“Let’s go! Get to that wall! Climb! The rebels can’t fire down! You with me?”
Bauer began to move, Willis still watching him, others moving past, and Bauer stared for a long second across the wide ground, the bare approach to the rebel works, saw men down, some crawling, some not moving at all. But there was order still, lines of men moving up behind, officers leading them, sergeants keeping them together, volleys fired, then answered, the sounds a roaring chorus in Bauer’s ears, and now one more sound, the bugle. He searched for it, frantic, needing to see that, the terror holding him frozen, his brain searching for the sound, the musket balls still thick in the air, and he heard it again, felt the hand again, jerking him. Willis.
“Retreat! The order to retreat! Dammit! This isn’t gonna work! Let’s go!”
Willis moved away, motioning to the others, some men rising up from whatever protection they had found, but many more were moving out across the open ground, holding to some kind of line, pulling away in good order. The rebels still fired, and Bauer heard the first cheer, close above him, backed away, the musket ready, aimed at nothing, fired, the fear still there, his feet avoiding the bodies of men, and he moved back with the others, saw wounded men helping others, some bloodied men walking on their own, cries and screams and musket fire still coming from the rebel earthworks.
They withdrew back across the open ground, through the trampled cornfield. Bauer struggled to keep upright, soft dirt and cornstalks beneath his feet, looked back toward the rebels, saw hands in the air above the earthworks, muskets raised high, a single flag waving in a broad arc, taunting the men in blue as they withdrew from a fight that on this day they would not win.
The assault had taken place along the primary roadways, those places that made for the easiest assault, and the places the rebels had fortified with more strength than any other. Since many of Grant’s troops had not yet reached their assigned positions, the strongest push had come mostly from Sherman’s part of the field, the right flank of Grant’s lines. Though the other two corps were engaged, those attacks were often piecemeal, a weaker and more uncoordinated attempt against a position that the Federal generals could now see was far more stout than they had expected. For an hour or more, charges were launched and repulsed, Federal sharpshooters and scattered artillery fire helping to keep the rebels pinned in their works. But behind the earthen walls, no one ran, no great gaps were forced open, and for now, the rebels held the best ground. Grant’s prediction that Pemberton would stay put was proven true.
NEAR THE GRAVEYARD ROAD
MAY 19, 1863
The sun was setting, shadows drifting across the open ground, a welcome shroud hiding the bodies of too many of his men. He had watched the assaults from a low hill, staring straight into a massive fortification bristling with the muskets of the enemy. There the assault had been made by the men he respected most, the 13th Regulars, men who knew of combat and training and went about their deadly work without complaint. On this day, that work had proven disastrous, and Sherman had forced himself to see it, to know firsthand what he had asked them to do, what kind of sacrifice they had made. He had begun the day with ripe optimism, that this incredible campaign was drawing to a close, that very soon the rebels would be whipped completely, the reward for a plan that Sherman had finally accepted as brilliant. He had imagined the newspaper headlines already, all those noisy fat men back east, dangerous and stupid. The thought had inspired him even as the assault began, the pride any good commander feels for his men, capable veterans, men who deserve to be lauded, who deserve to have their names read aloud. As the three artillery volleys echoed across the field, he had ridden just a bit closer to it all, watching the troops move forward, could not avoid thinking of newspapers, of reporters who would have no choice but to put aside their pettiness, their mindless nipping at his heels, like so many mongrel dogs. With the regulars in motion, a stout battle line that no one could turn away, he issued a silent command to the reporters, suddenly wished they had been there, could see this. They will have no alternative, he had thought. Write about this. Write about Grant’s marvelous strategy, and perhaps even make some casual remark about just who watched it all, who sat on his horse on this hill, while the veterans of the 13th Regulars poured up and over those rebel walls.
When the artillery began sweeping through them, the fantasy dissolved. Still he had watched, no field glasses necessary, the smoke swallowing up those good men, the volleys decimating the formations. It was over in an hour. The sunset now was a blessing, darkness over a place where his own foolishness had let him believe it would be easy.
