A Chain of Thunder

by Jeff Shaara

  Cordray responded, “Nonsense, child. This will end very soon. There shall yet be salvation. Have you not heard? General Johnston is advancing rapidly. The Yankees are certain to be destroyed.”

  She saw the hopefulness on Cordray’s face, that he believed the words. She glanced back at the rubble of her home, then stepped down into the wide street, the people backing away, a sea of pity keeping their distance from her monumental stroke of misfortune.

  Atkins said, “We shall help you rebuild. After all, we are neighbors.”

  “And if General Johnston does not come?”

  Cordray seemed annoyed now, a glance at Atkins.

  “You are but a girl, Miss Spence. You cannot know the workings of our army. This shall all be concluded in our favor, I assure you. Today you suffered mightily, a most unfortunate blow. The Yankees have no shame, no decency, that they would do this. But we must suffer privations for the good of our cause. In the end, the Almighty shall reward us for our nobility.”

  She moved out past the two men, stood at the carriage, looked now at the mule.

  “Well, Blossom, shall we ride back to our holes in the ground? Then we shall show you our nobility.”

  SHERMAN’S HEADQUARTERS

  JUNE 16, 1863

  He wiped the butter from his chin, savored the sweetness, the biscuit warm in his mouth. He had already eaten three, a pool of butter on his plate.

  “These are outstanding, Captain. Truly. My compliments to the cook.”

  “I will tell him, sir. And Colonel Macfeely will be most pleased at your approval.”

  Sherman glanced toward the others, every man with a buttery plate.

  “Who would have thought the enemy would have provided for us so? One thing I know about this place, gentlemen. My stay in Louisiana taught me that Southern people do know how to fill their stomachs. Nowhere in Ohio are there biscuits like this. Captain McCoy, how did we come by so much of this butter?”

  “A merchant, sir. Some local man had hidden it away, I suppose. But he approached the guard post and offered to sell us as much as we required, for sixty cents a pound.”

  Sherman set the plate aside, reached in his pocket for a cigar, cocked his head to one side.

  For a larger version of this map, click here.

  “That took courage. We could have just taken it.”

  “Well, yes, sir. He seemed to know that. He did not produce the butter until we paid him.”

  Sherman lit the cigar, then stroked the stubble of beard.

  “Courage and intelligence. A combination I have not often seen in these people. Did he offer us anything else?”

  “Not yet, sir. We’re holding him in the stockade. There was some suspicion he was a spy.”

  “Why?”

  “He knew the location of your headquarters, for one. General Grant’s as well. That was why he came here to offer his goods. Knew he was close to this camp, and thought he’d make his offer to the highest command.”

  “That’s it? That makes him a spy? For God’s sake, Captain. That just makes him a good businessman. Every damn rebel sharpshooter and artillery observer knows where these headquarters are. Release that man with my apologies, and request that he go home and search through whatever hiding places he has left. There’s no telling what he might yet offer us.” He glanced at the cigar, felt a burning bite on the tip of his tongue. “Better tobacco, perhaps. I’d pay him whatever he asked.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.”

  McCoy rose, set his plate close to Sherman’s, the orderly knowing the sign, the man coming in quickly, stacking up the empty plates. Sherman saw a half biscuit on one plate, the owner, Dayton, rubbing a full stomach.

  “You not going to eat that, Colonel?”

  Dayton seemed to snap out of a pleasant stupor, and shook his head.

  “No, sir. I had quite enough.”

  “Good.”

  Sherman picked up the piece of biscuit, made a quick wipe across the tin plate, tossed it into his mouth. He stood now, felt an overwhelming need for a nap. But the breakfast was just the first duty in what he knew would be a long day.

  With so many reinforcements marching into Grant’s position, Grant’s lines had finally sealed off every approach to Vicksburg, anchoring hard against the river above, on Sherman’s right flank, and now below, on McClernand’s left. The new men had mostly come down from Memphis, one division under Francis Herron, two from Burnside’s Ninth Corps, commanded by John Parke. With the addition of Hurlbut’s division, Grant’s army had swollen to more than seventy thousand troops. Sherman wasn’t completely certain how many rebels Pemberton had inside the enclosed ring, but no one in the Federal command doubted that what Grant had in place now would be plenty of strength to complete the job.

  He moved outside the tent, his orderlies coming awake, the horse saddled, ready for whatever he required. He hesitated, thought again of the marvelous notion of a nap. No, not now. You ate too damned much. Live with that.

  “Ah, General. A most pleasant good morning to you, sir!”

  Sherman winced at the voice, saw Cadwallader riding toward him, the newspaperman climbing down from the horse with admirable skill. The need for a nap vanished, Sherman building the energy required for any conversation with the man who followed Grant like a foxhound.

  “Mr. Cadwallader. Have you had breakfast?”

  “Oh, quite so. The men over that hill had a pot of the most delectable chicken, and their cook had prepared loaves of the best bread I’ve had in a while.”

  “Those would be Illinois men.”

  “Correct, sir. Most hospitable chaps.”

  Sherman felt a tug of warning.

  “They do a lot of talking, then?”

  Cadwallader knew very well how Sherman felt about him, something Sherman had never tried to hide.

