FRIENDS OF THE WIGWAM: A Civil War Story

by John William Huelskamp

  “What the hell is going on here?” shouted Putnam as he rapidly approached the bow.

  “It’s Chester Tracy of K Company!” replied a panicked soldier who squatted over the writhing soldier. “He’s been shot in the side, Colonel!”

  “And where did the shot come from?” Putnam demanded.

  “Over there, sir.” The soldier pointed to a white mansion that could be seen on a slight rise in the distance about a hundred yards from shore.

  Putnam looked at the house and then turned to Will and Aaron. “Will…I mean, Corporal Erwin, tell the captain of this ship to head to shore where that house is. Tell him to dock this boat by the gap in the cane breaks. We will go see who’s responsible for this action.”

  The wounded Tracy lay on the deck, holding his bloody right side. He gasped once…then again before falling unconscious as the Jesse K. Bell blew a whistle, her paddle wheel rhythmically turning in the dark waters.

  Black Hawk approached the muddy shore and began floating in a circuitous wake near the cane breaks. He snorted as he looked, first fleetingly, to the boat and then to the shore as waves of blue soldiers moved down to the overcrowded lower deck. Bayonets, canteens, and belts clanked and rattled in the movement. Anticipation was rising by the moment. A shore landing was imminent.

  Within moments the steamer was a rod’s reach of the shoreline. A thick oak gangplank kicked up a splash as it settled into the shore muck. Black Hawk, with determined force, snorted again. He continued to high-step, causing clouds of river sand to swirl. Blowing out steamy muck through his nostrils, he popped up by the plank.

  “Captain Taggart!” Putnam shouted.

  “Yes, sir!” replied Taggart coming to attention near the plank.

  “Do you remember the boys who helped us during the Freeport fire?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. Erwin, Dunbar, and Lockwood.”

  “They will be the shore party. I will meet you at that white house. ” Putnam pointed through the gap in the cane breaks, turned toward the shore, and continued down the plank. Grabbing Black Hawk’s reins, he advanced to the gap and tied them to a cypress trunk. He then pulled out his field officer’s sword from its black leather scabbard and stepped through the gap.

  Captain Taggart turned and shouted over the rattle of disembarking men, “Erwin, Dunbar, and Lockwood! Report for duty!”

  Will, Aaron, and T.J. stepped forward. Trick followed behind them about ten paces. “Gentlemen,” Captain Taggart said, “the colonel has ordered us to meet him by that white house. Follow me!”

  Trick moved closer to the deck rail and looked at the silent figures in blue marching ashore. Quickly, he grabbed his musket and walked down the gangplank in his waddling gait, walking through the cane break but stopping at the edge of a clearing. He peered through leafy spaces so as not be be seen, and watched with concern as his friends advanced to the white house.

  Colonel Putnam was the first to approach the mansion, which was situated on a small knoll. Cotton fields extended for a hundred yards in all directions from the house with the exception of the neatly trimmed Kentucky bluegrass lawn that bordered the mansion and extended for about one hundred feet from the front door.

  When Captain Taggart and the boys caught up with Putnam, they saw a movement at the windows. Soon a shadowy figure could be seen moving to the front door. The door then creaked open, revealing a middle-aged man with dark hair. He was dressed in a black wool coat and brown pants.

  “Welcome, Colonel, to my home,” the owner said in a polished southern drawl. “Would you and your soldiers like to come inside for a nice cup of chicory or tea?”

  Putnam stepped forward. “We are not here for coffee or tea, sir. We are here to arrest the sniper who wounded one of our soldiers!”

  “And what battle, sir, was he wounded in?”

  “Sir, you know what we are here for,” replied Putnam directly. “Give up the sniper who shot into our steamer, or you will be arrested, sir. Do you understand me?

  The man began to fidget noticeably. Then the mistress of the house emerged on the front porch dressed in a modest, country plantation dress.

  “What is going on, my fair colonel?” she stated calmly.

  “Madam, your husband here is holding a rebel insurgent who wounded one of my men a few minutes ago!” Putnam pointed the tip of his sword to the Tallahatchie. He looked back at the couple with a glare in his eyes.

