by Jeff Shaara
He sat heavily. Morale. Yes, a fine word. Perhaps we should remove the e, pay more heed to moral. What is moral about a commander who chooses to ignore such a situation as we have here? Against the orders of the president? Is there confusion as to what we require?
The letter had been brought in by a courier who also carried twenty thousand percussion caps, another of those morale builders. Fewer than one cap per man, he thought. But … it is something. Perhaps a million more would be helpful. He looked toward the window, fully dark now, knew that Waddy’s advice was sound. There would be no lantern, no candlelight in his office. He thought of his staff, hardworking men, doing all they could to manage the business of the army. They do believe in such things as victory, that somehow we shall be rescued, whatever that might mean.
From both soldiers and civilians, the word had spread, filtering back to his headquarters, that Johnston was indeed coming, that relief from Grant’s stranglehold was inevitable, the Federal army still ripe for defeat. It was one more surprise in a campaign full of surprises, that so many people, his own officers, would grab so heartily at rumor. He stood again, nervous energy, his anger frustrating him, nothing he could really do. I cannot speak of this, not to anyone. General Johnston claims he is too weak to help us. If I reveal that to anyone outside this headquarters, they will lose hope. And that, I suppose, is what drives them all. And tomorrow they are put on half rations. They did not expect that. I did not expect that. They may embrace this morale, this hope. But if we remain here much longer, they will have to embrace … hunger.
A QUARTER MILE WEST OF THE GREAT REDOUBT
JUNE 2, 1863
He was responding to the urgency in a message from Major Lockett, imploring him to ride forward, to observe something the engineer seemed reluctant to put to paper. He saw the man now, sitting with three others, familiar, staff officers of General Forney, who commanded the center of the line. Lockett seemed content to wait for him, and Pemberton was annoyed with that, thought, You summon me to ride out here with such haste? I do not see any crisis.
His color bearer had slipped up close beside him, and Pemberton was annoyed at him as well, motioned with his hand, Back up. Is even my staff to show such a lack of decorum?
Forney’s staff saluted him, one man speaking out, a major whose name Pemberton couldn’t recall.
“Sir, with your permission, we shall inform General Forney of your presence.”
“I do not intend a lengthy visit. It is not necessary for General Forney to make himself available.” He looked at Lockett now. “I hear artillery to the north, Major. Musket fire in every part of the line. Is there something new to this? I have problems aplenty in town. The supply of corn flour is nearly exhausted. There is apparently no meat at all. Were you aware of that?”
Lockett glanced at the departing staff officers, offered his own salute now, and waited patiently for Pemberton to return it. Pemberton waved his hand across his brow, the most patience he could display, and Lockett said, “Yes, sir. I have heard a great deal of distressing talk from the men along the front lines. Their rations are diminishing in the extreme, and they are enduring considerable aggravation from the enemy. We suffer casualties every day from sharpshooters, from that artillery.”
“These men are on the front lines, Major. They should expect casualties. I do not wish to hear of distress. I have citizens pushing their way into my headquarters daily, demanding that I win this thing. Just like that. Win it. Their caves do not have fully stocked pantries, and so I am quizzed as to why the general store has empty shelves. What do I tell them, Major? My army is suffering as well? Such talk helps no one.”
Lockett was silent for a moment, then said, “Well, sir, what I wish to show you will not improve your demeanor.”
“My demeanor is not your concern. Keeping the enemy out of Vicksburg … that is the only duty that should occupy your attention.”
“Sir, I suppose I could have sent this information in a message. The fewer among us who know of the enemy’s actions, the better. I am concerned that the morale of the men will suffer.”
Pemberton cringed. That word again.
“Morale is not your concern, either, Major. What is so important—”
“Sir, the enemy is entrenching forward. He is advancing under strong cover and is moving his entire position closer to our defenses. All the division commanders have requested that I devise some means of stopping their progress. I admit, sir, I am somewhat stymied.”
