A Chain of Thunder

  She watched as the last of the starburst faded, saw more red streaks out to one side.

  “I suppose you’re right, James. I just didn’t expect any of this to be so … grand. War, I mean. The ambulances … I expected that, I suppose. I’ve decided, I’m going to help with that, if they’ll allow me.”

  “Oh, no, missy, don’t you gawn out’n heah. Mr. Cordray done been plain on that. We’s safe right heah, and James is gonna stay where I’s needed. That’s heah, for certain. I sure don’t want Ole Rufus to go off to no soldierin’.”

  She saw the hound, a fierce wag of its tail, a loyalty to James that Lucy couldn’t ignore. James has his master … and so does the dog. I wonder if James ever thinks of that. I suppose … God has His ways.

  She had always liked James, enjoyed what seemed to be his genuine kindness. He stood with a slight crook in his back, what Cordray said was too many days in the fields. And so James worked around the Cordray home, various jobs at repair, at pitching hay for the mule, or any errand either of the Cordrays might need.

  Lucy enjoyed talking to the man, guessed him to be close to sixty, James himself having no idea of his age. She had wondered about his home, his earliest memories, but if he remembered any of that, he kept silent, wouldn’t reveal anything about his days before coming to Vicksburg. Lucy had prodded him to recall anything about his youth, a mistake, the only time she had seen James angry. He had barked at her about minding her business, an indiscretion that could have resulted in some harsh punishment, had Cordray heard the man’s protests. But Lucy kept that encounter to herself, apologized to James even as he apologized to her. She felt only embarrassment, had trespassed into some place James held to himself. But the apology from James held genuine fear, both of them aware that speaking out rudely to a white woman could be a deadly offense. For weeks after, she had made every effort to pretend the incident had never happened, but James had reacted to her by keeping some distance. Only now, with the family moving to the cave, did he seem more comfortable speaking with her. Lucy had wondered if it was because there was some sort of equalizing in their new predicament, the white people of the town now reduced to living in much the same way as many of the field hands. It was not a question she could ask Cordray, certainly. And she knew better than to ask James much of anything.

  James sat now, staring up, as she did, the dog resting its head on the man’s leg.

  “He loves you, doesn’t he?”

  “Ole Rufus? Reckon so. He’s a lot like me. Too old for much else but sitting around in the sun. ’Bout the only good friend I ever had. He ain’t gonna run away, that’s for sure.”

  He laughed, a soft cackle, and Lucy tried not to read any meaning into that.

  “If I decide to help the soldiers … I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell Mr. Cordray. I don’t think he believes me capable of anything.”

  “I won’t say nothing, lest he asks me. I cain’t do no lyin’ to the man. You ought not be thinking such things anyway. Mrs. Cordray needs help with the babies, that’s for certain. You oughta stay right here.”

  “We’ll see. Maybe this will all just … stop. The Yankees will go on off, out of here, go somewhere else. I heard Mr. Hepperman saying that General Pemberton has better than twenty thousand men out there. That’s hard to imagine, wouldn’t you think? How many men would it take to fight off the Yankees? How many of them are out there? It’s all just too … strange.”

  Behind her, a man’s voice, stern and unfriendly, Cordray.

  “Here! Miss Spence! You ought not stay out that far. James, you know to bring her in close. This dirt over our heads serves a purpose, Miss Spence. I implore you to make use of that. One unfortunate mortar shell … well, let’s not talk of that. James, Mr. Hillyard has requested your assistance tomorrow. He’s preparing a number of dwellings around that next hill to the south. He’ll pay you well. Go see him at first light.”

  Lucy turned, Cordray only a shadow, a hint of light from the night sky outlining his form.

  “Why would Mr. Hillyard be constructing so many dwellings? He has no family, but for his wife.”

  “He’s selling them. Wish I had thought of that. Smart businessman. He’ll pay James, and a couple more boys, and turn a hefty profit. He can’t sell anything out of his store on the main street, so he’ll sell what he can here.”

  She felt a glimmer of anger.

  “Why wouldn’t he just help out, like some of the others? He would sell the caves? That’s outrageous.”

