by Alan Sewell
“Will it be possible to lay even a temporary railroad on the waterlogged ground?” objected Taylor. “We have a lot of locomotives and rolling stock to clear south. Is the ground stable enough to bear that load?”
“We can corduroy the roadbed with tree trunks,” answered Bragg. “There’re enough trees along the Wabash for it. We could demolish some barns too, if we have too.” Bragg studied the map. “The bypass route doesn’t have to be long….no longer than fifteen miles as near as I can tell. And the trains don’t have to move fast. We can have our engineers walk ahead of each train and realign the rails as needed. We have a lot of men lollygagging around with nothing to do at the moment. We might as well put them to work.”
“Do any of our engineers have experience building railroad bridges?” asked Taylor. “We’ll have to figure out how to bridge the Wabash after the water goes down. We’ll need to get our hands on some timbers big enough to get locomotives across.”
Lee was startled. He looked again at the map and traced the course of the Wabash with his finger. “Oh, I see, I mistook the Wabash & Eerie Canal for the river. I must be getting old, not to have seen that right away. The river doglegs west of town. We will have to bridge it.”
“I’ve been down there,” said Taylor. “It’s shallow and full of sandbars. Not a very great distance to bridge, but we will have to figure out how to anchor the timbers in loose sand.”
Lee studied the map in silence as he sought for an alternate solution for rerouting the rail traffic. After several minutes he gave it up. He could see no satisfactory alternative to bypassing Terre Haute and re routing the return traffic through Vincennes.
“We’ll have to bridge the Wabash, sand and all. It’s too far to run a new line down to Vincennes entirely on our side of the river. We’d have bogs to bridge anyway, no matter which way we go. I think it’s better to bypass on the shortest route. We’ll only have to worry about bridging one river crossing that we already know about instead of perhaps discovering several others that don’t show on the map.”
“Then we’d better put our heads together figuring out how to do it,” Bragg said to Taylor. “That’s why we have stars on our uniforms. Let’s round up all the railroad men and construction engineers we get our hands on. We’ll need all the help we can get on this one.”
Lee was pleased that his subordinates were engaging their minds in a constructive project. That spirit would spread down to the men. They’d curse like muleskinners about having to labor in atrocious weather building a railroad on soggy ground and a bridge anchored in sand, but that would be better for their morale than lollygagging around in the rain, becoming physically sick from the dampness and mentally depressed from boredom.
“Very well,” said Lee. “I will leave you two to work out the construction of our railroad bypass around Terre Haute. I have some thinking of my own to do.”
Outside the rain continued to pour.
17
Sangamon River, four miles northeast of Springfield, October 4, 1861
Stoneballs Jackson huddled under the trees in his bridgehead on the south bank of the rain-swollen Sangamon River four miles north of Springfield. The Sangamon, being only partially navigable for part of the year, had never borne sufficient commerce to anchor the town of Springfield around it. It was not an artery of commerce, but rather an obstacle restricting access to Springfield from the north. In dry times it was easily fordable. When deluges raised it to flood stage, as it was today, it could only be crossed on the St. Louis, Alton, and Chicago Railroad Bridge. Stoneballs had marched his men across it in the gathering dusk and gloom of yesterday’s evening after chasing off the Rebel cavalry that guarded it.
Stoneballs hadn’t planned on stopping anywhere near here. He had planned on leading the march behind Grant’s lines all the way to the Illinois River fifty miles further west. The delay in breaking through Grant’s line at Urbana, compounded by the delays of pouring rain and sucking mud, had caused him to shorten his line of attack, turning it toward the south at Springfield.
This shorter line of envelopment will leave about twenty thousand of Grant’s men outside it, but forty thousand will be caught within it. That is enough to make it a stunning victory. And it will give us three of the four railroads we need to continue the offensive northward towards Chicago.
Stoneballs had set his camp up on both banks of the river in order to control the approaches to the bridge from both directions. At first light he had sent back a cavalry patrol to make contact with Logan’s division and guide it here. He had expected that after a day’s halt that at least the two leading brigades --- the fast-moving “foot cavalry” that marched without wagons --- would catch up with him here. If he could get those two brigades across the bridge he would have enough men to move through Springfield and attack the rear the Rebel division guarding it. That would be the signal for John B. Floyd’s Division to join the attack by charging forward from the front. The Rebel division would be ground between two millstones. The same fate hopefully awaited three other Rebel divisions further east.
But no men from Logan’s division had been seen. What had arrived was the deluge of rain that made Stoneballs think of Noah’s Ark. It had poured relentlessly all night and now all day. That caused him to suspect the worst: that Logan’s division and those following behind it were bogged down perhaps as far as thirty or even fifty miles to the east. They might be stuck in knee-deep mud somewhere north and east of Decatur or even as far back as Urbana if Grant had somehow succeeded in closing up the breach in his line left by Pope’s surrender.
For the first time since the beginning of the war Stoneballs began to worry.
