, waiting for a signal that the hammer would fall.

But it never came. Sherman had already captured Fort McAllister, opening a channel between his army and the Union fleet. Supplies flowed to his men like fresh blood. My forces, meanwhile, were cut off, and while my men were brave and disciplined, there was no help coming.

The Decision to Evacuate

I had a choice to make. Fight to the last man, and sacrifice ten thousand souls—and the city itself—for a cause that was already failing. Or save what remained. I chose the latter. Not out of cowardice, but out of realism. The war had demanded too much already. I would not throw away lives for a symbolic stand.

Under the cover of darkness on December 20, 1864, I evacuated my troops across the Savannah River into South Carolina using a hastily built pontoon bridge. We left behind supplies, artillery, and the city itself—but we spared it from bombardment, spared our soldiers from a futile slaughter, and preserved what little was left of our strength.

The next day, Sherman marched into Savannah. He took the city without firing a shot.

The Impact of the March

Sherman’s March to the Sea was not just a military campaign—it was a psychological campaign, a brutal demonstration of power designed to break the Confederacy’s will to fight.

He did not fight by the old rules. He understood that railways and food stores, factories and morale, families and fear—these were just as vital to the war as bullets and bayonets. He moved through Georgia like a scythe through wheat, destroying everything that supported our armies.

The South bled more than just men in uniform—we bled belief. By the time he reached Savannah, the heart of Georgia had been hollowed out. Fields were charred. Railroads twisted like vines. Once-proud cities stood silent and broken.

Even those who once cheered the cause began to look away.

The Fall of the Southern Spirit

What Sherman understood, and what many of us failed to see in time, was that this war would not be won with gallant charges or firm lines. It would be won—or lost—through endurance. And the South could not endure much longer.

Savannah’s fall was more than symbolic—it was decisive. It marked the end of Confederate hope in the deep South. From there, Sherman would march north, up through the Carolinas, and there would be little left to stop him.

We had gambled everything on the strength of our land, our soldiers, and our spirit. Sherman tore through all three.

Reflections of a Soldier

I survived the war. I returned to Georgia and later served during Reconstruction. But I was never quite the same. I had given my life to military discipline, to honor, to the belief that the South could stand as its own republic.

But Savannah taught me something else: even the most disciplined army cannot preserve a dying cause.

Sherman’s March taught the South a hard lesson—that war touches everyone. And when it does, it burns through illusions and leaves only truth in its wake.

A General’s Farewell

Some remember me as the man who let Savannah fall. Others remember me for the tactics I wrote or the battles I led. But I remember myself as a soldier who fought hard, retreated when wisdom demanded it, and lived long enough to reflect on both.

The war is over. The cities are rebuilt. But the memory of those final days—of smoke on the horizon and a city left behind—will never leave me. And it should not.

My Name is David Branscomb

Born in Chains, Raised in Hope

My name is David Branscomb, and I was born in Georgia, somewhere near the Ogeechee River, into the chains of slavery. I don’t know the year, but I do know I came into this world as someone else’s property. My mother was strong, and my father—though sold away when I was still a child—left me with lessons I never forgot: hold your head high, speak true, and never stop learning.

Though the law forbade it, I learned to read. Letters, scriptures, signs—whatever I could get my hands on. Reading was power. I listened closely when the white folks talked politics. I paid attention to the rhythms of the land, the roads, the rivers. I learned the routes that tied plantations to ports, and I never forgot a path.

The First Taste of Freedom

When the war came, it was like thunder rolling through the South. Some trembled, some rejoiced. I watched the smoke rise from battles, heard whispers of Union armies freeing slaves as they advanced. And one day, that army came near. Sherman's men, blue-coated and weary, came down through Georgia like a hammer.

I left the plantation that day. I didn’t ask. I didn’t beg. I walked. My feet blistered, but my heart was full. I joined a long line of freed people—old folks, mothers, babies, field hands, house servants—all walking behind the Union army, hoping freedom meant more than just leaving.

A Guide for the Freed

Some Union officers noticed I knew the land well. I knew how to read the riverbanks, how to avoid low marshes, and where the safest crossings could be found. Soon, I was asked to help guide the freedpeople behind the 14th Corps, the rearguard of Sherman’s army.

It wasn’t an official title, but I took it seriously. I helped organize the lines, kept people moving, settled disputes, and made sure no one was left behind. There were thousands of us—families who had nothing but what they carried, following the promise of liberty. I believed I was walking into a new life. I believed we all were.

The Day the River Rose – Ebenezer Creek

When we reached Ebenezer Creek in early December 1864, the Union engineers built a pontoon bridge to carry the army across. We, the freedpeople, were told to wait until the soldiers had passed.

We waited all night. Children cried. The old folks shivered in the cold mist. But we held on, believing the army wouldn’t abandon us.

At dawn, without warning, the bridge was pulled up. General Jefferson C. Davis, the Union general in charge of that corps, had ordered it removed. No farewell. No explanation.

And we were left behind.

