A Chain of Thunder

by Jeff Shaara

  “Yes, and you are not in the field, Colonel. You do not know the location of the enemy.”

  “It appears, with all respects, sir, that none of us are completely aware what General Grant is intending to do.”

  Pemberton closed his eyes, annoyed at so much obviousness from his chief of staff. He moved away from the horse, aides scrambling ahead of him to make ready his new headquarters. No, he thought, none of us is aware of anything. And if they are, they do not see fit to inform me. I do not understand such a lack of cooperation. Or … obedience.

  He turned, looked at Waddy again.

  “Has General Loring indicated he is moving his troops to conform to my orders?”

  Waddy seemed confused now, hesitated, then said, “Which orders would that be, sir? General Loring was ordered to support General Bowen, but you … we countermanded those orders.”

  Major Memminger stepped forward now, his attention caught by the conversation. “Sir, General Loring now insists that the enemy intends to destroy the railroad between the Big Black and the city of Jackson. He is hoping, sir, that you will order a general attack against the enemy’s position.”

  “What position is that, Major? I am under orders from General Johnston to unite my entire army and pursue the enemy. I am under orders from the president to defend Vicksburg at all costs. I have the strength to do neither with any effectiveness. General Johnston has taken my cavalry from me and assigned those good men to aid General Bragg in Tennessee. I am left with scant resources to scout this countryside.” He paused. “When did you speak to General Loring?”

  Memminger glanced at Waddy.

  “A short while ago, sir. He was on the road leading to the Big Black bridge. A courier directed me to him, saying he wished to speak to me directly. It was there that he offered his prediction.”

  “Did he not tell you to bring that … prediction to me?”

  Memminger let out a breath.

  “No, sir. He rather insisted … it was not important that you be informed.”

  Pemberton felt the heat rising, a brittleness in his temper he rarely showed.

  “Major, you are my adjutant. After Colonel Waddy and Colonel Montgomery, you are the highest-ranking member of my staff. You will report to me any message … or prediction you might receive from any one of my commanders. Is that difficult for you to understand?”

  “No, sir. Certainly not.” Memminger shifted his feet, seemed to search for some way to make amends. He looked up at Pemberton now, a small light in his eyes. “Sir, I did happen upon Colonel Adams. He offers his respects and says that if you order it, he can bring the cavalry commands together. He advises that they are still somewhat … scattered.”

  “And how long did you intend to hold this information secret, Major?” Pemberton had no energy for this, knew that his staff was loyal to him, regardless of their failings. It was something Pemberton never took for granted, not with so many doubts about his own loyalty from so many of his subordinates. He thought of Wirt Adams, his cavalry commander, in charge now since Earl Van Dorn had obeyed Joe Johnston’s orders and hauled most of the horsemen to Tennessee. But Van Dorn was dead, a shocking report less than a week old, the man shot down by a civilian for reasons that were still a mystery. And so, he thought, General Johnston will eventually claim Adams from me as well. It is inevitable. Pemberton pictured Adams in his mind, a small, handsome man, college educated, already accomplished as a superb leader of cavalry. Adams was from the neutral state of Kentucky, and Pemberton appreciated that Adams had snuffed out any indiscreet grumbling in his command about Pemberton’s loyalty.

  “You may respond to Colonel Adams that we cannot afford to bring in the cavalry outposts. As much as I require his eyes, uniting the cavalry will leave all of northern Mississippi unprotected. That confounded Grierson could yet make another raid, and the enemy might bring yet another column of troops down from Memphis.” He looked down and shook his head. “I trust General Johnston is making effective use of my horsemen. But I surely could use them here. I cannot confront what I do not know.”

  “Sir, Colonel Adams does have cavalry patrols close to the enemy’s position. Your orders were to maintain a vigilant eye on any Yankee movement. Colonel Adams is in obedience to that order.”

  “Yes? So half a hundred horsemen are scouting the entire Federal army? How is that possible, Major? I cannot fault Colonel Adams for doing what he can, but we do not know where the enemy has his greatest concentration. We do not know the direction of their movement. The enemy has cavalry as well, and they are perfectly capable of driving away any effort we make to observe them.” His voice had risen, and he choked it off, saw faces across the open yard watching him. “I am ordered by General Johnston to make a massed assault against Grant’s forces. General Loring offers his speculation as to where Grant is going, but he does not tell me anything of where he is right now. I have been attempting to divine the enemy’s intent for some weeks now, and it is no clearer to me today than it was a month ago.”

