A Chain of Thunder

by Jeff Shaara

  “I will arrange my men in the best position available. Sir.”

  Loring pulled the horse around, no salute, led his staff back into the smoke. Pemberton felt punched by the man’s clear lack of respect. What must I do, he thought. We must make decisions on what we know … and I trust him to know his men. But I am in command.…

  “Sir! A courier.”

  The man was escorted by one of Adams’s horsemen. He slid slowly off his horse and approached Pemberton with a casual stride. Pemberton didn’t know him, and the man seemed to search the others, appraising, then stepped closer to him, slapping dust from a filthy uniform. He offered a sloppy salute, betraying his obvious exhaustion.

  “General, Captain Herron. General Johnston offers his respects, and advises you that he has been compelled to abandon the city of Jackson. The general repeats his order for you to rendezvous with his forces at Clinton. I am to ask, sir, if you are in preparation for such a move?”

  Pemberton stared at the man, saw a slight stagger, the man too tired to hold his shoulders up. Pemberton had a sudden flash of doubt, that this man might not be from Johnston at all, a spy perhaps. He caught the smell of sulfur, the smoke from the growing battle rolling closer.

  “Captain … Herron? Are you certain of this order? We are to continue to Clinton in the face of … this?”

  “General Johnston was most insistent, sir. I have his order here. He is marching six thousand men to Clinton and anticipates your combined forces to be adequate to cause serious damage to the enemy.”

  The man produced a paper now, as though it had just occurred to him Pemberton should see the order in Johnston’s own handwriting. Pemberton reached down, took the folded paper, broke the seal, and read the same order the captain had related. He sagged in the saddle, looked again toward the rumbling artillery, where he could hear a peppering of musket fire.

  “Very well, Captain. You may wait with my staff and recover from your ride. They will provide you with breakfast, such as we have. I shall put my reply in writing, and when you are fit, you will return to General Johnston.” He paused. “I will inform the general of our route of march, and inform him that we are facing … some vigorous skirmishing. But we shall obey.”

  Memminger was on horseback now. He moved close and said, “Sir! A courier … from General Stevenson. That’s Lieutenant Gilroy.”

  Pemberton stared up that way, had heard no sounds of a fight from that direction. The lieutenant had ridden hard, reined up, frantic motion in his salute, a high-pitched chattering voice.

  “Sir! General Stevenson offers his respects and reports that there are enemy troops to the east of his position. He wishes you to know that cavalry scouts have reported that, from all indications, the enemy could be moving in the direction of Edward’s Station. The general wishes to know if he should move back up toward Edward’s.”

  Pemberton felt the decisions rolling through him, thought of Edward’s Station, a critical link on the rail line, the very place he had been strong just two days before. Yes, we should have kept behind the Big Black. We cannot stop them from cutting the railroad. Certainly they have done so now. We would be strong with that river to our front. But out here … He thought again of Loring. What will he do? Will he hold here? How strong is the enemy here? He stared up past the lieutenant for a long moment. The enemy is there as well? Then we are in some danger … all along our position. I suppose … we no longer have doubts where Grant has placed his army.

  The troops advancing into Loring’s position were the lead units of John McClernand’s corps, the men who had been lurking to Pemberton’s east all the while that Grant was occupying Jackson. Pemberton knew the maps well enough to understand that there were three primary roads that Grant could use, and from the reports of Stevenson’s man, the Federal advance was moving toward them on the two more southerly routes. There had been no word at all of Federal activity along the northerly road, the one that ran directly along the railroad. It was the one piece of optimism for Pemberton as he reread the order from Joe Johnston. Clinton could still be reached, by marching the army in column to the north, above the railroad, then curling back to the east. Whether the Federal forces already controlled that route or whether they occupied Clinton itself had not been addressed in Johnston’s order. Pemberton began to understand that his own subordinates had placed their faith not in him, but in a man who was miles away, this department’s highest authority. It was a safe decision for any officer. But the uncertainty remained, Pemberton feeling a boiling agony that his own generals might simply march off in any direction they chose, following what Johnston ordered them do, whether Pemberton agreed or not. Pemberton had already suffered through days of nervous agony, pondering the threats to his troops, the threats to Vicksburg, and now, the threats to his own authority. If Johnston insisted they march to Clinton, Pemberton had finally accepted that it was an order he could not ignore.

