A Chain of Thunder

by Jeff Shaara

  “You don’t look none too friendly to me, Yank. This fightin’ and all … it offend you?”

  Bauer shook his head, still uneasy, felt a hand on his shoulder, Willis.

  “He’s happy as can be, boys. I recall we got a good look at your backsides at Shiloh. Of course, you got a good look at ours. His, in particular.”

  Bauer was stunned by the comment, but Willis got the response he was after, both rebels laughing out loud, Kelly joining in. Bauer tried to feel it, couldn’t escape the thought of the man’s bayonet. The man called Zep moved around behind Bauer, still laughing.

  “Yep, I recall that one. All I did was yell ‘snake,’ and off he went. Hee.”

  Willis slapped Bauer again, harder now, a message.

  Bauer lowered his head, played the part.

  “Yep. You got rattlesnakes in Tennessee big as cannon barrels.”

  “That we do, friend. Tie ’em together, they make dandy lassos. Made one my pet when I was a boy … after he ate my dog and all.”

  Both men broke into gales of laughter, Kelly as well, even Willis joining in. More men had gathered, small trades passing back and forth, trinkets and parcels, but Bauer had nothing in his pockets, didn’t see anything being passed around that appealed to him at all. The laughter and friendly jibes flowed out, much of it at his expense, and he forced himself to smile through it all, one of the rebels calling out, “Hey, Lieutenant! They got an officer over here!” He looked at Bauer with a wink. “You know these officers. Don’t matter what army they’s in, they gotta flock together. Like crappies in the wintertime.” He looked at Willis now, a mock stiffness. “Don’t mean no disrespect, sir.”

  Willis still seemed to flow along with the good humor.

  “Sure you do, Reb. That’s why you keep shooting at me.”

  “Hee. Well, yes, sir. You can say that.”

  The rebel officer moved closer, his uniform ripped at the side, smeared with dirt. He extended a hand toward Willis.

  “A lieutenant, then? As well, sir. James Gramling. Baton Rouge. My apologies for my appearance. One of your solid shot came right through my perfect little observation post back there. Dang soil in this part of Mississippi a little too soft for my taste.”

  Willis took the man’s hand.

  “I suppose that’s why you’ve piled up so much of it. We’ll just have to make our solid shot heavier.”

  “Ah, yes, very good. That’s the truth. I heard tell you’re Irishmen. You, sir, don’t sound like it.”

  “Most of the regiment … this ugly-looking fellow here is German. My family’s English.”

  “Well, there you go. Mine, too. See? That’s just one part of the foolishness of all this. We’re the same folks, you and me. How much longer you think this fight’ll last? After all, what are we really fighting about that can’t be solved by a good old-fashioned handshake.”

  “And maybe a duel or two.”

  The lieutenant laughed, pointed at Willis, then said to his men, “See? I told you. They’re not so different. It ain’t ever the soldier, is it, friend? Just the generals. Politics and all. It can’t last much longer, all this killing and such. Don’t you agree? I don’t imagine you’ll be wanting to stay out here in these sandy holes much longer. And when it’s done, we’ll be doing a whole lot more of this … right here. Swapping tobacco and talking about families. How long you figure on carrying this thing on, then?”

  Bauer caught something strange in the man’s question, a small voice in Bauer’s head. He’s asked us how long this is going to last … three times.

  Willis slapped Bauer on the back again, a brief, hard grip on Bauer’s shirt. Another message. Willis said, “Well, Lieutenant, I think this fight will go on as long as it has to. My commander tells me there’s rumors all over the army, yours and mine, that old Joe Johnston is riding hard to come right up our backside. Maybe that’s all it’ll take.”

  The lieutenant’s smile faded slightly, a clear glimmer of understanding.

  “Well, now, you know, you might be right about that. If old Joe does show up, well, you boys will be in a pretty sorry state, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Pretty sorry. Course, he doesn’t show up, we’ll be swapping tobacco and telling all our stories right back there.… What’s that place called? Vicksburg?”

  The lieutenant nodded, smiling broadly.