Pemberton was puzzled, looked out toward the great fat earthworks, saw a burst of dirt from an artillery shell, another down the line. It was the same as it had been for days now, the Federal gunners targeting anything they could see, any movement. As far as he could see, there was nothing anyone was doing they had not been doing for a week.
He heard hoofbeats, saw Forney, leading his staff, the same men whom Pemberton had just seen. He sagged, thought, Does no one follow my wishes? I have no need to see Forney.
“General, welcome! I assume Major Lockett has given you the latest information. The enemy has taken to the ground, like so many moles. I had thought perhaps a council was in order, to plan some strategy to counter their actions. Is it true, sir, that General Johnston is en route, to strike the enemy’s rear flank?”
The words rolled across Pemberton like a blanket of thorns.
“You will not speak of General Johnston’s intentions. If I find out what those intentions are, I will tell you. Right now, it is best if the army continues to believe there is some salvation awaiting them.”
Forney seemed surprised by Pemberton’s attitude, made a quick glance at Lockett, and said, “We must all believe that, General. If we lose faith in our actions here, there is no reason to fight on. But the situation is changing, and we must find the way to change along with it. The enemy is pushing his people to close range, too close for our artillery to be of use. He must certainly believe he can launch an assault from close range at some point along our lines. We must strike back at him, prevent that before it begins.”
Pemberton stared past him, could hear the thump of artillery far to the right, a great many thumps suddenly coming toward him from the town, the incessant shelling from the river. He saw an ambulance now, riding away from the redoubt, the mule pulling it toward him with a slow stumbling gait. The driver seemed to perk up at the sight of him, moved past now, a wave rather than a salute.
“How do, sir! Them Yanks is picking at us like skeeters. Wouldn’t do for ya to poke your head up to take a look-see. That’s what these boys here was doin’. Not good a’tall.”
The ambulance moved past, and Pemberton absorbed the man’s advice.
“Major, it is certain that if I make any attempt to observe the enemy’s activities, I will become something of a target, wouldn’t you say?”
Lockett nodded, his head down.
“Yes, sir. I thought you should know what the enemy is up to.”
Forney’s voice rose now, a show of frustration.
“General, we require some instruction out here as to how you wish us to counter the enemy’s movements! My men are being shot down if they so much as sit upright. I’m hearing so many complaints about the lack of rations—”
“Enough, General. You know your duty. You hold the rank of major general because you have been taught how to deal with the enemy. So … deal with him! Major Lockett, carry the word to each division commander that I will expect them to counter the enemy with aggression and wisdom. You have provided the earthworks. I am relying on my commanders to provide the fight!”
Forney stared at him, no expression, and after a pause, Forney said, “As you order it, sir. However, since these men are being told to make a strong fight, it would be most helpful if someone back there could find a way to provide rations.”
NORTHEAST OF THE 3RD LOUISIANA REDAN
JUNE 6, 1863
It was common sense, no one surprised that the rebels would try to find a better way to avoid the brutal punishment
they were taking from the sharpshooters. All along the massive dirt walls, holes began to appear, and it didn’t require a naval officer to understand that what the rebels had done was create what could only be called portholes. The officers had studied the new configuration with their field glasses, and word had passed that the holes were in fact jabbed through the thick dirt using any kind of pipe, including stovepipe, wrecked cannon barrels, or anything else that was simply hollow. The Federal officers had sent that down to the sharpshooters, who had countered that tactic with some common sense of their own.
Bauer had shifted position, a new hiding place dug out of yet another rotten tree stump, a mound of dirt shoveled up in front of him, covered with a small piece of leather, a perfect rest for the musket. On both sides of the mound, brush had been jabbed into the ground as camouflage, so that even with the telltale wisp of smoke from the musket, any rebel gunner would have a difficult time finding a precise aim. The iron sights on his musket were set exactly in the direction that a stovepipe was pointing at him. Firing a few preparatory rounds, Bauer had drawn a bead straight down the pipe. All he needed was a glimpse of movement, a hint that a rebel marksman was taking aim through what was supposed to be his new safe place.
