by Jeff Shaara
Grant waited, chewed the unlit cigar, tried to hide the churning nervousness. He had rarely showed deep emotion to his staff, to anyone in his army, and he fought that now. But the white flags had been an unmistakable sign, and if no one knew exactly what was happening, the troops soon reacted with a jubilant cheer, the same emotion rolling through Grant, no matter how effectively he could hide it.
He saw the men approach, accompanied by Smith and his own guards. Smith seemed to be a good choice for this, had served under the mostly disagreeable thumb of John McClernand, was a subordinate now to McClernand’s far more likable replacement, Edward Ord.
Two of the Confederates were officers, and Grant studied them, saw the perfectly grim expressions, men who seemed to carry their purpose like an anvil on their backs. The third man was clearly an aide, held a white flag of his own, glanced around nervously at the gathering of Grant’s staff, the cavalry guard under Captain Osband drawn up in a neat formation. It was more show than Grant felt necessary, but he appreciated it now, saw that Osband had put his men in clean shirts.
The rebel officers dismounted, Federal grooms stepping forward crisply to take the reins of their horses. Grant stood with his hands on his hips, dropped them now, felt suddenly clumsy, thought, How does one do this, after all? I don’t salute them. Wave? A hearty haloo? Sherman might punch them, just for good measure. A hearty kick in the shins. No, none of that. That might be the best reason imaginable that Sherman’s not here.
The men seemed to hesitate, and Grant thought, They don’t know what they’re supposed to do, either. Maybe Smith knows. He served McClernand, after all, so he knows all about political properness.
Smith stepped closer, ahead of the two Confederates.
“General Grant,” Smith said, “I have the pleasure to introduce you to emissaries from the enemy’s camp. This is Major General John Bowen, and Colonel Louis Montgomery. They have brought you a letter from General Pemberton, sir.”
Grant looked at Bowen.
“Yes, I know you well. Sorry not to have shown recognition. You have … um … changed somewhat in appearance.”
Bowen seemed weak, and struggled to keep his posture.
“Yes, General. We were neighbors in Missouri, some years ago. I am flattered … rather, I am honored you would recall.”
Bowen produced a piece of paper, seemed anxious not to linger, and Grant looked at the other man, younger, a hint of defiance on Montgomery’s face.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Colonel … Montgomery. This heat is a dismal thing for us all. Perhaps we should retire into my tent.”
Montgomery didn’t respond, and Bowen said, “If you don’t object, sir, I wish to deliver this into your hands with all speed.”
“Well, you two might not have a problem with this infernal sun, but I rather prefer the shade. Please follow me, gentlemen.”
Grant moved into the tent, Bowen following, Montgomery close behind him. The tent wasn’t much cooler, and Grant saw General Smith peering in, the unspoken request to be some part of this. Rawlins was there as well, seeming to appear from nowhere, and Grant nodded his approval to both, his teeth working the butt of the cigar into mush.
The tent was nearly as hot as the outdoors, and Grant wiped sweat from his brow.
“Not much better, I admit,” he said. “All right, please allow me to read your message, General.”
Bowen handed the folded paper to Grant, and Grant could see that the paper itself had none of the finery suitable for a commanding officer. The words crept through him. Another shortage.
Major General Ulysses S. Grant
I have the honor to propose an armistice for several hours, with the view to arranging terms for the capitulation of Vicksburg. To this end, if agreeable to you, I will appoint three commissioners, to meet a like number to be named by yourself, at such place and hour today as you may find convenient. I make this proposition to save the further effusion of blood, which must otherwise be shed to a frightful extent, feeling myself fully able to maintain my position for a yet indefinite period. This communication will be handed you under a flag of truce by Major General John S. Bowen.
Lieutenant General John C. Pemberton
Grant read the letter again, felt an urgent need to mention something about eating mules, couldn’t avoid a burning impatience at Pemberton’s reference to an indefinite period. He chomped the cigar to bits, spit it out, forced himself to calm, and said, “General Bowen, your mission is completed. You may return to General Pemberton and convey my deepest regrets, but I refuse his request.”
