Sumter to Shiloh

by Bob Mayer

  Lincoln leaned forward. “You’ve been observing our brand new Army of the Potomac. What do you think?”

  “Good men, sir,” Rumble said. “They’re getting organized and trained.”

  “And leadership?”

  “It’s a weeding out process,” Rumble said. “Slowly, the incompetent political appointees get shelved and better officers replace them.”

  “West Point men?”

  “Many of them,” Rumble said. “They are professionals, sir.”

  “And the Confederates have their share.” He picked up another piece of paper. “The current tally. Three hundred and six West Point graduates foreswore their oath to the country and now fight for the Confederacy. I wonder at the professionalism.”

  “I hadn’t known the number to be so high, sir,” Rumble admitted.

  Lincoln dropped the piece of paper. “And McClellan? You’ve seen more of him than me.” Lincoln laughed bitterly. “Most everyone has seen more of him than me. I went to his house a few weeks ago and I waited an hour for him to arrive and when he did he went straight to bed, not even stopping to say a how-do-you-do. Can you imagine?”

  Rumble flushed red. “No, sir, I can’t. That’s an unforgivable breach of etiquette.”

  “I don’t care about etiquette,” Lincoln said. “I care about winning this war. The one we already have. I’ve tried cajoling, pleading, ordering, and threatening, and I cannot get McClellan to move south.”

  “He will have to eventually, sir,” Rumble said. “He is planning. I’ve seen that. He—” Rumble paused.

  “Go on.”

  “He wants to outflank the Confederates, Mister President. I believe he wants to do a seaborne campaign to Fortress Monroe and attack up the peninsula to Richmond sometime early next year. Probably around March or April, once the roads are dry.”

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic about the plan,” Lincoln observed.

  “I’m just a Sergeant Major,” Rumble said.

  “And what does the Sergeant Major think?”

  “I don’t understand boxing yourself in on a peninsula when you have the superior force, sir,” Rumble said.

  “Ah,” Lincoln exclaimed, “but according to General McClellan he does not. His intelligence agency, headed by Mister Pinkerton, insists the Army of the Potomac is out-numbered by the Confederates.” Lincoln waved that all away. “Young Napoleon will move when he moves and there isn’t much more I can do about it for now.”

  “There is someone who will move as soon as he’s let off his leash,” Rumble said.

  “Your Ulysses S. Grant?” Lincoln asked.

  “You remember?”

  “He took Paducah before those other fellows got to it,” Lincoln said. “That’s the fastest any general has moved since they opened the bar at Willard’s. I had to relieve Fremont. Besides the fact he wouldn’t move, he issued an emancipation proclamation on his own authority. Caused a hell of a mess and almost lost us the border states. Halleck now commands the west and says he will move. He requests I give him a month. But if he doesn’t move by the end of January, I’ll send an order forcing action of one sort or the other and that should get your Grant off his leash. You were right about him, it appears.”

  “There’s something else, sir.”

  Lincoln raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

  “Do you remember Colonel Sherman?”

  Lincoln frowned. “I heard tell he lost his mind and was relieved of command. Something about hundreds of thousands of people dying and the country laid waste. He saw Rebels behind every tree. Not a cheerful fellow by a long shot. The newspapers say he’s insane.”

  “He’s a pragmatist, sir, not insane. He’s back home and I received a letter from his wife. She fears he may take his own life if he’s not returned to duty. He would do well serving with Grant or even nearby Grant. They’re old friends.”

  “Not the most ringing endorsement to bring a man back on active duty,” Lincoln said. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

  Stanton spoke for the first time. “Sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “Your son, Willie, is riding outside.”

  “He is attached to that pony like nothing before.” Lincoln stood and walked over to the window.

  Rumble also got to his feet, to see what had caused Stanton to comment on it. The reason was obvious. The boy was ill-dressed to ride on a chilly December afternoon, wearing but a short jacket and no hat and gloves.

  “Damnation,” Lincoln exclaimed.

