A Chain of Thunder

by Jeff Shaara

  Pemberton sat back and closed his eyes.

  “That is good. If General Grant is in force, those outposts would certainly be lost.” He paused, blinked, the dust of the man’s coat drifting through the office. He tried to share the man’s energy, the sense of authority, knew that if Bowen was correct, Grant might finally have revealed his intentions. But still … Grant might keep going, keep marching southward. What Bowen calls a fleet … could just be the boats to take Grant’s army farther downriver.

  After a long silent moment, he said, “You are excused. Return to General Bowen and offer my respects, and my appreciation for his vigilance. Have him confirm at his earliest convenience the accuracy of your report. If the enemy does intend to cross below Grand Gulf, we must certainly make an effort to oppose him.”

  “Sir, may I inform General Bowen that the army is responding as he requests? He was most insistent on that point, sir. The general has stated plainly that he does not have the strength to prevent the Yankees—”

  “Yes, yes. If he is correct, there must be reinforcements sent to his position. I will look into that, Sergeant. We have other concerns right here, and there are still the reports of the enemy’s movement north of Vicksburg. I must consider all the possibilities. Return to General Bowen.”

  The sergeant stood in silence for a long second, and Pemberton waited. There was something else the man wanted to say, but there was nothing but the sound of the man’s breathing.

  “Go now, Sergeant. I assure you, it will all work to our advantage. We have the interior lines, and the enemy is spread all over this part of Creation. It is our ground, and it will remain our ground.”

  “Yes, sir. Our ground.”

  It was a hint of sarcasm Pemberton had heard too many times before. But he had no energy for dressing this man down, forced himself to ignore the man’s impudence. The sergeant withdrew, a trail of dust following him, the air in the office finally clearing of the odor of damp horses. He pulled in a deep breath, wiped his face, tried to clear away the dust, thought, Our ground. Is that what I must endure from them all? Is every order to be questioned, every observation held in suspicion? I did not put on this uniform and strap on this scabbard to be reminded every day that I am not a Southerner. The president did not grant me this rank believing that I would betray this cause. My wife…

  Her image slowed the anger, and he thought of her soft skin, that marvelous perfume, her perfect attention to her dress, so beautiful. So … Southern. She knows why I am here. She does not doubt, she will not speak behind my back, she will not offer discreet insults to my face. I must prove to her only that I am a good husband, her husband. Of that she has no doubts. I fight for this nation because I fight for her. How dare any one of these soldiers insult that.

  He fought to concentrate, withdrew a map from his desk, unrolled it, and called out, “Colonel Waddy? A moment, please?”

  The officer appeared, hesitated, now stepped in, focusing on the map.

  “Colonel, thus far, all we know of the Federal cavalry is that they are keeping to the east of the city, correct?”

  “Yes, sir. From the reports we have received.”

  “And now General Bowen reports that the enemy is in force opposite his position south of Vicksburg.”

  “Yes, sir. I heard Sergeant Duncan’s report, sir.”

  “And we have also been informed that the enemy is in some force moving up the Yazoo River, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pemberton stared at the map, putting a finger on each of the three points.

  “Well now. General Grant has provided us with a compass that seems to be pointing in three directions. I am to believe that the city of Jackson is under threat from the north and east, Vicksburg is under threat once more from the north, and now the Federal army is en masse across the river to our southwest. What am I to make of this, Colonel?”

  Waddy stood back, and Pemberton could see he was nervous, hesitating.

  “I cannot rightly say, sir.”

  “Well, I am not at all surprised that the enemy is advancing toward Vicksburg from the Yazoo. He knows the routes, knows the capabilities of our defenses. In December he erred in his calculations, and I do not believe General Grant will allow his commanders to make those same mistakes. When he comes, he will bring more strength, a better plan. It is what I would do. But we still have every advantage. Good high ground, the perfect vantage points for placement of artillery. The waterways will not allow safe maneuver for his riverboats. And I am quite certain that the enemy does not enjoy maneuvering in swampland. We can only assume that Grant will attempt to appease his many critics by setting right what went so wrong in December. Reputation carries enormous weight, Colonel. And Grant will protect his. We must see what we can do about that.”

  “But sir … General Bowen’s observations at Grand Gulf …”

  Pemberton stared at the map through watering eyes, still fighting the lack of sleep. He could not avoid a thorn of uncertainty. Bowen. He would not issue a false report. He would not panic.

