The pastel blossoms of spring had disappeared, replaced by vivid color and heavy perfume. All Vicksburg, from tree-lined avenues to walled gardens and stately buildings, was lush with summer. But Crystal found it impossible to reconcile this beauty with the threat which had driven her into taking sanctuary in Vicksburg, making her an unwilling prisoner of all the beauty.
Each day she walked the streets of Vicksburg. In the beginning she was driven by frustration and her frantic desire to be gone. Gradually this impatience was replaced by curiosity and loneliness.
Crystal grew fond of the lovely city on the Mississippi River. Often she walked to the top of the hill overlooking the river. One evening she discovered that her favorite spot was occupied by an elderly couple.
They turned at her approach. “Good evening, ma’am.” The gentleman bowed. “I’m Colonel Ethon, retired, and this is my wife, Mattie. We’ve seen you about the streets for the past month. Welcome to our fair city; are you enjoying your visit?”
“Yes,” she responded with a rueful smile, “although it is an enforced stay. I’m Mrs. Matthew Thomas; please call me Crystal. We have been living in the North, and I was on my way to New Orleans to visit my parents. Since the railways are immobilized, I’ve been a prisoner in your lovely city.”
“The North, huh?” he commented. “This must be very distressing to you. But I do believe General Pemberton is capable. Hopefully he will encourage this young scalawag Grant to retire gracefully.”
“I doubt that he shall,” Crystal murmured. “From what I hear, General Grant is a very determined man.”
Colonel Ethon nodded soberly. “With General Sherman working alongside, we Southerners have cause to shiver.”
“We want peace more than anything else.” Mattie searched Crystal’s face. “You’re from New Orleans; are you Creole?”
Crystal hesitated, thinking again of all the secrets hidden for so long. “Yes, my parents’ kin were some of the original settlers. French.”
“Your skin is dark; I suppose it’s to be expected that you’d prefer the North.”
“Don’t think that we hold color against anyone,” Colonel Ethon said. “But I must admit, it’s difficult to release our hold on the old life.”
“I can’t believe the North will be victor,” Mattie interjected, “but I have sympathy for the Negroes. Slavery is wrong, however—”
“It takes more than a handful of us to effect change,” Colonel Ethon finished. “I don’t expect either Vicksburg or the Confederacy to fall into Union hands. And I expect life to go on as it always has.”
Crystal turned toward the river. “It’s such a beautiful, peaceful scene; it’s nearly heart-wrenching to consider fighting here.” She faced the couple and added, “I’ve been enjoying the serenity. But I shudder when I recall all that’s going on just outside of Vicksburg. If only this could be solved without fighting.”
“But someone must give in order to have peace. The South won’t surrender their slaves, and as long as the abolitionists rule the North, slavery will continue to be a sore spot. Compromise is impossible.”
Mattie shook her head. “I refuse to be frightened by a possibility which doesn’t exist. I’ll cross my bridges only when necessary.”
“My dear,” Colonel Ethon said slowly, “the handwriting is on the wall. The North no longer seems inclined to give us our heart’s desires.”
****
Each day Crystal followed the news, and nearly every day brought change. One morning she opened her paper in the dining room. “So now the Southern railroads are gone.” She scanned the report. “General Sherman is moving like a scythe in a field of grain. He’s leveled trains and their tracks. Warehouses and army supply depots are gone. And General Grant is moving on Jackson.”
As she folded the paper, her throat tightened. The waiter standing beside her chair said, “The news isn’t good, is it ma’am?”
She touched her throat and shook her head. “I wonder what will become of us all?”
As the days passed, food supplies became limited, and tension within Vicksburg grew. Crystal watched housewives leave the grocer with worried frowns. The daily newspaper continued to be optimistic, but it decreased in size each week.
One May day the newspaper carried the story of General Pemberton’s defeat at Champion Hill, and later that day he entered the city with the remnant of his army. Crystal was on the street when they arrived.
Saddened by their shame and defeat, she turned away, nearly colliding with the woman at her side. Looking at Crystal, the woman dabbed at tears on her face and murmured, “Is this what war means? Never did I dream of seeing such men. Beaten into exhaustion, worn down to nothing. They are barefoot, gaunt, starved. How can they keep a foot under themselves?” Without answering, Crystal rushed to her hotel.
Later Crystal began to sense that the Union forces had launched an attack on Vicksburg which showed no signs of being abandoned. Sporadic gunfire had been replaced by constant bombardment. The newspaper admitted that Grant’s army surrounded the city from the east, while Union gunboats and mortar-boats unceasingly attacked from the river.
The nights were quiet, but each day the gunfire was renewed at dawn. No longer was it safe to admire the sunset over the river from the highest bluff. The women and children had been ordered to stay off the streets during the day. While the dismal reports indicated neither army would yield, casualties were growing on each side.
