The Confederate Union War

by Alan Sewell

  He was just getting to his feet when the car exploded again, knocking him flat on his back in the center isle. Grant fell over him. Barrie raised his head enough to see that only five of his men were still manning their positions with their weapons at the ready. The CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSHH! ---- BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM! of another salvo echoed, and all five of those men went down.

  Where did the Confederates get that solid shot? His attention became fixed on one of the bolt-like solid shots that had came to rest a few feet away after clanging around the car and dropping his men. No, it can’t be! They’re shooting mule legs at us! It was true. The “solid shot” were mule hoofs with the mule shoes still on them. Some of the hoofs had shattered, dislodging the iron shoes while showering the interior with deadly hoof splinters.

  Barrie was pinned by Grant who appeared to be unconscious. He heard pandemonium outside. Through the holes blown in the car he saw Confederates charging by on horseback. Some horses carried two men while others carried lone riders with drawn sabers or brandished pistols. This time the Confederates chased Barrie’s men outside the train away from the tracks. Barrie heard a loud “Eeeeee----yaaaaaaahh------yip-----yip------yay-yo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” as the Confederates galloped past. He heard one Confederate shout, “We did it again, Stoneballs, hell if we didn’t!”

  Grant came to his senses and groggily pulled himself off Barrie. He had a huge welt across his head where one of the strange projectiles had grazed him.

  “Son of a bitch!” said Grant, rubbing his throbbing head. He took the hipflask of whiskey out of his coat pocket and threw it out a hole in the side of the car. “I’ve got to stop drinking this rotgut. It kicks like a mule!”

  19

  Columbus Ohio, October 5, 1861

  Brigadier General of Volunteers Ormsby Mitchel poured Cump Sherman a wine aperitif at his Camp Dennison headquarters. He raised his glass to toast Cump’s arrival.

  “Cheers, from one West Pointer to another.”

  “War brings us West Pointers back together in service of our country,” replied Cump. “When our country calls us to war, we always return to the profession of arms.”

  “I’ve been away from the service for many years,” said Mitchel, stirring his glass. “But West Point has left its indelible mark on me. It has made me a success in everything I’ve done.”

  “Your fame as an astronomer is known around the world. I’m sorry the war has called you away from its pursuit.”

  Cump observed that Mitchel looked to be the very incarnation of what he thought an astronomy professor should look like. Small-bodied, but perfectly proportioned, with thick hair, greying slightly, to show his fifty years. Yet his small frame seemed to radiate energy. He had spent his years out of the service engineering railroads and promoting astronomical research. He had funded the creation of one of the world’s largest telescopes at his Cincinnati observatory. He had become one of the most popular scientific lecturers in the country. Ormsby Mitchel felt that Man could not know Himself fully until he understood the Cosmos and thereby understood his own place in its design.

  “For a West Pointer, the country must always come first,” answered Mitchel.

  “I suppose that depends on what country you mean,” said Sherman, sipping the wine. “Most West Pointers are either fighting for the Confederate Union or they have stayed neutral. I tried to stay neutral too. I was Commandant of the Louisiana Military Institute when the war started. I had more friends in the Confederate Union than in the Free States. I understood that the Northern Abolitionists have done at least as much as the Southern Fire eaters to break up the Union. So I didn’t want to fight against either Ohio or the Confederate Union.”

  “What did make you decide to commit to our War for Free State independence?”

  “My brother persuaded me to come back to Ohio to make my decision. While I was here John invited me to Lincoln’s inaugural. His words were convincing. He said them again at his Gettysburg Address, and again at the Columbus rally.”

  “What was it he said that convinced you?”

  “That we, the Free States, are the true inheritors of the United States. Maybe that’s an overstatement, because the Southerners also did their part to create the Union. But I do agree with Mr. Lincoln that the United States is destined to become a free country in its entirety. The Confederate Union will one day free its slaves. When it does I believe the old Union of all the states will come back together again.”

