A Chain of Thunder

by Jeff Shaara

  She studied her fingers, as clean as she could make them, heard footsteps through the low brush, a voice, Isabel Cordray.

  “Well, here you are. My husband told me what you were doing. Oh my, Lucy! You look a horror!”

  Lucy glanced down, was still wearing the apron, every part of her clothing bloodstained.

  “Yes, I suppose I do. This dress will never recover, I’m afraid. I don’t have another in the cave.”

  “Well, I do, most certainly! Come back to the cave.” Isabel put a hand over her face. “Oh, my word! The smell. Forgive me, dear, but you cannot come into the cave in this condition. I cannot abide that odor. And you will terrify the children.”

  “They aren’t terrified now?”

  Lucy had grown exhausted by Isabel’s complaints, the perfectly miserable inconvenience of life in the cave. She heard it all over the hillside, the men gathering to complain about Pemberton, the helplessness of the army, the women seeming to complain about everything else.

  Isabel stared at her, seemed to weigh the options, and Lucy thought, she isn’t going to make me disrobe out here, no matter how disgusting I appear.

  “Oh, well, come on then. I’ll send my husband out to visit his friends while you change your garments. He prefers their company to mine anyway. And of course, those men are all so terribly eager to solve all our woes. Such opinionizing, I’ve never heard. What kind of lesson is that for the children?”

  Lucy kept her silence, fought the temptation to mention anything about the hospital, what that might do to their lofty opinions. She followed Isabel back up the hill, saw women coming down the path, hands rising up, a short scream, one woman staggering back at the sight of her. She was too tired for conversation, made a small wave, and the women seemed to melt together, protection against whatever kind of demon she appeared to be.

  “Oh my, Miss Spence! Are you wounded?”

  “No, but thank you for your concerns.”

  Isabel spoke up now, as though suddenly proud.

  “She’s been nursing at the hospital. Treating the wounded soldiers.”

  “Oh, my. Truly a ghastly thing, Miss Spence. I understand there are two hospitals. One for illnesses, and one for the wounded. Could you not have ministered to the sick instead? Surely it would be a simpler ordeal.”

  “The sick will either die or get better. The wounded men … well, there is no medicine for that. Only hands.”

  She moved past them, Isabel following, heard the low comments, the judgments, more opinions. The climb was steeper than she recalled, her legs weak, and she stopped, tried to catch her breath. Isabel stopped with her, kept her distance, and Lucy said, “The nurses told me I couldn’t do the job. Today I didn’t help matters any. I fainted.”

  “A fainting spell? Oh Lucy, how humiliating.”

  She swallowed the word, stared at her friend for a long moment, Isabel starting the climb again, and Lucy said, “I’ll be along.”

  She sat down in the grass, the sky darkening with the setting of the sun. The rumble of the artillery shells shook the ground beneath her, a mortar shell crashing down on the far side of the creek. She thought of the climb, the safety of the cave, stared up at the last bit of daylight, still too tired to move. The mosquitoes were finding her now, and she watched one land on her wrist. She slapped it away, thought of the astonishing variety of bugs and vermin that infested the earth. Like us, she thought. And so we will remain vermin until this misery has passed, and we shall never stop complaining about how terrible it all is.

  She thought again of the hospital, the amazing calm of the doctor, the pure terror in some of the soldiers, men who would wake from a forced slumber to find a piece of themselves gone. She couldn’t escape those images, one man missing his lower jaw, another with his eyes shot away. The shrapnel was by far the worst, bodies ripped open, bones exposed, guts, lungs. And brains. The faces were there, but there were too many, too much of it, terrified hands grabbing for her, cries and shouts. And what did you do, brave girl? You helped them by having a fainting spell. She thought of Isabel’s word: humiliating. Yes, it was. That old crab of a nurse … she knew it would happen. So, what do I do now? Spend my days in the cave, or down here, doing the washing with a flock of cackling hens? Or shall I linger near the men, while they curse General Pemberton and wring their hands about politics and show off their knowledge of artillery?