  With the enemy shoving close to Loring’s front, Loring would be slow to move, if he could pull away at all. Pemberton understood as well as Loring that disengaging from an enemy assault was risky at best. The first moves would come above Loring’s position, the divisions of Bowen and Stevenson. When they left Edward’s Station, Stevenson had been the rear of the march, but now the column would be reversed, the men moving back to the north, retracing some of their steps from the day before. The army sat now in a snaking single file, and on its northern tail were the nearly four hundred wagons of the supply train. Before Stevenson could go anywhere, the wagons had to be moved out of the way, making way for the foot soldiers. Then the wagon train would have to be sent along some parallel route farther west, a time-consuming effort at keeping the crucial supply train out of harm’s way.

  As the sun rose higher, Stevenson’s third brigade, under Stephen Dill Lee, anchored the army’s left flank at a crucial crossroads less than a half mile below the prominent landmark of Champion Hill. But Lee did not sit still. Scouting the hill itself, and the rail line above, Lee could clearly see another advancing column of blue marching close to the railroad. Grant had used not just two, but all three of the roads that would take his army toward Vicksburg. Whether or not Pemberton held tightly to his decision to rendezvous with Johnston, Lee had a far more urgent mission. The Federal troops advancing above his position belonged to both McPherson and McClernand, one part of the seven divisions that Grant was sending Pemberton’s way. Unless Lee reacted, and shifted his troops up onto Champion Hill, the Federals would march right past his flank, and could endanger the entire army. As they drew closer to Lee’s position, the Federal troops reacted as well. Not long after 10 A.M., the division under General Alvin Hovey spread into battle formation near the roadway and faced the rugged ground slicing along the base of the higher ground. But Hovey would not yet advance. Instead he sent out scouting patrols, cavalry, one brigade commander to slip up toward the high ground and determine just what he was facing. With that information, Hovey understood that he had placed himself squarely above the entire rebel position. All he required now from his corps commander was the order to attack.

  The courier had found Grant while he was still in Jackson. The man rode disguised as a local farmer, no sign of a uniform at all. It was a wise precaution as he passed through so much of the countryside, and the picket lines and guard posts of the Federal troops who had occupied the city. Though the guards he first met were skeptical, his story and the letter he carried were convincing, and so he was led to the most senior commander in the camps close by, James McPherson. The man’s appearance might have been a surprise to McPherson, but his identity was not, and quickly the courier was taken to General Grant. There was a single piece of paper, a handwritten order, which Grant did not keep. The courier, after all, still had a mission to perform, still had to keep up the appearances of a man riding hard to bring a written order from one Confederate general to the other. The handwriting belonged to Joe Johnston, the order sent to Pemberton that the Confederate forces were to rendezvous wit
h Johnston at the town of Clinton. Johnston had no doubt assumed the telegraph wires to be useless. And so, three couriers had been sent toward Pemberton, taking different routes, each dedicated to a fast and discreet ride, the expectation that at least one would make it through and complete his mission. The man who had stood before Grant had done exactly that. What Johnston did not know was that one of his trusted couriers was a Federal spy. And so, with the courier sent back out on his way, Grant knew exactly what Johnston and Pemberton were planning. Whether or not Pemberton could ever reach Clinton, whether or not there would be an actual rendezvous, didn’t matter. Grant knew now that Pemberton had been ordered to try.

  NEAR CLINTON, MISSISSIPPI

  MAY 16, 1863

  It was barely daylight when the train appeared. There had been the usual column of thick black smoke, and the deep grunting of the engine. The surprised troops who marched alongside the tracks had been ordered to halt, their officers scrambling to pass the word to their commanders just what was happening. Orders were issued, a single artillery piece rolled up, unlimbered beside the track, its crew waiting, preparing to load the piece should the train not respond to the threat of a hundred soldiers with muskets that would be aimed straight at the train’s engineer. As the train came closer, rounding a final bend, the stunned resignation on the face of the railroad men cleared away any anxiety the soldiers had about a violent confrontation. With the train slowing, the officers climbed up into the engine, their pistols pointed into the faces of the men, who quickly obeyed, bringing the train to a lurching stop in a shower of steam. Behind the engine were three passenger cars, and quickly troops scrambled aboard, terrifying the few passengers, who offered no resistance to the muskets and their sudden captivity at the hands of the men in blue.