  “That’s the way I see it too,” said Mitchel. “The country has to move forward into the new century, not remain tethered to the one that is passing. The Twentieth Century is less than forty years away. That will be a century of discovery and progress even grander than what we’ve seen in our lifetimes. Science and industry will make us fantastically wealthy through the discovery of knowledge and its application to industry, commerce, and agriculture. Slavery is a system of labor exploitation based on ignorance and backwardness. It belongs to the 18th Century, not the 20th.”

  Mitchel swirled his wineglass. “I don’t mean to say that the Southerners are ignorant or indifferent to science. Far from it, they were generous in writing checks to fund my observatory. But I do think that their insistence upon retaining slavery will distract us from the pursuit of progress. They want to bring slavery into the West. They want to acquire Mexico and the Caribbean. That will embroil us in wars of conquest and very likely lead us into conflict with the powers of Europe. Slavery brings domestic violence and wars of foreign conquest. Let us be done with it! Let us turn our minds toward the pursuit of things that uplift Man instead of oppressing him. Let us pursue the arts and sciences that expand men’s minds and brings us the true wealth that comes from knowledge, not the false wealth that comes when some men exploit the labor of others!”

  “I could not have said it any better,” said Cump. “Your capacity to distill complex subjects into their most basic contents of right and wrong matches President Lincoln’s.”

  Mitchel let out a long sigh. “We must separate ourselves from the Confederate Union before their dependence upon slavery corrupts us too. The Slave States have plenty of friends up here. You know that Douglas and Davis came within eight thousand votes of winning this state. The Democrats elected their candidate for governor in the state election last October. It was only the late campaigning by Republicans that swung the state our way by a smidgen in November.”

  Mitchel threw up his arms in exasperation. “Too many people here don’t give a fig about slavery. If we don’t get these people away from the corrupting influence of the slave powers then we’ll be fighting to keep slavery from getting a foothold up here.”

  Sherman held up his glass and smelled the aroma. “Given the closeness of the vote I’m surprised the Partisan War wasn’t any more severe here than it was. Cincinnati was the only place I’ve heard of that suffered the kind of fighting they had in the other Lower North States.”

  “I was in Cincinnati during the Partisan War,” replied Mitchel, his expression pained. “I thought the rioters were going to burn the whole town down. Then Fremont brought in the field artillery. He placed it up on the hills next to my observatory. He blasted what was left of the business district to smithereens.” Mitchel shook his head. “Barbaric!”

  “I know,” answered Cump. “I’m glad my brother and I decided to rent a law office there before I took the assignment in Louisiana. We were thinking of buying the building. Would have been a total loss if we had. Hope you didn’t lose any of your property, or any of your life’s work at the observatory.”

  “Thankfully not. The part of the city that was demolished was in the commercial district. A lot of the businesses and all the taverns and whorehouses by the piers were burned by Douglas men or flattened by Fremont’s artillery. We were fortunate that the Confederates didn’t try to retake the city with an army corps like they did St. Louis. They placed artillery up on the hills around Covington, but mercifully restrained themselves from opening fire. Gue
ss they figured that Fremont was doing enough damage on his own.”

  “Nobody ever accused Fremont of being subtle,” replied Cump. “I suppose he decided to put down the rioting as quickly as he could. At least he succeeded in flushing the Douglas men out of there before they had time to organize anywhere else.”

  “Fremont’s namesake town took a beating too,” said Mitchel. “That must have galled him, to have to open fire on the town named after him!”

  Mitchel poured more wine into his and Sherman’s glasses.

  “Those were the only two notable disturbances in Ohio. It might have been worse if the Democrats had charismatic leaders like they had with Logan over in Illinois, but they didn’t have anybody who could organize them. Another thing is that Ohio is settled differently than Indiana and Illinois. Our Ohio River counties were settled by New Englanders in the early 1800s. They were a Republican firebreak between the Democrats in Kentucky and the Democrats in the middle counties of the state. That’s why the trouble was localized to Cincy and Fremont.”

