A Chain of Thunder

by Jeff Shaara

  The leaves slid away from a wooden hatch, which swung open, showing a wide, dark hole. Willis held up his hand and gave a quick shout.

  “Watch out! Who’s in there! You in there, come out! Not playing out here!”

  The old man dropped the hatch to full open, then stood back with smug satisfaction.

  Willis stepped closer, his pistol pointed down into the hole, stopped, and said, “Holy Mother of God. You! Get up here!”

  Bauer moved closer, his curiosity in full boil. From down in the hole he heard what sounded like a whimper, saw a hand in the air, dirty white skin, a grip on the steps of a ladder. Now a tangle of hair came up, then the face, smudged and thin, with red, hostile eyes. The ladder was narrow, unsteady, and Bauer stepped closer.

  “Let me help her.”

  “Back up, Private. She got down there, she can get up.”

  The woman stepped up on the ground now, surprising, a fine dress, a smear of dirt she tried to cover with wrinkled hands. She stared at them with a hard glare, sharp eyes through wrinkled skin, her eyes darting to each of the soldiers.

  “She’s probably scared to hell, Sammie. What’s going on here?”

  The old man spoke up now, still the beaming smile.

  “Yassuh! Heah Missy be! You be enjiyin’!”

  “She don’t look so scared to me.”

  Willis softened his tone. “What’s your name, madam? What you doing down in this hole?”

  She studied Willis, a silent test, and Bauer saw no fear at all.

  “Lorena Baggett. This is my family’s home. My husband’s gone. Took the grandchildren.”

  “Where? He a soldier?”

  “No. My son was … he was killed at Corinth. Hero, he was. Took a good number of you blue-bellied devils with him, they say. My husband took the children. I’m sick. Fever. Told him I’d stay close, keep guard on the place.”

  Kelly moved closer, stared into her face.

  “I don’t see no sickness. She’s lying. Your husband’s a secesh soldier. Officer I bet.”

  Her hand gripped the cloth buttoned to her throat, her arms tight across her chest, a gesture of protection.

  “I got no reason to lie to the likes of you. I can’t stop you from doin’ anything you’re gonna do, so if you have need to torment an old woman for your entertainment, go to it.”

  Willis still held the pistol, and ignored the challenge.

  “So, you hid out in the ground? Sick with a fever?”

  She hesitated, stared hard at Willis, appraising him, what Bauer knew could be a mistake.

  “The root cellar, yes.” She pointed at the old man. “Ollie’s the only one who stayed. He’s too lame to escape, and I told him to keep quiet. Guess he’s back to his old ways.” She pointed to the east. “We heard the fight at the river. That’s when my husband took the children.… They’re gone to Vicksburg. I suppose … that’s where you’re headed, too. You’ll spill buckets of blood, if General Pemberton can help it. You’ll all be in hell.”

  Bauer saw the woman trying to hold herself straight, the pride, a hint of defiance, but the weakness betrayed her, and she seemed to stagger. Behind her, the old man pointed to her, held out his hand, seemed more impatient now.

  “You be enjiyin Ole Missy! Heah! Missuh Lincom heah, jez?”

  She winced at the words, didn’t look at the old man, and Bauer began to understand. The man’s hand was extended, dull yellow palm upward, and Bauer saw a strange leer in the old man’s smile.

  “Good God, he’s wanting to sell her to us.”

  The woman looked back at the old man and said, “I thought you were one of the smart ones, Ollie. You would betray me?”

  The pitch of her voice was higher, a growing fury, no effort at hiding it.

  Willis put the pistol in its holster.

  “He’s just getting back at you, you stupid old woman. Justice. He wants us to pay for what you’re worth. What did you pay for him?”

  She didn’t react to the insult, as though expecting little else from Yankees. She turned to Willis again, the defiance increasing, a harder tone in her voice.

  “I don’t rightly know. My husband bought him in Jackson … years ago. There’s papers in the house, unless you took them.”

  “No, we’re gonna do better than that. We’re gonna take him.”

  She seemed to absorb the thought, her fury complete, a hard shout.

