Sherman knew the orders, had kept his forward regiments on the march pushing against any kind of resistance the rebels might throw in his way. But Grant had found him again, something of a surprise, since Sherman’s men were far to the right of the primary rebel fortifications. They sat now on horseback, a fork in the road, the left the better road, a continuation of the primary road that led back toward Jackson, the best route for moving troops toward Vicksburg as quickly as possible.
Sherman’s columns were there already, and he didn’t need Grant’s order, had already sent one regiment to the left, and for more than an hour there had been a scattering of musket fire, the certain signs of a rebel rear guard. The musket balls flew past, but the fight was distant, little danger.
Grant studied the map, then handed it back to an aide and said to Sherman, “Keep your men moving that way. The rebel works are strong there. Mine would be. They’ll expect us in force, and we need to get there before they have too much time to prepare for us. Who are those people leading the march?”
“Eighth Missouri. Colonel Coleman. He knows to push like hell. Everything we’ve heard tells me it’s only skirmishers, hoping to slow us down. Coleman won’t sit still.”
“Good, yes.”
Grant seemed tired, lines of grime on his face from a full day in the saddle. Sherman had waited for this moment, itched to give Grant the report of the capture of Haines’s Bluff, had rehearsed just how much embellishment, how much flair he should use. But Grant showed the effects of the long day, and Sherman said nothing, would keep it for another time.
Grant pointed toward the right-hand fork, Sherman’s men spreading out that way as well. “Graveyard Road, the map says. Moves to the town closer to the river. Keep the pressure up there. We need to shove straight to the river, keep anybody from slipping by us. Who’s out there?”
“Regulars. Thirteenth United States. Captain Washington. He knows to get to the river, drive back anybody they find. It’s all right, Grant. Nothing to worry about up this way. Not yet.”
Grant seemed to understand the message, Sherman’s polite way of saying that Grant ought to be looking over someone else’s shoulder. A musket ball whizzed by, and Grant eyed a patch of timber, said, “Let’s move out of the way. I could use something to sit on besides this saddle.”
Sherman followed him without speaking, the staff moving out that way as well, keeping their distance, no one dismounting but Grant and Sherman. Sherman spied a fat log, pointed.
“There. Not sure it’s any better than a saddle.”
Grant sat down in the grass beside the log and leaned back with a groan. Sherman did the same, realizing the soft ground felt better than he expected. Yep, he thought. It’s been a long day.
Grant lit a cigar, and Sherman waited for Grant to speak first.
“Sherman. Fine work. Your men made a good march. It helped to have the pontoon bridges, eh?”
Sherman hadn’t given that much thought, hadn’t thought at all how the other two corps had made it past the Big Black River. Grant smoked hard at the cigar, leaned his arms across his knees, stretching his back. After a long second, Grant said, “McPherson’s coming up behind you. Took him a little while. Had to clean up the enemy. Left us quite a haul back there. McClernand took another road, down to the left. Guess you knew that.”
“Yes, sir. I do actually read your orders. The rest of my people are moving up pretty quick.”
There was another scattering of musket fire, mostly toward the left-hand road.
“Skirmishers,” Sherman said. “That’s all. The rebs won’t stay out here for long.”
“Maybe so. But I wouldn’t put your headquarters here until you’re certain just how close those rebs have stuck their picket line.”
There was no humor in Grant’s words, and Sherman looked back toward his staff, saw Rawlins talking to his own officers, lively conversation, and Sherman thought, Telling tall tales to men who’ve done the deed. Nothing new there.
