A Chain of Thunder

by Jeff Shaara

  Hovey’s two brigades, under McGinnis and Colonel James Slack, scampered up and over Champion Hill, pushing down the far side with raucous energy. Though the rebels were unable to hold them back, as so often happens in such a rapid, overwhelming assault, the victorious troops could not maintain their surge. Hovey’s troops had driven more than a half mile up and then down the rolling terrain, and inevitably, exhaustion took hold. Order had broken down as well, officers losing their own commands in the tangles and ravines, the Federal advance stumbling about now in a morass of confusion. Worse for Hovey, Logan’s division, on his right, had not enjoyed such a rousing success across so many acres of ground. The ridgelines that extended westward from Champion Hill were far more difficult than the open ground high on the hill, and Logan’s men were faced by a stubborn resistance from Confederate troops who would not break. Logan did what the maps required him to do. Recognizing that he faced the far left of the rebel position, he extended his own lines in that direction, attempting to sweep around the rebel flank.

  To the south, Confederate general Carter Stevenson was attempting to manage a fight that had now spread over two fronts, to his east and north. Sending a brigade of Georgians under Seth Barton to the flank west of Champion Hill, Stevenson made every effort to stem the tide against him and prevent the collapse of what was in fact the flank of the entire Confederate position. Like Lee, Barton made a gallant effort, but numbers and the unyielding terrain worked against him. Barton was soon nearly surrounded, and forced back as well.

  As the hot afternoon sun slid over the field, the Confederate left was in danger of collapsing altogether, much of the fighting rolling down closer to the middle road, where John Bowen’s division faced east, steadily dueling with John McClernand’s Federals, who seemed content to pick and probe the rebel lines, within easy earshot of the vicious fighting on Champion Hill. As Pemberton kept a careful eye on McClernand’s troops to the east, he could not avoid the danger that was rolling down upon the entire rebel army from the Federal success across Champion Hill.

  NEAR THE ISAAC ROBERTS HOUSE

  ONE MILE SOUTH OF CHAMPION HILL

  “Is the enemy advancing? It sounds as though he is holding back! We must drive him then!”

  Pemberton’s horse squirmed beneath him, and Pemberton realized he was digging his spurs hard into the horse’s flank. He tried to release the tightness in his legs, the same tightness that rolled through him, drawing his insides into a hard knot. He kept his stare to the east, to the troops he now knew belonged to John McClernand. For more than two hours those troops had waged a tough but stagnant fight on two of the roads that would have taken them to Edward’s Station. But Pemberton’s own lines had held firm, blocking the way, and seemed to be more than McClernand’s bluecoats could handle. He searched for an aide, anyone who could answer his question. He shouted out the question again, staring into the dense smoke.

  “Is the enemy advancing? We must continue to hold!”

  “Sir! The enemy is not advancing with any force. We have no other word from that quarter. General Loring reports that the enemy is keeping to their lines and does not appear to be pressing this way!”

  The words came from Waddy, exactly the response Pemberton was hoping to hear.

  “Excellent! By God, yes! We are holding them back!”

  He could not help the churning nervousness, had been completely surprised by the advance of any part of Grant’s army. With so little cavalry to scout the field, there had been no hint of problems with the route he would use to reach Clinton, but now any attempt to disengage from the enemy could be disastrous. No, he thought, General Johnston can wait. For now we must hold here, keep them away. Surely Johnston does not know what Grant is doing, where the enemy troops are moving. He can’t possibly know.

  He spurred hard, the animal bouncing up in protest, but the horse began to move, a hard gallop to the south, where Loring would be. Throughout the morning, Loring had held position against the Federal troops along the two roads that intersected Pemberton’s army, the route that would take the Federal troops to Edward’s Station. Pemberton had begun to accept what was happening, that the sudden appearance of so many blue troops could only mean that Grant was intending to maneuver a great mass of his army at a place that offered a straight-line advance toward Vicksburg. The horse jostled him, and he jerked one rein, turning the horse to the right, was suddenly not certain which way he should go. His brain rolled the thoughts over in a vast jumble, one thought above all else. They will drive upon Edward’s, and then … westward. They shall not have Vicksburg, not without the hardest fight I can offer them. He searched manically for officers, for someone besides his own staff to give him information. For two hours now, those reports had been the same as what came from Loring. The enemy seemed content to pick and probe, no major effort at engaging his lines. His mind pulled him away from that, and he thought of riding instead to the east. But Loring was in control there, as best as Pemberton could see. No, I must move … this way, find the greatest point of crisis. The thought caused him to halt the horse abruptly, his feet slipping from the stirrups, and he fell forward onto the horse’s neck, then steadied himself with a hard grasp on the horse’s mane. He was breathing heavily, realized he was alone, had left his staff behind. He searched the woods again, a small field, amid smoke, chatter, and thumps of nearby guns. I must return to the Roberts house. My staff should have accompanied me. They should know that, whether I order them or not.

  He pushed the horse into the road, passing wounded men, and in a few minutes he was back near his headquarters. He could see the open ground around the Roberts house and was surprised to see troops, a scrambling herd, out of control. He reined up the horse, saw his staff moving among them, shouts and chaos.

