by Jeff Shaara
Rawlins appeared as he always did, as though perched just outside with the doorknob in his hand.
“Sir?”
“Have orders prepared for each of these men, and have those orders issued to all independent commands. Have Cadwallader and Secretary Dana informed as well.” Grant looked back toward Sherman, the other two. “There is to be no confusion about this, any of you. You will all meet with me here well before reveille on the twenty-second, to align our timepieces. No one shall have the excuse of a delay, or a lack of preparation. Or the excuse that his watch stopped. You may return to your commands and begin preparations.”
Sherman smiled, knew it was rare for Grant to show this kind of fire. He stood, the others as well, and Rawlins was already out the door, orders issued to the staff, men going into motion all through Grant’s modest headquarters. Sherman hesitated, but there was nothing more to say, even McClernand grasping that this meeting was not for any kind of discussion.
Sherman stepped outside, a cloudy, cool morning, the sun just over the trees to the east. He moved to his horse, two of his staff officers already mounted, an aide offering him the reins. Sherman climbed up, slapped the horse with energetic affection, and said in a low voice, “Two days. In two days we shall settle this thing.”
VICKSBURG
MAY 20, 1863
She had insisted on staying in her home, but her neighbors, the Cordrays, would have none of that. Already, that family’s terrifying ride in from the Big Black River had given them all the incentive they needed to move quickly down away from the streets, to a sloping hillside where many other families were already finding shelter. The first to seek safety in the various low places, the caves and deep ravines, had endured ridicule, but no one scoffed at them now. As she rode in the Cordrays’ carriage down the narrow trail, Lucy couldn’t help noticing the old men moving that way as well, those same big talkers who held court on Sky Parlor Hill, as eager as their women to seek the safety of a hole in the ground. Lucy had no means to provide a shelter for herself alone, and so the Cordrays had made every accommodation for her, the girl grateful for their care, even if they seemed to think she couldn’t survive on her own at all. She swallowed that with the same effort it took to walk away from her home, leaving behind all of her family’s treasures. If there was to be looting, so many homes now unoccupied, it would have to come from the people of the town, or perhaps some miscreant soldier, and Lucy had to believe that there was decency in these people. Even the soldiers, the men willing to fight for the safety of the town, surely those men would guard not only the civilians, but also their precious homes.
The street where her house stood was not yet completely abandoned, some of the families determined to make a kind of defiant show. But Cordray had been convincing, had persuaded her that dying under a heap of rubble would do nothing at all to aid the efforts of the army. When they came for her, their wagon was heaped with all manner of things, glassware and portraits, and Lucy had marveled at the value placed on such things, as though a hole in the ground could somehow be made to feel like home. She took few things of her own, had never expected to be away for more than a few days. The Yankees launched their artillery barrages with far more frequency now, but there was little accuracy, and those who remained steadfastly in their houses seemed to surrender themselves to the Hand of Providence. If an enemy shell was to find them, it was simply meant to be. Lucy had a difficult time with that, would not just sit in her parlor praying that the Yankees obliterate someone else’s home instead of her own.
The most precious cargo in any of the wagons was of course the children, and already, word had spread that some of those had been victims, horrifying injuries from exploding shells, or the occasional impact that crushed down through a roof. Lucy hadn’t seen any seriously injured children, but for Mrs. Cordray, and any of the mothers who herded their young into the makeshift shelters, the rumors were serious indeed. As they reached the entrance to what appeared to be a brushy archway, Lucy had dismounted the carriage with more curiosity than fear. Not so Mrs. Cordray. There had been tears, a great many tears, and Mr. Cordray had been sternly persuasive with his wife that if the children were to survive this holocaust, they had to be sheltered inside the earth. Lucy had tried to comfort her friend, could see more than just a fear of cannon fire in the woman. The children had scampered into the cave with the innocence of adventure, no fear at all. But Lucy could feel shaking in Mrs. Cordray’s hands, a sweating terror of the cave itself, more fear there than from the bursting shells. It was her husband who had finally convinced her to go inside, by clawing back the brush that guarded the opening, clusters of bushes that served more as shade than protection from artillery. It seemed to work, Lucy as relieved as Cordray when the woman finally slipped inside, Lucy following closely behind. Almost immediately, Lucy understood her friend’s reluctance.
