by Bob Mayer
“Simon Bolivar Buckner is there also,” Cord added.
That dammed Grant’s enthusiasm. “Buckner helped me out in New York when I was attempting to get home after resigning my commission.”
“He didn’t help me much at West Point,” Cord countered.
“That is so,” Grant said. He took in the mud, the gray sky overhead and the soldiers trudging forward. “I might have been a bit premature in predicting the eighth.”
“You were,” Cord agreed.
“Where’s your man, Samual?” Grant asked.
“He’s not my man,” Cord said. “He’s out scouting.”
“Looking for his Agrippa,” Grant said.
“You have me on that. But he was right about the mud at Henry.”
“And your Ben?”
Cord stared straight ahead. “The army grows faster than anyone imagined. I assume he got rolled into some unit on his way here. There’s something else I learned from the prisoners.”
Picking up the tone, Grant stopped his horse. “What is it?”
“George King commanded the guns at Henry. But he left when the white flag was run up. I guess he’s at Donelson now. Readying more cannon.”
“And so it all comes around,” Grant said. “Lucius’ brother losing a leg at Bull Run. And now King, Rumble’s cousin, here. And Ben is out in the army somewhere. I’ll make inquiries. That might be one of the advantages of being a general.”
“Thank you,” Cord said. “King will do better at Donelson than he did at Henry. It’s much more strongly positioned. Samual and I rode the perimeter a month ago. The guns control the river, the current the gunboats will be fighting against is stronger, and the fort won’t be underwater.”
“But Pillow commands,” Grant said.
A courier galloped up and passed Grant a dispatch. He opened it. “From Halleck. ‘Hold on to Fort Henry at all hazards. It is of vital importance to strengthen your position. Impress slaves of secessionists in vicinity to work on fortifications. Shovels and picks will be sent to you. Emplace your artillery on the landward side of the fort to repel attack. Keep me informed of all you do, as often as you can.’”
“Seems you aren’t coordinated with your commander,” Cord said.
Grant crumpled the message and threw it away. The soldiers following trampled it into the mud.
St. Louis, Missouri
William Tecumseh Sherman took several deep breaths before he entered the office of the Commander of the Army of the West. He looked at his hands to make sure there was no tremor in them. The tic in his cheek had not made an appearance in three weeks. He strode up to the door, knocked and entered.
“General Sherman reported as ordered, sir.”
General Halleck, ‘Old Brains’ as he was known among the officers corps, looked up from the paperwork on his desk. “Ah, Sherman. Glad to have you assigned to me. We’ve got a fine pickle and I’d like your help.”
“Sir?”
“It’s Grant. You know him?”
“I do, sir.”
“He took Fort Henry, but now the damn fool is insistent on moving on Fort Donelson on the Cumberland. He can’t see he’s trapped. He has the Tennessee to his back and a large Confederate garrison, well-entrenched, well armed, in an impregnable fort to his front. And he wants to attack!”
Sherman said nothing, still at attention.
“At ease,” Halleck finally said. “Come, come. Look.” He waved Sherman over to a field table with a map. “The proper course of action for Grant is to dig in at Fort Henry. Await the reinforcements I am gathering.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Sherman said. “But can’t the Confederates reinforce Fort Donelson as fast as we reinforce Fort Henry? If not faster?”
Halleck blinked. “The text on warfare requires Grant to dig in at Henry and be on the defensive. It’s perfectly logical. You rank Grant. I’ll give you his command. Pull his columns back to Fort Henry and dig in. I’ll get you more men and supplies as they become available.”
Sherman snapped back to attention. “Sir. I would prefer to serve under General Grant.”
Halleck slammed a fist on the table. “Damn-it man. Can’t anyone understand proper military strategy here?”
“My apologies, sir.”
“Dismissed!”
Paducah, KY
Feb 1862
General Sherman to General Grant
Command me in any way. I feel anxious about you as I know the great facilities the Confederate forces have of concentration by means of river and rail, but I have faith in you.
