Heaven in a Wildflower (46 page)

“Yes,” came gravel voice’s angry reply. “Maybe a million in supplies, and they probably burned a couple thousand bales of cotton. Only six companies from the Second Illinois Cavalry were able to cut their way out of the trap. We figure they took around a thousand prisoners.”

Nasal voice muttered an oath Anjele couldn’t make out.

“Grant’s had to postpone taking part in the attack, but Sherman is moving out of Memphis, anyway. I was sent to see if you’d managed to find out what’s waiting on him.”

A snicker from nasal voice, and then, “I managed to eavesdrop on a conversation just two days ago between two drunken Rebs with loose tongues. I think one of them was a dispatcher, because he knew all about Jeff Davis sending word to Pemberton he’s worried he can’t hold Vicksburg against Grant.”

“That’s good. If the Reb president is worried, that means Sherman might be able to do some damage without Grant. What else have you got?”

Anjele was petrified to hear the spy describe plans to destroy the Vicksburg and Shreveport railroad to cut Confederate supply lines into Vicksburg, and how Federal gunboats were about to start shelling batteries at a place called Haines’ Bluff. Next came the startling advice for Sherman to cross the Yazoo River at Chickasaw Bayou, because the Rebels anticipated he would come in at the Big Black River and had most of their defense waiting there.

At that, the scout gleefully proclaimed, “Then the Yazoo River it will be, and I’m heading out to tell Sherman as soon as I get some food in my belly.”

“I got some bacon in my saddlebag,” the other offered, fading away as they left the pantry, “and I saw an old frying pan in the kitchen out back.”

Anjele pulled from the dumbwaiter, dizzily backed across the room to slump down on the bed. Her head was spinning, and she felt absolutely petrified as she endeavored to absorb what she had just learned. Vicksburg was going to be attacked.

“Dear God,” she whispered out loud, hands fluttering to her throat as she began to rock to and fro in horror. Brett would have to get word to General Pemberton, but he couldn’t even return so she could tell him about it, till the Yankees cooked their food and ate it. He’d see the smoke from the kitchen chimney and be forced to stay away, no doubt worried about her.

With a resigned sigh, she told herself there was nothing to do but wait.

She got back in bed and pulled the covers up to her chin, not about to fall asleep, nervous that the Yankees might return.

At first she didn’t really notice what was happening. So used to being in complete darkness, she did not discern how black was slowly melting to dark gray.

Only when gray began to shimmer with silver was she startled.

Blinking her eyes, her breath caught and held.

It was true.

Light was actually appearing at the fringes of the curtain that blinded. Although it was pale, it was there, by God!

She began to tremble, nervously wondering if it could possibly mean her vision was returning. But as long moments passed, turning into perhaps an hour, she started thinking maybe it would not happen all at once. It might be a gradual process, taking days, even weeks. Yet there was no denying it wasn’t quite as dark as before.

She decided not to share this startling revelation with Brett, not wanting to disappoint him as she would be, if it didn’t mean anything. She would force herself to wait.

At last he burst through the door to grab her in his arms and cry, “Thank God, you’re all right. Jesus, you don’t know how worried I’ve been. Rufus and I saw the smoke and came running, and all we could do was hide in the bushes and wait for those bastards to eat and leave. Did you get in the dumbwaiter like I told you to?”

“Brett, you’ve got to listen.” Quickly she related all she’d heard, and could tell by the way he sharply drew in his breath, he was equally disturbed.

When she finished, he wasted no time in deciding. “You’ll stay here. Rufus will look after you. I’m leaving now.”

“Good. You need to get to General Pemberton as fast as you can.”

“He didn’t want to listen last time we had information for him. Neither did his fat sergeant. Why should it be any different now? Besides, I don’t have time to try and convince them it’s true. I’ve got to do this my way.”

Anjele felt a wave of apprehension, reached out for him, but he was already on his feet. “Where are you going?”

