by Bob Mayer
“None,” Lincoln said. “I will command through Secretary of War Stanton.” Lincoln cocked his head. “You don’t hide your emotions very well. You disapprove?”
“I’m not in a position to approve or disapprove, Mister President,” Rumble said.
“Perhaps I will regret the decision,” Lincoln said. “But in the meanwhile, as Commander-In-Chief, both figuratively and now literally, I will support your Grant.” He grabbed a scrap of paper. “You have my personal order to go where you will. This is the code that you will put any telegrams you send to Washington. They’ll alert me if any message comes in from you.”
Lincoln stood to end the meeting. He pressed both large hands on the desktop. Rumble could see the whites of his knuckles. “You once mentioned you had a son, did you not?”
“I did, sir.”
“How old?”
“He is twenty.”
“Is that why you’re going west?”
Rumble nodded. “He enlisted, sir. He’s out west, in Grant’s command.”
“You trust your son with Grant?”
“I do, sir.” Rumble held up the abolitionist coin. “On board the Monitor I was hit by a bullet, sir. This saved my life. My son gave it to me.”
Lincoln leaned forward and took the coin. He ran it through his fingers. “A father’s love for his son. There is nothing stronger.” He gave the coin back. “I have a feeling great things are going to happen out west soon with your friend, General Grant. Go west with my blessings, Sergeant Major.”
Chapter Thirteen
15 Mar 1862, Palatine, Mississippi
The front doors to Palatine swung open and a single figure was silhouetted against the early morning light. St. George roused himself from his slumber and blinked his one good eye.
“Who there?”
“I have heard rumors my husband is missing,” Violet Rumble said, “but that still does not give you permission to move into my home, St. George Dyer. You’re trespassing. Get the hell out!”
St. George lumbered to his feet. He picked up the LeMat pistol off a table and leisurely stuck it in his black sash. “Well, well, if it aint Miss Violet.”
The other overseers roused themselves from various degrees of hangover. The main hall was littered with empty bottles and other debris, the walls stained with soot from badly tended fires. St. George put on his slouch hat as the four overseers gathered behind him.
“I am not alone,” Violet said.
Seneca, leaning heavily on his cane, stomped up next to her, a rough wooden prosthetic bolstering his left leg.
St. George laughed. “A toothless bitch and a crip.”
Violet drew the pistol from her dress and Seneca held up a revolver. The overseers snapped their rifles and shotguns to the ready.
“You outgunned,” St. George said.
“You’re hasty and stupid,” Violet said. “It’s going to be the death of you some day. Should today be that day?”
The door to the kitchen swung open and a half-dozen soldiers in gray crowded in, rifles at the ready. Sliding past Violet and Seneca were another eight, spreading out as they entered. The four overseers lowered their weapons.
“Remember my son’s company you had sent east to Bull Run?” Violet asked.
“We lost good men,” Seneca said. “Many good men. Men under my command. And these men’s friends.”
St. George’s head swiveled back and forth. The math wasn’t hard. He held up his hands. “Let not be hasty.”
“If I was hasty, you’d already be dead,” Violet said. “Where’s my husband?”
“He gone missing,” St. George said. “Week or so ago. Took off on his horse.”
“You lie,” Violet said. “He could barely get out of bed. You did something to him. Your problem is, with my husband gone, Palatine now goes to my son.”
“Be that so?” St. George said. “Which boy be that? The one wearing Yankee blue or that one-legged fella there?”
“That’s not of your damn business,” Violet snapped.
“Get out,” Seneca ordered. “Or we’ll shoot you down like the ragged dog you are.”
“We be going,” St. George said. “I hear tell the Yankees coming down the Tennessee River. If that so, I don’ think your soldier boys here be around forever to keep you safe. I be around though.” St. George turned his back to her, facing the kitchen door.
Violet thumbed back the hammer on the revolver. “All the more reason to kill you now.”
“Mother!” Seneca teetered on his wood leg and cane. “We cannot murder. It is what separates us from his kind.”
