A Chain of Thunder

by Jeff Shaara

  Willis pulled himself up to his feet and motioned for Bauer to do the same.

  “Then you’d owe me a dollar.”

  ONE MILE EAST OF VICKSBURG

  JUNE 11, 1863

  It had been another brutal day in the hospital, but the numbers of wounded had seemed to slacken just a little. Lucy had barely noticed that, but the doctor had, with another observation as well. A great many of the men they treated now had head wounds, musket balls piercing faces and scalps. It had not occurred to her at all that if this was the new routine, it meant that up at the front lines, there would be far more men who had no reason to visit the hospital at all. A head wound was more often fatal, and the ambulances wouldn’t bother to bring those men far off the lines. For Lucy, the greatest relief had come from the fewer number of gruesome shrapnel wounds, something the doctor appreciated as well. Instead of the decision to remove a limb, or try to rescue a man from the crushing trauma to his organs, the decisions and procedures were much simpler. Lucy knew better than to ask why the kinds of wounds had changed. She was just happy to be accepted as one of the nurses, no matter the hours or the job she had to perform. Even the woman most critical of her seemed finally to welcome her willingness to help.

  The men had gathered at the fire pit, the usual banter, loud voices with complete knowledge of the situation on the front lines. Lucy moved toward them, carrying a large oval platter, too tired to eat, too hungry not to. She moved up close behind Mr. Cordray, waited for a pause in the jabber, tried not to pay attention to what was being said. She was there now to fulfill one simple chore. The men were cooking slabs of meat over the fire, and Lucy had been sent by Cordray’s wife to bring back whatever allotment of the meat was theirs. She stayed back from the men, the platter growing heavier, and she focused with bleary eyes on the pattern in the china. She knew it had come to the cave along with other luxuries from their home, a valiant effort to make the cave seem more comfortable.

  The men seemed to notice her now, and Cordray turned to her, eyes on her dress.

  “Oh, greetings, Miss Spence. That’s my wife’s garment, is it not?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. I had little choice. I hope to have time to visit my own wardrobe tomorrow, and I can provide for myself. I have apologized to Mrs. Cordray for soiling her dresses. Every effort is made at the hospital to prevent any nurse from suffering even the smallest bloodstain.”

  She ignored their scan of her clothing, didn’t care if they picked up the sarcasm in her words. Cordray seemed oblivious to all of that and said, “Well, you should apologize to me. Those dresses are purchased by my funds, not hers. I work hard for my meager earnings, and right now, none of us are able to work at all.”

  “Leave her be, Cordray. I’ve seen the hospital. The nurses are doing work no woman should ever experience. There is indecency there that would put my own wife to hysterics.”

  The voice came from another of the cave-side neighbors, whose house in Vicksburg lay close behind Cordray. Lucy nodded politely, appreciated the courtesy.

  “Thank you, Mr. Atkins. I am just doing my part. These soldiers are paying a horrible price to protect us. But, Mr. Cordray, I shall not trouble you any further by causing ruin to Isabel’s dresses. I shall bring down my own. Any of the ambulance drivers would be pleased to assist me.”

  Cordray sniffed.

  “That’s another thing, Miss Spence. You seem to be keeping company with men of considerable disrepute. Some of those teamsters are a dreadful sort. You should be more concerned with decorum, your place in this community. A young girl cannot afford to toss aside her dignity with such carelessness.”

  Lucy felt a boiling heat in her brain, saw the arrogant sneer on Cordray’s face, but her rescuer spoke up.

  “Now, John, you can stop that sort of speculation. I have spoken to a number of the teamsters, and there is nothing in their gossip to suggest that Miss Spence has been a part of anything sordid. In fact, quite the contrary. Miss Spence, forgive me for saying, but you have earned a considerable reputation among those men, and among the doctors as well. It is no secret that you are not formally trained for nursing. I admit to admiring your courage in assisting there. Few would do such a thing. Certainly not you, John.”

  “My place is with my family. I do not wish to insult you, Miss Spence, but I had assumed you would do more to help out with the children, or assist my wife with the hardships we are suffering. I did not expect you to be gone all hours, tending to those soldiers.”