  Grant had been close by, riding to catch up with McPherson, and he responded to news of the train with surprise of his own, baffled that any train would be using this line at all. He moved the horse up alongside the now-silent engine and waited as the train’s crew was escorted out of their perch, three men who faced their captors without defiance. Grant stared at them for a long moment, the guards poised with bayonets, an unnecessary display of force. One of the men was much older, a thin white beard, the blackened overalls of a railroad man, all three showing the dress of civilians. Grant aimed his question at the older man.

  “You have come from Vicksburg?”

  “Reckon so. I told them folks there was gonna be bluebellies out thisaway. Dang soldiers been stragglin’ into town for days now, all sorts of big talk about Yankees and whatnot. But the officer at the depot sent us on our way, said he had been given the go-ahead from General Pemberton hisself, that we could make our scheduled run. I just done what I was told. Damn fool. Me, that is, not the general. Well, maybe.”

  Another of the train’s crew spoke up, far more afraid.

  “What you aimin’ to do with us? We ain’t done nothin’. We got no muskets.”

  The older man seemed far more assured, no hint of panic.

  “We got a dozen passengers back there. Brave folk, for certain. Some said they had family in Jackson, had to go make sure they was unhurt, what with the bluebellies tearin’ things up. Can’t fault ’em for that.”

  Grant saw nervousness in the two younger men, eyes focusing on the bayonets, the weapons still pointed their way. Grant couldn’t help but like the old man, just one more civilian with a job to do, his life thoroughly scrambled by a war he probably cared nothing about. Grant held a cigar in his hand, pointed it back toward the three passenger cars, their occupants spilling out with some protest. He could see a pair of women among a throng of well-dressed men. The women wore fine colorful dresses, feathered hats, as though on some kind of formal outing. Of course, he thought. To anyone in Vicksburg, Jackson is the “big city,” and so one must dress accordingly. He smiled at that, shook his head, called out to the officer herding the passengers into some kind of formation beside the train.

  “Captain, no harm to these people.”

  “Certainly not, sir. What should I do with them?”

  Grant thought a moment, an idea turning over in his brain. He kept up in the saddle, a higher perch, the symbol that might add gravity to his authority.

  “Just keep them right there for now.” He looked down at the old man, said, “No harm will come to these people, if you answer a few questions. Truthfully, of course. You never know just how crafty one of us blue-bellies can be. Hate to resort to torture, that sort of thing.”

  The older man nodded slowly, no show of fear. He knows better, Grant thought. But he knows the position he’s in, and what he’s got to do.

  “You’ll be wantin’ to know what we seen coming out thisaway. All like that.”

  “That’s the first question.”

  “Well now, since you boys are a-headin’ that way anyhow, don’t see what harm it’ll do to tell you what’s out thataways. I seen some of your cavalry along the way, so I expect you done figured out what’s happening.”

  “Perhaps.”

  The man scratched at his beard, and Grant saw the other two looking down, saw a hint of anger on one of the men. Grant said to the nearest sergeant, “Why don’t you take these other two back to the passengers. The old gent and I need to have a private conversation.”

  The sergeant understood, the other two crewmen escorted away, one man shouting back over his shoulder, “You ought not tell them nothin’, Zeke! They’s gonna shoot us anyhow!”

  The old man looked up at Grant.

  “You ain’t a-gonna do that, are you now?”

  Grant pulled at the cigar, a show of thoughtfulness, as though he might actually be considering just that. But the old man didn’t bite, still no fear. Grant shook his head.

  “Truth. All I’m after. Of course, you can’t have your train back. Not a good idea to let you roll on to Jackson. You wouldn’t like what you found there anyway. Nope, you’ll be walking along with us for a spell. We’ll find an ambulance wagon for the ladies.”