  He stifled his frustration, moved on toward the house, an old mansion that still showed hints of the luxury that had once been so prevalent throughout this part of Mississippi. He stepped up onto a wide veranda, saw a well-dressed civilian, the man offering a smile, a deep bow as he opened the front door.

  “General, you are most welcome in my home. Please … what is mine is now yours. You are, after all, our salvation.”

  There was an odd unpleasantness to the man’s well-wishing, the words forced, a show of politeness only because his land was now occupied by so many men with guns.

  “Thank you, sir. We shall not abuse you or your possessions. I do not expect to remain here for long. We must make every effort to destroy our enemies.”

  The man backed inside the house, seemed satisfied at Pemberton’s intent, still the smile pasted on his face.

  “Please, sir, enter my home at your convenience.”

  “In a moment, thank you.”

  Pemberton turned and saw a column of soldiers on the road, moving east, toward the Big Black River bridge.

  “Whose men are those?”

  Waddy was on the steps, keeping close to him, said, “Not certain, sir. Should I seek out their commander?”

  Pemberton said nothing, thought, What does it matter? They are in motion, and those are my orders, after all. They march to the river, where we must be vigilant. I am still quite certain that General Grant will come, and he will use the most convenient route, possibly this very road. I truly believed he would move on us more quickly, from the south. And yet he hesitated, a slow march beyond the river that seemed without purpose, as though he too is uncertain. And perhaps he is. He is in enemy territory, after all, and perhaps his cavalry is not as skilled as I believe. Perhaps he searches for our greatest concentration, or perhaps he is avoiding a fight altogether. He is on trial, after all, loud voices in Washington calling for his dismissal. He must not disappoint and so he is surely cautious. It is possible that General Johnston is anticipating this very hesitation, and so, if I strike Grant unexpectedly, I could crush him. Or perhaps that is what Grant hopes. And so he spreads us out along the Big Black, looking for his own opportunity. He looked at Waddy, rubbed his fingers slowly through his beard.

  “General Johnston believes that the enemy is a plum, ripe for the taking. Our orders are to take it. I had thought Grant’s target might be Jackson. That kind of feather would do much for his reputation in Washington. But I cannot assume he will not strike us directly at Vicksburg, and he could still. Here we sit out east of the town, when even now, his fleet could be transporting troops downriver to strike us directly from the west. We must remain on the defensive. The president is correct. We must defend Vicksburg.”

  He looked past Waddy, saw Memminger, others, standing quietly, as though waiting for instructions.

  “Major! Do you still have General Johnston’s order on your person?”

  Memminger moved quickly to his own horse and retrieved a pape
r from his saddlebag.

  “Right here, sir. Do you wish to see it?”

  Pemberton tried to hide his annoyance.

  “That is why I asked, Major.”

  Memminger climbed the steps, presented the paper with a short bow.

  “Sir.”

  Pemberton read the order again, Joe Johnston’s insistence that the army be brought together, the various commands spread around Vicksburg to be pulled away from the river and united into a single crushing blow against Grant, a powerful force more than adequate to rid the state of Grant’s absurd invasion. So, here I am, he thought. I have done what the general ordered, and removed myself from Vicksburg. Now I am to unite an army that is, presumably, scattered for twenty miles, while none of my generals has any certainty just where we should attack. We have engaged Grant twice on this side of the Mississippi River, with inadequate numbers, and so we have been brushed aside. Ah, but we were not prepared. So, I shall obey General Johnston. And if Vicksburg is even now being assaulted by Federal troops climbing up those bluffs, then I can explain to the president that I was, after all, following the orders of my superior. It would be convenient, however, if my superiors, or anyone else, could offer me some clarity on just what the enemy intends to do.

  He handed the paper to Memminger, turned, moved into the house, the door left open, the civilian nowhere to be seen. He moved past the foyer, saw a sitting room to one side, and stepped that way, a small couch inviting him with bright purple pillows. He flexed a stiffness in his hip, thought, I could use something … soft. He sat, allowed the cushion beneath him to absorb the weight, a brief second of comfort. But it was gone now, replaced by a blossoming headache, rising up the back of his neck, a great steel hand gripping his skull.