  Cordray turned to the fire pit, stabbing a slab of meat with a long fork, and Lucy suddenly realized he was spouting off as a show for the others.

  “If you wish, sir, I shall return to my home in the town. I do not wish to be a burden, and it is actually a bit closer to the hospital.”

  She waited for a response, wondered if he was all bluff. The others watched him, expectant, and she could see smiles, the men fully understanding that Cordray had dug himself into a hole more embarrassing than his own cave. He toyed with the meat, didn’t look at her, just said, “Nonsense. You are our guest. It is far too dangerous at your home, as it is at ours. Bring the platter closer. The meat seems adequately cooked.”

  He stabbed what seemed to be a large steak, and she held out the platter, the meat slapping down, juice spilling over the sides.

  “Please have Mrs. Cordray divide that among the children, and of course, yourself. I shall be along shortly.”

  Lucy looked at the meat, charred black on the edges, a puddle of red juice, the wonderful smell now filling her, adding to her growling hunger.

  “Thank you, sir. I will try to be more considerate of your family’s needs.”

  She wasn’t even sure what that meant, knew it would play well with the others, would likely prevent Cordray from speaking ill of her behind her back. But a voice spoke up, another of the men whose cave sat down the hill from Cordray.

  “Hold on there. So, tell me, John, just how do you know it’s prepared correctly? Ever cooked that before?”

  “You know very well I have not. Does this have to be more difficult than it already is?”

  Lucy looked at the meat, was ravenous now, itched to escape the banter, and said, “It appears to be the perfect steak, sir. We are grateful for such bounty. Whose cow was butchered?”

  The milk cow had vanished days before, supplying the needs of a handful of families, the beef more valuable now than the milk. Lucy saw men looking down, a strange reluctance to answer the question. Cordray said, “You should not question these things, Miss Spence. You have been helpful to the wounded soldiers, to be sure. But we have learned of other forms of assistance, of other needs the army has. Like the soldiers, our supplies of flour have been consumed. The hams are gone; there is no molasses or salt. Our coffee comes from straw and the skin of sweet potatoes. If this war is about sacrifice, then so be it. But I will not have my children go hungry. None of us wishes to be out here, none of us wishes to starve. I fear, as we all do, Miss Spence, that if our army does not break the chain the Yankees have wrapped around us, starvation is a possibility.”

  Lucy studied his face, saw genuine sadness, the others agreeing with silent nods, one man uttering a soft word.

  “Amen.”

  Lucy looked at the steak again, one part of her too hungry to care what they were talking about. But their collective mood and the looks on their faces carried meaning. Her curiosity was suddenly overpowering.

  “I do not understand. Yes, I agree we must make sacrifices. I see those sacrifices every day in the wounds of the soldiers.”

  The other man spoke up, Atkins, her defender.

  “Miss Spence, I would suggest you take that dinner back to John’s children, and enjoy your meal. The less spoken of this the better.”

  “The less spoken of what?”

  Cordray stabbed another steak, the plates coming toward him in the hands of the other men.

  “Here, Charles. I wish I had more to share.” He repeated the move, the men gradually f
iling away, and Lucy held her ground, knew he would speak to her only when he was ready. The last of the meat was gone now, the neighbors adding a small polite farewell to her, a gesture of kindness, as though soothing any hurt put on her by Cordray.

  He turned to her now and said, “I don’t know if that will be any more acceptable if it gets too cold. Come, child, let’s go to the cave. My wife will just have to make do. I do not wish an argument with her, and the children must be fed.”

  She studied the meat, felt a turn in her stomach, and said, “What is this?”

  He moved past her, then stopped, resigned to a response.

  “Miss Spence, the army has now issued orders that their commissary people limit the rations to the troops to one-fourth what they normally receive. And yet even that has become impossible to fulfill. We had a staff officer come through here today who passed this information to us, as a form of counsel. We are being advised in the strongest terms that we do as the soldiers are now doing, and seek any means necessary to ensure our survival.” He paused. “I am told by the colonel that the meat is actually quite palatable. The soldiers are said to find it agreeable, considerably more so than an empty stomach.”

