A Chain of Thunder Page 7

  “I can’t say anything else, Grant, so I won’t. You’re in command. You tell me to use the Yazoo, I’ll do it. You tell me to haul my corps downriver, I’ll do that. I’m pretty sure you’ll be wanting me down there pretty quick. McPherson’s good, but he’s not really tested. McClernand … well, he’s McClernand.”

  “We’ll see. You know what you’re doing up here, and why. Just … make it work.”

  Sherman nodded, couldn’t help a feeling of dread.

  “I just hope we have a chance … downriver … for my boys to redeem themselves.”

  Grant didn’t respond, and Sherman knew he couldn’t, that redemption couldn’t be a focus of any strategy. Grant glanced around as though checking on anything he might have left behind.

  “When you get my order to move south, well, I expect you to move. Anything else? Every minute that passes, my army is farther away. At least, it had better be.”

  It was unusual for Grant to show visible impatience, and Sherman understood completely. Sherman lit another cigar, saw a naval officer moving close to the entrance of the cabin. The man saluted Grant and said, “Sir, we’re preparing for you to disembark. The horses and your staff are in readiness onshore. Your Colonel Rawlins has instructed me … has asked me to retrieve you at your earliest convenience, sir.”

  Grant curled his face, glanced at Sherman without smiling, then back to the naval officer.

  “I’m quite certain Colonel Rawlins instructed you. It’s just … what he does. Never mind. Tell the colonel I’ll be there shortly.” He looked at Sherman again, put out the stub of the used cigar. “Sherman, I’ll do what I can to get those people moving downriver. You do what you can to convince the rebels we’re staying right here and smacking them from the north. That’s it. Time to go.”

  Grant moved out to the open deck of the merchant steamer, no smoke from the tall stacks, the engines quiet. The shore was a mass of activity, supply wagons and artillery rolling out onto a network of roads that all led south. Grant stepped toward the plank, the naval officer there, snapping another salute, a formal farewell. Along the deck there were other crewmen, but they were not navy. The boat was, after all, a civilian vessel, and Sherman saw the crewmen eyeing Grant as though appraising him, most with a bored scowl. Sherman scanned them, thought of Porter, the admiral’s fury at the civilian crews who wouldn’t man their posts when it came time to run past the rebel guns. Maybe some of you?

  He followed Grant, moved toward the plank, and caught their stares, now directed at him. Sherman stopped, a hard glare toward the men closest to him. He pointed toward Grant, already onshore.

  “Remember him, gentlemen. That’s the man who will win this thing.”

  The Von Phul was a merchant steamer that had been converted to Grant’s temporary headquarters. But there would be no effort yet to bring her downriver. Sherman’s concerns for the lack of armor plating was only one reason. It was utter foolishness for the army’s commander to risk the kind of dash Porter’s supply flotilla had made past the batteries at Vicksburg. Grant would make the ride to his new headquarters along the same route his army was using west of the river. As Grant made his way downriver, he began to hear reports of delay, primarily a roadblock from the front of the line, McClernand’s Thirteenth Corps. Though Grant knew that McClernand’s ambitiousness could become a problem, he at least expected the man to follow orders. Grant had insisted with considerable vigor that McClernand and McPherson move their troops to the potential river crossings as rapidly as the men could march. What he did not expect to hear was that, along the way, McClernand felt the need to halt his men in their camps, while he regaled them with a lengthy speech.

  As Grant made his way down to his new headquarters, a landing called New Carthage, he fumed over how best to handle McClernand. Appreciative that Sherman had no idea of the infuriating delays, Grant was completely certain that if Sherman were in command here, McClernand would likely get his nose broken.

