by Jeff Shaara
She didn’t want to think of that, that there would be more to this war, more of … this. She stared out to the Greens, saw the woman curl her arm through her husband’s, both of them staring at the bundle in his arms. The soldier coughed, then said, “Ah, then, so that’s what it’ll be.”
Lucy felt like sitting, fought against it, the log supporting the soldier too short for propriety.
“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
He laughed now, a high cackle.
“Well, you take a lesson from those two. If’n you think you’re gonna lose the gumption for fixing up the wounded … then you oughta put your care to raising a young’un.”
She nodded, didn’t know how to respond.
“I must go to the town. You sure you’ll be all right?”
“Go on. Tend to your business.” She started to move away, and he called after her.
“Miss, for all the trouble you’ve seen here … I wish for you … that you’ll see happier days.”
She saw the warmth in his eyes, couldn’t respond. She made a slight curtsy, moved away with slow, soft steps. The people were still filling the road, and there was less of the bickering arguments, less talk of betrayal and anger. The people seemed to strengthen the closer they drew to the town, a calm resolve flowing through them as it flowed through her, that no matter all she had seen, no matter the sickening and the terrifying, the suffering and the torment, she knew that the old soldier had planted in her the gift of hope.
VICKSBURG
SATURDAY, JULY 4, 1863
The honor of being the first to march into the town had been given to General John Logan, commanding one of McPherson’s divisions. But the ceremony of that had been accomplished quickly, and what followed required far more time and effort. The labor of issuing the paroles, the paperwork that would end the siege had to be completed by both sides, to Grant’s satisfaction.
With Logan’s division in the town, out along the nine miles of rebel earthworks, the Confederate forces began the process agreed to by Pemberton’s surrender. Along the entire front, arms and colors were stacked, the rebel soldiers moved back into the rolling open ground to the rear of their earthworks. Makeshift holding areas were established, and though guards were stationed along the perimeters, the areas bore little resemblance to a stockade. For nearly all of the rebel troops, the first priority was to be fed, and with the promise of rations, they weren’t inclined to go anywhere else. The Federal commissary, supplied by a vast fleet of supply boats on the river, immediately complied with Grant’s promise to help ease the starvation that had spread through Pemberton’s army, and for the first time in weeks, many of the rebels were issued corn, sugar, bacon, and other staples that had long disappeared from their own stores.
In some parts of the line, the rebels did not go quietly, many, including most of the 3rd Louisiana, reacting to the surrender with an outpouring of hostility, nearly all aimed toward their own command. Rather than stacking muskets, complying with the surrender order, some of the furious troops chose instead to smash their muskets against tree trunks, staging what amounted to small-scale riots in their own camps. But that was the exception. Once most of the Confederates had been paraded into their temporary holding areas, the Federal troops were granted permission to fraternize, and both sides found outstretched hands, calls of greeting that belied the reality that these men had done all they could to kill the men they faced now.
Though discipline still prevailed, the Federal provosts and senior officers made little effort to prevent their men from engaging in whatever kind of trade or barter they chose. The soldiers learned quickly how little the rebels had to offer, and so, most of the bargaining went forward with more charity than good business sense. The conversations were mostly cordial, the blue-clad soldiers recognizing that the men they faced now knew full well which side had prevailed. In response to an early outburst of artillery salutes, Grant issued a hasty order that silenced Federal artillery completely across the line, the message to his army clear. There would be no grand celebration at the expense of the captured rebels. Logan’s men had marched into Vicksburg to the strains of their own martial music, but even that had been subdued by the sights that awaited them. The destruction in the town kept many of the residents in the street, joined there by straggling soldiers, all of them desperate for food.
For a short while, boisterous recognition of the Federal victory came from the river, several of the navy’s ironclads unleashing their whistles and then erupting with artillery blasts that shattered the subdued calm in the town, sending many of the frightened civilians back toward their shelters. Grant had no real authority over Admiral Porter, couldn’t order a halt to that cannonade, but Porter himself soon recognized that with Federal troops now looking down on him from the heights within Vicksburg, there was no cause for disrupting what might be a fragile peace.
