by Jeff Shaara
“No, he don’t. He’s done got too old, just like ole James. I always reckoned we’d go to the same grave, him and me. The Lawd’d wanna see us both, when the time comes. I saw what dey done, Miss Lucy. I saw him.”
He let out a breath, but the sobbing came again, and she stood over him, shared the awful helplessness. She tried to feel anger, fury at the men who would do this. But it wouldn’t come. She felt the emotions coming from her own agony, the filth and blood, tending to broken men, the pure indecency of everything she had seen and eaten and smelled and felt with her own hands.
She knelt close to the old black man, hesitated, put a hand on his shoulder, felt the shaking in his body, the pure grief, the loss of his friend.
When the sun went down, the shelling began again, the civilians moving inside quickly, but she remained outside the cave, watched the red streaks, heard the thumps and distant thunder, and noticed now for the first time that something was missing. What had been done to James’s best friend was an act of raw desperation repeated in the town, and all throughout the cave-spotted hills. Until now, every time the shells came, it had been the same, the whistle and shriek of the mortars and the cannon fire answered by a scattered chorus of howling dogs. But tonight there were no howls, no response at all to the steel and fire from the sky. There were no longer any dogs.
PEMBERTON’S HEADQUARTERS
JUNE 29, 1863
The letter began with compliments, the formal respect paid to his authority, what he quickly saw as window dressing for what the writer intended to say.
Men don’t want to starve, and don’t intend to, but they call upon you for justice, if the commissary department can give it; if it can’t, you must adopt some means to relieve us very soon. The emergency of the case demands prompt and decided action on your part. If you can’t feed us, you had better surrender us, horrible as the idea is, than suffer this noble army to disgrace themselves by desertion. I tell you plainly, men are not going to lie here and perish, if they do love their country dearly. Self-preservation is the first law of nature, and hunger will compel a man to do almost anything. You had better heed a warning voice, though it is the voice of a private soldier. This army is now ripe for mutiny, unless it can be fed.
Many Soldiers
“It is an outrage, sir! The Yankees have been spreading such pamphlets through our ranks for days now. Some of them float in off the river carried by the most absurd contraption, balloons, no less!”
Pemberton stared blindly at the paper, the words flowing together, his eyes unable to focus.
“Exactly how did you come by this, Colonel?”
“It was delivered here last night, a coward’s way, darkness to hide his treachery!”
“So, how do you know this came from the enemy?”
“It has to, sir! No soldier in this army would dare to issue such a brazen threat!”
“Many soldiers.” He tossed the paper onto the desk and stood silently for a long moment. “I wish I shared your outrage at the enemy’s propaganda. The missives I have seen have been directed to our troops, encouraging them to desert. True?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This one is directed to me. There is something of … spirit here.”
“Sir, you cannot suggest this is written by the hand of a Confederate soldier.”
Pemberton didn’t respond, just turned and walked toward the door. He stopped and looked back to his office, Waddy raising the letter again, studying it, no attempt to hide his disdain. Pemberton looked at the others scattered throughout the living room of the house, men responding to his presence mostly by casual stares, as though he might actually order them to do something.
“Tell me, gentlemen, is there some of that mule meat available? I rather liked that … considering.”
JULY 1, 1863
The second mine erupted just after 3 P.M., along a front manned by the Confederate 6th Missouri, men who had taken up station within musket range of the first crater. Once again, Southern troops had been able to detect the mining operations close beneath them, and once again, Lockett’s engineers had failed to stop the Federal efforts. But this time there was a telltale sign that the explosion was coming. Across the way, the ongoing Federal artillery assaults had suddenly stopped, the sharpshooters falling silent, and the Missouri officers took that as a sign of the inevitable. They were correct. When the massive explosion came, the loss of life exceeded what had happened the first time, but not by a great deal. A detail of workers, mostly slaves, had been deep in the ground, engaged in Lockett’s efforts to locate the mine. They were never seen again. In addition, a handful of guard posts along the redan were shredded, along with the men who occupied them. As had happened before, many of the Confederate troops had been pulled back, prepared to receive another massive shove from Federal infantry. But this time the Yankees did not rush forward, no real attempt at all to exploit the blasted opening in the redan. The blast was followed only by a thunderous shelling from Federal artillery, which blistered the defenders who rushed forward to seal the breach. As the daylight began to fade, the Federal forces seemed content to keep to their cover, while in the redan, the Missourians tended to their dead and wounded. As happened before, Samuel Lockett’s men took charge of the essential repairs to the earthen walls and parapets, a rapid effort to seal the breach. When he learned of the second mine, and the utter lack of any offensive by Federal infantry, Pemberton could only assume that the eruption was as much for show as it was any attempt to crush his defenses. It was one more signal, a sign for Pemberton that Grant had every advantage, that as time went on, each day would bring more destruction from Federal troops, many of whom were within a few yards of Pemberton’s defenses.