  “Why, sir, we have no guns that could reach that distance. Just squirrel guns, you know.” The woman looked nervously at her husband and then furtively at an upstairs window.

  Putnam saw this and said, “The shot came from that window, madam, didn’t it?” Pointing his sword at the plantation owner, he said, “Was it you, sir, that fired the shot?”

  “No, it was not him!” replied his wife, who quickly raced to her husband’s side.

  “Who was it, then, ma’am?” demanded Putnam with rising anger.

  “Please! Please!” she begged. “Go leave us alone!”

  “I ask you again: who shot at the steamer?”

  “Please, leave us alone!” she begged, this time clutching her husband’s coat.

  “Who was it, ma’am?” Putnam said, his voice dripping with menace.

  The woman’s shoulders sagged. Her knees began to buckle. Her husband braced her from a fall. Bursting into tears, she cried, “It was my son. It was my son, you damned Yankees! You killed two of his brothers at Shiloh, and he wanted to even the score. I only wish he had a second clear shot!”

  There was silence.

  The man hastily pulled his wife to the door stoop. He looked back with horror in his eyes. The door opened, and the woman quickly disappeared inside.

  “Well, sir,” Putnam replied in a calm voice, “I suppose your son is fifty rods away from this place, so we will take you with us in his stead. We are just one day’s distance from Greenwood. I would like to personally introduce you to our corps commander, General McPherson. He will decide your fate!”

  The man was silent. He did not know how to reply.

  Putnam looked back up at the window where the shot was fired, walked over to the man, and grabbed him by the nape of his neck. His black coat lifted up so that his white sleeves showed through to the elbows. Putnam and the man turned to the Tallahatchie River. After taking a few strides, Putnam turned to Taggart and the boys. “Return to the steamer!” he commanded.

  A hollow scream soon echoed through the house followed by loud sobbing.

  The friends looked at each other, frozen in the moment. The plantation owner’s wife emerged again through the front door. She rushed to the side of the house where the boys were.

  “Boys, you look kind. Please don’t take my husband away.” In the pause that followed, she looked directly into each of their eyes, one by one, as if waiting for a sign or an answer that would allow her husband to return.

  “Please, please, I beg you! Return my husband! You Yankees have killed two of my boys already. Please don’t take my husband away. Please don’t take my husband away!” She slowly dropped to her knees as she sobbed and repeated it again.

  The boys remained silent, stunned by it all. Captain Taggart looked over at the madam, now hunched over in grief by the foot of her door stoop. He turned to the boys. “Return to the boat.” he commanded, less sternly than before.

  As the captain disappeared into the cut of the cane breaks, the boys quickly caught up with Trick who had anxiously waited for the three. Now together, they all turned back to the mansion for one last glance. The woman was silent now and nowhere to be seen.

  The whistle of the Jesse K. Bell suddenly punctuated the air with a loud, sustained shriek!

  The friends moved quickly through the canes, carefully stepping up the narrow plank which still stuck in the mucky shore. When they reached the lower deck they returned to the bow of the steamer. Will grabbed Black Hawk’s reigns and walked him slowly through the mass of men on the starboard side of the lower deck. The soldiers took ever
y caution not to spook the great Shiloh war horse, stroking his mane at every opportunity.

  When the regiment appeared settled on the decks, the steamer captain called out, “Raise the gangplank!” Soon the paddlewheel began to churn slowly in reverse, causing the brown water to foam up again.

  As the Jesse K. Bell slowly rumbled away from the shore, the boys looked in the distance to the white mansion. In the silence around him, Trick glanced over at the friends. “That poor woman is all alone now,” he said softly. An awkward silence followed.

  Will looked over at the friends, paused, and then replied with confidence, “I figure good ole’ General McPherson will return her husband to her soon. He is a fair and kind general, I hear. And Colonel Put says we are just a day away from Greenwood. I ‘spect that ole’ man will be back lickety split.” He smiled.

  The soldiers within earshot of Will looked at each other and nodded. The boys felt better now.

