John Brown's Body, page 10
“Yep,” said Grant. “This is what we are going to do. McPherson’s boys will drop everything they are doing and corduroy the road down to the ferry crossing at Grand Gulf. With the whole 17th Corps pitching in, it should only take a couple of days. Then we’ll leave only a skeleton force to hold this camp; everyone else marches down to the ferry crossing, where we will cross the Mississippi and march up to Vicksburg from the south. Using five ironclad gunboats as escorts, for about eight requisitioned transports carrying supplies, we will run right past Vicksburg and its cannon. The gunboats will protect the transports as they ferry the army across the river. The land beyond the east bank of the river is flat and dry, and there aren’t any good defensive positions for Pemberton short of Vicksburg itself.”
“I must warn everyone, there will be no going back,” said Porter solemnly. “Even at night, this will only work because of the element of surprise, combined with the fact that we will be adding the speed of the current to the speed of our engines. We should be blowing past Vicksburg at close to twelve knots, which will make the ships harder to hit, and keep them in range a shorter period. Yet, you do realize, fighting the current upstream, we would be lucky to make four knots. The Vicksburg batteries would be ready and waiting and have three times as long to shoot at slower moving targets. To try to bring the fleet back upriver would be a massacre.”
“Damnit, Sam, you can’t be serious!” exclaimed Sherman. “Maybe the gunboats have a chance, what with the iron plate armor, but one shell through one of those riverboats would surely blow it to hell!”
Porter explained to Sherman, “General, all the ships will have barges lashed to their port sides, facing the Vicksburg batteries, loaded with bulky supplies: coal, fodder for the horses, things of that nature. Not only will the barges carry much of the necessities of the army downriver, but they will absorb many shots that would otherwise hit the ships themselves.”
“Sam, I know military theory and logistics,” said Sherman to Grant. “Yes, the boats may be able to run one big load of supplies past Vicksburg, but we will have no line of supplies after that. And even a dozen barges of supplies are nowhere near enough to keep the army going until we are able to get up to Vicksburg and capture it, or at least Chickasaw Bluffs just north of it, and re-establish a river supply line with Memphis.”
Grant took a pull on his cigar, a calm satisfaction on his face. “Gentlemen, I’m not concerned with our lines of supply because I intend to have none.”
Everyone else in the tent was instantaneously shocked except for Rawlins and Parker, who must have been in on the commanding general’s planning.
McClernand’s dark eyes narrowed. “Grant, have you lost your mind? All the books say you must protect your lines of communication.”
Grant favored the group with a slight upward turn of the lips. “Certainly, the books Pemberton reads. We will live off the land, take what we need from the good people of Mississippi—cattle, poultry, hay, whatever we need. The only things we will take with us are the things we will not be able to find in the countryside—ammunition, hardtack, medicine, and the like. It’ll be hard on the people of Mississippi, but war is hard. Their elected representatives helped bring on this war. They’ve sown the wind and will reap the whirlwind. Pemberton will spend his time trying to cut my lines of supply, unaware I have none to cut. By the time he realizes that, our army will be at Vicksburg.”
An appalled Sherman stated, “Sam, you do realize, even if we live off the civilians, the army will die if it can’t keep moving. Thirty thousand men and their animals will eat out the most bountiful district in nothing flat.”
“Then, we will just have to keep moving until we get to Vicksburg. General McPherson, put your entire corps into improving the road; drop everything else. General McClernand, Cump, do everything to have your boys ready. The night after next, Porter is going to make the run past Vicksburg. After that, everyone is in motion until this campaign is at an end.”
All but two of the people in the tent showed various degrees of unease. Clay was one of the two exceptions, as he appraised Grant with much interest. The other exception was Grant himself, who calmly puffed on his cigar, staring through the smoke as if he saw something interesting in the distance.
Dusk had fallen, the night moonless and overcast, perfect for what the Union forces were about to do. Soldiers scurried about the poorly-lit, rickety wharves at the Young’s Point docks, making last-minute checks on the cables that lashed heavily-loaded barges to the sides of the ugly armored gunboats and the more elegant riverboats.
