A Chain of Thunder

by Jeff Shaara

  His mind was clouding, the intense weariness of the past twenty-four hours, mostly on horseback. He followed Bowen’s stare again, brought the glasses up, aimed his gaze closer still, men on this side of the river, the best ground, the best protection the river could offer. The bridge remained intact, and in the river itself, a steamboat, the Dot, had been anchored, converted to a floating bridge of its own. Downstream, two others, the Paul Jones and the Charm, were perched as well, their equipment and obstructions removed, placed perpendicular to the flow of the river. The river itself formed a wide horseshoe, a vast U shape bisected by the railroad line, that would invite any approach directly toward the bridge. We are strongest there, even with Bowen’s doubts about the Tennesseans. But if Loring will finally arrive it will not matter.

  His gaze settled on an artillery emplacement, and he aimed the question at Bowen.

  “How much artillery has been left in place east of the river, General?”

  “I have three batteries, a dozen guns. Not sure how many guns Vaughn’s boys have.”

  Behind Waddy, another man rode forward, and Pemberton was surprised to see him, grateful as well. It was his chief engineer, Samuel Lockett. Lockett said, “Begging your pardon, sirs, I have counted twenty pieces. Mostly six- and twelve-pounders. It is not a juggernaut, but it should slow the enemy down. The ground they must cross is flat and open. I do not envy the soldiers who make that advance.”

  Lockett had been with the army since well before Shiloh the year before, and when Pemberton assumed command of the department in Mississippi, he had been delighted to learn that Lockett would be his chief engineer. Lockett was a West Pointer, a young, energetic man who had served with distinction under Albert Sidney Johnston and Pierre Beauregard. Above all, Lockett’s training had put him in a number of crucial situations, whether bridge building or the rapid repair of any roadway the army might need, including the escape routes over Baker’s Creek the night before. Now he commanded the efforts Pemberton needed to straddle both sides of the Big Black.

  Bowen seemed to appreciate the engineer’s work.

  “It was you who dug these works?”

  “I supervised, yes, sir. I hope they are to your satisfaction.”

  Bowen nodded, returned to his field glasses.

  “They’re adequate. For now. We don’t need to stay out there any longer than it takes. Those are tired troops, and right now, I’m guessing some of my boys are catching a quick nap. I want them pulled out of there as soon as our … job is done.”

  Lockett looked at Pemberton, who nodded approval.

  Lockett said, “Sir, I am prepared at a moment’s notice to fire the bridge, and if necessary, the three riverboats. We have bales of cotton along the riverbank, and many barrels of turpentine. The bridge in particular will be the greatest challenge, but once your men are across, the enemy will not have the time to take advantage.”

  Pemberton stared at the bridge.

  “I admire your confidence, Major. Thank you for your efforts. Have you been in communication with your engineers in Vicksburg? How does that work progress?”

  “Quite well, sir. There is much still to accomplish, a great many strongpoints to be fortified. But even now, the labor is ongoing.”

  Pemberton nodded absently.

  “We shall require all your efforts, Major.”

  “Sir! Riders!”

  Pemberton tried to focus the sleepiness out of his eyes, saw the movement, well to the right. He brought the glasses up, could see four men, dirty gray uniforms, a hard ride, slowed briefly by Bowen’s men, then continuing straight toward the bridge. In a short minute they crossed, guided by officers who pointed them toward Pemberton. Pemberton felt a burst of excitement, was awake now, sat straight in the saddle, thought, There will be news, at last.

  They reined up, tossed him their salutes, Bowen moving up beside Pemberton, clearly interested in what they had to report. Pemberton did not wait.

  “Is General Loring close behind?”

  The men were settling their horses, a sheen of wet foam on each animal, and one man spoke up, a captain, in the unmistakable uniform of cavalry.

  “No, sir! We have not seen General Loring. We have seen no infantry at all. We have ridden from Baker’s Creek, close to the enemy camps at the main crossroads. The enemy is on the move this way, began their march well before dawn, sir.”

  Pemberton rolled the word over in his mind. Cavalry.

  “Have you seen Colonel Adams, then? Is he gathering his horsemen? I have not seen him since yesterday.”

  “Sir … Colonel Adams is gone, out to the east. The last word I received was that he had too many horsemen out beyond the enemy. He said he intended to gather as many of his squads as he could locate, and pull them eastward toward the capital. His last orders to me were to make every effort to find you, and report that he is preserving as many of his men as he can, and will rejoin you when the time is right.”

  Pemberton felt a cold stab.

  “When the time is right? Does he know anything of General Loring? When is the time right? The enemy is on the march … in this direction, I presume?”

  The man was suddenly sheepish, seemed to grasp the gravity of his message.

