by Jeff Shaara
Grant was up beside him now, dismounted, Sherman doing the same. Rawlins gave a hard whisper.
“Are they armed? Is it an ambush? The general cannot be put in danger!”
The officer laughed now, surprising Sherman, who stepped toward the open doorway. The man with the musket lowered it, started to laugh as well, and Sherman heard a strange chatter, the rattle of machinery. There was light coming through the doorway and Sherman still had his hand on the pistol, stepped closer, peered in.
The room was large, open, filled with rows of small tables, and at each one sat a woman. Each one worked with some piece of foot-cranked machinery, some of it for sewing, some winding great spools of thread into twists, stacks of cloth beside each of them. On the tables the cloth was taking shape, squares of thin canvas joining together, some being rolled onto wooden dowels. Grant moved past Sherman now, was fully in the lantern light, hands on his hips, the cigar clamped between his teeth. Sherman stepped up beside him, saw what Grant saw, the women working dutifully, completely occupied by their labor, not one of them paying any attention to the men in blue who stood before them. Grant glanced at Sherman, puzzled, and Sherman shrugged, kept his eyes on the women along the first row of tables. They still ignored the soldiers, and behind Sherman, more men filed in, muskets ready, something no doubt ordered by Rawlins.
Grant put his arms in the air and shouted out, “See here!”
Gradually the faces looked up, and now the machinery began to slow, the room growing more quiet, then suddenly silent. Sherman saw the faces eyeing them, no fear, no emotion at all. He noticed the canvas now, the larger pieces embossed with block letters, the initials CSA. Sherman understood now.
“They’re making tents.”
“Well of course we’re making tents. It’s our job.” The woman’s voice came from the back of the room, the woman standing, clearly annoyed at the interruption. “Last week we were to make blankets, but there was no wool. You expect us to do our jobs properly if you won’t give us the right material?”
Sherman had no idea how to respond to the woman, waited for Grant to say something. After a moment Grant said, “Ladies, I regret that we are not the army for whom you labor. However, I also regret that this equipment is too valuable to be left in place.” The women began to stand now, low sounds, most of them finally understanding just who these soldiers might be.
The woman in the back said, “All right, so if you all be Yankees, what would you do with us? Are we to be savaged, then? Butchered?”
The words brought small cries from some of the others, a sudden ripple of fear spreading through the room.
Grant said, “No, my God. No.” He seemed to think a moment, another glance at Sherman. “You ladies may take with you all you can carry of the material here, the canvas. Take it away, use it for your families. I suggest you move swiftly. There are a considerable number of fires burning through the city. You must see to your families.”
They stared, seemed to absorb what Grant was saying, some of them studying the blue uniform. Sherman could see confusion now, blending through the fear.
Grant looked at him, said, “Once they’re gone, out of danger, put this place to the torch.”
Grant backed away, the guards moving up closer behind Sherman.
“You heard him, ladies. Carry what you can, then skedaddle. With haste.”
The confusion was replaced by understanding, and bolts of material rose up, slung onto shoulders, some of the women with their arms full, and quickly they began to file past him. He avoided their looks, had no interest in suffering the wrath of Confederate women.
Grant spent the night at the Bowman House, the proprietor not hiding the fact that Grant was using the same bedroom occupied by Joe Johnston the night before. With the morning, McPherson’s troops were on the move, retracing their steps away from Jackson, the drive that would link those troops up alongside McClernand. Sherman would follow, but there would be a day’s delay. Grant had left him in command of the captured city, with one very explicit order: Any piece of equipment, any machinery or warehouse or store of goods that could be of use to the enemy was to be destroyed. The next morning, Grant rode away from the city, moving out to supervise his other two corps, to put them into position for the next confrontation. With most of the civilians out of the way, Sherman began the morning by giving the same order to his officers that Grant had given to him. No matter the instructions to focus only on military assets, the men who carried the torches were not so selective. By day’s end, most of Jackson lay in ashes.
He led the column back across the same bridges his men had swarmed over days before, passing by makeshift hospitals, Federal doctors working alongside their Confederate counterparts, still treating the wounded from both sides. Most of the walking wounded were already gone, marching out to the southwest, under guard, the Federal army’s newest prisoners. As Sherman led his men along muddy roads, he couldn’t avoid the wreckage that lay scattered along the way, muskets, backpacks, bedrolls, and broken artillery pieces. He thought again of the prisoners, men now marching to the landings at the great river. Eventually they would board steamers, transports, would be taken to Federal prisons far upriver. Along the way, they would march along the same roads that Grant’s army had used inland. He studied the countryside, as he had done from the beginning, this beautiful, terrible place, some of it like Louisiana, so familiar to him, but much of it very different. Mississippi was more rolling, some places green and lush, clean and beautiful, more farms than swamplands. But there were similarities to Louisiana as well, the plantations, thick white columns across the verandas of glorious mansions, and behind, long lines of slave quarters. By now, nearly all of the grand homes and smaller structures were either empty or destroyed altogether. Sherman could not avoid thinking of the prisoners from this very place, Mississippi men marching through their own land, land swarmed over now by blue-clad troops. Do you need to be told, he thought, that this is your own damned fault? Why else are we here? It’s an army, for God’s sake, and we’re fighting a war. And so your glorious plantations have been looted and burned, your slaves freed, the towns we march through half empty, people who scurry away like mice, terrified of us. Now all of those prisoners we’ve grabbed will sit in some fenced-in hole until this war is over. And a great many more will join them before this is through. How many will it require? How many men must we haul northward, until their leaders understand that we can’t be driven away? How many will we kill before they are made to understand? There is nothing of decency and chivalry in this; it is not a spat between gentlemen. I have one job to do, and by God, I am no gentleman.