Grant, Porter, Rawlins, and Parker stood on the wharf next to a gunboat, Benton, Porter’s flagship. Briefly, the group illuminated by the flare of a match as Grant lit a new cigar, the shadows creating faces even more strained than they were.
“Grant, sir, it’s time to cast off,” said Porter.
The tip of Grant’s cigar flared as he took a long pull. “You know, there is no need for you to actually be on board, Commodore. Benton will be the first in line, and the Rebs will probably concentrate most of their fire on it, at least to start. It might be better for you to be on one of the ships further back.”
There was just light enough for Porter’s wide grin to be clearly visible. “Nothing on earth could keep me off the lead vessel. I swore to myself I would end this war an admiral, and this is my chance.”
“Go to it, Porter!” ordered Grant proudly. “See you south of Vicksburg.” The two men shook hands firmly, knowing it may be the last time. Porter bounded up the gangway to his flagship as Grant and his aids took off toward his command tent.
“Rawlins, have you checked to see about the order of march?” asked Grant.
“Yes, General. McClernand’s 13th Corps will be in the lead, and Sherman’s 15th behind him. McPherson’s boys will keep the road in good repair, guarding the rear and flanks, and generally watching our backs.”
“Parker, I know you’ve packed up headquarters. Is everything all right with Mrs. Grant and Fred?”
“Everything is in hand, General,” said the tall, proud Indian.
“I appreciate it, Ely. I know it’s not what you signed on for, taking care of my family.”
“No trouble at all, sir. Mrs. Grant travels light, and the boy is no worse than rambunctious.” Parker hesitated. “However, I am concerned for your sake, sir. You know Stanton has forbidden all officers to have their wives along during campaign, much less children. Should the Secretary of War find out, he could make things hot for you.”
Grant took another pull on his cigar, letting the smoke out with his words. “Sometimes we bend rules a bit in the army, and Stanton is far away. I like having them near. They make the other burdens of my job bearable. Don’t you worry about Stanton. If he raises a fuss, I’ll tell him I ordered everyone to be quiet on the matter. When we take Vicksburg, he won’t dare do anything to me.” He locked eyes with the major. “Should we not succeed, perfect obedience won’t save me.”
As they approached the tent, three horsemen trotted out of the gloom—Clay, Lot, and Bierce reigned up their horses and saluted.
“General Grant, sir,” complimented Bierce gaily, waving his open hand toward the waterfront, “a wonderfully ominous scene: powerful warships preparing for battle, thirty thousand soldiers preparing to move, and all in perfect darkness. Someday I would hope to put in writing how gothic all this played out.”
“If you write it up, I’ll read it,” replied Grant mildly. “What brings you three up this way? I thought you would be scouting the flanks of the army as we march.”
“With respect, General, there is no threat to worry about north of Vicksburg; it’s only to the south my services are needed. Knowing how concerned you are with the health of horses, I would like to request permission to ride one of the transports. That way, the animals will be fresh when they are most needed. Besides, I expect the run past Vicksburg to be spectacular, and I would like to see it close to hand.”
“It will also be quite dangerous, Lieutenant,” warned Rawlins.
“Ah, one must die of something. And when we do, even more interesting mysteries may await.” Bierce was overtly cocky for some reason, most likely selfish.
“It’s your choice, Lieutenant,” said Grant, a tone of disapproval creeping into his voice. “But is it the choice of Captain Clay and Sergeant Lot?”
In the darkness, Clay was hard to read—not that he was ever easy to read. “I have found the last few days in Lieutenant Bierce’s company quite instructive. I feel much can be learned by remaining in his company. I offered the sergeant the choice of meeting us south of Vicksburg, but he, too, feels the experience will be worth the risk.”
Grant’s body language was visible in the darkness. “It’s your funeral. Go to the riverboat right behind the Benton, and tell the captain I have said it is all right. We will meet in a few hours.”
The three horsemen saluted and trotted off, and as they did so, they heard Grant say, “So Parker, where is Fred? I’d like him to ride with me.”
