McPherson nodded. His eyes twinkled in a kindly way. “I am sorry, sir. Those were the men of Ransom’s Brigade. They were taken out, as you said, in quick time by the rebels. We have reformed the brigade though, sir, and they are ready for another try.”
“Very good, General,” replied Grant. He looked back at the fortifications and said, “We will, tomorrow, make a coordinated attack on all fronts. You, Sherman, will attack from the north. General McPherson, from the center, and you, General McClernand, will attack from the south. Is that clear, gentlemen?”
The generals nodded.
“At what time shall we attack, sir?” asked Sherman.
“The attack will commence at ten in the morning. I will order our batteries to begin enfilading the town and the works a few hours before the attack. General Porter will shell the town from the riverboats. When the cannonading stops shortly before ten, you will charge the works.”
Grant pulled out a match again and struck it on the barrel. “See if those rebel snipers can get three generals on this matchstick from this distance!” He smiled at Sherman and McPherson who stepped forward for a light. Both of them chuckled. McClernand stepped back, unamused, and placed his cigar in his pocket.
“Dismissed, gentlemen,” Grant said calmly.
McClernand saluted the three and returned to his horse. An orderly handed him the reigns. As he was about to mount, Grant called out to him, “Don’t be late tomorrow, like you were at Champion Hill. We need your army this time.”
McClernand put his foot in the left stirrup, rose up and settled himself in his saddle. He turned to Grant, tipped his hat in a slow deliberate manner to acknowlege the remark, then cantered away to the railroad redoubt.
Chapter 47
The Charge
May 22, 1863
True to Grant’s plan, by ten o’clock in the morning, the Yankee cannons had finished wreaking havoc on the Confederate fortifications. There was an eerie silence now on both sides interrupted by an occasional zip of a sniper’s bullet.
Then it began again…as if a giant was stirring from his sleep.
Thirty-five thousand Yankees under Generals Sherman, McPherson, and McClernand advanced in tandem. The Forty-Fifth, Ninety-Third, and Ninety-Fifth Illinois Regiments were held in a reserve with other regiments to direct the knockout blow. They were prepared and in line, but none of the line officers knew what time their regiments would be ordered to advance. The sun was high and hot, and many of the soldiers fainted from sunstroke as they waited for the appointed hour.
By noon, Grant from his vantage point could see Union flags in every sector planted in the soil at varying intervals on the outside of the ramparts. The banners flapped in the wind or silently hung limp, daring Yankee color-bearers to push them forward again or rebel defenders to jump over the ramparts to claim them as war trophies. The clock continued to tick past twelve. No one, blue or gray, would take the dare.
Third Louisiana Redan
Attack of the Forty-Fifth Illinois Infantry
Three in the Afternoon
Major Cowan, now acting commander, advanced to the front of the Washburne Lead Mine Regiment. They would take the lead position in the next charge.
He pulled out his small diary from his left pant pocket as it was blocking the movement of his sword scabbard. He pulled open the lapel of his frock coat to place it in his left inside pocket by his heart. In doing so, the diary flipped open to its last entry. He decided to glance through it once more as it was his most recent entry written just one week ago. The men around him did not know it was a diary. They took no notice. They figured he was reviewing last minute orders from General Smith. All were silent as the sniper bullets whizzed by.
May 15th—2 a.m.
Alone by my campfire, surrounded by thousands of sleeping soldiers, noble, brave, and generous, all of whom lay down with hearts full of gratitude for the result of yesterday’s fight, and many of whom now in their sleep, in dreams converse with those of whom they love, forgetting for the time all the toils, dangers and sufferings in this sweet spiritual visit…I am so full of conflicting thoughts, emotions, and cares to sleep, anxious for the future, grateful for the past. Thankful that so many of us are able to stand the hardships of our hard marches and so favored as to escape wounds or death on the battle field… Hardly know whether it is Lute Cowan as went to war or if it is some new being in some other world. But from my fidgety anxiety and multitude of cares, I guess it is the same old Lute. 17
He closed the diary, placing it slowly in his breast pocket next to his heart. Lute Cowan! Lute Cowan! What a childish nickname for me! And if only my old friends could see me now…a commander…standing at the head of a regiment. I must not fail them…my family…anyone!
