A Chain of Thunder

by Jeff Shaara

  Sherman pointed, but Grant had already seen the two horsemen riding toward them, one, the boy, holding clumsily to the reins, struggling to keep upright in the saddle. Sherman didn’t smile, was not at all comfortable with Fred Grant’s presence, a needless danger. But Grant seemed oblivious to that, still welcomed the boy’s presence, that peculiar rite of passage from a father eager to see something of a man in his oldest son. With Fred was Cadwallader, the reporter, who held back on the reins, allowed the boy to move closer, to be the first to make his report. The words came in a flood of panting, nonsensical at first, and even Sherman couldn’t help a smile.

  “Father! We almost made it! We were so close! It was ours for the taking! A supreme trophy, something to bring home. Mother would be so proud. She’d have to be. We had it … so close!”

  Grant held up a hand.

  “Slow down, boy.” He glanced at Cadwallader, Sherman watching the reporter as well, still not trusting him. Fred pointed back, and Sherman looked that way, saw the Stars and Stripes rising up the tallest flagpole in the city, high over the capitol building, heard cheers from gathering troops. Cadwallader kept silent, would allow the boy the adventure of telling the tale.

  “Father, Mr. Cadwallader and I made haste to reach the rebel flag, flying right up there, right on the capitol! But when we entered the building, a soldier met us on the stairs. He had beaten us to it! It was the worst luck, Father. Only a minute sooner and it would have been ours!”

  Grant stared at the flag now flying above the dome and said, “Whose flag is that? What regiment?”

  Fred didn’t respond, obviously uncertain, and Cadwallader said, “Fifty-ninth Indiana, sir. Fellows had a bit more hop in their steps than us poor civilians.”

  Sherman felt a sudden burn.

  “That’s Crockett’s division. You’re telling me that McPherson’s boys beat my boys into the city?”

  Cadwallader seemed to make note of Sherman’s outburst, and immediately Sherman held back, cursed himself for revealing anything to a reporter.

  Cadwallader nodded slowly. “Yes, General. It seems this particular race was won by the Seventeenth Corps.”

  Grant said, “Makes no difference. We’re in the city. From all I can observe, we own the place. Didn’t expect that. What in blazes happened to Joe Johnston?”

  A pair of couriers was moving toward them now, easing through soldiers marching past, a column of Sherman’s men adding to the forces already in the city. Sherman saw another horseman, a staff officer emerging from the main avenue that led to the capitol.

  Sherman said, “Perhaps we’re about to find out. That’s Major Burgess, Buckland’s man.”

  The couriers held back, recognized they were outranked by the third man, and Burgess rode up close to Grant, his eyes on Sherman.

  “Sirs! Forgive my intrusion. General Buckland offers his compliments, and reports that, by all indications, the rebels have fled the city. There is a rear guard withdrawing to the north.”

  Grant motioned to the pair of couriers, permission to approach. Sherman saw the eagerness in their faces, men who carried “good news.”

  Grant said, “Report, gentlemen.”

  The senior man spoke up, older, a sergeant.

  “Sir, General McPherson offers his respects and reports the same, sir. A sizable column of rebels is moving northward. The general inquires if you wish him to pursue their retreat.”

  Grant pondered the question, looked at Sherman, shook his head.

  “No. General Johnston has no wish to engage us this day, for reasons I do not quite understand. He has something of a head start, and any pursuit could risk ambush. But clearly, the enemy did not believe his forces adequate to the task of holding us away from this city. We will accept the gift he has provided. There is clearly some tactical brilliance at work here that I do not comprehend.”

  Sherman looked at Grant, a low chuckle at Grant’s rare show of sarcasm. “Perhaps it is as simple as that,” he said. “The enemy didn’t have the strength to defend the place. No need to fight if you know you can’t win. I would imagine there are some unhappy civilians about. We should be watchful of that. One musket fired from a rooftop … could cause us a problem.”

  Grant turned to one of the couriers.

  “Sergeant, return to General McPherson. Offer him my congratulations on a fine effort this morning.…” He glanced at Sherman. “And, for besting his competition in securing the enemy’s flag. Be sure the general knows to guard that flag with some care. It could be … useful at some point.”