  “Don’t mind that, Miss Spence. People have to do what they can to get by in this war. It’s like those cotton merchants … smart men. Selling cotton to brokers who have safe passage right through the Yankee lines. Simple business sense, Miss Spence. You offer a product to satisfy a demand. There’s profits to be made. Some people can’t provide these dwellings for themselves. Someone has to step forward.”

  “For a fee.”

  “Well, certainly. Like I said … I wish I had the means, the servants in numbers to do the same.”

  She felt a bitter disgust, turned away, caught the fading streak of red light, a fiery thump coming down off to the left.

  “Well, I certainly appreciate you allowing me to be here … or would you have me pay rent?”

  “Nonsense, dear child. Your father was a good man, despite what some … ah … well, I always enjoyed his company. Least I can do is repay that by allowing you to share this temporary home. Really, child … rent?”

  Cordray laughed, moved away deeper into the cave, mumbling something she couldn’t hear. But the meaning was clear. You’re just a girl, Lucy Spence. Unless you intend to work in a dance hall in Jackson, you can’t possibly understand what money is for. Well, she thought, I’m not going to become one of those camp followers, just so I can participate in a man’s idea of “commerce.” She realized James was still there, his dark skin disguising him, the man easing back inside the cave, seeming to wait for her to follow. She knew he wouldn’t stay in the cave, not with the family, and she said, “James. Where do you and Rufus sleep?”

  “Don’t you be worryin’ none about us’n. We gots a safe place, down in the brushes.”

  She thought of Cordray’s instructions to James, that he’d be paid for his labor. And what would he do with money? Knowing Mr. Cordray, he’ll just take it away … for “safekeeping.”

  The streak of fire was quick and sudden, no sounds until the shell erupted a few yards in front of the cave. She was shoved backward, fell hard, dirt spraying over her, a hard ringing in her ears. She blinked through the dirt, wiped her eyes with the hem of her dress, fought to see, heard screams, shouts, men coming closer, a hand on her, gripping under her arms.

  “Child! Dear God! Child, are you all right?”

  Lucy spit out dirt from her mouth, grit in her teeth, tried to sit up, the hands helping her, Cordray.

  She shook her head, tested, moved her legs and arms, one hand pushing into her ribs.

  “I’m unhurt. I think. It just came down right out front. I didn’t see it.”

  Outside the cave, men were gathering near the blast site, and she caught the biting stink of smoke and sulfur. To one side, another blast shattered a tree, fire igniting the leaves, the treetop tumbling down, the men flattening out, some crawling quickly to any cover they could find. More came now, and she felt herself pulled backward, Cordray dragging her inside, deeper into the cave. She heard crying, the children, the voice of Mrs. Cordray, terrified, a poor effort at calming them. The little girl ran to Lucy now, hugged her, words coming between sobs, in a high, tinkling voice.

  “Lucy, Lucy. You hurt? They hurt you?”

  “No, Hilda, I’m all right. Just … dirty.”

  Cordray released her, went to his wife, the little girl staying closer to Lucy, still sobbing.

  “Loud, Lucy. Hurt my ears.”

  “I know. Me, too.”

  “Why?”

  The blasts continued, calculated, the impacts coming down in a wide sweepin
g formation, gunners doing their job.

  “It’s the war, Hilda.”

  Lucy felt even more useless, unable to comfort even a child, the little girl falling onto her, more heavy sobs. She wrapped her arms around the girl, tried soothing words, stroked her hair, could feel dirt on her hands, dirt she was putting on the child. The voices outside had grown quiet, the men moving away, satisfied that no one had been seriously hurt. She caught the smell of tobacco, James slipping into the cave, the dog close beside him. James leaned low, fear in his words.

  “I done tole you, Miss Lucy. I done tole you.”

  “Yes, James. You told me. I’m safe now, all right?”

