by Jeff Shaara
The boat finally cast off its lines, easing out into the river, the traffic there making way. The flow of supply boats had been ongoing and impressive, and Grant knew that the rebels must surely be observing the buildup of men and equipment. But none of that explained what he was hearing now, the echoing thunder still too distant to provide details of just how large-scale the engagement had become.
The cool breeze offered no help, only masked the sounds of the guns. He stood on the second deck of the Tigress in his usual place, observing the river itself and the boats that were always moving past. Grant was impatient with the injury to his leg, tested it now, setting aside the crutches for a brief moment, tried to stand without help. The pain shot hard through his ankle, and he fell forward slightly, tried to hide it, knew that Rawlins was close behind him, watching, as he always watched. But Rawlins had the good sense to stay back, allowing Grant to slide the crutches back under his arms. Walking is out of the question, he thought. But I can still ride a damn horse. Rawlins will have the entire staff ready to assist me. I should be grateful. He glanced down at the leg, wrapped in thick cloth, an attempt by his doctors to offer a means of support. He knew that the horse had been more fortunate than its rider, and there could be no blame. The weather that night had been gruesomely awful, the blackest night he had ever seen, steady rain and roads that were rivers of mud. The horse had simply lost its footing, tumbling to one side, coming down precisely on Grant’s leg. The only good fortune was the mud, softening the weight of the horse’s impact, which Grant knew had possibly saved his leg altogether. He thought of Smith now, the old general still bedridden, the festering sore above his ankle growing worse, infuriating Smith as well as the doctors, who seemed helpless to offer a cure. If there is a fight, he thought … a general engagement … we shall miss him. William Wallace is a good man, a veteran certainly, but if there is some difficulty, I would feel comfortable knowing Smith is out there. He glanced back toward the wharf at Savannah, already sliding out of view. Heal, dammit. This is a weaker army without you.
He stared to the front again, the Tigress passing a larger vessel, hands waving, sailors mostly, greeting their own. He ignored that, didn’t care for the moment what cargo had been aboard the larger boat, still thought of Smith. You warned me to move closer, he thought. I did travel to Pittsburg nearly every day, did my job by making myself visible and available to every one of my officers, ready to solve any problem. That was a lesson straight from Smith’s West Point classroom, but until this morning, Grant had felt no reason for urgency. Once ashore, there was really nothing else he could order his generals to do, beyond those directives he had passed on from Henry Halleck. Anything else would be little more than meddling in the daily routines of men who should know better, who would likely see Grant’s intrusion as more aggravation than help. Every one of the division commanders knew why he was in those camps, every one of them preparing the only way they could for the eventual attack on Corinth. At the landing itself, most of the problems involved tedious arguments between officers who inflated their own importance, disputes over which boat had priority, whose men should be allowed to go ashore before the others, who should get the shipment of new muskets.
The breeze slackened slightly, and he caught a fresh wave of thumps, from upriver. Yes, Smith warned me. You’re too far away. Move out of that damn mansion and make your headquarters at Pittsburg. I always intended to make the move. But now … someone is letting me know that I should be there already.
He looked down into the muddy water, the boat making slow progress against the river’s current. It had been one more bit of punishment from the weather, the river swollen from so much rain, the flow of water lengthening any trip southward. He pushed against the rail with his hands. Dammit, I have to know. If there is some failure here because I was a few miles from where I needed to be … He thought of Halleck. Yes, you will know that very soon. He was certain that Halleck had the means to plant his own eyes everywhere, that some of the staff officers who served any one of the division commanders might be seeking favor with the Western Theater’s commanding general by making their own discreet reports, possibly embellishing anything Grant might order them to do with tales of inefficiency or some insinuation that Grant was being insubordinate to the clear instructions Halleck had issued weeks before. Grant knew that any whiff of displeasure that emerged from Halleck’s headquarters might inspire the same kind of astounding lunacy that had nearly cost Grant his entire career.
