A Chain of Thunder, Page 2

  In the fall of 1862, shortly after taking command, Grant pursues a plan, championed by Federal engineers, to bypass Vicksburg altogether by rerouting the flow of the river. A canal is designed that will slice through one of the looping meanders of the river. If successful, the canal will allow Federal shipping to sail harmlessly past Vicksburg, out of range of Confederate guns. But engineering cannot compete with Mother Nature, and the plan soon becomes a boondoggle. The muddy swamps of Louisiana, directly across the river from Vicksburg, prove to be a far greater challenge than Grant’s engineers predicted. After numerous failures, which include a significant loss of life from sickness, the canal idea is abandoned.

  Grant then changes tactics. In December 1862, he leads a sizable force of infantry out of his bases at Memphis, driving down into northern Mississippi. His troops are the eastern half of a two-prong pincer movement, designed to engulf the city with overwhelming strength. But Grant underestimates the power and audacity of Confederate cavalry. Grant’s confidence begins to wane as he learns of relentless harassment of Federal outposts by Nathan Bedford Forrest. But the greatest blow comes on December 20, 1862. Thirty-five hundred horsemen, commanded by Confederate general Earl Van Dorn, sweep into Grant’s primary supply depot at Holly Springs, Mississippi. Grant’s meager defenses there are caught completely by surprise, and the Federal army loses more than $1.5 million in matériel, which drains the energy from Grant’s campaign. Grant is forced to retreat toward Memphis, though he does not order the withdrawal of the second prong of his pincer movement. Those troops, led by General William T. Sherman, continue their march southward by keeping much closer to the Mississippi River. In the swamps and boggy bayous near the Yazoo River, Sherman finds the going far more difficult than expected. Though he reaches a point only a few miles north of Vicksburg, Sherman is not aware that Grant has withdrawn, and thus is not aware that the Confederates are now mobilizing all their energy in his direction. On December 29, 1862, Sherman’s forces are soundly and unexpectedly defeated at Chickasaw Bayou, and like Grant, a humiliated Sherman is forced to withdraw northward.

  Still under orders from President Abraham Lincoln to secure Vicksburg by any means necessary, Grant uses that discretion to launch a new strategy. Once again, the Federal forces will make their move on the western side of the river, across from Vicksburg. But Grant has learned from past mistakes. There will be no canal, and no attempt at a push by infantry straight toward Vicksburg. The plans call for a maneuver by Grant’s entire army southward, seeking a crossing of the Mississippi River well below the city. When the assault against Vicksburg finally comes, Grant is convinced the confrontation will be on his own terms.

  Sherman and Grant are both aware that another failure will not only extend the war, but also likely will strip Grant of his command. As he continues to fortify the heights along the river, Pemberton pours his energy toward the construction of earthworks inland from Vicksburg as well, in the event there is another overland campaign. Joseph Johnston reluctantly accepts that he must focus on events in Mississippi, never believing that Pemberton’s efforts will bear fruit. Whether or not he chooses to actively support John Pemberton remains to be seen.

  PART ONE

  In my opinion, the opening of the Mississippi River will be to us of more advantage than the capture of forty Richmonds.

  —UNION GENERAL IN CHIEF HENRY HALLECK

  To secure the safety of the navigation of the Mississippi River I would slay millions. On that point I am not only insane, but mad.

  —MAJOR GENERAL WILLIAM T. SHERMAN

  VICKSBURG, MISSISSIPPI

  APRIL 16, 1863

  The ball was a glorious affair, the Confederate officers in their finest gray, adorned with plumed hats and sashes at their waists. There was dancing and a feast of every kind of local fare, even the wine flowing with no one’s disapproval. By ten o’clock, most of the older citizens had retired, the senior officers gone as well, offering the reasonable excuse that there were duties to perform, an early morning that would come too soon. Those who remained were the young and the unmarried, no one among them objecting to that. The music continued, more lively now, the quartet of violinists respecting the youth in the room, waltzes that brought the officers closer to the young women, hands extended, those girls who had caught the eye, whose furtive glances spoke of flirtation, the daring willingness to accept the invitation of a young man who had the courage or the skills to lead a dance.