Cowan looked up at the thick fortifications. White smoke from thousands of muskets rose up obscuring the sun. The sound of the cannonading picked up. The fury of fire echoed across the rebel forts. Sweat dropped from his brow. Cowan felt uneasy, yet he kept his composure. It was three o’clock now—the appointed hour had come—and he turned and approached the men of the Forty-Fifth.
“Fix bayonets!” he shouted as he pulled his sword from his scabbard. “Sergeant Taylor, bring up the colors. We will march up this road, and when we see the works, we will form at about two hundred yards from the redan. Hold off until I give the direct order to advance. We will then take the fort! Are there any questions?”
The ranks remained silent.
Cowan turned and began to move on the road out of the safety of his position.
“Let every man stand to his post!
“Forward, Forty-Fifth! Double-quick!”
The column of blue surged forward, moving almost at a dead run down the road. Cowan kept the lead, quickly turning with each third stride to see if they were in good order.
Then, as if the sky had fallen about them, the roar of rebel rifles flashed before the cavalcade of blue, sending scores to the ground.
Cowan, leading the charge, fell suddenly to the ground.
He felt numb. Lying on his back, he tucked his bloody right hand under his left armpit. He lifted his head and looked down at his hip. He was stunned and silent.
A rebel musket ball had hit his sword scabbard and deflected through his hand and then through his hip, continuing on a deadly path deep into his body. He could not move.
I must secure the bleeding with both hands, or it is over!
Grunting loudly as swirls of white smoke drifted by, he reached down to his hip with his good hand. Within seconds blood oozed between his fingers and then spurted forth like an interrupted pulsing fountain of red.
My artery is cut. I will not bleed to death if I can just hold on. Harriett and the kids will wait for me. I must see them one more time!
Holding his wound with frail determination, his thoughts drifted in a strange way.
He felt a peace as he looked to the swirling and rising smoke above him. His eyes darted back and forth until he locked them on a gap of blue. It was crystal clear, a robin’s-egg color, and bluer than the skies he could ever recall.
My beloved Harriett, Molly, Phine, and Georgie. They will wait for me, and all will be fine.
Another minute passed.
The pain in his hip began to fade away. His good hand, numb from the constant pressure, began to relax.
Around him were the muffled voices of men. The beautiful blue sky was blocked now by unrecognizable faces and indistinguishable silhouettes.
He felt a sensation of being carried away.
With the movement came a forceful rapidity of heartbeats that pounded in his ears as if trying to escape through his head.
The beats got louder, yet he felt no panic.
He felt an infinite peace.
The streaming blood from his hip had stopped flowing.
The pounding in his head ceased, too.
Just silence now.
Cowan was dead.
Stockade Redan
Attack of the Nin
ety-Fifth Illinois Infantry
Same Day
Three in the Afternoon
The storming party was ready to attack Stockade Redan again. The ladders were secured up front with the color-bearers. This time, however, Allie took to the rear. She was one of the only survivors in the attack on the nineteenth, so Captain Bush placed her in the back ranks as a reward for doing her duty. She felt uneasy as the Yankee lines formed for the assault, as the southern guns seemed to get more massed and more accurate by the hour.
This attack would be different for the 95th. This time the generals prepared ten regiments for a massed assault. To the left of the 95th were the 72nd Illinois and the 17th and 14th Wisconsin. To the right were the 11th Illinois, 8th Missouri, 116th and 113th Illinois, 6th Missouri, and 13th US Infantry. The playing field, they thought, had been leveled. “Fix bayonets!” Captain Bush commanded. The clang and snap of the bayonets against the rifle barrels echoed across the line. The order was repeated across ten regiments, and in a moment the undulating blue mass of men moved forward.
Unfazed by the blue spectacle in front of them, rebel artillery began to fire. Twelve-pound cannonballs with timed fuses exploded over the Union lines, causing shrapnel to rain down upon the soldiers lake a hail storm from hell. In concert, rounds of solid shot tore through the ranks like deadly bowling balls, tearing off limbs, punching through bellies, and decapitating heads.
