by Jeff Shaara
Martin’s enthusiasm seemed forced, counterfeit, a direct contrast to the posture of John Bowen. Bowen was staring down, seemed preoccupied, one finger rubbing dull black leather on one boot. Pemberton wanted to say something, offer some encouragement to the one man whose troops had borne the lion’s share of the fighting, but Pemberton couldn’t muster the kind of energy Martin had shown. Bowen looked up now, glanced at the others, seemed to avoid Stevenson, one more piece of the tedious personality conflicts Pemberton had tried to ignore.
“We are in reserve,” Bowen said, “as you ordered. My men require time. There are a great many men not fit. I want everyone in this room to know in absolute terms the duty performed by my division. I will not boast of great accomplishments … only of sacrifice. A great many good men … my men … have made that sacrifice. They will do so again if called upon. But there are morale problems.…”
Bowen stopped abruptly, looked down again, and Pemberton said, “Thank you, General. We are all aware of the valuable service performed by your command. God willing, your men shall have time to regain their fighting spirit.…”
“They do not lack for spirit! They lack for … leadership. The talk is ugly and indiscreet, and for that, I am to blame.”
The outburst silenced Pemberton, the fire in Bowen’s eyes as much anger toward him as the enemy. Pemberton fought to find words, thought, He does not believe that. His men would not find any blame with him.
The others stirred slightly, uncomfortable with Bowen’s anger, and Pemberton knew that every one of them recognized where the blame would lie. After an awkward silence, Pemberton said, “Had General Loring—”
Bowen seemed to erupt.
“This is not General Loring’s fault! I should have liked him in this room, yes. He should be in this room. I should have liked him to obey your orders and attend to his duties as a part of this army. But we cannot change what is. Perhaps General Loring will ride to our rescue after all. Is that not what we are hoping … all of us? We are outgunned here. The enemy has every advantage except the ditches we dig. This is not Fort Donelson. There is no convenient avenue of escape the enemy has left open for us. In a very short time, we shall be surrounded by gunboats and bluecoat infantry, and they will have the advantage of resupply and reinforcement. Our best hope lies in the willingness of General Johnston to come to our aid with a vigorous advance. Is that not perfectly clear to you all?”
Pemberton closed his eyes for a brief moment, blinked them open, felt himself sagging at the shoulders.
“General Johnston does not seem compelled to assist this effort.” He paused. “General Bowen, at this moment, we have only our duty to concern us. That duty is to defend this town against the enemy. I am supremely hopeful that if General Johnston should see his way to join us, he could very well strike a blow that will force General Grant to rethink his strategies.” He paused again. “I would welcome any suggestions how we may persuade General Johnston to do that.”
Bowen looked up at him, a searing glare, the man’s face showing a hint of gray, a flicker of illness. Bowen said, “Have you … asked him?”
The room shook, a hard rumble beneath his feet, and Forney said, “The enemy has begun this afternoon’s parade. It has become annoyingly predictable, and rather consistent in the timing. Perhaps we can make use of that to set our watches.”
Pemberton did not smile, waited for more, the incoming artillery dropping down, whistling past with the usual variety of sounds, one high scream passing directly over the house. The officers began to move, and Pemberton knew they would all be eager to return to their commands.
“Gentlemen, please. There is a purpose to this council … beyond the reading of General Johnston’s unfortunate dismissal of my strategy. I must know if you are in agreement … that this course is the proper one. Yes, I will beseech General Johnston to bring his army to us. But I would hope that I might inform the general that we are here in agreement, that this place must be held. This army is prepared to fight the enemy … of that I am certain. Are all of you? There is no mistaking that General Johnston is ordering us to abandon this place. That … I cannot do.”
Bowen stood slowly, weakness in his legs. He glanced at the others, heads nodding, and Bowen said, “We are here, are we not? If we did not choose to follow your command, then we should have followed after General Loring.”