  As the night wore on, and the matrons drifted away, Lucy had allowed herself a single dance, had caught a beaming smile from a young lieutenant, one of the Louisiana regiments. She knew nothing of a soldier’s life, what authority he carried, but the face was handsome, a firm jaw and bright blue eyes, clean-shaven, the young man’s hand extended toward her with smiling optimism, hinting of hope. She knew he had been watching her for most of the evening, and she had smiled at him once, was immediately embarrassed by that, quick glances to be certain that none of the others noticed. But now, as the energy of the ball rose with the youthfulness of those who remained, so too did her courage. And, apparently, his.

  The waltz they danced to had been familiar, the violins doing admirable service with a pleasing rhythm that seemed to intoxicate her, the young officer admirably graceful. The couple was one of a half dozen who moved with elegance across the floor, but it ended too soon. With visible regret, the lieutenant had done what was required, had properly escorted her back to one side of the room, where the ladies sat, the officers returning to their own station, closer to where the wine flowed.

  She sat, maneuvering the wide hoops of her finest gown, still glancing at the other girls, the rivalry they all observed. Such occasions were rare now. The welcome invitation had come from Major Watt, the officer spreading word that a gala was well deserved. But many stayed away, a gloomy acceptance that perhaps this kind of frivolity was not yet appropriate, not with the Yankees so close. For months now, the citizens had endured shellfire, Federal gunboats with the audacity to throw their projectiles into the city itself. Most of those boats were anchored far upriver, and the officers in the town boasted of that, that Federal sailors knew they could not match the enormous power of the guns dug into the hillsides across the riverfront. But still the shells came, and many of the civilians had heeded the advice of the army’s senior commanders, had begun to move out of their homes, digging themselves into caves and caverns, most dug by the labor of Negroes.

  The first serious violence had come close to Christmas, and the customary Christmas ball had been rudely preempted by one of the first great assaults, what so many of the townspeople described as the barbarity of the Yankees, their utter disregard for simple courtesy, for the sacred observance of Christmas ritual. Major Watt seemed to recognize that as well, and with the warmer weather came the army’s gift to the town, driven by the kindness of this one major, who seemed to understand that the civilians would be buoyed by a party, a show of defiance toward the ever-present gunboats. Though the attendance was not as large as the major had hoped, the air of protest was there still, and like the others who attended the ball, the young Miss Spence thought it entirely appropriate that the townspeople make some effort to improve their own morale. Since Christmas, most of the people had gone about their business as though nothing were really happening upriver, as if the Yankees were there just for show, a protest of their own. Businesses continued to operate, the markets mostly able to stock their shelves, citizens freely traveling to the countryside. Even the occasional bombardments were part of the routine, and for the most part the damage had been minimal, the shelling more random than targeted. Like Lucy, most of her neighbors had sought the protection of Providence, that if a shell was to find them, it would be the hand of God and not the unfortunate aim of some devilish Yankee gunner. After all, the people of Vicksburg had done nothing to deserve such violence.

  She watched her young lieutenant across the room, was disappointed to see a glance at a pocket watch. The music began to sl
ow, and the atmosphere in the grand room was growing heavy with shared sleepiness. It was, after all, near ten o’clock, far beyond the bedtime of even the young.

  Lucy felt the same weariness, suppressed a yawn, heard the talk around her, much as it had been all evening. The young women spoke of those things Lucy had kept mostly to herself: who among the men in their gray finery were the best dancers, the most handsome, who had embarrassed himself by enjoying a bit too much wine. She held quietly to the warm glow that came from the single dance with her lieutenant, that it was her young man who outshone them all. She wondered about Louisiana, not the swamps that spread out for miles across the river, but down south, New Orleans, Baton Rouge, sophisticated places she could only imagine. Surely he was from the cities, she thought, a cultured man, familiar with music and libraries, perhaps from a military academy. Her imagination was fed by the sleepiness, and she blinked hard, fought to keep anyone from noticing that, saw him glance at his watch again, a scowl on his face. Then he glanced toward her, and she looked away, then back, wanted to smile, held it, scolded herself. He was speaking to another officer now, a captain, both men showing regret that this one beacon of color and gaiety had to come to an end. He began to move toward her, and her heart jumped, a blend of hope and alarm that he might ask to escort her home. She felt a slight shiver, and he seemed to hesitate, gathering courage of his own.

