A Chain of Thunder

by Jeff Shaara

  “They will be. There is much to be done.”

  “There is always much to be done. I am never at rest, Major.”

  Beside him, more men were moving into the road, another regiment, following their colors, their officers, a soldier shouting something, more shouts, and again Pemberton heard his name. He forced himself beyond that, kept his stare at the bridge, one thought rising up above all others. We stopped out here … made a stand on the wrong side of the river. And so, we lost good men here … because Loring made us wait. Bowen may curse me for that. But if I ever see Loring again, I will shoot him in the heart.

  No, you will not.

  The smoke at the bridge was beginning to slow, and he turned the horse’s head, spurred the animal gently, Lockett following, close beside him.

  Pemberton said, “Thirty years ago, Major, I began my military career by receiving an appointment to the U.S. Military Academy.”

  “Yes, sir. I did as well, sir. Graduating Class of 1859.”

  “Well, of course, yes. But there is one very great difference between us. Your future is bright; you are respected, skilled; you could be a prominent engineer in any army. Today, that career that glowed with so much brightness all those years ago … that career is ended in disaster and disgrace.”

  “Forgive me, sir, but I most heartily disagree. We have not yet had the enemy to our own advantage. That will change, and very soon. I will see to that, sir.”

  Pemberton saw the hint of fire in Lockett’s eyes, and nodded slowly.

  “The optimism of youth. You wear that well, Major.”

  They moved past the marching soldiers, and Pemberton stared out ahead, nothing to see but troops, the road, trees, and rolling ground. It was not so many miles to go, the place that was his to defend, the only duty left to him, the only duty that mattered. Before nightfall, they would be in Vicksburg.

  PART TWO

  You have heard that I was incompetent, and a traitor; and that it was my intention to sell Vicksburg. Follow me, and you will see the cost at which I will sell Vicksburg. When the last pound of beef, bacon, and flour, the last grain of corn, the last cow and hog and horse and dog shall have been consumed, and the last man shall have perished in the trenches, then, and only then will I sell Vicksburg.

  —LIEUTENANT GENERAL JOHN C. PEMBERTON

  VICKSBURG, MISSISSIPPI

  MAY 17, 1863

  She had been up on Sky Parlor Hill for most of an hour, alongside a group of women, those who came here often to watch the spectacle. The Federal gunboats had given them the usual show, thunderous, smoky blasts, streaks of red fire from their heavy mortars, the steel balls arcing up and over the hill, falling somewhere into the town below, mostly behind the hill. There were homes and businesses along the hillside itself, as far down as the rows of warehouses that lined the river, but the citizens had mostly abandoned those, and the Federal navy seemed to know that, paid far more attention to lofting the mortar shells high up over the bluffs. The Confederate batteries were all along the hillside facing the river, some hidden well near the structures, but for the most part, the gunners had selected their emplacements along empty ground, showing respect for those homes that might become targets, should the guns be placed too close.

  The mortars had become routine to everyone but the dogs, who responded incessantly to the shrieks and tumbles of any kind of shell with what Lucy still believed were terrified howls. The dogs were on the hill as well, crouching alongside their masters, or standing tall, their loud barks and howling, protesting the chaos that poured over them. Whether or not the dogs could be convinced of anything, Lucy knew now that there was little to fear up on the tall hill, the Yankee gunners firing their charges well past, what seemed to be a concerted effort to damage the town itself. Despite the abundance of iron the Yankees threw at the town, so far any serious damage had been rare. One home had taken a shell straight through the roof, a crashing surprise into a woman’s dining room. There was other damage as well, gardens churned up, streets pockmarked, craters opened up on sloping hillsides. But few people had been injured from the mortar rounds, though rumors spread, as they always did, that someone, somewhere had lost a leg, or a Negro had been killed out to the north of town, though no one was sure just who he belonged to. Lucy thought of that, so much ridiculous talk, was grateful that the hilltop was mostly empty of the old men, at least for now. When they made the climb, they seemed so eager to regale the women with tales as horrible as they were ludicrous, as though the old men knew all there was to know about war. Lucy had tried her best to avoid them, but they would find her, always found her, an attractive young woman without escort. Whether the old men had ever been genuine warriors, she was a perfect captive audience, too polite to move away, too solitary to distract herself in some chatter with the usual groups of women.