  As the rebel forces along the river continued to observe Grant’s army in motion, communications flowed from Vicksburg back eastward to the state’s capital, Jackson. There the Confederate general who commanded this entire theater waited eagerly for the reports that would bolster what he already believed, that Grant was retreating and that any assault against Vicksburg would come once more from the north. Whatever reports rolled into Jackson from below Vicksburg only served the expectation that those Federal troops in motion west of the river were very likely moving away altogether, perhaps downriver toward the only remaining Confederate stronghold below Vicksburg, the town of Port Hudson, just north of Federal-held Baton Rouge. Already, Confederate scouts along the Yazoo were reporting gunboats and troop transports moving toward the scene of their humiliating defeat in December, a blow the rebels were prepared to deliver yet again.

  On April 17, new reports reached the Mississippi capital. A wave of Federal cavalry had emerged from their camps near Memphis, several different expeditions, said to be spreading out in a variety of directions. The most immediate concern was a column reported to be driving straight down through the heart of northern Mississippi. The Confederate command had cavalry of their own, outposts and squadrons positioned at every significant intersection. In a few short days, the reports from those outposts degenerated into confusion and chaos, word reaching Jackson that a fast-moving wave of Federal horsemen had caught several rebel cavalry units completely by surprise, that the skirmishes and confrontations had gone nearly all the Federals’ way. In Jackson, the fear began to grow that the most logical target for the blue column would be the critical railroad link that connected Jackson to the east, far from Vicksburg, or that possibly, the bluecoats were aiming to drive hard into Jackson itself. In response, the Confederate cavalry, including several strong units whose primary mission had been to observe Grant’s army to the west, were called away from their posts, an urgent effort to track down and destroy this daring raid.

  The Federal cavalry was commanded by Colonel Ben Grierson, his seventeen hundred men showing a kind of speed and audacity rarely exhibited by Federal horsemen. So far, the war’s most effective horsemen wore gray, John Hunt Morgan and Nathan Bedford Forrest, Turner Ashby and “Jeb” Stuart. But in Mississippi, Grierson quickly proved the superior of any opponent he faced. By employing a small squad of his scouts in ragged rebel garb to move out in advance of his main force, these “Butternut Guerrillas” successfully relaxed the alertness of any outposts in his path, bringing down the guard of pickets and skirmishers who protected any railcars or supply depots. When the pursuit from behind grew dangerously close, Grierson responded by dividing his forces, sending them in a maze of directions. When actually confronted by rebel muskets, Grierson kept his few lightweight artillery pieces in constant motion, firing into various directions, giving the definite impression that he had far more artillery at hand. By making good use of the spiderweb of roads in the rural country, his pursuers never could lay the ambush, or block Grierson from his actual targets.

  For a larger version of this map, click here.

  At Newton Station, east of Jackson, Grierson struck, destroying the rail lines and capturing both supplies and rebel troops. Grierson then defied the rebels’ expectations once more. Instead of withdrawing northward, where Confederates were gathering to cut off his retreat, Grierson continued to the south and escaped the baffled rebels by pushing his men and their mounts in a breakneck ride all the way to Baton Rouge. Though the rail lines were easily repaired, and the delays to the communication lines only temporary, Grierson’s raid had one enormous consequence. With rebel cavalrymen chasing their tails all throughout central Mississippi, those valuable eyes that the rebel army had always relied upon were out of position, unable to track what was truly happening to the west, across the river and downstream from Vicksburg. Instead of a strong cavalry juggernaut to observe and harass Grant’s maneuvering, the rebels remained scattered and uncertain. In Jackson, their commander felt the same way.

  JACKSON
, MISSISSIPPI

  APRIL 27, 1863

  “More reports, sir. A skirmish south of Newton Station. But the Yankees escaped.”

  Pemberton sat with his chin in his hands, stared at nothing, nodded.

  “Escaped.”

  “Yes, sir. We have word that Captain Apcorn was captured, along with an undetermined number of our troopers. The Yankees had a significant number of artillery pieces, and were more than our equal.”

  “Artillery? I have not been informed that the enemy has brought along any sizable number of fieldpieces. How much artillery?”