It was too soon for any specific casualty reports, and he didn’t want to see that anyway. It would come, the regulars making their own counts, as the other units did. The report would be delivered by the hand of a junior officer, and not the man Sherman had seen so many times before. There had always been the cheerful salute, the eagerness of the young captain to return to his men, the calm efficiency of a leader. But that man was still out there, shot down doing exactly what he was supposed to do, leading his men into the terrible fight. Sherman stared at the ground, saw the man’s face, Edward Washington, one of the most capable officers in the army, a man Sherman had long predicted would rise through the ranks to command a division. Washington had taken his men right up to the rebel works, but the volleys were thick and furious, and Sherman was certain he had witnessed the single worst moment of the day, the moment when young Captain Washington went down.
Sherman stood close beside the horse, one hand holding the saddle, had waved off the aide, kept still for a silent moment, his stare downward, thought, He cannot be dead, surely. But I saw him drop, so many others with him. The colors were right there, two dozen yards from the base of those blasted walls. But those are strong positions, stronger than I had believed, too strong to be overrun by those men unequaled by any other soldiers in this army. We lost too damned many good men because we hoped the rebels would just … what? Run away? Captain Washington knew better than that, would surely have known from the first wave of canister, the first volley of musket fire. He would know what kind of a fight he was in. He pulled them as close as they could go, and it wasn’t close enough.
Sherman glanced out that way, almost too dark to see now, a scattering of musket fire all down across the rebel works. He knew it was the sharpshooters, still seeking a careless target, or skirmishers, sent forward to prevent the rebels from making a reckless foray into the open ground. There was fire from the rebels as well, what he assumed to be that particular kind of viciousness aimed at anyone who dared to slip into the open to retrieve a wounded friend. And so the boys we had to leave out on that open ground will stay out there, and if they can move at all, they’ll use the darkness, and find their way back.
He knew there were some men up close to the rebel works who had survived, who were hunkered down into the cover the rebels had provided them. The safest place on the field was closest to the base of the rebel strongholds, no way for anyone above to aim straight down without exposing himself to a certain cascade of lead. But it’s dark enough now, he thought. They’ll slip away. Maybe they can bring the young captain back with them. He glanced up. No moon, not yet. One blessing. Maybe Washington is all right, just a tough wound. He shook his head. You know better. If it wasn’t musket fire, it was canister, and those were the worst wounds of all. No one survives that, not at close range. Dammit, anyway! Arrogance! We thought they’d scamper out of here like frightened mice! Grant did that, convinced us just how superior we are. Sherman put a quick grip on that anger, forced that thought away. No, there is no blaming Grant. I believed it, too. We’ve licked these devils at every turn. Why should that change? Is that it? We cannot be defeated … we are invincible? You know better than to believe that nonsense. They’re backed up, the last refuge. Grant was right. Pemberton may be a jerk, a desk officer, but he’s got to hold on to this place. It’s all he can do, the only important responsibility he’ll ever have.
Just be thankful it’s not Bragg or Leonidas Polk behind all that dirt. They’d have counterattacked, might be running right over this hill while you stand here scratching your ass. They licked us, that’s all. But Pemberton likes his dirt, and if he’s not some armor-coated warrior, he at least knows he has the best ground. Today they made use of it, and punched us in the face.
He felt the urge to climb up on the horse again, to ride out closer, to command any efforts in seeking the wounded, anyone who might still be out there. But that was foolishness, the rebels certainly primed to target any hint of sound. He saw the aide now, the man charged with caring for the horse, waiting patiently to do his job. Sherman patted the horse on the neck, let the thoughts drift away. The day is over, and this big boy needs some rations. I suppose … me, too.