  And now came a large thump of thunder, a jolt in the floor beneath her feet, the chandelier quivering, the entire room suddenly motionless. Another rumble came, but it was not close. She saw the lieutenant looking past her and realized he was staring toward the river, where the army had anchored its largest guns. Now the firing thundered closer, the officers speaking up, calming voices, that it was their own guns, not the enemy. To one side a door burst open, an older officer moving in quickly, searching, finding Major Watt, a quick word between them. Watt turned to them all and gained their attention.

  “I regret,” he said, “this ball has concluded. The Yankee boats are coming downriver, and you must retire to your shelters. Do not hesitate. Officers, report immediately to your posts.”

  There was authority in his words, and the men were quick to move, filing toward the wide entranceway, already disappearing into the darkness. She caught sight of the lieutenant, but he did not look back, and she pushed that from her mind, rose up with the other women, some of the officers lingering, standing to one side, allowing them to pass. There were questions, but no panic, so many of the civilians having experienced all of this before. Major Watt stood by the door, still their host, and offered a smile, pleasantries to the women, with the slight edge of firmness.

  “Go on home, now. We shall deal with the Yankees. This has been a most pleasant evening. It shall be still, if our artillerymen have their way.”

  She passed the major, was outside now, a cool night, no moon, a hint of lantern light from the homes that lined the street. But quickly those grew dark, the usual caution, no needless targets offered to any Yankee gunner who might be telescoping this very place. She stepped onto the hard dirt, being careful to avoid the ruts from wagon wheels, and heard the talk around her in hushed excitement. She felt it as well, that there was something different about this assault. She looked in every direction, still no shells coming into the town, the sounds all toward the river. The soldiers were mostly gone, with only a few, the usual guards drifting past, offering assistance if any was required. Lucy saw a cluster of women moving uphill, not toward their homes, but toward the magnificent vantage point, what they all called Sky Parlor Hill. It was the highest point in the city, a knob of land the width of two city blocks, and during the daytime it was the most popular place for couples to gather, for picnics and courtship. For others, for the lonely, widows perhaps, the women struck hard by the pain of war, it was a place of solace, the perfect place to find comfort from gazing out toward the river, or across, to the flatlands of the Louisiana swamps. Lucy had climbed the heights often, enjoyed the silence, or the warm breezes that rose with the arrival of spring. More recently, her focus had been mostly northward, to where the Yankees had their camps, this high ground offering a perfect glimpse of a distant sea of white tents, and riverboats of all shapes and configurations. She had studied that with intense curiosity, had heard from the soldiers that the Yankees seemed only to be going about their business, more for a show of strength than for any real threat to the town. It was from upriver that the shelling came, though the Yankees had also positioned their guns straight across the wide river, as though taunting the town with their daring. The Confederates had offered daring of their own, the occasional raid, troops slipping across on small boats and rafts, harassing raids that drew pride from the civilians but seemed to accomplish little else.

