A Chain of Thunder

by Jeff Shaara

  The morning was cool, but very soon there was sweat in his eyes, the heat of the march. He stared ahead, saw the flags, the Stars and Stripes far to the front, unmistakable, and the regimental colors, a green flag like nothing he had seen before, the symbol that told everyone else who these men were. And now, he thought, one German boy. Well, Fritz, you know what Papa would say. Same thing Sergeant Champlin said, same thing Sammie’s thinking right now. Don’t let ’em down.

  There was sharp thunder upriver, smoke rising beyond a sweeping bend, wide muddy water that seemed never to change. On the far side, he could see a mass of blue, men disembarking from transport boats, but the thunder was not here, no one doing anything to contest the crossing. He knew nothing of the orders, knew only to follow the man in front, to obey the profanity of the sergeant, to pass by the men on horseback, the flags snapping in a sharp breeze. The column had turned, moving close to the river, and the boats were there, some against the near bank, others in motion, moving across, packed with a mass of blue. Some were returning, empty, belching smoke, but not the smoke he saw upriver. The artillery seemed continuous, and Bauer looked up at the officers, their eyes on the sounds as well. They probably know what’s happening, he thought, who those guns belong to. A duel? Maybe some of those navy gunboats and reb batteries on the shore? Like to see that, just once.

  “Move!”

  The words came from Willis, his jacket dusty now, his arm waving the men closer to the water, toward one of the flatboats that settled against the bank.

  “Load up! Don’t shove. There’s room for half of you, so get real friendly. But nobody swims!”

  Bauer was impressed. The orders flowed out from Willis as though Sammie had been an officer all his life. Made for it, he thought. Like Sergeant Champlin said, he’s running the whole damn war. Bauer couldn’t hide the smile.

  For a larger version of this map, click here.

  The boat filled quickly, and Bauer stepped down, pushed from behind, was quickly jammed in tight to the others. There were curses, but not many, the men more interested in just what was happening. But there was nothing to see, nothing but heads and muskets. The artillery fire upriver seemed to stop, but the sounds around him were many and close, added to the stink of a dozen men breathing into each other’s faces. Somewhere beyond the boat, a voice shouted out, “Heave ho!”

  The boat lurched, the men leaning to one side, then upright again in a single mass. Bauer gripped the musket, held it tight against him, braced by the men around him. The smoke rose high above him, black, more stink, the breeze sweeping the smoke from a half-dozen transports, all of them like this one, packed tight with men in blue.

  The boat swung to one side, Bauer still blind, but the engines beneath his feet were slowing, and just as quickly, the boat bumped hard, knocking them all sideways. Bauer felt the weight crushing him, the men around him cursing in a long chorus, but they were finding their feet again, and Bauer realized the boat had stopped. The orders came again, the men starting to move, the massed crowd lightening, and Bauer followed the flow, waited as men in front of him stepped up onto a railing, then a plank, and then … land. The journey was barely a few minutes, and his feet welcomed the hard ground. The column was forming again, more orders, men on horses, the shore lined with boats belching out their blue cargo, more columns, horses, flags. He could see the countryside now, thickets of trees, a wide road, the ground inland rising up into hills. The bugles began, and they began to move, marching away from the water, where more boats still crossed, bringing the army out of the misery of the Louisiana swamps. Bauer kept his place in the column, the steady rhythm once more, the sergeant there, moving through his men, but this time there were no curses, no yelling at the men. A horseman rode past, moving toward the front, another holding the Stars and Stripes, several staff officers trailing behind, the word always in Bauer’s mind: brass. Who? A general?

  They climbed, the road leveling out between stands of hardwoods. The ground here was far different than the flat, soggy swamplands of Louisiana, the roads running along crests of narrow hills. On either side of the road, the ground fell away into thick ravines, brush and briars, the same kind of terrain he had seen at Shiloh. There the rebels had rolled up from the dense bottoms in a terrifying chorus that swept the Federal troops away. Bauer strained to hear, expected the sound of musket fire, an army waiting for them, or perhaps just a picket line, skirmishers whose job would be to slow the bluecoats down. He couldn’t help staring down into the thickets, waiting for the zip and ping and rattle, the sound of even a single musket. But the sounds were only memories. From the land around them, the Federal troops made their crossing and moved inland with no enemy waiting for them at all. No matter Bauer’s expectations, or his fear, as they marched farther from the river, there was only silence.

  The next day, May 1, the lead corps of Grant’s advance, under John McClernand, pushed their way toward the first objective, the town of Port Gibson. Waiting for them was Confederate general John Bowen. Bowen’s cries for reinforcements, for a strong enough force to hold Grant at the river, had not been answered. To his relief, there had been bombardments at the river itself, a duel at Grand Gulf between rebel artillery and Porter’s gunboats. Porter’s mission was to silence those guns, allowing Grant’s army to cross at Grand Gulf as Grant had first hoped. But the rebel batteries were as well protected as they were along the river at Vicksburg. No matter the pressure from Porter’s ironclads, Grand Gulf remained firmly in rebel hands. Despite what seemed like a setback to his plans, Grant’s response had been to march farther downstream and make the crossing at Bruinsburg, where the rebels had no guns at all.