Bauer kept his head low, eyed the small round hole, no more than eighty yards away, could see a speck of daylight on the far side. He paid no attention to anything to either side of his intended target, couldn’t have made any other shot without adjusting his position completely, possibly disturbing the brush that framed his hiding place. He had anchored his musket solidly on the leather pad, and he eased his shoulder forward, just enough to feel the butt of the musket. One hand rested on top of the breech, clamping the musket in place as he pushed his shoulder more tightly against the butt. He had already bruised himself severely by holding the butt too loosely, the recoil of the musket punching him backward, a lesson quickly learned. The musket was hard against him now, poking at the painful bruise, and he ignored that, removed his hand from the breech, the iron sights still centered on the hole. He could feel his heart beating, the cold anticipation, stared at the speck of daylight, the far side of the rebel works, tried to control his breathing. It was only a few seconds, and he saw the flickering motion now, the daylight suddenly gone. He tried to keep himself calm, deliberate motion, no time to waste, squeezed the trigger, the hammer striking down on the percussion cap, the musket erupting in a smoky blast. He looked up over the musket, stared angrily at the blinding smoke, said aloud, “Clear away. Now!”
The breeze obliged him, the gray fog drifting off, and he sighted along the barrel, into the stovepipe, could see the speck of daylight again.
Behind him, a surprise. The voice of Willis.
“Well, you didn’t miss. No sand flew. I’ve got your relief here. I guess it’s his time. Need to find out if he can shoot straight.”
Bauer watched as Willis crawled forward, another man behind him, the redheaded boy, Private O’Daniel. Bauer was annoyed, wasn’t ready to be replaced yet. He looked back out toward the rebels and said, “Not sure what I hit. Can’t tell at all.”
“Does it matter? Looked to me like you sent a ball right down that pipe. Pretty sure about that. If there was some poor joker on the other side, he’s on his back with a hole in his head, and a handful of his friends gathered round. They’ll think it was a lucky shot, and one of ’em will step up there to get his revenge.” Willis turned to O’Daniel. “Get into position quick. You might have a shot right away.”
O’Daniel slid forward and said in a low nervous voice, “Good shooting, Dutchman. My turn now. Some don’t think I can do this. Just show me a reb, and I’ll show you what I’ll do to him.”
Bauer eased back slowly from the firing position, thought, Words don’t do it, son. But he knew what the boy was trying to prove, that the whole company would want to know how he did out here. Bauer handed him the musket and said, “I didn’t reload.”
“No need. Mine’s all set. You can take yours on back with ya.”
Bauer realized O’Daniel had brought two muskets, one in his hand, one slung across his back. Smart, he thought. Shoulda thought of that.
The boy moved up to the sandy mound, was in position now, said something to himself, more nervous jabbering, and Willis said, “Take it easy, Private. Slow, careful aim. You take too long to get set, and one of those butternut farm boys might get off a shot.”
O’Daniel acknowledged with a wave of his hand that made Bauer flinch. The boy had always been reluctant to stand out, to do anything to draw attention to his obvious youth. But youth was very apparent now, the boy shifting positions, in the open, still nervous, words now, a brief prayer.
Willis was close beside Bauer now, said, “The men insist on betting. Never heard so much worthless talk, but every man coming out here’s got a dime wager on how many rebs he’s gonna kill. There’s a dozen betting against this one. He hits somebody, he’ll be the richest man in the platoon. It’s stupidity.”
“None of that for me. Still have no idea if I hit anything. How would any of ’em know?”
“Can’t. Like I said. Stupidity. But if it slows ’em down out here, makes ’em more careful, then fine. I’m not gonna tell ’em they can’t do it. But sooner or later, somebody’s fists are gonna fly because the rest of ’em insist he missed.”
