by Jeff Shaara
He rode with a slow bouncing rhythm, his fingers on the brass buttons, his brain aching for a cigar. There was nothing different about the countryside, or the dismal weather that soaked them all, and Sherman found solace in that, allowed his mind to wander. He thought now of Donelson, the final surrender, a very good day, and he remembered the prisoners, legions of filthy rebel troops marching away knowing of failure. It was the same kind of failure Sherman carried from the summer before, and he focused on that, thought, we must know how to be leaders. We give a man a musket and tell him to kill that boy over there, and if the man believes we are worth following, worth respect, incredibly enough, he’ll do it. Damndest thing. The young … and they are so young … they’ll do what a commander tells them to do, even if it’s the wrong thing, even if they don’t know that the commander is an idiot. If that officer panics and runs like hell, well, then it’s over. It all collapses. The illusion of respect disappears. But you can’t be surprised by that. That’s what West Point is for, after all. Teach a man how to stand tall and give the order, and do it so those young boys will obey it. Not much more complicated than that.
No matter how many times you give the orders, you don’t show them that you know damn well what’s going to happen next. Doesn’t matter if these boys are illiterate mudkickers or college boys. They’ll still aim that musket and do their best to kill that scoundrel over there who might be trying to do the same thing back. And afterward, whoever took the better shot goes back to the camps, talks to the new recruits, tells them all about it, and so more illiterates and college boys pick up their muskets, and by damned, they get all excited, and can’t wait to do the same thing. That’s how a war gets fought. And by God, that’s why you can’t fall apart again. Making those boys pick up a musket and doing the job is a good thing, the right thing, no matter that a bunch of mamas back home think otherwise. Sorry, ma’am, but we need a big damn army right now, and there’s no better way to make one than to gather up a bunch of boys and tell them how much fun they’re going to have killing their enemy. Yep, that’s how armies are made. We’ve got a good one, too. No doubt about that. The generals … well, that’s a whole different thing. Damn shame. But by God, it won’t be me. Not again. I can’t … run. I can’t.
He brought himself back to the rain, still the rhythm of the saddle, the horse’s hooves slurping through mud a half foot deep. Beside him, the engineer had come up close, McPherson, riding in sullen silence. They had not expected the rains to continue, not for so many days, and Sherman knew that McPherson had something to say. Sherman waited, thought, yep, I know just what he’s going to tell me. No matter how good our plan might be, out here, in this kind of mud, it doesn’t much matter. In this mess, even a good engineer’s got nothing he can do.
Their mission had been sound, the orders definite, and Sherman knew that General Smith had a pretty clear grasp of what was going on around Corinth. Sherman’s men had already made one attempt to shove southward, up the river, several hundred troops on the transports, led by Sherman’s staff officer, Major Dan Sanger. That mission had been escorted by gunboats commanded by men who were eager to blast any rebel target on the shoreline, but the targets were few and fleeting, observers and cavalry patrols mostly. The mission had been to drive into Mississippi east of Corinth, hitting the railroad line at Eastport. They knew there was a bridge, and if it could be taken down, Sherman’s men would slice a gaping hole in the Confederate supply line that the Federal commanders knew was pouring rebel troops and equipment into their growing strongholds around Corinth. It was similar to the tactic Grant had used at Fort Donelson. It was one moment of glory that Sherman embraced, knew that Grant embraced it as well. Days before, at Fort Henry, the Federal naval gunners had earned perfect confidence that they could destroy any kind of strong point the rebels placed along the rivers. But Donelson was not Henry, and when the navy made their grand attack, the results had been catastrophic for the same gunboats that had been so successful at Fort Henry. It was Grant who had understood flexibility, and Sherman appreciated that, had seen that Grant learned the lesson that had cost the navy so many casualties, and so many good boats. Fine, Johnny Reb, you did good. Now try it again. You point your cannon and your muskets at that big river, and wait for us to do the same kind of attack. You might believe we’re the stupidest enemy in the world, and so we’ll float up to your front door again, right where you want us to be, and maybe we’ll even stand up tall, hold the Stars and Stripes high for you to see, give you another fleet of perfect targets.