The opinion was unanimously expressed by the council of war that it is impossible to withdraw the Army from this position with such morale and matériel to be of further service to the Confederacy. I have decided to hold Vicksburg as long as possible, with the firm hope that the government may yet be able to assist me in keeping this obstruction to the free navigation of the Mississippi River. I still conceive it to be the most important point of the Confederacy.
He reread the letter, Waddy standing tall above him.
“This is adequate. I shall also prepare a communication for the president. He must be informed what has happened … why it has happened.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
Pemberton sat back, pushed through an aching stiffness in his shoulders.
“I mean that my influence with General Johnston lacks any gravity at all. General Bowen is correct that we must hope for General Johnston to come to our assistance. But I cannot expect such a thing just by requesting it. Perhaps the president can persuade the general on what course he should follow.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Pemberton looked up at Waddy, who reacted by standing stiffly.
“Such formality is not necessary, Colonel. I regard you as something of a friend.”
Waddy remained stiff, stared ahead, as though Pemberton were grading him.
“Thank you, sir.”
Pemberton dropped his gaze and stared at the desk.
“So, are you of the opinion of so many others … that I have sold this town to General Grant?”
Waddy reacted now, the formality swept away.
“Oh my, no, sir. Not at all.”
“There is talk, you know. A great deal of talk. Bowen’s division … the citizens.”
“Yes, sir, I have heard such things. I have ordered the staff to do away with any such slanderous chatter, to silence it with great vigor.”
“Kind of you, Colonel. But I cannot change anyone’s opinion of my actions, unless I first give them a change of results.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pemberton stared at the papers in front of him, an accounting of goods, rations and ammunition, most of it prepared by Waddy himself, some from the commissary and ordnance officers.
“It seems that we are greatly in need of percussion caps, Colonel.”
“Yes, sir. That is a primary task. I have ordered … operations in that area to be undertaken with extreme effort, sir.”
Pemberton swallowed the word. Operations, an army euphemism for smuggling.
“Dangerous work. The enemy will give those men no quarter. Anyone caught bringing any matériel into this place will likely be regarded as a spy. Any rations will be confiscated, certainly, but not even the enemy would punish the hungry. Ammunition, powder, caps … very different affair. Men will be shot for that.”
“Then they should not be captured, sir.”
Simple logic, he thought. The certainty of the young.
“Very well, Colonel. Have my letter sent to General Johnston by whatever means is required. At least three copies.”
“Right away, sir.”
Waddy took the paper, folded it carefully, and moved out of the room. Pemberton sipped the tea, weak, the water bitter. He heard noises, looked to the door, the house’s owner, Cowan, a thin, frail man, his hat clasped in both hands at his stomach. Behind the man, Lockett appeared, the civilian giving way with a bow, Lockett pausing, always proper protocol.
“Come in, Major.”
Lockett stepped closer, boots on the wooden floor, and now the civilian was there as well, stood close beside Lockett, the engineer puzzled, looking
down at the small man with the obvious question in his mind. The civilian spoke first, pointing to the teacup.
“I regret, General, that I can do no better. The supply boats have stopped completely. Well, you know that, of course. I shall endeavor to locate more luxury items for your headquarters, honored as I am you would choose my humble residence.”
The man scurried away, was gone quickly without any response from Pemberton. Pemberton looked at Lockett and shook his head.
“I wish that man would stop issuing me apologies. This home is most adequate for our needs. I must remember that these people are not army. They do not respect our ways of doing things. This is never easy, forcing ourselves into anyone’s home. But luxuries … I cannot just order anyone here to provide for me.”
Lockett held a thick sheaf of papers, was studying a diagram of some kind of structure, his attention more on the drawings. He looked toward Pemberton, as though just realizing Pemberton was addressing him.
“Oh … well, yes, sir. Actually, you can order them to do anything you wish. Most likely they will obey. The army is all that stands between them and the enemy, and they most certainly know that. And the army is … you.”
Pemberton stared at Lockett, saw calm logic on the man’s face, the mind of an engineer exercising perfect clarity.