  “You can’t do that! Ollie’s part of this family. He’s … mine.”

  Bauer felt a sickening turn in his stomach, the perfect hate in her eyes, staring at him now. He couldn’t hold back the words.

  “Seems to me, madam, it’s the other way around.”

  Willis held up his hand, quieting him, but Bauer was pulsing with anger, had soaked up too much of her high-handed tone. Willis said, “He’s coming with us. You can, too. We got a doctor who’ll look you over. You rather stay here, that’s fine, too.”

  From the rear entrance of the house, the other men appeared, hurried steps now, curious. Finley jogged close and said, “Nothing in the house but furniture, sir. What we got here?”

  Willis kept his stare at the woman.

  “What we got here, Sergeant, is the lady who’s gonna tell us how we can fill that wagon. Isn’t that right, madam?”

  “Steal what you wish. I’ll not help you.”

  Willis chuckled, and Bauer saw the grin on the old man’s face.

  “Don’t think she’ll have to, Lieutenant,” Bauer said. “We got a new friend.”

  The old man still had his hand out, and Bauer thought, he has no idea what’s happening. Willis moved over to him, his hand resting on the butt of the pistol, stared at him for a moment, then took one of the old man’s arms, and Bauer saw the scars, a deep gash across the man’s wrist.

  “They had you in chains before?”

  The old man nodded slowly.

  “Ollie be punshed. Not in a while now.”

  “Well, not today, Ollie. And unless you actually like this old woman, you can come along with us. Your friends are already trailing after the army, and somebody’ll be looking after ’em. And you. All you gotta do first is tell us where the … uh … victuals are kept. Anything down in that root cellar?”

  The old man shook his head, pointed to a small shack, back behind the slave cabins, what appeared to be an outhouse. He put his hands on his hips, another smile.

  “Missuh Lincom’s boys. You be eatin’ fine this day. Hams … bacon. Sacks a corn flour. Massuh done hid t’all in a hoe back dey. Den you be wardin’ Ollie for Missy heah?”

  Bauer smiled and said, “I think he’s hoping we’ll pay him something. Reward.”

  “Yaz … Missy heah.”

  Willis said, “Sorry, you old buzzard, but we’re just soldiers. Not a dollar between us. Not sure what you’d do with any silver anyhow. Now, you help us with those rations, and I promise you, ‘Missuh Lincom’ will appreciate it, even if your master’s wife here doesn’t.”

  Willis turned, motioned to Bauer, and there was a sharp crack, the old man suddenly bent over, dropping slowly to his knees, falling facedown in the leaves. Willis lunged toward the woman, grabbed her arms, spun her around with a hard grip around her waist, and Bauer saw the small pistol, tumbling out of her hand. She didn’t fight, and Willis released her, stepped back, his own pistol aimed at her head, a long second of silence, cold stillness. Bauer felt his heart racing, stared at the body of the old man, a twitch in the man’s leg. He didn’t know what to do, waited for something from Willis, and the woman said, “Take him now, if you want. He never did mind me well.”

  Willis bent down, picked up her pistol, stuck it in his belt, and moved up close to her face, a hard growl.

  “No, madam. You’ll bury him.”

  He turned to the others, motioned them toward the place the old man had pointed, and said, “Load the wagon. As much as we can haul. I’ll stay with her.”

  Bauer stared at the old man, the twitch gone, the man’s face buri
ed in the leaves. Bauer felt tears, fought the sight of the man’s smile, his joy at the sight of the blue soldiers, erased by the hatred of one old woman. He felt something turn inside of him, realized Willis was watching him.

  “So, Private, you still think these people are just … caught in the way?”

  Bauer looked at the woman, saw a deadness in her eyes, staring at nothing, slowly looking toward him again. He gripped the musket hard, wanted to do something … anything, felt the familiar anger, the heat building, the fights, the rebel soldiers, saw it in her eyes, the hostility, the clear-eyed hate. She was no different from anyone with a bayonet, anyone across those smoky fields. She was the enemy.

  The others were moving toward the small shack, no one speaking, and Bauer looked at the house, then back at Willis, saw a nod, a cold anger Bauer had seen before. It was an order, but there were no words. Bauer knew exactly what he wanted to do. He called out to Finley now.