“To Chickasaw Bayou,” he told her with a confident smile she could not see, but could hear in his tone. “I’ve got some friends there who aren’t going to like Yankees marching through their territory.”

It was only later Brett thought about how, in that moment, he had finally crossed sides.

The Yankees were in his world now, and that made them his enemy, also.

Chapter Thirty

Brett skillfully rowed the flat-bottom
boat into the slough winding from the Yazoo River into the Chickasaw Bayou. He had hunted in the area in his youth, and as the river narrowed, felt that he was coming home.

All seemed peaceful in the world of snakelike vines, their clutching fingers wrapped around everything in sight. Now and then a sound would split the stillness—the hoot of an owl, the roar of a bull gator, or the screeching of a startled bird.

The water looked darker, thicker, and he knew it was becoming shallow. Laying down the oars, he picked up the steering pole and began to push his way along.

He had done a bit of scouting on land before taking to the river. Slipping around Yankee pickets had been easy, because he kept to the swamps and forest. He could move at night, for he knew the way well. And he had seen General Sherman’s troops, only a few miles north, marching towards Vicksburg and planning to cross the Yazoo, just as Anjele had heard.

He began to move faster. He didn’t have much time.

He had sent a message to Pemberton but couldn’t be sure it would get to him. After all, Brett grinned to remember, he hadn’t wanted to take any chances on getting shot, so he’d jumped the picket from behind and scared him half to death.

The picket had listened, of course. He had no choice with a knife held to his throat. Brett gave him the message, then melted back into the brush as silently as he’d come. He watched the picket take off running, clutching his throat even though it hadn’t been nicked.

So Brett could only hope the frightened soldier ran straight to his headquarters and didn’t just keep on going.

The reeds were getting taller, thicker, and Brett dug mightily with the pole to make his way through, also struggling to maneuver about the clumps of cypress roots. He saw no sign of life but knew the Cajuns took a different route in and out, one more accessible. He had deliberately chosen the most forbidding way, in case he was spotted out in the river and had to escape. Fortunately he was able to slip through in the darkness.

He had left Christmas Day, in time to witness, from a distance, the railroad being destroyed. Anjele had obviously heard right again, and he wished he could have done something to prevent it happening, but was too late. All he could do was go on with his plan to try to slow Sherman down and give the Confederates time to realize what was happening and send in reinforcements.

Because he had never forgotten what he learned about the bayou, Brett knew survival depended on being ready for anything. In the vague early-morning light filtering down through the cascades of moss, he could tell the log up ahead wasn’t a log at all. It was a large alligator, and Brett gave him a sound whack on his head with the pole. With a mighty roar, the deadly jaws opened to reveal razor-sharp teeth before snapping shut. With a swish of his tail, he retreated, too lazy to fight back and not hungry enough to care.

Any other time, Brett would also have been alert to the man stepping from behind a tree only a few feet away, but his attention had been on the gator, lest it change its mind about attacking. But he recovered quickly, because he had rapidly drawn his knife from his boot by the time it came over him that the man had called him by the name he’d like to forget.

“Gator. By God, is it really you, boy?”

Brett grinned when he recognized him. “Bel Talouse. I thought you’d be dead by now, you old swamp rat.”

Bel stood with hands on his hips, legs apart, and threw his head back to laugh gustily. “Hey, I not be the one who couldn’t leave the ladies alone. How come you not dead?”

How come, indeed, Brett grimly reflected, then hoisted himself from the boat and onto the bank to grasp Bel’s hand and begin, “I’d really like to tell you all about the past years, my friend, but right now, there’s something more important. Where’re the rest of your people?”

Bel Talouse knew something was wrong. He turned and started through the reeds, motioning Gator to follow quickly.

The Acadian settlement was larger than the old one had been. Brett saw they had done well for themselves, because there were adequate shacks up on stilts, rather than make-do huts and pirogues.

