by Jeff Shaara
Grant seemed to ponder Rawlins’s concerns, then said, “Colonel, inform Mr. Cadwallader that I have been placed in overall command of this department, and will conduct this campaign in the most judicious way possible.”
“But, sir, he will certainly report to his newspaper—”
“You heard me, Colonel. You might remind Mr. Cadwallader that Washington has vested in me the last word on the matter. If he has questions, certainly he may ask them.”
Rawlins fell back, and Sherman gritted his teeth.
“Why the hell do you allow this?”
“Colonel Rawlins is most valuable to me. You know that.”
“Cadwallader is the scoundrel that concerns me. He writes for that damnable Chicago Times, which is nothing more than a treasonous rag. There isn’t a copperhead in that part of the country who doesn’t call that paper his own bible. I’ve banned its distribution in my camps.”
Grant turned toward him.
“You will countermand that order. No newspaper is to be banned in this army, no matter how disagreeable we may find it.”
Sherman was caught off guard by Grant’s sternness.
“Well … if you order it. I did not think it wise to allow the men to be drenched in the kind of talk that fuels sedition. I may not always agree with Mr. Lincoln, but we are fighting his war. There are too damn many loud voices in Illinois, and every state around it, calling for this war to end on Southern terms. It’s outrageous. No, it’s treason.”
“I am not aware of any mutiny in the ranks. Have faith in your soldiers, Sherman. They are as outraged as you are by all of that talk. I’ve seen that myself. Any secessionist who comes through these camps preaching all of that nonsense is fortunate to escape without tar and feathers.”
“I’d boil the tar myself. The reporters could use a little of that as well.”
Grant said nothing, and Sherman felt his heart racing, the subject always digging hard at him, fueling an unstoppable anger. He had banished reporters from his own camps, but it wasn’t an order he was comfortable spouting about. There was always the chance Grant would disagree and order Sherman to permit the men free access to Sherman’s headquarters. Thus far, Grant had said nothing, seemed to understand that Sherman’s dislike for newspapermen was his own business. But Grant seemed perfectly willing to allow any of the newspapermen free access to his own camp, a policy Sherman found utterly appalling.
“You’re naïve, Grant. With all respects, sir.”
Grant chuckled.
“Perhaps. Been accused of worse. But Sylvanus Cadwallader is no copperhead, and he performs his duties with admirable restraint. He clears all of his dispatches with Colonel Rawlins, and I have yet to read anything he has written that gives me a bellyache. It is good to have civilians in the camps. They don’t feel the obligation to salute me at every turn, and so they offer observations not tainted by obedience. And, I must admit, there are those times when it is good to speak my mind, to offer up frustrations and opinions I cannot always share with my staff. Cadwallader is a good man. He listens well.”
For a larger version of this map, click here.
Sherman huffed.
“So does a spy.”
NEAR AUBURN, MISSISSIPPI
MAY 11, 1863
Since crossing the river, Sherman’s Fifteenth Corps had kept generally behind McClernand, their left flanks close to the Big Black River. Sherman had ordered a strong guard to be placed at each river crossing they passed, a wise precaution to prevent any sudden rebel attempt to cut behind the march. If the rebels made any attempt to slice through the Federal supply line, they would draw plenty of attention.
Out to the southeast, on a parallel route, James McPherson’s Seventeenth Corps moved at the same pace as Sherman and McClernand. As the army marched farther up the Big Black, Grant ordered Sherman to shift to the center of the position, the network of roads allowing all three corps to move along their own routes. Sherman at least felt some relief at moving his forces out from behind McClernand. Besides the obvious balm to Sherman’s own pride, his men had the pickings of the available rations from plantations that had not yet been swept clean by McClernand’s troops.