  “Yes, I am aware of the possibilities. Perhaps … General Grant is aware of what I would do in his place, of what we would anticipate in his movements. And so he sends cavalry to scare us, sends gunboats to shell our batteries. He has certainly succeeded in spreading panic among the civilians. And … this army is swirling around like a dervish, forced to look over our shoulders in every direction at once. But I have no doubt that their priority must be the same as ours. We must hold tight to Vicksburg, as they will expend much to take it. No matter the chaos General Grant causes our people, his intentions are clear, as they have always been clear.”

  “They are clear, sir? But you said—”

  “Never mind, Colonel. I am merely pondering our alternatives, examining every option. It is, after all, my job, is it not?” He paused again, thought of Johnston, off in Tennessee, the man who would no doubt find fault with any plan Pemberton advised. There is no time for a parade of couriers, he thought. The enemy is coming, one way or another. I must respond.

  “Colonel, we must move this headquarters to Vicksburg.”

  “Yes, sir. Begging your pardon, sir, but … when?”

  “It will require a few days. Make ready as soon as we can organize the transportation. Assign more troops to the pursuit of that confounded Federal cavalry. I do not wish to leave the good citizens of Jackson in more of a panic than they are now suffering. We will advise the civilian officials here of our vigilance for their concerns. Vicksburg is Grant’s objective … no doubt of that. But that is a military matter.” He studied the map again. “It is possible Grant is intending to bypass Vicksburg and capture the capital. We must be certain, Colonel. Certain.”

  “Yes, sir. When … will we be certain, sir?”

  Pemberton ignored the question, rolled the map, and slid it into his desk drawer. Waddy began to move away, stopped, then said, “Sir, I shall order the servants to prepare our baggage, at your command, sir. It will take some time for our wives to prepare, and I will see to that immediately. The senior field commanders will wish to know how to communicate with us as we travel, and I will send word to General Bowen and General Stevenson of our intentions, if that’s acceptable, sir.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Your wife will accompany you, then?”

  Waddy seemed not to understand the question. “Well, yes, certainly, sir. Is that not appropriate?”

  “Oh, no, by all means. The wives should remain close to their husbands.” Pemberton thought of Pattie again, the strong will, the hard steel that had been so persuasive in bringing him south. You must be safe. You will be safe. I will have it no other way.

  “Colonel, I will go to my quarters now. Mrs. Pemberton will require time to prepare, as you say.”

  “Very well, sir. I will see to your quarters once we reach Vicksburg, and make certain there is a feminine touch, sir.”

  “Vicksburg? Oh, no, Colonel. She won’t be accompanying us to Vicksburg. I prefer to s
end her to a safer location.” He thought a moment, saw a blank expression on Waddy’s face. “Mobile. Yes, that’s good. That’s the place. She will go to Mobile. It will be far safer there.”

  NEAR BRUINSBURG, LOUISIANA

  APRIL 30, 1863

  “You bring any coffee with ya?” Bauer shook his head, and the man spat, disgusted, turned away. “He’s not a whit good to us then, is he?”

  Bauer was still feeling overwhelmed, new faces and new accents, some of the brogue so thick he could barely understand what was being said. The men around him seemed to pick that up right away, were making a show now of speaking to one another with such speed, Bauer couldn’t understand them at all.

  He thought of coffee, more valuable than gold to some of the men. The small cloth pouch that held his had been empty for some time, just one more detail he had forgotten. Well, that would have helped, he thought. At least show them I’m trying to fit in.

  “Line up by fours! We’re marching to the boats. Keep your bayonets at your belts. None of that ass-stickin’. You wanna get tossed in the stockade, you jab the fella in front of ya. Not puttin’ up with it, no more.”

  The voice was a hard roar, so typical of the sergeants. He had made it a point to stay close to Sergeant Finley, knew that in every outfit, the sergeants knew more than anyone else, even more than the officers. And if the sergeant hated you, your life would be a living hell. Bauer had been through that once before, a year ago in the 16th. Damn, he thought. Coffee woulda helped out there, too. At least show him you’re here to fight.

  Bauer wasn’t sure just how to do that, had never been one for the loud boasts, or passing on advice to the new recruits. It was one of two options for dealing with any nasty sergeant. Either show him you’re just as nasty, or else hide from him. Bauer hadn’t been good at either one. He wasn’t sure yet if Finley was as mean as he sounded, though he certainly had the growl, a thick, gruff Irishman, with arms like fat logs, his neck a deep red. He was shorter than Bauer, unusual, since Bauer was shorter than most everyone else. But Finley was obeyed without hesitation.

