by Jeff Shaara
The captain seemed to relax, as though getting the point.
“No, sir. They’re not out there, either.”
“No, Captain, the rebs are investing all their hope in … hope. Johnston’s out there scratching himself, wondering if we’re going to let him sneak into Vicksburg and reinforce Pemberton. Are we?”
“Not if he comes this way, sir.”
“No other way he can come. He has to cross the Big Black sooner or later, and we’ve got people at every shallow ford. If he has engineers who think they can build a bridge, I’m assuming your horsemen might notice that.”
“Yes, sir. We are continuing the patrols along every part of the river.”
Sherman raised the glasses again, scanned distant trees, patches of brush, open land that Grant’s army had trampled weeks before.
“You care to hear my estimate of this situation, Captain?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Johnston isn’t a complete fool. He knows how strong Grant is, and how much support we’re getting from the navy, both on the Mississippi and the Yazoo. He knows we’ve stripped most of this country of supplies, which will make it a problem for him to feed his army on the march. He might have cavalry support, but you’ve not had any real … problems out there, have you?”
“No, sir.”
“Grant has a nagging fear of Forrest and Morgan, but we know they’re off in Tennessee. Van Dorn gave Grant a bloody nose at Holly Springs, but Van Dorn’s dead. Damned helpful, that was. So, there’s no great horde of rebel cavalry going to rout your men out of their saddles, right?”
“Not that we know of … um … no, sir, there are not.”
“Correct response, Captain. There are not. So, Joe Johnston knows he has two options. Number one: He can do nothing. Or two: He can try to push his way straight through this army, which will add several thousand prisoners to what we’re going to capture when Vicksburg finally falls. Those sound like reasonable options, Captain?”
“The first one, sir.”
Sherman smiled, moved to the horse, took the reins from the groom, and climbed up.
“You’re learning. But it doesn’t mean this is over, that there’s not another bloody nose lurking out here somewhere. You understand that? You keep your men in motion, patrol this stinking little river. Have Lieutenant Joel, or Thielemann’s battalion, keep an eye on the Yazoo.”
Sherman wheeled the horse around, his staff waiting, gazed once more across the Big Black, thought, If he did come … might enjoy that, actually. Rather enjoy giving out my own bloody noses.
GRANT’S HEADQUARTERS
JUNE 28, 1863
“How soon, Lieutenant?”
The young man kept stiffly at attention.
“Sir,” he said, “Captain Hickenlooper insists the next mine will be ready for demolition the day after tomorrow.”
Grant sat back, looked up at the young man, then turned to Sherman.
“Hickenlooper might be the most valuable man McPherson’s got down there. But he came near to getting killed when the first mine went up. Lieutenant, you tell Captain Hickenlooper that if he leads any more attacks on his own, I’ll have him driving a hay wagon.” Grant paused. “Well, no, don’t do that. I’ll send a note to McPherson, with my suggestion that he take a little better care of his engineers.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, Captain Hickenlooper is an artilleryman.”
Sherman chuckled. “Lieutenant, when they put you in charge of handing out jobs in this army, you can decide which position a man like Hickenlooper should hold. My understanding is he’s both. Just deliver the note, like a good boy.”
Grant didn’t react to Sherman’s jibe, said only, “Return to your station, Lieutenant. I’ve no time for this.”
The man saluted, clearly intimidated by both generals, and made a quick exit. Rawlins was there now, made a quick glance toward Sherman, then said, “Sir, the prisoners have been sent back to a rest area. They’re faring well, considering the hardship.”
Sherman was confused. “Rest area? We fill up all the stockades?”
Grant snatched a paper from his desk drawer, and Sherman could feel a lack of patience, Grant’s words coming in a clipped growl.
“Our people, Sherman. Pemberton sent them over here under a flag of truce. Released them outright. Didn’t ask for anything in return.”
Sherman’s eyes grew wide.
“That’s interesting as hell. No request for exchange?”
“Nope.”