  The women were there as well, even now, clusters of bright color along the crest of the wide hill, chattering in awe with each new volley from the boats. For most, terror of the Federal gunboats had faded, replaced more often by thoughts of their husbands. Most of the younger men were gone, somewhere east or south, standing tall against the Yankee invasion. No one in the town really knew much of what had happened since Grant had come across the river, where the Yankees had gone, or just what might happen next. But the men had responded as good patriots, adding to General Pemberton’s forces, husbands and sons learning quickly what a soldier was supposed to do. The men weren’t far away, confirmation of that coming from the frequent visits home by officers. The news they brought was mostly vague, hints of better things to come, of the inevitable victory, building up the expectations of some grand parade when the men came home. What came from the civilians who traveled was mostly rumor, those who made short journeys out to the plantations, visiting relatives, checking on their safety, whether the Yankees had indeed committed unspeakable acts. The old men picked up on that, and on Sky Parlor Hill, they filled the void with tales of Grant’s viciousness, the certain brutality and savagery the Yankees would bring. By now, even the most sheepish women had learned to ignore that. All anyone really knew was that General Grant and a number of Yankee troops were marching out deeper into Mississippi, that there had been some kind of assault against the fortifications that protected the capital city, and that for all they knew the Yankees were long gone, perhaps all the way back to Tennessee.

  So far, the only kind of enemy Lucy had seen were floating serenely on the river, mostly upstream, offering up their iron projectiles at regular intervals, so predictable they had become a part of the daily lives of the very citizens the boats were targeting. The gunboats operated with punctual efficiency, the entire town seeming to know just when the firing would begin, when there would be the midday pause, as though the Yankee sailors were taking time out for a noon meal. Then the firing would begin again, throughout the afternoon, until it was time for everyone, the Yankees included, to attend to their dinners.

  For the few weeks since it began, the boats launching the mortar shells had been few, a small part of a much larger navy the civilians could see from the vantage point of the hill. Upriver, the Federals were clearly in force, and anyone with a spyglass could make out boats coming and going, from newly created wharves where wagons were loaded with whatever the Yankees were bringing down from farther north. Blue-coated soldiers could be seen moving through a great sea of white tents, going about their business, whatever that business might be. No one had explained to Lucy just why the Yankees were shelling the town in the first place, though the old men who claimed authority on such matters were quick to point out that the Yankees had to rely solely on their mortars, since the trajectory of fire from the heavy cannons could not reach the heights of the town.

  For the most part, the Confederate gunners who manned the artillery emplacements along the river’s edge kept silent. There were questions about that, those same old men wondering why General Pemberton did not respond, that any good aim from a Confederate gunner could send the closer gunboat
s skedaddlin’ back upriver.

  When the sights and sounds from Sky Parlor Hill couldn’t hold her interest, Lucy would embark on another of her new routines, making a careful descent to the gun pits. She enjoyed speaking to the men who huddled with the cannons, though likely not as much as they appreciated visiting with her. When she planned those visits in advance, she would bypass the hill altogether, and bring the artillerymen a basket of cookies or some kind of cake. Usually her eye was caught by a young officer, the man making great show over her generosity as though she had brought the gift of angels to the soldiers of the Confederacy. But Lucy kept her own responses discreet. She still thought of the one lieutenant she had met at the formal dance, the young Louisianan. But it was foolish to imagine they would somehow find the opportunity for such luxury as a pleasant gala, another dance. It embarrassed her that she would harbor such playful images of peaceful walks in a garden, of allowing herself to touch the hand of this handsome officer. She fought against the romantic images of poetry and awkward conversation, all those things young suitors had to suffer through. Most of the girls would be carefully supervised by the watchful eye of a stern mother, and it pained her even now to realize it would never be like that for her. If there was any chaperone at all, it would be her own conscience. She knew what the women were gossiping about, knew all the speculation about the kind of girl who chose to live on her own. There might be an officer in her future, but she had to accept she might not ever see the young man again. All she knew of him was his regiment, the 3rd Louisiana, one of hundreds of men who had made their encampment out along the burgeoning entrenchments and earthworks inland from the town. She didn’t even know his name.

