A Chain of Thunder

by Jeff Shaara

  Grant didn’t hesitate, just reached into his pocket, retrieved a fresh cigar, and handed it to the man, who sniffed it with closed eyes. He lowered his voice.

  “I’ll save this for later. Don’t need jealous eyes stabbin’ a hole in me.” The man slipped the cigar into some hidden place, put his hands on his hips, looked again at Grant. “You seem like a decent sort, for a bluebelly. Hope you make it through this. Hope all of us do. God willin’.”

  Grant watched the man turn away, heading toward a discreet place in the nearby brush. The guard followed, keeping a respectful distance. Grant watched the old man still, saw stiff knees and a bent back. Sorry, you old coot, but there will be plenty of shooting before this is done. You’ll survive, I hope. Me too, maybe. God willing.

  NEAR THE CHAMPION HOUSE

  MAY 16, 1863

  He had stayed close to McPherson, knew that to the south, on the next good road that led to Edward’s Station, McClernand’s troops were positioned well, a stout blue line that would check any possible advance the rebels might be attempting, any possibility of a flanking move, or some kind of surprise assault that John Pemberton might dream up. Grant had very little fear of anything Pemberton might try, knew too much of the man to respect his ability in the field. But there were good generals under him, and Grant had already experienced the tenacity of John Bowen from the first days since crossing the river. Bowen was close, surely, and if Grant wasn’t altogether certain of the skills of the other commanders Pemberton had brought out east, to ignore caution could be dangerous.

  For a larger version of this map, click here.

  All along the way, he had watched McPherson, appraising, knew McPherson would be aware of that. But the engineer had accomplished something Grant greatly appreciated. In an army where promotion came often by friendships and political clout, McPherson had made himself genuinely valuable. For more than a year, the man Henry Halleck considered the Federal army’s finest engineer had found a way to escape the staleness of Halleck’s headquarters and put himself out into the field, whether leading a reconnaissance patrol or supervising the construction of a bridge, and finally secured the command of the army’s entire engineering brigade. Since Fort Donelson and Shiloh, Grant had sifted through the competency of the division commanders who answered to him, some of those no longer with the army, some, like Sherman, elevated even higher up the chain of command. Throughout 1862, through the campaigns in Tennessee and northern Mississippi, Grant had seen something in McPherson that went far beyond numbers and charts or skills at geometry. It was the same kind of trait he sought out in every man chosen to lead, that certain intangible glint in the eye, steel in the spine, and even better, the ability to pass that on to the men in their own commands. With Halleck off to his new post in Washington, Grant had been greatly relieved that McPherson had remained. With Halleck’s support, McPherson continued his rise through the ranks, and in October the autumn before, McPherson’s climb up the chain had become official. Washington had elevated him away from the engineering brigade, to command of a full combat division. Since then, with Grant given far more discretion in reorganizing his army, he had implemented the corps system, what he believed to be a far more effective way of organizing a large-scale overland campaign. In each of his three corps, three or four division commanders were now subordinate to a single corps commander, who in turn was subordinate to Grant. While McClernand had not been Grant’s choice at all, the other two, Sherman and McPherson, were the best he could have hoped for. Sherman’s deep connection to Grant had extended back more than a year, and Grant had not wavered in his belief that despite Sherman’s various failings, he was likely the best fighter Grant had. McPherson might be more of a thinker, but so far, in various engagements over the past few months, he had only gotten better at his job, and he was now in control of a third of Grant’s army. As they finally shifted the army’s attention toward Vicksburg itself, Grant had chosen to make the advance by riding closer to McPherson, as he had done with Sherman since the crossing of the river. Sherman had become a friend, McPherson not yet in that place. But with Sherman busy back at Jackson, Grant had decided he wanted to watch McPherson work. If McPherson was nervous about that, more the better. Grant just wanted to be sure there were no significant mistakes. And riding with McPherson would be far more pleasant than moving out alongside McClernand. Grant was under no illusions that John McClernand would ever be his friend.