  But the violent duel at the river had one effect that mattered greatly to John Bowen. It was clearly audible several miles to the north in Vicksburg, alerting the commander there, General Carter Stevenson, of the urgency of Bowen’s situation. Stevenson responded by marching troops out of Vicksburg southward, hoping to add enough strength to Bowen’s forces to form a stiff line that Grant might not cross. But Stevenson’s men did not arrive in time. When the Federal troops collided with Bowen’s feeble position, the Confederates were outnumbered better than five to one, Bowen’s sixteen artillery pieces facing McClernand’s batteries, which numbered close to sixty guns. Despite a stout effort, Bowen recognized the inevitable, and even with elements of Stevenson’s troops reaching him later in the day, the tide of blue was far too strong. Shortly before sunset, with his small force in disarray, Bowen wired Pemberton.

  “The men did nobly, holding out the whole day against overwhelming odds.”

  By nightfall it was over, Bowen receiving the order he had hoped for, to withdraw from the field. Very soon, Federal troops swarmed into Port Gibson, and the next day, Bowen had no choice but to pull his forces out of Grand Gulf, abandoning the artillery positions on the river that had frustrated Porter. With the rebels backing away, Grant had secured the first link in a chain. As more of the Federal army crossed into Mississippi, Grant moved with them, carrying a silent pride that this first part of his plan was a complete success. The beachhead was secure, the path open for his entire army to begin their drive deeper into Mississippi. Almost immediately, the order had been sent upriver that it was time for Sherman to march south.

  As he rode with McClernand, Grant kept his thoughts mostly to himself, his usual habit when riding with men with whom he was not altogether comfortable. But McClernand would not keep anything to himself. With darkness rolling across the field, McClernand ordered his victorious troops to halt their advance, and once again, to Grant’s furious dismay, McClernand made a speech.

  GRAND GULF, MISSISSIPPI

  MAY 7, 1863

  “I could not have asked for a better result. The enemy has withdrawn beyond the Big Black River, and seems content to wait for us. I must credit your maneuver on the Yazoo for at least a portion of that. The enemy did not dare to deploy his troops in this direction with you poised to assault him from above. We planted the se
eds of doubt, and those seeds bore fruit.”

  Sherman nodded, but didn’t fully agree.

  “I’m just happy to be here now. According to our scouts, we did draw some rebel forces to the north, but I’m not sure the feint was all that significant.”

  Grant said nothing, and Sherman knew it was an unnecessary argument. The two men rode at the head of a cluster of staff officers, trailed as well by Grant’s son Fred and another group of civilians. Sherman could feel the grumbling inside his brain, could not help the doubts still, that he had been left behind as some sort of punishment for his failures in December. He had never received the first hint of that from Grant, but still … he was growing more angry with himself now, a debate that seemed to tear his mind in two, the fear and doubts confronted by a voice of reason, that out there, in the world beyond his own thoughts, no one doubted him nearly as much as he doubted himself.

  Grant said nothing, the others behind them chattering in idle talk, the routine of the long ride. Grant’s plans had not changed, with most of the army already on the march inland, farther still from the river. There had not been any other fights since McClernand’s battle at Port Gibson, the rebels keeping away completely. That surprised Sherman, that not even rebel cavalry had harassed them. It has to be Grierson, he thought. Damn fine work. The rebel horsemen are still out there trying to find their own noses, and Grierson is safe at Baton Rouge.

  He thought of Forrest now, the embarrassment Sherman had suffered at Fallen Timbers, the day after the monumental Federal victory at Shiloh. Forrest. Well, now we’ve tossed a little humiliation back your way. Good thing, though, that you’re up there in Tennessee somewhere, tearing up … well, whatever you’re tearing up. Stay there, for all I care. Probably a good thing for Grierson you weren’t the one chasing him. This time we get to have the hero. That’ll play up big in the newspapers back home. And we can sure as hell use some of that. I bet Baton Rouge is full of heavy-breathing reporters, all flocking around Grierson. Good. Keep them away from here.

  Sherman glanced at Grant, could see Grant’s face twitching, thoughts rolling through his mind, his lips moving just a bit. It’s all right there, he thought. He’s going through every detail. And that’s why we’re better than they are. Sherman glanced back, scanned the unusual variety of those who followed, noticed the boy, seeming to struggle on an enormous horse, the horse definitely in command of that battle. Sherman couldn’t help a small laugh.

  “Fred’s horse … ought to be pulling an artillery piece or a supply wagon instead of hauling your boy.”

  Grant didn’t look back, just said in a low voice, “He had to find whatever he could to ride. I’m not making him a special guest on this campaign. Not doing it for Mr. Dana, either. They wish to accompany us, they will make do. I had to borrow a mount of my own when I landed at Grand Gulf. My baggage was left on the far side of the river for near a week. By the good graces of Admiral Porter, I was finally able to bathe.” He glanced at Sherman. “You might consider doing the same.”