  “I know nothing of General Loring, sir … except … we heard that General Tilghman was killed. The Yankees were speaking of it. We stayed close to their camps until near sunrise. I can’t confirm any more than that.”

  Pemberton looked down, then glanced at Waddy.

  “Do we know anything of this?”

  “No, sir. I would have notified you.”

  “Yes, of course. If this is true … if Tilghman is dead, it is a disaster, one more disaster for this army. Such men cannot be replaced.” He looked toward the horseman again, more questions rolling up inside of him, but there was a tired emptiness to the man, his report delivered, his single duty completed. Pemberton saw the last bit of energy draining from them all, thought, At least they have found us. General Loring … certainly has not.

  Bowen said, “The enemy is on the march, you say. How many? How much force? Are we certain they are moving in this direction?”

  The cavalryman focused on Bowen, seemed to recognize him, threw up a sudden unnecessary salute.

  “Uh, sir … they’re on the march, that’s for certain.”

  “How many of them, Captain?”

  “We didn’t stay too close to ’em, sir. All we can say is … there’s a passel of ’em.”

  Bowen looked at Pemberton, and Pemberton saw the hard frown, a pulsing anger.

  “Well, General, I’m not sure how long we can hold our position on that side of the river. If General Loring intends to make his appearance, this would be a very good time.”

  The thump of thunder rolled over the field, faces turning that way. Pemberton saw the smoke, a single gray wisp, rising up from the cluster of trees to the north. Now there was more smoke, billowing out from the woods to the left flank, the thunder coming soon after. Closer, his own artillery responded, the shells streaking over the open ground, some over the heads of Bowen’s men. Bowen said, “A new day, a new fight. With your permission, General, I will take my leave.”

  He didn’t wait for Pemberton’s response, spurred the horse, and was gone quickly, galloping across the bridge, moving out to be with his men. Pemberton felt the thunder of the shelling all through him, so familiar now, the pure sound of power, both sides, a duel expanding to batteries on this side of the river. He tried to lift the field glasses, no strength in his arms, and for now there was nothing to see, just an open field, the sky above streaked by the shells that bore one simple message. Grant’s army had arrived.

  For a larger version of this map, click here.

  The Federal troops who first struck Bowen’s left flank belonged to McClernand, a single brigade led by General Michael Lawler. Lawler had made good use of the cover of the woods, had shifted his men into position with a clear view of Bowen’s entrenchment. Then Lawler forced the oppo
rtunity that lay open to him. Rolling his men out into a line of battle, Lawler surprised Bowen’s men by sliding his entire brigade into the open ground, then, with a sharp battle cry, Lawler’s brigade made its attack. The men drove forward with bayonets fixed straight into the center of Bowen’s entrenchments, straight into the heart of the fresh brigade of Tennesseans, the men from Vicksburg who had not yet faced the enemy. After a single well-aimed volley, Lawler’s men drove down through the soggy bayou, then continued their charge directly into Vaughn’s brigade. The response from the Tennessee troops stunned the men on their flanks, Bowen’s veterans. The Tennesseans broke and ran, a hard, terrified scramble back to the safety of the bridge. Keyed by Lawler’s surprising success, more of McClernand’s troops drove quickly across the open ground, and Bowen’s men, realizing their center had collapsed completely, could not stand up to the tide. In an hour’s time, Bowen’s entire force had made a rapid retreat of their own, a massive struggle to shove across the river bridge, others dropping down the steep embankments, swimming, or drowning, in their frantic escape. As more Federal troops pushed forward, the fight spread along the river itself, some of the Confederate troops shot down as they swam or made the climb up the far bank. The musket fire went in both directions, most of it ineffective, the river providing the safety it always had, the blue troops content to keep to the eastern side, rounding up prisoners and artillery pieces, the remnants of the army that once again could not hold them back.

  Pemberton had ridden back toward the railhead at Bovina, his staff preparing the railcar that would take him on to Vicksburg. But Pemberton could not just abandon the men at the Big Black; he knew deep in his conscience that there would be talk about that. It was his battle, after all.

  He sat alongside the road, tall in the saddle, fighting the lack of sleep. They marched in something of a column toward him, men still flowing out of the woods from both sides of the bridge, finding their way to the route that would lead them away from one more disaster. The order had gone out to every officer who could be found, to organize their men as well as possible, putting them on the march westward. He had thought of making another fight, of putting his troops into line along the west side of the Big Black, where he knew they should always have been. Grant was there in force now, just beyond the deep cuts of the river-bank, and Pemberton could not help believing that no matter what he did, Grant would come, that Vicksburg was, after all, his primary goal.