Dismounting at the dock, with some difficulty, the three Federals led their reluctant mounts up the gangplank onto the riverboat Albina, just before the soldiers removed it and cast off the lines. They had some difficulty securing the horses behind the bales of fodder piled high on the rear deck, as no lights were permitted on this or any of the other vessels. By the time they’d safely tethered the horses and made their way, largely by feel, up to the pilothouse, the ship had taken its place behind Porter’s flagship in a dark, ungainly line of vessels chugging its way down the curving Mississippi. A small bulls-eye lantern, placed on the floor, gave barely enough light for the captain and his pilot to see what they were doing. The low placement of the light cast exaggerated shadows on everyone’s faces, making them unreal and ghostly.
The captain, a sour man with flowing sideburns and a clean-shaven chin, inspected the new arrivals. “So, you are the fools who wanted to come when you didn’t have to. Ha! You’re more than welcome! I wish you could take my place. Should’ve read that damn contract before I signed it back in St. Louis. I thought I was just signing my ship up to haul supplies and troops up and down the river; never dreamed of this. Told Porter to go to hell when he told me what he wanted me to do. But then he brought some damned redskin in who showed me a clause in the contract that said I was under army jurisdiction; claimed a court martial could send me to prison if I didn’t go where the army said.”
The weird lighting gave Clay a sinister air about him. “Sir, I have some knowledge of what the army is paying for civilian transports. Many people have risked their lives for much less, never mind the issue of patriotism.”
Lot attempted to diffuse the tension. “Captain, why are we not under full power? I thought you would be going as fast as you possibly could.”
“It was something that Porter bastard insisted upon, and I have to admit it makes sense. The faster we run the engines, the noisier they are, and the more sparks they send out the smokestacks. That makes it easier to hear and see us from further off. So, he says we go under reduced power. When we’re seen, he’ll hit his steam whistle, and then everyone runs the boilers for all they’re worth—Oh, God!”
The boat captain’s last exclamation was odd, out of place, and got everyone’s attention. The others in the pilothouse saw he was staring fixedly ahead and followed the direction of his gaze. The inky outline of the banks of the Mississippi was hardly visible, but about a mile ahead, the river made a slow turn to the right. Around the bend of the river, a constellation of lights on the eastern bank was becoming visible. It could only be one thing—Vicksburg. Vicksburg and its scores of cannons, some the monstrous Whitworths imported from England, a single shell from which could blow an unarmored ship to atoms.
The skipper’s eyes darted wildly about, searching for an escape, any escape. The pilot at the wheel, scarcely less frightened in the dim light of the pilothouse, gripped the wheel fiercely, his knuckles devoid of circulation.
Yet none of the Confederates manning the batteries noticed the fleet approaching the city. No cannon opened fire, and there was no shriek of a steam-whistle from Porter’s flagship. Slowly, the dark column of ships drew up to Vicksburg. Passing right by, through the open window on the left side of the pilothouse, they could hear the various sounds of a city at night—horses neighing, a woman’s laugh, some man singing off-key to the accompaniment of a banjo. At first, they thought they would pass completely undetected. Then, without warning or cause, hell opened its gates.
Flashes, too numerous to count, erupted from the bluffs on which Vicksburg rested. The crashing booms of cannon reached the ears of those in the pilothouse—a single, continuous roar that physically beat on the skin. Shells cut through the air, screaming like banshees, so hard you could not distinguish them from the steam whistle of Porter’s Benton, but the boat’s captain correctly assumed Porter had given the command for full power. He screamed into the communication tube for the boiler crew to give him maximum power. The ship vibrated as the paddles picked up speed, but still, the cannon-studded bluffs of Vicksburg passed with maddening slowness. All at once, the boat shuddered, and from somewhere aft came the sound of wood being splintered with gigantic force. At the same time, through the front window, they saw a streak of fire as a solid shot struck the armor of the Benton and careened into the woods on the western bank of the river.