  She was suddenly angry, her patience drained away by the incessant sobbing of the child, and she pushed the girl off her, Mrs. Cordray there quickly, taking her away. Lucy crawled forward, firelight at the cave’s entrance, the one fat tree still burning, the great open pit a few yards in front of the cave, the crater where the shell had impacted. She thought of the little girl’s question, the single word … Why? Just … because. That’s all I know. All I’m supposed to know. Only the men seem to know. She felt the fury building, stood, wiped at her dress, a futile gesture, spit again, unembarrassed, dirt grinding in her teeth. The family was wrapped up in themselves, Cordray giving soft words to them all, and for a long moment she felt utterly alone. She moved again to the entrance of the cave, the fire in the tree dying down. There was loud talk, one more discussion between some of the men up the hill, loud opinions, worthless anger. She heard the name Lincoln, thought of that, knew so little of politics and government, and Yankees and their generals. She had seen Pemberton, everyone calling him Pem … thought of her lieutenant. Out there. She tried to see his face, wouldn’t ever forget that, no matter what else might happen. God preserve him, guard over him. Please. I ask thee. The prayer dissolved in her mind, and she looked back into the cave, a single candle coming to light, Cordray wiping his daughter’s tears, his wife holding their son, the boy not yet six. Lucy brushed again at her dirty dress. I live in a cave, she thought. For how long? Until Mr. Hillyard grows rich enough from selling his caves to helpless people? Does God smile down on that?

  She moved outside, into the cool air, and took a breath, pushing the smoke and stink from her lungs. The shells continued to fall, but it was not the strange gracefulness of the arcing mortars. These shells came from the east, sharp streaks that sliced close over the ridgelines, impacting with fiery collisions. There was no beauty now, just the horror, the shelling very different, far more angry, a viciousness that terrified her. There were more fires, trees engulfed in flames, a pair of blazes on the next ridgeline, the silhouette of men moving past. I cannot do this, she thought, just sit in a hole in the ground like some helpless animal, while my lieutenant risks his very life … while they all risk their lives.

  She turned, moved back inside the cave, toward the candle. Mrs. Cordray was watching her, then said in frightened words, “Oh, dear Lucy. You mustn’t go outside. You could have been hurt … or worse. Please, for God’s sake, be more careful.”

  Lucy nodded, couldn’t say anything to this woman, knew that a mother’s whole world was engulfed in the desperate need to care for her children, and no matter his stern talk and useless advice, Cordray was doing everything in his power to keep them safe. That’s what families should do, she thought. They will be safe. But … the soldiers. None of them are safe. And if this is to go on, if these cannons and muskets are to do such damage, those men will need help. I know something of nursing, of what can be done to care for the afflicted. I must tell them that. I must let them know I will not suffer this war by trembling uselessly in a cave.

  NORTHEAST OF THE 3RD LOUISIANA REDAN

  MAY 22, 1863, DAWN

  It was one more morning in a place he had grown to hate. But if there was one glimmer of hope through the gloom they all felt, it came from the rumblings of the supply wagons, filled with fresh rations. So far, talk of a new avenue for the supply trains had been only talk, the usual rumors, fueling the griping throughout the camps where the men had to make do with hardtack. Some had gone scavenging, avoiding the provosts and ignoring the orders from their own officers, slipping out through the countryside at night in hopes of discovery of that rare farmhouse still intact, some larder overlooked by the hundred men who had come before. But on May 21, all of that stopped. The rumors became fact, the appearance of dozens of wagons offering a boost to the morale of the men who had begun to doubt they would ever know morale again. The wagons came from the north, the newly opened routes that led down from the high bluffs up toward the Yazoo River. Though campfires were forbidden, the meat was welcome, soft bacon and smoked hams, and then, the greatest luxury the soldiers had thought they might never see again: coffee.

  Bauer sat in a gathered pile of soft leaves, tall hardwoods above him, hiding the stars. The daylight had not yet come, but the men needed little prodding to rise up from whatever kind of bed they had fashioned. The bugler had done his duty, reveille coming at 4:30 A.M., but by then most of the men were already on their feet at the coffee wagon. Some of the meat they were given was raw, as it always seemed to be, and though the men were not allowed their fires, the cooks were, the commissary officers cautiously building the small pits deep in the ravines for the sole purpose of brewing coffee. In the dark, there would be no telltale smoke, no target for the rebel gunners, some of those barely three hundred yards away.

  The coffee burned his lips, but the steam rose up in a marvelous fog, and he held the cup close to his face, would enjoy every part of the experience. The coffee was awful, of course, nothing like his mother could make, what any of them could make in their own kitchens. Here it had boiled for half the night in water that none of them wanted to drink, but the men caressed their tin cups in a silent reverie, and no matter how bad this coffee might be … it was coffee.

