Sherman’s march of flame and slaughter. Sherman ruthless slashed-and-burned.
Grant and Sherman. Cigars glowing like cities. Trails of ashes, tears. Sherman, Grant’s right arm, said, “War is Hell.”
Sherman’s retreating — hairline, scraggly beard. Lean, tough Sherman dreaming scorched earth, Modern War. Prometheus gave Man fire; Sherman smeared it all over Atlanta.
Lincoln in Washington, and Seward, Stanton, waited for Grant and Sherman, waited for the end, of it all, waited for it all to end.
Lincoln gangly, dark, obscenely tall. Warm-hearted story-teller, killer. Stanton squat and cold. Abrupt. Meant business: these men had work to do and did it.
Grant and Sherman: muddy boots; Lincoln, Stanton: musty suits.
Orchestrated slaughter for The Union. Wage slaves, not chattel. Industrial futures running clockwork time is money.
Low maintenance assembly sweatshop share-crop labor came and went. Input/output. Throughput. Early to rise, goodbye get gone.
Now The Union they preserved: no such myths as Lincoln, Stanton, Grant and Sherman. No such statues. A new Atlanta — different kind of town. Heap Big City home of Braves.
One World Series of the National Pastime — televised — the Yankees downed the Braves in four straight games. Slaughtered ‘em. Lingering heat of Sherman’s burning.
Yanks in four swept History’s historic series. Televised.