Independence Day

by Bob Mayer

  “But he was gonna shoot us. You saved—”

  “No one,” Ivar repeated. “Our secret, all right? Buster saved me, and I saved us. That makes it all even. All right?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “No one.”

  Joey shook his head. “Lots of weird things happening since the Yankees come.”

  “Weird? Like what?”

  Joey shook his head. “Everything’s weird. That-there that just happened was weird.” He paused, turning his head to and fro. “Yankees must be taking the night off,” he observed. “I can’t recall them doing that before. I hope Mama will be getting some sleep with the quiet. She just ain’t been acting right.”

  “How so?” Ivar asked.

  “When Pa didn’t come back, she broke,” Joey said. “I think she just gave up. I don’ know. I just don’ know.”

  Ivar felt bad for the kid, caught up in a battle, in a war, in a world gone crazy. Add in what had just happened and Joey was having a really bad time.

  “Then Ma got hurt,” Joey said. “Not sure what happened, but she can’t use her left arm. It just, I don’t know, just don’ work. Everything is bad.”

  “Things will get better,” Ivar said.

  “I don’t know,” Joey said.

  “What’s wrong with General Pemberton’s head?” Ivar asked.

  “He can’t take it no more, is what I think,” Joey said. “Everyone wants him to do something different. More they all say he shoulda done something different. Like Ol’ Man Pinster, lots of folks thinks he’s a traitor.”

  A Northerner fighting for the Confederacy, Pemberton was an anomaly. Ivar knew about being one.

  Joey kept walking, twisting and turning through the streets. They went through a cut in a ridge, and Ivar realized they were in ‘Prairie Dog Village’, the Union’s term for the over five hundred caves that locals had burrowed into the ridgeline. Narrow dirt trails traversed back and forth along the ridge. Heavy blankets hung over the openings to the caves, preventing light from escaping.

  “Halt!” a voice called out. “Who goes there?”

  Ivar held his hands up wide, thinking about what had happened earlier this year to one of the former cadets he’d met at West Point in 1843—Thomas Jackson. “Friend!”

  A dark figure stood in front of a wide cave opening. Two blankets hung on a pole covered the entrance. The man had a musket to his shoulder, the working end pointing at Ivar.

  “Advance and be recognized!”

  Ivar’s new companion spoke up. “Thomas, it’s me, Joey. I’ve got a friend. He’s an officer.”

  “Joey?” The muzzle of the musket went down a little. “Identify yourself, sir.”

  “Captain Ivar. General Johnston’s command.” Ivar walked up to the sentry, keeping his arms raised.

  The sentry looked him over. “Your papers, sir?”

  Ivar pulled out what he’d been supplied with.

  The sentry peered at them, but there was no way he could read them in this darkness. Ivar wasn’t even sure the man knew how to read, given he held them upside down as he pretended. “What business do you have with the General, sir?”

  “That’s between the General and myself, private.”

  The sentry nodded. “You may pass.”

  Nada would have had his ass, Ivar thought.

  “Thanks, Thomas,” Joey said and led the way into the cave.

  Ivar slipped inside. He was surprised to step onto a plush carpet. The interior was lit was three oil lamps and there was fine furniture positioned about. The cave was large, about twenty feet wide by fifteen deep. A man in uniform sat at a table next to a woman whose left arm hung limply at her side. The place smelled of wildflowers and Ivar saw them in a small pot on a little table, a surprising touch of civilization. There was another odor underneath, something cooking on a large cast-iron stove to the right rear. There were three large kettles on top along with a blackened coffee pot. A pipe ran into the packed dirt above and there was a large stack of wood next to the stove. Ivar felt the heat coming off the stove even at this distance. Another blanket hung over a tunnel in the left rear.

  The download let him know he shouldn’t be surprised at the level of comfort in the cave. This was a step down for the obviously upper-class white woman. All of Vicksburg had taken a step down in comfort: the upper-class got caves with rugs and furniture; the middle-class went from home to bare cave; the lower-class went to crowding together in the same caves and the slaves went from structure to uncertainty as to their future.

