by Jeff Shaara
“Sir, I wonder how General Sherman would respond to this sort of … haggling?”
“There is no mystery to that. For weeks now, the navy has fired incendiary shells into the town. Sherman would request with some vigor that we increase that effort.” He paused. “Right now, it is best that Sherman is elsewhere. I could not suffer that kind of spirit at this late hour. There is a time for the brutality of total war, Colonel. But there is also a time for total acceptance of the obvious. The rebels cannot feed their own men. The civilians in the town are suffering mightily. Rebel deserters are increasing in number every day. John Pemberton has capable subordinates serving him who know very well that their army is in defeat. He must respect their judgment, and I have seen no indication that his generals are anxious to continue this fight. If there was agreement with Pemberton’s show of pride, I’d have seen that in John Bowen. Pemberton would not have chosen that man to deliver his message or accompany him to a meeting, if Bowen was the sole voice of dissent. Bowen knows this is over. The rest of them must share that conviction. The time for posturing has passed. Bring the sergeant in here. Then wake up Secretary Dana. He shall be a party to this. I want Washington to receive a copy of these correspondences at the earliest opportunity. Dana will get the job done. Try to leave my son be. He’ll complain like a hornet, but I don’t need a twelve-year-old’s energy fluttering about at this hour.” Grant looked at his watch, well after midnight. “Colonel, have you noted that it is now the Fourth of July? I would have thought Pemberton would have avoided such a momentous event on such a momentous day. There will be repercussions for that, from the Southern civilians especially. Be certain of that.” He paused, snapped the watch closed, and stuffed it into his pocket. “Too many men … too much blood, Colonel. We had a singular mission to accomplish here, and it has proven more costly than I anticipated. But now we shall see it done. No more negotiations or arguments. This shall end now.”
General Pemberton,
I have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of your communication of 3rd July. The amendment proposed by you cannot be acceded to in full. It will be necessary to furnish every officer and man with a parole signed by himself, which, with the completion of the roll of prisoners, will necessarily take some time. I can make no stipulations with regard to the treatment of citizens and their private property. While I do not propose to cause them any undue annoyance or loss, I cannot consent to leave myself under any restraint by stipulations. The property which officers will be allowed to take with them will be as stated in my proposition of last evening; that is, officers will be allowed their private baggage and sidearms, and mounted officers one horse each. If you mean by your proposition for each brigade to march to the front of the lines now occupied by it, and stack arms at ten o’clock a.m., and then return to the inside and there remain as prisoners until properly paroled, I will make no objection to it. Should no notification be received of your acceptance of my terms by nine o’clock a.m. I shall regard them as having been rejected, and shall act accordingly. Should these terms be accepted, white flags should be displayed along your lines to prevent such of my troops as may not have been notified, from firing upon your men.
Ulysses Grant, Major General, Commanding
JULY 4, 1863
Grant had barely slept, but with the sunrise he had gone out quickly from the headquarters, a fresh biscuit stuffed into his pocket as an afterthought. The cavalry guard traveled with him, Captain Osband and a small group of horsemen out to the front, leading the way. Osband knew their objective, but Grant understood there was danger still, that somewhere along the rebel position, the response to any talk of surrender could be heralded with violence, some of the rebels certainly believing Pemberton had somehow betrayed their cause. For days now, Grant had known of the grumblings toward Pemberton. Most of that had of course come from the deserters, whose claims of any kind were subject to question. But there was too much of that kind of hostility, too many men referring to Pemberton as a Confederate in uniform only, that Vicksburg was a prize to be handed Grant as part of some grand plan of deception, Pemberton, the Ultimate Spy. He recalled Pemberton’s new uniform, all the posturing. He is a man who faces the worst crisis of his life now, a crisis of respect, of disgrace. For an officer, a West Pointer, what is worse than that? Surely, surely, he will not deny the only outcome there can be.
Grant realized he was as nervous as he had been the day before, a hard grip on the horse’s reins, his breathing short, hard. Osband led him down a steep hill, along a path made wide by the wheels of wagons and artillery, the grass in the narrow fields trampled flat by his men. He passed Logan’s headquarters tent, saw the Stars and Stripes. Staff officers saluted him, pointed westward, toward the front, their commander already with his men, and Grant acknowledged their salutes, thought, He is searching for it … as I am. We must know.
They crested a steep hill, and Osband held up a hand, the horsemen halting, Grant moving up beside him.
Osband pointed and said, “Sir, General Logan.”
Grant saw him now, sitting on horseback, a color bearer and his staff gathered behind him. Out to both sides, blue-coated infantry stood up from their trenches in a wide, uneven line. They were no more than fifty yards from the rebel works, and across the bare field, the massive earthen walls were bristling with activity. Grant pushed the horse forward, moved slowly toward Logan, the man turning to him, a salute, and then a tip of the hat. Grant could see now that Logan had tears on his face.
Grant was still uncertain, his hands twisting in nervousness, and he felt his own stab of emotion, held it tightly, made a sharp nod to Logan, stared out with him to the rebels who stood up high on their own defenses. For a long moment, there was no sound, Logan’s men silent, the rebels staring back at them, no taunts, no curses, no playfulness, and no musket fire.