  Within a moment, the boilers roared, causing clouds of steam to hiss, rise up, and then drift gently down onto the Tallahatchie. The engine driving the paddlewheel kicked in with a thud and grinded again into a steady rhythm. With her bow pointing south now, all was clear, and the shrill whistle of the Jesse K. Bell shrieked across the skies once more.

  The Yankees were here to stay.

  Chapter 37

  Admiral Porter’s Flagship

  USS Benton

  Mouth of Yazoo River

  Eight Miles Northwest of Vicksburg

  Early April, 1863

  Major General Grant looked to the west. From the upper deck of the ironclad river gunboat Benton, he watched the swirling muddy Yazoo River flow southward to the mighty Mississippi River just two hundred rods away. Strange patterns of rolling waves rose up, chopping at the starboard side of the flagship as if trying to coax it out.

  The Benton was anchored off the muddy red shore. It looked to most, at first glance, like an alligator, nose and eyes above the waterline, resting in the sun or waiting to pounce on prey. With a full battery of twenty-one guns pointed out of window ports and protected by thick, sloping iron plates, she was a formidable warship for any enemy that challenged her. The twelve guns mounted securely on the starboard and aft could be deployed in minutes. Three more guns were mounted at the bow to engage any contender head on. The ironclad was complemented by two massive smokestacks that rose nearly twenty feet in the air, releasing steam in a whoosh from the growling engines below. Today, the Benton and its flotilla of steam rams and floating batteries rested at the mouth of the Yazoo on the eastern shore, hidden by dense forests. The rebel sentries in Vicksburg, even from the highest lookout at Fort Hill, could not see them.

  Grant reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his watch and chain. It was four o’clock, and the sun would set in about three hours. Reaching into his sack coat, he pulled out a thick brown cigar, bit off the tip, and spat the brown piece onto the deck. He looked across the river again as he put the cigar into his mouth but didn’t light it. The water continued to quietly lap at the side of the gunboat.

  “Good afternoon, General!”

  Grant turned to face the shore. He noticed the two figures in dark blue approaching the vessel. They boarded the gangplank leading to the Benton’s lower deck and continued to the stern. A moment later they stood before Grant.

  “Sorry we are late,” said Rear Admiral David Dixon Porter respectfully.

  “It was I, General, who held up Admiral Porter,” said his companion, Major General of Volunteers William T. Sherman. “As you know, our esteemed admiral has never been late for any occasion.

  Grant nodded again. “Thank you, General, for the clarification.”

  Grant’s looked at Porter and Sherman. “Are both of you ready for our biggest challenge, the taking of Vicksburg?” he said with calm deliberation.

  “Well, sir, our army has failed to take Vicksburg five times,” replied Sherman in an animated way, waving his arms as he spoke. “In the last five months, I failed at Chickasaw Bluffs. The army also had low water at Duckport Canal, too much swampland with the Lake Providence move, blasting the levee to open Yazoo Pass also did not work, and Steele’s Bayou Expedition failed too!”

  Porter quickly interjected, “I thank you, again, General Sherman, for rescuing me at Steele’s Bayou.”

  Unlike Sherman, Porter’s jet-black hair, dark eyes, and prominent nose remained unmoved when he spoke. He was not animated like Sherman, and when he spoke, he spoke with a tone of authority and conviction. Formidable on the deck of any ship, he stood tall in his navy frock coat with eighteen anchors buttons lined up in two rows, extending from his waistline to under his beard. The eight stripes and a star on each sleeve prominently marked him as the highest ranking officer of the flotilla.

  Porter continued. “You spoke, Sherman, of your failure at Chickasaw Bluffs. Well, mine at Steele’s Bayou would have meant disaster for both the navy and army.”

  Sherman and Grant looked at each other and remained silent.

  Porter continued. “I took my eleven vessels into those winding waterways of stumps, vines, and endless bayous. The rebels noted my movements and at Rolling Fork, as you know, bottled me up damn good. Had you not had your night march on the nineteenth, we would not be standing here today on this deck.”

