A Chain of Thunder

by Jeff Shaara

  JUNE 24, 1863

  The storm clouds had come late the night before, adding to the misery of the trek eastward. With so much of the livestock devoured by the soldiers, and of course, the civilians in their caves, the hospitals were becoming useless, too far from the front lines where so many of the wounds were inflicted. Few ambulances could make the journey back to the Green house, simply because there were too few animals to pull them.

  Lucy had ridden in one of the last available wagons, the doctor and several others doing the same. Space was made for the surgical instruments, rolled up in cloth pouches. But there was little room for tables, for any kind of furniture at all. When they reached the spot the officers had chosen, they would make do with the army’s tents and whatever means they could find for caring for the wounded troops.

  With so much work to do establishing the new hospital, the nurses and orderlies labored well into the night, suffering the rain and the mosquitoes and a scattering of Federal artillery. When the tents were secure, it was too late for her to make the long walk back to the Cordrays’ sheltering cave, and so she slept beneath the ambulance, a blanket that did little to keep the rain away. The tents offered shelter, of course, but wounded men lined the ground inside, the doctor going to work as soon as he arrived. With the first hint of daylight, she was already awake, was given a small handful of some kind of cracker, struggled to swallow what someone said was a biscuit, a bitter slab tasting of the dirt she sat on.

  The sun had barely risen now, and soldiers were encamped all around the tent, some stretched out on blankets of their own, seeking some protection from the rain beneath bushes or a ledge of rocky hillside. With the daylight, the rain had stopped, and she could see what seemed to be caves, dugouts in the sloping hillsides. But they were nothing like the civilian shelters. There were few carefully shaped walls, few timbers for supports, most simply a hole dug out of the muddy ground. In every direction were men, some sleeping, some sitting alone, others in small groups. The campfires were few, any smoke at all a target for Yankee artillery. But even with no targets, the Yankee gunners sent their fire, shells coming down on the hillsides as they had in the town, random and haphazard.

  The wounds were few, but the brutality of the suffering was more graphic now than what she had seen in the hospital. Many of the men resembled skeletons, some barely clothed. It was the one blessing from the summer sun, that no one was freezing to death, even the nights sticky and humid, few blankets required. But as the morning passed, the blessing became torture, the men doing all they could to shield themselves from relentless sunlight that sapped a man’s energy completely. The doctor dealt with that, too, men simply falling out with the heat, delirious with hunger, or suffering dysentery from filthy water. The springs and clean running creeks were few and scattered, and often, any man who tried to fill a bucket was subject to target practice from Yankee sharpshooters who had positioned themselves precisely. It was no secret where the water sources were, and the Yankee infantry had pushed so much closer to the primary fortifications that the sharpshooters had free rein in the night to find those hiding places where a musket could reach back behind the Confederate works.

  Another tent had been brought, another doctor, much older, a foul-smelling man named Prine, who scanned Lucy up and down with a probing leer. There were other nurses as well, a handful of women scattered out into several of these smaller makeshift hospitals, three of those with Lucy now. She knew them all, acquaintances in horror, and the duty was as it had been before, ministering chloroform to screaming men, caring for those who survived whatever the doctors had done to them. She had tried to become better at that, comforting words, what seemed a hopeless gesture to a man with a piece of his body shot away, or gasping for breath in what could be his last hour of life. It was still the worst part of the job, the doctor telling her whether death was imminent, or whether the man might survive his wounds for a night longer, perhaps another day. All the while, she did what she had been taught, encouraging words as she changed a dressing, helping hands with the most distasteful bodily functions, hearing the confessions, the fears, the begging, the prayers … until the man was finally silent. Then she said a prayer of her own, often interrupted by the orderlies who hauled the corpse out to someplace along the hillside where the burial parties would do their job.

  The artillery shell came down within yards of the tent, the canvas shivering, the ground jumping beneath her feet. She steadied herself against the makeshift table, a front door that had been salvaged from one of the burned houses. Across from her, Dr. Prine eyed her.

