A Chain of Thunder

  “I understand completely. Let me tell you something, General. If I had wanted Grant relieved of his command, I could have concocted all manner of tales that no one back east could verify for months. The general has enemies, to be sure. But they are not all in Washington. Some are much closer. Surely you know that.”

  Sherman felt an enormous relief, pulled a cigar from his mouth, unlit, had chewed it to a soggy nub.

  “Thank you, sir. You have been of service to this army.”

  “Not that much. General Grant suggested I accompany one of your cavalry detachments to scout General Johnston’s possible location. Along the way, my most notable accomplishment was falling off my horse. They spent more time caring for me than they did the enemy.”

  Sherman didn’t laugh, his mind already moving on. He felt the need for an exit, still had a ride to make to the river.

  “Regardless. Thank you for your time, sir.”

  Sherman saw his groom far behind him, holding his horse. He motioned to the man to come forward, and Dana said, “General, your loyalty toward General Grant is well placed. I assure you of that.”

  Sherman looked at the man, saw serious eyes, no smile.

  “I know.”

  NEAR THE CAMP OF THE 55TH ILLINOIS

  JUNE 16, 1863

  The prisoner wore little more than rags, no shoes, seemed as frail as a corpse. The guards held him up, the captain standing before him, a hard shout in the man’s face.

  “Where did you come from? Are you seeking information? We shoot spies, you know.”

  The man seemed to sag, held up only by the guards, and Sherman stopped the horse, dismounted, the surprised captain falling silent. He turned toward Sherman, saluted, and Sherman said, “What is this?”

  “A prisoner, sir. We captured him a short while ago. I was questioning him, sir.”

  Sherman looked at the man, who blinked toward him, seemed too weak to stand.

  “You get his unit?”

  “No, sir. He won’t say much. We’ll get what we want, though. Just give me some time.”

  Sherman heard the unnecessary bravado in the captain’s voice, said to the prisoner, “You hungry?”

  The man seemed unable to focus on him, nodded slowly.

  “Feed him. Then he’ll tell you anything you want.”

  The prisoner seemed to perk up, soft words.

  “Thank you, Yankee.”

  Sherman was suddenly curious.

  “Where’d you find him, Captain?”

  “Down in that draw, sir. He was drinking water from the creek. We snuck up on him.”

  “Was he armed?” The captain hesitated, and Sherman saw through the man’s bravery. “No, I don’t suppose he was. Is it possible, Captain, this man is a deserter?” He motioned the guards away. “Let the man sit down. He’s not going anywhere.”

  The captain repeated the order, and the rebel collapsed downward, his head slumped onto his chest. He raised it slowly, as though using up the last bit of his energy.

  “Mighty kind of ya, Yankee. ’Fraid I was gonna be shot afore I could make it in.”

  “Where you from, soldier? You are a soldier, I assume?”

  “I was, I suppose. Never kilt me no Yankees, though. Promise you that. Never.”

  Sherman didn’t believe him, knew it didn’t really matter anyway.

  “Where’s home?”

  “Right out here a piece. Joined up to keep you bluebellies away. Guess it ain’t workin’. You said something about food?”

  Sherman saw a guard returning, a small plate of beans and bread. The rebel saw it as well, the man’s hands reaching out, undisguised eagerness. The man devoured the rations in seconds, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, licking at the remnants on his skin, then licking the plate.

  “Guess you were hungry.”

  “Yes, sir. Truly. Ain’t had nothing but cush-cush for days now.”

  “What?”

  The captain spoke up now, as though imparting crucial information.

  “Sir, we’ve been hearing that a good bit. There have been others come in, near starving, like this one. They all talk about eating pea-meal, some kind of mush.”

  The rebel said, “Ground-up peas. They try to make it into bread, think they’re foolin’ us. Nasty stuff, beggin’ your pardon. Can’t hardly eat the stuff a’tall. Like rock on the outside, raw slop in the middle. If you can even swallow the stuff, it rolls your guts over real bad. I’d rather have hardtack. But they say there’s no flour even for that.”