“More than that separates us,” Violet said, “and maybe we shouldn’t let that be our difference.”
“You shoot me now,” St. George said, over his shoulder, “you be shooting a man in da’ back. Even your soldier boy can’t protect you then. There still a law ‘round here.”
“Don’t you dare talk about the law,” Violet said.
“I be seeing you ‘round.” St. George pushed his way out through the kitchen, his lackeys following.
Seneca put his pistol back in the holster and gripped the front door frame. “And now, mother? What do we do?”
Violet looked out the front door of Palatine, down the tree covered lane. “This is our home. We will make our stand here or we will die doing so.”
16 March 1862, Fort Henry, Tennessee
“I am virtually under arrest!” Grant slammed a fist onto his field desk.
“Well, good day to you and how have you been to you too,” Cord said as he propped his Lancaster up against the desk and helped himself to a cup of harsh coffee from a pot simmering on the pot bellied stove. They were in the same bunker at Fort Henry from which Buckner had wielded his brief command and then unconditionally relinquished. The space was foul with cigar smoke. Ever since some reporter had filed a story that Grant had been smoking a cigar while dictating Unconditional Surrender, cases and cases of the smokes had begun arriving at camp, sent from admirers in the north. Bowing to the onslaught, Grant had put away his pipe, feeling obligated to smoke the gifts sent his way.
“What word from St. Louis?” Grant asked. “What was General Halleck’s reply?”
Cord wearily sat down on a stool and peered at his friend. “I do have to say this latest scouting venture was almost as dangerous as riding all the way to Richmond and saying howdy-do to Jeff Davis. ‘Old Brains’ Halleck is not happy with you at all.”
“What did he say regarding my suggestion?” Grant was growing impatient.
Cord had borne a letter outlining Grant’s attempt to give both men a face-saving way out of this awkward situation. It had said simply that it was the result of mis-communication and that there must be ‘enemies between you and myself’.
“He was quite blunt,” Cord said. “He said ‘Grant is mistaken. There is no enemy between him and I.’”
Grant was taken aback. “He meant that?”
“Oh, yes,” Cord said. “You’re insubordinate, too full of yourself, arrogant and a drunk. And those are the nice things I heard about you at his headquarters.”
“I take advantage of opportunities,” Grant argued, “and I have never directly disobeyed any order I received.”
“Carefully worded,” Cord said. “Taking Nashville when it was undefended made sense, except for the fact Halleck told you to wait. He wanted that prize to go to Buell. Halleck also ordered you not to advance down the Tennessee River into Mississippi, yet I notice a lot less troops here than when I departed last week.”
“I didn’t get the order reference to Nashville until my men were already moving,” Grant said.
“Did you not get it in time or did you not read it in time?” Cord asked with a smile.
“Halleck ordered me not to advance down the Tennessee,” Grant continued. “He did allow me to send a reconnaissance. And my men aren’t in Mississippi. They’re still in Tennessee.”
“So you sent practically the entire army to stop just a few m
iles short of Mississippi,” Cord said. “Slippery Sam. Halleck hasn’t changed in the slightest, except he’s got less hair, if such a thing is possible and not be bald. He still hugs himself when he gets nervous and rubs his hands over his elbows. Remember that? He’s doing lots of it now.” He sipped his coffee and looked pointedly at the mug on Grant’s desk. “A strong brew.”
“It is,” Grant said. “This time—” he paused. “It’s coffee, Elijah. Are they really saying I’m drinking?”
“Of course,” Cord said. “Listen, Sam. You won a couple of great victories. With that comes great resentment.”
A new voice joined the conversation. “Of course it does.”
“Cump!” Grant hopped up and greeted his old friend with a solid handshake.
“Sam,” Sherman said. He nodded at Cord. “Elijah, it’s been a long time.”
“It has indeed,” Cord shook Sherman’s hand. “San Francisco is a long time and a long distance away.”
“How are things up the river?” Grant asked.