Allie could not stand the destruction. Her heart beat rapidly as she firmly grasped her musket. Then the dreaded order “double-quick” was shouted by Captain Bush. How can this all be happening? My God, how can this be happening! A solid shot decapitated a soldier just ten feet in front of her. That’s the boy from Rockford who lent me his canteen just moments ago when I was thirsty! She felt a mist of blood on her face as another soldier was shot. Her eyes widened with terror. She stepped up her pace along with the others. I’ll never make it. Another soldier dropped in front of her, then another! The screams got louder but were drowned out by the Luciferian roar of the cannons that continuously hurled canister rounds into the Union troops’ ranks. The ditch at the base of the fort was only forty yards from the crest ahead. I think I can make it. Three men dropped before her like rag dolls hitting the ground. One looked back at her, stunned, in terror. I must get moving. She increased her pace. The crest ahead had soldiers lying behind it. They’re not dead, just protecting themselves. Good, I think I can make it. She took a deep breath, sprinted, and dove behind the safety of the crest, musket at her side.
Enemy fire swept over her head in a continuous hum, only inches away. She buried her face in the red soil and wanted the noise and insanity of it all to stop. It didn’t. She thought she heard a command to charge the fort, but she was wrong. Where are the friends? God, please make sure they are alive somewhere. Another explosion caused the ground to shake in front of her. She inched back a foot. A soldier next to her had an expression of alarm. His eyes were wide, yet he did not blink. Allie reached over to nudge him. His cap fell off. His forehead had been shattered by a ball. Her stomach rebelled with dry heaves. What do I do now? What do I do now? God, help us! God, please help us! She curled into a fetal position with her hands cupping her ears. She looked back at the field she had crossed. Behind her were at least five hundred soldiers grossly mangled or contorted in death. She closed her eyes. Please don’t order us to charge! Please, God, make this all stop! She pushed harder on her ears in a vain attempt to eliminate the noise; concussions of cannon fire continued to shake the ground around her. She trembled. Please, God, make it stop! Please, God, make it stop! Please, God, make it stop! She continued her silent pleas.
The colors of the regiment rose up for the charge. She saw one color-bearer drop and then another. The flag hit the ground a third time, and then it disappeared over the crest to the ditch below the rebel ramparts. The roar from the fort was incessant now. The constant fire from the Confederate musket barrels caused the cotton bales to catch fire. I must get to the ditch. I must get to the ditch. She saw the colors move forward. She lifted her head to follow and blacked out.
Railroad Redoubt
Attack of the Ninety-Third Illinois Infantry
Same Day
Four Thirty in the Afternoon
True to Grant’s request, General McClernand was not late when he executed the attacks in the morning. He even reported to Grant that his attacks had established a foothold inside the forts around the Railroad Redoubt. Demanding reinforcements to secure the breach in the Confederate lines, Colonel Putnam and the Ninety-Third and the brother regiments of the Third Brigade were sent by Grant to support him.
Half of the Ninety-Third boys were sunburnt from being under the sun for four long hours. Some had fainted. Some had died from heat-stroke. With muskets in hand, they wondered where they were heading and what nightfall would bring.
Black Hawk pranced in front of the soldiers. He seemed anxious to move to the front. Colonel Putnam reined him back. Another loud shot from Whistling Dick, the Confederate large mortar that launched hundred-pound lead balls, shrieked across the late afternoon skies. Putnam cautiously moved a few yards closer to the point of attack. He slipped from his saddle and tied Black Hawk’s reins snugly to an oak sapling. Black Hawk whinnied and stomped his feet as if to protest.
“There will be another battle for you to fight, my boy,” said Putnam softly. “I will return shortly.”
Black Hawk snorted and pulled back from the sapling to free himself. Unable to do so, he then settled down after briefly stomping his front hooves as if in frustration.
“Boys, we will advance down this small rise, cross the ravine for a distance, and rest on the back side of that intervening hill. We will catch our breaths and then charge the fort. The Ninety-Third will take the advance position. Colonel Boomer has placed us first. We will do our best to be the first in the fort. The Tenth and Fifth Iowa Regiments, and the Twenty-Sixth Missouri will support us and follow us in. Do you understand?”
