A Chain of Thunder

by Jeff Shaara

  Sherman absorbed that, thought, Shove a ditch? Grant was animated now, angry, his hands in motion, something Sherman had rarely seen.

  “Engineering, Sherman! Figure it out.” Grant paused, seemed to take control, calming himself. “We tried my way. Now we’ll take what Pemberton’s giving us. He likes dirt piles … we’ll give him dirt piles.” Grant stared out to the east now. “One more thing. Pull some of your people away from the heights up north. There’s no threat to us there, and Porter’s got plenty of naval guns near Yazoo City. Send some of your people out to the Big Black. We built three nice strong bridges over that stream, and I’m guessing Joe Johnston might find them useful. Until we know where he is, and what he’s doing, let’s not get caught pointing all our guns the wrong way.”

  ONE MILE EAST OF VICKSBURG

  MAY 23, 1863

  The quiet from the Yankee guns had been a surprise, and Lucy had emerged from the cave as though testing whether the silence was real or just some odd illusion caused by the damp earth around them. Since before dawn, the rain had been steady and light, and for the first time, it had occurred to Lucy that a downpour might be as dangerous as Yankee artillery. The greatest threat so far was the direct overhead impact from one of the massive mortar shells, a couple hundred pounds of solid steel that would most likely crush through most of the caves. But the rain could do its damage slowly, oozing mud that could cause a sudden collapse, burying anyone inside just as effectively as a Yankee shell. If Lucy was philosophical about that, careful to observe any signs of loosening mud, the thought had burst upon Isabel Cordray like a bolt of lightning. Lucy had done as much as she could to calm the woman, Cordray straining his patience with his wife’s manic fears, none of which helped the mood of the children. With the Yankees seeming to hold off on their shelling, Mrs. Cordray had taken full advantage, had done what many of the others around them had done, using the peace, no matter how brief it might be, to hurry back to their homes. Cordray had accompanied his wife in their carriage, the children going as well. But Lucy would remain, her own choice, protecting whatever belongings the Cordrays had brought to their dirt shelter, presumably protecting the shelter itself from an unwanted occupant. That task had been given her by Cordray himself, though he didn’t specify just what she should do if some vagabond decided to move in.

  Cordray had assured Lucy that their return would be hasty, that his intention was to load the carriage with practical necessities left behind the first time around. That first day, the threat of artillery shells had inspired far more panic than reason, and already those who had little faith in any kind of lasting peace were making the journey back to the caves laden with all manner of household goods. Lucy watched them with curiosity, women hauling carpetbags, presumably stuffed with every type of feminine necessity, from brushes to dressing mirrors to fresh garments of all kinds. The men seemed to have a far greater grasp on the useful, and so they made the pilgrimage back to their caves carrying sacks of flour and cornmeal, kitchen utensils and hand tools.

  The rain seemed relentless, though not the kind of violent storm that came so often in the summer. She kept to the small chair, just inside the cave’s entrance, sheltered from the steady drizzle, wondered about the servant, James, had seen little of him or his dog, Rufus, since the opportunity had come for paid labor. The cluster of caves on this particular hillside was one of many, and Lucy had been surprised by the sheer number of people who had escaped their fears by moving down into the ravines and thickets, could see legions of black men providing most of the labor, while in every open field children were scampering about, most of them oblivious to the reasons for this strange adventure.