“You going to stay up this way? I would have thought McPherson—”
“McPherson knows what to do, where to set his people. Not your problem.” It was a gentle scolding, and Sherman knew not to take offense. Grant closed his eyes for a brief moment, stabbed the butt of the spent cigar into the ground beside him. “I’ve already set up my headquarters back a ways, a farmhouse.” Grant paused. “Found one of our own people there, wounded, or sick. Bad shape, for certain. He’s a riverboat captain, Illinois man, got captured somehow, and the rebs made him pilot one of their boats for ’em. He’s a bit happier today than yesterday. His family’s plenty happy having Federals in their parlor than what’s been staying there.” Grant took a long breath, looked out toward the column moving past. “We get everybody up … well then, tomorrow’s the day. I want to hit those people before they can get set.” Sherman knew the tone, Grant’s determination, thought again of the failures. “Make sure we occupy Haines’s Bluff, block off any route of escape to the north. I want strength there, nothing to hold up any of our supply boats.”
“Working on that right now. The rebs mostly cleared out.”
Grant pulled out another cigar, Sherman taking the cue with one of his own. Grant leaned forward on his knees again.
“It will help a great deal having the supply lines up here, this close. Communication lines, too.”
There was no enthusiasm in that observation, and Sherman said, “So, you plan on writing letters to Washington any time soon? I rather thought you preferred silence.”
Grant didn’t smile.
“Cadwallader, Dana. That’s for them. They can write any damn thing they want. But now they’ll stop griping to me about how long it takes to get word out. You hear about Cadwallader?”
“Somebody shoot him?”
Grant glanced at him, still no humor.
“Captured a handful of reb prisoners all by himself. Riding out in some fool place he wasn’t supposed to be, and stumbled right into a passel of ’em, just sitting there, waiting for somebody to come along and grab ’em up. That’s a good sign. Their morale’s got to be falling apart. All they’ve done is fight and get whipped and pull back and do it all again. Not good for the spirit.”
“We’ll drive them out of Vicksburg tomorrow. They’ve no fight left, I’m thinking.”
Grant straightened his back, another stretch, shook his head, and pointed the cigar toward Vicksburg.
“I knew John Pemberton in Mexico. Not the smartest man, but he’s bullheaded. He never should have retreated back to Vicksburg. Joe Johnston’s out east somewhere with a pretty decent-sized army, and they haven’t been whipped by anybody. That’s where Pemberton should have gone. Instead, he’s decided to hole up in that town, digging big damn ditches, sitting there waiting for us.”
“We’ll make him pay for that. Besides, he had to protect Vicksburg. You said that yourself.”
Grant looked at the cigar, rolled it in his fingers.
“It won’t work. We’ve got the numbers, and your men, all the men know what winning feels like. His people are running scared and are being told to dig holes. Bullheaded.”
Grant stood slowly, motioned to Rawlins, the staff preparing to ride. Grant moved toward his horse, took the reins from an aide, stopped, then looked toward Sherman.
“You get Haines’s Bluff cleared out, and it’ll do you some good to walk out all over that place. Take some time and do that. One reason I wanted you up here on the right flank.”
Sherman felt a sudden burst of affection for Grant, couldn’t hide the smile.
“Already been up there. Caught a glimpse of one of Porter’s boats coming up the Yazoo. My quartermaster is all over himself with excitement.”
Grant nodded.
“Feels pretty damn good, eh?”
“Pretty damn good.”
Grant climbed up on the horse, but Sherman wasn’t ready to see him leave, not yet.
“Hey, Grant.” Grant turned to him, and Sherman could see from the tired squint
in Grant’s eyes, he had to be thinking of a feather mattress. “You know I didn’t think much of this plan. Not at all, not from the beginning. But … I just had to tell you … not sure what’s gonna happen tomorrow. But everything that’s happened … this has been one of the greatest campaigns in history.”
Grant nodded, said in a low voice, “I’ll remember you said that. But keep that kind of talk to yourself. This isn’t over yet.”
