A Chain of Thunder

  “Then … you wish me to continue doing what I am doing, sir?”

  Pemberton was already ignoring him, focused now on the courier riding hard from the south, Captain Selph, the man who had gone to Loring. Pemberton eased the horse that way, saw a strange look on the young man’s face, Selph seeming to avoid him, moving past, close to Memminger. Pemberton jerked the horse that way, felt helpless, useless, as though no one even knew he was there. Selph spoke softly, gave his report to Memminger, but stopped short as Pemberton approached.

  “What is this? Did you find General Loring?”

  Selph looked down, and Memminger shouted hard at him.

  “Make your report, Captain! The same as you told me!”

  The young man looked at Pemberton from beneath the brim of his hat, still hesitant, and Pemberton looked at Memminger.

  “What is it? What is wrong?”

  Selph spoke up now.

  “Sir, General Loring will not comply with your … request, sir. He says he is engaged with the enemy to his front. He says that there is Federal cavalry close at hand, and he must protect his right flank. He reminds the commanding general that his division anchors the right of the entire army, and thus he must be vigilant. General Tilghman was with him … and they were in agreement that your request not be followed. They were … not kind in their response, sir. I cannot in good conscience repeat what was said.”

  He thought of Loring, the man’s infuriating lack of respect.

  “He would refuse my direct order? I will ride there myself and deliver that order personally!”

  Memminger spoke now, leaning closer to him.

  “Sir, you did not order him … you did issue a request that he move his people.…”

  “I know what an order is, Major!”

  Memminger sat straight, accepted Pemberton’s authority, the final word, and Pemberton tried to recall his instructions to Loring. I ordered him … certainly. I shall discipline him for this. There can be no such disregard for my authority.

  “We must ride to General Stevenson. We must determine what is needed in that quarter.”

  Bowen was still there. He burst through the gathered staff and said in a harsh shout, “General, I already know what is in that quarter! It is the enemy, and they are driving a deep hole through our position!”

  “Yes, you have reported that! Very well, you will move a full brigade to the left. Is that acceptable?”

  Bowen lowered his head for a brief moment, nodded. “Yes. It is.”

  Bowen moved away quickly, and Pemberton eased the horse out into the road, saw a large field beyond the house, out toward the sounds of the growing fight. He stared at the distant hill, bathed in a soft fog of smoke, looked high at the sun, drifting westerly, the day slipping past. So, he thought, Loring will not obey me, and Bowen thinks me the fool. What must Stevenson think of me? Perhaps he has other concerns.

  He dismounted, stood close to the horse, smelled the hard stench of sweat from the animal’s thick, frothy hair. From the house a group of women emerged, surprising him, all smiles, seemingly oblivious to the sounds of the fight.

  “Ladies …”

  They ignored him, focused instead on the gathering soldiers, stragglers from the fight on the hill, some mingling now with Bowen’s men, who were already marching quickly along the road. The men began to hoot, the column ragged, slowing, their surprise equal to Pemberton’s. The women were brightly dressed, halted close by the roadside, suddenly fell into song. The cheers grew louder, and Pemberton absorbed the scene with an unnerving mix of admiration and fear, that these women had no place in the kind of hell that was erupting closer to their home. But he felt the cold thrill in his chest, raised a hand himself, his own salute with the men around him. To the north, a new burst of firing began, Bowen’s men moving into the fray, confronting the blue-coated troops who had pushed much closer to his headquarters than Pemberton expected. He tried to ignore that, just for a moment, to relish this marvelously feminine surprise. Like the men around him, he was drawn first to the voices, the song that he tried to find inspiring, that clearly inspired the troops around him. They were singing “Dixie.”

  Bowen moved Francis Cockrell’s brigade into line, expecting to confront the Federal troops who might by now be on their last legs. Sensing the opportunity that might be presenting itself, Bowen ordered forth another brigade, under Martin Green, and their strength was increased further by the remnants of the original forces on Champion Hill who had struggled mightily under Stephen Dill Lee. Forming into a stout line of battle, Bowen’s men drove northward and almost immediately surprised Alvin Hovey’s exhausted Federals, the men who had fought up and over Champion Hill. The Federal troops had given nearly all their energy to the fight they had every reason to believe they were winning. The sudden appearance of Bowen’s fresh lines drove the Federal forces back across the same ground they had won, past the scattered dead and wounded from both sides. By mid-afternoon, Bowen’s men had retaken the hill itself and driven Hovey’s men back toward the Champion House, in full view of Ulysses Grant. But Grant and James McPherson had an asset that Pemberton did not: a full retinue of reserves. Though Hovey’s worn-out troops had given way, in their place came a full Federal division, under the command of Marcellus Crocker. Despite John Bowen’s audacity, Crocker’s fresh troops were too much for the Confederates to handle. Once more the fight drifted back over Champion Hill, and once more the Federal troops occupied the high ground. As the afternoon sun drifted into far treetops, the fight all across the ground around and below Champion Hill was winding down for the final time.