William Tecumseh Sherman
Fort Henry
Feb 1862
General Grant to General Halleck
There are no Negros in this part of the country to work on fortifications.
Ulysses S. Grant
Chapter Nine
14 Feb 1862, Vicinity Fort Donelson, Tennessee
Ben Agrippa Rumble’s rear-end hurt, he was wet, he was hungry, he was cold and he was frightened.
He was a soldier.
And better his bum hurt than his feet be soaked and sore like the poor Infantry, slogging its way through the mud toward Fort Donelson. The weather had been so pleasant during the early part of the advance after departing Fort Henry, that many men had thrown away their burdensome overcoats and blankets. They regretted that today as they shivered in a thin blue line outside the Confederate rifle pits surrounding Fort Donelson with temperatures twenty degrees below freezing. The sky was overcast and dreary, and no one seemed certain when the assault on the fort would occur.
Ben huddled close to his horse, drawing warmth from the beast, another advantage of the cavalry. His unit was behind the lines of Union infantry, ready to be deployed as needed. Battle was coming and despite all he had heard and learned, Ben was experiencing fear on a gut level that was quite disconcerting. The horse shied as cannon fire erupted in the distance.
“Gunboats,” someone muttered.
“Maybe the navy will take it like they did Henry?” another man speculated.
“Where you think all the fellas from Henry went?” the first said. “There’s a whole bunch of rebs in that fort. If I’d have known soldiering was such misery, I’d have—”
“Hush there!” a sergeant admonished.
Ben reached up and rubbed his chest, where the West Point ring hung on the silver chain. He knew better than to wear it openly in the Army. But the small lump of metal gave him comfort. Despite only a few weeks in the Corps, he was truly beginning to appreciate the values and training the Academy espoused.
He might be cold, tired, hungry and afraid, but he would soldier on.
King was in a frenzy, running from gun to gun, directing their barrages at the Union gunboats on the Cumberland. For many of the artillerymen it was their first time under fire and he could sense their wavering, just like the Infantry at Fort Henry.
There were three tiers of guns at Donelson: water level, fifty feet up in a trench on the front side of the rampart, and on top at a hundred feet. They were not inundated with water. They had plenty of powder and shot. The Cumberland was narrower, denying the Yankees the ability to turn broadside. The current was faster, forcing the crews of the ships to worry as much about position as firing.
King stopped beside a 32-pounder and grabbed the gun captain. “Allow me, sir.”
The gun commander stood aside and King carefully aimed the gun. “Fire!”
The cannon belched and a solid shot arced toward the lead Union ironclad. It hit the pilothouse, tearing through. A cheer rose from the Confederate artillerymen and they turned to their guns with more vigor.
“Pour it on!” King yelled as the gunboat began to yaw, giving way to the current.
Within minutes, the second of the four ironclads also began to fade downriver, riddled with shot. Then the third. The fourth put up a good battle for fifteen minutes, but the Confederates could see that it was settling lower, taking on water. And finally it too was gone, swept away by th
e rain-drenched river.
King leapt up on top of the parapet and waved his cap.
The men on the walls cheered their victory.
The generals inside the fort argued their future.
“Pillow is doing what I was ordered to do,” Grant said, reading dispatches and writing orders at his field desk inside his command tent. “His forces outnumber me and could easily smash me if they attacked. But they’re following the rules. That’ll be their downfall.”
Cord wasn’t listening to his friend. The cannon fire had been slackening for half an hour and now it ceased. “Sam.”
Cheers echoed across the clear-cut lanes of fire between the Union forces and the line of rifle pits in front of Fort Donelson.
Grant looked up from the order he had been scribbling. “Our boats have been repulsed.”
“This aint gonna be Fort Henry,” Cord said.
There was consternation among the guards surrounding Grant’s field headquarters and Cord stuck his head out of the tent to see the cause. “At ease, men. He’s authorized. Personal scout for General Grant.”