  She moved in line behind several others, most of them women, fumbling with the awkwardness of the ball gowns, helped along by a few old men, too old to be soldiers. The winding path led them higher still, and she was surprised to see a glow of orange light, beyond the hill, as though the sun were rising through a foggy haze, coming up from the wrong direction. She reached the top, breathing heavily, tugging at the hoops, adjusting her dress in the darkness, realized it wasn’t truly dark at all. All around her were curious faces reflected in the glow of what she saw now were a dozen great fires, great fat torchlights on both sides of the river. She knew something of that, the soldiers openly talking for weeks about their preparations if the Yankees dared to bring their boats within range of the big guns. The fires came from enormous mounds of oil-soaked cotton, barrels of tar, wiping away the darkness that would hide any craft that tried to pass on the river. And now she could see them, silhouetted, a parade of vessels spaced far apart, coming downstream in single file. The guns began again, startling bursts of fire down below her, some out to the north, upriver. Out in the river, the fire was returned, small bursts of flame from the gunboats, the impact of those shells against the steep bluffs. But more shelling came from the Yankees, streaks of red and white arcing up and over, coming down far out to one side of the great knob. There was a response from the crowd, angry protest that the Yankees were doing what they had done before, blind destruction thrown into the town. She heard the impact, saw a brief burst of flames on a street close to where the ball had been. She looked again to the river, the firelight reflecting on the water, rippling eddies from the movement of the Yankee boats. Fog was spreading along the water, rising like a wall of reflected fire, the silhouettes of the boats blanketed, hidden. Voices around her rose, protesting the blindness, and she looked toward the town, no fog there, not unusual so high above the water. But the smell came, thick and pungent, brought by a sharp breeze. It was smoke.

  Close beside her, a small man stopped, gestured with his cane, and shouted out, “They’s hidin’ from us! Bah! Go ahead with your tricks. We’ll find ya!”

  She wanted to ask, Hiding? But the man kept up the chatter.

  “They’s throwin’ out smoke so’s we won’t see ’em. Mighty dang stupid. The gunners know the range. Too many of us. Give it to ’em, boys!”

  She stared at the river, saw breaks in the smoke, glimpses of the boats again, still the single line, some coming closer, one turning sideways, as though out of control. She saw flames now, on the boat, and the old man said, “Got one! Sink that devil! Hee! Send her to the bottom!”

  The cannon fire was increasing, a steady rhythm, the guns downriver opening up as well, shot and shell now launched in both directions. The sounds came in a chorus of thumps and distant thunder, more impacts in the town. She felt a twisting nervousness, stared hard at specks of fire from the boats, obscured then visible, the surface of the river glowing with the fires. There were cheers around her, and she saw a burst on the boat, another hit, the old man coming to life again.

  “Good shootin’, boys! Keep it up! Nowhere for those devils to hide!”

  She moved closer to the man, but he ignored her, cheered again, spoke out loud, as though everyone would hear him.

/>   “You see that? Took off her smokestack! I’ll bet they hit the boiler next! Whoeee, you might see one of them dang things go up in one big show of hellfire!”

  There was another burst of fire mid-river, and the old man’s joy was infectious, more cheering for the raw destruction, the good work of the men who worked the guns. She had a sudden urge to go down there, to be closer to them, to watch the deadly work, different now, the targets genuine, the enemy, the guns doing what so many had hoped for. Killing Yankees.

  Her name was Lucy Spence, and she had spent all of her nineteen years in Vicksburg. Her father had been a preacher, made his living mostly traveling the countryside, offering sermons to anyone willing to put a coin in a collection plate. For as long as Lucy could remember, her mother had been sickly, never traveling with her husband, and finally, keeping to the house, then her own room. With her father off for a week or more at a time, it was Lucy who had become the caretaker, the nurse. She had no formal training for that, or for anything else, and so the chores of a household had been learned by necessity. There had never been the luxury of slaves, not even a maid to care for Lucy as a baby. She had clung most strongly to the reunions, when her father would return home, joy and hugs and laughter. But as Lucy grew, and her mother lost strength, the joy faded. With Lucy more able to care for her mother, her father’s journeys lasted even longer. When the war began, he seemed to welcome the necessity of traveling, often for many weeks, and though he spoke of hardship, the people growing poor, she knew from the look in his eye that he looked forward to those days when the journeys began, when he no longer had to watch the skeletal frailness of what had become of his wife. And so it was no surprise that two days after Lucy turned eighteen, her mother died, with no one but her daughter to hear the last struggling breath.