Will and Aaron looked at each other and then at the fort in the distance. They could see several Yankee flags driven deeply in the rampart and their color-bearers hugging the slope from the morning charge.
“Damn,” Will exclaimed, “looks like those boys have nowhere to go. Can’t go up and over. Can’t go down. Looks like they need some relief, if they haven’t already died of sunstroke. Don’t see them moving at all.”
“I guess we’ll soon be marching to our graves, Will,” replied Aaron solemnly.
Suddenly, Putnam appeared again. “Corporal Erwin, front forward with the colors!”
Aaron looked at Will, who snapped up the flag, saluted Putnam, and proceeded forward.
“Will!” shouted Aaron, causing Will to look back. “Good luck, friend,” he said. “We will see you in the fort…or in heaven.”
Will smiled and gently nodded. He continued forward until he was by Putnam’s side.
“Captains, form your men for the charge,” Putnam commanded. A few moments passed, and when he saw the men were ready, he shouted, “Fix bayonets!” Metallic clinks echoed down the line. The deadly toad-stickers were ready now, and the soldiers moved into the ravine.
Boom! Boom! Pow! Zip! came a shower of lead from shot, shell, and musket balls. The march, which commenced like a parade, moved from common step to quickstep to double quickstep to charge as the Ninety-Third, with Will in the lead, charged forward. The hail of lead continued to rain down on them.
Ascending close to the top of a rise in front of the Railroad Redoubt, Putnam commanded, “Lie flat, men. Lie prone!”
Seconds passed when Aaron, panting heavily, fell next to Will and Putnam. “For Christ’s sake, Will, this ain’t fighting. This is a slaughterhouse!” he said.
“Keep your head down, Aaron!” Putnam warned.
Suddenly, two colonels also dropped close to the ground near Putnam and the boys. One was the Commanding Colonel Boomer, the other was Colonel Dean of the Twenty-Sixth Missouri. Boomer took off his kepi and wip
ed his brow. Dean slid his sword back in his black leather scabbard. “Guess I won’t be needin’ this right yet,” he said.
“Colonel Putnam, do you know how far it is from this position to the forts?” asked Colonel Boomer.
“About two hundred yards, sir.”
“That’s a long damn distance!” added Dean.
“We have orders, gentlemen,” Boomer replied, his black moustache still drooping with sweat. “We will do our duty. We must help those boys on the ramparts.”
“Are they alive, sir? They could be dead by now,” replied Dean in earnest.
Boomer took off his kepi, turned it around, and placed it on the ground so as not to attract snipers to the shiny brass insignia pinned on the front. He took a deep breath and lifted his head for a better view of the situation.
“What do you see, sir?” asked Dean.
Suddenly, there was the ugly sound of a large egg cracking. It happened in a split second. A deadly ball penetrated Boomer’s head, scattering gray matter all around him.
“My God!” Dean screamed. “Let’s fall back. Let’s fall back!”
Putnam grabbed the panic-stricken colonel and held him down. “Colonel, keep your composure! Do you hear me?”
Dean shook uncontrollably and tried to wipe off Boomer’s blood from his frock coat sleeve. To no avail, it was stained for good. Then, gaining control of himself, he nodded sheepishly at Putnam.
Putnam turned around and looked at the ravine where they had crossed. Will and Aaron looked back, too.
“My God, Colonel, there are a good fifty of the Ninety-Third dead or wounded back there,” Aaron said.
“Lost about forty good men from my Twenty-Sixth, too,” Dean added.
Soon there was a gasp from the mortally wounded Boomer followed by a guttural gurgle . Everyone looked away. A minute later the dying man’s face twisted in a rictus of death, and then there was silence.
The rebel musketry lessened to a spattering of skirmish-like rattles in the distance. The sun would soon be setting. The boys of the proud Ironsides Brigade, as they were called after their victory at Champion Hill just six days before, now hugged the Mississippi soil, hoping and praying in silence that Colonel Putnam, now the senior commander on the field, would take the brigade to the rear.
FRIENDS OF THE WIGWAM: A Civil War Story Page 28