  The decision to withdraw had come with the successful firing of the bridge, and Pemberton stared at that now, a vast plume of black smoke, a billowing fire boiling up from Lockett’s barrels of turpentine. He could not look away, the bridge a quarter mile to his front, the ground between flowing with his men, retreating once more. There was still musket fire, some from the north, a fight he knew nothing about, another crossing of the river above the rail line. Stevenson was there, doing all he could to hold back the Federal wave, making good use of the river’s defenses. But Grant cannot be stopped, he thought, not for long. He has engineers of his own, and good cavalry, and it will not take them very long to find their own way across. He still stared at the dense smoke, could see flickers of tall flame as the bridge was fully engulfed in Lockett’s fire.

  For long minutes, the smoke boiled upward, the thick cover spreading out with the light breeze, covering what he knew was happening east of the river. Major Lockett had done exactly as ordered, had waited until the last possible moment to fire the bridge. Many of Bowen’s men had made their way to safety, and Pemberton could only hope that those caught on the far side of the river were not many, the wounded perhaps, a few more. He would know the toll later, could not think of that now, would not think of Bowen, and what Pemberton had ordered him to do. Bowen was safe, that was certain, was putting his men on the march, westward, away from the river. There will be blame for this, too, he thought. Bowen will curse me for putting his men out there, vulnerable, the river at their back. But it was … the job at hand. How could we know the enemy would move so quickly? At least, Pemberton thought, we can pull ourselves away, make for the next best place of safety, the place we should have never left.

  Pemberton turned the horse, no staff officers with him at all, no flag, nothing to let the men around him know just who was in command. He started to ride, moving along with them, his head low, heard his name, official, respectful. He stopped, knew the voice of Lockett, caught the smell of turpentine. Lockett was there now.

  “Sir! The bridge is destroyed. The enemy must find other means to make their crossing. There is little time to lose.”

  “I know, Major. There is a train waiting at Bovina, to carry us to Vicksburg. The staff has gone ahead to make all the arrangements for my headquarters.”

  “Sir, my work here is complete. Might I ride with you? The commanding general should not be alone. Not now.”

  Pemberton wasn’t sure what Lockett meant, thought, Does he believe I am in danger? How much more danger can there be?

  Around them, men began to call out, the recognition spreading, officers riding past with an offer of a salute. But many more did not, and the men in the ranks were much less discreet. He heard curses, attached to his own name, and no one seemed to care if he heard them or not. Some of the officers were doing what they could to bring control, to silence the fury, and Pemberton ignored that, carried enough anger for all of them, a silent fury toward the man who had done this, who had ordered him away from Vicksburg only to have this marvelous army crushed under Grant’s boot heel. Beside him, Lockett kept his silence, seemed to know Pemberton was far away, with hard thoughts in other directions. They rode along at a slow pace, and after a long moment, Pemberton said, “I obey the orders I am given. And for that I will be condemned.”

  “Sir? I hardly think …”

  “When the orders contradict each other, when my president tells me to carry out his instructions, when my commanding general orders me to do the opposite … which is the right decision?” He paused, Lockett not responding. “Good generals must understand that these men, the infantry, are the pawns in a deadly chess game. But I am no different. I am a pawn in a game of politics and pride. I must make amends for that. What do we know of General Johnston? Right now.”

  “I am not certain, sir. I have heard rumor that he is bringing together a strong force, possibly to attack the Federals from the east.”

  “Wonderful rumors, are they not? All will be saved. Victory will be ours. It could be true, as fantastic as that sounds. It could be true. I sent General Johnston a letter by courier early this morning, before the Federals attacked us. I informed him of our inglorious defeat at Baker’s Creek, and how we would do all in our power to strike back at the enemy. I suppose I should send him a more accurate letter. Events seem to change in this department far more quickly than I can report them.”

  “Yes, sir. If you say so, sir.”

  The reins were loose in his hands, the horse following the march of the infantry more than his own control, and he stared at the backs of the men, battered, filthy, men who had faced the enemy once more and could not find a victory. We have one duty, he thought. The only duty. It was always the only duty. Major Lockett has done the job, will continue with the good work. The fortifications are strong, will be made stronger, and these men know now what they must do, the fight that must be made. It is in them still, surely, and if they do not fight for me, they will fight to hold to such a treasure, the place we never should have left. He stopped again, stung by a thought, turned, and looked back toward the burning bridge, still a fountain of thick black smoke. Lockett stopped as well, and waited.

  “Are you certain of the destruction of the bridge? Perhaps you should remain there.”

  “Sir, I witnessed heavy timbers falling into the river. The bridge was full aflame. The enemy can make no use of it. There were sharpshooters lining the bank, keeping the Yankees at bay. We do have time, sir.”

  “Yes, of course. I do not mean to doubt you. I must rely on your talen
ts a great deal now. I am no engineer myself. I trust your work on the entrenchments at Vicksburg are strong?”