by Jeff Shaara
Grant thought again of Rosecrans, the man’s successes in the scattering of fights through Tennessee and Kentucky, his accomplishments against Braxton Bragg throughout the past year, especially the slick maneuver that summer, drawing Bragg out of Chattanooga. It was the kind of campaigning that earned promotions, that inspired newspapers to trumpet your name, and politicians to hold fast to your support. But, then there was Chickamauga, the kind of tragedy that would erase memories of any success, the kind of failure the North could no longer tolerate. Grant was far removed from the swirling tornado of politics, just how Washington intended to respond to that defeat. But there were plenty of voices in and around the army, speaking out about the mood of the citizenry. The jubilation over Vicksburg and Gettysburg had been swept away, the hourglass emptying again, draining away the country’s patience for this war that seemed never to end.
Grant held up one hand. “Sir, I choose this one. If you require explanation, I shall provide it.”
Stanton took the paper from him, a quick glance, showed no surprise at Grant’s decision. “As you wish, sir. The decision is yours, thus, so is the need to communicate the order to your subordinates. I would suggest you not leave General Rosecrans hanging too long. The Army of the Cumberland is standing in the face of the enemy. A change of command should be rapid and efficient.”
“Of course, sir. I will see to it.”
Stanton pulled himself to his feet, steadied himself against the rocking motion of the railcar. He peered low through the train’s windows.
“Beautiful country hereabouts. Don’t get out this way often enough.” He looked at Grant now, a narrow squint to his eyes, nothing pleasant in his words.
“General Grant, you have a job to do. Mr. Lincoln is sincerely concerned about next year’s elections, that if the people are not pleased with their army, they will inflict their feelings on the president. That would be an intolerable situation. For all of us. You are being given a task of utmost importance. The War Department and the president are risking a great deal by choosing you as the man least likely to fail us. You will not fail us, will you, sir?”
“Sir, I will do my best.”
“Then we shall learn just what your best is, won’t we, General?”
THE GALT HOUSE HOTEL—
LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY—OCTOBER 17, 1863
They had ridden the carriage through a miserable storm, sloshing mud that had soiled the hem of her dress, his own boots caked with a sloppy goo. He moved to one side of the room, sat slowly, still unsteady with the crutches, removed the boots, wiped the mud from his hands with an already dirty handkerchief. He felt the aching need for a cigar, glanced around the spacious room, admiring.
“They provided us very nice accommodations, I think.”
Julia was fussing over the stains on her dress, said, “Very nice, I suppose. Very nice weather they provided you, as well. I have never seen such a flood.”
The dinner had gone very well, a gathering of relatives who lived near Louisville, a family Grant had not seen in some years. He watched as Julia moved to her leather trunk, sifting through her clothing, the room choked with the essence of her perfume. Grant was used to that, but the ache for the cigar only grew. He glanced at his pocket watch, after eleven, stared out the window through the driving rain. The lights of the city spread out in several directions, a scattering of carriages still moving past, the streets rivers of mud. Who in the world, he thought, would be out on such a night? Well, you were. People have business, war or no war. Families must eat, young people must court. You wouldn’t know there is a war at all. Who would care anything of the task I have been given? So much of this country is so far removed from the duty I must oversee. There will be another fight, perhaps very soon, and if we are successful, these very people will rejoice. And if the army fails, they will condemn us all. Well, no. They will condemn me. That’s the point, after all. Stanton knows that. The president has just concerns for his election, but my concerns must fall on the men who march to the fight. I may remove a general who no longer performs, who shows failing abilities. But I cannot scold an army if we are beaten in a fight. Stanton is right. If my best is not sufficient … we could lose this war.
Grant gave in to the temptation, lit a cigar, erasing Julia’s flowery scent, stared again into the rain. What have you done, Grant? You have traveled to the center of the storm. The secretary will return to Washington knowing he has cleansed himself of responsibility for what happens next. It is the game they play. He gives me command … but what do I really control?
The rap on the door was loud, something else he was becoming accustomed to. He turned, saw Julia cover her garments with a blanket. He pulled the crutches close to him, lifted himself upward. Julia looked toward him, said, “The hour! What on earth …?”
Grant said nothing, stared at the door, waited a long second, said, “Enter.”
The door opened slowly, Rawlins, rapidly buttoning his uniform shirt. Behind him, another man, a look of desperate relief on his face. The man didn’t wait for Rawlins, said, “General! Secretary Stanton has been seeking your whereabouts. Thank God you have returned, sir. The secretary requires your presence immediately!”
“Immediately?”
The word came from Julia, who moved up close beside Grant, Rawlins responding to her with a short bow. Grant said, “General, assist me with my coat. Sir, you may lead the way.”
Stanton was in his nightclothes, showed no embarrassment for that, and Grant watched as he paced the floor of his room. “I have great respect for Mr. Dana, General. He has been extremely useful, extremely observant in those places where my own eyes cannot be.” Stanton stopped now, looked at Grant. “Yes, well, you know that, don’t you?”
Grant said nothing, thought, Yes, Sherman was right all along. As was I. Charles Dana was sent to Mississippi as a spy. I hope he saw what he needed to see.