  For a larger version of this map, click here.

  The collapse of Stevenson’s position had brought the Federal troops down close to the middle road, had taken away what Pemberton had expected to be the best avenue of escape back to Edward’s Station. After a confusion of countermanded orders, the brigade and regimental commanders took charge of as many of their own men as could be found, and the retreat began. But the order for a general withdrawal had not been made clear to Pemberton’s commanders. Across every part of the field, scattered fighting continued, chaotic and desperate, while Confederate commanders tried to salvage what remained of their forces. On the primary north–south road where Pemberton’s army had held their ground against McClernand’s sluggish advances, great gaps had formed, some caused by the amazing stubbornness of William Loring. Ordered repeatedly by Pemberton to advance troops northward, Loring at long last had sent a single brigade, but only a brigade. Loring continued to insist that his right flank to the south was in some danger, no matter Pemberton’s orders.

  With daylight slipping away, the Confederate army had finally begun to move westward, crossing Baker’s Creek, good officers doing what they could to protect the wagons and their own men. The urgency had increased dramatically when it became clear that the Federal troops to the east, the massive force under John McClernand, had finally begun an advance of their own. Throughout the day, McClernand had seemed content to keep his people engaged in cautious, methodical probing, in small-scale fights that erupted all along the Confederate position. But with the fight to the north sweeping down well below Champion Hill, McClernand had finally responded to Grant’s continuing stream of orders, had finally become an aggressor. The sudden crushing blow by McClernand’s forces had only increased the peril faced by Pemberton’s battered army.

  Loring continued to battle the advancing Federals as best he could, which allowed many of Bowen’s troops to pull back across the first obstacle to the west, Baker’s Creek. There Confederate engineers had bridged the waters, but the creek had calmed considerably, and a great many of Pemberton’s men made the crossing by wading on their own.

  Though Loring had finally shifted troops to the north, he had maneuvered most of his much-needed regiments along the wrong road, taking his men in a more westerly direction, well behind the roads and fields that had been fought over by Bowen and Stevenson. As Pemberton’s army withdrew across
Baker’s Creek, Loring’s apparent mistake happened to place him in the best position to protect the army’s rear. But the Federals had exhausted themselves as well as their enemy. As night fell, there could be no energetic pursuit.

  Pemberton’s army had suffered nearly four thousand casualties, Grant’s near twenty-five hundred. As Pemberton pushed his demoralized army westward, he knew they would not stop at Edward’s Station. If there was to be any kind of effective defense against Grant’s advance, they would move with as much speed as the men could muster, taking them to the one place Pemberton knew with perfect certainty was the most secure defensive position for his army to make their stand: the Big Black River. Pemberton now understood that by obeying Joe Johnston’s orders, he had made a disastrous mistake, had weakened the forces he had to rely upon to protect Vicksburg, a mistake he would certainly not make again. But the Big Black could not yet give his army the perfect protection they would need. Pemberton could not be certain just where Loring’s division had gone, just how far back they were, and whether or not Loring would hasten his men toward Vicksburg pursued by an aggressive Federal advance. So, as Pemberton’s troops dragged their way to the safety of the Big Black, he was forced to keep a sizable number of muskets, the remnants of Bowen’s division, on the east side of the river, with the unburned bridges and the deep gash of the river’s banks to the rear of much of Bowen’s force, in the optimistic hope that they could keep the Federals away from the bridgehead until Loring’s men could reach them.