  Sherman stood over the man, waved the guard closer, and said to the captain, “I assume you have a stockade for the prisoners?”

  “Yes, sir. Back behind those woods.”

  “Put him there. And make sure you feed all of those boys. It wouldn’t hurt to let one of ’em escape now and then. Might spread the word that there are rations here aplenty, bring in a whole damn regiment.”

  “By all means, sir.”

  The prisoner was hauled up to his feet, seemed stronger now, the guards taking him away. Sherman watched the man, blackened bare feet, shredded cloth for pants.

  “Captain, did you really think he was a spy?”

  The officer lowered his voice, bringing Sherman into the conspiracy.

  “Oh, no, sir. But he didn’t know that. We put the fear of God into some of them, they tell us everything we want to know.”

  “How about you just feed them, Captain. Like I said, they’ll not only tell you everything they know, they’ll show you where they put it. How many like him have come through your lines?”

  “Dozen or so, sir. Last few days. You think there’ll be more?”

  “If they look like him? A great many more. But it doesn’t really matter.”

  “Sir?”

  “Never mind. Just do your duty, Captain.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sherman left the man, climbed quickly to the horse, his aides waiting patiently. He knew they had watched the entire encounter.

  He turned to McCoy and said, “You heard of Napoleon, Captain?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “ ‘An army marches on its stomach.’ Napoleon said that, hell of a long time ago.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve heard that.”

  “If the rest of Pemberton’s men are eating the kind of rations that man described, this whole affair will end very soon.”

  “Yes, sir. I see that, sir.”

  Sherman spoke out to the aides.

  “A change of plan. We’re going back up to Grant’s headquarters. If he doesn’t already know about the deserters, he needs to. He might actually smile.”

  GRANT’S HEADQUARTERS

  JUNE 17, 1863

  Sherman was beyond furious, had crushed the cigar in his hand, threw it sharply against one wall of the tent.

  “This is more than an outrage. It is … vainglory and hypocrisy! Even his own men would see this for what it is. No one in his command would be humbugged by such stuff!”

  Grant studied the newspaper, his composure unchanged.

  “Again, where did you get this?”

  “General Blair. There were papers delivered to them up by the river. That’s the Missouri Bulletin. No doubt, McClernand’s claptrap has been published in every newspaper where he believes he has any influence at all. How dare this man issue a congratulatory order to his troops, when there are tens of thousands of men on this field engaged in precisely the same activity!”

  Grant still studied, and Sherman forced himself into silence, could see that Grant was reading every word. Grant nodded slowly, then said, “Most impressive. Anyone reading this would believe General McClernand has won this war by himself. Possibly several wars. ‘Your victories have followed in such rapid succession that their echoes have not yet reached the country.’ Clearly, General McClernand has sought a remedy for that.”

  “Grant, anyone who reads this nonsense must certainly conclude that he is the greatest hero this country has produced! This is a perversion of
the truth to the ends of flattery and self-glorification! And there is one monstrous falsehood! He accuses myself and General McPherson with disobeying your orders on May twenty-second, as though he alone faced the enemy’s guns! I should like to offer that opinion to the men of the 13th Regulars! Their reaction would be more pronounced than my own.”

  Grant put the paper down and held up a hand.

  “Easy, Sherman. Sit down. I am not certain this is authentic. Though, it is dated May thirtieth, and is titled ‘McClernand’s General Order Seventy-two.’ That would seem to carry some authority.”

  The entrance of the tent was suddenly alive with motion, and Sherman saw Rawlins, clutching a newspaper, the man in a run, nearly stumbling into the tent.

  “Have you seen this, sir? The latest edition of the Memphis Evening Bulletin?”

  Grant held up his copy of Sherman’s paper, and Rawlins said to Sherman, “Are you aware of the credit claimed by General McClernand? Are you aware of the blame he has assigned to everyone else? A thousand deaths should be laid at his feet, and yet he claims his army alone has won victory in this campaign.” Rawlins paused, out of breath, and Sherman waited for more, knew that Rawlins would fill the air for him. Behind Rawlins, another of Grant’s senior staff officers moved in, a man Sherman knew well. Colonel James Wilson had served Grant for more than a year and had already endured a confrontation with McClernand that had been hard to keep secret. Sherman saw the look of curiosity on Wilson’s face.