  For them, it was as likely they’d be killed before the Yankees won as the other possible outcomes. There were even rumors that the Yankees executed slaves to deny them ever being returned to their former owners.

  That was one constant to every war: rumors.

  “Who are you?” the General demanded as he stood, drawing his saber from the scabbard looped over the arm of the chair.

  “He’s a friend, General,” Joey said. He turned to his mother. “Mama, tell the General he’s my friend, ‘cause lookie-here at what-all me and Buster got with his help. He stood down Old Man Finster for me.” Joey shot Ivar a look, as if to say: See, I didn’t tell.

  The woman was quite lovely as she smiled. “That will help the soup a great deal, son.” She nodded at Ivar. “Thank you.”

  “I don’t recognize you,” General Pemberton said, half-raising the saber.

  The woman put a gentle hand, her good one, on Pemberton’s other arm. “Please, dear sir, he is wearing our uniform. And Thomas let him through.”

  “He’s a captain,” Pemberton said. “I know every Captain in my command.”

  “Are you certain?” she asked.

  Pemberton blinked and in that blink Ivar saw the uncertainty that ruled Pemberton’s life. Nothing, not even who his officers were, was certain for him anymore.

  “Please, sir,” she said in a voice that was tinted exactly the right way for a man on edge. “Let’s talk before taking action just this one time.”

  Good advice, Ivar thought.

  “I repeat, sir,” Pemberton said, “state your name and unit.”

  “Captain Ivar. I am working special detail to General Johnston. He sent me here to ascertain the circumstances and to report back.”

  “Johnston?” Pemberton lowered the sword. “How did you get through the lines?” The point of the sword came back up.

  “It’s my expertise, sir,” Ivar said. “I only put the uniform on once I was past the Yankee lines.” Ivar went on with a short cover story Edith had provided, dropping enough names and details to prove he’d come from General Johnston’s headquarters. The General seemed confused, but the woman stared at him in a disconcerting manner.

  “You don’t sound Southern,” Pemberton challenged, but the sword was now dangling from his hand.

  “I said that!” Joey tossed in as he put the potatoes onto a wide table. “He’s like you, General. From up north, but his folks was from Georgia.”

  A spark lit in Pemberton’s eyes. “Is relief on the way?” But it was gone before Ivar could answer as Pemberton gave a bitter laugh. “It’s too late. Too late. Why’d Johnston send you? He never wanted me to hold here. But Jeff Davis. He sent me a note. Told me I had to hold. Who was I to obey? My commander, or my President? And if I abandoned Vicksburg? What would people say? That I was a traitor.” He practically spat the last word out and the boy looked over from where he was cutting the potatoes.

  Pemberton slumped back in the chair, the saber forgotten in his hand. “You can tell the General, well, tell him what you see. We’re done.”

  “I can see that, sir. It’s understandable.”

  The woman got up and went over to the stove. She poured from the coffee pot into a cup with her good hand, then she brought it back, placing it on the table, at the third chair. “Please join us, Captain Ivar. It’s only treebark coffee, but it has some flavor.”

  Ivar took the chair as Joey’s mother brought another cup back for the General
. She put it down, then went back to the stove. She lifted the lid on one of the large pots and sniffed. “It’s ready, General.” She slid the lid to the side. “Joey. Bring me your bowl.”

  Joey grabbed a fine piece of china, handling it carefully. He went to his mother then held it out. She ladled out a few cupfuls into the bowl.

  “Smells good, Ma,” Joey said.

  “It will be better once I put your ‘taters in.” She smiled at him. “You can eat in the bedroom, Joey. We have to talk out here. Adult talk.”

  Joey nodded and disappeared behind the far curtain, Buster following.

  She came back to the table and sat down but her gaze was on the curtain, a wistful smile on her face. “He’s a good boy.”

  “He is,” Ivar agreed.

  “He should not have had to endure this,” she added. “No one should.”

  The General put a possessive hand on the woman’s good hand, patting it. “It will be over today, my dear.” He took a sip of the bark-coffee.