  The man shrugged, no response. Pemberton looked to the teacup, the brew cold, sipped it absently. Artillery, he thought. One six-pounder? Or a dozen batteries? Is there infantry as well? No, I would at least know about that. But this bluecoat is a crafty one, and he moves too quickly to be hauling many guns.

  Pemberton knew artillery better than any man on his staff, had served that branch of the army after his graduation from West Point. If there are siege guns, he thought … well, no, that would mean infantry, and so far, at least no one is flying in here chirping about infantry.

  The sudden appearance of Federal cavalry through what seemed to be every crossroads in the state had worn on Pemberton, as it had worn on the rumor mills of Jackson. Already the citizens were in something of a panic, many loading up their belongings and fleeing the city. He could offer them no comfort, no encouraging words to stay in their homes. It was not his way, no elaborate gift for oratory. And worse, the troops stationed in Jackson were feeling the same edginess, skirmishes breaking out at night, more often between the guard posts and picket lines of his own men.

  The staff officer waited, as though expecting something from Pemberton that would solve everything. Pemberton felt that weight too often, had felt it in South Carolina, had felt it every time he had been called to meet with Jefferson Davis. Davis seemed to appreciate Pemberton’s methods, the intense focus on details, planning, and paperwork. Pemberton had seen the same in Davis, the two men forming a friendship based on their shared view of how to command an army. But Davis’s authority held far more gravity than this Pennsylvania-born field commander, and to Pemberton’s dismay, his administration of the defenses for the city of Charleston had been met with stiff criticism from the very people he was assigned to protect. After considerable controversy directed at Pemberton from civilian officials, Jefferson Davis had no choice but to remove Pemberton from a department where his unpopularity had made him completely ineffective. The assignment to Mississippi had come next, and Pemberton had tackled that command with the same attention to detail. It was his experience with artillery that made him appreciate Vicksburg’s enormous value and formidable strength, and Pemberton fortified the high bluffs with every large-bore gun he could secure. As was always the case in nearly every command throughout the Confederacy, Pemberton could never get the quantity of guns he requested, was competing for limited resources with every general who faced the enemy. But Vicksburg had much more strategic value than so many other defensive posts, and it took very little convincing to assure President Davis that the defense of Vicksburg had to be a high priority. Pemberton’s cause was bolstered by the fact that Davis’s own plantation was nearby.

  But Pemberton’s difficulties lay far beyond a sufficient number of artillery pieces. West of the Mississippi River lay enormous agricultural resources desperately required to feed the entire Confederacy. But the commanders there, notably Richard Taylor and Kirby Smith, seemed unwilling to offer their bounty to Pemberton at all. Pemberton was friends with neither man, felt the same strained relationship he endured with so many of the senior Confederates. He had always felt an iciness toward him from the men in gray, as well as the civilians they served. Pemberton was, after all, a Pennsylvanian, had come to the South only from a devout dedication to his Virginia-born wife. No matter his oath, his absolute dedication to the Southern Cause, or his friendship with Davis, the only way Pemberton would earn respect from his subordinates was to earn victories. But there was no great offensive campaign to be waged in Mississippi, no real opportunity to strike hard at the Federal forces who controlled so much of the great river. Davis understood, and Pemberton was fully aware that in his particular command, there was no more critical mission, nothing more essential to Southern hopes than keeping the Federals from absolute control of the river. North of Baton Rouge and south of Memphis, the most defensible bastion was Vicksburg. For now, though, Pemberton had to look the other way, east of Jackson, wondering why this wave of blue cavalry was sweeping down through central Mississippi.

  Colonel Waddy leaned closer to him, as though examining Pemberton to see if he was awake.

  “Sir? May I be of any further service?”

  Pemberton leaned on one elbow, his chin cradled again by his hand.

  “Find me some more cavalry, Colonel. If we had the strength, we would not be so … blind. I am quite certain General Grant knows of my resources. I wish I knew more of his.”