  She pictured the hospital, the tents for the surgery, alongside the grand house where the men would recover. Those who did recover. You cannot just pretend they aren’t there, she thought. What good can you do out here? I don’t care about the war or General Pemberton or what kind of savages the Yankees might be. Like everyone else in this town, I was rooted out of my home so I would not die by the hand of some blue-coated gunner I’ll never see. Complain about that? Certainly. I did not bring this war. It found me. It found all of us. She thought of the shopkeepers, a chorus of cursing about the lack of goods for their shelves, the Yankees keeping the supply boats from bringing all those trinkets, new clothing, shoes, hairpins, and perfume. Such an inconvenience. How inconvenient is it for those men … the boy who died today, the man who lost his arm?

  She knew she wouldn’t stay away, that a fainting spell was no excuse for curling up in the safety of a cave. Tomorrow, she thought. I will go back there. Mr. Cordray can transport me, in case no ambulance happens by. Or I can walk. She dropped her head, stared at the grass, bugs there, too, something certain to inflict its bite. No, there will certainly be ambulances. There will always be ambulances, until all of this ends.

  She leaned back on her arms, the grass soft beneath her, more rumbles from beyond the hillside, a red streak overhead now, coming down a hundred yards away. People were scurrying up away from the creek, the cluster of women pouring uphill in a frantic scamper to safety. More shells fell closer, a trio of impacts to one side, another shell, smoke and dirt tossed skyward. She watched the women in a mad dash up the hill, felt none of that, the terror drained away. She looked to the east, where the men from Louisiana would be, had stopped thinking of her lieutenant. He was just one of many, the same as the broken men who cried out to her, whose wounds soiled her dress, dying as their blood poured into her hands. I will go back tomorrow, she thought. I must.

  She lay back in the grass, watched the red streaks sailing above, the slow, deadly arcs of the mortar shells, the stunning bursts of fire above the ridgeline, the thunder of the solid shot, her thoughts taking her to that special time, the Fourth of July, a child dazzled by the rockets bursting above the river. She tried to sit upright, but the weariness was complete. She laid her head back in the soft grass, and went to sleep.

  THE COWAN HOUSE—VICKSBURG

  MAY 30, 1863

  “Your name, then?”

  The man stood at attention, and Pemberton could see he was very young, beardless, most of his uniform a ragged mess.

  “Seaman Thomas Smith, sir.”

  “Seaman Smith. Welcome to Vicksburg. Though I suspect you’ve seen quite enough of this place. No matter. I’m beginning to feel the same way.”

  The sailor kept his defiant stance, and Pemberton looked at the note prepared by his staff, the information he already knew.

  “So, Seaman Smith, you were a crewman on board the Cincinnati, yes?”

  “I was, sir. I am now.”

  Pemberton had no energy for a chess match.

  “Seaman Smith, your mighty craft now rests in the mud on the bottom of the river, or were you not aware of that? Surely, some among my guards have regaled you with the marvelous triumph of our batteries over your once-proud vessel?”

  “She’ll return to action, sir. The Cincinnati shall have its honor restored.”

  “Not likely, boy. She’s in twenty feet of water. All you can see is what’s left of her stacks.”

  The young man seemed to wilt, fought to keep his back straight.

  “So, you escaped. Some did, I heard. Some didn’t. Your captain lost a good portion of hi
s crew. Friends of yours, no doubt.”

  “I … don’t know about that, sir.”

  Pemberton knew the boy was likely telling the truth.

  “Says here we pulled you out of the river, after you floated downstream on a hay bale. Fortunate young man. We pulled a few less fortunate from the water as well. I can show them to you if you wish.” The sailor seemed to flinch, a break in his armor. Pemberton tried to feel some sense of accomplishment in that, but it was hardly a challenge. “No, I won’t do that. But you’re my prisoner now, Seaman Smith. I’d toss you in with the lot of them … but maybe it’s best you stay by yourself. When this is all over, there’ll be more seamen joining you. Your navy is no match for the batteries we have here. I suppose your captain knows that better than anyone.”