  Ivar gave the ‘coffee’ a try and figured dirty water tasted better. He now knew how Buster had survived so long and Joey and his mother. Pragmatism was a good thing, a survival trait, even though others, like Old Man Pinster, might see it in a negative light.

  Pemberton kept patting her hand as if he were in a trance. Ivar wondered if his mission was perhaps about her or maybe Joey?

  “Might I inquire as to your name?” Ivar asked the woman.

  “Mrs. Ballard,” she said. “And you’ve met my son, Joey.”

  Ivar scanned the download for Mrs. Ballard or Joey Ballard but nothing popped up. Even odder, historians believed the reason Pemberton, born and raised in a prominent family in Philadelphia and exhibiting no great belief in either state’s rights or the issue of slavery, decided to fight for the South, was his love for his wife, a Virginian. Yet here he was, with another woman.

  Pemberton seemed to have fallen into a trance as Mrs. Ballard’s thumb tenderly caressed his hand covering her own.

  She noticed Ivar noticing. “The General has been under tremendous strain these past few months. But that will all be over soon.”

  “Completely understandable,” Ivar said, not quite sure what he was understanding.

  Pemberton roused. “Louise gives me strength in this hopeless time.” He stared at Ivar. “We are to surrender later today to the heathen Grant and his devil Sherman. By the time you get back to General Johnston he will already know.”

  Ivar nodded. “Yes, sir. The situation appears untenable.”

  “’Appears untenable’?” Pemberton shook his head. “It was untenable from the start. I knew that. General Johnston knew that. But President Davis told me to hold. So I’ve held as long as I could. As long as the people could. They have been most brave.” He smiled at Louise, who returned it. He shifted back to Ivar. “But we have finally been given guidance by a power higher than General Johnston and President Davis. We have been told what to do to destroy Grant. To turn defeat into victory.”

  “What do you mean, sir?” Ivar asked.

  Pemberton leaned forward as if confiding in Ivar, even though only Louise was in earshot. “Grant offered me terms. Can you believe the temerity of the man? Given his record, why would he think I would believe him?”

  According to the download, it was Pemberton who’d asked for the terms, specifying the Fourth to help get them. This made no sense.

  “I do not trust the man,” Pemberton continued. “I know of Grant’s service. He’s a drunkard. A man who couldn’t cut it in the regular army. He colluded with Buckner at Fort Donelson. Then he was extremely fortunate Sidney Johnston was killed on the first day at Shiloh or else he and his heathens would have been pushed into the Tennessee River on the second day. The man is no officer and no gentleman.”

  Ivar opened his mouth to say something, but Pemberton wasn’t done.

  “And Sherman? He’s worse. Much worse. He’s crazy as a bedbug. You know what he said before the war?”

  The download presented the relevant portion of a long tirade by Sherman from 1860, even before the war began: ‘You people of the South don't know what you are doing. This country will be drenched in blood, and God only knows how it will end. It is all folly, madness, a crime against civilization! You people speak so lightly of war; you don't know what you're talking about. War is a terrible thing!’

  “I know,” Ivar said. He wanted to add that Sherman had been right on target, but that didn’t seem appropriate at the moment.

  “They sent Sherman home,” Pemberton said. “The Yankees. Because he’d gone crazy. Insane. And then they brought him back. Why? Why would they bring a crazy man back and pair him up with Grant? A drunkard?” Pemberton shook his head. “No. No. I know what is coming. I knew even before we were told. Isn’t that true, Louise?”

  She nodded. “It is, dear. It is why we must not waver in our resolve.”

  Pemberton thumped his hand on the table. “My men have accepted the need for self-sacrifice. They know they will see no mercy from Grant and that Sherman will wet the bayonets of his soldiers with our blood if given the chance. His men will ravage our women. We must not give him the chance.”

  “We must not,” Louise echoed.

  “We must do as the Israelites did in ancient times,” Pemberton said. “I would not have thought of it. But then we were told. In our defeat, we will defeat Grant. We will make his name cursed through the nation, throughout the world.”

  Ivar frowned. “What were you told, sir? How will you do that?”