  They had begun the day by riding west out of Clinton, the rail tracks there completely destroyed, the same kind of work Sherman was completing in the capital city. Edward’s Station was the next goal, and from the reports of the cavalry, there was very little rebel presence along the railroad, no significant attempt by Pemberton to block his way. That had been something of a surprise to Grant, that Pemberton did not make every effort to defend the most logical route, and the straightest line to Vicksburg. Instead the Federal cavalry had reported that the mass of rebels the railroad man had seen were marching away from Edward’s more to the south. Grant’s first intuition was that Pemberton was trying to flank him, but Grant knew he had the numbers, and the position. If Pemberton drove down to try to sweep around McClernand’s left, to possibly turn the army from below, it would not be difficult to shift McPherson around that way as a counter. With Sherman’s work in Jackson nearly complete, Sherman had already been ordered to march westward with all speed. If the rebels drove up from the south against McClernand, Sherman could alter his line of march and possibly crush straight into the rebel flank. Though Grant didn’t especially fear Pemberton as an opponent, it seemed as though the rebels were engaging in an odd game of chess, maneuvering to try to gain some kind of tactical advantage Grant didn’t really understand. As long as his flanks were secure, Grant didn’t really care. His goal was Vicksburg, and if Pemberton had several divisions out here east of the Big Black River, it only meant there were fewer defenders in the town.

  With the artillery fire erupting south of Champion Hill, Grant had ridden ahead, leaving McPherson to oversee the rapid advance of his Seventeenth Corps. Grant reached the Champion house near ten in the morning, and his staff had secured the farmhouse as their headquarters. The house was by now unoccupied, word coming from amused aides that the lady of the house, Matilda Champion, had filled a wagon with her four children and a mountain of possessions and had scrambled away toward the west. Grant was relieved by her escape. It meant one less rebel to worry about.

  He stayed up on the horse, focused on the broad hill, less than a half mile south of the house. For some time now he had heard the artillery fire down toward McClernand’s position, heard it now, steady thunder beyond the hill itself. But the hill was not empty, and he saw the rebels in a solid line, mostly along the crest of the hill and the ridges that spread away. And now, more artillery, close to his front, the first streaks of fire, thumps and blasts coming toward him from high along the ridges. The staff had emerged from the house, even Rawlins curious to watch the spectacle, the shelling more of a nuisance from this range than a real danger.

  From the right of the hill, Grant saw officers riding up at a fast gallop, a small staff behind, the color bearer bringing up the rear. Grant motioned to Rawlins and said, “Bring them inside. Those boys have something on their minds, and there’s no need to have a conversation out in front of every pair of ears.”

  Grant watched the men dismount, saw the calm intensity of veteran commanders. Grant knew them, moved on ahead into the new headquarters, ignored the smell of lavender, family, cooking, interrupted now by the business of his army. In a few seconds, Rawlins escorted the two men inside, and Grant remained standing, extending a hand to the senior officer.

  “General Hovey. Fine morning. Who might those people be up on that hill?”

  Alvin Hovey commanded one of McClernand’s divisions, was another of the Mexican War veterans, had served as a justice of the Indiana Supreme Court, and was now considered one of the rising stars in McClernand’s corps. He had been d
etached from McClernand’s front to pursue a separate route that eventually merged at Edward’s Station. Now he was separated from McClernand not only by Champion Hill, but by what seemed to be a serious amount of fighting south of the hill. The second man was George McGinnis, one of Hovey’s two brigade commanders, and another man with long experience in command.

  Behind Grant, aides scrambled to clear a space in a sitting room, chairs pulled back. Rawlins rushed them out of the way, and Grant moved in, sat, then motioned to the others. Hovey sat as well, would be the first to speak.

  “Sir, we were advised by General McClernand that you were en route this way. It is a relief to find you, sir.”

