A Chain of Thunder

  “If you say so, sir. I have not had any opportunity to witness Negro troops in combat.”

  “Few have, Captain. It is possible we shall in the future. I should like to witness that myself, to observe just how much zeal they show when fighting for our flag.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He saw McCoy shifting in the small chair, a glance outside the tent.

  “You’re dismissed, Captain. You look like you have a dozen itches waiting to be scratched. Go scratch them.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The young man was gone quickly, and Sherman looked again at the odd version of the newspaper, examined the back side, the colorful decoration. This came right off the wall in someone’s home, he thought. Or perhaps they have rolls of it in storage somewhere. And so this is the only thing passing for paper. That pea-meal mess is perhaps the only thing passing for rations. What is passing for ammunition?

  He tossed the paper aside, felt itches of his own, a frustration he had suffered for days now. Total war, he thought. That’s the only way to accomplish our goals. This kind of thing, a siege … there is nothing satisfying about a victory gained this way.

  Sherman stood, paced inside the tent, felt the sweat in his shirt, the day hotter still. Burn the place to the ground. Give them nothing to hold on to, nothing to attach their loyalty to. That’s what this will become. It’s the only way. Grant will come to see that, eventually. He has no more stomach for this kind of campaign than I do. He moved to the tent’s opening, stepped out, stared off toward the rebel works, bare hills, long man-made mounds of dirt. Patience, Sherman. This isn’t Jackson, and there are still a good many boys beyond those ditches who would put a bayonet in your heart. He thought of the deserter he had seen. That’s the key, after all. How much of a fight can they make if they’re starving? That’s what Grant has to do, after all. There will be time still to burn that place, and maybe a whole lot of other places. That’s how this war will end. It’s how I’d like it to end. Hard to mistake who wins when you’ve got nothing left in your belly or your cartridge box and your home is gone.

  He let out a breath, and stared toward the rebel works, the nagging thought drilling into him. Time. It has to take time. And I hate waiting.

  THE COWAN HOUSE—PEMBERTON’S HEADQUARTERS

  JUNE 21, 1863

  On Saturday, June 20, the shelling had come in a storm that was unlike anything the Confederates had yet seen. For nearly a full day, mortars and cannon unleashed shot and shell that seemed to carpet the town, the earthworks, and most of the open land in between. Throughout the daylong barrage, the commanders along the defensive works fully expected the artillery attack to be a preliminary to yet another massed assault by Yankee infantry. When the bombardment finally ceased, Confederate sharpshooters and artillerymen braced for what was sure to come. But for all the destruction unleashed by Federal artillery, their soldiers never appeared. Across from the Confederate lines, the Yankees seemed content to pursue their labor, burrowing ever closer to the Confederate defensive lines.

  “It was for show, sir. That’s it. Just a show of force.”

  Pemberton stared at the plate in front of him, Waddy’s words drifting past him. He probed the piece of beef with his fork and said, “This steak is dismal, Colonel. Tough as my boots.”

  Waddy hesitated.

  “Sir,” he said, “it is the best we could summon. There was a lone milk cow nearby, and the owner was extremely gracious in offering it. I suspect that whatever food the citizens have left is being carefully hoarded. Perhaps hidden. There are reports of thievery, some of it from our own troops.”

  “Nonsense. Our soldiers would not do such a thing.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  Pemberton looked up at him, saw Waddy staring down, had no energy for this. There had been too many pieces of bad news already.

  “Colonel, what were you saying about the artillery? I admit it was somewhat frightening to me. The aides and I hid out in a cellar nearby, but I feared the entire structure would collapse upon us.”

  The picture stayed in his mind, huddling low in the darkness, the young couriers and orderlies suffering through the same fear that engulfed him. He had not expected that, had not ever been terrified. But the Federal shells had stirred up something deep inside of him, a fear let loose by his sheer exhaustion.

  “I am an inspiration. They told me that. We sat on wet dirt, and breathed in dust from above. Hours of that. And they called me an inspiration. Thank God for loyalty, Colonel.”

  “Yes, sir. The men are behind you, sir. No matter what may happen. There is a fighting spirit in this army that no Yankee can match.”

  Pemberton pushed the steak away, no appetite at all.

  “Pity that such spirit does not extend to our generals.”

  “I cannot speak on that, sir.”

  “You choose not to speak on it. I understand. Your loyalty is appreciated. This is most certainly a test for us all. I’m just not sure … to what point. If the opportunity one day presents itself, I should like to face General Johnston and ask him why he chose to sacrifice us. There is so much he could do, and yet …”

  “Surely, sir, the general will come to our assistance. The latest report I heard is that he has more than seventy thousand troops assembled. Such a force would be unstoppable.”

  Pemberton saw the glimmer of hope in the young man’s eyes, could not avoid the question.

  “Do you actually believe that, Colonel? Those numbers? The report you heard? Just who issued that report? Did it come from the general? Some missive I was not shown?”

  He saw the man’s hopefulness slip away.

  “Sir, I only convey what is being spoken of with certainty. I do not have any other word from General Johnston that you have not seen.”