“General Sherman,” Rawlins said, “the prisoners … our men reported they were not being fed adequate rations. Their captors seemed in as difficult a circumstance. I suggested to General Grant that the enemy released our men just so they didn’t have to provide for them.”
For once, Sherman agreed with Rawlins.
“Yep, interesting. My frontline units report the desertions are increasing. The 55th Illinois took in a dozen last night alone. It’s working, Grant.”
Grant stopped his work, stared ahead, seemed to gaze at nothing. Sherman could see the lack of sleep in the man’s face, the tired eyes and drooping shoulders. Rawlins seemed to focus on that as well.
“Sir,” he said, “I shall have some coffee brought this way. General Sherman, is that acceptable?”
“Compared to what?”
Sherman held the thought, saw the frown from Rawlins, understood exactly why. Rawlins had become Grant’s most fierce protector, especially since Cadwallader had spoken out about his suspicions of Grant’s drinking. Sherman regretted the entire affair and scolded himself for the idiotic stab at humor.
“Coffee would be fine, Colonel. But I’m not staying. Grant, I want to head up toward Haines’s Bluff. I’ve been keeping a tight hold on the cavalry and every outpost where Johnston might surprise us. No mistakes this time. We’ve come too far, done too much.”
Grant nodded slowly, a cigar in his hand now.
“We haven’t done enough. I’m sick of losing men in every assault, with nothing to show for it. McPherson’s got work going on seven mines, and if that lieutenant delivered his message accurately, we’re close to blowing hell out of another enemy fortification. But that can’t go on, unless we grab something significant. Tossing people a mile in the air sounds like a marvelous tactic, if there’s enough of them. So far, we’ve punched holes, and had them punched right back. If the rebels are starving, they’re not doing it fast enough to suit me. Go on, get out of here. Check on your outposts. I do not want to hear that Joe Johnston is suddenly ramming a bayonet up our backsides.”
Sherman knew when to take Grant seriously.
“We’ve got Johnston where we need him,” he said, “which is … somewhere else. There won’t be any surprises in that quarter. They’ve freed our prisoners, Grant. And they’ve got nowhere else to go. It’s a matter of time. Take confidence in that.”
“It’s not confidence I lack, Sherman. It’s patience.”
TO THE REAR OF THE 3RD LOUISIANA REDAN
JUNE 29, 1863
The mine explosion had frightened her worse than any experience with the wounded men, a dark cloud of dirt and debris, with a deep rolling thunder that terrified the patients in her care even more. With the battle that followed, the flow of wounded began again. The wounds themselves were nothing more severe than what she had seen already, shrapnel as well as the shattered bones from musket balls. The sadness of that didn’t escape her, that what had once given her nightmares had now become routine, no different than the shrugging calmness of the doctors. The other nurses seemed as battered by their experiences as she was, both the old and young going about their duties with soft-spoken matter-of-factness, calming the most agitated men, holding back the skin and muscle for the amputees, putting hands deep into bloody tissue when the doctor required it.
There was no food at all around the hospital, but still the troops came, emaciated men who begged for any kind of scrap. Not even the officers seemed able to keep the discipline in their men, an
d so, many of those men drifted away, not to the front lines, but the other way, some going as far as the town. Word had spread among the caves, warning of bands of desperate and dangerous men. The civilians assumed they had to be soldiers, but Lucy had no reason to think that the civilians she had seen weren’t just as capable of the kind of lawlessness that was spreading deeper into the lives of every family. Livestock had long since disappeared, the rare milk cow vanishing during the night, chickens and goats and pigs gone completely. And the thefts weren’t confined to livestock. Anyone known to have a larder at all might be a victim, confronted by a band of men with muskets, or a lone, frail creature who might only have a knife. Some had no weapons at all, but the threat that showed through their desperation was weapon enough.
She walked slowly back toward the caves, her work done for now, the day calmer than the one before. Dr. Prine had allowed her to leave in the early afternoon, the journey much simpler, and much less dangerous in daylight. For all his crudeness, the unmasked stares, Prine still showed concern for her safety. The talk of lawlessness had spread to rumors of a new kind of desperation, some of the thieves not content to slip unseen into someone’s pantry. The talk had spread of robbery, anyone walking alone subject to attacks by bandits. Lucy hadn’t seen any of that, knew better than to accept the rumors as fact.