He turned from the horse, stopped, punched one fist into an open palm. Dammit to hell. Those were regulars, the best men in my corps, in this whole damned army. We fed them to a slaughter mill today. Can’t have that. If they’re going to die for me, I need to give them a better way to do it, a chance they might actually win this thing. Today … there was no winning. But by God it was glorious to see them try. He had a thought, tried to see the face of Captain Washington again, looked around in the darkness, knew the staff was lurking nearby.
“Colonel Dayton. Respond.”
The man came close quickly, knew Sherman too well.
“Yes, sir.”
“Where is Captain Kossak?”
“Right over there, sir. With Captain McCoy.”
“Good. Take me to him. We need to make every use of this dark. I want that engineer working all damn night putting my men into the ground. The enemy’s figured out how to do that, and so have I. We pushed our people pretty damn close, and I’m not giving up all that ground.”
Kossak appeared now, the man always stiff-backed, formal, a crisp salute.
“General, I am at your service, sir.”
“Fine. You’re supposed to be. I want shovels put to use right now. Anyone who went through that hellfire today will be the first ones to dig a hole. Put ’em to work. Everyone else in the frontline area. Dig like gophers until the sun comes up. The rebels know we’re not pulling out of here, but I don’t want them thinking they took the best we’ve got to give. Get to it, Captain.”
The engineer moved quickly, and Sherman heard the orders going out, knew that a handful of supply wagons were close, that the engineer could find all the implements he required close at hand. But those wagons weren’t for the men, no comforts of a healthy camp. He knew that the meager wagon train had followed his march all the way from Jackson. The most valuable commodity they hauled was ammunition. And now … shovels.
Sherman tried to see Dayton’s face, a thin man, taller than he was.
“Colonel, have we heard anything from the bluffs? I thought we had that new supply route open. We have a fresh wagon train anywhere close?”
“Um … not quite, sir. That work is continuing. Colonel Macfeely is up that way now, as far as I know.”
“Well, what I know is that these men are eating rations fit for sewer rats. I promised Grant we’d get a supply line into use immediately. This isn’t … immediately. My boys took a licking today, and they need something besides moldy crackers. You got me, Colonel?”
“I’ll send word.… No, sir, I’ll go out myself and locate Colonel Macfeely. I’ll bring you his report as quickly as possible.”
“Now, Colonel.”
Sherman saw the other aides moving closer, a cluster of shadows. There would be no firelight, his position within artillery range of too many rebel gunners.
“Where’s Grant right now?”
McCoy stepped forward now, a young, sickly man who seemed to jump every time Sherman spoke to him.
“I believe the general is at his headquarters … back that way, sir.”
“Well, I believe I need to talk to him. He might be surprised by what I’m about to do, and he doesn’t care for surprises.”
He waited for the question, McCoy responding.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but what are you going to do? Should I accompany you?”
“You’ll do more than that, Captain. You’ll issue the order. Send couriers to every artillery command in this part of the front. The rebels are over there slapping each other on the back, big talk about how they whupped us today. I never want to see anyone in that so-called army smiling, you understand that? Don’t even want to imagine that. Order the artillery to open up a barrage all across the position.”
“But, sir … it’s dark.”
Sherman stared at the young man, regretted McCoy couldn’t see the heat in his glare.
“This is a modern army, Captain. We have cannons that can fire in the dark. Your job is to see that they do. But make sure they aim a little high. We still have boys out there who need to get in off that open ground. I want the damned enemy to know that we didn’t appreciate what happened today, and if they think they’ll spend this night celebrating about it … well, we’ll change their minds.”
GRANT’S HEADQUARTERS
EARLY MORNING, MAY 20, 1863
Grant paced, unusual, crushing the cigar in his hand. He looked at McPherson.
“They’ve got good ground then?”
“Very strong ground, sir.” McPherson glanced to one side, where McClernand sat, leaning back in his chair. “My own scouts have conferred with General McClernand’s engineers that the enemy’s entrenchments have been extended in an arc that anchors toward the river to the south. To my own front, we could plainly hear them laboring to improve those works all through the night. I imagine they’ll continue that every night. Nothing is ever perfect, sir. I recommend we continue with nightly artillery assaults.”