Panic broke out. Some people tried to swim. Mothers with babies on their backs leapt into the water. Wagons overturned. People screamed. People drowned. I saw a boy swept away in the current while his sister called his name until her voice broke.

I tried to calm the people. I shouted, begged them not to jump—but what were they to do? Confederate cavalry were on the other side, and the Union army had turned its back.

A Voice in the Silence

When the crossing was done and the army moved on, I stayed behind for a while. I helped bury the dead. I wrapped a blanket around a shivering girl who had lost her mother. I held the hands of the ones who couldn’t walk. And I swore, that if I lived, I would speak of what I saw.

Later, I went to Union officers. I told them what had happened. I told them how we’d been left like livestock, not people, after all we’d endured. Some officers were kind—ashamed even. They offered food, bandages, a ride in a wagon. But none could undo what was done.

After the River

After the war, I stayed in Georgia. I took work where I could, never far from the places we marched. I worked in sawmills and fields. I helped build schools for freedmen. I told the children of the ones who died in the creek. I wanted their names remembered—even if they were never written down.

I don’t know if history will recall me, or what I tried to do. But I know this: freedom was not given to us with clean hands. It came through sorrow and sacrifice. I saw the price at Ebenezer Creek. And I will carry that memory until my last breath.

For Those Who Follow

If you read this someday, know that we were there. We walked. We hoped. We believed. We did not die in silence. We did not vanish.

We were a people on the road to freedom, and though the river tried to stop us, our story flows still.

My Name is General Jefferson C. Davis, Not the Confederate President

A Soldier Born of the Frontier

My name is Jefferson Columbus Davis, born March 2, 1828, in Clark County, Indiana—a place of wilderness, riverboats, and sturdy folk. I was raised in the traditions of frontier self-reliance, where hard work mattered more than high birth. As a boy, I found my calling early—not in books, but in battle. I joined the Indiana Volunteer Militia before I was even a man grown.

When the Mexican-American War broke out, I enlisted in the 3rd Indiana Volunteer Infantry. I marched with Zachary Taylor’s army through dusty plains and mountain passes, earning my stripes and my country’s trust. That war was my first taste of fire, and I took to it naturally.

Duty, Discipline, and the United States Army

After the war, I secured a commission as a second lieutenant in the regular U.S. Army, joining the 1st U.S. Artillery. Over the next decade, I posted across the frontier—Florida, the Pacific Coast, and beyond. I married, built a family, and became a man shaped by duty and drill. By the time the Civil War began, I had over a decade of experience and a fierce loyalty to the Union.

I was appointed colonel of the 22nd Indiana Infantry, and soon after, promoted to brigadier general. The war gave me what all soldiers crave: command in crisis, and the chance to prove myself.

The Killing of General Nelson

But not all of my legacy lies clean.

In September 1862, during a heated moment in Louisville, Kentucky, I shot and killed Union General William "Bull" Nelson. He had publicly insulted me—twice—and humiliated me in front of other officers. I demanded an apology. He refused. Tempers flared, and I fired.

I was arrested, but the war had no time for drawn-out trials. My commission was revoked—but not for long. The Union needed officers, and I was too experienced to leave idle. So, though the act hung over my name, I returned to duty.

Some would say I was a murderer. I say I was a soldier—a man pushed beyond the limits of honor. History can decide which.

The Western Campaigns

I returned to the field and served with distinction in the Western Theater, commanding divisions during Chattanooga, Atlanta, and beyond. Under General Sherman, I marched through Georgia and into the Carolinas, executing the campaign with ruthless precision.

I was a man of discipline—some say harsh. But I did what was asked of me. My orders were clear, and I carried them out to the letter. I didn’t seek glory. I sought victory.

The Tragedy at Ebenezer Creek

There is one moment that history will not let me forget: Ebenezer Creek, December 1864.

During our march through Georgia, freedpeople followed our army—men, women, children, newly freed from slavery, walking barefoot toward hope. They were slowing our column, exhausting our supplies. I feared a Confederate counterattack. So I ordered the pontoon bridge at Ebenezer Creek removed after my troops crossed.

I did not give warning to the freedpeople. Panic set in. Some tried to swim the river. Many drowned. Others were captured by Confederate cavalry.

Critics called it cold and heartless. Newspapers condemned me. But I believed I had acted in the interest of military necessity. We were deep in enemy territory. I was trying to protect my men and complete the campaign.

Still… not a day passed after that without the image of those left behind at the riverbank. The war demanded hard choices. I made one. History has judged me harshly—and perhaps rightly so.

After the War

I continued to serve. After the war, I was placed in command during Reconstruction, working in the South to stabilize regions still raw from conflict. Later, I served in Oregon, Texas, and Alaska, helping to establish federal authority in the growing territories of the United States.

Despite the shadows cast over my name, I remained a soldier through and through.

In 1879, while organizing military operations in Yellowstone National Park, I fell ill and died in Chicago, at the age of 51. My body lies in Crown Hill Cemetery, Indiana—back in the soil where I was born.