“General Grant,” Logan said, “it is a most pleasant morning, sir.”
A breeze rose now, soft and warm, and between the ragged line of rebel soldiers, Grant saw what Logan had already seen. Along the crest of the defensive works, scattered between the men, there was a fluttering of white flags.
SATURDAY, JULY 4, 1863
The silence was unbearable. She crept from the cave at first light, waiting for the shelling to start, but the only sounds that rolled across the hillside came from the people who lived there. She focused on that, a heated argument somewhere down toward Mr. Atkins’s cave, could see a cluster of men, hands raised, shouting, violent fury. Cordray broke from the group, moving in long strides up the hill, staring down, one arm in motion, an angry conversation with himself. Isabel Cordray emerged from the cave behind Lucy, drawn by the commotion. She was weaker still, though Lucy was relieved Isabel had finally allowed herself to eat the horrifying fare, goaded on by her own children, who had no qualm at all about what actually went into “squirrel stew.” She held Lucy’s arm for support.
“What is happening? I know that look. Someone has angered him. Now we shall hear more about it than either of us would like.”
Cordray seemed to energize at his wife’s appearance, quickened his strides up toward them, and Lucy could see his agitation, the anger still. He softened as he drew closer, eyes on his wife.
“How are you feeling? Are you any stronger?”
“Somewhat. Tell me what has happened.”
Cordray lowered his head.
“The rumors of last evening have proven true. Pemberton has surrendered the city. There is great anger, dangerous talk. I must return to our home, make a stand to protect what is still ours. The Yankees are said to be marching into town at ten. There could be great destruction, great peril to any of us. Our officers are, as we speak, laying down their swords in front of our defenses.” He stopped, the words choked away by red-faced emotion. “It is the very end of the world.”
Lucy walked away, couldn’t absorb any more of the man’s furious talk, was far more curious about the amazing silence.
“Where are you going, chil
d? You must take care! There is no accounting for what the Yankees will do to us now!”
She glanced back, saw the deep worry from both of them, and shook her head.
“I will take care. I must go to the hospital. The patients there must be looked after.”
It was an excuse, the thought of blood and wounds too repellent to draw her anywhere. She climbed the hill to the narrow dusty lane, could feel the heat rising already, another oppressing day, oppressing now for other reasons as well. She tripped slightly, her foot snagging on a ragged piece of metal. She stepped carefully past, reached the road, realized now the ground along the crest of the hill was littered with metal, fragments of shells spread through a pockmarked landscape. She stared at what she knew to be shrapnel, metal torn like paper, jagged edges, twisted, curled, some of it half buried in the ground. The road itself was spread with wreckage, and she knew it had been that way for a while now, something she had grown too used to, had forgotten to see. But in the silence, with no shells streaking the sky, no whistle and roar, no distant impacts and thunderous quakes beneath her feet, it all seemed to rise up toward her, seeking her attention, calling out to remind her what had happened here.
She stood in the road, saw a shattered wagon up the way, wheels tilted inward, the wagon itself a mass of splinters. From beyond the hill, there were men, rough, emaciated, shreds for clothes. She watched them struggling to walk, one man leaning on the shoulder of another, a wound on the man’s leg. She knew now: soldiers. But there were no weapons, and she thought of Cordray’s words, the swords of the officers. And I suppose, she thought … everything else, too.
They continued the climb, saw her now, and she was too tired to feel the fear, all of Cordray’s caution. They moved up toward her, one man calling out, “Miss … have you anything to eat?”
“I’m sorry. No. I have not eaten at all today.”
They moved on toward the road, none of them doubting her, and she called out, “Where are you going?”
They didn’t stop, as though momentum was all they had left, one man responding, “Town. The river. Yankees’ll be there directly. Might be rations.”
She glanced down the hill, saw the caves emptying, Cordray’s neighbors spilling out into the rising sunlight, more talk, but many more of them just standing, staring out in every direction with a weary silence, exhausted disbelief. Beyond the hill, more soldiers appeared, wounds again, and she thought of the hospital tents, the men still to recover from all the horrifying things the doctors had to do. I should go there, she thought. They will still require assistance. The Yankees … they will not hurt them. They cannot, surely. There is pain … damage enough.
Cordray was moving up the hill, a rattle of hot words.
“Now! We must go now! It will not be long, and we could lose everything! There is talk that the Yankees will burn the town, all of it! There is no decency in them. None!”
“Who is saying such things?”
Cordray didn’t expect the question, just stopped and waved her away.
“Men who know of such things.”
“Officers?”
“I have no time for this, child. I must get to our home. You would do well to seek shelter. There will be Yankee soldiers marching on this road, you can depend on that. This is a day of shame for us all. A day of shame! Pemberton has sold us to the Yankees!”