  Waddy stood in the entrance of the room and said, “Orders, sir?”

  Pemberton stared up at a portrait hung above a small fireplace. It was a child, a girl, standing beside a large black dog, which stood taller than the child. He smiled at the portrait, tried to imagine the patience required to sketch such a scene, that no child would remain in such a pose for very long. You do not issue a stern command to a child, as you would a dog. He thought of Loring now, a division commander who seemed to regard Pemberton as much more of a nuisance than a superior. It was too common in this army, a plague of insubordination and disrespect that had followed him from South Carolina.

  “I would very much like some tea, if the master of this house has any he is willing to share. Sugar as well, though that might be too much to ask. Such luxuries are growing scarce.”

  Waddy bowed, moved away, and Pemberton was alone in silence, unusual, none of the clamor of the army, of headquarters. That will come soon, he thought. They must know where I am, must know where to send their utterly unreliable information. He thought of Grant, had known him in Mexico, an audacious officer who took pride in launching himself into oddly dangerous situations. Pemberton had been there, standing back with the commanders, waiting dutifully for some instructions. He had observed, as the generals observed, a bloody affair against the stout walls and gateways of Mexico City, the last barriers that held Winfield Scott’s army away from their final victory. Through a dozen field glasses, they had observed a young officer close to the Mexican position, the man hauling a single artillery piece to the belfry of a church, and when the cannon went into action, it seemed to dishearten the Mexican forces who absorbed the punishment. Very soon after, the city had fallen. The officer was virtually unknown, had led no infantry, had gone out on his own and done something that caught the attention of the generals. Pemberton had been sent to retrieve him, had learned the man’s name, Lieutenant Ulysses Grant. I brought him back to General Worth, he thought, saw him lauded for his heroics, a hard slap on the back, laughter from men who did not often laugh. Grant will remember that day for the rest of his life. It is doubtful he will remember me. He did not come to West Point until after I had gone, surely would not know anything of me from there. He would know what they all know, that I left Pennsylvania to go south. And he will know that we shall certainly meet in the field. It would be so very convenient if I knew where he was.

  He thought again of Winfield Scott, a Virginian who had never even considered holding on to his loyalty to that state, so different from so many of the others, Joe Johnston, certainly, and Robert E. Lee. Pemberton had spoken to Scott, a hard argument about Pemberton’s resignation that Scott would not win. He made every effort to secure my loyalty, Pemberton thought, but it could not be done. My family in Pennsylvania still does not understand, and doubtless they never will. And had I remained in a blue uniform, what would I be now? A colonel, perhaps, keeping order in some heavy-artillery post in Washington, a comfortable office, something more suitable to my experience. Would they have sent me out into the field, offered me command of a regiment, a division? Perhaps it would have been me at Fort Sumter, brashly defying the order to surrender, standing defiantly against Beauregard and his artillery. Is it coincidence that General Lee assigned me to that very post, long after the heroics had passed? Now Sumter lies in our hands, a useless outpost against Federal gunships. The civilians did not trust me there, thought me capable of treachery, and so I am here, once more protecting a waterway. Not even my marvelous artillery can hold away a fleet of gunboats, and so the Federal navy has made mockery of our brilliant defenses. That Grierson fellow … their cavalry cuts our telegraph wires and wrecks our railroads. The Confederacy has done a truly wonderful job of creating an army, so many good men, so much passion for our cause, and yet I have no idea what must be done to eliminate this plague of blue mercenaries, cursed West Pointers who are no better officers than I am, whose rank comes from politics and friendships with Abraham Lincoln or that vile Henry Halleck. Grant is no more than a puppet on a string, dancing to preserve his reputation. That is our difference, surely. I am fighting for something far stronger, far more important than rank or political favor. It is the honor of the Confederacy, of an entire way of life. It is a way that I respect and love, and General Scott be damned, I will not betray my precious Pattie.