Bauer hadn’t succumbed to any of that. No one could win a bet if you couldn’t see if they had hit anything. Or anybody. The best they could hope for was no obvious evidence they had missed, provided by the sand around the pipe. The company had several good marksmen, O’Daniel not yet among them, and Bauer had wondered how many of the others had claimed to make a perfect shot when their fire was so inaccurate that no telltale punch in the sand just meant the ball had passed completely above the enemy’s works.
O’Daniel was still agitating, slid his musket forward onto the leather pad, the second weapon leaned up on the sand, and he sat up again, seemed to gather himself, peering out, adjusting the second musket, leaning it up a few inches closer to him.
“Careful, Red,” Bauer said. “You’re in the open. Too much movement …”
He heard the crack, O’Daniel’s head flopping forward, falling onto his musket, the barrel pointing straight up now. Willis cursed, crawled forward quickly, pulled hard on O’Daniel’s collar, yanking him back. Bauer saw the hole in the boy’s forehead, a small fountain of blood flowing over his face, the eyes closed, no movement at all. Willis shoved Bauer’s shoulder, said, “He was too eager.… I knew better than to bring him out here. Dammit! Get up there and stick one in that rebel’s eyeball!”
Bauer crawled to the musket, cold in his chest, angry at himself, thought, I should have told him, warned him. Taught him.
Willis jarred him to the job.
“Shoot the bastard!”
Bauer saw Willis dragging O’Daniel behind a thick clump of brush, and Bauer leaned against the sandy bank, tried to steady himself, his hands gripping O’Daniel’s second musket, his breathing in hard gasps. Willis had the boy laid out flat, cursed, looked again at Bauer, pointed out, the black glare in his eyes.
“Shoot! Only one of ’em knows exactly where you are, and he’ll be watching this spot!”
Bauer tried to soak up the idiocy of making himself a target to a rebel who knew exactly where he might be. But there was no arguing with Willis, ever, and Bauer forced himself to roll over, sliding the musket into place, trying to push himself into position, one part of his brain screaming at him to stay low. Musket fire began now, close by, one of the parallel trenches a few yards from Bauer’s firing pit. He looked back, saw Willis dragging the boy that way, a quick scamper, others jumping up, grabbing O’Daniel’s body, sliding him down into cover. The muskets fired again, an effort by the others to keep any rebel’s head down. Bauer watched the scene, the muskets pulled back, reloaded, and he clenched his fists, kept low, too low, heard Willis hissing at him, “You’re the only one who can do it. Shoot the bastard!”
The words added to the jumble of noise in Bauer’s brain, and he closed his eyes, thundering heartbeats, tried to take himself out there, to see beyond the stovepipe, knowing what Willis knew, that the rebel had made a good shot, would be looking to do it again. Right now, he thought, that man’s staring out here, waiting, watching.
The ball spit hard into the sand in front of him, Bauer flinching, hunching downward, and Willis’s words came again.
“Now! He’s got to reload!”
Bauer poked his head up, lined his eyes on the musket’s sights, thought of the second weapon the boy had brought. Oh God, the rebel … he could have one, too. Might not have to reload…
The zip of the ball passed close to his left ear, a small breath of stinging air, and Bauer grabbed his ear, no damage, fought the screaming need to duck out of the way. He steadied his hand, found the hole of daylight, tried to calm his breathing, slid the musket out and in, anchoring it, flexed his fingers, stared down the sights. The daylight in the hole was obscured now, clear movement, a musket barrel sliding forward, a man’s face, magnified in his brain, the target. Bauer aimed carefully, squeezed the trigger, the musket firing in a hard lurch against his shoulder, more blinding smoke. But there was another sound now, distinct, his ears focused on the direction, a hard, sharp scream from beyond the hole. Men were shouting out now, anger, cursing him, and Bauer released the musket, his hands shaking, slid low, hard breathing, turned, leaned back against the bank of sand. He looked over to the trench, saw faces watching him, the men protected by the cotton bales. One man was cheering now, a fist in the air, and Willis pointed to the rebel works.
“They’ll be looking for you. Don’t wait.”