  “You are forgiven your optimism, Colonel. I am not allowed such luxury.” He pulled open a drawer and retrieved a single piece of paper. “This is what I must rely upon for my optimism. I have heard nothing from him in more than three weeks, and finally, he acknowledges receiving only two of my dispatches. I advised him we might have in our commissary twenty days of rations … and he responds to that by claiming with perfect clarity that Vicksburg and this garrison cannot be saved.”

  “But, sir, the general also offers a plan for our escape.” Waddy leaned low, pointed to a line in Johnston’s letter.

  By fighting simultaneously at the same point of his line, you may be extricated.

  Pemberton dropped the paper into the drawer.

  “Yes. I am to choose the point at which he is to attack. Tell me, Colonel, how is such pinpoint communication possible? I can well advise him that I believe the Warrenton Road is our best hope of escape, and then, perhaps in a week or two, General Johnston will submit to the plan. Though of course, we will not know when that would take place. It is an absurdity, Colonel.”

  There was silence between them, a long moment of gloom, and Pemberton pulled the plate back toward him, sliced through one corner of the steak, held the meat up, studied it.

  “A milk cow, then?”

  “Yes, sir. There will likely be no more beef. The citizens are relying on scraps of anything they can find.”

  Pemberton put the meat in his mouth, chewed, the meat barely yielding. After a struggle, he swallowed and said, “I suppose I should offer my gratefulness for this feast.”

  “It has been done, sir. Major Memminger prepared his usual response.”

  “Of course he did. Colonel, you may take this away. Enjoy it yourself, and perhaps share it with anyone outside who wishes it.”

  Waddy took the plate but seemed hesitant.

  “Sir, I would not enjoy such an offering, with so many of our troops hungry. General Stevenson has ordered daily rations cut to fourteen ounces per man, and even the general admits that a portion of that is nearly inedible.”

  “What portion?”

  “The pea-meal bread, sir. We have a substantial supply of peas in the commissary, an
d efforts have been made to create something that will be palatable. But grinding peas into flour has not proven especially useful. General Stevenson has expressed his displeasure at the grievous error by the commissary officers. He insists the farms had food aplenty to supply our needs, and yet we failed to properly stock our warehouses. He suggests that any estimate we make as to our ability to feed this army … might prove overly optimistic.”

  “I am aware of that. The rations have been stretched as far as we dared. But I have done all I can, Colonel. It is a little late for General Stevenson or anyone else to offer complaints to this command.”

  “I have heard some grumbling, sir, but still, the men are performing their duty. As for rations, there is some improvising, to be sure. I am concerned about the more desperate preying on civilians. We should increase the provost guards. There has been some desertion as well.”

  “That cannot be helped, Colonel. Every army who has ever marched has suffered from those few who will not perform, who seek small favors in return for betraying their own comrades. Let them go. They are of no use to us anyway, and they consume rations.” Pemberton paused. “We are holding Yankee prisoners, are we not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It is inhumane to starve them, even if our own men must be the priority. Perhaps we should release them from captivity, return them to their own lines.”

  Waddy seemed to ponder the thought, then said, “But, sir, prisoners can be of use, in exchange for our own men. It has always been that way.”

  “And, so, we would trade for men who we must care for? Where is the gain in that? Order the prisoners released and have them marched out to the Federal lines under flag of truce. That should make for a celebration in the enemy’s camps. Perhaps … they will offer some generosity to us. Perhaps our pickets will receive a bit more kindness from their counterparts.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes, yes. It is forbidden for our pickets to fraternize and trade with the enemy. Those are my orders, after all. But I know what must be happening out there. We are not fighting a foreign enemy, after all. They do speak the same language. I am not so naïve to believe that our men are keeping their silence. Desperate men resort to desperate measures. The Yankees most surely are taking advantage of that.”

  “But your orders …”

  “Would you prefer more of them simply desert? If our troops are not fed adequately, they will continue to weaken. With weakness of body comes weakness of spirit, no matter how much faith we have in their backbone for a fight.”

  “Yes, sir. It is truly regrettable we did not adequately prepare for these events.”

  Waddy stopped, and Pemberton saw uneasiness, as though Waddy had crossed some line of decorum.

  “I will not find fault. If we can provide fourteen ounces per day, then that is what we shall provide.” Pemberton looked at the remnant of the steak, a piece the size of his hand. “This piece of meat is surely larger than that.”

  “Yes, sir. Most likely, sir.”

  Waddy stared at him, and Pemberton saw a flash of frustration, thought, He has his own criticisms, no doubt.

  “Speak up, Colonel. You have something to offer?”

  Waddy seemed to clamp his jaw tightly, then shook his head.

  “I agree with General Stevenson that errors were made,” Waddy said. “There was time … before the enemy drew close … a more efficient effort should have been made to negotiate with the farmers. The warehouses could have been filled.” He paused. “If there is blame … perhaps it should rest with your staff. I must accept that.”

  Pemberton was surprised, knew Waddy had very little authority to make any contracts with the farms.