The cave itself had been hollowed out of a soft hillside, timbers placed overhead, supported by logs wedged vertically from the floor. Whether those supports would be effective, Lucy had no idea. But someone had gone to great effort to burrow out this musty place, what was now a gaping hole hollowed back into a hillside. Cordray had seemed satisfied, and there was some comfort in that, though Lucy didn’t really know if that show was meant more for his wife than for any knowledge he might have about the science of what lay over them. On all sides, the dirt walls were damp, and the muddiness of the floor had been planked over with pieces of flatboard, the kind of siding that sheathed the walls of many of the smaller homes in the town, those houses usually occupied by the town’s poorer citizens. She had wondered about that, if those homes had been dismantled to provide for these shelters, but very soon she realized that the caves were not just for those more affluent. All across the hillside were these same kinds of openings, some far more elaborate than others, some mere dugouts, offering space for a single man to crawl in out of harm’s way.
Her exploration of the Cordrays’ cave had been brief, all that was required. There was one separate room, dug farther into the hillside, a rag of a curtain partitioning it from the larger room. That would of course be the Cordrays’ sleeping area, an embarrassing reality to Lucy that she tried not to think about at all. Her own bed was a thin mattress, brought from her own home, covered with a thin sheet, a blanket rolled at one end. There was room for one trunk, holding a few articles of clothing, though Lucy had tossed together a variety of garments with no real idea what she would need. No one offered any idea how long they would remain in the caves, or how anyone would pass their time.
The children would sleep close to her, and she could not complain of that, knew she was a guest. The smells of the cave, the lack of privacy, the absurd notion that this was somehow a home at all seemed almost comical to her. But Cordray took it very seriously, sought ways to improve the cave without trespassing too deeply into the earthen space that might suddenly poke through into a neighbor’s shelter. The neighbors gathered frequently, assessing the quality of their sanctuaries, offering advice, and occasionally a helping hand. Lucy had volunteered for that as well, but Cordray refused. He seemed quite at ease treating her as merely another of his children.
With most of the artillery fire coming from the river, it had been something of a surprise when a new fight suddenly erupted out to the east. Lucy had wandered out to find some kind of vantage point, but the army’s entrenchments were nearly two miles inland, and her only view was of a distant, smoky haze. The men seemed to hang on every kind of sound, always explaining, picking out the specific kinds of shell fire, muskets and howitzers and long-range guns, arguments breaking out over what kind of fire they were hearing. Lucy tried to keep away from that kind of silliness, had heard too many “experts” up on Sky Parlor Hill. Even with the distant smoke, she wasn’t certain it was a battle at all, the rumbles and bursts sounding as much like some distant thunderstorm than anything of blood and death. But then the wounded came, hauled back toward the town in ambulance wagons, and many of the homes we
re quickly commandeered as hospitals. The ambulances had been a shock, but more, had dug something deep inside of her, a nagging urgency for her to do something more than sit in some damp, dirty hole.
The entrance to the cave faced southeast, away from the worst of the shelling from the river, but the ragged maw was aimed straight toward the army’s nearest defensive positions, soldiers and wagons moving in both directions with purpose, unsmiling men who rode their horses along the farm trails that wound past the caves, few of them paying any attention to the curious and nervous civilians.
The artillery fire had grown quiet, a pause that she knew might be very short. With the sunrise, she had stepped outside, twisting and straightening the tightness in her back, the inevitable discomfort of the makeshift bed. There had been something of breakfast, the magnificent smell of cooking meat in the cave next door, their neighbor, a man Cordray knew well, offering to share his bounty with Cordray’s family. Lucy had accepted willingly, had enjoyed a thick slice of dark bread soaked in some kind of grease, a meal completely alien to her, but after a night in the wet cave, she had gulped down the doughy feast without any embarrassment for the drool down her chin. Now the bread had seemed to gather itself into a solid lump inside her, and no chamber pot could mask the embarrassment of that.
