A Chain of Thunder

by Jeff Shaara

  “I’ve seen bad weather before, Major. I prefer to think of it as God’s blessing on parched land. Or God’s punishment on those who would despoil it. Who exactly are you?”

  The man stepped back, another show of formality, and snapped a sharp salute.

  “Major Ailes, sir. Adjutant to General Gregg. The general offers you his most respectful welcome, and wishes me to inform you that he shall arrive here in a short time. He is seeing to the placement of his brigade.”

  “Then I’ll wait. Inside, if you don’t mind.”

  Johnston stifled a cough, felt sweat in his coat, a chill that rippled down his chest, bringing another shiver. They made way for him, salutes all around, his own aides already inside, and he caught the scent of tea. He saw a young lieutenant and asked, “Which way to my room? I require a moment.” The man knew his job, a short bow, pointed silently to a stairway, and Johnston ignored the salutes, moved quickly, climbed the stairs, felt betrayed by the weakness. He had no energy for show now, the last few steps a struggle, stopped at the landing, felt his breathing in hard gasps. Confounded afflictions, he thought. If not musket balls, then some infernal plague.

  From behind him, at the bottom of the stairs: “Sir, General Gregg has arrived.”

  Johnston sagged, did not turn around, nodded slowly, and said, “I told you … I require a moment. I assume there is a sitting room of some kind. Escort him there, and just … wait.”

  “Sir.”

  Johnston saw another aide in front of him, an open door, the smell of an oil lamp, yellow glow, warmth. He moved into the room, realized he was soaking the rug beneath his boots. The aide retreated, closed the door, and Johnston removed the hat, saw what was left of the grand plume, one more annoyance. He scanned the room, simple elegance, the bed, a pitcher of water at a basin, a hastily arranged spray of flowers on a mantel. He put a hand on his stomach, felt a rumble, but it was not hunger. The window rattled slightly from a gust of wind, the rain spraying on the panes, and he moved that way, stared out, saw muddy streets, wagons, horses in line along the front of the building, his own, Gregg’s. He glanced at his pocket watch, nearly five, one more day passing by for a commander whose enthusiasm for command was draining away. It will never be my command anyway, he thought. If I had the authority, there would be so many differences, so many good people … better people doing the job. His mind blanked, no names coming to him, just who those people might be. He put one hand on the bedpost, closed his eyes, felt unsteady. The chill came again, a harder rumble in his gut, and he turned, searched, and said aloud, “Now, where in the devil is that chamber pot?”

  John Gregg was much what Johnston had expected, a man in his thirties, hard face, sure of himself, the glint of steel in the eye that gives confidence to his men … and his superiors. He was no West Pointer, but then, Johnston knew that many of the younger commanders were not. Gregg was a Texan, had been among those so ingloriously surrendered to Grant’s forces at Fort Donelson the year before. He had returned to duty through exchange, had been promoted to command of a brigade, but Johnston had too much experience with men like Gregg, had the instinctive sense that before much longer, this man would command a division, or more.

  “We were made to retreat, sir. It was shameful, and I will make amends.”

  Johnston studied a map, his cold hand shaking, and he saw the glance from Gregg.

  “I have been ill of late, General. It is passing. This rain has not been helpful. If not for this absurd condition, I should have taken command in Mississippi, this entire operation. The Federals are trespassing dangerously … for them, and from what I have been told, they are not yet aware just how foolish their strategy. General Grant has taken an enormous risk, has extended his supply lines and strung out his forces across many miles. He must guard every bridge, every roadway, and he is certainly limited by how many troops he can sustain in the field.”

  “Yes, sir. We did manage to hold back what we discovered to be an entire division, sir. My men carry shame for their retreat, but we did give them our measure.”

  “Enough, General. I have been informed of your encounter at Raymond. There is no shame in accepting the inevitable. You were severely outnumbered, and yes, you did perform well. There will yet be opportunity to repay the enemy for his arrogance.”

  “Thank you, sir. It is my honor to be of service to your command.”