“It is not that simple, Major. Every town is the same. These people never seem to grasp what we are doing here, how crucial this operation is. I have heard a great deal of complaining as to how their lives have been inconvenienced by this war, by our arrival in their midst. I suspect, should General Grant have taken up residence here, they would treat him with as little regard as they do me.”
Lockett looked at him now, no humor in the man, and Pemberton knew that Lockett had heard the same grousing, the angry suggestions that just by his birthright, Pemberton was surely a traitor. Pemberton shook his head.
“Yes, yes,” Pemberton said. “I did not bring them victories. I should be condemned for that, I suppose. That is, after all, what civilians expect of us.”
“Yes, sir. I suppose.” Lockett looked to the drawings in his hand again, then seemed to snap to attention.
“Oh, sir, the reason for my visit … I wish to report that the river batteries are in fine condition, fully stocked with ammunition. There are reports … and I did observe myself, that the number of enemy gunboats has increased at their bases upriver, and that there is definitely movement into the Yazoo River. The enemy no doubt is targeting Yazoo City as a means of protecting his flanks. It is of course a wise precaution. Unfortunately, there is little we can do to alter that course. According to your Major Memminger, all supplies that could be brought into the town from the bluffs are now … here.”
“I am more concerned with your opinion as to the strength of our defensive lines.”
“As strong as they can be, sir, given the time and manpower we had available. Most of the main works are fronted by exterior ditches six to ten feet deep. There are ramparts and parapets for the infantry, and at last count, I recorded one hundred and two artillery pieces ready for service. We are even now cutting timber to create abatis in the exterior trenches. I have also suggested the use of surplus telegraph wire as further entanglement.”
Pemberton couldn’t help feeling impressed, at this man who did his job without complaints. He leaned forward, arms on the desk, tapped his fingers, nervous energy.
“So, there it is, Major.”
“Sir?”
“The enemy is moving up, will no doubt put his people in direct opposition to our entrenchments. Do we know their disposition?”
“I know that Sherman is to the north, closest to the river. But my attentions have been focused mostly on the labor. Much remains to be done. Should the enemy target the entrenchments with their artillery, I have ordered that the men seek protection whenever necessary.”
Pemberton nodded slowly, stared at the teacup.
“Sherman shall make it necessary, Major. The others. Very soon. Grant will see it so.”
THREE MILES EAST OF VICKSBURG
MAY 19, 1863
The march had ended at dusk the evening before, the men filing into yet another open field. But this time there was tension in the officers, orders firm and quiet, the men pushed out into lines that kept them facing westward. To either side of them, other units were doing the same, and immediately the wagons had come forward, but not with rations. It was shovels, axes, and other tools, everything an army would need to prepare defensive positions. There was grumbling about that, too many memories of the Louisiana swamps, mud and snakes. But the shovels were mostly for artillery, big guns rolled into positions not too far behind the camps of the infantry. Across the narrow road, all down through thickets and cuts, dense brush and patches of open ground, the infantry prepared for whatever rest they could find by keeping to lines that resembled a human wall, guarding against some surprise the rebels might suddenly throw at them. The regimental commanders were vigilant, staff officers moving quickly through the darkness, assured that each unit had bonded its flank to other units who did the same on down the line. The flank of McPherson’s corps was anchored on the right, to the north, by Sherman, on the south by McClernand.
All through the night more of them came forward, filing into place, led by staff officers who knew the geography, and most important of all, who knew just where the enemy had gone, and where he should be right now. More artillery came, too, teams of horses pulling forward the caissons and limbers, their crews ordered to dig the guns into the earth, as much cover as the shovels could offer. The work went on all night, the steady thumps of axes bringing down trees, widening roads, opening up fields of fire. When the dawn came, there were a few campfires, mostly deep in the gullies, the smoke drifting out in a gray haze, not precise enough to offer any rebel artillery battery a target. But the camp wagons with the precious food stayed back, and so breakfast came from the backpacks, those men who still had hardtack sharing it with those who had eaten all they had on the march the day before. There was water now, small creeks where commissary officers filled buckets, but it was no better than most of what they had had to drink for the past month. Still, the canteens were filled, and for the first time in weeks there was an unspoken sense that the march had ended. The dark, rolling ground around Bauer was becoming much more than the usual roadside camp. Wherever they were supposed to be, they had arrived.