Bauer had moved through the rebel works, looking for one particular man. He spread out from the men of his own company, searched the faces, ragged beards on sunken cheeks, every rebel soldier seeming too thin for what remained of the clothes he wore. The officers were no different, that what passed still for a gray uniform was more often fragments, tatters that showed the officers had made the same sacrifices as their men. Near Bauer, the other Wisconsin men were doing the same, some of them hesitant, uncertain that these rebels would be open to any kind of cordiality. But that passed quickly, many of the rebels showing a surprising amount of good cheer, as though desperately grateful the fighting was past. Bauer still searched the faces, hoped he would recognize the man, if not by his face, at least by the man’s Southern drawl. But that was hardly unique, most of the rebels, particularly the Mississippi troops nearby, speaking with a syrupy slowness that many of the Irishmen in particular seemed to find fascinating. That fascination went both ways, of course, the heavier Irish brogues drawing plenty of attention, good-natured teasing in both directions.
He walked past animated conversations, gatherings where the rebels seemed subdued, probably from fatigue or outright hunger. To one side he saw Willis speaking to an officer, no smiles between them, as though the men in their uniforms knew that there was still a war, that no matter what had happened at Vicksburg, in many other places, soldiers were still shooting at each other. Bauer stopped, watched Willis for a long moment, wanted to approach, but kept away, wouldn’t interrupt them. They were, after all, officers.
Bauer couldn’t help thinking again of Shiloh, the aftermath so different. There, after a brutal Federal triumph, the rebels had retreated, were gone completely, leaving the horrifying job of burying the dead to the men in blue. Bauer had thought his life as a soldier might end right there, his duty done, that anyone surviving such a bloodbath could never be expected to do it all again. But Willis’s grim pessimism had swept away Bauer’s fantasy that it was over. He entertained none of that foolishness now, had accepted what he had volunteered to do. His enlistment was for three years, and no matter how many times he had fired his musket, how much of this he had experienced, he would continue to go wherever the army sent him.
Another rebel officer approached Willis, and Bauer could see feigned politeness from both men, a cordiality Bauer knew was counterfeit. The man seemed familiar, a lieutenant, his head wrapped in a dirty white bandage. Bauer realized it was the officer whom Willis had spoken to on that awful day in May, the short-lived truce to allow the bodies to be buried. Bauer kept back, could see Willis’s formality, contrasting with the rebel’s polite gentility, something a gentleman did as a matter of course. It had been that way in May, all those good manners, the men in Willis’s platoon knowing that once the truce ended, no gentility would prevent the killing.
Another man approached Willis, spoke with his hat in his hand, not an officer. Willis turned, searched the crowd a moment, then saw Bauer, pointed toward him. Bauer was surprised, watched the soldier slip past a crowd of other men, closing toward him. He was a skeleton of a man, shuffling with a pronounced limp, had a short, uneve
n beard that seemed to have been chopped by a dull knife.
“You! Dutchman! Yep! That’s you, ain’t it? I ’member how ugly you was!”
The voice came to him now, and Bauer knew.
“You’re Zep.”
“That I am. And now here we are, standin’ out here like one big country picnic. Guess I have to say, we been whipped good.”
Bauer struggled to say something.
“I suppose we got the better of it here. I never felt we were better than you.…”
“I ain’t talking about you, Yank! There ain’t a man in this army who don’t blame Ole Pem for tossing us into the pit. I got no reason to stick my fist in your face, not one. But if it came to that, I wouldn’t back down from you, or any other bluebelly!”
Bauer felt a hint of alarm, tried to measure Zep’s anger, not sure what the man might do.
“I don’t know about any of that. I don’t hate you, or wanna see you dead. I’m kinda glad actually … you’re not.”
Zep looked at him for a long moment.