  “Sergeant, there plenty of rags in the house? Furniture?”

  “Yep. Bed linens. Ladies’ garments and such.”

  He looked back at Willis now, no change in the lieutenant’s expression. Bauer said, “Then, with your permission, sir, I’ll burn this damn place to the ground.”

  CHICKASAW BLUFFS, NORTHEAST OF VICKSBURG

  MAY 18, 1863

  The prisoners came in single file, two dozen surly, rugged men, a few looking up at him as they passed. He said nothing, didn’t have to, some of them staring at the rank on his shoulder, the color bearer behind him, and whether they recognized the face, or whether any of their guards had told them already, they seemed to know exactly what he knew: He had seen these people before.

  Sherman kept the thoughts to himself, glanced back toward his aides lingering close by, the men who knew just how much distance to keep. He couldn’t tell them anything of this, wouldn’t gloat, wouldn’t strut about like some peacock, waving his arms as though all the land he could see had now become his private domain. But he felt it, pulsed in the saddle, didn’t hide the smile. If the prisoners had seen him before, aimed their weapons at him before, he had done the same to them. It had been five months now, nearly half a year since Sherman’s great failure, the humiliation these men had handed him from these same heights. Then he had come at them up the Yazoo River, the various creeks, the muddy swamps that were as much an asset for the rebels as their artillery. But they had won that day, had smacked him with an inglorious defeat. Now he had returned the favor. It wasn’t from the river, no more trudging through swamps. This time he had come at them from behind, the 4th Iowa Cavalry, sweeping up and through the earthworks at Haines’s Bluff to grab those same cannon that had done such good work against him in December. It wasn’t much of a fight, many of the guns disabled, the crews mostly gone, a disappointment for the Iowans, certainly. But the message had been clear, to both sides. The rebels no longer held their strong perch overlooking the waterways that flowed inland north of Vicksburg. Sherman didn’t know if the rebels had good intelligence, had known the Federal cavalry was close. Right now, he didn’t really care. What he saw now, staring northward from the great high bluffs, was flat dismal swamp and meandering waterways that had been swept clear of rebel guns. For Sherman it was exoneration, though he knew that no one else would make much of a bother about that. Grant maybe. Grant would understand, he thought. He has his own failures, his own reputation to polish. Well, Grant, here’s mine. We wanted these damn creeks open for the navy, and right now, the navy can steam right up to the closest landings they can find. If there’s anybody in Washington or anywhere else who thinks Grant’s a fool for cutting himself off from his base of supply … well, to hell with you. He’s got that base right here. And by damned, I gave it to him. Nobody’ll put that in a newspaper, nobody will even mention my name at the War Department. But Grant will know, and right now, he’s the only one who matters.

  He didn’t want to leave, could see a plume of black smoke, the first of Admiral Porter’s boats already steaming closer, word passing from signalmen to riders, to grateful sailors who could bring their supplies that much closer to the army, with no danger from any rebel marksman. He wanted to wait, to watch the boat until he saw the waving hands of the sailors, maybe Porter himself, shake his hand: Job well done, Sherman. He glanced skyward, the afternoon slipping past. No, it’s time to go to work. One job done today. More to do tomorrow. And sure as hell, Grant will want to talk about it.

  He turned the horse and moved back down the short hill, keeping to one side of the road until the last of the prisoners went by. The camps were coming together quickly, tents spread across an open field, one more message he hoped the prisoners absorbed. We didn’t just chase you away from your guns. We took this whole damn place. It is ours. He moved the horse into deep grass, saw more flags, larger tents that would house the regimental commander, the staffs, and his own, some of the men whose jobs were only beginning. He saw them now, jabbed the horse with the spurs, a short gallop toward a cluster of officers. He wiped away his smile, but the energy was still there, and he always enjoyed that moment, making a hard ride straight into a conversation, or even an argument that they might not want him to hear. The talk was animated, but there was no hostility, the men too familiar with the new duty that had suddenly fallen into their laps. Sherman halted the horse, nearly collided with his own color bearer, who was scrambling to keep up. Sherman caught the eyes of Condit Smith, his quartermaster.