  Lucy had made a journey out toward the camps, inspired by the meager fantasy that she might find her young lieutenant. Already she had been given a route to follow, a friendly officer on horseback pointing out the direction of the 3rd Louisiana. But others had ridden past, and their cautions came, a trio of officers suggesting she might actually be a spy, Lucy not certain if they were serious or not. There was no menace in the men beyond a stern coaxing for her to return to where she came from. There was a hint of condescension as well, a suspicion that she might not be quite sane. If her lieutenant was indeed real, and if he was where he was supposed to be, there would be time enough for her to see him. Later. Lucy took their concerns seriously, but a new day brought new determination, her fantasy strengthening that somehow by going to the camps, she could offer some aid, perform some kind of womanly work that would help. If her lieutenant happened to learn of that, more the better. Despite the foolishness of it all, she still embraced the image, imagined the crisp uniform, the lieutenant standing tall as he ordered his men to perform their duties. The sounds of the first significant fight on the nineteenth had inspired her to see more, to learn just what was happening in a place where so many thousands of soldiers were supposed to stand facing one another. The other women who hovered near their caves regarded her hopes of visiting the soldiers as one more reason to doubt her chastity. Since she had assumed command of her family’s home in Vicksburg, she had endured enough sniping from the town’s biddies, and she ignored it now. But her questions remained, and Lucy knew that despite so much talk by those who claimed to know, she would have no idea what an army camp actually looked like, or what duties her lieutenant might actually be performing. It was impossible to imagine the sight of thousands of soldiers in one place, all those cannons, and out across the way, the enemy, men in blue. It was like some game, an absurd thing for men to do, like so many children, even Cordray’s little boy playing war, the other children as well, right now, on those hillsides not so far from where their own fathers might be making the fight.

  Cordray had returned to the cave without his family, the carriage parked alongside so many of the others on the road above them. Like the others, he carried all he could manage, a heavy sack of flour, and in his free hand, a pickax. Lucy had thought of helping, wondered how much more might still be in the carriage, but he moved past her quickly, unloading his burden deep in the cave. He emerged again, glanced up at the rain, and wiped his face with a dirty handkerchief.

  “She’s being stubborn. I can’t let her stay there. I just can’t. There was an officer on our street, a colonel, aide to General Pemberton, and he told me the fight yesterday was the worst he’d ever seen. But today the Yankees are sitting tight. But he warned us all that once the rain stops, they might attack our boys again. This calm … it won’t last. The Yankees took it awful bad, hundreds killed, he said. Our boys, too, not as many, but … well, look there.”

  He pointed up toward the road, two ambulances moving past a long row of parked civilian carriages. Cordray held the pickax up, as though he had some job in mind, and said, “I’ll retrieve the rest of the goods I brought.… No reason for you to soil your hands. Some of the sacks are heavy. Is James about?”

  Lucy looked at the crusted mud on her hands, dirty fingernails, small cuts from hauling brush for Cordray, the kind of work servants were doing for some of the others. It was an attempt to shield the cave’s opening, as though by building up a wall of sticks, they would be safe from the shelling.

  She shook her head.

  “No. I haven’t seen him. I assumed he was over the next hill. There is a great deal of labor there, new caves.”

  She tried to keep the edge out of her voice, knew she had to be grateful for Cordray’s hospitality. But her patience was gone, dragged away by the weather and the mud.

  “Well, all right. I’ll have to unhitch the mule myself. We’ve got to do a better job of this cave, Miss Spence. The Yankees are giving us some peace, and we must take advantage. It would be most helpful if you return to our home and convince Isabel to return. The officer was certain the Yankees would commence their fire at any time. She ought not have taken the children. I believe Hilda’s ailing. She’s feverish, it appears. Perhaps you can reason with my wife. I certainly cannot.”

  “Is it not safe, truly? I would rather be i
n my own home.”

  Cordray looked at her with a condescending shake of his head, the same look she had seen from the soldiers.

  “Child, there’s a shell crater directly beside your front door. Four feet deep, twice as wide. Mortar shell, no doubt. You’ve got one broken window, at least. I stuffed a tablecloth in the gap, and it’ll do for now. But you’ve got no business up there on your own. From what I can see, the houses on our street are empty, all of them. Except for mine. Confounded wife!” He turned quickly, moved back into the cave. “You can go to the carriage and wait for me. I’ll be along to fetch the rest of the things … food mostly. Some china and silver, anything to convince my wife that this infernal hole might yet resemble a home. You can drive a carriage, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, please go to my residence and see if you can persuade her to abandon this foolishness. I’d sling her over my shoulder, if I could.”