  In the days following the gala, so rudely interrupted by the Yankees, she had learned what many of the men in the town already knew. When Pemberton had marched his men out to confront Grant, the 3rd Louisiana, part of Forney’s division, had remained behind, the officers quick to assure the civilians that the army was not about to abandon the town, that General Pemberton had ordered a sizable force to occupy their own earthworks. Those defensive works now spread for miles in a giant arc that bulged inland, curving back to anchor above and below the town right against the river. The men Pemberton had left behind had spent much of their time in construction, widening and deepening the earthworks, adding tall redoubts, steep defensive positions that gave confidence to the civilians, who welcomed the officers’ assurances that the defenses would hold back any attempt by this devil Grant, should he be foolish enough to assault them. On Sky Parlor Hill, the mouthy old men disagreed, protesting that the army should be focusing more attention on the gunboats. Instead of so much good artillery aimed out at empty fields to the east, the guns should be brought along the riverbanks, adding to the firepower of the cannons that the old men groused about, the men angry that some weak-willed Confederate commander was not spending his time shattering every Federal boat that dared fire its mortar. Lucy had sought out some explanation why so many of the Confederate gun batteries along the river had kept silent. Her flirtatious artillery officer had obliged, with a high-handed demonstration of his expertise. If the big guns on the Federal boats couldn’t reach the city, they could definitely play havoc with their counterparts positioned farther down the hill. No matter what the old “experts” might say from the safety of Sky Parlor Hill, one successful sinking of a Yankee craft might provide a thrill to the civilian throng, but the Yankees would certainly respond by steaming a dozen more ironclads down the river to eliminate that sort of irritation. It was a simple lesson in mathematics: too many ironclads versus too few Confederate batteries. Upriver, the ironclads were being resupplied at will. At Vicksburg, the gunners had to make do with the ammunition they had at hand.

  Though the town still seemed occupied by more soldiers than she could count, their camps and earthworks were at least a couple of miles inland. Any soldier seen wandering through the town was usually someplace other than where he was assigned. The townspeople did venture out to the camps, on social calls, brief visits with kin, many of the women producing the fruits of their ovens, the same kinds of treats Lucy had offered herself. But the labor along the earthworks was intensive, even the most genteel of officers insisting that the civilians should stay out of the way. Those orders were issued in the name of the chief engineer, a Major Lockett, someone Lucy didn’t know. She knew nothing at all of engineering, knew only that this major had put shovels to good use far more than muskets. The parade ground drills that had long entertained the town were gone, replaced by the labor of sweating, filthy men who spent nearly all of their duty time digging in the soft ground. For Lucy, any hope of visiting her lieutenant was dampened by advice she had received from her neighbors, those few she felt comfortable confiding in. They cautioned her against hoping for any social encounter at all. Junior officers had very little discretion when it came to such things, especially with so much labor ongoing.

  “Well, Miss Lucy, a fine beautiful day. Are the Yankees providing suitable entertainment? Or are you planning a sojourn down to the gun pits again?”

  The voice was older, with a squeak she knew too well.

  “Well, good day, Mrs. Carrington. No, I have seen enough for one afternoon. I have housekeeping to attend to. Unlike some, I do not have the luxury of a Negro.”

  “Well, that’s fine, then. Consorting with an artillery crew is no place for a young lady of fine standing. Soiling one’s dress, not to mention one’s reputation …”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Carrington. I have no need to do either one. As you can see, my dress is … clean.”