She watched him go, the long strides again along the rutted road. Out toward the defenses, more soldiers were coming toward her, some on the road, others spread out along the hills, all of them plodding slowly toward Vicksburg. She felt none of Cordray’s fury, but began to walk, mindless steps back to her ruins of a house, nothing there to protect. She knew nothing of generals, nothing of Yankees. But there had been blood and brains and limbs and she knew that, over there, there surely had been doctors and nurses, doing exactly what she had done, caring and crying and enduring the worst horrors any of them would ever see. And they will not want more of this. Surely … they will not punish us because we chose to defend our homes.
She kept walking, slow steps, the road curving down through a wide gulley, more caves there, the people out in the open, more opinions, more sorrow. Up ahead, a soldier sat beside the road, still wore his small, crumpled hat, some kind of insignia that meant nothing to her. He sat on a log, slumped over, as though this was as far as he could go. She felt a stab of concern, thought, You are still a nurse, after all. Help him.
She moved closer to him, saw a glimpse of awareness on his face, and she knelt low.
“Are you wounded? Can you stand? I’m a nurse.”
The man tilted his head, and she saw age, gray hair spreading over his ears, soft blue eyes framed by creases in weathered skin.
“I been wounded, miss. But not for a while now. You’re mighty young for nursin’. You been out thataways?”
He pointed toward the defensive lines, and she nodded.
“Near the 3rd Louisiana. We had tents back in the low ground.”
“Yep. Took my friend there. Lost a leg, he did.”
She stood straight.
“Do you need some help? Are you going to the town?”
He shook his head slowly.
“Not goin’ anywhere right now. Yanks’ll be through here directly. They’ll look after me, I’m guessin’. Captain Seal says we oughta expect some rations. I figure I can wait for ’em. Been waitin’ plenty already.”
There was nothing angry in his words, none of the spouting off she had heard from Cordray, so many of the others. But she was curious about that, saw a kind of sadness she had seen in so many who had been through the hospitals, the wounded, and the men who carried them.
“You do any fighting out there?”
“Reckon I did. Can’t say I kilt no one. Mebbe. They tried mighty hard to stick one in me. Spent days sittin’ in a dang hole. Watched some of the others, the ones who thought fightin’ was fun … watched one boy lose a whole head, ’nother cut slam in two. Yanks know how to use artill’ry, I tell you that.”
She was torn now, whether or not to leave the man behind. She looked out across the hillside, saw a scattering of people, nearly all of them moving toward Vicksburg. Many were civilians, and she saw entire families, children urged to keep pace, urgency and panic from their parents.
“I will stay and help you, if you need.”
“I don’t need, miss. You go on back home. The fightin’ is done passed. Even the Yanks done give all they had. No stomach for it, not anymore.”
She started to move away, saw a young couple climbing the nearby hill, the woman cradling a filthy blanket. She knew them, saw recognition.
“Mr. Green! I heard.…”
They moved toward her, exhausted smiles, and the woman seemed to struggle. They reached the crest and Green said, “I heard you had been nursing the soldiers. Mighty difficult work, Miss Spence. You are to be commended.”
“I only wanted to help. Didn’t seem right the soldiers should have to suffer, while we … well, there was suffering aplenty.”
She looked at the bundle in the woman’s arms and heard a soft cry.
“How is he, Mrs. Green?”
The woman was pale, her worn dress hanging on her loosely, her husband taking the bundle from her arms.
“Miss Spence, we have been truly blessed. Would you mind terribly examining the boy … just for a look? We don’t know anything about doctoring.”
The bundle was put into her hands, and Lucy saw the pink, teary face staring up at her, a hard, angry twist, the faint coughing cry.
“Oh, my … Mr. Green, I don’t really know much—”
His wife added her voice.
“Please, Miss Spence. Just a look. Is he going to be all right?”
Lucy pulled the blanket back, exposed the baby’s chest, saw nothing to alarm her, the baby no longer crying.
“He’s beautiful, Mrs. Green. I think he’ll be just fine.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you for that. We just didn’t know … coming
like he did. No place to bring a life into this world.”
Lucy held the baby a moment longer, the eyes finding her, soft stare, a tiny hand reaching out from the blanket, fingers smaller than any she had seen.
“I don’t agree, ma’am. He was born out here in a cave … in the midst of the worst any of us will ever know. He is a gift. There is no doubt about that. He will always know what his parents went through, and I suppose, that is the best experience of all. That no one forget what we suffered here.”
She handed the bundle to the baby’s father, and Green made a bow.
“You know,” he said, “we named him just so. He is William Siege Green. It is a name that will inspire questions all his life.”
They moved away slowly, Mrs. Green offering a final thank-you, and Lucy felt drained, the hunger and the weariness pulling her down. She realized the old soldier was still there, had forgotten about him, and she saw him looking up at the Greens, watching them as they walked away.
“They had a child … right out here?”
“Yes. I heard about it … a few weeks ago. Very kind people. He’s a merchant in the town. I didn’t know what to tell them. My nursing is very limited. I know wounds, chloroform, things I hope never to see again.”
“Then you won’t be doin’ more nursin’? Shame, that is. This army’s not done fightin’. There’ll be a call for more like you. Always will be.”