She reached the crest overlooking the Cordrays’ cave, and so many others’, people mostly inside their shelters, protecting themselves as much from the brutal heat of the sun as they were from Yankee artillery. With the heat came an even greater need for water, and as the nearby creeks fouled, and sickness spread, efforts were made by men who journeyed to the big river. But the Yankees had responded to that as well, Cordray himself dodging musket fire from Yankee sharpshooters on the far shore of the Mississippi. The river’s muddy water was just as likely as the dirty streams to pass on the dysentery, or any other ailment already affecting the weaker among those in the caves. It was no better in the town, for those few civilians who huddled in their cellars, in a feeble attempt to guard some valuables, treasured mementos too cumbersome to be hauled to the caves. Most of the homes showed damage, and word had come of injuries and deaths from the shelling, those too stubborn or too helpless to secure a hole in the ground far more likely to suffer from the Yankee artillery.
The ground sloped away toward the caves, and she stumbled, an aching weakness in her legs, a hollow pain in her stomach. She fought to right herself, took a deep breath, stepped downward through the trampled grass. She had eaten nothing at all since the evening before, and then, dinner had been only a mash of sweet potato. There was smoke rising up from the cooking pit, and she caught the smell, a hint of roasted meat, her steps quickening. She saw Cordray, two other men, an iron pot over a small fire, the smells drilling through her in a rapturous glow, the pain in her stomach billowing up. She was there now, the men noticing her, the pained look she had become used to, reacting to the blood on her dress. She wore mostly the same dress every day, wouldn’t ask Isabel Cordray for any more favors. Cordray’s wife had been among the weakest of the adults, had suffered from too many ailments for Lucy to push any harder for considerations from the family who still regarded her as a guest.
“Miss Spence. You look a fright again. I admire your tenacity. If not your stubbornness.”
She ignored Cordray, looked at the pot, the aroma sweeping her away, the growling hunger pouring through her.
“What is that? Did you find …”
“Squirrel stew.”
The words were matter-of-fact, Cordray stirring the pot with a tin spoon.
“My word … you shot squirrels? That’s wonderful.” She fought to hold herself back, thought now of the children, the young girl more sickly than her mother. “Is there a bowl? Should I retrieve some kind of vessel?”
“Here.” Cordray handed her a small china bowl. “Careful. It’s hot.”
He ladled the stew into the bowl, the amazing steam rising up, her brain begging her to drink it down, burn or not.
“Should I take this to Mrs. Cordray?”
He stirred the pot again, the men producing bowls of their own, and said, “No. She’s too ill. The children have eaten already.”
She blew softly across the brown liquid, the agonizing wait, put the bowl to her lips, a small sip. The thin gravy flowed through her like heavenly molasses, and she blew the steam away again, another sip, caught a piece of meat, chewed, tender, far different than the mule meat. She began to gulp the stew now, made an indiscreet slurp.
“Easy, child. That’s all we have right now. Beyond the skins of the sweet potatoes, it’s all we have for the rest of the day.”
The bowl was empty too quickly, her tongue swabbing anything remaining, and she felt the warmth of the liquid inside of her, the aching hunger softened.
“It was wonderful, sir. Squirrel? Who was it that shot a squirrel?”
The others looked at her, moved away without speaking, and Cordray said, “We didn’t shoot anything. We have no weapons here. The trap was successful. I suppose we should be grateful for what the Almighty provides.” He paused, and she could see the anger building on his face, expected him to lash out at her. He pounded the spoon against the iron grate of the fire pit, startling her. “Do you know what is happening here, child? You know of hospitals and nursing, I suppose, all of those things that concern soldiers. I have not objected, not yet. It is not a respectable duty for women. Not at all. Not with so much else … with this outrage against us, who have done nothing to call for this. And now, our own … these damnable merchants …”
“Merchants?”