  What Pemberton could not know was that Loring had other ideas. In the full darkness of early evening, Loring could not maneuver effectively without stumbling directly through the new camps of their victorious enemy. If he waited for the new dawn’s sunrise, Loring knew that he would likely be directly in the midst of Grant’s entire army. Locating a local guide, Loring instead maneuvered his men with impressive stealth along narrow pathways and dim farm roads, until they were clear of the Federal camps. But he did not march his men toward the Big Black. Instead, Loring preserved his own troops by escaping to the south and east, a long roundabout maneuver that took them not toward Pemberton, which would have added much-needed strength to the bloodied Confederates. Loring chose a different route altogether that would eventually take him east, toward Jackson. Loring had made his own command decision, that if his division was to take the field again, it would do so not under Pemberton, but under the command of Joe Johnston.

  BIG BLACK RIVER BRIDGE

  MAY 17, 1863

  “Is there no word?”

  Waddy pulled his horse close beside him and said, “No, sir. Scouts report some activity to the southeast that could be General Loring’s advance, but the Federals are fully in control of every major roadway. My apologies for such speculation, sir, but it could be that General Loring is entirely at the mercy of the Federals.”

  Pemberton stared through the field glasses, studying the ground east of the river, staring above the heads of Bowen’s men, who had occupied entrenchments more than a half mile east of the river itself.

  “We are all at the mercy of the Federals, Colonel. We must make our stand here with the best energy we can muster.”

  He saw a cluster of officers, the colors trailing high, knew it was Bowen, the men reaching the bridge, moving quickly across. Waddy said, “Sir …”

  “Yes, I see him. He will certainly see me. At least one officer in this army keeps me informed.”

  Waddy ignored the comment, and Pemberton waited for Bowen to approach, the staff keeping back, Bowen tossing up a salute.

  “Sir, we are in place. When we filed into the entrenchments, there was a brigade of Tennesseans there already. Eastern men. I spoke to their commander …”

  “Yes, General Vaughn. General Smith ordered them out here from Vicksburg when he received word of our … misfortune at Baker’s Creek. I am not overly confident in them, General. They are fresh to this army, little experience with the enemy.”

  “Vaughn said as much. I placed them directly in my center, between my two brigades. That should keep them out of trouble. I doubt there will be much of a fight anyway. Once General Loring sees fit to join us, we can vacate that position and move back here west of the river. I’ll send General Smith’s brigade back to Vicksburg ahead of us. I rather like watching the backside of men who might be a tad disloyal. Never sure just who they’re going to shoot at.”

  It was a comment Pemberton didn’t need, a question of disloyalty always floating around any troops from the mountains of eastern Tennessee. The entire Confederacy knew that the people in that part of the country held a distinct loyalty to the Union, no matter that they were surrounded by fiercely rebel sentiments. But … they were here, they carried muskets, and Pemberton just couldn’t think about anyone else’s concerns of disloyalty. He had heard too many hints about his own.

  “Vaughn is said to be a good brigadier. With your men flanking him, I have no concerns.”

  Bowen shrugged, had made his point, had done all he could to secure the position he had been assigned.

  Waddy spoke up, as though Pemberton needed one more voice of agreement.

  “Yes, sir, General Vaughn is a good man. Most loyal, sir.”

  Pemberton glanced at Waddy, Bowen ignoring both of them. Pemberton was beginning to hate the word, knew that “loyalty” was one of those standards that mattered around his own command the way “courage” mattered most to the infantry.