  “Easy, General. I’m here. I’m sure that General McClernand keeps a close eye on my whereabouts.” He paused, had no need to reveal anything about that to one of McClernand’s own commanders. “Have you been in communication with General McClernand? Do we know just what he is facing down there?”

  “Not directly, sir. As you suggested, sir, I have been more concerned with what we are facing right here. General McGinnis, please report.”

  McGinnis took the cue, spoke in a slow measured voice.

  “General Grant, I have personally observed a battery of enemy artillery, a squadron of cavalry, and a line of infantry filing up into a position of readiness on that high ground. This primary road makes a bend away from the railroad and traverses the large hill. Clearly the enemy expects us to continue on that route, and they are using that vantage point to observe our approach. He is in battle formation, expecting to receive us. My cavalry reports that west of the road, the ground is open, less difficult than the high ground to our front. But, with your permission, sir, I do not feel comfortable moving out to the right without protection for my left flank. Colonel Slack’s brigade is there now, but he would have to shift westward as well, as his flank would then be exposed. One division might not be enough strength.”

  Hovey interrupted, more nervousness in his voice, the excitement building now in both men.

  “Sir, I have complete confidence in my brigade commanders, but I agree that my single division could be vulnerable on either flank. If we are to take the offensive, we should move right. The enemy does not appear to be in strength anywhere west of the road, and so this high ground is his flank. If we can drive the enemy back off the heights, we can open the main road for a rapid advance.”

  “How much enemy?”

  Hovey glanced at McGinnis, who said, “Not entirely sure, sir. They do hold the prominent vantage point. Alabamans, for sure. A brigade, perhaps more. My concern, sir, is that we do not yet know if he has a much larger force coming up in support. I did not feel it advisable that I remain in proximity to their deployment.”

  “That is understandable, General. No, we must make that vantage point our own.”

  Grant motioned to an aide and said, “Go now, back down the road to the east. General McPherson is advancing in this direction. Find him, and urge him to advance with all dispatch. I do not wish General Hovey’s division to bear this burden alone.”

  The man saluted and was quickly gone, the energy Grant appreciated. Rawlins was there now, his usual place, waiting for Grant to put the rest of the staff into motion. Grant sat back, retrieved a cigar, said simply, “Map.”

  Rawlins seemed to anticipate that, an aide stepping forward immediately, a map produced, unrolled on a small table. Grant hid a smile. He had wondered if Rawlins could actually read his thoughts. He studied the map, then said, “On the north side of the high ground … there are just your two brigades?”

  “Yes, sir. We are fit for battle, sir, I assure you.”

  “I am not doubting you, General. You have done exactly as you should. There is a time for audacity and a time for caution. Thus far in this campaign, every advantage has been ours, and I intend to keep it that way. By following protocol, you will no doubt draw praise from General McClernand. And right now, I prefer that you hold off any aggressive move until General McPherson arrives. His people are moving this way and are not far. I would rather go into this fight with two fists instead of one.”

  “By all means, sir.”

  Hovey seemed relieved, McGinnis tapping him on the leg, a sign of approval. Yes, Grant thought, we shall go by the book whenever possible. McClernand would have it no other way.

  “Do you know what General McClernand is doing to the south? I have not received any word from him. I issued him orders that he move on Edward’s Station first thing this morning. I have to assume that the enemy is attempting to prevent that.”

  Hovey nodded.

  “I have reported to him by courier my situation here, but I have not yet received a response. The ground, I would imagine, is somewhat … difficult. We have heard the artillery down that way for two hours or more. From the sounds, it would seem a substantial body of the enemy is extended to the south, likely facing east. Which means … facing General McClernand.”

  Grant looked up at Rawlins, who waited for the order with the usual pulsing eagerness.