  “And so we shall. In all honesty, Lieutenant, you seem to be a man who has a grasp on things. And if two lieutenants can be having such wonderful repartee, just imagine what the generals could do.”

  Willis shook his head.

  “I have no idea what generals do. I have a job, and I do it. Try to get my boys to do the same.”

  “Well, sir, in that we are in agreement.” The man glanced up, the sky darkening quickly. “I suppose, very soon, we shall once again engage in that … um … job.”

  “Very soon. Perhaps I will see you in Vicksburg after all.”

  The man stopped smiling now, seemed to exhaust his artificial goodwill.

  “Sir, no insult intended to a fellow officer. But if it is my choice, I shall only meet you again in the presence of the Almighty.”

  “As you wish. I suppose we must still determine whose choice will govern matters.”

  The man did not respond, made a short bow, turned, moved out through his men. Bauer realized he was soaked in sweat. He stared at Willis and said in a whisper, “He was trying to learn things, find out information.”

  “That he was. Guess he figured General Grant’s gonna confide in me what our next move will be. Or maybe he just wanted to know how long it’s gonna take us to drive his rebel ass into the Mississippi River. Imbecile.”

  Voices were calling out, and Bauer saw hands waving, the colonel and Captain McDermott, gathering the men. Bauer heard rumbles now, and all across the field, the talking stopped. Heads were turning toward the sounds, to the west, toward the last glow of the setting sun. The thunder came from the town itself, and Willis said in a hiss, “Move away, Dutchie. Pass the word as you go. Nobody does anything unfriendly. Let’s just say our happy good nights.”

  Bauer was surprised to see Colonel McMahon now, a hint of urgency in his movements.

  “Lieutenant, pull your men back. Those are mortars. I guess the navy didn’t get the word. No trouble … just get these boys back home.”

  The colonel moved away quickly, more orders to the other officers, and Bauer saw the flow of blue-clad men backing away, the rebels doing the same, moving up into their defenses. He watched the astonishing spectacle, had to see it for one more minute, far into the distance, as far as the darkening sky would let him see. For nearly three hours, the two armies had come out of their holes and shared something of themselves, whether the swapping of precious goods, or just the teasing and taunting of opponents playing some kind of amazing game. He focused on the men from Louisiana, saw faces still looking out toward him, the one man, Zep, looking back at him with that maddening smile. Bauer was surprised, uncomfortable, had seen enough smiling. The man stood straight now, offered Bauer a salute, and Bauer managed a feeble wave, turned, wouldn’t see the man again, wouldn’t see the respect and the frivolity and the hints of casual friendship. He moved back through the dim light and saw Willis waiting for him.

  “Good thing, Dutchie. If you’d have saluted him, I’d have kicked you in the ass.”

  Bauer kept walking, his head down, Willis moving with him, calling to the others to keep in step. They passed by the rows of fresh earth, the smell of dirt and corpses blending together, the work of the burial parties complete. The men in blue flowed down into the shallow draw, then back up, no one speaking, the men filing quickly back to where they had been when the truce began. Bauer moved toward the fat stump that marked his hiding place, and Willis said, “Get your musket. Somebody else will take that position tomorrow. There’s got to be one Irishman in this lot who can shoot straight. Get something to eat.”

  Bauer stopped, stared down into the dug-out hole,
his musket lying upright to one side.

  “No. I want to do this again. Let me come out here tomorrow, Sammie.”

  “You sure about that? You sure you didn’t make ‘lifelong friends’ out there?”

  The sarcasm was heavy in Willis’s words, and Bauer ignored that, bent low, pulled his musket up, let it hang in one hand.

  “I’m sure.”

  They moved back toward the snaking entrenchments, down into the hollows and cut ground, a gathering mass of blue, the darkness covering them all. From back behind them, the first big gun erupted, then another, flashes of fire that burst out from the artillery pits, the hard scream of shells ripping the air close overhead, a long second for the impact against the great masses of earth and timber across the way, flashes of fire that swept away any thoughts of white flags.