  The man nodded. “Sounds fair. We done seen too much of you bluebellies out here. Might have to tell somebody about that. Not smart for you to allow that. Sounds like we’s got us a bargain. I tell you what I seen already this morning, and you’ll be nice to us, right?” He didn’t wait for Grant to answer. “It weren’t even daylight when we passed right by a whole passel of General Pemberton’s men. Rough-looking bunch. Not all spiffed up like you folks. Don’t much matter about that, I suppose. Man’s gotta fight with his heart, not his trousers.”

  “How many of those men?”

  The man looked down, then smiled.

  “Yep. I’m gettin’ to that. Didn’t count ’em myself, you understand. Didn’t have to. Back in Vicksburg, the word was passed around pretty open and all. Eighty regiments done moved out here, near twenty-five thousand muskets. Could be more, could be less. They left maybe twenty regiments in the town, dug in to all them earthworks and such. They’s still diggin’, too. They know you’re comin’. So I can’t rightly figure why they let this train make this run. Generals are supposed to be smarter than that.”

  “Supposed to be.”

  Grant was absorbing what the man had said, had already suspected that his estimate of Pemberton’s available force was too low. That had come from the spy, the order Grant had intercepted. The old man was likely exaggerating about the numbers. Most civilians did. But the regiment count could be accurate. Flags were easier to count than men. The question rose up inside Grant now. Why in blazes would Johnston order Pemberton to march out here in the wide open, away from the protection of the Big Black? Even if they had joined up in Clinton, Johnston didn’t have near the strength to add much to a fight, not from what we saw in Jackson. They have to know we’re going to hit Vicksburg, and that’s where they ought to be sitting, digging in. Unless Johnston’s got more of an army out here that we don’t know about. Better send the cavalry out north and east of Jackson, or make sure Sherman does that before he moves this way. Bu
t this old buzzard’s probably right. Pemberton is following orders, pushing out this way … for what? Does Johnston think they can hit us hard while we’re unprepared? Sorry old fellow, but I’m as prepared as I need to be.

  “So, that what you wanted? I need to ease off into the brush, if’n you know what I mean. Comes with bein’ old.”

  “In a moment. Anything else you can tell me? Any details.”

  “Nope. Don’t really pay much attention to soldierin’, all that business about who’s doin’ what. Just told you what I heard. And saw.”

  Grant was beginning to like this old man even more, wondered what other stories he could tell. But the army was up and ready, the columns in formation, and with a clear blue sky opening up above him, Grant knew they would move quickly.

  “All right then. The guard will lead you to those bushes over that way. Thank you … Zeke?”

  “Ezekiel Horne. Since you’re a Yankee and all, seems fittin’ we keep it more proper.”

  “Very well, Mr. Horne. You go do your business, then join the others. Nobody needs to go running off anywhere. You understand that?”

  “We’ll mind. My two boys there are a might jumpy, but I’ll hang a leash on ’em. You just go on about your own business. But … if you can see your way clear … try not to hurt too many of our boys. Most of those soldiers out there ain’t soldiers at all. Just local fellows, trying to guard what’s theirs.”

  “They don’t shoot at me, I won’t shoot at them.”

  The old man rubbed his chin, nodded.

  “I reckon that ain’t gonna happen. What with Old Stonewall in the ground and all, things is only gettin’ worse.”

  “Stonewall? Jackson?”

  Grant stopped himself, didn’t need to reveal any ignorance. The old man looked up at him with a squint in his eye.

  “You didn’t know about that. Yep. Word came to Vicksburg few days ago. They killed him somewheres in Virginia. The whole place is mournin’. You’d a thought every household in Vicksburg lost a brother. I imagine it’s a good bit worse back east. Didn’t know the fella myself, but heard plenty. He was takin’ it to you bluebellies pretty hard, if you can believe what the newspaper said. Guess it had to end up like that. Ain’t been a soldier myself, but knowed plenty of ’em, and some of ’em didn’t come home. That Stonewall fella … probably had a wife and young’uns. Feel worse for them than anybody else.” He paused, shook his head, then looked again at Grant. “Mighty fine-smellin’ cigar you got there.”