by H. W. Brands
He soon wished he hadn’t. The initial assault had been repelled with heavy losses; the second wave, prompted by McClernand’s questionable report, did no better. “This last attack only served to increase our casualties without giving any benefit whatever,” Grant acknowledged.
After the unsuccessful attack on May 22, the siege proper of Vicksburg began. The modernity of the Civil War—the employment of railroads and steamboats for transport, the application of industrial techniques to the production of war matériel—meant little to the millennia-old problem of reducing a hilltop fortress. If Grant had possessed sufficient siege cannon, he might have tried to batter down Vicksburg’s walls. But his six thirty-two-pounders, complemented by a battery of naval guns borrowed from Porter, hardly dented the city’s defenses. His smaller guns and some makeshift mortars—hollowed logs ringed with iron bands—harassed the inhabitants and defenders without threatening to breach the works.
To effect a breach Grant turned to one of the oldest techniques of siege warfare. His sappers dug tunnels toward the walls of the city. They dodged the tunnels Pemberton’s men dug against them and after weeks of mining reached a spot beneath the Confederate defenses. Grant’s artillerists crammed the cavern with black powder and on June 25 ignited it. The explosion hurled dirt, rocks and rebels high into the air, leaving a gaping hole in the Confederate works and a yawning crater in the ground. Union soldiers, who had been expecting the explosion, poured into the gap; Confederate troops, who hadn’t, nonetheless responded almost as quickly. The fierce battle that followed was fought at close quarters with bayonets, rifle butts, knives, fists and teeth. Grant’s men won the crater but couldn’t exploit their success as the Confederates simply retreated a short distance and retrenched.
Grant reluctantly settled for a strategy of attrition. He hammered the fortress mercilessly, as Pemberton explained to Johnston. “The enemy has placed several very heavy guns in position against our works,” the Confederate commander wrote on June 15. “His fire is almost continuous. Our men have no relief; are becoming much fatigued.… We are living on greatly reduced rations.” Within the week Pemberton reiterated: “My men have been thirty-four days and nights in trenches, without relief, and the enemy within conversation distance. We are living on very reduced rations, and, as you know, are entirely isolated. What aid am I to expect from you?”
After Johnston replied that he had scant aid to send and that it couldn’t get through Grant’s lines, Pemberton felt more isolated than ever. Supplies continued to dwindle. “Our stock of bacon having been almost exhausted, the experiment of using mule meat as a substitute was tried,” he reported. “I am gratified to say it was found by both officers and men not only nutritious but very palatable.”
The bombardment from the Union guns caused the residents of Vicksburg to seek shelter wherever they could find it. Discovering that their houses afforded little protection, they burrowed caves into the hillsides of the city. These kept them comparatively safe from the balls and shells, but living underground added to the emotional toll. “Even the very animals seemed to share the general fear of a sudden and frightful death,” a woman who experienced the siege recorded. “The dogs would be seen in the midst of the noise to gallop up the street, and then to return, as if fear had maddened them. On hearing the descent of a shell, they would dart aside—then, as it exploded, sit down and howl in the most pitiful manner.” Nor did the earth above the caves invariably provide protection. “Sitting in the cave one evening, I heard the most heartrending screams and moans,” the Vicksburg woman recalled. “I was told that a mother had taken a child into a cave about a hundred yards from us, and having laid it on its little bed, as the poor woman believed, in safety, she took her seat near the entrance of the cave. A mortar shell came rushing through the air and fell with much force, entering the earth above the sleeping child—cutting through into the cave—oh! most horrible sight to the mother—crushing in the upper part of the little sleeping head and taking away the young innocent life.”
By the beginning of July the situation was desperate. “Unless the siege of Vicksburg is raised or supplies are thrown in, it will become necessary very shortly to evacuate the place,” Pemberton wrote his generals. “I see no prospect of the former, and there are many great, if not insuperable, obstacles in the way of the latter.” Pemberton requested that the officers assess the ability of the troops to stand the strain of a forced evacuation. “You will, of course, use the utmost discretion while informing yourself,” he added.