The Union soldiers lowered their muskets, allowing Samual to stride through them, head held high.
“Come in,” Cord said, holding the canvas flap.
Samual hesitated, then ducked his head and entered. “Masters.”
“We aren’t masters,” Grant muttered, running his fingers across the map, searching for a new course of action, now that it appeared an easy naval victory was not in the cards. The problem was that a well-positioned fort on a river was a tough nut to crack and there was no outflanking or outmaneuvering it.
“What’ve you learned, Samual?” Cord asked. “Any news on either Agrippa?”
“No, sir. I went from Clarksville to Nashville. Then back up. ‘Long the river. I ‘member the land from when I was boy at Master Rudolph’s. Met some slaves I knowed from then. They say there some talk of diggin ‘round Nashville. Lots of soldiers moving this way and that. Everyone confused.”
“What else?” Grant asked.
“I got insides the fort,” Samual said.
Grant’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “How did you do that?”
“They needed diggers, sir,” Samual said. “I done plenty of digging in my time. I listen. I watch. They got no—” Samual searched for the word. “No master in charge, sir. But they got lots men. Lots guns.”
“Do they have spirit?” Grant asked.
Samual considered the question. “Soldiers do. But no one telling them what to do, ‘cept crazy man with big axe on his back. He got big guns ready on da river.”
“We’ve heard that,” Grant muttered, glancing at Cord.
Samual looked even more nervous than usual. “That man, he came to young master’s wedding long time ago with y’all.”
“It’s Lucius Rumble’s cousin, George King,” Cord said.
“Sorry, sir,” Samual said.
“Thank you, Samual,” Grant said. “Get some hot food and some rest.”
Samual left the tent.
“Digging at Nashville,” Grant said. “That’s strange. Maybe Johnston isn’t going to reinforce Pillow? Why wouldn’t he?”
“Maybe he’s afraid to put all his eggs in the Donelson basket?” Cord said. “And he’s got Don Carlos Buell’s army in Kentucky to worry about. He throws everything against us here, Buell can flank him and take Nashville.”
Cord went to the flap and looked out. A light drizzle had begun. “We can’t sit here with the textbook forty-five days and wait for them to surrender, Sam. And I’m not quite sure the textbook is going to rule in the real world.”
Grant snorted. “I understand you weren’t a big believer in the siege. Maybe Floyd would be willing to switch places with us.” He looked down at the map. “We need to hit the fort at the same time. Gunboats and infantry. We’ll have to coordinate the timing.”
Grant continued to work while Cord paced back and forth.
“I knew King would fight,” Cord said. “Just didn’t think he’d be out here.”
Both men looked up as a naval ensign entered the tent and saluted. “Sir. Commodore Foote sends his compliments and requests a meeting with you on board his flagship in the morning at first light. He sends his regrets that he cannot come to you, but during the recent engagement, the Commodore was wounded in the foot and is unable to travel.”
Grant closed his eyes briefly. “And the fleet?”
“Damaged badly, sir. Commodore Foote wishes to discuss withdrawing all gunboats to Cairo for refitting. He estimates it will take two weeks before he is able to mount another assault.”
Grant didn’t hesitate. “Tell Commodore Foote that I will be on board his flagship at first light. But also tell him there will be no withdrawal to Cairo. Is that clear?”
The ensign saluted. “Yes, sir.”
15 February 1862, Vicinity Fort Donelson
“Come with me, Elijah,” Grant said.
It was dark outside, but Cord was awake in an instant. He accompanied Grant to where their horses waited, saddled and ready, dawn still an hour off.
“No escort?” Cord asked.
“I need to think,” Grant said, setting off down the thin country road. The mud was frozen, a mixed blessing. They would not be mired heading to the Cumberland above Fort Donelson where Foote’s battered fleet lay at anchor. On the flip side, a misplaced hoof on the frozen ground could spell disaster.