  Waddy seemed uncomfortable, shifted his weight, catching Pemberton’s attention. Too much talk, he thought. Waddy is a good chief of staff, but he doesn’t need to know my every thought.

  “Perhaps, sir, if General Johnston knew of our predicament, he could order General Van Dorn—”

  Pemberton’s stare silenced the man.

  “Perhaps you should be in this chair, Colonel. Then I could go riding off where I please and attend to the ladies of Jackson who find our officers so very charming.”

  The man stiffened.

  “Sir, I assure you that I have no interest in courting any ladies here, or anywhere else. I am spoken for, and my dear Loretta awaits me right here, the guests of a fine family just a street removed from this headquarters.”

  Pemberton sagged, had experienced this before. John Waddy was just one more staff officer who felt no hesitation arguing with him, or displaying just a hint of disrespect. It wasn’t Pemberton’s way to handle his staff with an iron fist. The staff had learned that quickly, the men speaking out with far less formality than other commanders allowed. Pemberton waited for a pause in the man’s outrage, then said, “You are excused, Colonel. Please request that the couriers be a bit more efficient with their reports. I must know more of this Grierson chap, and what he intends. Perhaps you’re correct, that General Johnston can be persuaded to assist us.”

  Waddy backed away without a salute, was quickly gone. Pemberton looked again to the teacup, let it sit, pushed back in his chair. He rubbed his stomach, felt a hard knot, the nagging indigestion, the constant reminder that he was really not in control here. Johnston, he thought. Sits over there in Tennessee and lords over us like some sort of monarch. He despises the president and so he despises anyone who has Mr. Davis’s favor. I offer my own correspondence to the president, no matter how trivial or personal, and I am treated as though I am a subversive to Johnston’s great plan. It would be so very helpful if I knew what that plan might be. Tennessee. General Johnston must certainly be receiving great compliments from General Bragg, and so he keeps close to Bragg’s affairs, while I am but a stepchild.

  He stood, kneaded the pain in his stomach, heard commotion in the outer office, voices, that same annoying urgency that accompanied every incoming dispatch. He moved to the chair again, stayed behind it, supported himself against the back, blinked hard. There had been very little sleep, not since the Federal cavalry had begun their raids, and not when reports came from Vicksburg ten days before of the Federal flotilla driving past his guns. His patience dissolved, and he called out, “Who has arrived? What is it?”

  He caught a glimpse of a dust cloud, saw it billowing from the ragged uniform of a sergeant, the man peering in toward him, more curious than respectful. One of his aides appeared now, neat, the perfect uniform, a distinct contrast to the sergeant. Pemberton didn’t wait for the aide.

  “What do you have for me, Sergeant?”

  The man stepped in with too much volume in his boot heels, a show o
f the man’s own authority. It seemed to work on Pemberton’s staff officers, no one following.

  “Sir! Sergeant Israel Duncan, at your service. General Bowen sends his respects, and wishes to advise the general that the enemy has assembled a large fleet of transport boats and gunships on the river below Grand Gulf. General Bowen apologizes for his speculation, sir, and offers that the enemy is preparing to cross the river somewhere to the south of that point, possibly at Bruinsburg.”

  Pemberton allowed the words to sink in, thought of Bowen. Good man, would not exaggerate.

  “What of the batteries at Grand Gulf? How did we not prevent the enemy from passing there?” He felt his voice rising. “Is that not why we placed so much ordnance there? To prevent the enemy from passing?”

  The sergeant’s bravado seemed to wilt, and Pemberton slid around the back of the chair, sat heavily.

  “Sir, General Bowen did not instruct me to report that. The general only wishes me to report that the enemy appears to be preparing a crossing of the river. There are great numbers of Yankees now camped at Hard Times, and at the plantations below. He requests in the most urgent terms, sir, that you authorize every available artillery and infantry unit to march in preparation to receive the enemy there. The general has withdrawn our outposts west of the river without loss.”