Sherman moved over to the map table with Grant and Cord flanking him. “I’ve got your divisions encamped here.” He pointed at a spot a hundred miles south of their location, just short of the Tennessee-Mississippi border on the west bank of the river. “We disembarked the steamers at Pittsburgh Landing. It’s about fifteen miles from Corinth and there’s a good road straight to the rail hub. We spread out the perimeter. The encampment is centered on a small church, here, called Shiloh, whatever the blazes that means.”
Another new voice chimed in from the door. “’Why did da’ Lord bring defeat upon us today before the Philistines? Let us bring the Ark of the Lord’s covenant from Shiloh, so that it may go with us and save us from da’ hand of our enemies.’” Samual qouted. “From One Samuel in the good book, sirs.”
“Who—” Sherman began, but Grant cut him off.
“Come in, Samual.” He turned to Sherman. “He’s one of my chief scouts, along with Elijah.”
Sherman folded his arms over his chest. “Sure you know what you’re doing, General Grant?”
“I’m sure,” Grant said in a tone that both Cord and Sherman recognized. This was not going to be a point of discussion.
“Shiloh mean place of peace, sir,” Samual added.
Grant nodded. “What have you seen, Samual?”
Samual looked at the map. He ran a finger along the Tennessee River with a concentrated frown as if visualizing his journey on the piece of paper. His finger came to a halt. “Them be southern gents here, sir. Lots of them.”
Sherman harrumphed. “Corinth. Could have told you that without having to go there. Sidney Johnston has to hold Corinth to protect the Memphis and Charleston rail line. It’s the only east-west rail connection the rebels have left.”
Grant ignored Sherman. “What else, Samual?”
The huge former slave shrugged. “Don’ know, sir. But in da’ book, the Philistines, they conquered Shiloh and got the Ark. Big defeat for the people of da’ Lord.”
Grant was looking at the map. “I don’t believe General Johnston will attack any time soon. And the terrain looks very defensible. We have creeks to protect each flank.” He looked up at Samual. “Are they flooded?”
“Yes, sir,” Samual said. “Hard crossing. Lick Creek and Owl Creek. Both go into da big river. They high and if it rain more, soldier can’t wade them ‘cept at a couple of fords.”
Grant rubbed his hands together and went back to his desk. “Good, good. Protected on each flank and we control the river to our rear and have a pair of gunboats in position. Good job, Samual.”
Sherman was still eyeing the black man with distrust.
“Thank you, General.”
“Samual, go get some hot food,” Cord suggested.
“Yes, sir.” Samual exited.
“Relax, Cump,” Grant said. “He’s a good man.”
Sherman shook his head. “That’s not it, Sam. Maybe he’s right. Philistines and defeat and all that.”
Grant pulled his arms back, stretching his shoulders. “Old gloom and doom Sherman. You haven’t changed much.”
“Let me tell you two something,” Sherman said. “I was in California when the first gold was brought in from the Sierra Nevadas. Went up and confirmed the find in ’48. You both know what happened with the Gold Rush. But when I tried to return to California after resigning my commission to make my fortune, the ship I was on failed to find the entrance to San Francisco in the fog and sank on the rocks north of the bay. I clung to the wreckage until rescued by another boat. Then that boat sank entering the bay and I arrived at San Francisco clinging to the hull. When the boat that rescues a man from a sinking, sinks, you pay attention. And, I didn’t make a fortune. So don’t talk to me about bad luck.”
Cord laughed. “That’s just no luck, Cump. I got caught in a blizzard in early ’47, trying to cross the Sierras with Kit Carson. Damn near froze to death. He said there’s good luck and no luck.”
Grant snorted. “Every business I invested in and worked in before the war failed. So according to your friend Carson, we have three no luck fellows in this room.”
“I take that as a good sign,” Cord said. “Means our luck is bound to change for the better.”
“That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose,” Sherman said. “Oh yes, speaking of a change in luck. Something I forgot.” He reached inside his coat and pulled out a piece of paper and a small case. “Whatever Old Brains might be thinking, apparently someone in Washington feels differently.” He put both on the field desk. Grant picked up the paper to read while Cord opened the lid on the case. A set of two stars lay inside.