  He moved back inside, and she heard grunting, Cordray doing something with the pickax, and Lucy wiped the wetness from her face, her dress soaking, thought, Men and their talk. You sling Isabel anywhere, she’s liable to use that pickax on you.

  She watched more of their neighbors coming down the hill, more carriages halting along the roadway, men hauling all manner of goods, including furniture. Servants were there as well, one man leading a sway-backed cow on a loose rope. Well, she thought, at least there’s milk. Perhaps Mr. Cordray can trade his skill with the pickax for a cup for his ailing child. She thought of Hilda, the girl always sickly. Living in caves … who would not be sickly out here? And for how long? Is all of Vicksburg to move out here, become some underground village? It won’t be long before shopkeepers bring their wares out here.

  She was soaked from the rain, felt a chill, moved into the cave, retrieved a damp towel, wiped her face, did what she could to clean her hands. Cordray was far in the back, slinging the pickax, a pile of loose dirt building beside him. He glanced at her.

  “I’m constructing another room, space for a kitchen. If she can tend to her cooking, perhaps she’ll feel more at home here. No smoke, though. Can’t really have a fire in here. A few of us are going to build a fire pit the lot of us on this hill can use. If there’s still meat, we might actually be able to cook it. Though where we’ll get dry firewood on a day like this is a mystery. Damnable war!” He looked toward her again, then bowed his head. “My apologies, child. I’m afraid we are all being tested. Go on up to the carriage.… I’ll be right behind.”

  She moved back outside, trudged her way up the muddy hillside, climbing toward the crest of the hill, was wearying of being regarded as some sort of helpless damsel. She reached the narrow road, moved up close to the Cordrays’ carriage, the mule standing motionless in the rain. She patted the mule’s head, a friendly reflex, and immediately regretted it. Her hand was smeared with a stinking wetness, animal hair and sweat, nothing for her to do but … wipe it on her dress, one of two she had brought to the caves, the other already soaked through and smeared with dirt.

  The road skirted the crest of the hill eastward, and she saw a pair of wagons moving toward her, ambulances, splashing their way through the muddy potholes, the mules that drew them as muddy as the wagon wheels behind them. She kept behind the carriage, and the first ambulance halted, the driver waving to her with a flirtatious smile. She tried to ignore him, was suddenly aware of the sounds that poured out from inside. One man was talking, a manic jabbering, and the driver called out, “Crazy one, he is. Tetched by whatever struck him down. The others … well, they’s be just the usual.”

  The thought burst through her, that the opportunity might finally have come.

  “May I see?”

  The driver laughed, ignored her request, the ambulance moving again. The second one was there now, more sounds, a muffled crying, and the driver was nothing like the first, this one a brute of a man, thick black beard, hatless, and she fought through her first instinct to stay away from him. But her curiosity pushed her courage forward, and she called out, “Halt, please! May I look at the men? Might I assist?”

  The driver halted the wagon, appraised her, no smile, shrugged.

  “Look all yer want, missy. These ones not be lastin’ the night, I’m guessin’.”

  She moved out into the ruts, her foot plunging nearly knee-deep in a mud hole, one more piece of misery. She heard a chuckle from the driver, ignored that, went to the rear of the ambulance, pulled aside a filthy piece of canvas. Inside were four men, wedged in close together, one of them near naked, blood in a thick smear across his torso. The smell engulfed her, and she stepped back, gripped the canvas, steadying herself, her eyes fixed on the grotesque sight. One man was awake, saw her, his eyes wide, a dirty cloth around his neck, his mouth moving, small choking sounds. One hand rose up, reaching to her, curled fingers, pleading through whatever wound he had taken in his throat. Now another seemed to waken, his head tilting up, staring at her as she did to him, his head dropping back down, no strength in him, and she heard the man’s voice, soft tearful words.

  “Mama. Come get me, Mama.”