The gist of the officers’ response was that the men were too enfeebled to break the siege and escape the besiegers. “Under these circumstances,” Major General M. L. Smith wrote, in words echoed by the others, “I deem it best to propose terms of capitulation before forced to do so from want of provisions.”
Pemberton had reason for putting his subordinates on record. As a native Northerner, from Philadelphia, he remained suspect in the eyes of some in the South despite the gallant service he had performed till then. If Vicksburg fell, as appeared increasingly inevitable, he didn’t want its surrender to be his decision alone. “With this unanimous opinion of my officers against the practicability of a successful evacuation, and no relief from General Johnston, a surrender with or without terms was the only alternative left to me,” he reported afterward.
Accordingly, on July 3 he wrote Grant requesting an armistice for the purpose of negotiating a surrender. “I make this proposition to save the further effusion of blood, which must otherwise be shed to a frightful extent, feeling myself fully able to maintain my position for a yet indefinite period.”
Two decades years later Grant recalled the moment when the truce flags appeared on the Vicksburg ramparts. “It was a glorious sight to officers and soldiers on the line where these white flags were visible,” Grant wrote. “The news soon spread to all parts of the command. The troops felt that their long and weary marches, hard fighting, ceaseless watching by night and day, in a hot climate, exposure to all sorts of weather, to diseases and, worst of all, to the gibes of many Northern papers that came to them saying all their suffering was in vain, that Vicksburg would never be taken, were at last at an end and the Union sure to be saved.”
Grant knew John Bowen, the Confederate officer carrying Pemberton’s letter. The two had been neighbors in Missouri and Grant thought him a good man. But he rejected Pemberton’s request for negotiations. There was nothing to negotiate, he said. “The useless effusion of blood you propose stopping by this course can be ended at any time you choose, by an unconditional surrender of the city and garrison.” Grant promised fair consideration following a surrender. “Men who have shown so much endurance and courage as those now in Vicksburg will always challenge the respect of an adversary, and I can assure you will be treated with all the respect due to prisoners of war.”
Grant was less confident than he sounded. He still worried that Johnston might attack his rear; in fact he had decided that if Pemberton didn’t surrender soon he would order another assault. And so he agreed to meet with Pemberton personally between the lines in front of McPherson’s corps.
Pemberton arrived at three in the afternoon. Grant greeted his former comrade from the Mexican War. Pemberton asked what terms Grant might offer for a surrender. Grant repeated that he would offer no terms; the surrender must be unconditional. “The conference might as well end,” Pemberton said with what Grant took for annoyance. Grant replied, “Very well,” and turned to go.
But Bowen wished the conference to continue. He engaged one of Grant’s officers, proposing that the Confederates be allowed to march out of Vicksburg with their small arms and artillery. Grant rejected this at once. Yet Bowen’s ploy served the purpose of extending the discussion, and Grant eventually agreed to send Pemberton a letter that evening, putting in writing his requirements for a surrender.
Grant consulted his division and corps commanders and considered the matter further. The central issue was whether the Vicksburg garrison
should be taken as prisoners of war and sent north, eventually to be exchanged for Union prisoners in Confederate camps, or paroled on the spot. The former mode was more satisfying in that it would demonstrate beyond question that Pemberton’s army had been beaten. But the latter was more practical because prisoners would have to be fed and transported.
Grant opted for practicality. “I will march in one division as a guard and take possession at eight a.m. tomorrow,” he proposed to Pemberton. “As soon as rolls can be made out, and paroles be signed by officers and men, you will be allowed to march out of our lines, the officers taking with them their side-arms and clothing, and the field, staff and cavalry officers one horse each. The rank and file will be allowed all their clothing but not other property.”
Pemberton countered by proposing as a formality to march his troops out before Grant marched in, the Confederates then to be listed and paroled. He also asked Grant to guarantee the property of Vicksburg’s citizens. Grant agreed to the face-saving gesture toward the troops but refused to bind himself regarding civilian property. On these terms Pemberton capitulated, with the formal surrender to take place the next day, July 4.