  “Pretty little lass,” he said. “Hard work for such a young one. Any of these lads live through this, they’ll remember you. Probably find you a beau that way. Angel of mercy, that’s what they’ll say. There’s a price, though. For you, that is. You’ll never forget this, any of it. It’ll come to you in the middle of the night, maybe for years. Look at your hands. The blood’s been there so long it’s stained you. Like the devil’s inkwell. Hee.”

  She tried to ignore him, knew she couldn’t for long. He was after all, in charge, and the man lying between them was whimpering softly, a huge slice through the man’s rib cage. The doctor caught her look and said, “Shrapnel wound. You seen many of these?”

  “Yes. Many.”

  “Well, then you know there’s not much we can do about this one. His liver’s in the wide open, and half his intestines, what’s left anyway. Keep a bandage wrapped around him best you can, but he’s bleeding to beat Cain. Don’t spend too much time. Four more over here, every one of them as bad. Musta been a direct hit on this bunch.”

  She worked with the cloth strips, saw a hint of embroidery, what had once been sheets, torn now into bandages. Up along the hillside were the remnants of the burnt-out homes, what she thought had been destroyed by the Yankees. But the soldiers had corrected that notion, several of them a part of the teams that burned them down. She thought of that now, her mind drifting away from the horror beneath her hands. We burn down the houses on purpose, to make way for our artillery fire. What did they do with the people? She thought of Cordray, the caves, so many dwellings on every hillside, every slice in the earth. There, I suppose. They must know, surely, that they have no home to go back to. She closed her eyes. Like me. The word settled into her now, a word she was sick of hearing. Sacrifice. I have nothing else to give, she thought. She looked down at the man beneath her hands, felt him squirming slightly, the chloroform wearing off. He moaned now, and she called out, “Dr. Prine! He requires chloroform.”

  “Not now, Nurse. I’m holding a man’s brains in my hand. You’ll have to manage.”

  The man screamed now, tried to sit, collapsed beneath the pressure from her hands, screamed again. She felt a wave of panic, her fatigue draining the strength in her arms, and she leaned close to the man’s ear, a hard whisper.

  “Mother is here! Be calm. It will be all right.”

  The man’s eyes darted past her, a desperate attempt to see, the words still coming from him, softer now, her lie having its effect.

  “Mother is here! Thank God. Thank the Lord. Mother …”

  “Yes. Right here. Now, you lie still. I’ll be right back. Just lie still, you hear?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  She lifted her hands, searched frantically for the brown bottle, saw it in the hands of an orderly, the man waiting for a command from the doctor. She moved that way, too tired to ask, grabbed the bottle from the man’s hands. She ignored his curse, moved back to the table, the man lying calmly, still the soft words, “Mama … I’m coming. I’ll be seein’ you.…”

  She removed the cork from the bottle, something holding her back, and she saw the man’s face, the eyes open, staring through the smear of blood and dirt, no words now. Calm. The orderly was there now.

  “The bottle, miss? The doctor …”

  “Yes, here. I don’t need it. I believe the doctor will confirm … he’s dead.”

  “They’ll all be dead
soon enough. Not sure why we’re doing this job. I’d rather be killing Yanks.”

  The man took the chloroform from her, moved away, and she thought of his boastfulness, so completely foolish, as though it were better to inflict this grotesque damage on someone else. But there was no energy for protest, for logic or caring about the war, or which side had the most of … this. She turned, motioned to a pair of orderlies, the men who would take this latest corpse to its place in the ground.

  “Got an officer here! Make way!”

  The words had no impact on the doctor, and Lucy didn’t move at all, just watched as the litter bearers brought the man in, lifting him up on the table with care, as though he were a fragile package. The doctor, Prine, was there now, and Lucy had the chloroform already, the duty too familiar, held the small scrap of cloth, removed the cork, and the doctor held up his hand.

  “Hold on there, Nurse. This one’s not too bad.”

  The officer was holding one arm across his chest, his hand gripping a bloodstained shoulder, a pained grimace on his face.