Bowen looked down, nodded, and Grant thought, He’s not surprised one bit. This is a letter written by an administrator, whose pride is influencing his judgment. Bowen is a fighter. And right now, he knows his army has very little fight.
“General Grant, I too have regrets that this unfortunate affair cannot be concluded with General Pemberton’s suggestions. Perhaps it would be better if you met with the general personally. You could make your views known to him with more … efficiency than I could hope to.”
Grant saw the pain in the man’s eyes, wondered now why Bowen had been chosen for the job. Requesting terms. He’s a West Pointer. This must be the most distasteful assignment he has yet been given.
“Perhaps that is wise. Please return to General Pemberton and, if he desires it, I will meet with him at three o’clock this afternoon, at a place to be indicated by flags of truce, in front of General McPherson’s corps.” He paused, then looked again at the letter.
“Perhaps I should respond in writing. Colonel Rawlins, summon an aide, with pen and ink.”
“Right away, sir.”
Grant looked at Montgomery, the man’s stern demeanor fading somewhat, from what had to be the nature of his mission, crushed further by the heat. He looked again to Bowen, saw stooped shoulders, a man who seemed to suffer more from an ailment than a blow to his pride.
“General Bowen, do you wish to sit?”
Bowen straightened and took a long breath.
“No, sir. Thank you for your courtesy. This has been a difficult experience for us all. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“More difficult for some.” Grant regretted the words, had no reason to taunt Bowen. “Your men fought well, particularly at the Champion farm.”
“Thank you, sir. Not well enough.”
Rawlins returned now, with the aide in tow. Grant pointed to the camp desk.
“Sergeant, be seated. Write down the following.”
The man obeyed, studied the two gray-clad officers with wide, curious eyes. Grant looked again at Pemberton’s request, then said:
General John C. Pemberton, Commanding
Your note of this date is just received, proposing an armistice for several hours, for the purpose of arranging terms of capitulation through commissioners, to be appointed, etc.
He paused, glanced up at Bowen, thought, Bowen knows better than to toss any matter this important to the hands of … commissioners.
The useless effusion of blood you propose stopping by this course can be ended at any time you may choose, by the unconditional surrender of the city and garrison. Men who have shown so much endurance and courage as those now in Vicksburg, will always challenge the respect of an adversary, and I can assure you will be treated with all the respect due to prisoners of war. I do not favor the proposition of appointing commissioners to arrange for the terms of capitulation, because I have no terms other than those indicated above.
Ulysses Grant, Major General, Commanding
The sergeant wrote furiously, and Grant waited, the paper handed quickly to Rawlins, who passed it to Grant. Grant read his own words and handed the letter to Bowen.
“Please read it, General. I wish no confusion, should something happen to you in transit.”
Bowen read, gave a hint of a smile, and Grant waited for him to finish.
“Something there catch your eye, General? Should I rephrase any passage so that General Pem
berton will be more clear on my meaning?”
The smile had vanished, and Bowen said, “No, sir. You have stated your wishes plainly. I merely noted your choice of words. It is well known in my army that, since your triumph at Fort Donelson, your initials have come to signify more than just your name. It is a subject your own soldiers speak of with pride, prisoners especially.”
Grant had heard enough about that, the soldiers referring to him as Unconditional Surrender.
“It is unfortunate that we cannot always control the gratuitous musings of our troops. I am quite certain that ‘Stonewall’ cared not one bit for that title. Rest his soul, of course.”
“If you say so, sir. If there is nothing else, and with your permission, I shall return to General Pemberton and convey your response. Your respect for the flag of truce is most welcome.”
“Yes, you are dismissed.”
Bowen handed Grant’s letter to Montgomery, made a brief bow, and Bowen caught Grant’s eye for a quick second, a nod very different than hostility to an enemy. They moved away now, mounted their horses, the cavalry guard moving into position to lead the way back out toward the rebel lines.