McClernand’s left flank remained anchored on the Big Black, and McPherson was still to the right. The advantage from Grant’s point of view was that Sherman could shift his troops in either direction, should a threat suddenly appear. In addition, this massive show of force might compel the rebel command to make some significant move to counteract it, possibly crossing the Big Black to Grant’s front. It was certainly one option open to Pemberton’s command, that the Confederates could defend Vicksburg by launching an offensive, which could result in a general engagement. Grant had some forty thousand troops on the march. He estimated Pemberton’s strength to be roughly eighteen thousand. If Pemberton wanted to engage, Grant had no objections at all.
For now, the rebels seemed content to keep to their side of the Big Black, and it was obvious to Grant that their wariness had everything to do with their complete uncertainty as to what Grant would do next. The Big Black flowed generally from the northeast, and Grant continued the march in that direction, offering the rebels no real hint of just when or where he would make a sharp turn toward Vicksburg, a move that certainly the rebels were expecting.
Sherman rode thinking of water. The canteens were mostly empty, a supply problem the wagons could do little to help. By now he understood that drinking water from any of the larger rivers could cause illness among the troops, a problem that had plagued the army since their drive up the Tennessee River the year before. There were creeks and springs inland, of course, and the men had become efficient at locating any good water source, often from the same plantations where they were finding their rations. But there had been no rain for nearly two weeks, and the creeks had been reduced to trickles, the few springs and dug wells inadequate for the needs of forty thousand men.
He turned, saw tired faces, his staff showing the effects of a very long day in the saddle.
“Colonel Dayton, send orders to the division commanders to halt the march. This day has lasted long enough. Captain McCoy, send a dispatch to General Grant, offer my respects, tell him that we are forced to halt the march for want of water, and offer my humble suggestion that the rest of the army halt as well.”
The two men saluted him, moved back to the couriers, and Sherman did not have to watch them. I am blessed with good people, he thought. Always been that way. Major Sanger … will truly miss him. But he gave all he could, just didn’t have the energy for what I required of him.
Dan Sanger had been with Sherman nearly from the beginning of Sherman’s command, had been the sponge for so much of Sherman’s fury, had likely kept Sherman in the saddle by allowing Sherman to spout off about every manner of aggravation, including every general who outranked him. But Sanger had mustered out in February, and Sherman could not object, had felt that instinctive weakness in the man, a sense that Sanger knew his health was failing. He had lost Captain John Henry Hammond, too, another of the good men who had done so much to salvage the command after the burst of disaster at Shiloh a year before. Another man whose health was failing him, he thought, who gave so much to me. What do you give them, Sherman? All right, stop that foolishness. You give them orders. That’s your job, and theirs. Staff officers are an expendable lot, and have to be. No shortage of them, for certain. They’re not all cowards, either, despite what I used to believe. Always thought that any man who sought out service close to the command was a man who fears hearing the musket balls. But … well, we’ve heard plenty of damn musket balls. Will again.
He dismounted, an aide quickly taking the reins from his hand. He had two horses now, his favorite a large bay he called Sam. He watched the animal lumber slowly away, thought, Yep, you’re as tired as I am. You’ve heard the musket balls, too, had one nearly bust open your gut. No complaints from you about that one. I’d have hollered like hell. Well, hell, I don’t hear much complaining fr
om any of them, officers, aides, or the damn animals. Beasts of burden, all of them. I suppose, most of the time, I’m the burden.
The sun was setting quickly, the air cooling, the last hint of blue in the cloudless sky above him. He stretched his back, saw columns of his troops spreading out into the open ground, the camps coming together, fires started, coffeepots emerging from hidden places. There would be no card playing, not anymore, Grant’s orders that once they began the great march inland, gambling was forbidden. Sherman didn’t argue, had no patience for fistfights over a silver dollar. They’ll get used to it, he thought. We’ll try to give them something better to do.
A horseman galloped toward him, familiar, an officer from one of his division commanders, Frank Blair. Blair was new to Sherman’s command, but Sherman had liked him immediately. Blair had been a politician before the war, a man of considerable public influence, had been extremely active in the Union cause, and now was a rabid supporter of the army’s mission. Mr. Lincoln’s war, Sherman thought. Blair would fight it all by himself. That kind of energy is good for his men. We’ll make use of that.