  “Colonel … everything going smoothly?”

  “My men are awaiting the boats, sir. There will be much to do, and we shall accomplish that as quickly as possible. I am well aware that the army requires our services more now than at any time in a while. We shall get the job done, sir. Colonel Macfeely and I are just going over the logistical arrangements, setting up the storage depots. We have already received a message from the supply boats that by tonight, we might begin transfer of goods from boat to land.”

  Smith’s businesslike efficiency was betrayed for a brief second by a short, satisfied nod, and Sherman realized that his quartermaster was very pleased with himself. About damn time, he thought. After a month of shouting at wagon masters, you might actually have something to do.

  “Fine, Colonel. Put your men to good use. The army could use some new supplies.” He looked at his commissary officer. “Colonel Macfeely, I want the men fed as rapidly as possible. I want commissary wagons on the road tonight, and rations distributed with all haste.”

  Macfeely seemed to share Smith’s good spirits, a clipped salute, unnecessary, but Sherman returned it as Macfeely said, “It will happen as you order it, sir. This army will once more have the victuals intended for them.”

  Sherman absorbed that.

  “Well, Colonel, I’m not sure that will help morale. But at least we don’t have to rely on jayhawking these plantations anymore. Living off the land is one thing. Eating that land is something else.”

  He turned the horse, knew Macfeely wouldn’t get the joke. Yes, we’ll have rations, finally. But these men have spent a month feeding at the breast of Southern plantations. I’ll give the damn rebels one thing: They know how to grow food, though maybe not what we need to keep an army in the field. Never seen so damn much molasses and salt ham in my life.

  Macfeely called after him.

  “We made the coffee a priority, sir. There should be a considerable supply reaching us by midnight.” Macfeely paused as Sherman halted the horse. “Thought you would want to know that, sir.”

  Sherman didn’t look back, kept the smile tight inside. Yep, he got the joke after all. Rebels might fatten us up with sugar and cornmeal, but they don’t know a damn thing about coffee.

  He rode back into the road, the prisoners long gone now, other horsemen moving in both directions, the cavalry, some of them the Iowans who had done the good work with the rebel cannon. He saw their commander, Swan, who shifted directions, approached him, a formal salute.

  “General, we are moving the last of the rebels back t
o the temporary stockade. Your provosts have them now. I’m not sure yet what to do about the hospital. Best we leave it … unless you prefer otherwise.”

  “What hospital?”

  “Oh, sir, I thought you knew. The rebs mostly retreated without giving us much of a scrap, but they left behind a whole load of wounded men. Some of ’em had been there a while. It’s a pretty nasty place, sir. I’ve got my own doctor there, and if it’s possible, I would appreciate some assistance there. There are rebel doctors there, and they’re still willing to help out, certainly.”

  Sherman hadn’t really expected that.

  “I suppose they intended to hold to these bluffs for a while,” he said. “I would have moved all those people into Vicksburg.” He paused, a new thought. “Any of our people there?”

  “Not that I saw, sir. I did look. It has been a while since our last encounter up this way. Any prisoners they had would probably be … gone.”

  “Well, Colonel, if any of my boys made it out of that place alive, they’ll most likely be in Vicksburg. Something to look forward to.”

  “Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir.”

  He could see Swan moving in the saddle, the impatience of a good officer.

  “You did fine work today, Colonel. See to your men.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Swan saluted once more, was quickly gone, a squad of his cavalry waiting for him farther down the road. He knows, Sherman thought. He knows exactly what his men did here, and why this place is so damn important. And how much I appreciate it.

  FOUR MILES NORTHEAST OF VICKSBURG

  MAY 18, 1863

  Early that morning, Grant had ridden with him, the two of them crossing the Big Black together, but throughout most of the morning, Grant had spent more time putting the orders together, pushing each of his corps commanders where he wanted them to be. The rebels were on the run, a hard retreat toward Vicksburg, and if there wasn’t to be another fight this day, at least the rebels had to be pursued.