  “What is it, Mr. Cordray?”

  “I regret, Miss Spence, that I have had to put the ax to my mule. This, I’m afraid, is mule meat.”

  She had hesitated only slightly, her hunger too severe. But then came the surprise. The meat was not only palatable, she actually enjoyed it. The children had eaten as much as she had, their hunger suddenly obvious, though even the sickly girl seemed more thin than Lucy had noticed. But the meat had satisfied them all, at least for this night. All, of course, except Mrs. Cordray. Lucy had ignored the argument, the perfect stubbornness of the woman who could not stomach the thought of eating a mule. Cordray had made every effort to soothe whatever anxiety she had, to no avail, something Lucy was accustomed to seeing now. After a half hour’s fruitless effort, he had sat down with Lucy and the children and satisfied his own hunger. Lucy had no idea what Isabel had eaten, if anything at all. But with a full stomach, and at least one night’s comfortable sleep rolling over her, Lucy didn’t really care. As she drifted into slumber on her thin pad of a mattress, her only thoughts were about numbers. If the soldiers were eating their mules, and the civilians did the same, how long would it be before that resource too would be exhausted?

  THE GREEN HOUSE HOSPITAL

  JUNE 14, 1863

  She huddled low beside the table, a spray of dirt tumbling hard on the tent above her.

  “Get down here!”

  The doctor was beneath the table, and Lucy saw terror in the man’s eyes. He reached for her, missed her hand, and said again, “Get under here! Are you mad, girl?”

  “But the soldier …”

  “Nothing I can do for him until the shells stop.”

  She was angry now, furious at the shells that tore through the hospital, furious now at the doctor.

  “This man is bleeding! You’re a coward!”

  Another shell impacted down the row of tents, screams and cries, the smoke rolling through the tent, choking her. She saw the doctor with his hands curled hard over his head, ignoring her completely, and she struggled to stand, heard more impacts out away from the tents, more shells shrieking in close, a sharp blast now above them, shrapnel tearing a gap in one side of the tent. She ducked low, saw through the opening, white smoke, fire, another explosion throwing a plume of dirt skyward, shards of iron whirring overhead. She knelt, her hands still up on the table, gripping the edge, her fingers soaked in the soldier’s blood. Beneath the next table, she saw another nurse curled up, huddling, desperate fear. She loosened her grip on the table, the ground thundering beneath her again, the tent walls shivering from the impacts, another long rip. She waited for the next explosion, anticipating, flinching, but there was nothing, long seconds of no sound but the ringing in her ears. Around her, the tent was swirling with thick smoke, and she spit a hard cough through the burning in her throat. She struggled to pull herself up just enough to see the wounded man, unconscious, oblivious.

  “Missy, get down!”

  She ignored the doctor, saw the other nurse looking at her, tears and terror through the grime on the woman’s face. The silence continued through the hard hiss in her ears, and now there were voices, the ever-present barking of a dog. She gripped the edge of the table again, her eyes on the wounded man, no expression on his face, the scalp to one side ripped away, just one more man with a head wound. She looked out toward the tent’s entrance, saw men running, and beyond, an ambulance in a shattered heap, one man splayed out on the ground.

  “Outside, Doctor!”

  She moved out quickly, expected more of the blasts, but quiet had settled over the hospital, a lull in the shelling. She ran to the wreck of the ambulance, saw three men in the midst of the splintered lumber, broken and bloodied, a gaping hole in one man’s chest, an arm ripped away. She tried to reach down, something holding her back, knowing that all these men were dead, that whatever wounds had brought them to the hospital no longer mattered. She looked to the teamster now, more horror, the man’s head nearly severed, blood in a pool around him, the face staring up with a look of shock, familiar, Henry, her friend, the man who had provided her transportation on his ambulance.

  She fought the shock, but it came in a hard wave, knocked her to her knees, and she felt the tears, unstoppable, began to sob. She tried to control herself, pulled her apron up onto her face, holding the tears, the stink of the blood on her hands overpowering. But the sobbing wouldn’t stop, the grief flowing out of her, thoughts of the man’s kindness, his caution, his protection. She slid to one side, sat, felt the bare dirt, the ground around the ambulance still smoking, the blast ripping away the grass. There was a hand on her shoulder now, and she wanted to scream it away, but the voice came, the doctor.