The word of the scheduled meeting had spread, and Grant had no problem allowing his most senior commanders to observe. They met beneath a squat oak tree, within easy musket range of the rebel position, the white flags fluttering now on both sides. He stood staring out toward the massive forts, could see men standing tall, staring back at him. Whether they knew who he was, or just why he was there, it really didn’t matter. Pemberton’s note had stuck with him, the audacious claim that the rebels could hold out indefinitely. There could be some, he thought. But all those deserters … they’re not just spewing out all that talk about the conditions there just to impress us with a good yarn. He recalled one man, escorted by guards who had to hold the man beneath the arms so he could walk. The obvious question had come, asked by Rawlins, just who the man’s commanding officer was. The response had angered Rawlins, as so much did. But Grant took the man at his word. General Starvation.
He saw the entourage, expected that. Pemberton was a man for protocol, always had been, and Grant couldn’t blame the man for it, not now. Behind Grant was an entourage of his own, the corps commanders, McPherson and Ord, and a handful of subordinates, including John Logan and Andrew Smith.
He noticed Bowen trailing behind Pemberton, observing good order, and despite the grumblings from so many deserters, it seemed clear enough that Pemberton was still in command. He dismounted now, the others doing the same, a cluster of aides, the officer from that morning, Montgomery. Pemberton stood tall, seemed to gather himself, a self-conscious tug at his coat, what Grant could see was a new uniform. Pemberton stood motionless for a few seconds, and Grant stepped forward, closer to the visitors. He stopped a few yards from Pemberton, who returned the favor, walking toward him, then stopping as well. They faced each other for a long, silent moment, the tension thick all around them, and Grant couldn’t avoid feeling as though they were about to fight a duel. Pemberton seemed uncertain, reluctant, as though waiting for Grant to begin whatever was to happen next. Grant chewed again on an unlit cigar, as much nervousness knotting him up as he had usually seen coming from Sherman. Wish he was here now, he thought. He’d just … start jabbering. No, he’s out doing his job, checking on his outposts, worrying about some surprise attack from Joe Johnston. Well, we’ll see about that right here.
Grant had no idea what the rules were for this kind of meeting, could see that Pemberton was still waiting. Now Montgomery stepped forward.
“Major General Grant,” he said, “I am honored to introduce Lieutenant General Pemberton.”
Pemberton barely moved, and Grant thought, So, of course, you should remind me I’m outranked. But I’m not the whipped dog here. Grant took a breath.
“General Pemberton,” Grant said, “we served in Mexico together. I recall you well. You were a few years ahead of me at West Point, though. I would not assume you recall meeting me.”
Pemberton’s expression didn’t change, a stern calmness, and he seemed to expect more from Grant, but the pleasantries were only in the way. Grant had never been good at chatty conversation, felt even worse about that right now. Pemberton shifted his stance.
“General Grant, I must request you to detail those terms you would require of my army for the surrender of Vicksburg.”
Grant thought, The letter … surely he can read.
“My terms are as I wrote them to you this morning.”
Pemberton’s attitude was hostile, abrupt.
“If that is all you would say … then this conference might as well end. I assure you, sir, there will be more bloodshed, and you shall bury more men than I.”
Pemberton spun around as though to leave, and Grant was surprised, thought, Even now … this is about pride? He would dictate terms to me? He felt a low boil rising up inside him, watched Pemberton step deliberately toward his horse, slowly, as though a carefully designed performance. So, that’s it. Grant fought the urge to shout out something, anything, let us compare our artillery, our rations. But he kept it inside, said loud enough for everyone to hear, “Very well. It shall be so.”
Grant looked back toward his own commanders, saw shock, dismay, and now Bowen called out.
“Sirs … General Pemberton … allow General Grant to select one of his commanders to meet with me, here, now. We should not abandon this endeavor.”
Grant saw the anxious look on Bowen’s face, thought, Yes, if you were intending to continue this fight, you’d be back in your own headquarters. But you know better.