  “Well, Colonel,” Sherman said, “it seems your good friend McClernand is proving his disloyalty.”

  Wilson seemed reluctant to respond, and Grant said, “None of that, Sherman. There will be no judgment just yet.”

  Grant looked again to the paper, and Rawlins said, “Sir, during the assault on May twenty-second, it was General McClernand who insisted the battle was won, who insisted we continue the attack. He claimed victory when there was none. His exaggerated boastfulness cost the lives of men in every command on this field! And now, he would alter the pages of history.…”

  “Enough, Colonel.” Grant rolled the paper up tightly and tossed it to Sherman. “I must know if this did indeed come from General McClernand’s hand. Sherman, you know more than anyone in this army that newspapers are not always reliable purveyors of truth. McClernand has good friends in many places, who would leap at any opportunity to elevate their favorite. I had thought this sort of thing had been silenced by our successes in this campaign, by the positive advantages we now hold. I must know who wrote this. Colonel, prepare a communication to General McClernand and verify if this ‘Special Order’ is indeed from his pen.”

  Rawlins was still angry, one hand crushing his own newspaper.

  “Yes, sir. Immediately, sir.”

  He was out of the tent quickly, Wilson following, and Sherman said, “And what will you do? You know very well this is a violation of your own”—Sherman peeked downward, a small scrap of paper pulled from his pocket—“your own Special Order One Hundred Fifty-one.”

  Grant leaned back.

  “So, you came prepared to remind me of my own orders? Well, go ahead. Recite it.”

  Sherman shoved the paper back into his pocket, thought a moment.

  “I admit … I do not recall the precise language. But the point is very clear. It is forbidden for anyone in this command to issue to the public any official letter or report. This isn’t actually a letter or report, but it is styled an order, though it isn’t really an order at all. But there is no doubt this was manifestly designed for publication, for ulterior political motives. Is there any other conclusion? Your order demands that anyone who perpetrates such an act have their name set before the president, for immediate dismissal. You have that authority, Grant.”

  Grant rubbed his beard with one hand.

  “Let us hear his response first. Before I toss anyone under the wheels of a train, I should like to know it is justified.”

  Sherman pondered that image, thought, That would be acceptable in any event. I should certainly assist.

  “It’s your decision, of course. I have my own feelings about the matter.”

  Grant seemed wearied by the comment.

  “Of course you do. But for now, let’s show some discretion, shall we? I would imagine you have better things to do right now than report violations of my orders. So, go do them.”

  Sherman nodded, could see the soft burn on Grant’s face, thought, He’s more angry about this than he will say. That’s just fine.

  He moved out into the sunlight, saw Wilson, who seemed to be waiting for him.

  “Colonel, you have something you wish to talk about?”

  Sherman walked past him, Wilson falling in beside him. Wilson seemed eager to speak, as though spilling out some burden he had carried for too long.

  “Sir, General McClernand has, for some time, been a close friend of my father. I have observed the general’s rise through the ranks of this army with some interest. But I do admit, I cannot understand his lack of decorum.”

  “Vainglory, Colonel.”

  “Sir, with all respects, it is more than that. I delivered an order to his headquarters some time back, and he responded with oaths toward General Grant that were … well, sir, I was shocked. He spoke most inappropriately. He actually said he was tired of being dictated to by the general, as though General Grant had no authority over him. He further gave insult to any of us who attended West Point, as though we were somehow inferior to his own judgment on the battlefield.”

  Sherman stopped walking and looked at him.

  “Did you respond?”

  “Most definitely, sir. It is one thing to question the authority of your commanding officer. It is quite another to cast insults toward the United States Military Academy. I took that rather … personally, sir. I admit that I might have issued a few oaths of my own. I did threaten to pull him from his horse and beat him senseless.”

  Sherman stared, wide-eyed.