  The 17th Wisconsin was a part of James McPherson’s Seventeenth Corps, the Sixth Division, commanded by a Scotsman named McArthur. Though every man Bauer had met had come out of Wisconsin, there wasn’t another German in the bunch. He had no reason to dislike Irishmen, though he hadn’t known any in Milwaukee. His father had no particular prejudice toward anyone, a businessman’s wisdom: Someone wants to buy your sausage, doesn’t matter what his accent is. Bauer had heard bits of their history, a horribly downtrodden people, escaping the curse of British rule, much as Bauer’s parents had escaped the military turmoil of 1830s Germany. All he knew of these men was what he saw: They were soldiers, wore the same uniform as he did. And though this regiment hadn’t fought at Shiloh, they were bloodied. And from what he had seen of their spirit, they would be again.

  “Sergeant, make sure their canteens are filled. No rain in three days, the creeks will be falling.”

  “Sir. Will handle it, sir.”

  Bauer couldn’t help a smile, saw the newly polished lieutenant stepping quickly toward them, urgency in his steps. Willis looked at Bauer, no smile at all, and said, “Well, Private, you making yourself at home among all these micks? I see you still got your teeth. Anybody kick your ass yet?”

  Bauer still smiled, saluted, knew that no matter how close they had been, Willis would demand it. It went with the job, and so far, Bauer knew that Willis had taken every job very seriously. It went with the uniform as well, and Bauer looked his friend over, a shine on brass buttons, a clean white shirt under a short jacket, the plain strap on each shoulder, the insignia of the second lieutenant. Willis pretended to ignore that, but Bauer could see the pride. Willis focused on the sergeant, Finley moving away, barking out instructions, men lined up at a pair of water wagons in a field. In the road, the column was already forming up, the lines of blue snaking far ahead, around a bend, and far behind, with the usual hum of grumbling from men who had slept in the open. Bauer felt a stirring in his chest, had pride of his own. He was a part of something powerful, an army that knew how to win. He looked at Willis again, the lieutenant staring out, appraising.

  He caught Bauer’s stare, stepped closer to Bauer, and said in a low voice, “Dammit, Dutchie, I’m hearin’ talk that since we come from the same unit, you’re my “special one.” Not good for morale, and I’m not gonna bail you out of every thicket they put you in.”

  Bauer was confused.

  “Special what?”

  “My personal … pet. Word got out pretty quick that a good friend of mine was transferring in, and a whole bunch of these boys suddenly applied for transfers of their own, all kinds of bitching and carrying on about wanting to be in some other regiment with their brothers or cousins or God knows who else. I had to listen to some pretty tough blessing out from Colonel McMahon. He approved my request to bring you here because I told him you were one tough rascal, and we needed veterans. These boys aren’t new, but they haven’t seen enough fighting to be toughened up yet. I built you up to be the meanest ruffian in Wisconsin, and the best sharpshooter, too. And by damned, it worked. The colonel took care of some kind of paperwork. Didn’t really expect that. Now the men are carryin’ on like I brought my sweetheart in here. Dammit, Dutchie, you better not let me down.”

  Bauer was nervous now, saw faces looking at him from the road.

  “Geez, I’ll do my best, Sammie.”

  Willis cringed.

  “Lieutenant, you jackass. That’s another thing. I earned this rank and I aim to keep it.” He raised his voice, just loud enough to be heard by the men close by. “You talk to me like an officer or I’ll have that bulldog sergeant put you in hell.” The message was received, some of the men laughing, Willis accomplishing just what he intended. He turned his back to the forming column, his voice lower again. “It’s just gotta be this way.” He paused, and Bauer saw a hint of a smile. “Dammit, Dutchie, I’m sure as hell happy to see you. We’ll talk after the march. I wanna hear what happened to your folks, if you’re inclined. And all about what’s going on in Milwaukee. I haven’t heard much from my wife … nothing about my child.” He paused, and Bauer saw the look he had seen too often before, Willis’s strange reluctance to talk about his own family, about the birth of his son the year before. Willis said aloud, “We’ve got to move, and right now. The colonel wants us on the boats as quick as we can get there. All of you … fall into column.”

  Willis spun away, hands clamped behind his back, an angry scowl on his face. The others watched him as he moved past, seemed to accept just what Willis wanted them to think, that he had chewed Bauer out for some unnamed offense. Bauer saw their gaze, some of them laughing, a poke of an elbow, jokes at his expense. He put on a hangdog look, appropriate to being blessed out by any officer, shouldered his musket, joined the column. The sergeant was there, seeming to wait for him, pointed to a gap in the row of men.