  Throughout the night, as Pemberton made his own way through the retreating army, he passed soldiers, his soldiers, the men who knew more than anyone that they had failed to hold back the forces of General Grant. In the dark, the voices rolled past him, few paying attention to the horsemen who paraded by them with greater speed, officers of every unit flowing away from Champion Hill, feeling the same despair as their men. Pemberton had been just one more horseman, one more cluster of staff, one more flag. And so the voices had not been discreet, no one paying attention to rank or command, and those voices had been angry, low curses, talk of betrayal and defeat, all of it laid at the feet of the man who led them. Pemberton had tried not to hear that, but the voices were everywhere, on every pathway, grumblings from old sergeants or teenage boys, even the officers prodding their men with talk of how “someone else” would have to be their salvation, some speaking of Joe Johnston. It was the only optimism these men seemed to carry, that somewhere out there, Johnston was assembling a vast, fresh army to sweep through the flanks of the Federals, driving Grant away for all time. It was the only hopefulness he heard, and Pemberton could only move westward in silence, knowing that no matter what he had tried to accomplish against the forces Grant threw at him, it had not been enough. If there was any confidence in Pemberton at all, he heard it only from his own staff, small bits of encouragement that the move to the Big Black would regroup the scattered units, bring the key officers back together, that the army still had the spirit, the willingness to crush any force sent against them. Pemberton appreciated the optimism of his staff, whether it was counterfeit or not. The single day’s fight along Baker’s Creek, the struggle that swept both armies back and forth over the bare heights of Champion Hill, had been a worthless bloodletting. Pemberton knew that Grant, besides gaining a resounding victory, had also been allowed the gift of a day’s time, to bring forth more of his army, Sherman certainly, though Pemberton had no idea where Sherman’s troops might be. Word had come often of the conflagration at Jackson, exaggerated reports of wanton destruction throughout the capital, the murder of civilians, unspeakable violations of anyone who dared protest the viciousness of Sherman’s tactics. Pemberton didn’t believe that, not all of it. It was logical, after all, that any good commander would damage his enemy’s ability to wage war, and so would target factories and storehouses. And it was just as logical that those who saw their property consumed by flames would react with a fiery response of their own, their only weapon a blossoming hatred for the men who used the torches.

  He stared again throug
h the field glasses, a cluster of trees to the left, the northern flank of Bowen’s position. Scanning the field, he strained to see any kind of movement: flags, horses, some sign of Loring’s advance guards. It was still early, but the open ground was already bathed in daylight, little cover for anyone who would approach, at least not directly to the front. No, Loring will most likely come in from down below, the right. The enemy … well, they might not come at all today. They know we are here in force, certainly. Grant took a hard knock yesterday, and he will move fresher troops to the front. And that would be Sherman. Sherman will not linger in Jackson. There is no purpose to that. Grant will want him out here, leading the way toward Vicksburg. It is just … good command decision, and I would do the same. The Yankees have a duty to defeat us, as we have a duty to drive them from this land. Yesterday we could not stand up to their numbers. There was poor communication, poor work from the staffs of every general on the field. I will seek the cause of that, in time. There will be answers. Stevenson failed to hold his flank. Loring … Loring betrayed me, no better explanation. He was disobedient to my commands. I cannot tolerate that, not at all. Who would expect me to? There will be a hearing, certainly, perhaps a court-martial. He thought of the angry talk the night before, men spouting out their frustration by aiming their wrath at him. I must accept that, he thought. It is my army, my command, and those men have no understanding of the complexity of it all. One word stuck in his mind now, a word he heard often in the ranks, men bemoaning the lack of a Stonewall.

  He barely knew Thomas Jackson at all, was well aware that Loring had been involved in a significant controversy with Jackson early in the war, in western Virginia. Loring had been placed under Jackson’s command, Stonewall already gaining a colorful reputation in Richmond as perhaps the South’s most effective field commander. Loring was the more political general, and did not fully accept Jackson’s authority, or the strategies that Jackson imposed on his subordinates. The feud was resolved when Loring was sent west. So, Pemberton thought, General Loring has made himself a nuisance to anyone he has served. What must he think of Stonewall now? The great Jackson is dead, and this entire army … this entire country mourns the loss. Would he be alive had Loring been a more capable subordinate? Already there are those who claim the Almighty has punished the South for our cause. Certainly, the newspapers in the North will embrace that absurdity. But is it not just as understandable that God has provided us with a martyr, a source of inspiration? This army requires inspiration, certainly. He looked toward Bowen again, the man moving in the saddle, anxious to return to his men. You might be the best I have, he thought. Perhaps you know that as well. And so, perhaps that will keep you loyal to me. You will understand the importance of our duty here, that we must protect Vicksburg above all else, no matter what cause drives General Johnston. There is great value in Bowen’s leadership, perhaps more than my own. His men follow him with perfect obedience. His lines have not collapsed; his officers have not failed us, failed me. But is Bowen a Stonewall? There is a danger to that, to elevating men to mythical perches. In life, General Jackson led his troops to great victories. In death, he leads them nowhere. Perhaps that is the great lesson here. Some of us fight for the history books. Johnston. Perhaps. He does not fight for this command, for Vicksburg. So what else inspires him? Does he gain his satisfaction from infuriating Jefferson Davis? Is that enough for him? Who can be inspired by such motives? Pemberton sat back, sagging in the saddle, the field glasses by his side. All he has cost me is … casualties.