VICKSBURG
MAY 18, 1863
He watched the destruction of the houses with a disgusted gloom, the Confederate engineers doing what had to be done, leveling and burning any structures that could give some shelter to an advancing foe, and more important, opening up fields of fire for the Confederate guns set far back behind the entrenchments. But Pemberton couldn’t avoid thinking of the families, the civilians caught in the way, whose homes simply had to go. He had hoped they would leave anyway, had pressed the town’s elders that it would be best for the civilians to abandon the place, especially while the routes eastward were still open. Now those routes had been closed shut by Grant’s army, and to the west, the river was no better alternative. But the people had surprised him, had protested vigorously that no one, not the Yankees, and not John Pemberton, could force them from their homes. It was a stubbornness caused mostly by the pure inconvenience of hauling anyone’s worldly possessions out along some dusty road, most people content to just sit, to ride out whatever storm the Yankees could bring. Already they had absorbed the artillery barrages, and no matter Pemberton’s warnings, too many of the civilians just didn’t comprehend that a fight for the town could produce far more deadly violence than the occasional mortar shell. As had happened in so many towns before, the civilians had no grasp of just what the war might do to them, to everything around them. And so they had remained. But their stubbornness came at a price, and whether the Federal artillerymen knew or even cared if civilians stayed put, the shelling of the town had increased dramatically. With artillery now launching shells from both up and across the river, and now, with Federal artillery batteries digging in much closer to the east, the barrages came at all hours. Many of the families had responded to this new terror by abandoning their homes, had sought instead the protection of caves all across the sloping terrain that spread beyond the town and across the open ground that led to the army’s earthworks. Some of those shelters were natural, caverns and shallow crevasses, but many more now were man-made, the labor provided mostly by Negroes. Pemberton had been surprised by the organization of that, neat arrangements where the people paid money to the men with strong backs, the Negroes responding with what seemed to be enthusiasm. Nearly all of those men were slaves, of course, but in the town, many were not field hands at all, and yet they took to the labor with a smiling attitude that surprised the soldiers, performing the work as though it was simply the right thing to do. The fact that their owners might pay them for the extra labor, or that others, neighbors perhaps, would offer them currency for a day’s work with a shovel, certainly contributed to their willingness to attack the soft ground, opening up caverns, widening the fissures, strengthening the caves with wooden beams. Pemberton wondered if there was much more to the eager cooperation of the Negroes, something the black men could never say to their owners. Everyone in the town knew of Lincoln’s emancipation order, and the town’s citizens had reacted with the same disgust and derision that Lincoln’s order had received all through the South. But in Vicksburg, the Negroes had kept mostly silent, few of them daring to risk brute punishment from their masters by loudly supporting Lincoln’s call that these men be freed. But now, with the crushing pessimism spreading through the town that Pemberton could not hold the Yankees away, he sensed that the cheerful willingness of the Negroes to provide underground shelter for their masters came more from hope of some greater reward from the men in blue.
This was not a conversation he could have with anyone in the town. There was already too much sentiment against him, brash talk of Pemberton’s betrayal of the Cause, that his failures to defeat Grant were just one part of his treasonous calculation to barter away Vicksburg as penance for his own betrayal of Pennsylvania. The talk sickened him, and he continued to struggle privately, to do all he could to steel himself against the open hostility of the very people he was trying to protect. It had been that way from the beginning, of course, certainly in South Carolina. But suspicions could be erased by proving himself loyal the only way that mattered: on the battlefield. So far, Ulysses Grant had prevented that. He tried to picture Grant in his mind, wasn’t exactly sure what the man looked like now. But the name itself had become so much more than that of a respected foe, a capable adversary to be met on some field of honor. There was no honor now, only survival. With every day that passed, every dose of tragedy given his army, Pemberton’s hatred of Grant grew. There would never be an opportunity to cleanse himself of that, except by killing the man himself, the nightmarish fantasy of aiming the pistol into the man’s face, putting the bayonet through his heart. But he forced himself to accept what he already knew, that there could be no honor in that. The only honor he would find would come on the battlefield.