  “Indeed? Very well done, Colonel. I should pay good money to witness such a show.”

  “Sir, I am not proud of my loss of temper. And, to General McClernand’s credit, he did retract much of what he said. He explained that he was simply expressing intense vehemence on the subject.”

  “How utterly convenient. So, we are allowed to spit out every oath that comes to mind, question Grant’s authority, and insult anyone we please, in the name of … vehemence?”

  “It would seem so, sir. Please, I ask you … this is not an issue I hope to make public.”

  Sherman turned, walked away from Grant’s headquarters, stared at the nearby wood line, the trees offering shade to Grant’s tents. He glanced up, the sun bright, a clear blue sky, the day growing hotter. Wilson followed, and Sherman could feel the young man’s concern.

  “Do not worry, Colonel. None of us will enhance our careers by planting boots in McClernand’s backside. As it seems now, General McClernand has placed his head precisely in the same place. And possibly, his command.”

  JUNE 17, 1863

  Enclosed I send you what purports to be your congratulatory address to the Thirteenth Army Corps. I would respectfully ask if it is a true copy. If it is not a correct copy, furnish me one by bearer, as required both by regulations and existing orders of the Department.

  Ulysses S. Grant, Major General, Commanding

  The newspaper slip is a correct copy of my Congratulatory Order, No. 72. I am prepared to maintain its statements.

  John McClernand, Major General

  The following day, June 18, Grant issued the order that removed John McClernand from command of the Thirteenth Corps, and replaced him with Major General Edward O. C. Ord. The man who was charged with delivering the order was Lieutenant Colonel James Wilson.

  JUNE 19, 1863

  Sherman sat alone in his tent, turned the paper over in his hand, looked at the ornate pattern on the back side, a series of flowers on a pale yellow background. He looked toward the flaps of the tent, and called out
, “Captain McCoy, are you close?”

  McCoy appeared, leaned into the tent.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “This is a newspaper? Are you certain?”

  “Yes, sir. It was carried by a deserter. He claimed it is all they receive now.”

  Sherman waved the young man away, examined the paper, looked again at the print. He spoke out loud.

  “Very damned interesting. They print their newspapers now on wallpaper?”

  He scanned the article, what seemed to be a lead story, made a short laugh. Well, he thought, this is what the people are learning of this war. Yes, once again, the newspapers are the ultimate voice of absurdity. He couldn’t resist sharing the humor.

  “Captain!”

  McCoy appeared again, and Sherman pointed to a camp chair.

  “Sit. Are you aware we have suffered a defeat of massive proportions?”

  McCoy slid down into the chair.

  “If you mean that newspaper story, well, yes, sir, I suppose I am aware of what the rebels seem to believe.”

  “What they believe is up for argument. What they are telling the citizens of Vicksburg is … right here. It seems a large force of rebels has crushed our outpost at Milliken’s Bend, and thus has cut our supply line in that quarter. We are certain to starve.” Sherman read further. “Well, the grand hero of the day is Dick Taylor. I supposed we could expect that. He’s the son of Zachary Taylor. Did you know that?”

  “Yes, sir. There had been some talk that we might expect an expedition against our positions west of the river, some fear that Taylor or someone else would hit us in a vulnerable place.”

  “Well, according to this, that’s exactly what happened. And with magnificent results for the rebels. Strange how only yesterday, I received a letter that had just passed through there from my wife.”

  “Sir, we can certainly depend upon the rebel to make false claims. Should they give their soldiers the truth, there would be mass desertions, certainly.”

  “Don’t be so confident of that, Captain. I have been surprised more than once by the tenacity of the rebel soldier, no matter if he has shoes or clothing or food. This report is nonsense, of course. I am aware of what took place at Milliken’s Bend, and admittedly, I was surprised that our colored troops there performed admirably. They were considerably outnumbered by Taylor’s forces, and yet, with some assistance from the navy’s gunboats, they prevailed. I did not expect that kind of fighting spirit from the Negroes. We must remember that. There are a good many in this army who do not believe the Negro should carry a musket. I am among them … or was.”