  Pemberton motioned to the sergeant of the guard, Enough, the two men standing behind the sailor nudging him toward the door. As he reached the door, the sailor looked at him, a brief, hostile glance. Pemberton waited for the guards to exit and said to Waddy, “Close it. You can stay.”

  Waddy obeyed, stood before the desk now, a broad smile.

  “Proud cuss, isn’t he, sir?”

  “Ought to be. Those ironclads have given this place a larger dose of misery than anyone here deserves.”

  “All the more reason to celebrate the Cincinnati’s destruction, sir. The Yankees are certain to understand the meaning. They are unlikely to be so brazen in the future.”

  Pemberton leaned back in the chair.

  “We’ve sunk … how many of their gunboats, Colonel?”

  The smile disappeared, and Waddy said, “This is the first … in a while, sir. But not the only one, certainly.”

  “We were fortunate. You fire enough iron at something with portholes in it, and sooner or later, you’ll hit one.”

  “Oh, sir, there was a great deal more to it than that! The Yankees attempted to duel with our strongest columbiads. They could not endure such a storm of fire!”

  Pemberton wiped his hands on his face, stroked his beard slowly, heard a soft knock at the door, the telltale sign it was Memminger.

  “Let him in, Colonel.”

  Memminger entered with caution, another habit, making certain Pemberton wasn’t deep into some highly sensitive issue.

  “What is it, Major?”

  “Oh, sir, very sorry to intrude. Mrs. Balfour offers her courtesies, and apologizes for interrupting your duties, sir. She only wishes to extend to you her gratitude for your attendance at her home yesterday. She says you honored her family by your presence, and they will cherish the memory of such a celebration of the success of the shore batteries.”

  Memminger seemed to run out of breath, and Pemberton couldn’t help a smile, knew the major had practiced memorizing that entire message.

  “Fine, yes, you may prepare a note, something gracious. I haven’t had a peaceful meal like that in a while.”

  He wasn’t in the mood to be polite, had only accepted the invitation from the neighbors next door to his headquarters out of a sense of protocol.

  “Yes, sir. Right away. I shall bring you a draft of what I prepare.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Major. Just offer them a polite thank-you. I don’t have to examine every piece of handwriting you employ here.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

  Memminger was gone now, and Pemberton felt the punch of guilt, had no reason to criticize either of his top aides.

  “Colonel, you are dismissed. I should like a moment alone. I should wish to prepare my own personal correspondence.”

  “Of course, sir. It will be dark soon, sir. I would not advise even a candle.”

  “I know. I have learned to write my wife even in the dark. Whether or not a letter from me will ever reach her hand … well, I shall make the attempt.”

  “Certainly, sir. I have every confidence in our couriers.”

  Pemberton retrieved a blank piece of paper from the desk, the stack nearly gone.

  “Colonel, is there more writing paper about?”

  Waddy seemed hesitant.

  “No, sir. We made sure you had the last of it.”

  “So. Make note of that, Colonel. The least of our luxuries has already been depleted. How much longer will we endure the enemy’s presence before we exhaust everything else?”

  He could tell that Waddy was chewing on his words, had something to say.

  “Out with it, Colonel.”

  “Sir, I didn’t want to bother you with a trivial detail. The servant who brought Mrs. Balfour’s note … he said that the meal you enjoyed last evening was the last of its kind they expected to have. Mrs. Balfour went to a great deal of trouble to provide a bountiful table. I had urged her not to go to such extremes, but she insisted.”

  “And you’re just telling me this now? After I gorged myself on ham and biscuits?”

  “Well, sir, she insisted I make no mention. It was a celebration, after all.”

  “So, what are they stuffing themselves with today? The scrapings from their cellar floor? This is not good, Colonel. Not at all. I have my critics here, certainly. But so many of these people have treated me with great hospitality. I’m not certain they know the price of that.”