As the worried people of Vicksburg huddled in their damaged homes, the unrelenting fighting continued. General Pemberton’s army was firmly entrenched about the city. From the sound of crossfire, Crystal guessed the Union Army was just as firmly entrenched somewhere very close.
The newspaper, now produced on rolls of wallpaper, assured the people that General Johnston would come to the rescue. A statement by an army surgeon acknowledged that Vicksburg was in a difficult position, but certainly not critical. He ended by saying, “We need to take courage; President Davis has no intention of sacrificing us to the Yankees.”
As Crystal discovered, the pressure of war reduced the barriers between people. Each day as the clock struck at noon, she went to the church to pray. Daily the noontime prayer meeting grew in size. Shoulder to shoulder, all differences forgotten, the people came. Men and women entered with pinched, fearful faces, and came out tear-stained, but serene.
One noon as she went to pray, the street in front of Crystal began to fill with slaves. One by one they slipped out of houses, massed together, and rushed down the street. She followed, puzzled by the nearly frantic pace of the black people. As she rounded a corner, she saw the group disappearing behind the feed store. Close on the heels of the black people, Crystal slipped through the door in the rear of the building, and found there a sanctuary. A storeroom, festooned with empty grain sacks and perfumed with sawdust, had been transformed with a crude altar.
The group of people knelt around the altar, and Crystal knelt with them just inside the door. Then the prayers began.
“Lawd, be merciful to us; we are Your chillen, too. God grant us deliverance. We want Pharaoh to let us go. We want to go to Canaan land. Freedom! Father, bless Massa Lincoln with wisdom and powah. Bless General Grant and give him sticky feet that he’ll keep in the path of victory. Bless us, Lawd, with freedom!”
Forgetful of her own prayers, Crystal rocked back on her heels and watched the faces shining with tears and hope. With a lump in her throat and a new burden for the people, she rose and walked slowly back to the hotel.
****
The June sun blistered the people of Vicksburg. Food supplies, which had been severely rationed, continued to dwindle. The supply of beef was completely gone.
Crystal continued to live in the damaged hotel. Each day, before the shelling began, she walked the streets in the early morning coolness. One day she stepped outside the hotel to find people running through the streets. “Meat! Jacob’s market has meat. Hurry, it won’t last long!”
“What kind?”
“Most of it’s mule, but they say it’s good. I don’t know about the rest; they’re not saying. But when you’re starving, a little boiled with some greens is better’n nothing.”
As Crystal stood on the street, a woman stopped to talk. “You hear? A shell struck another house yesterday morning. They say someone was killed.”
“I’m so sorry,” Crystal said with dismay. “Maybe we’ll need to abandon these houses.”
“Go to the caves?” The woman asked, “Did you see the newspaper? The mayor is ordering the women and children into the caves that the men have been tunneling back in the hill. They say it’s the only place that’s safe during the day. Better come. We’ll play some games. Bring your knitting.”
Caves! Crystal shuddered. For several weeks the hillsides surrounding the city had been under excavation. Now tunnels honeycombed the hills, planned for use as shelters for the residents of Vicksburg. The following day she joined the other women as they carried food and chairs to the caves.
Despite the heat in the city, the tunnels were cool inside. Loose soil drifted down Crystal’s neck occasionally, but there didn’t seem to be any spiders. The shelling sounded distant.
Crystal read to the children while the other women talked and shoved listless needles in and out of the dark yarn.
One day as Crystal finished reading, one of the young mothers said, “If this fighting isn’t over soon, I’m going to sneak down the hill some dark night and pitch rocks through the windows of the Vicksburg Emporium.”
“Why, Nettie, what’s got into ya’ll?”
She peered through the dimness. “You haven’t heard? That shyster Martin and some of his slick friends have that big building chuck full of just about everything you can think of in the way of food stuffs—hams, canned goods, flour, you name it.”
A chorus of outraged cries arose. “That’s terrible!” “Why is he holding it back?” “The scoundrel; he deserves to be shot!”
“He’s going to wait until he can get the price he wants.” Nettie sneered. “Another week of this, and he thinks we’ll be selling our souls to him.”
From across the room came a weary answer. “I will; my babies cry with hunger pangs.”
****
Matthew saluted. “General Ord, I have a sealed communication for you.” The man looked surprised, accepted the paper, and slit it open. As he read, his face began to crinkle into a grin. “Well, Private Thomas, welcome to Grant’s army. You’ve come hastily, perilously, with a paper stating that your commanding officer requests you be allowed to fight with General Grant since your wife appears to be confined within the walls of Vicksburg. Good luck, Private Thomas; and if you don’t find her as soon as we enter Vicksburg, come to me and I’ll help.”
“That’s all?” Matthew laughed. “Guess I’m glad I didn’t have to defend that with my life! Thank you, sir, and I’m happy to hear that we’ll win.”
General Ord nodded toward the private standing in the doorway of the tent. “Private Webber, see that Thomas gets a uniform and a musket. Thomas, he’ll escort you to your post.”