  The men saluted, turned, rode away quickly. It did not escape Sherman that McPherson had sent two couriers, an engineer’s calculations, two men with twice the chance of surviving, should the rebels still pose a threat. Grant looked toward Sherman, silent permission, and Sherman understood the courtesy. Grant would not issue an order to Sherman’s own man.

  Sherman said to the officer, “Major, return to General Buckland. I assume General Tuttle is in his presence. Offer my congratulations … and those of General Grant. Instruct General Tuttle to position his division with an eye toward encampment. But patrols should be deployed, houses and businesses searched. We shall have no surprises.”

  “Certainly, sir.” The major hesitated, and Sherman could see there was more. “Sir … begging your pardon, but there is some commotion among the men, some protest, that we do more than … occupy this place. It is after all a prominent city to the rebel cause.”

  Sherman looked at Grant, who pulled out a cigar, rolling it in his fingers.

  “My instructions from the War Department were explicit on this point,” Grant said.

  Sherman felt a letdown, knew his men would have their fire up, that trying to keep them in check would be nearly impossible. Sherman lowered his voice, a useless effort to keep his words between the two of them.

  “It will be hard to hold these men back, Grant. Look where we are, for God’s sake.”

  “I said nothing about holding them back. I believe the exact instructions I received from General Halleck were to ‘handle the rebels without gloves.’ Need I be more clear?”

  Sherman pulled out his own cigar, the letdown replaced by a jolt of enthusiasm. The War Department, he thought. Someone there might actually understand what we’re doing out here.

  He saw a wide-eyed stare from McPherson’s staff officer.

  “You heard him, Major Burgess. I wish this town secured from any rebel miscreants, and we must see to it that nothing of military value remains.”

  Grant lit the cigar, said quietly, “Keep an eye on them, Sherman. Make good use of the provosts. Be sure the junior officers maintain control over their men. Nothing shall be done to harm civilians, is that understood?”

  “Then perhaps it would be helpful if you remained with this command a while longer. We should make our presence known, you and me, be visible to the men, accompany some of the patrols. If there is to be discipline, we must be seen.” He realized Cadwallader had moved up behind them, was most certainly hearing every word. Sherman hated the man for being there at all, knew that whatever he said to Grant would be etched hard in the reporter’s brain. He aimed his words at Cadwallader now. “The instructions from Washington seem clear enough. Certainly, we must obey General Halleck.”

  Grant nodded silently, ignored Cadwallader, smoke from the cigar drifting away. He turned now, called out to the staffs trailing behind.

  “We shall move through the city, ensure that the regimental commanders place their encampments with an eye toward defense, should the enemy return. We shall instruct them on the deployment of patrols, to check every home, every merchant for rebel stragglers. No quarter shall be given to anyone who attempts an assault on our troops.” Grant seemed to notice Cadwallader now. “Perhaps you should escort Fred back to a place of safety. There could still be sharpshooters about, and Julia would never forgive me.”

  Cadwallader understood exactly what Grant was saying, the request not a request at all. The m
an made a short bow from his perch on the horse, nothing pleasant in his response.

  “As you wish, sir.”

  They had gone with the troops through several businesses, some abandoned completely, some occupied by angry, defiant men. But so far there had been nothing dangerous, no potshots from poorly aimed flintlocks. The only threats were verbal, cursing citizens, who spewed out their anger and then wisely withdrew. What Sherman saw from most of the citizens was resignation, a matter-of-factness to the Federal capture of the city, many of the people already adjusting to what they must have believed would be a permanent occupation. Sherman knew better. Johnston had abandoned the city because he could not defend it, and if that decision had come only because the rebels were seriously outnumbered, Sherman knew that Johnston had the authority to call upon reinforcements and possibly turn the tables. A fight over a city this size would be destructive in the extreme, and with so many places for sharpshooters to hide, this kind of fight would be costly to both sides. If the Federals prevailed, and swept Johnston away, holding the city was still a useless option. The city was, after all, just a city. That it was Mississippi’s capital gave it symbolic value. But Jackson had no more strategic value to Grant’s army than did Nashville or Baton Rouge. To suffer casualties for a symbol might have appealed to those commanders who still believed in the chivalry of war, that any capitol building was as valuable as the men who defended it. Sherman and Grant had long ago escaped that. Once Grant had appraised the positioning of the two corps, McPherson had been ordered to prepare the next morning to retrace his steps westward. Sherman’s men would remain in the city for a short time, with one very specific assignment.