  The wagon suddenly lurched forward, the driver saying nothing, moving away, his own job to do. The canvas was snatched from her hand, and she stared with an open mouth, the smells still inside her, the sight of the blood, the man’s bare skin, the awful words. Behind her came another wagon, the ambulance moving toward her with the same slow gait of the mule. She stepped out of the road, her stockings soaked with the cold ooze from the mud, some force inside of her rising up, sickness, sadness, and a sudden burst of fury.

  “You! Where are you taking these men?”

  The man didn’t look at her, called out, “Hospital, miss. Up there a ways.”

  “Take me there, if you please.”

  The man halted the wagon, looked at her, no change of expression.

  “You got a husband up there?”

  “No, I just … want to help.”

  He stared at her for a long, silent moment, and she saw age, the eyes cold, as though the man had done this terrible job his entire life.

  “What you wanna do that for?”

  “I have done some nursing. These men need help. That’s all. I just want to do what I can.”

  “Who you belong to, anyways? Don’t want no trouble.”

  “I don’t belong to anyone. I’m Lucy Spence. I live in the town.”

  “Well then, Lucy Spence, if’n you don’t mind ridin’ up next to a feller like me, you climb on up here. You don’t want to be ridin’ back there, I promise ya.”

  She moved to the wooden step, raised her dress clear of the mud, the man watching with more interest than she cared to see. He reached out a hand, and she suddenly wished mightily for her gloves. But those were down in the cave, as soiled as anything she wore now. She grabbed his hand, stepped up, sat on the wooden plank, the man courteous enough to slide to one side.

  “All set, then?”

  “May we please go?”

  He slapped the mule with the leather straps, and she felt his leg bump hers, the touch curling her up inside. She felt paralyzed for a long moment, suddenly heard a voice, back by the carriage. It was Cordray.

  “Miss Spence!”

  She leaned out around the side of the covered ambulance, saw him waving both arms.

  “Where you off to? What are you doing?”

  “I’m sorry … I can’t tend to Isabel just now. I’ll be at the hospital. They need my help.”

  It was a grand mansion, perched on the crown of a hill, and across the sloping ground she could see most of Vicksburg. In the open yard a dozen tents were pitched, dull white canvas in two rows, and beside each, wounded men lying on litters, some on the wet ground.

  The driver halted the ambulance and said, “Here we go, miss. You sure you wanna …”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  She dropped down, saw now red liquid dripping down from beneath the floorboards, blending into the muddy ground. She felt the shock of t
hat, a brief stab of nausea, but the driver seemed not to notice her reaction, climbed down himself, waited for the approach of three men who emerged from the nearest tent.

  They moved at a methodical pace, stepping to the rear of the ambulance, no one in any kind of hurry. She joined them, saw stares, surprise.

  “Well, hello there, miss. You’d be a nurse?”

  She held the word for a long second, put on as much casualness as she could muster, had no more patience for condescension.

  “Yes. You a doctor?”

  The man pointed back toward the tents, and she saw a black hat perched up on a thick beard, the man coated in a bloody white smock. His head was down, and he plodded out to the ambulance.

  “Hold on there. Let’s make sure there’s any point to bringing them inside.”

  He seemed not to notice her, waited while the men slid the first wounded man out on a litter. She stepped back out of their way, saw that the wounded man had a black tourniquet tied around his thigh, his leg shattered below the knee, a shred of a bloody rag all that remained of his trousers. She looked away, the smell punching her, and she closed her eyes, forced herself to look again. The second man was out now, a gaping tear in his gut, the wound stuffed thick with bloody cloth, what had been the man’s shirt. She saw his face, very young, heard a whimper, tears on a blood-crusted face, and now, tears on her own. The doctor looked at her now, with cold, silent eyes, and said, “This one yours?”

  The question shocked her, but she studied the face, was suddenly terrified of the answer.

  “No … no. I’m here to help. I’ve done some nursing.”

  “Well, if you’re a nurse … you best be doin’ some nursin’. But not this one. He’s not gonna make it another hour.”