  “Cincy and Fremont are both river ports,” remarked Sherman. “The riffraff in the ports are the ones who make the trouble. They can’t stand Negroes coming up from the South to compete with them for work. Can’t say as I blame them because most employers won’t pay their Negroes the same as they pay Whites. The fault lies with White employers who think the Negro isn’t worth a damn. But that doesn’t stop the lower classes from blaming us Republicans. They think every Negro who isn’t a slave is going to come up here and take their jobs.”

  “That’s one thing we need to work on,” replied Mitchel. “We need to pass laws requiring the same wages for the same work, regardless of the laborer’s color.”

  Sherman leaned back, enjoying the wine. For the first time he began to think about how the Free States would govern themselves if they managed to win their independence. “We’ll have a lot of things to take care of when the war’s over. But first I suppose we’d best get on with the business of winning it. That’s what I’m here to talk to you about.” He handed Mitchel a copy of his orders.

  Mitchel read them and then looked up at Cump. “I am to move my men to Indianapolis, but they will remain under my command. We will decide how to deploy them when they are assembled in Indy. Is that right?”

  Sherman nodded. “That’s right --- your men will remain under your command. You are free to cooperate to any degree you want with McDowell. Or you may choose to fight your men independently. It will be your decision. I’m acting in the capacity of your senior staff officer.”

  “What do you know about McDowell’s situation? It must be difficult or you wouldn’t be here.”

  Sherman stretched back and gathered his thoughts. He did not want to needlessly alarm Mitchel or to understate the severity of the Confederate Union’s breakthroughs.

  “Not having been there, I’m not precisely sure of the situation. We’ll have to sort it out as we go along. I do know that the Confederates made a surprise crossing of the Wabash with over one hundred thousand men. Part of their men re-crossed the Wabash near the Illinois-Indiana line and moved west. The other part moved toward Indianapolis. The last telegrams received before I left Cleveland indicate that Grant is fighting successfully to contain the breakthrough in Illinois while McDowell isn’t fighting his men well in Indiana. The Confederates have cut off and isolated Jacob Loomis’ division at Terre Haute. They’re trying to isolate and destroy the rest of McDowell’s army around Indianapolis.”

  “An offensive in two states!” gasped Mitchel. “The Confederates must have mobilized every available man they had to pull off an attack on that scale.”

  “We’re not sure how they moved so many men to the front so quickly,” said Sherman. “But I’m sure a lot of it has to do with McClellan’s planning, Stanton’s execution, and Robert E. Lee’s tactical command. They have a strong team. We’ll have to make ours stronger.”

  “When do we leave for Indianapolis?”

  “I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning. You’ll be boarding your men tomorrow and the next day. The government has chartered all the rolling stock between Cincinnati and Cleveland to move them. Your regimental commanders are to make sure that the men board with their equipment, including sixty rounds of ammunition, and five days of cooked rations. We want these men ready to fight when they arrive in Indy. How many men do you have on activity duty?”

  “Over thirty-three thousand. That includes about twelve thousand who signed up after the Columbus rally. No more than a thousand are on sick call. We’ve been careful about taking care of sanitation.”

  “Excellent!” said Sherman. “Making sure the men are healthy enough to fight is half the battle. Are the men ready for a fight?”

  “Those men who signed up after the Columbus rally were itching for a fight the day they got here. Now they shall have it!”

  Sherman’s anxiety eased. Mitchel was ready to fight his men no matter how green they were. Most commanders wouldn’t be so confident. They’d be complaining that the men weren’t sufficiently trained, and they’d be pestering the government with inflated requisitions for more supplies than they could possibly need. But Mitchel was ready to fight. And if the general was ready, the men would be ready.

  Outside the wind picked up and drops of rain slapped the windows. Sherman began to consider the impact that the sudden appearance of thirty thousand troops in “high feather” would have on the battle-weary Confederates.