  Sherman understood that any foray through a rebel capital was a tricky affair, and not just from straggling snipers. He knew that everything they did within the city would be examined, criticized, praised, or condemned. He also knew that any condemnation would be aimed squarely at Grant. Though some of the troops would strike out with predictable violence, Sherman had to maintain some kind of control. Any suggestion that any massacre of civilians had taken place, whether justified or not, could cost both of them their commands.

  Grant rode beside him, the streets glowing from fires that dotted each block. The orders had been explicit, that any kind of machine shop or factory be put to the torch, and for a while, those orders had been obeyed. But in any city with so many buildings of wood, fires spread, and already it was obvious that entire city blocks were going up in flames. Sherman had given orders to his regimental commanders to avoid mass destruction, orders that even the best-intentioned men would have difficulty obeying.

  Daylight was fading rapidly, the glow of the fires brighter now, reflections on every window. They rode down a narrow street lined with small shops, many with second-story residences, curtained windows, a few half-hidden faces watching them pass. Sherman could not help the anxiety that Grant had no business wandering through this place. With the darkness, the streets had become ghostly, the flickering firelight dancing on every wall, the sky around them glowing orange. Out beyond the city, the roads to the south and east were busy with a one-way flow of traffic, refugees who chose flight, their wagons piled high, tugged along by horses too unfit for use by the rebel army. Of those who remained, many were soldiers, rebel wounded, cared for now by Sherman’s medical people, alongside the occasional civilian doctor. They moved past an alleyway, and Sherman’s head jerked that way, studying, seeking some threat in the fading light. The troops who moved with them had already searched the space, and he heard voices now, one man emerging, reporting something to a waiting lieutenant, the officer then jogging over to the parade of horsemen.

  “Sirs, there are wounded men back there, the alleyway, a dozen or so. One rebel doctor, and we have him under guard. Do you wish me to arrest him?”

  Grant deferred to Sherman, had done so all afternoon. These were, after all, Sherman’s men.

  “No. Use your brain, Lieutenant. If those were our boys, would you expect the enemy to haul away our doctors? Bring up our own medical people, make sure any wounded we find are cared for.”

  The man saluted and ran back toward the alley, giving the commands.

  Sherman looked at Grant, who stared ahead, as though not paying attention to anything Sherman did. Sherman knew better.

  “Sometimes I wonder who trains these damned officers.”

  Grant smoked a cigar, nodded lazily.

  “Let it go. You took care of it. They’re learning. We get better at this every day. All of us.”

  The street widened, a small square, and Sherman saw a cluster of rebel prisoners, sitting in a tight mass, a half-dozen guards standing with fixed bayonets. Some of the rebels carried wounds, bandaged arms, a bloody rag on one scalp. The officer in charge of the guard snapped upright, acknowledging the two generals, and said, “General Sherman! General Grant! It is my honor to present these prisoners, sirs! We caught these devils trying to slip out of this building. They had given up the fight, no doubt about that. No muskets at all. Cowards dropped them somewhere. I guess they’re not as almighty as they believe, right, sirs?”

  Sherman had no energy for this kind of boasting, knew Grant despised it. Grant said nothing, didn’t look at the man at all, focused instead on his cigar. Sherman spurred the horse toward the officer, leaned over slightly, closer to the man’s face. It was another lieutenant, the man’s eyes wide, staring up into Sherman’s anger.

  “Get these men out on the road west. You plan on sitting with them all night? You seen the fires, Lieutenant? You thinking maybe you’ll just camp right here and hope these damn buildings around you don’t burn to the ground? Move out, or find a provost to take them. Now!”