Sherman had studied enough tactics to believe as Grant did, that the best way to grab an enemy by the throat was to do it from the side, or maybe even from behind. At Donelson, with a naval assault useless, Grant had sent the troops overland, had hit the rebel works with a mass of infantry. It had worked, though Sherman knew what they all knew. The rebels at Donelson didn’t just fold up, there was no mass panic, nothing of the inglorious retreat the boys in blue had shown at Bull Run. The rebel earthworks and fortifications had been planned with care, the wisdom that comes from a good engineer. He glanced at McPherson, wondered if he knew who the rebel engineers were, if there was a single man with good sense who had constructed Fort Donelson. Artillerymen, too, he thought. They had some big guns there, and some of their people knew how to use them, something the navy boys had learned the hard way. Sherman slapped at a whining insect that danced around his ear, thought, it was a tough damn fight, and they were killing our boys worse than we were killing theirs, but Grant knew he could bring in more, could keep at ’em, while the rebs had nobody else. It was good tactics and good work, but make no mistake. They handed Grant the fort because they had jackass generals. No shortage of those in either army, apparently.
Beside him, McPherson spoke for the first time in a half hour.
“General, with all respects, sir, this is as bad a mess as I’ve seen. Major Sanger couldn’t get his people close enough to Eastport to do the job, and we won’t do any better out here. Doesn’t matter what route we take. Even if the men can swim across these flooded creeks, there’s no way to take the heavy equipment, no way the guns or the wagons … well, you try to drag artillery across some of these overgrown ditches, you’ll never see them again. Pardon me for saying so, sir.”
Sherman had enormous respect for McPherson, knew the man had taught engineering at West Point. Every commander McPherson had served had allowed him to advance only with reluctance, no one wanting to lose such a capable man. But advance he did, serving the Federal commanders in the West all the way to the top. The top now of course was Henry Halleck, but Sherman had been impressed that somehow Ulysses Grant had managed to convince Halleck that McPherson should leave those cozy offices at St. Louis, and come out here where the army was. Sherman had wondered why any good commander would think the best place for a crack engineer should be any other place but the field. He watched McPherson’s gloom, thought, did Halleck ever think he might need a bridge built somewhere around his headquarters? All right, Sherman, no use trying to think like Halleck. No one thinks like Halleck, not in this part of the world, anyway.
“You saying this is a waste of time, Colonel?”
McPherson peered at him from under the dripping brim of his hat, his hand wiping water from his face.
“I am in your service, General. You want to ride further into these woods and wear out your men and horses in the mud, hoping we’ll find some kind of magic passageway to someplace we can do some good …”
“That’s enough, Colonel. You might be the expert, but I’m in command. Keep your sarcasm to yourself. I’d rather be anyplace else than wandering out in enemy territory on some nameless roadway.… ” He stopped, kept the rest of the thought to himself. He turned now, held up his hand, the horsemen behind him knowing the signal, stopping abruptly. Sherman saw misery on a dozen faces, and behind the horsemen, the column of infantry, their brogans smothered by the soft roadway, their uniforms splattered with oozing mud. Sherman thought of Genera
l Smith, knew that their goal had been useful, important. But sarcasm or not, McPherson was right. He said nothing for a long minute, the faces starting to find him, no one showing a flicker of enthusiasm. Close by he saw Major Sanger, his aide, and said, “Major, we’re not doing any better here than you did yesterday. Give the order. Turn these boys around and march them back to the river. Let’s get on those damn boats and find a dry place to put our feet up. If General Smith wants that railroad busted up, he’ll have to find another way.”