  “Sir?”

  “Colonel, we are under siege. General Grant is even now in the process of sealing up our final escape route to the south. We do not have the means to prevent that. We do not even have the cavalry strength to maintain a vigilant watch on his movements. Whatever rations this army has in its possession … is what we have to eat. The same goes for the civilians. I have been avoiding this.… Somehow I hoped it would not become this dire. But it will only get worse. General Stevenson has been serving as chief commissary officer. Prepare an order that he put the troops on one-half rations, beginning tomorrow. I cannot order the citizens around here to do anything, but caution should be extended that they conserve as much as possible. See to it, Colonel.”

  Waddy seemed to soak up the message Pemberton was giving him, hesitated. “Sir. Are you certain this is necessary?”

  “I do not wish a council of war on this matter, Colonel. You have my instructions.”

  “Yes, sir. I will prepare the order.”

  Waddy was out quickly, the door closing behind him. Pemberton pulled himself out of the chair and moved to the window. He could barely see the Balfour house, the darkness hiding every detail of the town. There would be no lantern lights, no fires, not with so much Federal artillery so close by. We sink one gunboat, he thought, and this place erupts in celebration. The Balfours insist on braving a journey out from their cave just to provide me a celebratory dinner, dodging artillery rounds so they can boast of our great victory. And yes, we captured a sailor. One sailor. I should have told him that … the only seaman in our stockade. If it stays that way, he’ll have something to tell his grandchildren. Unless his own artillery tosses a shell into the holding area.

  The fight that destroyed the Federal ironclad Cincinnati had taken place three days earlier, a cannonade that brought civilians out of their cover. The fight began in the morning and lasted long enough to allow an enormous throng to swarm up onto Sky Parlor Hill. To the civilians, the sight was magnificent, Confederate batteries blasting a storm of shells that ultimately was too much for the gunboat to endure. Her captain managed to withdraw upriver, just past Federal lines along the shore, but the devastation was nearly total. Losing a fifth of her crew, the ironclad had settled into the muddy river bottom not far from the river’s edge.

  Pemberton received the reports of the Cincinnati’s demise from his own staff, who seemed to treat the success as the greatest victory of the war. As it was now, the ironclad might still be salvageable by Federal naval engineers. At the very least, the boat’s heavy artillery pieces were submerged more or less intact, a prize for either side to recover. But Pemberton knew the Federals would guard those guns carefully, and so he had ordered demolition crews to slip upriver after dark and destroy the boat where it lay.
>
  And for what, he thought. They have twenty more upriver, as many downstream. The word came to him, planted into his brain, what seemed to matter so much to everyone but him. Morale. Yes, fine. A symbol of our might.

  He looked to his desk again, saw the note received the day before, written four days before that. It had come from Johnston, a response to the litany of letters Pemberton had been sending east. Despite his staff’s assurances, Pemberton had faint hope that any of his correspondence would actually reach Johnston’s new headquarters in the ruins of the burned capital, but to his surprise, at least one had. It was one of the several urgent requests for Johnston to do something with the troops in his command to relieve the pressure from Grant.

  Pemberton had read the note without disguising his outrage, one more effort by Johnston to distance himself from anything Pemberton was trying to accomplish.

  I am too weak to save Vicksburg; can do no more than attempt to save you and your garrison. It will be impossible to extricate you, unless you cooperate and we make mutually supporting movements. Communicate your plans and suggestions if possible.

  Pemberton read it again, focused on the word suggestions. Perhaps, General, you can pay some heed to my prior suggestions, and attack Grant’s army. Of course, that assumes the impossible, that we can be successful here at all. I suppose it is a good thing that I am made aware how little regard my commanding officer has for our necessity of maintaining this position. It is very clear that he has little respect for the fighting spirit of my men, or the skill we have used in designing our defenses, the capability of our generals.…