  “I’ll get him, sir,” Rumble said.

  “Thank you. Hurry, please.”

  Rumble ran out of the room and down the stairs of the Executive Mansion. He threw open an outer door and saw the boy galloping the pony across frozen grass. Rumble took an intercept course and got the boy to bring the pony to a stop without scaring it.

  “Hello, Willie,” Rumble said, putting his hand lightly on the pony’s bit.

  “Hello,” Willie said.

  “I’m Lucius Rumble.”

  “You’re a soldier,” Willie said.

  “I’m Master of the Horse at West Point.”

  Willie’s eyes got wide. “Could you teach me how to ride better?”

  “I could.” Rumble was leading the boy and pony back toward the stables as quickly as he could. “And one of the first rules of riding is to be properly prepared.”

  “I was in a hurry,” Willie said.

  “Being in a rush is not good either,” Rumble said. “Slow and calm and steady when dealing with a horse.”

  They entered the barn and Rumble gave the reins to a stable hand as he helped the boy off. He escorted him into the White House’s kitchen, seating him near the fire, taking off his short coat and putting a warm blanket over his shoulders.

  “Do you have a son?” Willie asked.

  “I do.”

  “Does he ride?”

  “He does,” Rumble said. “And quite well.”

  Willie put his hands out, warming them. “Is he safe right now in front of a fire like I am?”

  Rumble paused. “I hope so.”

  “What are you doing to my son?” Mary Todd Lincoln’s voice was shrill. A plump, short woman with a rather plain face, she wore a brightly colored gown as if to make up for the drabness of her physical appearance. Lincoln appeared behind her.

  “Just getting him warmed up, ma’am,” Rumble said.

  “Get away from him now!” She punctuated the order by shoving Rumble in the chest.

  “Mother!” President Lincoln placed an arm around his wife’s shoulder. “Sergeant Major Rumble meant well. He brought Willie in from the cold.”

  Mary Todd shook the arm off and grabbed Willie by the hand. She dragged him out of the kitchen and into the residence.

  Lincoln turned to Rumble with a sad smile. “The burdens of family on top of the burden of war. It can be almost unbearable.”

  25 December 1861

  5th Ohio Cavalry

  Army of the Ohio

  Dear Grandmother Violet,

  It doesn’t have to be this way. None of it. The war. The Slavery. The factories. All men should be free. And countrymen should not be fighting each other.

  But we are and believe we must fight for the cause we believe in.

  I’m sorry, Grandmother Violet, but I could not keep the words inside me. None of this makes any sense, yet here I am, sitting in a field in Kentucky on Christmas morning, caught up in the great contest.

  I pray this letter finds you in good health and cheerful spirits. I think back fondly to the Christmas I spent with you just before my fifth birthday. It was a magical time. As I am older, I appreciate more than ever what you and Aunt Rosalie did for Abigail and me.

  The war is far north of you and I hope you will be spared any trouble because of it. You may have heard from Father that I have joined the Union Army. He was not pleased and I imagine you might not be pleased, either.

  I’m sorry if you feel I’m fighting on the wrong side. But I
must do what I believe is right and just. While I wish with all my heart none of this was so, it is so and I must accept it.

  Father sent me west. My riding skills caught my Colonel’s eyes and now I am in the 5th Ohio Cavalry Regiment. We are somewhere in Kentucky but I don’t believe we’ll be staying here long.

  Please Grandmother Violet. Mail is precious in camp, but it appears most of us write much more than we receive. I long to hear from you.

  Your loving grandson,

  Private Ben Agrippa Rumble

  St. George carefully folded the letter, then waved one of the men to take the usual bottle up the stairs to Tiberius. The overseer walked over to the roaring blaze in the main fireplace on the first floor of Palatine. He warmed his hands for a moment, deep in thought, then took out the letter and tossed it into the blaze.

  1862

  President's General War Order No. 1

  EXECUTIVE MANSION, WASHINGTON, January 27, 1862.