  “Please, General, do not concern yourself with any improper communication by your men. In fact, I came by here to confirm what is quickly becoming common knowledge. I prefer having my facts verified before I send my dispatches back east. Surely you would agree with that philosophy?”

  “What facts?”

  Cadwallader glanced around, seeming to search for eavesdroppers. He pointed to a log, a place Sherman spent a considerable amount of time.

  “May we sit?”

  “I prefer it. Ate too much.”

  Cadwallader laughed, moved to the log, and sat on the ground, the log to his back, making plenty of room for Sherman. Sherman lowered himself down, fought to keep his brain focused on the man who might just as likely be writing something about him.

  “General, now that the lines are completely sealing in the rebel position, I must speculate that their capitulation will occur very soon.”

  “I thought you were going to talk facts. Not speculation.”

  “Well put, sir. I have learned not to inquire of those things General Grant does not first make known to me. I do know of our troop strength here, and I also know that General Grant has placed you in command of near half the force. Further, I know that you have ordered General Blair to march out between the Yazoo and Big Black, to guard against the sudden appearance of General Johnston’s forces. There are estimates that Johnston has gathered as many as forty thousand men in his command. A sudden attack by that many rebel troops could prove most embarrassing.”

  “It could. It won’t. So far, your information is mostly accurate. We don’t know how many men Johnston has, but forty thousand is probably an exaggeration. We have plenty of eyes out there in the countryside, in case he tries to surprise us.”

  “A point of curiosity, if I may? Your troops are not guarding the Big Black. Is that not risky?”

  Sherman didn’t answer, knew his instructions to General Blair had inspired questions from Grant as well. Frank Blair had been ordered to position a sizable force well back of the Big Black, a stretch of high ground that gave the Federal troops control over vast swaths of lowlands. Sherman knew that if Johnston made it across the Big Bla
ck, Blair’s deployment would severely limit the rebels’ ability to maneuver. But none of this would concern a newspaperman. Not yet anyway.

  “I have eliminated as much risk as possible. As I said, we have a great many eyes patrolling the countryside, including a number of cavalry units. If he comes at all, Johnston will certainly not sneak up on us.”

  “Will he come?”

  “Ask him.”

  Cadwallader laughed again.

  “Oh, very good. Yes, I should like that. Would make quite a story, that one. Perhaps after this messy affair concludes.”

  Sherman was running out of patience, had expected to ride up toward Blair’s command, confirming that Blair’s troops were placed as Sherman had instructed. He had no real reason to doubt Blair’s abilities, the man being one of those division commanders who had served him well throughout the past year. Blair had been an attorney before the war, was another of the Mexican War veterans, had already led troops in the field with distinction. Sherman was perfectly comfortable that if he gave Blair an order, it would be carried out. Still, it never hurt Sherman to see that for himself.

  Cadwallader was silent now, pensive, staring ahead with a look that sent a twinge of alarm through Sherman.

  “I really have duties to perform. Is there anything else you require?”

  Cadwallader looked down, and seemed to assemble the words.

  “General, I have made an observation I find disturbing. Should I write the details into my dispatches, it could cause your commander profound difficulties.”

  Sherman sat up away from the log, his back straight, and felt a stab of anger.

  “What kind of difficulties?”

  “I hesitate to mention anything.…”

  “Dammit, you will mention it, and right now.”

  “General, I am not here to inflame, no matter what you may think. Allow me to be blunt. Last week, I accompanied General Grant up to Haines’s Bluff, to make the river journey to your outposts around Satartia. As you know, the general felt it necessary to visit his various outposts there, to confirm the security of his lines.”

  “I know all about that. Those outposts are under my command.”

  “Yes, well, you must also have observed that General Grant seemed to come down with some affliction. On board the steamer, the general’s condition seemed to worsen, and when he retired to his quarters, I did not observe him until the next morning. But I have every reason to believe that the general was deeply intoxicated.”

  Sherman stood, a bolt of lightning through his brain.

  “What reasons?”

  “Oh, General, I do not wish to cause any damage to General Grant’s reputation. Please understand. This is why I am speaking to you. In this army, there is no one closer to him than you are.”

  “I asked you … what reasons?”

  “Well, sir, I did observe his doctor offering the general a glass of wine, the doctor suggesting the beverage could be a useful tonic. The general did imbibe.”

  “How many glasses?”

  “Oh, only the one, that I saw. But his absence for the rest of the evening could only have been explained by further consumption. I also suspected the general had been drinking considerably prior to that evening. He was certainly in poor condition.”

  “Because he was ill?”

  “Well, possibly. But it is not like General Grant to take to his bed in the middle of such a journey of inspection, with enemy troops potentially in the area. There were several moments on board the boat when the naval officers did offer him a salute of sorts. The liquor certainly seemed readily available.”

  Sherman curled his toes in his boots, felt the sudden urge to kick Cadwallader in the teeth.

  “You will not print anything of this. None of it. I will look into the matter myself.” He leaned down, close to Cadwallader’s face. “None of it. Do you understand me?”

  “Do not try to intimidate me, General. I came to you for this very purpose, to enlighten you on what could be very damaging to the general’s command. I will write none of this in my dispatches, for now.”