Cord rode silently beside his friend, eyes scanning the woods on either side, aware that a nervous Union sentry could be as deadly as a Confederate patrol. They made the miles to the Cumberland without incident and were rowed out to Foote’s flagship.
The naval officer was in a foul mood, his foot swathed in bandages, his fleet full of holes.
“We had the better of them, general,” Foote said as they entered his quarters. “Another fifteen minutes and I’d have broken their back just like at Henry. But they hit my ship with a lucky shot. Killed my pilot, wounded me. I tried to stay the course, but was unable.”
An aide offered cups of coffee to Grant and Cord, which they gratefully accepted. Foote fired up a cigar and offered one to Grant.
“I’m fond of my pipe,” Grant said, but upon patting his pockets realized he was without his smoking weapon, so he accepted the cigar.
“We’ve taken serious damage,” Foote continued. “Whoever commands the batteries knows what he’s doing and they’ll be better at it next go-around.”
Grant glanced at Cord.
Foote continued. “My flagship took fifty-nine hits, and the others about the same. We’re in rather poor shape and need to refit at Cairo.”
“We cannot withdraw,” Grant said, taking a seat, and firing up the cigar. “We need a plan.”
The Confederates already had one. Seven miles to the south, as first light broke, rebel regiments surged out of Fort Donelson, smashing into the Union right flank along the Cumberland. They punched into the Union line, the soldiers in blue not entrenched since the spades and pickaxes Halleck had sent were still in crates on board transport craft.
Inside Fort Donelson, King watched the lines of Infantry pouring out in the assault and cursed. Next to him, Nathan Bedford Forrest was in as foul a mood.
“Retreat to Nashville!” Forrest was incredulous. “Those three damned generals argued for hours. Two are more afraid their necks will get strung as traitors if caught than fighting the Yankees.”
“We could hold this place against Satan’s legions,” King swore as another regiment issued forth.
The rattle of musketry was increasing in volume as the Confederate forces spread out in the woods on either side of the road to Nashville. As daylight broke, it brought mixed news. The Union right was breached, so the attack was a success. Which meant that the rest of the soldiers in the fort could pack up and get ready to move out, leaving it undefended.
Apparently, even the soldiers in the assault needed to pack up, as units that had fought throughout the morning came
marching back to the fort to get their kit and the heavy artillery for the movement to Nashville.
King supervised grimly as the guns that had stopped the Yankee gunboats the previous day were hauled down from their positions and hitched up to teams of horses.
“We need to do some fighting,” Forrest said. “Scared and retreating can’t win in the long run.”
The cigar smoke gave Cord a headache. Grant and Foote had been strategizing for a couple of hours and the cabin reeked of it. Cord excused himself and went out onto the top deck. The gunboat was a far cry from the sailing ships Cord has spent his time on. Low to the water, with slanted armored sides and no sails, it would not have found favor with Preacher.
King’s letter two years ago about his father’s death at Harper’s Ferry had not caught Cord by surprise. The fact King sent the letter had been the main surprise. Since then, Cord had not heard a word from King, which, again, was not a surprise, given he was now fighting for the Confederates.
Cord walked along the top of the gunboat, checking out the damage inflicted by King and the Confederate batteries. Sailors, many of them soldiers who had some working knowledge of water-borne life, even as scant as a raft or a canoe, had been pressed into service, and were at work on repairs.
At the bow of the boat, facing into the Cumberland’s current, Cord paused. His nostrils flared. He spun on his heel and ran to Foote’s cabin, throwing open the door.
“Bad air, Sam!”
Grant was startled. “What the devil?”
“There’s a hell of a fight going on around Donelson,” Cord said.
Grant cocked his head. “I hear no firing.”
“Trust me,” Cord said.
Grant shot to his feet. “Commodore, I know your ships are damaged, but draw up within your furthermost firing range of Donelson and give me all the shot you can.”