33
JOHN RAWLINS SIGHED RELIEF AT VICKSBURG’S FALL, FOR REASONS beyond the obvious. Grant’s adjutant minded the general’s mail and the issuance of orders, but he also assumed responsibility for Grant’s health and welfare. Rawlins spoke to Grant more candidly than anyone else in the army. “Rawlins could argue, could expostulate, could condemn, could even upbraid, without interrupting for an hour the fraternal confidence and good will of Grant,” Jacob Cox recalled. Cox was a Union officer from Ohio who knew both men during the war and after, and he understood what Grant saw in Rawlins and why he allowed Rawlins such freedom. Cox said of Rawlins: “He had won the right to this relation by an absolute devotion which dated from Grant’s appointment to be brigadier-general in 1861, and which had made him the good genius of his friend in every crisis of Grant’s wonderful career. This was not because of Rawlins’s great intellect, for he was of only moderate mental powers. It was rather that he became a living and speaking conscience for his general, as courageous to speak in a time of need as Nathan the prophet, and as absolutely trusted as Jonathan by David.”
Rawlins had heard in Galena the stories of Grant’s drinking, and he subsequently observed sufficient continuing temptation in Grant to insist on a promise to abstain, which Grant gave. But amid the siege of Vicksburg, as the summer heat set in and the excitement of the previous months’ fighting and maneuvering wore off, Grant apparently allowed himself a holiday from his pledge. In early June he decided to travel up the river to observe operations on the Yazoo. He invited Charles Dana to go along. The two men boarded a river steamer and headed off. By Dana’s later account Grant fell ill and took to bed in the cabin. The steamer was approached by two Union gunboats whose officers said the Confederates were active upstream and Grant’s vessel should turn around. “I told them Grant was sick and asleep, and that I did not want to wake him,” Dana wrote. The officers insisted that Dana apprise Grant of the situation. “Finally I did so,” Dana said, “but he was too sick to decide. ‘I will leave it with you,’ he said.” Dana gave the order to turn back. He concluded the story: “The next morning Grant came out to breakfast fresh as a rose, clean shirt and all, quite himself.”
Rawlins drew more from the episode than Dana recorded. He may have spoken to Dana directly or he may have heard of Grant’s indisposition from others. He concluded that Grant had been drunk. And he felt compelled to write a letter to his chief that for decades remained private. “The great solicitude I feel for the safety of this army leads me to mention what I had hoped never again to do: the subject of your drinking,” Rawlins said. “This may surprise you, for I may be, and trust I am, doing you an injustice by unfounded suspicion, but if in error it had better be on the side of the country’s safety than in fear of offending a friend.” Rawlins explained that he had been worried about Grant even before the boat ride. “I have heard that Dr. McMillan at General Sherman’s a few days ago induced you, notwithstanding your pledge to me, to take a glass of wine, and today when I found a box of wine in front of your tent and proposed to move it, which I did, I was told you had forbid its being taken away, for you intended to keep it until you entered Vicksburg, that you might have it for your friends.” The incident with Dana and additional evidence made Rawlins worry the more. “Tonight, when you should, because of the condition of your health, if nothing else, have been in bed, I find you where the wine bottle has just been emptied, in company with those who drink and urge you to do likewise; and the lack of your usual promptness and decision, and clearness of expressing yourself in writing, conduces to confirm my suspicion.” Grant knew better, Rawlins said. “You have full control of your appetite, and can let drinking alone. Had you not pledged me the sincerity of your honor early last March, that you would drink no more during the war, and kept that pledge dur-
ing your recent campaign, you would not today have stood first in the world’s history as a military leader. Your only salvation depends upon your strict adherence to that pledge. You cannot succeed in any other way.”
Grant didn’t reply to Rawlins’s letter, at least not in a form that survived. He carried the siege of Vicksburg to its successful conclusion. The incident was set aside if not forgotten.
Robert E. Lee’s July Fourth was as dismal as Grant’s was triumphant. Lee’s campaign season had commenced auspiciously when Joseph Hooker, Lincoln’s latest commanding general, forced a battle at Chancellorsville, west of Fredericksburg. Hooker’s army outnumbered Lee’s two to one and Hooker had a reputation as a fighter. But Lee outmaneuvered Hooker by daringly splitting his force and striking at Hooker’s flank. The result was Lee’s most brilliant victory and a stunning defeat for the North. “My God! My God!” Lincoln moaned on getting the news. “What will the country say?”