He tried to light the cigar, but the crutches kept him immobile, preventing him from shielding the small flame of the match. Rawlins would be there, offering to help, but Grant had already stared the man down, keeping him back, the unspoken message: Stop being so damn helpful. He lowered the unlit cigar, Rawlins wisely keeping his distance. Grant stared forward, couldn’t escape the image of Halleck, an image that appeared far more often than Grant would have liked. But the man’s very being had infiltrated every move Grant made, and he thought of the ailing Smith again, the basic lesson of command, staying close to your army. Well, then, Henry old boy, why in hell don’t you come down here and run this show for yourself? There’s not anything going on in St. Louis that requires the Big Man to stay neatly tucked away in his office. He knew the scene well, Halleck at his desk, puffy eyes under a raggedly receding hairline, a chinless martinet whose vanity oozed out like the mud that stirred beneath the riverboat. One of these days, he thought, there will come a time when Henry Halleck stretches too far his belief in his own magnificence. There will be some mistake, something only he can be faulted for, and by God, his genius will be seen for what it is, the imagination of a small, frightened scoundrel, who runs his army the way a child plays with toys. Right now, I am just that … one of his toys. Grant shook his head, stared at the passing riverbank, sought any kind of distraction. It is unholy to feel such hate for anyone, he thought. Julia would not approve of that, not at all, would lecture me from scripture, as though I should need to be reminded that God will judge me by how I judge others. Even Halleck. Grant stuffed the cigar back into his coat pocket, tried to summon her face, the soft scolding. But the artillery was still there, louder now, the boat rounding another bend, no other boats crowding out the sounds. He thought of the boat’s captain, I should ask him … but no, we shall reach Crump’s soon enough. I will find out something there. Wallace must know something. He can certainly hear what is happening more clearly than we could.
He glanced back, nothing to see, Savannah a mile or more behind, and he thought now of Don Carlos Buell. Buell had arrived at Savannah the night before, ahead of the bulk of his oncoming army. One division of Buell’s army had arrived as well, men who belonged to General William Nelson, one of Buell’s more capable commanders. Grant had ordered that division southward, keeping their march to the east side of the river, and so staying clear of the congestion around Crump’s and the flow of boat traffic on the river itself. Nelson had obeyed him with hesitation and a touch of insolence, something Nelson had wisely tried to hide, but Grant knew exactly why Nelson reacted that way. It was perfectly logical that Buell’s generals had been well indoctrinated by their commander to believe what Buell certainly believed himself, that he should supersede Grant’s authority over this entire campaign. Buell had arrived in Savannah with barely a hint to Grant, and there had been no effort by Buell to find Grant, though Grant knew with absolute certainty that Buell had received Grant’s request for such a meeting. It was infuriating, but he had swallowed that, knew that Buell had once been a virtual equal in authority to Halleck, and that Grant was on thin ice as it was. The meeting had been scheduled for today, and Grant had wondered if Buell would dress him down for having the audacity to order Nelson’s Division upriver without first seeking approval from Buell. Once Grant felt the urgency of moving south, he had sent word to Buell that the meeting would wait.
He let out a long breath, filled his lungs with the cool, damp air. The artillery continued, just a bit louder now, steady
and consistent, and Grant thought, surely Buell will hear that. Surely he will hasten the rest of his men this way. Or must I order him, demand he obey? That will inspire a protest, certainly, some hot letter to Halleck, or a tirade to an eager newspaperman, who will make certain that Buell’s admirers know how slighted he has been. It is so tiresome, these men who fight more for themselves than for what we are trying to accomplish. He will obey, for now, no matter how inconvenient that is, because he believes I am only a temporary annoyance. He stared hard to the front, measuring, the distance of the ongoing shelling still masked by the wind. Grant glanced to the side, the boat’s first mate approaching him, the man pointing ahead.
“Sir, Crump’s is just around that bend. It does not seem as though the artillery is that close.”