  She stood, did a slow dancing twirl, knew that kind of frivolity could cause tongues to wag. There was no change in the sour expression of the older woman, and Lucy saw others now, standing back, low talk between them, laughter, Lucy unsure if it was aimed at her impropriety, or the grumbling surliness of the irritating Mrs. Carrington.

  The Carringtons were just one more family terribly inconvenienced by the war. The husband owned a general store, and sold a variety of goods, cloth and trinkets said to come all the way from Europe. But those shelves had emptied rapidly, the first real hint of disruption to the normal routine of Vicksburg’s citizens. The mortar shells had become just another part of that, the price to pay for Yankee audacity. But the shopkeepers, the men who ran the small cafés and dress shops, were beginning to show more than annoyance at the daily harassment that rained down on the town.

  The cotton traders seemed unaffected, which was a source of grumbling by other merchants. Some said that the Yankees were helping to make those men rich, that the Federal army was buying the cotton for their own use, or allowing the bales of valuable fiber to reach port cities in the East. Lucy had no idea why any of that mattered. Any man growing a healthy crop of cotton had a right to sell it, and if the Yankees were good customers, so much the better. She already knew enough of the disregard for Confederate currency, had actually hoarded a small stockpile of gold coins. She knew others were doing the same. Even the most patriotic Confederates seemed eager to accept and hoard their own supply of hard currency, be it gold or Federal scrip.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Carrington. I will take my leave. You may use the bench I had used. I tested the supports. It is most certainly strong enough for any two of me.”

  She swept past, knew the old woman was digesting the insult, probably trying to respond with one of her own. It was a simple sport Lucy had come to enjoy. She moved to the steps that led downward toward the main streets, offered a smile, a friendly nod toward one of the old men coming up toward her, making the slow climb on old bent legs.

  “Mr. Keene, how nice of you to venture out. You will have a fine audience for your stories today. Mrs. Carrington in particular asked about you.”

  The old man smiled, dark teeth and a ragged brow, and tipped his small hat.

  “Well, you best take care, Miss Spence. I hear talk of a fight out east. Old Pem is given the Yankees what for. It don’t do to have a young lass l
ike yourself wandering about, with no man to look after you. You ought to visit your soldier friends more often.”

  Her face froze with the smile, and she moved past him quickly, shook her head. Gossip. This town thrives on poking noses into places best left private. She imagined the young lieutenant’s smile, had to assume that he would be nothing but appropriate, never anything too forward, no wink or any more of a touch than a brief clasp of her hand when he made his parting bow. He seemed every bit a gentleman, that’s certain. Would you have thought you might marry a soldier?

  She felt a joyful giddiness, but the steps could be awkward, and she pulled back from the pleasant fantasy, picked her way down carefully. Well, yes, she thought, I suppose that old bird is right. It would be nice to have even a moment’s opportunity to see him again. Once this is over, he might certainly vanish completely, could march off to some other battle, or maybe just go home to Louisiana. Surely he thinks of me. He must. If it is meant to be, it will be. I do hope he remains here a good deal longer. It wouldn’t do for him to suddenly march away. That wouldn’t do at all.

  She glanced ahead to the last flight of steps, then adjusted the hem of her dress, careful to avoid an embarrassing trip. Down below, along the main street she heard a wagon, shouts rising up above a clattering of wheels. The wagon appeared now, rounding a curve with a spray of dust. The driver was a soldier, and he halted the wagon, was already drawing a crowd, stood up, steadied himself from the jostling from the horse. He was pointing back down the hill, speaking in furious tones, words she couldn’t hear. The crowd continued to gather, and Lucy hurried down the last few steps, moved closer, could hear the man now, the voice high and piercing.

  “And they’s coming! Sure as hellfire! They’s coming! Old Pem done give us up!”

  People were answering, some with jeers, the usual response to news that just didn’t fit what everyone preferred to believe. Regardless of whatever horror stories the old men had used to frighten young women, it was unimaginable that the Yankees could do anything at all to threaten Vicksburg without General Pemberton’s army stopping them.