  “Nonsense, Colonel. Do not fault yourself. Sometimes these things are out of our control.”

  “You are the commanding general, sir. Is not everything … in your control?”

  Waddy stepped back, as though trying to erase what he had said.

  “I suppose, Colonel, every responsibility must eventually settle onto this desk. But I cannot make every decision, guide every hand. Perhaps you will have a command of your own one day. You will learn what I have learned, how often it feels as though a rope is tied to each limb, each one pulling in a different direction. It is more than any man can bear for long. I would rather not speak of this any longer. The subject is simply too … distressing.”

  “Sir, that is why we must have faith in General Johnston. We believe we have rations for two weeks, at least. If the general can make his assault before then …”

  Pemberton felt something snap in his brain, Johnston’s name driving through him like a dull sword.

  “I am not interested in hearing of Johnston again! Do you understand me, Colonel? No matter what kind of rumors are drifting through this place, there will be no assault from General Johnston! I am sick of hearing such ridiculousness! Yesterday, we suffered the most vigorous artillery assault I have yet experienced, and we dare not respond, for lack of ammunition. Our sharpshooters sit idly, hiding their heads, unable to answer the enemy’s muskets because we have no excess of percussion caps.”

  “Sir, with all respects, we did receive some two hundred thousand caps only this morning. The courier did a remarkable job of slipping past the enemy’s guards.”

  “Yes, yes, I know about that. Tell me, Colonel. Did that courier also lead into camp a herd of beef cattle? Wagonloads of corn flour? I suspect not.”

  “No, sir. My apologies, sir. It’s just that … those rumors of General Johnston are of great value to this army. Any hope is better than none at all.”

  Pemberton eyed the steak, the knife still in his hand. He sliced another bite, stabbed it with the fork, didn’t hesitate, fought again with the toughness of the meat.

  “If it’s hope you wish for, Colonel, if this army believes in the miraculous, then, fine, I shall do my part. Have Captain Cooper available. I will prepare another dispatch for General Johnston.” He struggled to swallow the thick lump of meat, cut another piece, held it up, watched a single drop of brown liquid falling away. “Perhaps I can offer him a plan that he will accept. There is no paper left, correct?”

  “No, sir. But the captain is most reliable, sir. Anything you relate to him shall be recalled precisely to General Johnston.”

  Pemberton could hear the rising enthusiasm in the young man’s voice. He attacked the beef again, heard a faint rumbling growl, then looked at Waddy, who held one hand on his stomach.

  If it is absolutely impossible, in your opinion, to raise the siege … I suggest that giving me full information in time to act, you move by the north of the railroad, drive in the enemy’s pickets at night, and at daylight the next morning engage him heavily with skirmishers, occupying him during the entire day, and that on that night I move to the Warrenton Road, by Hankinson’s Ferry, to which point you should previously send a brigade of cavalry and two field batteries, to build a bridge there, and hold that ferry … I suggest this as the best plan.

  I await your orders.

  John C. Pemberton, Lieutenant General, Commanding

  The church bells had begun early, came again now. It was another gesture of hope, this one offered by Reverend Lord. Pemberton knew that few people were going to the church services now, the risk just too great. Throughout the town, nearly every home, every building had sustained damage, some of that obliterating the structures completely. There was damage in his own headquarters, a gaping hole in one wall, yet his staff continued their good work, wrestling with the desperate demands of officers in every department of his command.

  He watched a small crowd of people as they moved into the shell-pocked street, those with the devotion to their faith so strong that they would not ignore the reverend’s call to a sermon. Will that sustain them? Pemberton thought. It will not fill their bellies. It will not give this army what we have been denied. Despite the increasing rate of desertion, the staff seems eager to reinforce some belief in me that th
e army still has the spirit for a fight, empty stomachs or not. If that is true at all, he thought, how long can that last? Until Johnston saves us? He turned away from the window, couldn’t avoid the familiar fury at the thought of the man who seemed not to care at all for the town, for the army who defended it, for the orders of the president. How does such a man reach a lofty command? Johnston chooses which fights he shall wage based on … what? The certainty of a victory? Well, that “certainty” has passed by us here. All we can do now is survive.

  He moved to the desk, too angry to sit, thought of Waddy, the hope of the young. The courier, Cooper, had taken his dispatch already, a journey that Pemberton couldn’t fathom at all, the man with the courage to shove through every kind of danger. Just so General Johnston can know we are not yet defeated, he thought. Just so he will know that I am still in command here, that there is a plan that might yet save this army. And perhaps Colonel Waddy’s optimism will be justified. Perhaps the rumors will prove true, perhaps this army’s spirit will be enough to sustain us. Perhaps Johnston will come after all.

  He said aloud, “And perhaps the Almighty himself will appear on the great river, and part the waters so that we might walk away from our peril.”

  He moved back to the window, with hard, fast breathing, and clenched his fists. He felt like punching the glass, a loud, shattering blow that would be heard all the way to Richmond.

  NEAR THE 3RD LOUISIANA REDAN