  The lieutenant’s pride was washed away by the unexpected response, and he backed up a step, tossed up a salute.

  “Yes, sir! We’ll march these men right now! I had thought we should do just that, sir!”

  Sherman’s voice rose, a sudden flood of anger.

  “You thought? This is a war, Lieutenant. You need to think about what we’re doing here?”

  “No, sir!”

  The man turned, the guards hearing every word, the prisoners rising, and whether or not they knew who Sherman was, some of them responded by coming to attention. Sherman was surprised by that, had seen too much sullenness from rebel prisoners, a defiance that showed more hate than respect. But the lieutenant was right, these men seemingly happy to be prisoners. Sherman said nothing, eased the horse back beside Grant, who still worked the cigar. Sherman glanced toward Grant self-consciously, couldn’t help wondering if Grant was measuring every move Sherman made, every order he gave.

  Sherman pulled out his own cigar, lit it, said quietly, “Probably shouldn’t have sliced that boy up in front of his men. But by damned, Grant, every time I see enemy prisoners … it just punches me. I can’t look at any of ’em for very damned long without wondering what kind of stupidity is bred into these people.”

  Grant said nothing, and Sherman couldn’t help feeling angry, his memories of Louisiana once so pleasant, now swept away by a war fought by some of the men he had considered friends. He pulled furiously at the cigar, a fog of smoke around him, and after a moment, Grant said, “Most of them are already marching west. Couple hundred at least. McPherson’s got a good many. A pile of artillery, too. Dozen pieces, maybe more. Johnston just left it behind. Wish I knew what he has on his mind. Could be a whole damn rebel army gathering up north of here, waiting to put an end to this little foray of ours. We need to get moving to Vicksburg. I don’t want your men cut off, so do your business here and move out west quick as you can. McClernand’s probably dancing around like an angry squirrel out there, wondering how many rebel soldiers are set to bushwhack him. McPherson will get his people out that way pretty quick. I want no surprises, Sherman. We’ve got a job to do. You and everybody else in this command.”

  It was a scolding Sherman didn’t need, and he realized now that Grant was already far ahead of what ha
d happened today, that capturing Jackson had been a success that had nothing to do with the city at all. Just why Johnston had withdrawn rather than fight wasn’t as important as the fact that he was gone. Sherman wanted to say that to Grant, the old lesson about Napoleon, hitting a divided enemy one piece at a time. But Grant was off in some other place, pondering some other mission, what might happen tomorrow, or the day after that. It was one reason Sherman had grown to love this man, even though Grant was so very different from him. Grant was in control of himself, kept any tirades or outbursts hidden away. That’s why he’s in command, he thought. Doesn’t go blasting through his officers like a keg of lit gunpowder. Sherman thought of McPherson, suddenly realized that the engineer had done the greatest portion of the fighting in the last few days, and, whether Sherman appreciated it or not, McPherson had driven his men into Jackson first. Well, good for him. He’s learning, too. Needs some success, gives him confidence that he’s up to the job. Sherman pulled out another cigar and sniffed it slowly. Worry about yourself, dammit. McPherson isn’t some greenhorn fresh from West Point. He’s got confidence to spare. He glanced at Grant, the smaller man’s hat pulled low, his half-hidden face silhouetted by the glow from the fires. That’s why he’s here. If McPherson needed a foot up his backside, Grant would be there. Hell, I thought he was here because he liked me.

  “Sirs! Up here!”

  A horseman was waving at them, behind him, a handful of foot soldiers standing guard at a larger building. Rawlins was there now, moving out front, as though expecting some kind of crisis. Grant said nothing, moved the horse that way, and Sherman felt a tug in his gut, something about the soldier’s urgency. He moved out closer to Rawlins, who ignored him, and Sherman returned the favor, saw one of the men holding a musket against his shoulder, aiming into the entrance of the building. Sherman touched the pistol at his belt, old instinct, and the officer said to Rawlins, “You gotta see this, sir! They’re … it’s like they’re in another world. Couldn’t care less about us.”