  Johnston had heard this before, but there was gravity to Gregg’s words, not the usual emptiness of those who sought favor.

  “I was told by your adjutant that you were engaged in placing your brigade. What is your situation?”

  Gregg leaned closer, and Johnston caught a thick odor of rain and horses. Gregg pointed at the map, a pair of roads leading west, out of the city.

  “Sir, Colonel Adams’s cavalry reports that General Sherman has marched northward and seems to be placing his troops in the direction of this road … here. Colonel Adams estimates his strength at four divisions. We are not completely certain of his intentions. This weather and General Sherman’s pickets have prevented us from determining his precise location, or direction of march. But his columns are no more than twelve miles from the city. We have also determined that General McPherson’s corps is on the march using the more southerly route, though we are not yet certain of their intentions. In the event the enemy does advance in this direction, sir, I have already begun the placement of those troops available to obstruct these two roads. But if they attempt to drive into the city, I fear we do not have the strength to prevent that. Unless you order otherwise, sir, I have instructed one brigade to position themselves astride each of the Federal routes of march. We shall give them our best efforts, sir.”

  “What is our combined strength in Jackson, General?”

  “I have six thousand effectives, sir. My brigade and the reinforcements that arrived here several days ago. It is rumored … forgive me, sir … but I was told by several officers just arrived, that the president is calling forth a considerable number of troops to be marched here from the east. I was informed as well by General Pemberton that you would personally bring significant reinforcements here, to protect the city.”

  Johnston leaned heavily on the table, stared at the map through watery eyes.

  “Yes, I know all about General Pemberton’s expectations. His … dreams. The general has beseeched me to bring the entire Confederacy to his aid. It is the case with every general in every theater of this war. No place is more important than their own command.” He paused, fought the weakness, did not need to tell Gregg anything about Pemberton. “I anticipate receiving those reinforcements within the next few days. No doubt this weather shall delay their arrival. But it will also delay any move the enemy is determined to make. You have done the right thing, General. It is likely that General Sherman has been ordered to cut our communication lines to Vicksburg. It is a wise tactic. But by putting his attentions to railroads and telegraph lines, it is possible that General Grant has given us an opportunity. Pemberton … General Pemberton has a considerable force at his disposal, a force that could inflict serious damage to the enemy from that quarter. Do we know General Pemberton’s precise location?”

  Gregg hesitated, and Johnston stood straight, looked at him, the man’s beard still flecked with wetness, tired determination in his eyes. Gregg moved his hand slowly across the map, and Johnston could feel the man’s uncertainty.

  “My last communication from the general came from Bovina, sir. The general has marched a considerable force to the Big Black River. If the enemy should move this way, General Pemberton will be in his rear.” Gregg seemed to animate, to understand what Johnston was already thinking.

  “Very well. I shall prepare an order to be sent by the most effective means we have … that General Pemberton shall move to force an engagement with Grant’s forces where he may find them. If he strikes the enemy with zeal, while we occupy them from this direction, we may accomplish what General Pemberton insists is our primary goal.”


  “Yes, sir. We may very well destroy the enemy.”

  Johnston looked at Gregg again.

  “I’m not sure General Pemberton knows how to accomplish that. His primary goal is only to hold fast to Vicksburg. In that, he is in complete agreement with the president. It is their obsession.” The words stopped, and he looked again at the map, had said more than Gregg needed to know. Yes, he thought, it is their obsession. It is not mine. Vicksburg is indefensible, no matter what “dreams” General Pemberton enjoys.

  JACKSON, MISSISSIPPI

  MAY 14, 1863

  The rains had continued through the night, the misery of the weather equal to the misery Johnston could not avoid through a sleepless night. With the dawn had come a steady flow of reports from the two roads that led west, the cavalry doing all it could to determine just what the enemy intended.

  He rose from the lush comfort of the bed, dressed quickly, made every effort to offer the usual display for his staff, for anyone who came to his headquarters, that this man was clearly in command. The shirt was clean and white, the uniform one of several from his trunk, the staff making every effort to prepare every piece of the display. Even the plume had been replaced, the hat once more set upon his head before the dressing mirror, Johnston eyeing the sash, adjusting, the last detail in its place before he would meet with anyone beyond his own aides.