He rode with John Bowen, the staffs trailing far behind, always alert for the scattered artillery that came down with the usual randomness. The night was clear, stars overhead, sultry, Pemberton feeling the sweat in the saddle, heat rising off the horse. The redan was close now, the road dipping down along a familiar hillside, then back up, no campfires to light the way. Bowen had said almost nothing, and Pemberton had seen something in the man he hadn’t noticed before, a sad sickliness, Bowen moving in slow, plodding motions. Pemberton didn’t bother to ask, knew Bowen for what he was, a first-rate battlefield commander who would never admit to weakness. Though Bowen’s men had taken the worst of the fights near the Champion farm and the Big Black, having his men kept in reserve was more an insult than anything practical. Pemberton had no patience for that now, knew Bowen probably had even less. So far, Forney and Smith had accomplished as much as Pemberton could have asked of them, the fresher divisions lining the miles of defensive works, and so far, tossing back every major advance Grant had made against them. The mines were more of the same, and Pemberton had taken some encouragement from what must have been reluctance on the part of the Federal commanders to throw away any more men in some fruitless charge against such effective defenses. It was the one bright light in the rapidly growing sea of despair that spread through the army. Regardless of Grant’s amazing surge through the Mississippi countryside, since he had put his people around Vicksburg, the Yankees had been whipped in every fight.
Pemberton saw horsemen up ahead, though it was too dark to see who it was. But the voice came now: Lockett.
“Sir, welcome. Thank you for making the ride. I thought it important to show you how we’ve reconstructed the defenses where the enemy set off their mines.”
Pemberton said nothing. Bowen responded.
“Major, how many more of these projects do the Yankees have?”
“I can’t say for certain, sir. We know of at least three more, but so far, we have not been successful in locating the tunnels. That part of it is most frustrating. I must offer credit to their engineers. Certainly they have some experience in these kinds of efforts. Coal miners, no doubt.”
Pemberton said, “If you say so, Major. Is that the only reason we’re out here?”
Bowen took the response fro
m Lockett and said, “We’re out here because the men need to know their commanding general shares their interest in self-preservation.” He paused. “I assume that is a satisfactory reason?”
The phrase stuck in Pemberton’s mind: self-preservation. The first law of nature. He looked at Bowen through the darkness, the words from the anonymous letter still digging their way through him. Lockett was speaking again, moving away, guiding them to whatever work the engineer wished them to see. Pemberton followed behind Bowen, the horse moving in sluggish steps, and he ignored Lockett’s narrative, fought through one question rising up in his mind. The letter … signed by Many Soldiers. Should I wonder … if there were Many Officers?
THE COWAN HOUSE—PEMBERTON’S HEADQUARTERS
JULY 2, 1863
They gathered at the appointed time, responding to his call for a council of all his division and brigade commanders. They found seats, most on the floor, little regard for seniority, Bowen close to him on one side, Forney in the back, sitting against the wall. Stevenson and Smith sat on the left, against another wall. The brigadiers sat between the more senior men, and Pemberton stood at the far end of the room, watched them situate themselves, growing silent as they sat. He had rarely insisted on the kind of protocol where the major generals sat in a cluster, their subordinates spread out behind. But here the seating was almost by design, and Pemberton couldn’t avoid a nagging suspicion that the four division commanders had spaced themselves out to avoid any hint of some conspiracy, as though they had already met, made decisions that would strip his authority. The letter was in his pocket still, read more than a dozen times. The army … ripe for mutiny.
He scolded himself silently, had no reason to suspect anyone of plotting against him, but those thoughts were there nearly every night, the exhaustion pulling him out of a sound night’s sleep, forcing him awake, to stare at the plaster ceiling of his room, ghostly shapes emerging in the patterns of the spiderweb of cracks, created by the scattered blasts from Federal artillery. It had been that way for several days now, and he had wondered about the men in this room, the generals who stayed out front with their men, who heard the complaints and the anger, who saw the suffering of their men firsthand. Bowen’s words came back from the night before, the casual insult, that Pemberton should show more awareness of what his army was enduring. And what benefit would that do for our cause? The difficulties come from the enemy … and from our alleged savior, General Johnston.
“Gentlemen, you have been told of the various dispatches received here, sent to us by the courtesy of General Johnston?” He pointed to one corner of the room. “Colonel Waddy has placed copies of those dispatches on that table, should you wish to examine them for yourself. I would only say that, despite my most strenuous entreaties to the general, he has given me decidedly differing messages. Like you, I have believed his presence here would change the tide of events. Despite my faith that the general would make such a decision on our behalf, the latest correspondence I received from him two days ago indicates once again his unwillingness to commit such a … meager force. He claims to have but twenty-three thousand men assembled.” He heard grunts, mumbles, knew the rumors of far greater numbers had spread all through his command. “I cannot say with any certainty how many men General Johnston could bring to this fight. And so, I must rely on what he tells me. If I am in error in that judgment, any one of you may correct me.”
No one spoke, and he caught the eyes of his four division commanders, saw no protest, no sign that any of them expected anything more from Johnston than he did.
“I should like to hear from you if there is some strategy you believe to be sound, that will extricate us from this crisis.”
Stevenson stood, then nodded to the others.