  “Right there, Dutchman. I want you on the outside, in case somebody tries to pick some of us off.” Finley glanced up at Bauer’s musket, seemed satisfied, and said, “I see they taught you right in the 16th. No marching with damned fixed bayonets. We got some idiots in this company who still think they need to have the damned potstickers in place every damn minute of the day. Already had three men sent to the damn doctor from gettin’ stick wounds in their backside. Bayonets, mud, and marchin’ don’t go together.” He spoke louder now. “You hear me?”

  There were mumbles of acknowledgment, and Bauer stepped into place, glanced at the man beside him, a tall, lanky redhead, realized it was the young man who had retrieved him from the 16th. Bauer nodded, the man returning it, and Bauer thought of Willis’s building him up into some kind of madman. Guess I should do something, he thought. A good growl of my own. Yeah, I’m tough as nails. I can whip any damn Irishman. Well, no, don’t say that out loud. Being tough doesn’t mean being stupid.

  The bugle sounded now, cutting through his
thoughts, the column beginning to move. No, let it go. You gotta prove something to these boys, do it when it counts. They gotta know I’ve done this before. The thought punched him, whatever pride he was feeling ripped by a wave of memories. Yeah, the enemy came and you ran away. No, dammit. That was back then. It ain’t gonna happen again. Ever.

  At Shiloh, Bauer had done what half the Federal army had done, had reacted to the surprise assault by fleeing the battlefield, a mass of blue rabbits. But that was the first morning, the first great shock to these newly arrived recruits who dared assume to be soldiers. The attack had slapped into the men like a bolt of lightning, the sudden shock that the rebels were in fact a big damn army, with guns and bayonets and artillery, determined to kill every bluebelly who stood in their way. But Bauer had recovered, had erased his own shame alongside the men who gathered alongside Colonel Allen, or any other officer who had found courage of his own. And the next day, he had marched “forward,” part of the great drive that swept the rebels from the field. Soldiers again.

  But still the voice was there, taunting him, his own conscience. So, what happens next time? He knew that Willis had confidence in him, friend or not. But Willis seemed to be immune from any kind of fear, had stood his ground at Shiloh when most of the men around him had simply melted away. He was nothing like some of the others, the big talkers, the men going through the training and the drills with hot words for what they would do to the rebels. Most of those men were simply gone now, broken bodies or shattered courage, gone from the army, back home regaling their audiences with magnificent tales of heroism, stories Bauer had heard in Milwaukee, stories that would only be told to civilians.

  Bauer marched in step with the men around him, heard Finley doing what every sergeant did, shouting angry curses to keep the men in line. Bauer looked down at his worn black brogans, the roadway a half inch thick in dust, rising in clouds with every step. He looked ahead, tried to see Willis, knew the lieutenants walked with the men, some toward the head of the company, some behind. I guess Sammie learned all that stuff pretty quick. Lieutenant Willis. I wonder if they know, the rest of this bunch, all these Irishmen, I wonder if they know how much Sammie likes this? Bauer thought again of Shiloh. Even after the fight had stopped, Willis seemed eager to do it all again, but that enthusiasm came with a perfect certainty from Willis that he would never survive the war, would never see his wife again, or his new baby, that any hope for a marvelous homecoming was a worthless exercise. Bauer had been shocked at that, and even if he had no sweetheart himself, he had thought often of that wonderful return home, warm hands, tears and relief. Bauer had to believe Willis’s wife and baby were still there, back in Wisconsin, like so many others, a family waiting with hand-wringing anguish for their soldier to return. And you, Fritz … you’ve got no one at all. You should be the perfect warrior, fearless, no distractions from a pocket full of love letters, a curl of hair in some locket. He couldn’t shake the memories of Shiloh, of a mad scamper through the thorny brush, tumbling into mud, one piece of a massive wave of panic. So, he thought, will that happen again? Will you run like a frightened rabbit? A worthless coward? Again? Sammie will be the same, no matter that new uniform. He won’t run, ever, unless it’s straight at those other boys. He’ll fight this war by himself, if we let him. Can’t let him. He glanced to the side, dusty faces and sweat, shouldered muskets, shuffling feet. We’ll fight for him, follow him, no matter what. That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it? Me … and these Irishmen. Who’d a thought that?