  NORTH OF STOCKADE REDAN

  MAY 26, 1863

  The reporters came through with that look he knew too well, wide-eyed wonder, their ridiculous tactic for seeming only to seek some piece of dazzling information, tempting any soldier to reveal his own exploits, as though any of the reporters would write the man’s life story. Through it all Sherman saw the plot for what it was: men seeking the exclusive tidbit of information for their own newspaper. Naturally, any such prominence would be a direct dig into the pride of the other reporters who shared their camp, the ongoing competition that Sherman knew would produce stories in print that were far more fantastic than anything that occurred on the battlefield.

  They approached him warily, though the small, stocky man seemed without any fear at all. Around them, the artillery fire was bursting in a casual rhythm, big guns down to one side working now, then quieting, another battery out to the west doing its work. Civilians rarely seemed comfortable this close to artillery, something Sherman didn’t mind a bit. But the first man seemed oblivious, had his focus squarely on Sherman, rode closer, called out.

  “Ho, there, General! A word, then?”

  Sherman caught the Irish brogue in the man’s words and waited for more. There was always more. The four men rode closer, following in a cluster behind the Irishman, and Sherman felt suddenly surrounded, nowhere to hide. He looked out past them, toward Grant’s headquarters, Grant establishing himself in close proximity to the link between Sherman’s Fifteenth Corps and McPherson’s Seventeenth Corps to the south. Sherman couldn’t fault that, knew that Grant would rather be anywhere on the field than closer to McClernand. And Sherman appreciated that Grant was available to him not only for tactical meetings, but for conversation as well, that might have nothing at all to do with the army. Grant’s headquarters tents were perched high on a hill, set just back out of sight of rebel gunners. So far it had been something of a surprise that Pemberton’s artillery had made no effort to pepper any of the farthest positions of the army, even those lines that were clearly in view. There were two possibilities, and Sherman’s own artillerymen had pointed out that there was no evidence thus far that the Confederates had any long-range guns in their arsenal, the Whitworths in particular. And the rebel cannon could only be manned at great risk to their crews. Sherman knew there was one other possibility as well. This was, after all, a siege. Pemberton’s supply lines were severed completely, at least when it came to anything substantial. It was quite likely that Pemberton was conserving his limited supply of ammunition.

  Sherman looked out toward the main road and saw Rawlins, leading a pair of couriers. Sherman started to wave, recognized the indignity of that, thought, He’ll rescue me from this horde, if I can just get him over here. He knows better than to let these scoundrels run loose like this.

  But Rawlins didn’t stop, and Sherman watched with growing dismay as Grant’s chief of staff rode past, pushing his horse too hard. Sherman hated that, had too much respect for the animal beneath him to see anyone abusing a mount. But it was Rawlins, the usual habit of making every ride the most important of the day, perhaps the entire war. Once Rawlins was well out of sight of the rest of Grant’s staff, he’d slow down and go about his business with the kind of efficiency Grant required. He was, certainly to Grant, an invaluable part of the army. Sherman had to respect that, even if Rawlins seemed to hover over Grant like some nervous grandmother.

  There were more horsemen on the road, moving the other way, toward Grant’s headquarters. It was a squad of cavalry, the familiar flag of the 4th Illinois. Sherman saw their captain, Embury Osband, leading the way, moving with purpose. Osband had been a part of Grant’s security detail for many months now, and where Grant went, Osband took charge. Sherman watched the cloud of dust rising up behind the horses, thought, He’s got something to tell Grant, no doubt about that. Damn it all. I could use a little security of my own right now.

  The reporters had made their way up close to him, the Irishman moving up too closely, as though seeking some private word.

  “Ah, there, General, how ye bein’ this fine day?”

  Sherman looked at the others, saw the appropriate hesitation, all of them perfectly aware that pushing into Sherman’s privacy was a risky thing to do.

  “Who are you?”

  “Ah, but you know, General. Richard Colburn, the New York World. Made a name for meself in this here army already. Freed meself from the bloomin’ rebels with nothing more than a gill of horse manure.”

  Sherman knew the story, could tell by the frowns from the others that they had heard it too many times already.