  Men were rushing past him now, and he called out, “Who are you? What troops are you? You must not run!”

  A few men were slowing, exhausted, some dropping to their knees. He saw an officer among them, a lieutenant, shouted to the man, “What unit is this? Why are these men running away?”

  The lieutenant looked up at him, no recognition.

  “Cumming’s brigade, sir. These are good Georgia men. We were run off by a considerable force of the enemy.”

  Pemberton looked to the east, no signs of any heavier fighting, more of the steady skirmishing he had heard all morning.

  “What enemy?”

  “Don’t rightly know, sir. But there was a woodpile dollop of ’em.”

  “Stevenson’s men?”

  The lieutenant stood, some of his men doing the same, the panic drained out of them. They stood staring at Pemberton, more men gathering, drawn to the patch of open ground. The lieutenant said, “Well, yes, sir, we been put in General Stevenson’s division. But we belong to General Cumming. Georgians fight together, sir.”

  Pemberton felt a maddening frustration. He doesn’t know anything, he thought. Cumming … Stevenson’s division. They were not to the east. They were … to the north.

  Though the first contact from the enemy had come directly eastward, Pemberton had received a steady flow of couriers from Carter Stevenson, who held the left flank, farther to the north. Each message brought the same urgency, that Stevenson was facing an enormous force of the enemy. Pemberton had mostly ignored that, held firmly to what he could see himself, that Loring’s troops were facing what could only have been a heavy portion of Grant’s army. Stevenson is fresh, he thought. His men don’t have the experience, and I must consider that. These men are proof of that.

  “Lieutenant, assemble these men into line. March them back to their position. We cannot have our troops scattered all over the field. Does General Stevenson know you’re here?”

  “I don’t reckon he knows where we are, sir. I can’t say I know where he is, either.”

  Gradually the men were put into some kind of line, more officers arriving, a pair on horseback, flags, Georgia men. Well, good, he thought. Take command, get these men back into position. The o
rder was unnecessary, the officers doing the job, their troops reluctant but obedient. His staff was gathering closer to him now, Waddy speaking out.

  “Sir, we have received another courier from General Stevenson. He still insists he must have reinforcements, sir. His flanks are in peril. He maintains he cannot keep any connection on his right flank with General Bowen’s troops.”

  Pemberton was confused, had not wanted Bowen involved in any fighting. Bowen’s men were the most experienced on the field, had given much of themselves all throughout this campaign. Pemberton had hoped they would simply get some rest. But Bowen’s position, filling in the center of the army between Stevenson and Loring, meant that Bowen was the connecting point between the other two divisions.

  “Where is General Bowen, Colonel?”

  Waddy looked past him.

  “Right there, sir.”

  Pemberton turned the horse, Bowen seeing him as well, moving his way. Pemberton felt a surge of relief. Finally, someone who will know what is happening. Bowen rode up close, his staff strung out at a safe distance. The heavy skirmishing continued in the woods to the east, the stink of smoke swirling around the officers.

  Bowen did not salute, said, “General Loring is holding the right flank, and my men are now facing a considerable force. But the enemy is not advancing with any aggressiveness. Should they move against my lines, the ammunition trains must come up! My men must fill their cartridge boxes.”

  “Is that McClernand? Are those people still the ones from this morning?”

  Bowen looked at him with a tilt of his head.

  “From what we can tell, yes. Does that matter? I am far more concerned with what is happening to the north, my left flank.”

  “The north?”

  Bowen pointed, as though Pemberton wouldn’t know the way.

  “General Stevenson has sent word through my command … the enemy has pushed him back from those high ridges, that big hill. Have you not received his reports?” Bowen paused. “Have you not heard the fighting? I have stayed close to my men, but I did hear artillery up that way. I thought you would have ridden in that direction.”

  Pemberton stared at the distant mound of high ground, saw smoke now, the first he had noticed it. The sounds of the fight to the east, mostly in front of Loring, had consumed his attention, and throughout mid-day Pemberton had kept closer to the house he had chosen as his field headquarters. He focused on the Georgians, more of them scampering through the open ground, and he realized there was musket fire coming from the base of the big hill, much closer, a fight pushing directly toward him. There was more artillery fire as well, to the left, farther away, the sounds of a fight spreading out beyond his own left flank … moving behind him.

  “We must find General Stevenson! What is his location?”

  Bowen hesitated, then said, “I have no idea. I’ve been occupied with holding my lines right here. General Loring reports a considerable force of the enemy to our front, still to the east. But my skirmishers say the enemy is advancing from the left, from that high ground. These men … they’re Georgians. That’s Cumming’s brigade. They’ve been driven back?”

  “So I’ve been told. I’ve ordered them to move back into position.”

  “Which position, sir? I thought Cumming’s brigade had moved north, to assist Lee’s brigade. My understanding was that they were in position on that high ground. If Stevenson’s brigades were pushed back … well, sir, clearly they were. General Stevenson was most adamant that his lines were in some trouble.”

  “Yes, I know that. I’ve been hearing that all day.”

  Bowen stared at him, and Pemberton caught the look.