  “Remove his hat,” Prine said. “Let’s open his shirt. Lieutenant, you’ll have to let go. We’ll have a look, but I don’t see much blood. Your men have it worse than you, so far.”

  Lucy pulled the hat away, the face clean, the only sign of damage the small spot of blood on his gray coat. The man spoke through gritted teeth.

  “Shouldn’t have been out there. Stepped into the open, tried to get across … they must have been waiting. Stupid mistake. Knew better.”

  Lucy stared, the thick hair, the face young, brutally handsome. She felt the shock of recognition. It was her lieutenant.

  Prine pulled her hand down onto the officer’s and said, “Here. Hold that arm down. This might hurt, and I need to see the wound. Be brave, Lieutenant. Just need to get a look.”

  The man seemed to brace himself for the worst, and the doctor pulled back the coat, dropped his hands to his side.

  “Musket ball … didn’t hit the bone. You’re not bleeding enough to lose the arm. Lucky man. Nurse, wipe the hole clean, put a bandage on it. He’ll be out of here in a few minutes.”

  The officer stared at the doctor, in breathless relief.

  “I’m not going to lose the arm? I’ll be all right? Doctor, thank you! I thought it was mortal.”

  Prine turned away to another patient and said, “They all do. Officers worst of all.”

  Lucy waited for him to look at her, saw the sharp blue in his eyes, still the fear.

  “Hold your hand down, please, sir. I need to clean the wound. This might hurt a little.”

  She exposed the wound completely, the hole clean through soft tissue. She knew enough by now to understand the musket ball had missed any vital artery. She worked quickly, watched his eyes, waited for recognition of his own, that delicious surprise when he realized who she was. The wound was packed now, and she said, “Please sit up. I need to wrap the shoulder.”

  He obliged her, focused mostly on the men around him, as though seeing if they were his. The groans were there, another man screaming, noises that floated past her now, and he said, “No one here is from my command. Thank God for that. I lost one man this morning. Corporal Bourgeois. Musket ball to the head. Nothing we could do. Keep your heads down. That’s all I’ve been saying for days now. But they can’t stand it, they have to look, to see if they can find the sharpshooters, or watch the Yankees digging their ditches. And then one gets a ball through his skull, and for an hour or so, they’ll listen to me.”

  She stood back, couldn’t help a smile, and said, “That’s it. You’re fine now. It will be sore as the dickens for a few days. But you didn’t lose the arm.”

  He looked at her now, studied the bandaging, probed gently with his free hand.

  “Thank you, Nurse. Thank you. I was truly afraid.”

  “You have no reason to be. I … the nurses here know how to take care of their soldiers.”

  She felt light-headed, a glow of joy she hadn’t felt in weeks. She waited for him to realize the obvious, studied his face, his eyes not meeting hers at all. The suspense was agonizing, and she moved to the side, more into his line of sight.

  “Lieutenant, it is good to see you again. I thank God you are not seriously injured.”

  He looked at her, studied her face, then shook his head slowly.

  “I’m sorry, miss. Are we acquainted?”

  “The ball … April. The night the Yankees sailed past.”

  She saw nothing in his eyes, just another shake of his head.

  “Sorry, miss. With all apologies, I do not recall meeting you.”

  She felt the joy sinking into a burning dread, red-faced embarrassment.

  “We danced.”

  “Oh, very nice. I’m certain I enjoyed that.”

  “You don’t recall? Truly?”

  “Very sorry, miss. Can I leave now? The doctor said I could.”

  She stared at him, felt completely idiotic, a hole punched through her.

  “Yes, Lieutenant. You may return to your duty. You are quite finished here.”

  He stood, steadied himself, and she wanted to help, but something held her in place, what strength she had left drained completely away.

  “Thank you, miss. You were most kind.”

  “Yes, I was. Have been, for some time now.”

  An officer entered the tent, moving to the lieutenant, and said, “Oh, thank the Lord, Lieutenant. We weren’t sure how badly you were hit. Can you return to the line?”