“This is suicide!” yelled the skipper to the pilot. “Hard starboard and make for the west shore! We’ll ground the ship and make for the woods!”
“That is not an option, sir,” said Clay in a quiet voice that, nonetheless, cut through the pandemonium. “You will throw the rest of the line into confusion, perhaps cause the vessels behind us to slow. The mission may fail, and more people will die. You must maintain your course.”
Oddly, Bierce hadn’t heard a word of the argument. Entranced by the total destruction of war, he was talking to himself. “Beautiful, just beautiful. See how the flashes and explosions play across the surface of the river. It’s like fire on the water. Marvelous.”
Even the terrified captain paused to stare at Bierce and his reaction to their situation, but his fear rapidly reasserted itself, and he spoke to the pilot. “To hell with the little pipsqueak, Jake! I’m the captain, make for the shore!”
Somehow, Clay’s revolver appeared in his hand, with no noticeable movement. “Turn to the shore, and you will die at my hand. Stay on course, and you may live.”
“You little turd!” screamed the skipper. “How dare you?”
“The same statement applies to you, pilot,” said Clay calmly.
“Alphonso, please, this is getting out of hand, like the other time,” pleaded Lot urgently.
“Beautiful,” murmured Bierce, entranced by the violent spectacle outside.
“Why, Captain Clay, what is going on here?” asked a high voice.
Everyone, even the mesmerized Bierce, turned to see the new arrival at the head of the stairs. Little Fred Grant skipped into the room, childish excitement on his face. “Why are you pointing a gun at them, Captain? Are they Reb spies?”
Clay lost his composure; his eyes widened, and his mouth opened, but not an utterance came forth. Finally, in a hoarse and horrified tone, he said, “Child, what in the name of God are you doing here?”
“I stowed away. Pa wouldn’t let me see any of the fun, of course. I asked him if I could ride with the fleet, and he got angry with me. Imagine! He wants a general’s son to hide away when the greatest battle of the war is going on. Well, I can show him I’m not scared. He’ll see that—”
With a noise like the end of the world, a Whitworth shell tore through the pilothouse. For some reason, it didn’t explode during its passage and went on to bury its force in the far bank of the river. Even so, during impact, deadly fragments of wood had gone careening about the pilothouse. A large jagged piece transfixed the skipper’s left thigh, and he screamed like a hog being gelded. A piping-high cry went up from Fred Grant, who fell to the deck, clutching his right shin. Stunned, the pilot held on fearfully to the wheel and did not attempt to turn to the shore. He had decided for himself there was less danger in running full bore downriver, as Vicksburg was already slowly slipping behind the boat.
Clay uttered a cry—part shriek, part moan. Holstering his pistol, he dropped to the deck beside the child, uttering unintelligible noises of grief. Using a pocketknife, he cut away Fred’s lower trouser leg, revealing a serious gash. He giggled with relief to see there was no arterial spurts, no sign of broken bone. Drawing out a hipflask, he doused the wound liberally with the cheap whiskey he never drank, keeping it only for disinfecting purposes he had learned about while in Europe. He bound the wound tightly with a clean handkerchief, then told the lad, “This will hold you until we can get you to a proper doctor, you fool.”
Having regained his composure, he noticed the hellish noise was much diminished and getting fainter every moment. They were out of the range of danger! He looked around the damaged pilothouse, to see Lot in the process of carefully extracting the splinter from the moaning skipper. Wordlessly, Clay passed his friend the flask so he could disinfect the man’s more serious wound.
Fred was over his fright and was now excited. “My pa is going to be so proud. Imagine, only ten and wounded fighting for the Union.”
Clay giggled nervously, then saw Bierce watching him with the purest amusement. “My, my Clay, there is more to you than meets the eye.”
“Kindly mind your own affairs,” Clay muttered, standing up and brushing himself off.
Meanwhile, the ships had drawn up to the temporary anchorage McPherson’s industrious men had prepared.
The pilot searched deeply into the gloom behind them and commented, “Looks like all but one got through. Better than anticipated. For a while, I thought none of us would make it.”