  He had eaten his fill of ham, a thick slab he gripped with his fingers, an amazing saltiness he tasted even now, licking those fingers of any hint of the greasy film. The others around him were mostly silent, some still eating, full mouths and casual belches, others just sitting, as he was now, staring toward the east, waiting for the dim gray light to brighten, the red glow that would take all of this momentary bliss away.

  As the army drew closer to Vicksburg, even the veterans had expected an easy time of it. Three days before, when the orders came for the surge against the rebel earthworks, they had marched out expecting the rebels to just melt away. Bauer could still hear the raucous cheer of the sharpshooters, the men who took careful aim at any rebel who happened to show himself. The sharpshooters had called out their own wishes to advance with the infantry, even those men believing they were going to miss out on that glorious sight of the enemy running away. Bauer had seen some of that at Shiloh, whipped rebels who had given up the day, who had lost their nerve or their spirit. Despite so much casual optimism, when the advance began, Bauer suffered again through the fear, braced himself for the sound of the musket balls. He knew that some of the men around him who made the charge on May 19 had never been in any kind of fight before, and those men had absorbed the shock of their unexpected defeat with a depressed silence. To the veterans, there was outrage, as much at the enemy as for the men back there who had sent them forward. The rebels hadn’t run away after all, had instead built a strong defensive line, and every man who saw it knew that the generals had made a mistake. Bauer held his feelings deep inside, had no anger toward the officers, felt no shame for their defeat. What mattered most was survival, and if you won the day, or were chased from the field, getting through it all without a serious wound was a victory all its own. The other kind of victory mattered mostly to the generals, and Bauer had watched those fights go in all directions, glorious triumphs following panicked flight, cowards turned to heroes, then back to cowards again. And always came the terror. He knew that would never change, no matter how many times they ordered him into the field. But this time he didn’t run, ha
d kept in line with the others, had absorbed the punishment the rebels had dished out all along the places the ragged attack had struck.

  He had seen men die, of course, a great many men, especially at Shiloh. Even the men in blue were mostly nameless strangers, and you learned to step over them, didn’t see faces as much as you listened for voices, the wounded who might still need help. The dead were … dead, nothing anyone could do for them, and so Bauer had learned to move past the corpses with the callousness of an undertaker. Even the smells had become routine, made more tolerable once you knew just what the smells were, what happened to a man who lay in the soil for more than a couple days. His work on the burial details had taught him what the chaplain still preached to them, that when the soul had departed, the body was only that, a body. The dead man was most certainly in some better place, nestled into the hand of God. There was some comfort in that, more so for the true believers. Bauer wasn’t certain where he fell among those ranks. His family had been Lutheran, and in this army, few outside of the German regiments seemed to know what that meant. Since the death of his parents, Bauer had tried to show more dedication to attending the chaplain’s Sunday services, the Irish priest doing what he could. From all Bauer had heard, the chaplain was a good man, would offer comfort to anyone who asked, Catholic or not, and on Sundays he seemed to speak directly to Bauer, as though he knew what kind of pain a man would feel when both his parents were suddenly taken away. The Sunday mornings had helped him a great deal with the thoughts of his family, the reassurance that his parents were in that special place, a place where he might be able to see them again, though he was in no hurry for that. It was all the more ridiculous for the bellyaching Bauer had heard, all those men insulted that the army had left them behind. Three days before, when they had lined up and marched into the green cornfield, those men had their first real shock, their first corpse, the first hair-raising cry for help. Those men would be changed now, some of them for the worse. When those men were ordered to do it again, they might be the ones to run away, to find any kind of escape. If enough of them ran, it could become contagious, a panicked stampede. There was no sermon from the chaplain about that, no remedy except to fight through your own terror. On the nineteenth, Bauer had done exactly that. And then the new shock had come, unexpected, all of that comfort from the chaplain suddenly jerked out of him, wrapped in a black shroud and stuffed into some distant hole. It was not just the fight, not the musket fire or the artillery, or even the nameless men who tumbled out of line. The wounded had called for their mamas, nothing new there, the dead men had stayed dead, collapsing like sacks of meat into the soft green cornstalks. Even now, most of that was already gone, one more fading memory, one more piece of experience. But then … he saw the face of Sergeant Finley.