Stanton seemed to read him. “He’s the reason you’re here, General. It’s no secret he was reporting directly to me on a number of issues in your department, as he is doing so right now in Chattanooga.”
Grant nodded, thought, It’s no secret now.
“Yes, sir. I appreciate the assistant secretary’s vigilance.”
“Yes, well, that vigilance is now being tested every minute of every day. I received a telegram earlier this evening. Conditions in Chattanooga are deteriorating rapidly. So rapidly in fact that General Rosecrans is contemplating an immediate retreat. Mr. Dana informs me that such a retreat will sacrifice a great number of artillery pieces, and many of the stores we have tried to gather for the welfare of the men. That job has gone badly, General, badly indeed. Mr. Dana tells me that horses are starving en masse, and that it is possible the men are next. We must relieve those conditions, or the catastrophe will be felt across the entire country. Do you understand?”
Grant felt Stanton’s concern, detected a hint of panic. “Sir, I understand that Chattanooga must not be abandoned. Recapturing such a valuable rail hub could be costly.”
Stanton stopped pacing again, looked at him. “General, you are master of the understatement. What do you intend to do?”
“I will issue an immediate order to General Rosecrans, that he not retreat. I have also penned the order to my adjutant relieving General Rosecrans of command, replacing him with General Thomas.”
“Good.”
Stanton seemed to wait for more, and Grant knew what had to follow, that such a crisis would require more from him than a comfortable headquarters in Nashville.
“And, sir, I will make immediate arrangements to journey to Chattanooga.”
NEAR STEVENSON, ALABAMA—OCTOBER 21, 1863
At Secretary Stanton’s insistence, the War Department’s official order had been transmitted from Washington as quickly as possible, Special Order #337, relieving Rosecrans of command of the Army of the Cumberland, and naming his replacement, General George Thomas. Grant had issued a duplicate under his own name, exercising the authority Stant
on had given him, communicating to both Rosecrans and Thomas that Grant was now in overall command of the entire theater. Grant had no idea how Rosecrans had responded to his dismissal, might never know. He fully expected that Rosecrans would accept the order with decorum, would vacate his post as quickly as possible, with a minimum of acrimony or protest, or, more important, with little disruption to the army’s already hazardous situation.
Grant’s train had left Nashville early that morning, a lurching, unsteady journey along tracks the rebels had made a constant target. He left behind a lengthy list of progress reports, communicated to Washington, his details for the gathering of an immense army, the enormous effort focused now on the most immediate crisis of the war, the impending difficulties at Chattanooga. Grant knew of Sherman’s progress through Mississippi, but he couldn’t avoid thinking of the near catastrophe at Collierville. Grant had absorbed Sherman’s report on the incident with well-disguised alarm, wouldn’t allow anyone around him to know how the possibility of losing Sherman would affect him. Sherman was more than a good subordinate. He was the man Grant knew he could depend on in any circumstance, that despite Sherman’s failings, his quick temper and tendency to talk too much, without Sherman, the great campaigns Grant had led in the West could have had very different outcomes. Grant knew from Sherman’s telegram that a crucial lesson had been learned at Collierville, that an army commander should know just where he was going, long before he actually arrived there. Now Sherman was making far better progress, the War Department finally backing away from the absurd order that Sherman’s people waste enormous amounts of time repairing the railroad line along the way. Grant knew that every day of decent weather meant that Sherman was that much closer to Chattanooga.
To the east, Ambrose Burnside was anchoring his forces around Knoxville, and despite urgent instructions from Halleck that Burnside move his people much closer to Chattanooga, Burnside continued to offer reasons why the move just couldn’t happen. Grant knew enough of Burnside to expect delay, and he expected it now. But Grant understood what the War Department did not, that Burnside’s forces were valuable right where they were, a juggernaut that Braxton Bragg could not just ignore. With Knoxville secure in Federal hands, the rebels had to consider the possibility that Burnside might suddenly shove his troops toward Bragg’s northern flank on Missionary Ridge, making convenient use of the available railroads and the Tennessee River, which could suddenly put Bragg in serious trouble. Grant’s best hope was that Bragg had a healthy fear of what Burnside might do, whether or not that fear was ever justified.
Grant’s short stay in Nashville had been tiresome, the annoyance of official protocol, meeting with the military governor there, Andrew Johnson, shaking hands with numerous dignitaries, suffering lengthy speeches, all meant to bolster Grant’s spirits, as though only these civilians understood the challenges that lay ahead. Grant had learned to endure that kind of suffering, especially when he had no control over the surroundings. During the Vicksburg campaign, Grant had made it a point to keep most of the politicians and civilian orators at bay, a silent luxury he never took for granted. As he suffered in Nashville through the lengthy orations, one thought had crept into his brain. Julia had not accompanied him. It was never an argument between them, that when Grant moved toward the front lines, her place was elsewhere. With the speeches droning past him, he couldn’t avoid a hidden smile, that had she been there, all the dignitaries, the grand reception, would have made for a glorious time for her.