  During the various maneuvers by the navy, pushing supply barges and other craft past Vicksburg, three newspaper reporters had been captured, including Colburn. Colburn insisted that he had loudly claimed British citizenship, and had browbeat the rebels so completely, they had released him with deepest apologies. Sherman suspected the rebels tossed Colburn out of their camp because they were tired of hearing the reedy whine of his voice.

  “What can I do for you, this fine day?”

  “Ah, yes, then, General. Can you tell us when operations might be commencing against the enemy’s position, then? I mean, you’ve tried the thing twice. Surely, General Grant’s to give it a go one more time? Reinforcements are arriving daily, so I’ve been told. Coming downriver from Memphis, General Hurlbut, a few others. Seeing that it takes a good week to send our reports back east, it would be helpful to know somewhat in advance, if things are about to go heatin’ up, see?”

  Sherman didn’t know anything about Hurlbut’s arrival, beyond Grant’s orders calling for every available unit in the theater to push toward Vicksburg. Sherman knew the trick, Colburn testing whether the report had any truth to it at all.

  “Surely, Mr. Colburn, you do not expect me to reveal our tactical plans.”

  They were all leaning forward, hanging on for more, and Sherman turned the horse abruptly, then moved off. He heard them mumbling, thought, Stay there, damn you. Don’t follow me. He looked to his staff, most of them inside his headquarters tents, and he ran orders through his head, something he could shout out to bring someone out there, some reason to excuse himself. He saw his engineer, Kossak, the man emerging from a tent with a roll of paper in his hand. Sherman pumped his fist in a short punch. Good! That engineer’s got no more affection for newspapermen than I do.

  “Captain!”

  Kossak made a short acknowledging wave and trotted quickly toward Sherman.

  “At your service, sir.”

  Kossak noticed the four civilians now, seemed to stop in his tracks, and Sherman said nothing, just stared at him, Kossak seeming to grasp exactly what Sherman was doing.

  “General, I have these drawings for you. We must examine them in haste. They are … mightily sensitive, sir.”

  Sherman grimaced, knew that word would excite the reporters even more, pouring honey on the ground for a swarm of flies. Kossak stood at attention now, the roll of papers shoved formally under his arm. Sherman turned to the civilians and said, “There now. You boys run along. Serious work to do here, and this man is my engineer. Figures and whatnot, all of that geometry business. N
othing you can write about.”

  Colburn kept coming, the horse slipping up close to Sherman’s again, a low voice.

  “Now, General. Anything you’d be planning … well, General Grant ha’nt said a word about it. So, you’d be doing some workin’ out here without his knowledge, eh? Might we know what’s happenin’ then?”

  Sherman felt the usual growling temper, reached his boot out, a slight kick in the rump of Colburn’s horse, creating distance between them.

  “This is an army, gentlemen. We have army work to do. When you can be notified of the details, General Grant will notify you. With all due respect …” The word stuck in his throat, and he saw the friendly gleam from Colburn now changing to determined annoyance. “Please depart this area,” Sherman said. “I’m certain I saw Colonel Rawlins gathering up some of you fellows on the road. Probably issuing some notice, something you can all use. I wouldn’t miss that.”

  They seemed to take the bait reluctantly, glances out toward the road, Colburn hanging back, still looking at Sherman.

  “Ya know, General Sherman, if you was a wee bit more sociable to us fellas, we’d be a bit more … uh … sociable to you. Just doing our jobs, as it were.”

  “Right now, my job is figuring out the best way to grab that town out there. There’s time for being sociable and there’s time for killing rebels. You want sociable, go see Colonel Rawlins.”

  Colburn nodded, a hint of a smile.

  “As you wish, General. Be seeing you later, then?”

  He didn’t wait for Sherman’s response, rode off, caught up with the others. Sherman let out a long breath and looked at Kossak, all business, the roll of paper sliding out from his arm.

  “Thank you for the help, Captain. What’s that?”

  Kossak glanced again toward the reporters, seemed to gauge the distance as safe enough for conversation.

  “I’ve been keeping careful track of the entrenchments, sir. Might need to know precisely where our people are digging, should our artillery be called forward. That, and … well, begging your pardon, sir, but I’m rather pleased with the layout of the work so far. This will be a maneuver worthy of study for the future.”