  It was Grant’s attempt at humor, at lightening whatever load Sherman was carrying. Sherman appreciated the gesture, could see that Grant was in a buoyant mood, unusual, and he scolded himself yet again for doubting Grant’s support.

  “There will be time for a bath later. Someplace more suitable than a barrel in the middle of a camp. We’ll find some plantation house, maybe have a mammy or two scrub my back. Thought about wading into the river before we crossed it. But I did not wish to remain in Louisiana any longer than necessary.” He paused. “Mississippi has not been kind to me. I am eager to amend that.”

  Grant said nothing, had heard too much of this already. Sherman pointed ahead, a gathering of troops at a line of wagons.

  “Rations. I have ordered as much as possible to be brought from the river, ammunition as well. It concerns me that the enemy’s cavalry could still injure us. Somebody out there is surely figuring out that Grierson is long gone.”

  Grant shook his head, rubbed a hand through his beard.

  “We cannot carry all that is required. Two days perhaps. We will arrange to move up salt, hard bread, and coffee, and … the country can furnish the balance.”

  Sherman looked out to a wide field, a grand house set back from the road, a cluster of Negroes moving closer, joyously waving to the column of troops as they passed by. Grant followed Sherman’s gaze.

  “There is food aplenty around these estates. The owners have mostly disappeared, which saves us the necessity of haggling. The Negroes seem more than willing to offer up anything the plantations have in their larders. It will be most helpful.” He leaned closer to Sherman, a hard stare Sherman could feel. “There is yet no danger here. No rebel force strong enough to cause us any … surprises. You should not dwell on that.”

  Sherman understood, knew that Grant could read him, that so often any threat of imminent crisis came solely from Sherman’s imagination.

  Behind them, Sherman could hear Colonel Rawlins, a brief sharp argument, heard the horse moving closer, knew, as Grant did, that Rawlins would make the inevitable report of any controversy. He moved up alongside Grant, and seemed to avoid Sherman when he could, a habit Sherman appreciated.

  Rawlins leaned in to Grant and said, “Sir, there is some discussion about your decision not to join our forces with General Banks. Mr. Dana insists the order issued to you was clear, and that you have perhaps caused a problem for yourself in Washington. I deeply regret that he made this observation in full earshot of Mr. Cadwallader. I fear—”

  Sherman interrupted, reacted to the name.

  “You fear that damn reporter will write to his paper that we’re out here defying orders. Again. Dammit, Grant, your colonel is right. Why do you allow these vermin to infiltrate your camp?”

  It was already a controversy, fueled by Dana’s obligatory telegram back to the War Department. The advantage for Grant now was that any message out of the Federal headquarters took a lengthy amount of time to reach its destination. Sherman had wondered if Grant included that in his planning, that there would be no line of telegraph poles thrown up behind them. Now any message had to be carried by hand, first across the river, then north, to the nearest telegraph at Milliken’s Bend. From there the message would be transmitted through Memphis, before it could find its way east. Sherman saw another brief smile from Grant, thought, Yep, that’s exactly what you had in mind.

  To the south, Port Hudson was the other remaining thorn in the side of Federal control of the river, one last bastion controlled by rebel guns. It was not nearly as strong a position as Vicksburg, and the expectation in Washington was that capturing Port Hudson would be a far less painful task. The command of the Port Hudson expedition had first been given to Nathaniel Banks, whose experiences in the field were no match for Grant’s. Banks had been one of the unfortunate victims of the rebel general now known as Stonewall, who had wiped clean the Shenandoah Valley of a Federal army that far outnumbered the Confederates under Jackson’s command. Banks himself had absorbed two defeats from Jackson, and though many in Washington regarded Banks as the ultimate scapegoat for Jackson’s success in the valley, some in the Federal command had reluctantly conceded that Stonewall Jackson’s successful campaign had more to do with Jackson himself. But Banks’s failures could not be ignored, and so he had been reassigned to command of the Department of the Gulf, presiding over the spoils of New Orleans and Baton Rouge, won primarily by the efforts of the navy. Grant had received instructions that, since Vicksburg had thus far been a tough nut to crack, far tougher than Washington expected, Port Hudson should now be the primary objective. Grant was to unite his army with Banks, creating an unstoppable force. Vicksburg could come later. It was a strategy Grant found completely unappealing. His army had already expended considerable energy around Vicksburg, and Vicksburg was, at least in Grant’s mind, the highest priority. And besides, the more time that passed before Grant attacked Vicksburg, the more time the rebels had to bring in reinforcements there,
possibly adding considerable strength to what was already a strong position. But Banks solved Grant’s dilemma, sending word that he had embarked on an entirely new campaign up the Red River, which flowed into the Mississippi from the west. According to Banks, it would be at least another month before any attempt could be made to assault Port Hudson. That was all the justification Grant needed. Port Hudson and General Banks could wait.