SAVANNAH, TENNESSEE
MARCH 17, 1862
Sherman saw the festering wound on Smith’s leg, the doctor wiping it with some kind of stinking ointment. The general was grimacing, said, “By damned, Treadwell, you might as well stick my leg in a keg of your Aunt Sally’s corn liquor.”
“Sir, I don’t have—”
“Oh, shut up, Doctor. Just be done with it. It hurts like … it hurts. What more do you need to know?”
Smith looked up at Sherman.
“Someone’s trying to do me in, Cump. I scrape my leg bone jumping onto the deck of a steamboat, and you’d think I’d been struck by lightning. Now it’s all blown up and these doctors are flocking around me like pigeons on a parade ground.” He paused, and Sherman saw a hint of fog in the clear, unsmiling eyes. “I do miss that, you know. Every minute of it. Lovely place, West Point. Lovely time. Young minds are the most fun. Nothing closed, no conclusions dropped into them like bricks in a flowerpot.”
Sherman had heard this before, knew that Smith had been as respected and admired at West Point as any commandant in memory. It was something of a mystery why, now, he was outranked by a half dozen of the generals who had once been cadets in his classroom.
“I’m afraid, sir, I was more likely one of those bricks.”
“Bah! I remember you. All of you. Worst thing that happened to you was that you missed out on Mexico. The whole lot of them learned something of soldiering there. Me too, I suppose. Scott and Taylor … good men, good generals. These young bucks learned from that, Cump. They learned about war, and they learned how to win.” He paused. “Get out, doctor. I promise, I’ll summon again when we’re through here.” Smith waited for the doctor to leave the room, curled his nose at the smell from his leg that Sherman was trying desperately to ignore. “Got a message today from Halleck. Excuse me, General Halleck. He’s had a change of heart. Or brain. Or his breakfast agreed with him. Whatever the reason, he’s decided that General Grant is not an incompetent, lying, insubordinate fool after all. Didn’t much matter that Halleck was the only one who believed that nonsense. But, the wire said, um, in different words of course, that Halleck has suddenly developed an unexpected dose of wisdom. He has reinstated General Grant to his command of this army. I am once again his subordinate.”
Sherman absorbed the news, shook his head.
“Sorry, sir. You deserve better treatment.”
“Nah. Don’t give it a thought, Cump. Sam Grant is the man for this job. Donelson was his victory, big feather in his cap. That’s what did him in with Halleck, you know. Our commanding general believes he can best fight our battles by sitting in a chair. Someone like Grant shows him, well, perhaps that isn’t the best way.… Halleck takes umbrage, decides he better make it clear who’s in charge. Grant’s only mistake was not bowing down quite low enough. Maybe he should have wired Halleck a few more times, congratulating him on Halleck’s glorious conquest.” He stopped, cocked his head to one side. “You’re friends with him, right? I don’t wish to offend you, General Sherman.”
Sherman thought of Halleck, shrugged.
“We spent a lot of time together … long time ago. Two lieutenants both too ignorant to know how ignorant we were. Fought like cats, feuded about half the time over something neither of us can remember. Best time we had together is the trip we took to Rio Janeiro, on our way to California. Marvelous place. We had some … uh … fun. I owe him a great deal. Might not be in the army at all if he hadn’t put me back in command. I have made a few enemies.”
“Yes, yes, I know all of that. He’s your guardian angel, is that it? You spew out some amazingly stupid things to a newspaper reporter, and it’s Halleck who keeps you from losing your career. I never really thought you were insane, by the way. Well, no more than the rest of us. Look where we are, for God’s sake.” Smith stared at Sherman’s hand, fingers pinching and tugging at his short red whiskers. “You’re a nervous man by nature. I’ve known that for years. But you don’t know how to make good use of that. You get yourself all twisted into knots when you ought to be seeing the bright light of day. Halleck has confidence in you, I know that. Grant feels the same way. But … if I may say, Cump, you see too many demons in the shadows. This war is going to end soon, and this enemy out there is never going to stand up to our men, our officers, our guns. You have to believe that.”