“Whoeee, lookee there! They’re burning down the whole place!”
It was the loudest voice Bauer had heard in a while, and he peered from under his cap, sat up, could see men climbing the steep sandy hillside for a better view, pulled himself up and followed them to the crest of the ridge. The sun had set hours before, a glorious orange reflection that had outlined a scattering of farmhouses back behind the rebel earthworks. But now the glow had returned, reflected across the faces of the men who rose up to stare, mostly silent, curious, baffled. The fires offered a silhouette of mounds of distant earthworks, some of that natural, some man-made, but they were too far away to see any real details. Out front of the ridgelines, trees were being cut by the sappers, the men with axes, instructed by the engineers, and Bauer had seen that before. The ground was being prepared. But the fires they saw now were more distant, closer to the town, possibly in the town itself.
For a larger version of this map, click here.
Bauer stared, fixed, and said in a low voice, “They burning down their own town?”
Kelly was beside him, standing tall, waving his hat.
“You betcha! They heard what old Sherman done to Jackson, and they’s gonna save us the trouble!”
Finley was there, behind Kelly.
“What do you know about Jackson?” he asked.
Kelly ignored the tone of the sergeant’s question, said, “Old Sherman burnt it to the ground! Hell, Sergeant, we all heard about that. You could see the smoke from miles away! Didn’t take no cavalry scout to spread that word. Now, lookee here! It’s happening again,
and we ain’t even had a chance to do nothing! Phooey! I was hopin’ we were finally gonna get our chance!”
Finley stood up taller, stared out with the others, his haranguing of Kelly silenced by the spectacle.
“Be damned. Maybe that’s what they’s doing. Well, for the love of Mike! We’re not gonna get a chance to do nothing! Not a damn thing! Stinkin’ low-life secesh done taken all the fun out of this here war!”
More men were climbing up, and Bauer glanced to the side, a sea of faces, some across the road, men from other units. Behind him, a hand on his shoulder, the man pulling himself up, a harsh hiss of a familiar voice: Willis.
“Get your damn heads down! Back down here! This ain’t some damn parade! You’d think you were gawking at dancing girls! The rebs are burning down houses, clearing their own field of fire. That’s all! According to the colonel, they been doing it for a couple days now. You think that’s so damn exciting? It means they’ll have a better shot at you when we move that way.”
Bauer thought of that, a slight shudder, didn’t want to imagine anyone out there with a better field of fire. He tried to make out details, but the fires were too spread out, parts of the field nothing but a glow of orange. Above him came the sharp sound of a bee, but it wasn’t a bee, and he flinched, stared out still at the fires, more buzzing, a crack close past his ear. High above, a streak of fire, the blast coming down behind, in the low ground, another out to one side, more artillery shells coming down farther away, and Willis shouted now, “Get down! They’re shooting at you! You’re targets, you stupid micks!”
Bauer squatted down, slid off the embankment, blinded from the firelight, let gravity pull him back down to the flatter ground. The others were doing the same, reacting to the sound of the musket balls. The artillery shells were few and scattered, but they added punctuation to Willis’s warning, and a new fear took hold in some of the men, some falling past Bauer, tripping over one another, a sharp cry of panic from one man who screamed as he tumbled and ran past. Most of the men just stopped in the low ground, but some were yelling out with the terror of what they couldn’t see, one artillery shell bursting in the darkness a few yards behind them, dirt and brush tossed through the men, adding to the fear. Finley was down now, calling out with more volume than Willis, “Hang here! It ain’t bloomin’ banshees! They’s not coming after ye! Just sit tight! It’s just rebel pickets!”