****
Alex got to his feet and leaned against the side of the boat. “I recognize the scenery. Caleb, we’re getting close to Milliken’s Bend.”
“Remember that first trip we took?” Caleb asked. “It was right along here that we started having trouble with the monkey rudder again.”
“How could I forget?” Alex chuckled. “A boatload of slaves and the river patrol nosing around. But we did make it farther upstream before we had to call it quits.”
Colonel Woodrow came on deck. “Fellows, get your gear together. We’ve reached the end of our journey. A detail from the Iowa regiment will be here to escort you to the fort.”
“How far is it to Vicksburg?”
“A good mile over, then down a piece. Maybe three, maybe five, I don’t expect to see action from here.”
One of the black men pointed. “My pappy and his folks were from right over there. Louisiana. Still can’t hardly take it all in that we’re none of us slaves anymore. We can settle where we want. We can visit kin and never have to wear a tag that has a number telling where we belong.” He shook his head and went below.
Cecil’s bright teeth flashed. “It’s a good feeling. I might not ever live to enjoy it all, but my young’uns will. Freedom is worth dying for.”
The June sun burned down on the clearing at the edge of the Mississippi. The fort was an oven and the river a haven. Each midday the regiments took turns standing guard while the others bathed in the tepid, muddy waters.
Alex was on guard the afternoon the picket rode in. The man slipped from his horse, saluted Colonel Woodrow and said, “Spotted dust coming from up river. Rumor has it that Kirby Smith is heading this way with his guerrillas.”
The men in the water rushed out, dressed quickly, and headed for the fort. A fellow from the Iowa regiment fell in step with Alex. “Sure glad you lads brought us some more ammunition. And I’m sure glad we get to use it. Gets kinda boring with nothing to do but go swimming. See you later, bud.” He loped toward the batteries overlooking the Mississippi.
Alex filled his pockets with shot, caps, and gunpowder, then followed Caleb to the long line of trenches circling the fort. His eyes met Caleb’s. “Looks as if we’ll have a little diversion.”
“Alex, I’d rather toss stones in the river.” He hesitated. “You get an answer to your letter yet?”
“No. I’ve been to every mail call. Can’t believe that letter didn’t get there.”
“Here they come!” came the shout from the battlements. The dust nearly obscured the band of horsemen.
“Men, hold your fire until I give the order.” As Alex waited, he looked at the black men around him. They were tense and determined.
The cloud of dust divided, and the Rebel yell came from all directions at once. Alex felt the hair on his neck stiffen as he lifted his gun and sighted along the barrel. “Fire!”
The volley was returned and the Union line wavered. Men dropped around Alex, but Caleb was still there.
Abruptly the entrenched soldiers in the next section jumped to their feet and ran scared toward the river. For a moment Alex’s musket dipped as he watched the rout. Horsemen bore down on the men. He saw the line of fleeing soldiers fall. The gunboats opened fire.
“Down!” Woodrow yelled. An explosion left a cloud of dust and smoke. Alex lifted his head and saw the gap in the Southern cavalry as Woodrow yelled, “Fire.” In another surge of cavalry, more men ran.
“Retreat!” Woodrow shouted. The men wavered, looking at each other and then at the horses charging.
“Run!” Alex yelled, shoving Caleb. He grabbed at Cecil, but the horsemen were on top of them. He lifted his rifle and dropped it.
Gray uniforms surrounded them, pressed closer. “No quarter,” called a sergeant as he took aim at the circle of black men.
“Stop!” Alex yelled, rushing at the man. “You have us; don’t shoot these men.”
“Men? Stand aside nigger lover.” The soldier raised his musket and pointed at Caleb. Alex threw himself at the horse and fell to the ground as the misdirected shot tore through him.
Caleb dropped to the ground beside him. “Alex are you hurt?” Alex turned, saw another gun pointed, and shouted, “No!” But his warning came too late.
Alex heard the gunfire and felt Caleb move. He tried to raise himself as Caleb’s blood spurted over them both. “Bertie!” Caleb called.
“Oh, God, help!” Caleb’s hands groped through the blood. A boot kicked him; he rose and then sank to his knees as he heard another shot. It was all over.
****
Moving numbly, as if in a fog, Alex responded to the jeers and the prodding gun as he walked into a nightmare of wounded men. Black, white, red. Over and over he looked at the men around him, hoping for a familiar face. Clutching the rag bound to his side, he staggered behind the horsemen.
Later, inside a nameless prison in a nameless place, he discovered that the black men were gone. He questioned the guard and received an answer. “Sold, of course; that’s where they belong, hoeing cotton.”
Sold? Caleb, thank God you’re out of this forever.
He examined his wound. A clean gunshot, a deep graze on his side. It would heal, but it was stiff and sore. Gradually the numbness began to clear from Alex’s mind. He thought about Caleb. “I guess I’m glad for your sake,” he murmured. “But, friend, I’m going to miss you.”