  Ordered, That the 22d day of February, 1862, be the day for a general movement of the land and the naval forces of the United States against the insurgent forces.

  That especially the army at and about Fortress Monroe, the Army of the Potomac, the Army of Western Virginia, the army near Munfordville, Kentucky, the army and flotilla at Cairo, and a naval force in the Gulf of Mexico, be ready for a movement on that day.

  That all other forces, both land and naval, with their respective commanders, obey existing orders for the time, and be ready to obey additional orders when duly given.

  That the heads of departments, and especially the Secretaries of War and of the Navy, with all their subordinates, and the General-in-chief, with all other commanders and subordinates of land and naval forces, will severally be held to their strict and full responsibilities for the prompt execution of this order.

  ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

  Chapter Seven

  6 Feb 1862, Fort Henry, Tennessee

  Captain George King, Confederate States Marine Corps, was waist deep in freezing river water and doing his damnedest to keep the cannon’s friction primer dry. The 32-pounder smoothbore was aimed north, along the Tennessee River. Coming toward Fort Henry were four ironclad gunboats, followed at a distance by three woodclads. The lead boat was over a mile away and closing slowly.

  “They wait a little while, damn Yankees could just watch us drown,” one of the cannoneers muttered.

  “Steady, men,” King ordered. He sensed a new presence on the parapet. General Tilghman, commander of the fort, was frowning at the approaching gun-boats, as if ill-will could keep them at a distance.

  “How long do you think you can hold?” he asked King.

  “Depends on how aggressive their commander is,” King said. “Eventually, though, be it water, cannon-fire or the Infantry that’s surely on its way, it’ll get difficult. But if we persevere and stick to our guns, I believe we can repel the Yankees.”

  “The powder magazine is underwater,” one of the cannoneers complained.

  Tilghman didn’t seem reassured either. “The men are un-trained. Their weapons are old. The fort is--,” Tilghman sighed. “This is a most wretched place to build a fort. Too low, obviously.” Tilghman pointed toward Kentucky on the other side of the river. “There are plenty of better positions along the river yonder, but if we had encamped on any of them during the summer we’d have violated Kentucky’s neutrality.”

  “Which doesn’t matter now, sir,” King said as he peered toward the lead boat, checking the range markers he’d had emplaced along the river bank while sighting in the guns earlier in the week.

  “It did then,” Tilghman said.

  “Permission to open fire, sir?” King asked.

  “Fire away,” Tilghman less an order than a bow to the inevitable.

  “Ready!” King yelled.

  The cannonneer pulled away the oilcloth, took the friction primer and connected a lanyard to it, which he handed to King. He stepped to the left rear of the gun, made sure the other men were clear of the recoil, then jerked the lanyard. Flame belched out of the muzzle along with a 32-pound ball, moving with such slow velocity, they could actually track its trajectory with their eyes. The other Confederate guns that were still functioning, eight in all, followed suit with a ragged volley.

  The ball landed just right of the lead Union gunboat, sending a plume of water skyward. The cannon crew was at work, one man sealing the vent with his hand to prevent air from going in, the rammer jamming a sopping sponge down the barrel to make sure there were no smoldering embers that might set off the next charge of powder when it was loaded. As soon as he was done, he loudly tapped the wooden handle of the ram onto the muzzle, signaling another man to bring forward the charge and place it in the muzzle. The rammer settled the charge deep inside with his pole, then the cannon ball. King had been training the men on this routine hard for a week, ever since arriving and taking command of the artillery.

  The gun was wheeled back into firing position and King once more took the lanyard, after aiming the piece. The entire process took twenty seconds. As he pulled the lanyard, King saw the flash of muzzles in the prows of the gunboats.

  The battle was joined.

  Three miles away, mired in mud, Cord heard the roar of cannon fire from the vicinity of the river. “I think this is going to be the Navy’s battle, Sam, unless we grow some wings and fly above this muck.”

  Grant watched his army slipping and sliding in the low, soaked ground, making poor time in the landward advance on Fort Henry. “Nevertheless, we press on. We’re committed to this course of action.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cord said. “But Samual did warn us that the way would be hard through these woods.”