  “By the time all of your men arrive the day after tomorrow, the Confederates will have been fighting for six days. They’ll be dog tired, hungry, and low on ammunition. We’ll hit them with a fresh army, well rested, well fed, and fully equipped. I pity those poor Confeds. We’re going to bowl them over like ten pins.” He raised his glass and nodded confidently to Mitchel.

  An even grander plan took form in his mind. Suppose we are able to punch all the way through and relieve Jacob Loomis’ division at Terre Haute. If we can capture the bridge over the Wabash we’ll be able to push our way across the base of the Confederate salient and link up with Grant’s men on the other side. That will allow us to cut off and destroy a half dozen or more of their divisions. Perhaps after linking up with Grant we’ll be able to do even more than that. Perhaps we’ll be able be able to encircle and capture every Confederate division in the Northwest. That would effectively end the war. And oh how proud it would make the volunteers in Mitchel’s army!

  20

  Urbana, Illinois, October 5, 1861

  General Ulysses S. “Sam” Grant sat at the bedside of his dying division commander Colonel W.H.L Wallace in the bedroom of a home in Urbana, Illinois.

  Grant had seen many men die in battle during the last two months of fighting in the Partisan War followed by the Confederate Union War. He had seen men die of all causes during the Mexican War. His heart had hardened to death. But still he wept when the death affected him personally as Wallace’s did. Wallace’s wife, who had arrived from Chicago that morning, sat next to the bedside weeping along with Grant.

  “You saved our army,” Grant finally said when he composed himself. “Neither I nor the nation will ever forget what you did here.”

  “It was little enough,” said Wallace, who seemed to be at peace with his impending death. “A man is honored most when he is privileged to give his life for his country. I have done nothing more than those under my command who have already passed from this world have done.”

  Wallace, a lawyer in civilian life, had fought his volunteer regiment like a military professional to stop the rot of a crumbling front where it had to be stopped, in front of the rail junction at Urbana. He had known enough to bend his line around the town and anchor it along the Illinois Central running north out of town. He had beaten off savage Confederate attacks, directing the battle under fire until falling mortally wounded. His defense of the Illinois Central line had forced Jackson’s mobile divisions to divert their attack northward to find another gap in the line. The rain had st
arted pouring down, and the thickening mud had slowed their progress.

  That had given Grant the extra day he needed to pull the divisions of Curtis and Prentiss out of their positions in front of Decatur and Jacksonville and move them a hundred miles by rail to counterattack Jackson’s mobile divisions before Jackson sprung the trapdoor of his encirclement closed. Wallace was destined to become yet another hero to enter into the Free State’s pantheon. As a close personal friend of Lincoln, he would be yet another loss to grieve the President.

  Grant’s expression became stern. “We will win this battle and then our independence. It is the least we can do to honor you and the others who have fallen. We will drive the Confederates from every inch of Free State soil and then we shall make peace.”

  Wallace looked Grant in the eye for the last time. “You will surely prevail with men such as I have had the honor to command.” Wallace eased into unconsciousness.

  Grant got up to leave. He sought words of comfort for Mrs. Wallace, but could not find them. He took her hands in his for a moment and then left. There will be many widows like her before this war is over. Grant put on his hat and went back out into the pouring rain. His thoughts returned to the battle being waged by the living.

  As Grant rode forward toward the front he noticed that the sky had begun to show some breaks in the west where the sun was setting. The steamy rain had tapered off, leaving banks of low-lying fog clinging to the ground. Grant reached the command post of Colonel McClernand, who had taken command after Wallace was carried from the field.

  “How is Colonel Wallace?” asked McClernand, in a grim tone that indicated he already knew.

  Grant shook his head. “Barring a miracle, he won’t live out the day.”

  McClernand bowed his head and said a silent prayer.

  “Have your men been supplied with food and ammunition?” Grant asked.