The defeat at Chancellorsville made Grant’s campaign for Vicksburg more essential to Union hopes for victory in the war; it also gave Lee the encouragement he needed to mount a second invasion of the North. As in 1862, Lee hoped to ease his provisioning problems by living off the land in Maryland and Pennsylvania; to an even greater degree than before, he aimed to demoralize residents of the North and energize the peace movement for the 1864 elections. “If successful this year, next fall there will be a great change in public opinion at the North,” he wrote his wife. “The Republicans will be destroyed and I think the friends of peace will become so strong that the next administration will go in on that basis.”
Jefferson Davis and others in the Confederate government weren’t sure a Northern invasion was the best use of Lee’s army. Davis judged Vicksburg more central to the future of the Confederacy than any position in Maryland or Pennsylvania; he wanted Lee to release part of his force to fight Grant on the Mississippi. But Lee’s reputation and self-confidence, especially after Chancellorsville, were such that Davis acquiesced in his desire to invade the North. Lee said that he had no realistic alternative. “Our resources in men are constantly diminishing, and the disproportion in this respect between us and our enemies, if they continue united in their efforts to subjugate us, is steadily augmenting,” Lee told Davis. “Under these circumstances we should neglect no honorable means of dividing and weakening our enemies, that they may feel some of the difficulties experienced by ourselves.”
In early June Lee began shifting troops to the Shenandoah Valley; by the middle of the month the advance units of his army had reached the Potomac. Joe Hooker’s first thought, on learning of the Confederates’ northward movement, was to attack Lee’s rear. “Will it not promote the true interest of the cause for me to march to Richmond at once?” the Union commander wrote Lincoln. “I should adopt this course as being the most speedy and certain mode of giving the rebellion a mortal blow.”
Lincoln responded that Hooker had his priorities wrong. “I think Lee’s army and not Richmond is your sure objective poi
nt,” he said. “If he comes towards the upper Potomac, follow on his flank, and on the inside track, shortening your lines, whilst he lengthens his. Fight him when the opportunity offers. If he stays where he is, fret him and fret him.”
So Hooker went after Lee, who crossed into Maryland in late June and continued toward Pennsylvania. “If Harrisburg comes within your means, capture it,” Lee told Richard Ewell, one of his generals. The Confederate invasion evoked alarm across the North. Lincoln feared for Baltimore and Washington; residents of Pittsburgh and Philadelphia thought they were the targets. Farmers and their families fled the advance of the Confederate columns, driving their livestock before them. The governor of Pennsylvania called for sixty thousand men to defend the commonwealth; the governor of New York promised to spare no effort to stop the Confederates before they reached the Empire State. Lincoln summoned one hundred thousand new volunteers.
Yet even as Lincoln feared for the safety of the North, he sensed an opening. “I really think the attitude of the enemies’ army in Pennsylvania presents us the best opportunity we have had since the war began,” he observed. The president hoped to pin Lee between Hooker’s army in the east and the Union garrison at Harpers Ferry.
But Hooker insisted that Harpers Ferry should be abandoned and its troops attached to his main army. When Henry Halleck, speaking for Lincoln, rejected the idea, Hooker offered his resignation.
To the general’s apparent surprise, Lincoln accepted the resignation, appointing George Gordon Meade in his place. Meade was a solid soldier with commendable experience but nothing that made him an obvious choice to head the Army of the Potomac. “Yesterday morning, at 3 a.m., I was aroused from my sleep by an officer from Washington entering my tent and, after waking me up, saying he had come to give me trouble,” Meade wrote his wife. “At first I thought that it was either to relieve or arrest me, and promptly replied to him that my conscience was clear, void of offense toward any man; I was prepared for his bad news. He then handed me a communication to read, which I found was an order relieving Hooker from the command and assigning me to it.” Having at some length recovered from his shock, Meade added: “I am moving at once against Lee.… A battle will decide the fate of our country and our cause.”