  “Next time, I’ll listen to my scouts more closely. I’m afraid I was in a rush to get into action.” Grant looked toward the sound of the firing. “I wish I knew how it goes.”

  “Cowards!” King screamed.

  It was going worse than General Tilghman could have expected. As soon as Union shot and shell began pounding the ramparts of Fort Henry, the three thousand Confederate Infantry manning the rifle pits surrounding the fort had begun to melt away, like snow on a hot stove. It started with a man here, a squad there, but now whole companies were sliding away, toward the Dover Road and the twelve-mile trek to Fort Donelson.

  No amount of exhortation from officers and sergeants could stop the flow.

  King went for the radical solution. He ran to the single gun facing landward and ordered it trained on the Dover Road. “Canister!” he ordered.

  The men working the gun hesitated and King drew his pistol. “We will stop this! We’ll get—”

  “At ease, Captain,” General Tilghman ordered. “We’ll not fire on our own men.”

  “They’re cowards and deserters,” King insisted.

  “They’re withdrawing to Fort Donelson, not running home,” Tilghman reasoned, his shoulders already slumped in anticipation of inevitable defeat. “We’re half underwater and in a terrible position. The situation is untenable. Sometimes the private is smarter than the general.” Tilghman turned to his aide. “Inform all commanders to redeploy their men to Fort Donelson with all possible haste.” He gave a wan smile. “Those of them who haven’t already wisely anticipated the order, that is.”

  Tilghman pointed at King. “Captain King, if you would do me the favor of manning your cannons and continue firing at the Union ships for a while longer, I would greatly appreciate it. I will join you on the ramparts shortly.”

  King cursed the Infantry as he returned to command the river guns. Not a single one of the cannoneers dared emulate the other soldiers. King, in the short time he’d been in command of the artillery, had make clear he was not a man to be crossed. They feared him more than the Yankee guns.

  However, King’s will alone wasn’t enough to keep submerging, ancient cannons firing. Or make ammunition appear out of thin air. One by one, the Confederate guns fell silent. On the receiving end of their shot, the Union ironcl
ads seemed none the worse for wear, getting ever closer, their cannon ever more effective.

  “Captain King, you may cease firing.”

  King’s ears were ringing and he could barely hear the order. But he could clearly see the white flag being waved back and forth by Tilghman’s aide. So could the gunboats. An eerie silence descended as one by one the cannon ceased firing.

  A boat was lowered by the lead Federal gunboat. The water was so high, the boat was able to be rowed right in the gate of Fort Henry to negotiate the surrender.

  King wasn’t there to see it.

  As soon as his last gun ceased firing, he grabbed his weapons and gear and departed the fort. The fact he was riding over mud trampled by the cowards who’d run grated on him. But he’d stayed until the white flag was shown. That at least, was some honor.

  6 February 1862

  Department of Missouri, Fort Henry

  U.S. Grant to General Halleck, Commander Army of the West

  Fort Henry is ours. The gunboats silenced the batteries before the investment was complete. I shall take and destroy Fort Donelson on the eighth and return to Fort Henry.

  U.S. Grant

  Brigadier General

  Chapter Eight

  7 Feb 1861, Between the Tennessee and Cumberland Rivers, Tennessee

  “Who commands Donelson?” Grant asked Cord.

  “That’s a good question,” Cord said as he rode next to Grant. The Union Army was moving, albeit slowly, along the Dover Road, traversing the twelve miles of land between conquered Fort Henry on the Tennessee behind them and the to-be-attacked Fort Donelson on the Cumberland ahead. “I talked to some of the fellows we captured. Seems they got a bit of a mess at Donelson trying to figure that out. Right now, it’s Gideon Pillow.”

  Grant slapped his thigh. “I remember Pillow from Mexico. I bet I could march a squad up to within gunshot of any entrenchments he has and cause him to flee. He’s not a soldier.”