  The breakfast was removed, the teacup drained, and Johnston moved out into the spray of mist that engulfed the veranda. The rains had grown harder, a dismal fog that seemed to crush the town, few citizens in the streets, the only movement coming from a team of artillery, splashing slowly toward the west. The defenses of Jackson were fair, but not strong, and Johnston considered that now, tried to think through the shivers that still plagued him. Gregg is a good man, he thought. If there is opportunity, he must act on it. The enemy cannot move quickly in these conditions, and if they move against us here, we will have the advantage of the defenses. It will allow us the time we require. And that might be the best gift of all.

  He saw horsemen now, a limp flag, a half-dozen men moving close, recognized Gregg. Johnston glanced toward the doorway, moved inside, drier, warmer, knew Gregg would not have come himself if it were not essential. Johnston moved into the small office, looked at the map, studied what he already knew, rehearsed in his mind what he had already decided to do. The boots thundered across the wooden porch, aides welcoming Gregg, who was there now, dripping streams of water.

  “Sir … my respects, sir.”

  “Tell me what is happening, General.”

  Gregg took a deep breath.

  “The enemy is advancing on both avenues. I have deployed the brigades as you approved, sir. With the rain, his progress will be slow. They will not give us a strong fight with wet powder. But I anticipate pulling back to the city’s defenses. It is our best opportunity to hold the enemy in place long enough for General Pemberton to strike him from behind.”

  Gregg was breathless, animated, and Johnston nodded, knew that Gregg actually believed what he was saying.

  “Do we know the whereabouts of Grant’s remaining corps, the troops under General McClernand?”

  Gregg’s movements suddenly stopped, the man pondering the question.

  “I am not certain of that, sir. The cavalry—”

  “Yes, the cavalry has not been able to find those people. Is it possible that General Grant has read the basic manual on military tactics, and placed General McClernand’s troops to the west, with the purpose of holding back any threat to the rear of Sherman and McPherson?”

  “Yes, sir, that is possible. But you did order General Pemberton to advance with all vigor.”

  Johnston said nothing, thought of Gregg’s words, wet powder. There will be no vigor on this day.

  “You will continue to do what you can to delay the enemy’s approach. That will allow us the time to move the stores, to pull as much as we can out of the city.”

  For a larger version of this map, click here.

  “Sir?”

  “You will delay the enemy as long as practicable, General. Is that not sufficiently clear?”

  Gregg seemed uncertain now, said, “Yes, sir. Most clear. But … remove the stores?”

  “That is not your concern. Go. Offer the enemy your ‘best measure.’ ”

  Gregg stiffened, saluted.

  “We shall do so, sir.”

  “Do not sacrifice your men needlessly, General. When you are pressed into the city’s last line, you will order a withdrawal, as you wisely did at Raymond. You will serve as a rear guard to cover the movement of the rest of those forces we have here.”

  “Withdrawal? Forgive me, sir. Withdraw … where?”

  “We shall make every effort to remove from the city anything of use to this army. That includes every capable man in this command.” He looked down at the map. “We will march north, using the railroad if possible, and the roadway toward Canton.”

  “Sir …”

  “You have your orders.”

  Gregg made a short bow, moved out of the room, more boots clattering across the wooden floor, shouts and orders taking Gregg and his staff outside. Johnston moved to a chair, sat slowly, ignored the map, the orders to Gregg drifting out of his mind. He stared toward the lone window, his mind filling with the hiss of driving rain. Time, he thought. He will give us time. It is, after all, the only plan.