NEAR EDWARD’S STATION, MISSISSIPPI
MAY 14, 1863
In directing this move, I do not think you fully comprehend the position that Vicksburg will be left in, but I will comply at once with your order.
The message had gone out to Johnston with a flurry of frustration, the response to Johnston’s call for Pemberton to strike the rear of what was presumed to be Sherman’s corps, also presumed to be stationary at the crossroads town of Clinton. But the cavalry had their reports as well, Wirt Adams providing intelligence that the Federals were in fact engaged at Jackson, a force that included at least part of Sherman’s corps. If Sherman was no longer at Clinton, then Johnston’s order made no sense. But Clinton, like so many of the crossroads towns between Vicksburg and the capital city, could be invaluable to the maneuver of either army. And Johnston’s order seemed to Pemberton to be explicit enough.
He left his camp at the Big Black River with a hard knot in his stomach, a column of troops to his front, men quickly exhausted by the rain and the slogging march on muddy roads. The order from Johnston to attack Grant’s army had amazed him, but Pemberton was a subordinate after all, and Johnston’s order would be obeyed. But those orders were in direct contradiction to the long-standing command he had received from Jefferson Davis, that Vicksburg should be protected at all costs. The farther Pemberton rode from Vick
sburg, the harder the knot in his gut. At the very least, Pemberton had made some effort to obey both men, leaving two divisions at Vicksburg itself, preparation to hold off any surprise move should Grant decide to order an attack from the river. Pemberton had no idea how many Federal troops might still remain on the west side of the Mississippi. All intelligence from that quarter had been cut off by the efficiency of the Federal gunboats, and the complete unwillingness of the Confederate command west of the river to offer Pemberton any assistance at all. It was an agonizing reality that those troops were far more concerned with the possibility of a threat that might arise in their own backyards than in anything happening across the wide, muddy river. The need for Pemberton to satisfy both of his superiors only added to his fears, that with his army now divided, neither part had the power required to accomplish what he had been ordered to do.
Pemberton had not slept at all since leaving the Big Black River. With so much training in engineering, he had always believed that an army’s greatest power lay in the overwhelming defense of a good position. The Big Black carved a deep gulch through the countryside and so seemed to him to be the perfect barrier to prevent Grant or anyone else from advancing unmolested toward Vicksburg. But now that marvelous security was behind him, and he continued the slow march toward the place Johnston had ordered him to go. He had received nothing else in the way of intelligence that Sherman might still be waiting at Clinton, all faces turned to the east, that Sherman’s backside would be unprotected, ripe for a surprise assault. The reports from those few cavalry patrols that probed for Grant’s army remained infuriatingly vague. Even Colonel Adams seemed convinced that the most reliable reports had come from the fighting close to Jackson, that most of Grant’s army had moved that way, the sound of heavy guns echoing across the rolling land west of the city, alert patrols reporting back to Adams, then to Pemberton exactly what he had hoped to hear. If Grant’s army had chosen to launch its assault against the capital city, Vicksburg might actually be spared altogether. At the very least, a serious bloodletting at Jackson might so weaken Grant that the Federal forces might salvage what they could by marching northward, vacating Mississippi completely. It made little sense to Pemberton that Johnston expected him to attack an army that was not where Johnston claimed it to be, especially since the cavalry gave every confirmation that many of the troops engaging Johnston at the capital belonged to Sherman. But Pemberton had received nothing else from Johnston that amended the order to advance on Clinton. As he rode through the rain, staring into misty fog and the backs of his tired men, he tried to imagine what Johnston was hoping to accomplish. It was possible that a stalemate in front of Jackson could give Pemberton an opportunity after all, striking into the rear of the Federal position there while Johnston engaged them from the front. It was the only faint glimmer of optimism Pemberton could muster. If his own subordinates could move with efficiency, make the difficult march before Grant’s troops knew he was coming, this entire campaign might result in a rousing Southern victory.
He didn’t believe that for a single minute.
The rain peppered his coat, a stream of water sliding down his back. The horse plodded as slowly as the men in front of him; behind him his staff was mostly silent, following Pemberton with the same lack of enthusiasm Pemberton had felt even as he encamped at the Big Black. We are blind, he thought, stumbling in pitch darkness toward a rendezvous with a general who cares nothing for Vicksburg. Regardless of what Johnston achieves at the capital, he would have me strip Vicksburg clean of any defenses, march my entire force out here on a dangerous escapade that would serve the purposes that exist only in Joe Johnston’s mind. And what purposes are those? Glory? Victory? Some slap at the authority of President Davis? And why? Can he not understand the value of Vicksburg?