“Major-general?” Grant said.
“Indeed,” Sherman said. “Straight from President Lincoln. Seems like you might indeed be having a turn of good luck.”
Grant fingered the stars while looking at the map. “Elijah.”
“Yes?”
“I want to know what’s beyond Corinth. To Memphis. On down to Vicksburg. That’s the key to the whole area.”
“Johnston’s in Corinth with his army,” Cord said. “Shouldn’t that be our concern right now?”
“We’ve got to think ahead and plan ahead,” Grant said. “I think one more victory can end this entire thing.”
Cord sighed. “That’ll be a long ride, Sam. Having to swing wide around Johnston, then to Vicksburg is a haul.”
“We’ve got time,” Grant said. “I don’t see any action occurring for a while.”
“I need a favor from you, Sam, if you don’t mind, since I’ll be gone for a while.”
“Certainly.”
20 March 1862, Savannah, Tennessee
“Sam.”
Grant looked up from the order he had been writing. He jumped to his feet. “Lucius!”
The Sergeant Major and the Major General embraced.
“Sit, sit,” Grant said, grabbing a pile of dispatches off a chair and clearing a space. They were in an upstairs sitting room in a mansion Grant had commandeered for his headquarters on the bank of the Tennessee River. “When did you get here?”
“Just now,” Rumble said. “Via, Nashville.”
“Tell me of Buell,” Grant ordered. “Where’s his army?”
“They’re stuck at a creek just southwest of the city. Building a bridge to ford it.”
Grant frowned. “According to Halleck, I’m to sit here and do nothing until Buell’s army links up with me.” He shook his head, dismissing the issue. “It’s been a long time since Mexico, Lucius.” He noted the insignia. “Sergeant Major and Master of the Horse at our old Rockbound Highland Home, I heard. So why are you out here in the west?”
“To observe,” Rumble said.
Grant laughed. “Just like Mexico. For old Delafield?”
“For Lincoln.”
That gave Grant pause as he tumbled that about in his brain. “And how long have you been observing for the President?”
“Since last summer.”
; “That solves a few mysteries,” Grant said. “I appreciate your help.”
“I just told the truth when asked,” Rumble said. “And I wanted Ben to have the best commander the army has.”
Grant flipped open the lid on a teak box. “Cigar?”
“Where’s your pipe?” Rumble asked as he took one.
“I go with the wishes of the public on some things,” Grant said as they went through the lighting ritual. “Speaking of Ben, I’ve got some good news. He’s here.”
“I know,” Rumble said. “Fifth Ohio Cavalry.”
Grant waved the cigar. “No, no. I mean here. Elijah asked me to keep him safe, so I had him assigned to my staff. He’s probably downstairs somewhere right now.”
Rumble was on his feet. “And Elijah?”
“He’s on a scouting mission for me. I don’t anticipate he’ll be back a fortnight or so.”
“Request permission to—” Rumble began but Grant cut him off.
“Lucius, just go see your son.”
Rumble shook Grant’s hand and hurried out of the room. The layout of the house reminded him of Palatine and for a moment he wondered about Violet and how things were there. But he forgot all that when he entered the kitchen and spotted a private with red hair scrubbing out a coffee pot.
“Son!”
Ben turned just in time for his father to embrace him. The two were still for long seconds. Rumble slowly let go of Ben and stepped back, appraising him. “You’ve lost weight.”
“I’m gaining it back here,” Ben said with a wry smile. “General Grant isn’t much for special privileges but some on his staff certainly believe officers should dine well.”
“That’s the army,” Rumble said.
“That is indeed the army.” Ben sighed. “I know Mister Cord thought he was doing me a favor by having General Grant bring me to headquarters, but I want to be back with my unit.”
“He wanted to keep you safe,” Rumble said. “It’s a normal thing to want—” he came to an abrupt halt.
“To keep your child safe?” Ben finished for him.