Stevenson, Alabama, was the southernmost termination point of the Federally controlled rail line, and Grant knew it would be necessary to resume the journey toward Chattanooga by boat, as far as the riverside town of Bridgeport. There, safe passage on the river ended, and the journey would be completed on horseback, a thought that gave Grant no comfort at all. The injured leg continued to annoy him, and Rawlins had insisted on a cavalcade of doctors, had gone out on his own seeking a blend of concoctions, salves, or potions meant to soothe Grant’s agony. Grant began to suspect that Rawlins was doing business with an African witch doctor.
Rawlins had been a close friend of Grant before the war, and Grant knew that Rawlins’s political influence in Illinois had done much to secure Grant’s first command in an army that Grant had once left behind. That resignation had come in 1854, Grant avoiding a career-crushing court-martial. It was the most miserable time of his life, stationed in a post without his family, immersed in the turbulent decadence of gold-rush San Francisco. The despair of life so far removed from his family had pushed Grant to the liquor bottle, a balm that only numbed the brain, but never could cure his aching loneliness. He understood the ramifications, that the army couldn’t tolerate so many bouts of drunkenness, but through the generosity of his commanding officer, Grant had been offered the option of resigning his commission rather than be publicly humiliated. The humiliation would come later, from Julia, harsh and accurate, that Grant would only keep his family by keeping sober. Julia had of course been backed up by her father, an arrogant, dismissive man, who had never approved of his daughter marrying a soldier. It was an easy conclusion for Frederick Dent to believe that Grant had soiled his reputation for all time, one more reason for Dent to scold his daughter for her ill-advised choice of a husband. Dent was a loud, opinionated man, who did nothing to hide the most glaring point of contention between them. Julia’s father was a slaveholder, and even now, Grant had little patience for discussions of politics or just what a Northern victory would mean to his father-in-law.
Whether or not Dent approved of a blue uniform, the outbreak of the war had offered Grant the escape he desperately needed from his numerous failures as a civilian. That escape came courtesy of John Rawlins. In early 1861, Rawlins had gained considerable influence in Illinois politics, had helped persuade Congressman Elihu Washburne, a strong supporter and friend to Abraham Lincoln, that Grant was still fit for an officer’s commission. Grant gratefully accepted the opportunity to begin anew in the army, and from Grant’s first days as a regimental commander from Illinois, Rawlins had volunteered his services. The army seemed to recognize Rawlins’s value not just to Grant, but to the entire command, and Rawlins had been officially promoted to captain, rising through the ranks until, in August 1863, he was promoted to brigadier general, a rank befitting the post he occupied alongside Grant. Grant appreciated the army’s respect for Rawlins’s competence, even if the man’s fierce loyalty could be somewhat smothering. But there was more to Rawlins’s affection for Grant. Shortly after the outbreak of the war, Rawlins’s wife had died of tuberculosis. Both men kept their emotions well hidden, and so their conversations kept mostly to the business of the army. But Grant had to suspect that Rawlins’s pure dedication, no matter how annoying he might be, came partly because he had no one else in his life.
Grant felt the train lurching to a stop, pulled himself awake from a fitful nap. He stared out through the glass, saw lantern light reflecting across a depot, a dozen armed soldiers coming into formation, others mingling behind, no doubt aware just who had arrived. Grant pulled out his pocket watch, just after eight o’clock, thought, Long day, indeed. He felt a stuffy rumbling in his stomach, the aftereffects of his dinner, some kind of vegetable Grant had never seen before, one of those odd species that seemed only to grow for rebel farmers. He sat up, heard the commotion beyond his quarters, knew the staff would already be handling the baggage, making preparation for the next part of the trip. I can’t imagine the Tennessee River will treat me any worse than this train, he thought. At least water is … soft. Later, the horse … well, don’t think about that now.
The knock came, expected, the voice of his aide, Henry Dixon. “Sir, we have arrived in Stevenson. This is as far as we can travel by train.”
Grant shook his head, bleary-eyed patience. “I know where we are, Lieutenant. I shall be prepared to move in a moment. Is General Rawlins in contact with the boat’s commander?”
The door opened abruptly, Rawlins breathing heavily
, pushing past the wide-eyed lieutenant. Rawlins motioned the young aide away, closed the door with a self-conscious flourish. He leaned low toward Grant, and Grant could feel the man’s breaths, had rarely seen Rawlins looking … nervous.
“John, are you all right?”
“Sir! It is something of a surprise. Fate, as it were. Perhaps. Not certain of that, of course. But, it is curious, nonetheless.” Grant reached for the crutches, and Rawlins held up a hand, his words coming in a quick, jabbering flood. “No, sir. Perhaps not just yet. We should remain here. The train.”
“Why? What’s happening out there?” He thought of Sherman now, the amazing close call at Collierville. “Is there a problem?”
Rawlins tried to gather himself, took a deep breath. “Not really certain of that, sir. I’ve heard of duels being fought over this sort of happenstance. There could be a serious issue of pride at stake.”
“What is it, John?”
Grant’s tone left no room for maneuver, and Rawlins snapped himself together, his formal demeanor returning.