The women took their children to one side, allowing the men to gather around the fire and talk.

They all remembered him, but there was little time to exchange pleasantries. He got straight to the point and told them the Yankees were marching towards Vicksburg by way of crossing the Yazoo. “And we’ve got to slow them down so the Confederates can rally.”

He saw the way they exchanged uncomfortable glances, knew they didn’t want to get involved. They weren’t slave owners and didn’t care whether the farmers and planters they worked for were from North or South.

Finally, Bel Talouse took it upon himself to speak for all of them and said uneasily, “The fight isn’t ours, Gator, and we ain’t willing to die for it.”

Gator was ready to fire back. “The fight becomes yours when your children cry with hunger, Bel, and you’ve got nothing to feed them, because the enemy takes all the food and puts a torch to the fields.

“And you can all believe”—he swept them with a fiery glare of warning—“when Vicksburg falls, you fall with it. Life as you know it will be over. Now you’ve got a chance to help save it.”

The Cajuns exchanged nervous glances again, and Bel gave a resigned sigh and wanted to know exactly what Gator had in mind.

Gator told them he knew where Sherman planned to cross and didn’t think he’d have any trouble doing so. Once Sherman made it, though, the Confederates would no doubt have rallied to confront him with a force nearly the size of his own. They would be fighting from nearly impregnable defenses at the base of a high bluff.

“Sherman will attack, of course,” Brett went on to theorize, “but his approach will be blocked here, by Chickasaw Bayou. We all know there are only two favorable crossing places.”

“And?” Bel prodded suspiciously.

Brett swept the crowd again, this time with a confident smile. “We’re going to show them how damn good Cajuns can fight. We’re going to cover one of those crossings.”

They gathered weapons—pistols, shotguns, knives, and axes. Then, with Brett shouting encouragement, they set about hastily constructing crude rafts, which they packed with oil-soaked tree limbs.

All day they worked. Scouts went out and returned to report Sherman was almost to the river and predicted a crossing at dawn. A few men made the eight-mile or so trip into Vicksburg to ensure Pemberton was alerted. He was moving, they said, but slowly, and, just as Brett had predicted, Sherman would make it across with relative ease. The real battle would come when he attempted to make it through Chickasaw Bayou.

The firing began with the first light of day, December 28. The air was thick with the smell of sulphur. Screams of the wounded and dying rang out amidst the bursting explosions of the Parrott guns. In the narrow river, battles were waged between gunships. The Confederates were holding, but if Sherman succeeded in breaking through the Bayou, they’d be overrun.

Brett and the Cajuns boarded their crude rafts, poling them through the inlet to the most vulnerable point of crossing. Then, one by one, they torched the oil-soaked cargo and all joined in to push each raft into the current.

Slowly the burning barges made their way to cluster as one giant wall of flame, blocking the path of the invading soldiers.

There were a few skirmishes as several Union soldiers were able to break through. Brett was anguished to see Bel gunned down. Dragging him to shelter, he was relieved it was only a flesh wound. Two other Cajuns, however, were not so fortunate and died where they fell in the first moments of fighting.

At last, a cry went up from someone who had scrambled up a tree to watch the warfare in the river. “They be pullin’ back!”

Jubilation was as wild as the flames from the rafts, stretching toward heaven. They had held off Sherman, and he was caught by fire from the base of the bluff while Union gunboats were under heavy assault in the river. But Brett warned against optimism, told his men to dig in, for the Yankees weren’t about to withdraw.

The fighting continued all night, and on into the next day and the next, as Sherman made repeated attacks on the Confederate positions. Again and again he was pushed back, to the delight of the Cajuns and repeated warnings by Brett against early optimism.

Finally, aided by a fleet of mortar boats, Sherman made one more attempt to take both the bayou and the bluffs. As Brett saw the bodies piling up, he wondered how he could have thought the deaths that first day were so significant. Bel sadly reported they had lost twelve of their number.