  The young man saluted and said, “Yes, sir. Right now, sir.”

  He moved outside the tent, gone now, and she lowered her head, felt far more than foolish. A child, she thought. Fantasies of a child. The older officer lingered, then said to the doctor, “Sir, I request you and your people make every preparation to receive a serious number of casualties.”

  The doctor looked up from his table, and she saw another man coming into the tent, filthy white apron, her doctor from the Green house. She felt relieved to see him, so much kinder than this older man, Prine, who seemed to delight in studying her form. The officer acknowledged both doctors with a respectful nod.

  “Gentlemen, I am Captain Trevaux, 3rd Louisiana, adjutant to Major Pierson. We have detected the enemy working beneath the ground. He is attempting to dig a mine that will place him directly beneath our position. So far, we have been unable to locate any tunnel, and there could be more than one. Our brigade commander, General Hebert, has issued orders across the entire redan that we be prepared for an explosion of their mine at any time. If that should occur, there could be a large number of casualties. You must be prepared.”

  Prine sniffed.

  “Captain,” he said, “we are not prepared for anything more than you see here. What would you have us do?”

  The other doctor moved past Lucy, ignored Prine’s surliness, and said, “Tell Major Pierson and your general that we shall do all we can.”

  “Very well. It would be helpful if you would spread word to the other hospitals all across the rear of our position, and beyond. If we are fortunate, the enemy shall suffer far worse than we. Gentlemen.”

  He made a short bow and moved quickly away.

  The two doctors came together, low talk, some semblance of a strategy.

  Lucy waited for a break in the conversation.

  “Doctors,” she said, “there are no patients waiting at present. Might I be excused for a few minutes?”

  The older man looked at her, that same piercing leer.

  “Don’t wander off too far. Critters about. The kind with two legs.”

  Lucy ignored the insinuation, moved outside, cleared her lungs of the stench of the tents. She walked up the hill, felt the oppressive heat, the ground muddy and steaming from the rainstorms. Far beyond the crest of the hill she could see the redan, but much closer, men were at work, shovels and dirt flying, a new earthwork. There was an officer there, unfamiliar, the man clearly in charge, speaking now to other officer
s, issuing instructions in a firm, clear voice. She tried to ignore the ache in her empty stomach, stepped that way through a fog of curiosity, but the meeting concluded, the officers spreading out to their own men. The man in charge stood tall, observing the work, and she sensed something different about him, something she hadn’t seen in many of these soldiers in weeks. He seemed proud.

  “Excuse me, sir. I am sorry to intrude.”

  He turned, obviously surprised by her presence, then, her appearance.

  “You’re a nurse?”

  “Yes, sir. I needed some relief, just for a moment. We just arrived out here last night, during the storm.”

  “Pardon me for saying so, miss, but this is not the place for you. Dangerous games are afoot, and before too much longer, the enemy is most likely to make a violent attempt against this very position.”

  She weighed his words, watched the men working, some of them watching her. She felt no hesitation now, her decorum swept away by the disappointment that still engulfed her, the utter silliness of her fantasy for the young lieutenant, so easily wiped away.

  “So, you would put your soldiers back here, for protection. Are you General Hebert?”

  The man said, “Are you a spy?”

  She liked the question.

  “If I was, would that make me … memorable?”

  “Odd question. Odd girl, you are. Then, you’re not a nurse?”

  “I’m a nurse. Just not a memorable one, according to your most charming of lieutenants. I came up with the doctors, since there is so little transportation back toward the town. They have set up a hospital back down this hill, in those tents. Should your hopes be realized and the enemy gives you a battle, I’ll do what I can to help your wounded, General. I’ve grown quite accustomed to digging the blood from my fingernails.”

  “Well, miss, we shall try not to burden you with too many wounded. I would prefer no one be wounded at all, if that were possible. But that goal is unlikely to be attained. It is, after all, why we’re here. And, please, I am not General Hebert. I’m an engineer. Major Lockett.”