“I have no objection,” Grant said. He turned, motioned to Smith to step forward. “As you are already acquainted with General Smith, I see no reason why the two of you should not … discuss this further. Be aware, of course, that nothing you two decide shall be binding upon me, without my approval.”
Smith was beside him now.
“As you wish, sir.”
Pemberton turned back toward Grant, motioned to Bowen to advance, and said to Montgomery, “You will join them.”
Grant played the game now and said to McPherson, “You will join them as well. Just … get on with it, shall we?”
McPherson walked closer to him and said in a low whisper, “Sir, what if they will not capitulate?”
Grant turned away from the Confederates and said to McPherson, with Smith easing close as well, “Gentlemen, if they were truly capable of making this fight, of surviving this siege indefinitely … they would not be out here.”
After some discussion, disagreement, and a valiant effort on Bowen’s part to gain as much advantage as he could, the meeting ended with a proposal that Grant had to take seriously. The notion of unconditional surrender implied no concessions at all, but Grant had taken something away from Bowen’s deportment that impressed him. The conclusion, the precise terms Grant would accept, had been left partly open, though both Smith and McPherson had echoed Grant’s sentiments that very little would be offered. After discussing it further with his senior commanders, what amounted to the only real council of war Grant had yet employed, Grant communicated both to Sherman and to Admiral Porter that the discussions had been fruitful. Thus would the armistice stand, at least for now. At ten that night, the final terms were put into writing, and passed through the lines to Pemberton’s headquarters.
General Pemberton,
In conformity with the agreement of this afternoon, I will submit the following proposition for the surrender of the City of Vicksburg, public stores, etc. On your accepting the terms proposed, I will march in one division as a guard, and take possession by eight a.m. tomorrow. As soon as rolls can be made out, and paroles be signed by officers and men, you will be allowed to march out of our lines, the officers taking with them their sidearms and clothing, and the field staff and cavalry officers one horse each. The rank and file will be allowed all their clothing, but no other property. If these conditions are accepted, any amount
of rations you may deem necessary can be taken from the stores you now have, and also the necessary cooking utensils for preparing them. Thirty wagons also, counting two two-horse or mule-teams as one, will be allowed to transport such articles as cannot be carried along. The same conditions will be allowed to all sick and wounded officers and soldiers as fast as they become able to travel. The paroles for these latter must be signed, however, whilst officers present are authorized to sign the roll of prisoners.
Ulysses S. Grant, Major General, Commanding
The response came late that night:
General Ulysses Grant,
I have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of your communication of this date, proposing terms of capitulation for this garrison and post. In the main your terms are accepted; but, in justice both to the honor and spirit of my troops, manifested in the defense of Vicksburg, I have to submit the following amendments, which, if acceded to by you, will perfect the agreement between us. At ten o’clock a.m. tomorrow, I propose to evacuate the works in and around Vicksburg and to surrender the city and garrison under my command, by marching out with my colors and arms, stacking them in front of my present lines. After which you will take possession. Officers to retain their sidearms and personal property, and the rights and property of citizens to be respected.
John C. Pemberton, Lieutenant General, Commanding
Rawlins read the letter, then stifled a yawn.
“He is attempting some chicanery, sir. There is no specific mention of taking an accurate roll of prisoners. His army could be scattered to the four winds in a matter of days. In time, we would find ourselves fighting those same men.”
Grant drank from the coffee cup and sat back in the chair.
“You are correct, Colonel. These amendments … it’s that Confederate honor. When I heard he had signed on with the Confederacy, I believed Pemberton was a man who had made a catastrophic mistake, throwing his lot with the wrong side of this affair because he had been swayed by Southern friends of bad influence. Perhaps bad character as well. Compare him to Sherman. Sherman was as deeply rooted to the South as any of us here, and I believe he loves Louisiana to this day. Yet I know of no man more likely to defend the Union, and with fists and clubs if necessary. Pemberton is behaving as though his reputation depends on his having the final word on the subject. Notice, he demands the time for capitulation be set two hours later than I proposed. Ten A.M. It is ridiculous in the extreme.”