THE COWAN HOME, VICKSBURG, MISSISSIPPI
MAY 18, 1863
Pemberton stood among them, all faces on him, every man sharing his gloom. But Pemberton had one more surprise for his commanders, the very reason for calling another council of war. He waited for them to sit, could not help noticing their number, fewer now than before, Loring gone, Wirt Adams as well. Tilghman…
“Gentlemen, as you know, following our necessity of retreat to Vicksburg, I sent a message to General Johnston, detailing our disaster at the Big Black, and advising him of our intent to occupy our defensive works around Vicksburg. This includes withdrawing our forces away from the northern outposts close to the Yazoo River. Those men, and whatever artillery we could salvage, have been added to our position here. As you know, the option was available to me to continue in obedience to General Johnston’s order, and make every attempt to maneuver this army to a rendezvous with him. This I did not choose to do. I am deeply distressed that General Johnston does not accept my belief that Vicksburg is of value. That is a direct contradiction to the orders I have received from President Davis. Well, you know that. If any of you doubt the stubbornness to which General Johnston holds in this view, allow me to read … this.” He held up a paper. “This was received today, by what means I am not exactly certain. I am grateful for the tenacity of our couriers, and their uncanny ability to escape capture. They serve us well. This is of course sealed by the hand of General Johnston.” Pemberton paused, looked at the faces, his four division commanders, their chief adjutants, no one appearing eager to hear whatever he was about to tell them. He was not surprised. He took a long breath, read from the paper. “ ‘Your dispatch of today by Captain Henderson was received. If Haines’s Bluff is untenable, Vicksburg is of no value and cannot be held. If therefore you are invested in Vicksburg, you must ultimately surrender. Under such circumstances, instead of losing both troops and place, we must if possible save the troops. If it is not too late, evacuate Vicksburg and its dependencies and move to the northeast.’ ” He stopped, glanced at the faces, saw no change of expression. “This was sent to me … yesterday.”
He turned, a pair of his staff officers standing at the doorway.
“Captain Selph, please store this in a secure location. It is a document of some value to me … to this army.” He turned to the others, fewer than a dozen men, still no one speaking. “We will be called upon one day … to answer for what we will do here. According to what I have heard, the morale of the army is strong. We shall do all in our power to drive away the threat to this town, and to this army.” He looked toward the engineer. “Major Lockett assures me that his efforts have been fruitful. Though there is much to be done, the earthworks have been improved and repaired, and that work continues.”
Lockett nodded, then spoke. “The defensive works had deteriorated
somewhat during the army’s absence, due mostly to inclement weather. And there is some shortage of spades. We have perhaps five hundred in total. I had hoped for a good many more.”
Pemberton tried not to react to that, knew Lockett had pressed him months ago for more earthmoving tools, pickaxes and shovels. From Lockett’s tone, it was clear the engineer recalled that as well.
“Thank you, Major. Please maintain a strong hand over the sappers and the men doing the work. The defensive lines must be strong and durable.”
Lockett said nothing, and Pemberton knew the man already understood the task assigned him.
“We have made every effort to put the strongest forces along the front lines. Those troops who have not yet engaged the enemy should be our best weapon, and thus they are placed accordingly. General Stevenson, your men have given a great deal to this fight thus far, and therefore I have placed you to the right, an area I believe will be untested for the near term. You are our right flank.”
Stevenson fidgeted, then said, “Yes. We’re in place. The men are doing what they can to make amends.”
It was an unnecessary apology, but Pemberton understood that Steven-son’s division had been most responsible for the failure at Baker’s Creek, and so Pemberton had to respond to that, had assigned his men the one part of the line farthest from the Federal advances.
“General Forney …”
“We are in place in the center. I have made certain our right rests on the railroad line, and that we are in contact there with General Stevenson’s left. It is a good position.”
Pemberton didn’t have to wait, Martin Smith eager as always.
“We’re ready for them, sir. Our right adjoins General Forney at the graveyard road, and we have secured our left to the river. We were not able to salvage all of the wagons and supplies from the bluffs, but the men are eager for a fight. The scouts report that the enemy’s boats are in motion along the various approaches, including the Yazoo River itself. Though we no longer hold those heights, he will not have an easy time of it. We shall make them pay dearly for their daring.”