“General,” he said, “my men have a cheerful spirit, but for such short rations, are much enfeebled. Should we attempt a forced breakout, many of my men would be unable to suffer the marches. I would assume that any breakout would require us to reach and cross the Big Black River, without the enemy drawing us into a general engagement.”
One of the younger men spoke up, Francis Shoup, a brigade commander under Martin Smith.
“Sirs, can we not embrace some faith that General Johnston will yet relieve us?”
Pemberton yielded the response to Smith.
“Francis, your enthusiasm for continuing this campaign is laudable. But the men can barely rise up from their dugouts. I have seen able men stagger about like drunkards for lack of rations. Even if General Johnston presents himself in a line of battle against Grant’s eastern flanks, it does nothing to increase our commissary. We do know that Sherman has been charged with defending Grant from any attack from the east. With the reinforcements that we have observed coming into Grant’s positions, I have every reason to believe that Sherman’s stand out toward the Big Black would not be easily defeated.”
Forney spoke up.
“The reinforcements you refer to were marched in plain view of our camps, both above the town and across the Mississippi. That was no doubt a message, Grant making very sure we know what kind of strength he brings to this fight. With all respects, General Pemberton, my men might have spirit in their souls, but they cannot hope to match a far larger force, which is far better equipped, and we must assume … well fed.”
Bowen kept his seat, seemed clearly to struggle with his voice.
“Gentlemen, I have no faith that General Johnston will arrive here in time to do more than witness our ignominious surrender.”
The word stung Pemberton, questions in his own mind slowly cleared away.
“I must ask you all. Do you believe surrender is our only option?”
Bowen did not hesitate.
“Yes.”
Smith nodded, repeated the word, Stevenson seeming to struggle with saying it out loud.
“If it is the consensus … then I would agree.”
Pemberton felt the heat in the room, sweat on his face, saw the discomfort in every man there. Gradually they looked at him, tired eyes, sharp glares, the optimism of the younger men, the dismal acceptance from the others.
“Thank you for your presence here. I would suggest you return to your commands.”
Bowen spoke up, a loud burst of words.
“Would it not be better if you ordered us to return? Is that not, after all, your place here?”
Bowen’s head dropped, a silent moment, the others holding their reactions to themselves. Pemberton had no urge to scold Bowen even with such a show of disrespect. He looked at the man, saw more of the weakness, thought of summoning the doctor. But Bowen was a proud man, and Pemberton thought, Just let it rest. Nothing can be accomplished by a clash over … words.
“Very well. You are all dismissed. Except General Bowen. Please remain.”
They began to move, hands extended by the junior commanders, Smith and Forney and Stevenson helped to their feet by the men who served them. They moved quickly toward the door, Waddy there, and other aides, clearing the way. Almost no one spoke to Pemberton, the occasional nod, a flinch of a salute from the youngest men. He said nothing, allowed them to leave on their own terms, knew that every man in the room would swallow this in a different way. Many had suffered significant casualties, though losses from any fighting paled against what they were losing now to sickness or desertion.
Bowen stayed where he was, seemed too weak to stand, and Pemberton watched him for a moment, Bowen’s head down.
“General Bowen, I shall return in a moment.”
Pemberton followed the last of the brigadiers to the door of the house, saw the men mounting horses, aides scattered about, the color bearers coming into line. There were civilians as well, a ragged crowd, two dozen people, men mostly, gathering off to the side of the street, making way for their generals. He heard the voices now, angry, defiant, a blend of hostility and desperation, calls for food, for safe passage, for sanctuary. He had nothing to give them, no response that would satisfy anyone. He backed away and
motioned to Waddy, who closed the door.
“Am I to apologize to you for my impudence?”
Pemberton sat in the chair, a few feet from Bowen.
“I ask nothing of that. It was a council of war, and you spoke your mind. That is, after all, the point.”
“I did not truly speak my mind. None of them did. Even in our darkest hour, we maintain some dignity. The enemy must respect that.”
“Then you will make certain of that.”
Bowen looked up now.
“How?”
“You were once a close acquaintance of General Grant, yes?”
“I had my residence near his. We spoke from time to time.”
Pemberton weighed his words.
“You wish me to give you an order? I shall do so. Tomorrow morning, I shall have prepared a letter, which you will carry under a flag of truce, and present it to General Grant.”
“Saying what?”
“You already know. I shall request that General Grant agree to an armistice, and that he shall also consent to the appointment of a body of commissioners who will agree to precisely what terms General Grant will accept.…” Pemberton stopped, the words not coming, a sudden grip of emotion. Bowen was looking at him, and made a slow nod.
“For the surrender of this army.”
JULY 3, 1863
The white flags appeared at ten in the morning, the Federal gunners halting their fire, the infantry cautioned to remain alert, no one really knowing what the rebels were trying to do. Within minutes of the sudden silence, three horsemen rode out through the Confederate position, including the man charged with delivering Pemberton’s letter to Grant, General John Bowen.
The aide had come in a fast gallop, relating the news that the rebels were on the way, word going first to the nearest command officer, General Andrew Smith. The aide had passed along Smith’s message that the men were being escorted under guard straight to Grant’s headquarters.