Sherman recalled the officer’s name now, Major Haskins, the man dismounting with clean precision, a good horseman.
Haskins saluted and said, “Sir, General Blair offers his respects and reports that a courier has come from the east, sent by General McPherson. The Seventeenth Corps’s forward units are encountering some rebel skirmishers. General McPherson has thus ordered his divisions to encamp for the night and has ordered cavalry patrols and strong skirmish lines to avoid … uh … surprises, sir.”
“Has General Blair observed the enemy to his front?”
“Not in any strength, sir. Scattered observers, cavalry squadrons, that sort of thing. We have cavalry patrols ahead of us as well, sir, up as far as Fourteen Mile Creek.”
“Good. General Blair knows what to do. Tell him only that I offer my respects and advise him to remain on the alert. This is, after all, Mississippi. Damn rebels could be hiding out in every barn and every outhouse. General McPherson is doing the right thing. Avoiding surprises is always the best plan. Grab some coffee, if you care to, Major. Then return to General Blair.”
Haskins saluted him, and Sherman followed his own suggestion, moved toward a growing fire, the coffeepot already hung above. The staff made way for him, and Sherman stopped, stared down into the fire. No surprises. Made that mistake before, won’t do it again. If McPherson says there’s an enemy out there, believe him. It’s a whole lot better if the surprises come from us.
SOUTHWEST OF RAYMOND, MISSISSIPPI
MAY 11, 1863
Bauer munched the remnants of his hardtack, paid no attention to the flavor, something close to licking a pantry floor. What had been brought across the river had been issued immediately, chunks of meat held aloft on bayonets. It was a surprisingly bountiful gesture from a commissary that seemed to delight in feeding the men anything but actual food. But that bounty, what was supposed to carry them for ten days, had been consumed within two or three. No officer seemed willing or able to prevent their men from eating anything they were given, as quickly as they could. Bauer never gave it much thought, had done as so many had done, devoured the meat as quickly as possible. He still heard the talk, some men grimly fatalistic, that if they were marching to a fight, they would at least die with a full stomach. Now the commissary wagons carried only coffee and hardtack, the rock-hard crackers always in abundance.
Like most of the others, his canteen had run dry hours before, adding to the misery of the dry dust of the hardtack. Some men had come through with a water bucket, ladles pouring brown liquid into waiting cups. No matter his thirst, he would do everything he could to avoid anything that dirty. The fear of the hospitals had come to exceed any fear of the enemy, and though the cases of dysentery had been far fewer on this side of the river, the hospitals were always back there, somewhere.
It was nearly dark and Bauer spread out his bedroll, in his slow habit, laid it across anything soft he could find, tufts of grass, handfuls of the dreary gray moss that hung low from nearly every tree. Around him, men were doing the same, the entire regiment ordered to camp in what had once been a cornfield. There would be little talk tonight, no spouting off around roaring campfires, even the few coffeepots mostly ignored. The day’s march had been as tedious as any he could remember, slow, stops and starts, no explanation why they could not just move. He had no idea how far they had come of course, never really knew that. But the slowness, the lack of a steady rhythm to the long stretches, meant they had not come very far, a few miles at best.
He patted the bedroll, satisfied that he had at least some padding, wadded his jacket together to form a pillow, and lay out flat, staring up. There were just a few stars, the darkness slipping in quickly. Around him the chorus had begun, great swarms of creatures that he guessed to be insects, frogs maybe, everything else in this infernal country that had a voice. Why night? he thought. They don’t say a thing all day long. The sun goes down and they have some kind of contest to see who can croak and buzz the loudest. Just to keep us awake, I guess. Revenge for slapping at them all day, killing their cousins. There were the night sounds in Wisconsin, mostly crickets. But here the volume was much louder, especially if there was water nearby. On the other side of the river, the men often heard something completely different, a low bellow, what some said were ghosts, or some awful swamp creature cursing them for invading their homes. Then someone had figured out … it was alligators. Probably a mating call, he thought. Oh sweet lady gator over there. Come to your beau. Bauer drew no comfort in that. I’d rather it be ghosts, he thought. At least they don’t eat you.