“I’m no fool, Dutchman. You’d a kilt me just like I’d a kilt you. We just didn’t get the chance. Now, all them muskets are in your hands, and we’re just settin’ here waitin’ for what’s next.”
Bauer suddenly realized he had no idea what would happen next.
“Are they … are we putting you in a prison camp?”
“You mean, up north? I s’pose, for some. There’s a few here says they ain’t signin’ no parole. My captain says that any man who don’t agree to terms will be sent upriver somewheres. There’s a few who’d rather go sit in some hole and wait out the war. I suppose there’s something to that. This has gotta end someday. Me … I done signed the paper. They says we’ll be marchin’ outa here in a few days, once all the papers are hauled together. We’re supposed to gather up at Jackson, or somewheres. That lieutenant over there says Ole Pem expects us to follow him on down the road. This same kinda road, I suppose. Some will.”
“You?”
“Nope. Don’t mind tellin’ you, Dutchman. They let us march out of here, and it’s the last this army or this war will ever know about Zep Luvan.” He paused, seemed to weigh the wisdom of revealing anything more. “Such men like Ole Pem … they treat us like we got no sense of our own. That we’ll stand up and die everywhere they tell us to, just ’cause they tell us to. I seen too many die right here. Kin, close friends. Used to think this was worth doin’, just ’cause men smarter than me said so. I’m twenty-four years old, and I got a wife, and she’s back home wonderin’ if maybe I’m a hero, or maybe I’m in a hole in the ground. The best kind of hero is one who comes home and raises a family. Young’uns. My daddy was my hero. That’s what I intend to do. Just like him. You bluebellies want to go off and beat your chests about how dang tough you are, fine by me. Long as you keep off my farm … and don’t mess with my young’uns, I got no beef with you.”
Bauer saw resignation on the man’s face, but wasn’t sure he believed him.
Behind Bauer, a small wagon train rolled closer, blue-coated officers leading the way. Guards were there as well, men with bayonets, which seemed vaguely ridiculous to Bauer. The men around him were more like Zep, weak and hungry, far more interested now in their own welfare than some wild-eyed escape.
“Fall into line out this way! Three lines! We’ve got bread and molasses. Water, too, if you’ve got a canteen or a cup. Line up!”
The rebels responded with as much energy as they could muster, their own officers taking charge, and immediately the commissary troops began handing out the rations. Zep moved that way, then stopped, looked back toward Bauer.
“Cain’t say it was a pleasure meetin’ you, Dutchman. You ain’t kilt, so I’m grateful for that.”
“Maybe we’ll meet again.”
“Nope. We won’t. ’Cept maybe in hell.”
MONDAY, JULY 6, 1863
He walked beside Willis, back toward their own camp. Bauer had tried to find Zep again, curious about the man’s dedication, that no matter what his army told him to do, his war was over.
“That’s what he said, Sammie. He was just going home.”
“Maybe he will. Maybe some officer with a handful of guards will round him up before he gets the chance. These rebel officers aren’t quitting this fight. Means too much to ’em.”
“They sure don’t have much good to say about Pemberton.”
“Not one.”
They walked along a wide hardpan road, and Bauer looked to the side, saw the great mound of dirt, so familiar now, the same dirt he had watched for weeks. The stovepipes were still there, and Bauer climbed up, a wooden parapet still intact, peered through, was staring straight toward the old tree stump, his own perch.
Willis watched him and said, “Pretty smart of these boys, huh? You did good work on these things. I’m guessing you took down quite a few, maybe right on that spot. You’ve gotten better at all of this. Didn’t think you’d still be here.”
Bauer looked at him, felt a stab of hurt.
“Why? You thought I’d run off? That I’d end up a coward?”
Willis held his stare, shook his head.
“Not one bit. I thought they’d get you. You’re not a soldier, you’re a man in a blue uniform, who’s learned how to shoot a musket. Better than most, no doubt. But this isn’t for you. A boy dies next to you, and you let it get to you. You can’t feel it that way, not and keep your head about you. That’s why a man runs away.”