  He wanted to stand, to pace the room, but the stiffness held him on the cushions, the headache beating him down. Right now, he thought, General Grant is adding to their mockery, mocking my own command. Perhaps he recalls me after all, perhaps he knows that in Mexico I was a staff officer, a messenger, while he was deploying artillery in the face of the enemy. Perhaps he suspects weakness, that I will not bring all I have to the fight. So I must find the means to change his mind. All those who doubt my loyalty, all those venomous snakes in the Richmond newspapers, they will understand my legacy when victory is achieved. Grant must be destroyed, and Vicksburg must remain a great citadel, unconquered, an impregnable dam across the Mississippi.

  He forced himself up, moved to a window, sunlight bathing him, uncomfortably warm. In the wide yard, his staff was in motion, wagons and horses, and beyond, more troops moving past on the road. He fought against the headache, thought, I am certain of what must be done, of the fight I must wage, of the task I must accomplish. But, by God, it would be terribly useful if someone, General Johnston perhaps, would do more than issue proclamations telling me what I already know. It would be terribly useful if someone would tell me how I am to do it.

  SOUTHWEST OF RAYMOND, MISSISSIPPI

  MAY 13, 1863

  Grant had ridden forward, confirming the reports that came from McPherson, the cavalry monitoring the retreat of the rebel forces back toward the Big Black River. Sherman had heard the sounds of the fight at Raymond, was never really concerned that McPherson might be in trouble. James McPherson had spent a great deal of time with Sherman the year before, was one of the few senior officers in the army whom Sherman truly respected. During the campaign that resulted in the horrifying fight at Shiloh, McPherson had been the primary engineer who had scouted the various approaches toward the rebel positions. Then, the engineer’s primary target had been the railroads, and the army had required an engineer’s sen
se of maneuver, how best to approach an enemy well entrenched, how to cross the morass of swamplands and river bottoms with enough force to inflict effective damage. McPherson was the best engineer Sherman had ever known, and even now, with McPherson’s promotion to corps commander, Sherman had every confidence McPherson could handle the job, would be a calming presence in places Sherman feared most. Early in the war, Sherman’s demons had festered, rising up at the worst possible times, jeopardizing his men and his own career. The fear was there still, those brief moments when darkness hid the land around him, when a stray blast from an artillery piece would jar the night. Since Shiloh, those demons had kept mostly silent, but he knew they were there, knew they would wait for that special time, when his men needed his authority, his calm presence. He had done nothing to betray his fears, not to his men, not to Grant. But Grant’s plan stirred the turmoil inside of him, one reason why he had argued against it, had hoped that somehow, the great citadel of Vicksburg would somehow just collapse, would fall into Union hands without the misery of another hard fight. By now the arguments were mostly gone, Sherman admitting to himself that Grant was doing the right thing. The invasion of Mississippi from across the river had seemed to catch the rebel troops and their generals mostly by surprise, as though the rebel command had been completely ignorant of Grant’s bulldog determination, or the authority Washington had given him to carry out his plan. They certainly knew nothing of what Grant had intended to do, or what he was intending right now.

  Sherman’s confidence in Grant continued to grow. There had always been affection, some of that coming from what could only be called shared persecution, both men with so many enemies in Washington, a hostility neither man really understood. There had been failings, of course, the kinds of stumbles beloved by newspapers. But there had also been victories, and no matter the lack of “perfection” in executing all those great plans sketched out on paper, thus far no Confederate commander west of the mountains had proven himself Grant’s superior. Sherman knew that nothing was certain, that a stray musket ball or an ill-timed artillery round could accomplish the same kind of disaster that had fallen upon the rebels at Shiloh. Then it had been Albert Sidney Johnston, a loss of such magnitude that the rebel forces there could not recover. It was one part of his own fear, that a single sharpshooter, one very lucky man, might offer up the musket ball that would strip this army of any one of its commanders. It was the recurring theme through so many sleepless hours: What would this army do without Grant? Would it fall upon Sherman? No, McClernand, most likely. And what of confidence then? He would obey, of course, but Sherman had learned from Grant’s humility that an outspoken commander whose own hubris came before good tactics could lead this army to disaster. This was, after all, the enemy’s ground, and the enemy could be everywhere, every hole and every patch of dark woods, waiting in ambush. Even Sherman’s staff seemed to understand his anguish at the slow pace of the march, allowing the enemy time to maneuver, to make a good plan of their own. Sherman fought furiously against the single bolt of fear, that if the ambush came, it might be the commander who would respond with his own worst instincts, who would rout his own men with a terrified gallop away from the guns.