“Where’s that damn Dutchman?”
Bauer sat up, knew Willis’s voice.
“Here … uh … sir.”
Dammit. He’s still Sammie.
Willis was silhouetted now by a distant campfire, moved closer, leaned down.
“You?”
“It’s me, Sammie. Lieutenant. Geez, can’t get used to that.”
Willis sat, said, “You will, by damned. I’ll toss you in the stockade for insubordination.”
Bauer couldn’t tell if he was serious or not, but he knew Willis too well to test him. Willis seemed to scan the men around them, focused on a group of men out by one of the fires.
“Idiots are playing horseshoes. I figured we’d be arresting people for gambling. Colonel McMahon pretty clear on that one. Orders came from Grant himself. But it didn’t take these boys long to find something else to do. How the hell do they see what they’re aiming at?”
Bauer had no answer, had never played horseshoes, wasn’t really sure how. Around them the voices were muted, most of the men too tired to do anything but sleep. After a long silence, Willis said softly, “Cavalry says the secesh are out there waiting for us. Talked to Captain McDermott about it, says it makes sense. They can’t just let us march all over hell and back through their own backyards. We’re headin’ for some trouble, no doubt about that. But there’s a whole potload of us, Dutchie. We’re strong, mostly fit, too. Gettin’ clear of those swamps helped. This is some pretty countryside, the fancy plantations and all. Guess I can see why the damn secesh are fightin’ over it.”
Bauer stared at the horseshoe players, heard a telltale clank, a raucous cheer. But the game was winding down with the darkness, the men starting to drift off their separate ways.
Bauer said, “I guess I’d fight if somebody marched into Milwaukee.”
“Yeah? Who’d be doing that?”
“Uh … I don’t know.”
“Yeah, you don’t know. Neither do these damn secesh. We’re not shoving them out of their homes, rounding up civilians. We’re not violating the women. Hell, I ain’t seen anyone in this army taking shackles off one single darkie, settin’ anybody free. But you can’t tell these fool people any of that. We’re foreigners. Trespassing. I thought this was one damn country. Never saw a KEEP OUT sign at the county line back home, or do
wn there on the border with Illinois. But not here. They’ve decided we’re so damn evil, they’re gonna kill us over it. Fine. I’ll kill you first, you stupid plowboy. Every damn one of you.”
“I remember … one of the brass … talking to us about them stompin’ on our flag.”
“Colonel Peabody. They killed him at Shiloh.”
“Yeah, Peabody.”
“That’s all fine and good. But now old ‘Honest Abe’ has done made a big stir about emancipating the darkies, and all he’s done is rile up these plowboys to being even more mad at us. We’d have probably won this thing but for that. The secesh knew they were whipped, and Lincoln went and kicked the hornet’s nest.”
“I don’t know, Sammie. Every farm or mansion we pass, there’s Negroes standing out there waving at us, and no white man to be seen. They seem like they’re pretty happy we’re here. There’s gotta be a reason for that. I suspect they won’t be going back to work for any master, shackles or not. I hear that some of ’em’s following behind the army, like it’s a big damn parade. Sure sounds to me like they’re being freed from something. Something that matters to them, anyhow. I just wonder about the … people. The white people. Seems they’re just in the way, their homes and all. I saw some of the places burned up over there, across the river. We had no cause to do that. None I could see. Armies oughta fight armies, and leave the civilians alone.”
“So, all these folks who’ve sent their sons off to shoot at us, you figure they’re just the poor and innocent, caught in the way? They don’t have a part in any of this? You wanna go up and tell General McPherson about this, maybe Grant himself? You got it all figured out, just how this war oughta be fought, who’s the good and who’s the bad. Like it’s so damn simple. You trying to be smart, Dutchie? You takin’ to figuring out stuff now? Damn miracle.”