Bauer moved back down toward the road, saluted a cavalry officer who rode slowly past, the man returning it.
“Not so. Not at all. You don’t tell me why I ran away. That was a long damn time ago. I was scared out of my head, like demons chasing me. You … what’s wrong with you? You’re not scared, never. You stand up there like those damn Minié balls are gonna bounce off. I’m gonna watch one get you, I just know it. And when that happens, I’m gonna be mad at you forever. You got no right to be so damn stupid.”
Willis looked at him, and Bauer was surprised to see a smile.
“Watch your mouth, Private.”
“Well, hell a-mighty, Lieutenant. How can you do that? You got a wife and a new baby back home. I never hear you talk about ’em, never. I’d give anything to have a son, get to teach him all those things a boy needs to know.”
Willis stared away.
“Maybe,” he said. “This war’s gotta end first. Could take a long damn time. Years maybe. You hear about Pennsylvania?”
“The state?”
Willis looked down and shook his head.
“Yeah. The state. I was gonna gather up the platoon, give them the report. Not sure what it means, but Colonel McMahon got the word from General McArthur himself. Said General Grant got a wire straight from President Lincoln. Hell of a fight there, maybe bigger than this one.”
“We win?”
“All I know is what the general passed on. It was Lee himself, took on a bunch of boys at some small town … forget the name. But yeah, we won, I guess.”
“Well, see there? How many more times we gonna win before all those rebels give up? They can’t keep losing fights and losing ground. Like that Zep fellow. Blames General Pemberton, says he’s not going to fight for him anymore. Look at these rebs around here. They gave us all they had, and we still whipped ’em. Every one of ’em is mad as a hornet at Pemberton. That’s gotta be how this ends.”
Willis looked at him for a long, silent moment.
“They make fence posts outa better stuff than is in your head. These damn secesh have plenty of generals, and some of ’em are as good as what we’ve got back there in those big tents. Look how long it took us to grab one stinking little town. Colonel says we got the Stars and Stripes flying up on their courthouse, like that’s the most important damn thing in the world. You really think your friend Zep is gonna go home, and if he does, is he gonna stay there? Look how close this whole damn reb army came to starving, right out here in front of us. They’re over there fi
lling their bellies full of, hell, I don’t know … dirt maybe. But if you’d have stuck your head up far enough, one of those boys would have taken it off. Like that damn redhead, O’Daniel. This won’t end until all those generals decide to make it end. You and me, Zep, that damn polite lieutenant, we’re just out here to do the nasty part.”
The words came out of Willis with a rising flow of excitement, and Bauer knew what that meant, had seen it too many times before.
“I wish you didn’t like it so much, Sammie. Really don’t.” He paused, stared up at the vacant earthworks. “So, what are we supposed to do next? You get any orders?”
“Not yet. Wish they’d hurry up, though. Had enough of this place.”
“I agree with you there, Lieutenant. Guess there’ll be some other place soon enough.”
There were hoofbeats, and Bauer looked that way, saw a squad of cavalrymen moving up quickly, riding past now, swallowing both men in a cloud of dust.
AFTERWORD
The best Fourth of July since 1776.
—William T. Sherman
I thought of how many months we had nobly held the place against all the efforts of the Yankee nation, and bore privations and hardships of all kinds. Tears rose in my eyes and my very heart swelled with emotion. Being a prisoner did not in the least affect me, but the loss of the place … a great downfall to the Confederacy … caused me much pain.
—HUGH A. MOSS, CONFEDERATE ARTILLERYMAN
The Father of Waters again goes unvexed to the sea.
—ABRAHAM LINCOLN
As we stepped aboard the boat which was to bear us on toward the unknown experiences that awaited us during the death struggles of the Confederacy … we became, without realizing all the hardships and bitterness the word implied, refugees adrift upon the hopeless current of a Losing Cause.
—WILLIE LORD, SON OF REV. W. W. LORD, VICKSBURG