  The conclusion was left hanging, the man’s smugness infuriating.

  “So, you will write it no matter what I find? What the facts might be?”

  “Did I say that? You are a reasonable man, General. What would you have me do?”

  Sherman stood straight again, threw the spent cigar to the side, spit out scraps of tobacco.

  “Do not assume I am reasonable. What would I have you do? Should you do anything to damage General Grant, I would have you walk straight into the Mississippi River until the only remaining article of your being was your hat. Should you try to surface, I would have a dozen sharpshooters ensure that you not succeed.”

  Cadwallader looked down at his hands, flexed his fingers, seemed to ponder that image.

  “I do not completely believe you, sir. However, I wish you the best of success in your investigation.”

  NEAR GRANT’S HEADQUARTERS

  JUNE 16, 1863

  Charles Dana walked beside him, neither man speaking, Sherman making certain they were out of earshot of Grant’s staff. Sherman wasn’t yet sure he could trust Dana, but by now, with so much constructive activity ongoing around Vicksburg, any report Dana sent to Washington would most likely be positive. Sherman had grown sick of intrigue and political wrangling, had never had a stomach for men who spoke out of both sides of their mouths. But Dana had been with Grant on the journey to Satartia. Whether he would be honest with Sherman was a mystery, and certainly Dana had no reason to give Sherman any gifts. If Sherman was to gain any real information, he had to swallow the fact that he first had to be honest with Dana.

  “I know why you’re here.”

  Dana stopped, was holding a coffee cup, drank slowly, tossed the remnants to the side.

  “Was it ever a secret?”

  “Some think so. Some believe you were sent here by the War Department, by Secretary Stanton himself, to find reasons, or excuses, to have Grant removed from command. Some believe General McClernand is your ally, that he has been sending missives to the president, encouraging that same action. Some would see your presence here as a blatant attempt to smear Grant’s name and reputation. Some would suggest that Grant’s campaign against the enemy has been more successful than Stanton or General Halleck had expected. Or hoped. Some would—”

  “Enough, General. You have a bayonet stuck in your gizzard. Pull it out. What do you want of me?”

  Sherman was pulsing with anger, fought to keep it inside.

  “So, you make no denials?”

  “Of what? I was sent here to observe, and to report those observations to Washington. That is my job. I have no ambition for higher position in the government, no need to hang anyone from the gallows. I do not find it useful to make enemies for no good reason. Is that denial enough?”

  “What happened on the journey to Satartia?”

  Dana stared at him for a long moment, seemed to chew the question.

  “It was a risky affair. The rebels had made a move toward capturing some of our outposts in that area, as you know. We did not complete the journey, on my responsibility.”

  “Your responsibility?”

  “Yes. I assume you knew that after we left Haines’s Bluff, General Grant had become terribly ill and had taken to his bed. When the boat neared Satartia, two of our gunboats met us with warnings to withdraw, that it was not yet safe for the general to visit there. I woke him to determine what he wished us to do. But the general was thoroughly incapacitated by his illness, and he requested that I make the decision whether to continue the journey or not. General Sherman, I am not a soldier. The decision I made was to turn back to Haines’s Bluff until the area had been secured. Admittedly, I was hesitant to endanger the general’s life, and my own.”

  Sherman knew that even before the inspection trip, Grant had been falling ill, but he hadn’t been told just how sick Grant had become. He weighed Dana’s story, looked hard at the
man, then said, “During that time, did Grant imbibe strong spirits?”

  Dana seemed surprised.

  “You mean … was he drunk? Oh my, no. I observed him throughout the journey, and I witnessed what I can only describe as severe difficulties with his stomach. I believe he had a fever as well. I knew of no great stock of liquor on board the boat, though, of course, I am not so naïve to believe those sailors did not have spirits somewhere. Colonel Rawlins and I—”

  “Rawlins was there?”

  “Well, yes. Certainly.”

  “What of Cadwallader?”

  “Yes, for a while. I try not to intersect Mr. Cadwallader. I believe, if I may suggest, sir, that you and I have one trait in common. I do not completely trust newspapermen.”

  “But—”

  “Yes, I know, I am one. If not for something of a feud with Horace Greeley, I would still be at the New-York Daily Tribune. I place all blame in his direction, of course. But I assure you, General, I am acquainted with far more newspapermen than you will ever encounter. I trust only a few of them. And I dislike nearly all. I will speak nothing more of Mr. Cadwallader.” He paused. “I am very much aware of General Grant’s past history. I know that there are some in this army who would enjoy seeing Grant fall into a state of inebriation, and thus provide opportunity for, well, someone else to fill his position.”

  “Then, in your mind, Grant was not … drunk?”

  “Not to my eye. I don’t know why this is a point of discussion, and perhaps I should not ask. But should you wish another point of view, perhaps you should inquire of Colonel Rawlins.”

  Sherman shook his head slowly, tried to imagine that encounter.

  “I’d rather not bother the colonel. His duties keep him in motion constantly. I hate to interrupt any activity that engages him.”

  Dana laughed, stood facing Sherman, his hands on his hips.