She sat on a small wooden chair, one of the treasures brought out from the Cordray home, the only piece of real furniture they had. Behind her she could hear the children in the cave, playful, chirping laughter, and now they rushed past her, into the first sunlight, pursued by their mother, and close behind them all, the old hound dog that belonged to the Cordrays’ lone servant, James.
“Ezekiel, you come here! Now! Hilda, bring your brother back here right now!”
Mrs. Cordray stood beside Lucy with her hands on her hips, the children only reluctantly obeying.
“This won’t do, Lucy. I cannot impart to them the seriousness of this. Their father doesn’t even make the effort. He and the rest of the men in this infernal place seem to believe they can solve every problem the soldiers have if they just smoke their tobacco and argue all hours of the day. If we had spirits down here, I’m quite certain they would happily imbibe. It would only add to their wisdom.”
Lucy stood, the children responding more to her than to their mother, a torrent of giggles as the girl tried to pick the younger boy up, a playful game, the hound scampering around them, barking all the while. Lucy moved out to them, the dog breaking away, sliding up toward Lucy on its stomach, the usual request for attention.
She reached down, rubbed the animal’s ears, and said to the children, “You two … listen to your mama. It’s best you go inside now.”
Behind her, Isabel Cordray repeated her own command.
“Now! Inside!”
The children moved past, wearing the inevitable pouts. The dog kept close to Lucy, content now to sit beside the chair. Lucy stretched her back again and said, “It will take some time, Isabel. This is just playtime for them. Sleeping in the outdoors. I heard one of the men down the way telling a gathering of children some story about bears.”
“Oh, yes, that’s just fine. Those children won’t sleep a minute.” She paused, and Lucy could see the sadness, the woman glancing down. “Lucy, I don’t know what this is about. I don’t know why the Yankees hate us so. I had never even seen a cannon before this war.… The shell fire sounds like all the world is coming to an end. Where is the Almighty in this? The men … my husband seems to believe this is all so … necessary. Is that what God believes? We must kill those men before they do the same to us? This is madness, Lucy. Utter madness. I am living in a hole of dirt, while my home endures the violation of a war I do not want.”
She was crying now, silent tears on her cheeks, and Lucy felt helpless.
“I don’t understand it, Isabel. Not at all. But there are a great many in this country who believe in what we’re doing. Intelligent people, worldly people. Some of our soldiers … the generals … they are educated men. They fight to protect us from a great evil. That’s what I know. That’s what I’ve heard.”
“Look at us, Lucy. Look where we are, what we are doing. There is evil right here, an abomination. God did not intend His children to abide in holes of dirt. When I’m in there, I feel the very earth squeezing into me, swallowing me. I am terrified, Lucy. This awful place … it is no more than a tomb. The men tell us with great assurance that we are now safe. Yet we make our homes now in what could be our very graves.”
Lucy felt the weight of Isabel’s gloom, had no response, couldn’t offer the bland confidence of the men who seemed to know so much. Isabel turned, wiping at her face with a handkerchief, then stared at it for a long moment.
“Are we unable even to cleanse our clothing? My handkerchief is already soiled, and I have no other with me. My husband has forbidden me to return to our home. He tells me we must make do. He tells me this will allow us to feel sympathy for our soldiers, that by our sacrifice, we support their quest for victory. Tell me, Lucy, how is my filthy hand-kerchief helping this war?”
She moved to the entrance of the cave, halted, and drew a long breath.
“Please keep that dog outside. It is unpleasant enough without … that.”