He hadn’t been worried about Fremont’s encirclement of Lee’s men at Gettysburg because he’d known that the Free States Rebels were just as inexperienced as his own men. He’d known that they’d break when they saw the bayonet and heard the canon’s roar. He’d attacked the Rebels without hesitation and punched an escape corridor for Lee’s encircled troops. He’d even shot John Fremont off his horse with an improvised cannonball culled from a stone fencepost ornament, thereby earning him his “Stoneballs” appellation. He was worried now because he had only three hundred men with him. To his front and rear were tens of thousands of angry Rebels.
He shook the water off his hat. The unrelenting rain and rising waters told him that unless Logan’s men started arriving here within the hour, the great envelopment of Grant’s army, let alone the epic march to Chicago, would have to remain an idle dream. Once again he strained his eyes toward the eastern horizon. Once again he saw nothing except the misty curtain of rain. The only good thing about it was that it was a warm rain that didn’t chill the men to their bones. In fact it was pleasantly warm enough to give those men who stripped off their uniforms a refreshing bath. But that was small consolation for the delay it imposed upon his stalled divisions.
Was it only three days ago that we crossed the Wabash in triumph on that beautiful sunny day? And now, here I am, huddled under the trees on the banks of an un-fordable river! Where is the rest of the army? The rains are slowing them down, of course, but perhaps there is more to it than that. Have the Rebels somehow managed to rally their men to seal the breach we made in their lines between Danville and Urbana? If that is what has happened, I am very likely cut off with my reconnaissance battalion deep in the enemy’s rear. What shall I do? Shall I attempt to cross the enemy’s fortified line in front of Springfield from the rear, or should I backtrack the way I came across eighty miles of enemy-held territory that is flooded and difficult to cross? The Rebels are certainly alert to my presence by now. They are probably patrolling the northbound railroads to prevent my backtracking eastward.
Stoneballs would not permit himself to dwell on the negatives of his situation. He turned his thoughts to the things that were working in his favor. One of them was that his men hadn’t straggled. Aside from those he’d sent back to guide Logan’s division forward and the seven who had been shot
off their horses during the skirmishes with the Rebels here and back at Urbana, his men were all present and accounted for. And they were alert. Even in the pouring rain they manned a strong picket line around the camps on both sides of the river.
Stoneballs watched his horses and mules graze contentedly in the lush grass that poked up from between the puddles. He had brought over to this side of the bridge the mules carrying the disassembled mountain howitzers (some of the men had taken to calling them “prairie howitzers”). They were the very same guns that had helped him bust a hole in the Rebel line surrounding General Lee at Gettysburg. He had insisted upon bringing them along with him to the West in expectation of their being needed for a repeat performance.
He was also gratified by the hospitality he had received from the country folk in these parts. The productive bottomlands along the Sangamon had been taken up by settlers coming up from Kentucky a generation ago. These were mainly older folks by now who mostly voted Democratic. The farmer who owned this land on the south bank of the Sangamon had come out to greet him. “Glad to see the Union men back here in these parts,” the old farmer had said. “It’s damn good to be back in the country to which we rightfully belong.”
An hour later the farmer and his wife had ridden out in a wagon holding kettles of fried chicken, potatoes, and green beans. Jackson had been calling his soaked, hungry men in a few at a time to munch on the treats. There weren’t anywhere near enough to feed all his men, but at least the ones who had to stay alert on picket duty had been fed a hot meal.
Lord, be praised, for giving me this sign letting me know that I am on the side of righteousness in fighting to restore the Confederate Union. There must be many other families such as this one who are longing to return to a reunited country. We are fighting for the right of the quiet majority not to be throttled by the Rebel minority.
Jackson watched a man materialize out of the rain as he carefully walked across the bridge. Jackson hoped he was from the vanguard of Logan’s division, but the man turned out to be the leader of the patrol he had sent out at first light. The patrol leader made his report.
“We went as far east as the Illinois Central. Saw no sign of any of Logan’s men. Grant’s men are patrolling the railroad, so we couldn’t go any further. The mud slowed us down considerably in getting there and back. The creeks are out of their banks, and we had to be careful about fording them. I got pulled off my horse in one of them. They’re deeper than they look. Sir, it’s doubtful whether Logan’s Division or any of the others will be able to get here. They may still be stuck back at Urbana for all we know.”
Stoneballs was stone-faced, but inwardly felt as if he had been kicked in the gut. He composed himself. “Thank you, sergeant. The family who owns this land was kind enough to bring us some vittles. There’s a few pieces of fried chicken and green beans left in the kettle over there. You can bring your patrol over for a bite if you haven’t had anything to eat today.”
“Much obliged, General! None of our men back there have had anything to eat since yesterday.” He looked up at the pouring rain and laughed. “Had plenty to drink though!”
Stoneballs laughed too. If the rest of his command had this man’s good humor then they still had plenty of fight left in them.
“You and your men get some food in your bellies, sergeant. Then get some rest. You’ve had a hard day’s ride.”
Stoneballs looked back over the swollen Sangamon, still on the rise. He saw it lapping around the top of the lower north bank. He decided that he should not try to backtrack across the dozens of miles to Confederate Union lines. He calculated that the rising water combined with Grant’s control of the railroads would make his odds of success too low.