“Child, we are barely surviving out here, any of us. I am not a wealthy man, and so I cannot afford to feed my family. But, in town, right now, there are men who hoard flour and corn and molasses. All I would need to do is pay their price. Flour is merely six hundred dollars a barrel! One generous soul is offering to sell biscuits for four dollars each! Molasses … twelve dollars per gallon. There is beef. Beef, child! Some say the Yankees are supplying it for only three dollars per pound. All one has to do is pay them in gold!”
“That cannot be, sir. The people would not do such a thing.”
“Oh, they will most certainly do it, child. And all the while, my wife stays ill, my children grow weaker. All this talk about General Johnston … how he will save us. I hope when the general arrives, he puts those merchants in the gallows. Our most respected commander, Old Pem … does nothing at all!”
He stopped, drained by his fury, and she saw him looking away, as though embarrassed by his sudden loss of decorum. “My apologies, child. I must remember that every day we survive the Yankees’ artillery, we are more fortunate than some.” He looked at the empty bowl in her hand. “I hope you found your meal acceptable.”
“Yes, indeed. Thank you, sir. Your generosity is most appreciated.”
She didn’t know what else to say, watched silently as he turned back to the fire pit. He filled his own bowl, scraping the spoon through the empty pot, then held the stew in front of him and said a short prayer. She realized she had not blessed her own, and waited silently for him to finish. He repeated her routine, cooled the steaming stew with his breath, then slowly drank from the bowl. She saw him grimace, struggling to chew, then swallowing, gulping down the rest.
He turned to her, seemed to sag, and said, “It would be helpful if you would speak with my wife. I fear for her health. It is one thing to suffer from the plague of Yankees. But she will not eat. Not even hunger will move her. I admit to being frustrated, child. She is the most stubborn creature on God’s earth.”
He began to walk to the cave, Lucy close behind, and she said, “Yes, certainly. It is not wise for her to just … starve herself. The children have been fed, though. That at least is something.”
“Yes. Something.” He slipped into the cave, and she stopped, felt the heat of the sun, sweat through her clothes, caught a hint of the stink she carried, thought of the creek. At least, so
me kind of bathing. I should take a pan down there, do something to clean what I can. I cannot expect this family to endure … this.
She heard Cordray call out, and he emerged from the cave, holding out a crude box of wire in his hands.
“Success again! Thank God. At least there will be something for tonight. Go, child, tell Mr. Atkins the trap worked again. Perhaps his contraption will be as effective.”
Lucy stared, took a step back, the small cage bursting with frantic movement. It was a rat.
She heard the man’s voice, a plaintive call, looked up from the trickle of water at the creek. Through the low brush he came, the servant, James, at a jogging run down the hillside. He stopped, bent over, a painful chorus of sharp, raspy breathing, his age and ill health showing itself. Lucy felt a tug of alarm, stood where he could see her, and shook the water from her hands.
“James! Are you all right? Are you injured?”
She saw now he was crying, and he dropped to his knees, his hands hanging low, looking skyward.
“Oh, dear me. Dear me. He’s gone, for certain. Gone, Miss Lucy.”
She felt a hard, icy twist in her stomach, had never seen James emotional about anything.
“What has happened? Who’s gone?”
He looked at her with a stream of tears on both cheeks, shook his head.
“I didn’t b’lieve ’em. Thought dey was making fool of ole James. But I heerd more from the others. He’s gone. Oh Lawd. I cain’t hardly stand it, Miss Lucy. He’s all I gots.”
“Who, James?”
She knew the answer already, felt tears of her own, his pain seeping into her.
“Ole Rufus, Miss Lucy. Dey done took him. Mr. Atkins tole me. I thought dey was lyin’, but dey tole me where.… Oh Lawd, Miss Lucy. I seen him. What dey done. He’s been skint. It’s all what’s left.”
He sobbed now, his head dropping, and she felt her tears flowing, wanted to say something, anything, to stop this.
“It can’t be anything, James. He’ll be back. You know Old Rufus. He wanders off now and again.”