  “I assure you, John, I’ve been keeping a close eye on the situation. You recall, I had anticipated that General Loring would crush whatever enemy forces came at us this morning, possibly with your help. But since we have not accomplished that, we must work to protect our vulnerabilities. If General Stevenson is giving way, we must assist him. From all I can see, your division has not yet been fully engaged. It would be advisable if you shifted one brigade to the left and sought out contact with his right flank. Clearly the enemy is attempting to drive a wedge into our position.”

  Bowen kept the stare.

  “Surely … he is. I shall put my men into motion with all speed, sir. But I would insist that General Loring do the same. My right must be protected. General Loring must be ordered to shift his strongest lines where the danger is the greatest. From all I can hear … from all we know, that danger is not to the east, but to the north.” He paused. “You should ride there, find General Stevenson. He would know what is needed in his own front.”

  The words from Bowen carried heat, impatience, and Pemberton ignored that, saw another tide of men flowing back through the yard, some dropping down, leaning against the sides of the house. Men on horseback emerged into the fields now, officers, a flag, more infantry, the officers gaining some control. Closer to the house, Waddy was taking charge, gathering the refugees, their own officers assisting, getting them to their feet. Close to Pemberton, other staff officers were staring toward him, questions on every face. He glanced toward Bowen again, watched as Bowen moved away, his staff trailing behind him. Pemberton sat straight in the saddle, tried to show an air of confidence, that finally he understood what was happening.

  “Yes! We must ride up there! Do you men hear the fighting?”

  Heads turned northward, and he saw Memminger now, coming from that way, a hard gallop toward him. Memminger spun the horse to a stop, saluted him, and said, “Sir! General Stevenson again requests in the most urgent terms that we send reinforcements his way! The enemy is pushing past his left flank and has broken his center. He has lost connection with General Bowen. He is in a dire situation, sir!”

  Pemberton began to form a picture in his mind, a map in his brain, what Grant was doing. He knew of the road that ran parallel to the railroad, the very route he should have taken to Clinton, the first order he had received from Johnston. Now, he thought, Grant is there, has cut us off. There can be no rendezvous, no great plan to join our armies. The fight is … right here.

  “Major, send a courier to General Loring. I had asked him to crush the enemy to his front, but if that enemy is of no danger, then request that he disengage as many of his units as he feels he can and march them northward. The greatest danger is up there, not to our front.” It was a sudden moment of clarity, that if Bowen was right, if Stevenson’s urgency was accurate, the Federal troops who had begun this day with a gentle slap at Loring’s men were by now content to just … stay there. We are being held in place, he thought, one hand holding us down while the other reaches around us. No, it cannot happen.

  A courier was getting the order from Memminger, and Pemberton rode toward them, wiped sweat from his eyes with the rough fingers of his gloves. Memminger said, “Captain Selph will convey your request to General Loring, sir. Is there anything else?”

  Pemberton saw the impatience on Memminger’s face, the same as the courier, men waiting to do the job.

  “No. Captain Selph, go now. Request that General Loring assist us to the north, with all speed!”

  Selph saluted him, pulled the horse, slapped its haunches hard with his hat, and was quickly away. Waddy was there now, holding his own horse alongside Memminger, the two senior staff officers watching him, waiting for … something. He stared to the north, saw a low haze of smoke, heard thumps from artillery. He was suddenly angry with himself, thought, You should have given heed to Stevenson’s reports! You should have ridden to every part of this ground! But they should have kept you better informed. Who is to blame here? They would engage the enemy whether I was here or not! I must find what is happening. Perhaps I should remain here, where they may find me. But General Stevenson requires assistance. He says he must have it. Well, I have done all I can for now.

  “Sir! General Bowen is returning!”

  Pemberton saw Bowen riding up hard, his hat in his hand, dirty sweat
on the man’s face. Bowen said, “General, I am maneuvering a full brigade to my left, to counter the enemy’s advances. There is a significant retreat of our people all along that part of the line. General Stevenson’s right flank is no longer organized. Loring must come up with me! There is still a considerable body of the enemy to the east. So far, they seem content to keep to their lines, but that could change. Have you located General Stevenson?”

  Pemberton absorbed Bowen’s words, thought, Yes, good, move troops to the left. Counter the enemy’s advance. Yes, very good.

  Bowen spoke again, leaning closer to him.

  “General Pemberton! Has General Stevenson reported his situation to you? Is General Loring aware that we must respond to the enemy’s move against our left? Have you ordered—”

  Pemberton snapped around, cutting off Bowen’s words.

  “Yes! I have ordered General Loring to move up this way! We must not lose this army’s left flank, and your right must be protected. I have not heard anything from Stevenson!”

  Memminger spoke, his voice low, just above the sounds of the fight.

  “Sir, I reported to you a short time ago. General Stevenson requests in the most urgent terms …”

  “Yes, yes! I recall. Go … find General Stevenson, or send someone … and tell him we are moving troops in his direction. If General Loring cannot confront the enemy to his front, then he could be of great service here.” He looked at Bowen, who seemed to watch him with annoyed concern. “General Bowen, you must push your people to the left. We must halt the enemy’s intrusion! If General Stevenson requires assistance, you must offer it.”