Stoneballs searched the four corners of the horizon for any sign of a break in the clouds. He saw nothing in any direction except steamy fog from the warm rain rising up to mingle with the low overcast. His gaze went down to the horizon in front of him. Motion on the railroad tracks ahead of him drew his attention. He looked again. It appeared that a railcar was approaching slowly. The car stopped at a distance that the obscuring mist barely allowed his vision to penetrate. It appeared that a mule team was unhitched and led away. Jackson called it out to the attention of his sergeants and told him to get his men into firing positions with their guns loaded.
Before the sergeants could carry out the order, a storm of fire erupted from the railcar. Jackson watched the horses and mules grazing inside his lines go down. They’re trying to strand us here by shooting down our mounts!
Jackson shouted out: “Get those horses into the woods! Get some fire on that rail car! And get those mountain guns assembled!”
18
Sangamon River, four miles northeast of Springfield, October 4, 1861
An hour earlier, Colonel of Volunteers John Barrie had watched the storm of fire from his railcar take down the Confederates’ mounts and send the men scurrying for cover. He had twenty-six men in the car. His six best marksmen were posted up front, able to pump out continuous fire from the rifles that the twenty men behind them reloaded and passed up to them. The roof over the car kept the men and their weapons dry. This is the perfect way to patrol a railroad. Yankee ingenuity at work!
The Confederates weren’t doing any shooting at the moment. They’d tried to capture the railroad car three times and each time they’d taken casualties that had driven them back.
The first time they’d tried a mounted attack only to have their horses shot out from under them by Barrie’s fast-firing men before they could close the distance sufficiently to return fire. Then they had tried a dismounted rush by men spread out in skirmish lines. They might have succeeded if the pouring rain hadn’t slowed their loading their rifles and mounting the percussion caps. Barrie’s men, sitting high and dry in the car had shot them down like partridges. The few Confederates who did manage to get close to the car got stuck in hand-to-hand fighting with the rest of Barrie’s men who had walked the tracks behind the car.
On their third attempt the Confederates had tried to bring up their battery of mountain howitzers drawn by mules. Again, Barrie’s men had stopped them in their tracks at two hundred yards by shooting down the mules. The Confederates had unlimbered the cannons and opened fire on the railcar from that distance, but they seemed to only have brought canister rounds with them. The short-barreled cannon flung the canister out in a ring pattern that wasn’t dense enough at the center to make hits on the end-on car. Barrie’s men had driven the gunners off after one volley, leaving the unmanned cannons stuck out there in the mud behind a pile of dead mules.
Barrie stretched out and went to sleep on the railcar floor during the lull following this latest attack. He had been asleep about forty minutes when his sergeant announced that General Grant had arrived.
Barrie got up and saluted Grant, who was shedding water off his white rubber raincoat like a duck.
“My compliments on your ingenuity in defending this railroad,” said Grant. “I believe you’re fighting the same cavalry reconnaissance battalion that chased my patrol off this morning. They probably got run clear back to Bloomington.”
One of the men at the front of the car shouted, “Come see what the Confederates are up too now!” Grant and Barrie walked forward to see. The man who had called them pointed toward the unlimbered guns and dead mules left over from the last Confederate attack. A dozen or so Confederates seemed to be at work on the dead mules. They appeared to be cutting the legs off the mules with axes and bayonets.
One of the men started to draw a bead on the Confederates.
“Let it go, sergeant,” said Barrie. “If those Confederates are hungry enough to eat raw mule legs, then let’s let them eat their dinner in peace.”
Grant laughed. “That’s the sporting thing to do. I owe them one anyway. Yesterday outside Urbana I was caught in the open riding alone without an escort within fifty yards of the Confederate lines. They could have shot me off my horse if they’d wanted to, but the
y held their fire. Guess they didn’t think it was a sporting affair to shoot a lone officer caught out in the open with no means of defending himself. So, yes, let’s do let them enjoy their dinner in peace. They’re bound to choke on those mule legs faster than we could shoot them!”
Barrie and Grant returned to the center of the car.
“I congratulate you and General Smith for extending your lines sufficiently to cover the gaps left by my withdrawal of Prentiss and Curtis divisions,” said Grant. “I used them to plug the gap in our line north of Urbana. Curtis stopped the Confederate attack from the front while Prentiss hit them in the flank. You deserve your share of credit. Your men have kept up enough fire to fool the Confederates into believing the line in front of Springfield is still fully manned. They won’t be able to get across that line to help their friends who are stuck in the mud and taking a beating.”
In the background Barrie heard his men joking about those poor Confederates eating their “mule feast” in the rain.
CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSHH!----BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
The front of the railcar disintegrated, showering Barrie and Grant with wood splinters, pieces of iron, and rounds of what appeared to be bolts of solid shot. The men who had been lounging around the car or were watching the Confederates from the front went flying. Barrie was dropped by a piece of iron rail dislodged from the front of the car. He opened his eyes in time to see another volley of solid shot careening around inside the car, cutting down more of the men as they ricocheted around the interior.