  He wanted to stand, to return to his room, the rumble in his stomach relentless. But the soothing rain held him in the chair. He tried to see the state capitol, the hotel facing that way, but the foggy wetness on the windowpanes distorted his view. It is this way everywhere, both armies, he thought. There will be little movement, little activity today. He thought of Pemberton, tried to picture him in his mind, barely recalled what he looked like. You would have us waste everything we have … holding on to that town. That would so please the president, would do so much to give rise to grand headlines. It is foolishness. Vicksburg cannot be held. It would be far more useful to remove every piece of defensive strength and deploy it elsewhere, closer perhaps to Tennessee. But that would cause outrage in Richmond. And, by all means, we must not agitate the president.

  He struggled to stand, held himself up on the table, ignored the map still, saw his aides watching from outside, obedient, efficient, prepared for anything he would tell them to do. It is already done, he thought. We will withdraw as quickly as practicable, see to our own care. If the president wishes me to do more than that, he should come here himself, see what kind of foolishness he proposes, see the hopelessness of the task I have been assigned.

  He thought of the wire, the last thing he had done the night before, the last task before he sought the comfort of the white sheets. The wire had gone to Richmond, sent soon after three couriers had ridden off into the rainy night, each carrying a copy of the order to Pemberton to bring forward his army, to engage Grant’s army wherever he would be. But even then, he knew the order would serve no purpose, that Pemberton would obey only Jefferson Davis, both men holding tightly to the absurd fantasy of protecting Vicksburg. And so I will be ignored. There will be no attack, no crushing blow to Grant’s forces, no means to prevent the enemy from shoving through General Gregg’s defenses. And Vicksburg, he thought. It makes no difference how much value Pemberton or Davis or anyone else assigns to that place. There is no need for reinforcements and no need for a grand stand, no need to sacrifice this army. No matter those fantasies, I have given the president the most simple of truths.

  “I am too late.”

  JACKSON, MISSISSIPPI

  MAY 14, 1863

  The rains had finally halted near eleven in the morning, two full hours after the first wave of artillery fire had announced to all that Sherman’s men had struck the rebel defenses. He had wondered if there would be a confrontation at all, the weather so utterly miserable that no infantry could make use of their muskets. For a while it was exactly that, a sluggish and careful advance against rebel troops
who were hunkered down in well-designed earthworks, the only real fight coming from the trading of artillery shells. But with the rain blowing past, the infantry had gained momentum, musket fire adding to the power of the big guns. From the north, Sherman could hear more artillery, McPherson’s men. But Sherman stayed close to his own men, knew that McPherson would do what had to be done. Grant knew that as well, and so Grant had stayed close to Sherman.

  By early afternoon it was over, the rebels pulling away, a surprise. Sherman had anticipated something more, had ordered his lead division under James Tuttle to hold back if the forces they encountered were too strong, too well fortified. But Tuttle’s men had pushed onward with only a brief burst of resistance, a scattering of rebel sharpshooters doing just enough damage to slow Tuttle’s advance. Grant had been as surprised as his commanders, had fully expected the capital city to be stoutly defended, if for no other reason than pride. Though rebel artillery continued to thunder into Tuttle’s advance, those guns soon quieted, rebel artillerymen leaving only a few pieces behind to retard the last surge of Tuttle’s attack. Almost immediately, the reports came back to Sherman that the bridges were intact, and Sherman knew it was not some clumsy error by a rebel commander, but the rain. Wooden bridges could not be fired in such a downpour, and so Sherman’s men had simply marched over swollen creeks they might otherwise have had to ford.

  When the guns first engaged that morning, Sherman had sought a strategic advantage, had ordered one regiment to make a flanking maneuver to the right, to sweep in behind, probing for some opening that might open a way for more troops, an attempt to cut the enemy fortifications off from behind. Those men, the 95th Ohio, had felt their way cautiously, expecting at least a burst of fire from a waiting line of skirmishers. But there was no opposition at all, the rebel works they approached virtually empty. After capturing the few rebel troops and a handful of artillery pieces, the Ohioans called forward the rest of Tuttle’s division with cheers of relief, the raucous ovations for a surprisingly easy victory over an enemy who had most certainly chosen to withdraw rather than make a stand. By mid-afternoon, Tuttle’s men were parading unmolested into the heart of Jackson, Sherman and Grant close behind them.