A Complicated Legacy

I have been called a patriot, a killer, a commander, and a man of contradictions. I lived by the sword, and at times, the sword betrayed me. But I served the Union faithfully. I helped break the Confederacy. I did my duty as I saw it.

And if I am remembered—as a soldier, or as a name whispered with judgment—then at least I was not forgotten.

Finally, a Discussion About that Night Between Branscomb and General Davis

The Meeting After the March

The war was over. The guns were silent, and the flags no longer flew over burning fields. Reconstruction was underway. It was during this uneasy peace, sometime in late 1866, that David Branscomb found himself at a military headquarters in South Carolina, standing in the shadow of the man whose order had changed his life—and taken the lives of so many.

General Jefferson C. Davis sat behind a rough desk in a modest office. He was older than he had been during the March—lines on his face deeper, his eyes sharp but wearier. When he looked up and saw Branscomb, he stood politely, gesturing to a chair across from his.

“You’re Branscomb,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” David replied. “I walked behind your corps in Georgia. Ebenezer Creek.”

The silence that followed was thick as moss in summer heat. Then, slowly, Davis nodded. “I remember.”

Sherman’s March and the Hope of the People

They sat in quiet for a moment, two men who had marched the same path but from vastly different lives. Finally, Branscomb spoke.

“When we left Atlanta, there were thousands of us. Not soldiers—just people. Escaped slaves, free folk, young ones born in bondage. We followed the army because we thought it meant freedom. For some of us, it did.”

Davis folded his hands. “I never expected that many would follow us. None of the officers did.”

Branscomb nodded. “I don’t blame the soldiers. Many helped us. Shared rations. Pointed the way. But the march—it wasn’t just a campaign to us. It was a pilgrimage. And then came the river.”

The River That Changed Everything

“I remember that morning,” Branscomb said. “I was helping guide people forward—keeping mothers with children near the front, checking the pace. When the bridge came up... there was no warning. No order. Just silence. And then we heard the cavalry was coming.”

“I gave the order,” Davis said plainly.

“I know,” Branscomb answered.

Davis’s eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in memory. “We were deep in enemy territory. Hood’s forces were scattered, but not gone. The freedmen were dozens deep, strung out for miles. They couldn’t move fast. My men were tired, underfed, some wounded. We couldn’t afford to be slowed.”

Branscomb didn’t interrupt.

“I had to think of my soldiers,” Davis continued. “The army needed to reach Savannah intact. We couldn’t fight a rear battle with a train of civilians caught in the crossfire. That river was a bottleneck. I thought the freedmen would find another ford after we crossed.”

“They didn’t,” Branscomb said softly. “They panicked. Some tried to swim. Children drowned. Old folks were captured and dragged back into chains. Some of those people were free for only a week. And it ended in the water.”

Those Who Made It and Those Who Were Lost

“There were a few,” Branscomb said, his voice steadier now. “Some made it across before the bridge came up. Some slipped into the army’s wagons. Others... we swam. I saw a boy no older than ten cling to a log with one arm and his little sister with the other. We dragged ourselves to the far bank and ran until we collapsed.”

Davis leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’ve heard the stories. Even some of my officers wrote letters about it afterward. I know what they called me—butcher, cold-hearted, inhuman.”

“I don’t think you were inhuman,” Branscomb said. “I think you were a soldier who forgot—for a moment—that we weren’t stragglers or burdens. We were people.”

Davis nodded slowly, the words settling over him like a cloak.

The Weight of Command

“You may not believe it,” Davis said, “but I carry that day with me. I’ve made hard calls—watched men fall by the hundreds, lost friends, been branded a killer for a duel I never wanted. But the look on those people’s faces, left on that bank... I see that, too.”

“I believe you,” Branscomb said.

Davis looked down at his hands. “In war, you learn to think of numbers, of movement, of supply lines and objectives. I thought pulling the bridge would save my men. And it probably did. But it cost others more than I imagined.”

A Hard Kind of Forgiveness

Branscomb stood, placing his hat over his heart. “General, I came today because I needed to speak it. Not to accuse. Not to shame. Just to say that what happened was real. And it hurt. We remember.”

Davis stood as well, extending his hand. “And I thank you for coming. I can’t undo it. But I don’t shy away from it either. I was a soldier doing what I thought necessary.”

They shook hands—one calloused from fields and river crossings, the other from saber and pen. “I still don’t agree with your decision,” Branscomb said, looking Davis in the eye. “But... I can understand your concern for your troops. I truly can.”

Davis gave a tight nod. “Then maybe there’s peace in that.”

The Bridge Between

As Branscomb left the headquarters, he looked up at the pale sky and breathed deep. He had spoken the words that weighed on his heart for two years. He had looked the man in the eye who had made that fateful call—and found something not quite forgiveness, but understanding.

And perhaps that was enough.

History would never forget Ebenezer Creek, nor should it. But now, at least, two men who had lived through it had met, spoken, and laid something down between them—not a bridge of wood or rope, but one of truth and honor.