He wiped the wetness from his face, a useless gesture, stared again at the backs of the men who marched in front of him, the road still deep with mud. That is one blessing, I suppose. There is no dust. But what shall I tell these men? We search for the enemy, we obey our command to engage him … if we can find him. On ground of our choosing or his? I suppose that is not to be my concern. And how many is he? We are … sixteen thousand, perhaps, those of us east of the Big Black. Scattered along several roads, facing every direction, expecting … what? Should we fear an attack? From an enemy as blind as we are? Shall we stumble into each other like crutchless cripples, and keep our hopes high that the other is more cripple than we are? And all the while, Vicksburg sits as a magnificent prize, waiting to be plucked. And my president will not want to hear why I disobeyed him, why I chose instead to push good men out across open roads pursuing an enemy who seems to know more of this country than I do.
His depression had become overwhelming. He glanced upward, no hint yet of darkness, did not look at the pocket watch. Mid-afternoon, he thought. Hours before darkness, but I will not destroy the spirit of these men by marching them into utter exhaustion. Up ahead, he could see the small homes and shops of the rail depot at Edward’s Station, a logical place for him to camp for the night. There was a telegraph station there, as at all the rail crossings, and he knew it was important to keep Johnston aware of his disposition, whether Johnston could receive those messages or not. No, I cannot rely on that wire to be intact, he thought. The direct line is certainly severed, or at least in Federal hands. Any message must be transmitted by some indirect route. Which route would that be? I must rely on those who deal with such things. Perhaps we should rely on couriers, and hope that they can ride with enough skill to avoid the enemy. But then, by the time any message is received, it is obsolete.
The staff trailed behind him, and he halted the horse, jerked it to one side, faced his aides.
“Stop here. Order the columns to halt, and prepare to camp. I will not march these men to death in this mud. Are there rations available? Did we consider that, for God’s sake?”
Memminger rode closer, wore the same weary expression as the men around him.
“The wagons are far behind, sir. Should I send a courier to bring them up?”
“How far behind?”
Memminger looked down, painfully hesitant.
“I don’t know exactly, sir. It is possible they have not yet been ordered out of Vicksburg.”
Pemberton closed his eyes, drooped in the saddle.
“That would have been prudent, yes? To include a supply train with the march of an army?”
“Yes, sir. I awaited your order, and when you didn’t … I assumed, sir, that you had issued the order elsewhere. Colonel Waddy assumed the same.”
Pemberton didn’t respond, rolled the man’s words through his brain, one more detail of command, someone’s failure … his failure … to authorize the obvious.
“Next time, Major, do not hesitate to inquire if such orders have been issued. I cannot be expected to wrap my hands around every detail.”
Pemberton turned the horse, moved slowly toward the closest house, then abruptly stopped. This is madness, he thought. There is risk here in every move we make, and we have no control over our fate. He pulled the horse around, saw Waddy moving up close beside Memminger.
“I will take refuge in that house. Offer our respects to the owner, if he is to be found, and request use of his rooms. Then send word to my senior commanders, division and brigade, and have them meet me here. I must know their thoughts about our … expedition, about the orders I am to follow.”
“Sir? All the senior commanders?”
“Is there some confusion about my order, Colonel?”
Waddy took his time responding.
“If I understand, sir, the commanding general wishes to assemble—”
Pemberton’s voice rose, silencing the man.
“Bring me the generals. All of them! Anyone who can be located. I’m not going to place this army in further jeopardy without a council.”
He turned away again, spurred the horse toward the house, heard the bugles, the first calls for the columns to halt.
“The leading and greater duty of this army is the protection of Vicksburg. Does anyone doubt that? Is that not why we have an army assembled in this part of Mississippi?” He paused. “You have all seen the order communicated to me by General Johnston? I have obeyed with some reluctance, a reluctance that continues to grow. If we engage the enemy now, a defeat could be of grave consequences. We must have the ability to make a rapid retreat to Vicksburg, should the need arise.” There were some nods, all from the less senior commanders, the men who still showed him a hint of respect. He looked toward the far side of the room toward the cavalry commander. “Colonel Adams, do we know any more of the disposition of those enemy troops who are supposed to be awaiting us at Clinton? Or rather, those forces we are supposed to assault, with complete surprise?”
Adams sat with his back against a wall, seemed to appraise the others, a dozen men, some sitting on the floor, the more senior division commanders in chairs. Adams stared at his open palms, said, “As I reported earlier, sir, General Sherman appears to be engaged at Jackson. General McPherson’s corps is there as well. McClernand’s corps appears to be to our southeast, and there is one division, we believe, more to the south, near Dillon’s Plantation. It is likely that McClernand has been charged with protecting the enemy’s lines of supply, or is positioned as a general reserve. He is certainly providing the enemy with a screen, which could very well prevent us from doing what General Johnston has ordered us to do.”