  “Missy, there’s nothing we can do for these boys. Must have been a direct hit. This crater … had to be a mortar maybe.”

  “Does it matter, Doctor, what kind of shell it was?”

  “No, guess not.”

  She gathered herself, wiping the tears away with the apron, the sleeve of her bloody dress. She felt stronger, and stood up, helped by his hand, the crying draining away. The doctor released her and said, “They ought not be shelling hospitals. How much bigger does that flag have to be? Surely they can see it!” She glanced up, hadn’t paid much attention to the yellow banner that flew above the house, knew only that it was meant to signify a hospital. The doctor was shouting now, aiming his words toward the river. “What’s wrong with you? Are you savages after all?”

  She couldn’t avoid the image of him beneath the table, her own words.

  “Doctor, I regret if I insulted you.”

  He turned to her, a look of anger that suddenly frightened her.

  “I am supposed to be helping wounded men! I am not supposed to be suffering artillery fire! If I fear being blown into pieces, so be it! Is that what a hospital is to be? A target? Do we throw cannon fire at their wounded men? Do we take aim at the helpless?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Perhaps we do.”

  She stood in what had been her sitting room, unrecognizable now, the sunlight pouring in from a wide gash in her ceiling. The floor was a shamble of debris, plaster and wood and what remained of her furniture.

  “I told you, Miss Spence. There is little here to save.”

  Cordray backed away, and she stayed put, frozen, absorbing the sight of what had once been her parents’ home. She wanted to go through the rest, the way blocked by the destruction. The doorway to the kitchen was obliterated, a skeleton of a wall forming a barricade.

  “Perhaps there are utensils …”

  Her words drifted away, Cordray not there to hear them, the man moving back out to the street, others gathering, low talk behind her back. She tried to find the strength to move through the rubble, another man moving up behind her, a soothing voice.

  “Miss
Spence, this place is not safe. The roof could collapse. I am deeply sorry, but you should not remain.”

  Cordray was there again.

  “Miss Spence,” he said, “we should return to the caves. It will be dark very soon, and it is not safe to be out here. Mr. Atkins has been generous to allow us the use of his mule and carriage. I do not wish to put him in any more danger than we are in now.”

  Lucy focused on the single word. Mule. She turned, saw the faces watching her, the street surprisingly crowded, two dozen or more. It was as she had heard, that there were a great many residents who had kept to their homes, no matter the outrageous danger. She studied them, saw a woman praying, thought, yes, there but for the grace of God … this would be your home. But today, whatever “grace” there is has clearly ignored me. And perhaps before this is over, there will be no grace left in the world. She looked at Atkins, always the kindness, but there was no kindness in her now, her bitterness seeping through.

  “How much longer before your mule provides the greater need than a ride into town?”

  Atkins seemed hurt by the question, and she felt a burst of guilt.

  “Forgive me. I am sorry, sir.”

  “No, Miss Spence. You are correct. We have exhausted the other beasts. My Blossom will be next, I’m afraid. My wife cannot bear to think of it. But, like Mr. Cordray, we must provide for the children.”

  The name stuck in her mind, and she fought the sudden need to laugh. Blossom? You named your mule … Blossom? And now, she thought, we shall consume Blossom.

  She turned back to the wreckage of her home, felt a shaking hysteria, cold in her hands, her chest, saw now a small portrait in the rubble. She took a step that way, knelt, pulled it gently from the debris, the glass plate cracked in half. It was an image of her as a young girl, a sharp, frowning glare, the memory of that coming back to her in every detail. She spoke in a low voice, didn’t care if anyone heard her.

  “I remember suffering for this, just so my mother could have it on the mantel. The man who did this made me sit still for an eternity.” She tossed it onto a pile of crushed wallboard, the glass plate falling into pieces. “I suppose … we shall do the same now. We shall endure this for eternity.”