Lucy put one hand down on the dog, who seemed perfectly content to remain by her side. She stared out across the hillside, saw more children, a chase in progress down the hill, joyous screams, one more angry mother calling out. More soldiers came past now, moving quickly along a ridgeline, the wider trail that led out east. She watched them, saw an officer, couldn’t avoid thinking of her young lieutenant, wondered if he could soothe Isabel’s despair, if he had answers to so many of the doubts, the fears. Or, she thought, perhaps he is just a good soldier, doing what he is told, what his duty calls for him to do. Perhaps that is what they all do. But then … where does that begin? Who decides to make this happen, and who will decide to make it end? And how long must we live in … dirt?
She returned to the small chair, leaned it back against a stout timber that framed the entranceway. Beside her, the hound rolled over on its back, silently begging for attention. She obliged, one hand rubbing the animal’s stomach, still stared out to the east, the sun high over the trees now. She wanted to climb up again, to walk along the ridgeline, and see if there was anything new to see. More officers rode past, high up on the next ridge, one of them slowing his horse, looking her way, and she caught his gaze, turned away abruptly. Don’t shame yourself by appearing flirtatious. My goodness, look at you anyway! She held up her dress at the knees, smears of dirt along the hem, thought of Mrs. Cordray. No, there shall be no laundry day down here. There is a creek deep in the ravine. We must make do, if it comes to that. She laughed. So, you would wash your undergarments in full view of anyone who passes? Have you no shame? She rocked the chair forward, couldn’t fight the angry feeling of pure boredom. This is how we fight a war. Well, then, victory is certain.
The sun had set a half hour before, and she had returned once more to the small chair, slapped at mosquitoes that whined around her face. For most of the day, the mortars had come as they seemed always to come, thunderous blasts in every part of the town: beyond, upriver, and down. The dark brought its own entertainment from the shelling, not merely the high screams and massive blasts that shook the ground. She understood now that Cordray had chosen his cave well, facing away from the river, far less likely to be struck by the haphazard impact of the iron ball. She had heard much of that kind of talk, that the earth was the best protection of all, that no mortar shell could penetrate several feet of solid ground above them. Yet with each blast, Lucy felt the trembling, as though the entire hillside absorbed the punch with a ripple that spread like pond water, expanding outward, until the sounds and the shaking drifted away. Inside the cave, the shells that landed close by brought dirt down from the ceiling, and so, despite the linens and the blankets and the covering on the earthen floor, the shower of dirt was a reminder even to the children that this was
a brutal necessity, not some family outing.
She stared up, the stars clear and bright, and waited for the next mortar round to cut across the sky. She didn’t have to wait long. It rose up from well beyond Sky Parlor Hill, the slight scream audible now, the red streak falling far to the right, the impact muted by the lay of the land. More came, ribbons of red, hanging high above even as the shell fell away, the fiery streak fading slowly, then disappearing, only to be replaced by another, then many more. The dogs responded now, always, the howls adding to the chorus from the sky. She had learned to ignore that, focused on the shells, made a game of it, tried to guess where the next one would come, if it bore in straight across the river, or came from the north. But the game was frustrating, the numbers increasing, no guesswork to it at all.
She saw it now, one of the shells bursting high above, exploding into a spray of fiery stars. She jumped, delighted, the stars falling away like golden rain, fading quickly. She waited for another, felt childlike, saw another burst far downriver, waited for the telltale thump, thought of the grand fireworks show, July Fourth, years before, a child’s marveling at the science of explosives. She felt that way now, a joyful glee with every new starburst, framed by more streaks of red. There was coolness in the air, and she heard an owl in the distance, the night sounds not quite wiped away by the artillery. There was the high-pitched scream of a new shell, much closer, and she stared up, the shell bursting nearly straight overhead, glorious and perfect, the child’s voice in her uncontained.
“Oh my goodness. How beautiful.”
She didn’t expect a response, but the Cordrays’ servant was there, standing off to one side, gazing out, as she was.
“Ah reckon ’tis, Miss Lucy. Don’t do for nobody to be’s out thataways, that’s for certain. Cuts a man in pieces.”