Grant absorbed the obvious, said, “No, Lieutenant, it does not. We must continue on to Pittsburg without delay. We can put one of my aides ashore quickly to communicate with General Wallace. But we must not hesitate.”
The man backed away with a mild “Sir …” and Grant could see the first of the great horde of boats anchored at the landing. Within a short minute, the wharf was in full view, a jam of steamboats lashed together along the shoreline, no gap, no place to slide the Tigress anywhere close to shore. But he could see a scramble of uniforms on one of the boats, the traffic on the river carrying rumor as well as supplies, his arrival already expected. Well, of course, he thought. They can hear those damn guns better than I can. The sounds of the fight were steady, louder now. He had an uneasy feeling, cursed himself. Smith was right. You should have been closer. I’ve got too many men camped out here in enemy territory to be so complacent, to spend my mornings drinking coffee in a mansion, while God-knows-what is going on in these woods. He looked up toward the banks, high above the river, could see tents and crude buildings, surrounded by scores of wagons. He felt a hint of relief, thought, at least they didn’t hit the supplies. We were vulnerable here. But Pittsburg … he shook his head again, the thumps and thunder ongoing. What the hell is happening out there?
Grant focused now on the uniforms emerging onto the deck of a larger supply vessel, men gathering along the rail at the closest point Grant’s boat could reach. One man stood out, the wide hat, thick bush of mustache, the lean handsomeness of Lew Wallace. Grant felt relief at that, too, pleased that Wallace would receive him without Grant having to disembark.
The sailors around him were in action now, ropes tossed out, men on both boats pulling together, the Tigress sliding in closer to the larger boat. They were only a few feet apart now, and Wallace stood tall, straight, saluted him, said, “General, welcome to Crump’s Landing. We seem to have something of a conflict upriver.”
Grant waited for the boats to draw tight, nearly touching, their hulls kept apart by thick pillows of canvas. He leaned closer, felt a sudden need for discretion, too many ears, too many crewmen and aides he didn’t know. Wallace responded, leaned out across the railing, close to Grant’s face, and Grant said, “What kind of conflict, General?”
He hoped for more than a casual response, but Wallace shrugged, surprised him.
“Not really sure, sir. Broke out about dawn, been going on since at a steady rate. Seems to be something of a general engagement, if I may offer the observation. With all respects, sir, I must state that I certainly share your confidence in the division commanders you have placed there. Any problem they encounter will soon be eliminated.”
Grant turned, looked upriver.
“Sounds to me like the only damn thing being eliminated is artillery shells.”
Wallace said, “Sir, I have put my men into readiness. My division is prepared to march toward those guns on your instruction.”
“Good. Keep them ready. For now, you will hold your division here, and await my orders. I must learn just what we’re facing. I will send for you if needed.”
“Of course, sir. We will march on your order.”
PITTSBURG LANDING APRIL 6, 1862, 11:00 A.M.
There was space along the shoreline, a short distance from the mass of boats already moored there. Some of those were in motion, pulling away, making a wide turn in the river, starting their journey back toward Savannah. He ignored that at first, too many boats in this crowded waterway to warrant any serious attention. But there was a difference now, something catching not his eye but his ear. He looked out toward a larger vessel, slipping closer beside the Tigress as it moved away, and on the deck he saw them, uneven rows of men, some wrapped in white, some with filthy uniforms, made more filthy by their own blood. He knew what this meant, the decks crowded by far too many men for some simple skirmish. The sounds from the boat came to him with perfect clarity, a sound he had heard before, in every place there had been a fight. Among so many wounded, many of the men were screaming.
On the vessel, there were others in motion, doctors, the unmistakable aprons of men who were doing the dirtiest work of all, the men who sawed the limbs and plugged the bloody holes. One man looked out toward Grant, a distant stare, no recognition of Grant, just staring away, as though escaping the moment, a brief rest. But he returned to his duty, knelt low, doing something to one of the soldiers Grant couldn’t see. There was nothing for Grant to do, no calling out, no questions. Along the shore, more boats were loading the wounded, men hauled up gangways on stretchers, others limping on their own, makeshift crutches, some helped by other soldiers. From every deck on every boat came the sounds, the horror of their suffering. Grant scanned the boats, the same scene across every deck, felt a stirring inside, knew there would be more belowdecks, out of sight, and in time, many of those men would be dead, stacked somewhere else, out of the way, to make more room for the steady flow of men who still might have some chance to survive.