  “I will serve my fellow officers, sir, in any way I can,” Sherman replied with a glint in his eyes. Porter’s compliments were not given freely to anyone, and Sherman knew now that even with his own failure, he and Porter together had gained success.

  “By the way, General” added Porter, “how did you make your night march in those swamps? I have heard a rumor, but I want to know for sure.”

  Sherman replied, “Well, Admiral, one clever sergeant passed out candles to his group and ordered them to place them in the barrels of their muskets. Once lit, the small procession was noted by the entire corps, and it caught on quickly. Within minutes we had thousands who lit the way. It was magnificent to see.”

  Porter raised up his chin, then nodded.

  “Gentlemen,” Grant said, “the reason I have called you here is to get your read on a bold plan that I will now propose.” He grabbed a match, struck it on the steam stack, and proceeded to puff his cigar until an orange ember glowed. He continued. “I have spoken to Admiral Porter about the initial plan, and now our strategy is complete. The navy and army will move together as we have before to capture fortress Vicksburg.” Grant took another puff and pointed to the Yazoo.

  “On April sixteenth, Porter will run the gauntlet of the Vicksburg batteries at nighttime. He will take the Benton and another eleven gunboats and rams and proceed south of Vicksburg to a point of crossing at Hard Times Landing. The navy will ferry supplies and soldiers across the Mississippi below Vicksburg where we will then advance on the city from the south. I will have General McClernand open a road for the men on the west side of the Mississippi River from Millikens Bend to a point on the river where Admiral Porter’s flotilla will be waiting to cross him along with the rest of the army. Colonel Grierson and one thousand troopers in his cavalry command will also create a diversionary move to cut railroad and communication lines to the east of Vicksburg. You, Sherman, will create a feint at Haines Bluff and will then proceed down the west side of the Mississippi to join the entire army at the point of crossing. We will unite the entire command south of Vicksburg this way. We will then be able to strike General Pemberton or General Johnston east of the city. This will give us our best shot at victory.”

  Grant puffed his cigar once more then flicked it into the Yazoo. “Do you have any questions, gentlemen?” he asked.

  “General, will we be abandoning our supply line?” Sherman asked.

  “The men will carry rations of hard bread, coffee, and salt until we land. The country will furnish the balance until our line is firmly established.”

  Both Sherman and Porter nodded. Sherman extended his hand to Porter. “Admiral, I will wait for you below Vicksburg and will join y
ou after your success.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?” replied Porter.

  “I will row out to you when you run the gauntlet. I will meet you on this deck to celebrate it!” Sherman’s eyes beamed.

  Porter turned to Grant and then looked back at Sherman. He stroked his beard once and then replied, “The thought of rowing to me is crazy, but so was doing a night march through the bayou. You rescued me once. Maybe this time, I will be rescuing you!” Porter smiled, nodded, and shook Sherman’s hand.

  Sherman returned the grip and looked at Grant. “Good luck, Admiral,” he said confidently. “Godspeed. I will see you downriver.”

  Chapter 38

  Union Steam Ram Lafayette

  Ninety-Third Illinois River Crossing

  Bruinsburg, Mississippi

  Fifty-Five Miles South of Vicksburg

  May 1, 1863

  Engines groaned. Smokestacks belched both white and black clouds of smoke into the clear blue sky as ironclad steamers, side-wheelers, and gunboats traveled back and forth off the Bruinsburg shore.

  The Ninety-Third Illinois took to the river again after marching for what seemed endless miles through mossy forests and cane breaks. They arrived at the shore and then tramped up the gangplank to the deck of the ironclad Lafayette. Standing prominently on the foredeck at the bow in full uniform and cap was a young sailor who stood vigilantly as he watched the muddy waters to the east. Aaron, Will, T.J., and Trick moved quickly to where he stood. The point of the bow took whip splashes from the constant wave motion caused by the weight of the flotilla moving to and fro.

  “You boys don’t look like those white-gloved boys from the East Coast,” observed the sailor dryly. He stared ahead at the east bank of the river, which was less than a mile away.