Sherman nodded, then said in a low voice, “You may depend on that.”
Grant continued to pace, and Sherman looked toward McClernand, the back of his chair against the wall, his lips pursed, as though pondering just when to offer his own special brand of wisdom. Sherman caught McClernand’s eye, the man turning away quickly, a response that satisfied Sherman’s feelings for the man. Sherman pulled his own cigar out of his pocket and said to McPherson, “Care for one?”
“Oh, thank you. No. I haven’t eaten much this morning. Doesn’t sit well inside.”
Sherman ignored McClernand, hoped the man noticed the slight. He had no intention of giving up a valuable cigar to a man he couldn’t abide.
Grant stopped his pacing, didn’t look at any of them.
“We were disorganized. The assaults were made without good order, before we were fully in position. We attacked them straight across the most open ground, the roads and pathways, the very place they would expect us to come. It was a mistake.”
Sherman lit his cigar, mimicked McClernand now, leaned back lazily in the chair, kept his stare on the man, who still avoided looking back.
Grant didn’t seem to need a response, but Sherman said, “It was arrogance. I threw the best unit I have out there and was perfectly certain they would drive the rebels right into the river. Deadly stupid.”
Grant looked at him, and seemed surprised.
“The regulars?”
“The regulars lost half their strength. I’m not letting that go.”
McClernand spoke now, let the chair drop noisily forward.
“This is hardly the time for a formal inquiry, General. The blame for such losses rests in this room, if I may suggest. Our time would be better spent preparing our next objectives.”
Sherman held the cigar in his hand, rolled it over, fought the urge to launch it like a dart into McClernand’s face.
“I never said anything about an inquiry. I intend to see that the 13th Regulars be remembered for their gallantry. With your permission, Grant, I’ll order that their colors carry an inscription that means something to them. Not just the place. I’m thinking … First at Vicksburg.”
He waited for the inevitable protest from McClernand, and Grant anti
cipated that, held up his hand, silencing the others.
“Agreed. See it done.” Grant shook his head, flicked an ash from the cigar. “Half their strength? I did not expect such a thing. Not at all.”
McPherson said, “None of us did, sir. My men took casualties, to be sure. But none of my regiments suffered such losses. General Sherman, please offer those men my deepest respects.”
Sherman didn’t expect that, saw soft sincerity in McPherson’s gesture. McPherson had served Sherman well the year before, had done good work at Shiloh as the army’s chief engineer. No matter their equality of command now, it was obvious that McPherson fully accepted Sherman’s superior rank.
“I will do exactly that, General. Thank you. Captain Ewing and Captain Smith will appreciate the recognition. Every man in that battalion feels the loss of Captain Washington.”
Grant seemed suddenly impatient.
“Offer your condolences to whomever you please, gentlemen. We took far more casualties than I anticipated, in every unit that made the assault. We underestimated the enemy’s backbone for a fight. I am not content to have this army stand out here now and throw artillery shells at earthworks. The enemy believes he’s guarding a citadel, that his fortifications are impregnable. We did nothing yesterday to dissuade him of that notion. That will change. Two days hence, we shall make another assault.” He glanced at McClernand. “This time we shall go into the fight with both fists, all across the front. We shall launch our attack precisely, in one coordinated blow. I do not believe the rebels can stand up to that kind of power. They have shown no inclination to hold any ground that we choose to take from them. Vicksburg will be no different. They have suffered a month of defeats at our hands, and there is nothing, piles of dirt or otherwise, that will change that. Yesterday, we were … the word is sloppy. With respect to your regulars, Sherman, we gave the rebels a gift. Not just casualties. We bolstered their spirits. No doubt we did much to improve their morale, morale that heretofore was shattered to pieces. That must not happen again.” He looked toward the closed door. “Colonel Rawlins?”