“What in God’s name is happening? What have they done?”
The words came from Rawlins, his aide close beside him now, no more skulking behind, no need for discretion. Rawlins was answered by a new burst of the sounds from the artillery, and Grant had no trouble now guessing the distance, two miles, maybe three, the thunder coming in a wide line inland from the landing, the battle obviously spread across the camps of most of his army.
Grant looked up at the bridge of the boat, thought, I must get ashore … but the captain was already anticipating the urgency, the boat shifting its way through the gap, aided by men on other boats, ropes tossed quickly, men straining to slide the boat into place, anywhere a plank could be laid. Grant felt the rumbling beneath his feet suddenly grow still, the belching smokestacks silent. The roar of the fight was magnified now, unmasked by the quiet of the boat’s engines. He stared at the shore, ravenously impatient, turned awkwardly on the crutches, pushed past Rawlins, hopped down the short stairway to the lower deck. He expected to see the gangway already in place, the flat, wide planking, but onshore, men were tussling, one man down, fists flailing, another grabbing the plank, tossing it into the water. More men were in the water now, some swimming through the short gap to the riverboat, grabbing for the sides, one man shouting obscenities, another, his words reaching Grant with a shrill high-pitched voice: “Let us on! We have to get away! We are all dead!”
More sailors rushed along the shoreline, fighting through crowds of soldiers, officers understanding just who had arrived. The tussles and fistfights were more one-sided now, army and navy men, guards and provosts, shoving and punching their way through men who were obviously exhausted, whose energy had been spent trying to reach the river. The gangway was pulled from the river, guards holding away the men who still made the effort to reach it, and quickly, the planking was laid in place against the opening in the railing of the Tigress. Onshore, men on horseback moved through what Grant could see was a growing mass of soldiers, the officers raising their swords, drawing pistols. Gradually the area close to the gangway was cleared, and Grant saw his horse, led forward from the stern of the ship. Rawlins shouted through the din, “Sir! You may ride now! The ship is secured!”
Grant stared at
the raw chaos along the shore, thought, secured from what? These are our men … my men.
He took the reins from Rawlins, another of the aides holding the crutches, the men boosting Grant into the saddle. The horse seemed to surge toward the plank, as anxious as any land-loving soldier to leave the boat. Grant fought with the reins, eased the horse down slowly, his staff following behind on their own mounts. He moved away from the river, expected some kind of greeting, some official welcome of his presence, saw officers still grappling with the surge of men who seemed to pour down from the higher ground in a steady wave. He felt a stinging helplessness, a brief moment when he had no idea what to do, forced the thought out loud.
“I am General Grant! Who is in charge here?”
The words were consumed by the noisy panic around him, more men pushing past, leaping into the water, some trying to climb aboard the other boats, the sailors hauling the planking upward to prevent the men from making the climb to the decks. Behind him the sailors of the Tigress did the same, the gangway pulled away from the bank, a chorus of shouts and curses directed their way. Grant nudged the horse forward, could see farther down the shoreline, the high embankment that bordered the river pockmarked by caves and hollows, places the river had gouged from the rock and dirt. In every hole, men had gathered, packed tightly, dirty faces and ragged blue uniforms, more men trying to shove their way in. Where there was space, the men disappeared into the mob, but others were tossed out, fists flying, some knives drawn, furious men striking out. Grant absorbed it all with a sickening horror, realized that the men were mostly weaponless, no muskets at all. Above him, more of them added to the growing crowd, some in the roadway cut through the bluff, others just tumbling down over the edge, all of them heading to the river.