  Pemberton smiled. “As the Romans went into Masada after their siege, Grant and his devils will enter Vicksburg to find soldiers and civilians who choose to die on their own terms, and not at the hands of a merciless enemy!”

  Mantinea, Greece, 4 July 362 B.C.

  Epaminondas’s forces smashed into the Spartan alliance with a unique and unforgettable sound: spear on shield, shield on shield, men grunting from the impact, the first screams of the wounded and dying.

  It was akin to a rugby scrum, except with spear and shield, and, most significantly, those who gave ground died. Behind the lines, Epaminondas was galloping toward the left flank of his army, where his troops were massed the deepest. The Sacred Band was running behind him, trying to keep up.

  Pandora hefted her Naga. “Let us insure it plays out as it should.” She took a step downslope toward the battle, Pyrrha at her side.

  Scout didn’t follow. “Who is my mother?”

  Pandora stopped and turned. “What?”

  “Who is my mother?”

  “Now is not the time,” Pandora said. “Are you with us?”

  “I’m not sure that’s my mission,” Scout said. “The Legion seemed more concerned with you last time we met.”

  “If Epaminondas lives,” Pandora said, “your timeline will change.”

  “It will Ripple,” Scout said. “But maybe not change. Plus, we can always kill him later.

  “You’re a fool,” Pyrrha said.

  “I’ve been called worse,” Scout said. She worked at shielding her thoughts from both women.

  Pandora stared at her for several seconds, then shook her head. The two headed toward the battle. As they moved, Scout was surprised to see that they seemed to fade in and out of sight, as if they were apparitions. If she hadn’t known where they were, she could easily miss seeing them. She realized that was how they would infiltrate into the battle and get close to Epaminondas; and the two Legion.

  Another trick that Sin Fen hadn’t passed on; if Sin Fen possessed it.

  Scout waited until they were lost in the melee, then turned to her left and walked in that direction, and also upslope. In the direction Epaminondas had looked.

  Within thirty meters, a man dressed in a gray robe stepped from behind a tree. He had a spear in hand, arm cocking back to hurl it at her.

  “I am a friend,” Scout said, putting the edge in her voice.

  The warrior was confused, his instinct to throw, but something
keeping him from it. “Who are you?”

  “A friend to the king,” Scout said.

  “How?” the warrior shook his head. “Who are you?”

  Scout walked up to him. “Let us go to him.”

  The warrior fell in beside her. They went thirty feet and reached a cleft in the ridgeline. Hidden inside, with a vantage point overlooking the battlefield, were a half dozen men, all armed, also cloaked in gray.

  They wheeled about, several drawing swords as Scout appeared with the sentry.

  Scout, uncertain of the protocol, settled on a half bow from the waist. “Hail, King Philip of Macedonia.”

  He still possessed both his eyes, which surprised Scout for a moment since it wasn’t the image that was primary in the download, but Edith’s data informed her the wound that took one of his eyes was seven years in the future.

  “Why did you let her past?” Philip demanded of the sentry.

  Scout answered. “I am not a threat to you, sir.”

  “Who are you?” the king demanded.

  “I’m from the Oracle at Delphi,” Scout said. “That is how I knew you were here.”

  There was a murmur among the men around Philip. Pandora was negative about the way women were treated, but the Oracle of Delphi was the most powerful woman of the era.

  “Do you bring a prophecy from Delphi, priestess?” Philip asked.

  Scout walked into the group, next to Philip. “I bring several. But all cannot be told at once.”

  “Then tell me the first,” Philip challenged.

  “A great victory will be won today.”

  Philip wasn’t impressed. “Someone will win, priestess. That is what a battle does. One side or the other will prevail.”

  “The victory does not always go to those who are in the battle,” Scout said.

  Philip considered that. “A variation of the prophecy given to Croesus when he considered making war on the Persians.”

  “In that case,” Scout said, “an empire was destroyed. In this case, an empire will begin.”

  Philip was still for a few moments, considering Scout and what she’d said. He made a gesture and the others backed away, out of earshot.