  “Colonel, I want to know what General McClernand is doing down there. Send a courier … send two. Different routes. The enemy cannot be in overwhelming strength both here and down there. I wish to know if General McClernand intends to inform me of his actions. Make that very plain, Colonel. I want information.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Rawlins was out quickly. Grant sat back in the chair, said, “By the way, on the march this morning, we came across your wagon train. Your commissary officers had parked in the middle of the roadway. It was not especially to General McPherson’s advantage. There were some … oaths muttered, particularly by General Logan, whose division leads the way. I solved the crisis by issuing an order your teamsters would not obey from anyone else.”

  Hovey stared wide-eyed.

  “I deeply regret this, sir. I will discipline Major Jernigan.”

  “Handle it your own way. Since it is very apparent you do not intend to fight this war by yourself, you should assume that additional infantry is advancing up to support you. In the future, park your wagon train to one side of the road.”

  “Most definitely, sir. Very sorry. I shall apologize to General Logan myself.”

  Grant tossed the spent cigar into a spittoon, conveniently placed beside his chair, no doubt by Rawlins.

  “Better idea. When Logan’s division arrives, which I expect to be very soon, show him the way to the fight. That should be satisfactory … for both of you.”

  By 11 A.M., Logan’s division of McPherson’s corps had reached the field and was placed out to the right of Hovey’s division. With shells from rebel artillery pounding through their ranks, the men in blue began to shove down through the thickets and dense underbrush. As they gained height on the hillside, the ground changed, opening up to clear fields of fire as the troops drove their way toward the waiting rebels.

  For a larger version of this map, click here.

  McPherson sat on horseback close to Grant, and Grant left him alone while keeping a sharp eye on the flow of orders, staff officers, and couriers in motion. Even as the first lines of troops moved up onto the hill, McPherson was shifting more of his people farther right, and Grant understood that the strength in numbers the Federals were bringing to the field seemed to far outstrip the rebel defenses that had positioned themselves on the high ground. Grant eyed each courier anxiously, wondered in nervous silence if the word would come that Pemberton’s entire army had shifted northward, that the hill might be masking a vast surge of rebel troops who would turn the tables. With the fight beginning in earnest, the fire from the highest ground became more sporadic, small bursts and volleys that betrayed the thin lines the rebels had placed there. Grant stared up through distant smoke, wanted so badly to ride up there, to find Hovey or Logan or anyone else who knew exactly what lay to his front. But for now, Grant’s role was here, near the Champion House, the focal point of McPherson’s command.

  There had been other couriers, se
nt by Grant, a nagging annoyance growing to a full boiling fury that he had as yet heard nothing from John McClernand. That fight, south of the high ground, was still ongoing, and Grant’s orders had been for McClernand to advance with some caution. Even now, no one was certain where Pemberton’s greatest strength might be. But from all he could hear, caution had become something else altogether, and Grant could not avoid the feeling that McClernand was just sitting still. There were two roads to McClernand’s front, either one of which could offer an opportunity for a hard thrust that might slice through whatever force Pemberton had placed there. But McClernand was showing no indication of a thrust at all.

  For a larger version of this map, click here.

  Within an hour of McPherson’s order to attack, the rebels were driven back off the high ridges and the bald crest of Champion Hill. Success had come from Hovey’s tenacious offense and the sheer weight of numbers under his command. The first major break came not on the far flank, where Logan was continuing to stretch out the rebel position, but more to the center. There a brigade of Georgians under Alfred Cumming did what they could with the meager artillery and troop strength at hand, but Hovey’s forces held every advantage, and faced with annihilation, the Georgians quickly withdrew. The gap in the Confederate center left the remaining rebel troops in a serious situation. The brigade of Stephen Dill Lee, the first men to recognize the immense importance of that ground, found themselves nearly surrounded by overwhelming numbers of Federal troops on both flanks. Instead of a retreat, Lee tried a rally of his own, launching a counter-attack, a slashing drive to push through Hovey’s tired troops, with a goal toward silencing or capturing a clearly visible Federal artillery battery. But Lee’s forces were simply too few, their bold attack swept back soon after it began. Lee had no choice but to pull his men back down the southern side of the ridges and concede Champion Hill to the Federals.