“You weren’t at Bull Run.”
“You’re right. One fine mess. But it won’t happen again. How many of you young bucks were in my classrooms? I know what kind of backbone you have, I know you’ll learn from your mistakes. But the more mistakes you make, the more learning you have to do. Easy remedy for that. Stop making mistakes!”
Sherman didn’t know what to say. He could see the pain in Smith’s face, the leg shifting slowly, Smith unable to get comfortable.
“Perhaps you should lie down, sir.”
“Yep, I’ll do that. But you try to help me, and I’ll kick you with the good leg.”
Smith rose from the chair, shaky, his hands on the chair, keeping him upright, and for a moment he was motionless, his eyes closed.
“It hurts like blazes, Cump. Can’t make it stop. They want to give me liquor, keep telling me it will dull the pain. A commander can’t be in a fog, by God.”
“Sir, you just said … Grant is in command. Take the liquor. Take anything. You’re making me hurt.”
Smith hopped on one leg to a narrow bed, lowered himself down with a groan.
“Ridiculous. I scraped my shin. This feels … you’d think I’d been hit with a grapeshot.”
Sherman stayed back, watched as Smith struggled to lift the bad leg onto the bed. The leg was horizontal now, the effort past, and Smith seemed to relax, said, “Send the doctor back in here.”
“Am I dismissed, sir?”
Smith seemed to come out of the fog, looked sharply at Sherman.
“No. Not yet. Forget the doctor. Your report … says we can’t hit that railroad until the creeks go down.”
“That’s one alternative. In this weather we haven’t been able to find a route suitable for putting enough of our people close enough to do anything useful.”
“It’s just rain. It’ll pass. I’ve put Lew Wallace’s Division at Crump’s Landing, and sent Hurlbut’s to Pittsburg Landing. The ground inland from the river there is pretty high. Hurlbut says there’s a good bit of open ground, lots of creeks, but they’re cut deep, so at least nobody’s drowned yet. You encamp your division there as well. When Grant gets here, I’ll make sure he knows why I chose the place, and from that point on, it’s his decision what happens next. I’ll recommend he put my division there as well. Plenty of room. Not sure I’ll be able to go with the boys, but I’ll try. I can’t believe this … scrape my shinbone, and I’m a cripple, for God’s sake.” Smith laid his head back, stared at the ceiling. “Never thought I’d ever have any reason to end up in Tennessee. Any place in the South, for that matter. Oh yes, I remember, you actually like it down here. Forgive me for insulting your chosen piece of heaven. What is it you love so much? The swamps or the people who live in them?”
“I like Alexandria, Baton Rouge. Some good people there, good friends. I felt like I was doing some good with the military school. Used some of your lessons, by the way. Giving that up was … hard. But I couldn’t stay.”
“No, General, you couldn’t stay. If you recall, those people decided to start a war against you. Likely your family wouldn’t have been treated with much hospitality on
ce you strapped on your sword.”
Sherman knew Smith’s mood was caused by the man’s agony, didn’t respond. There was no insult in the man’s words. He admired Smith as much as any man in the army, and Sherman’s eyes drifted to the bandage, a sickening bloom of red and yellow, the smell still filling the room, not all of it the medicine.
“I’ll get the doctor, sir. Try to rest as much as you can. When Grant arrives, I’ll tell him of your condition.”
“I’ll tell him myself. Go to your troops. Find them a dry place to pitch their tents. Keep your people out of the swamps. They’ve got some ridiculous creature, teeth and claws and whatnot. Eats people, I hear. You lose any men to that kind of nonsense, I don’t want to hear about it. Alligators. Whoever heard of such a thing?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve seen them. You leave them alone, they usually do the same.”
“If you say so. Now go on, get your men on the ground, set up your camps. We’ve got some time before anything happens. Halleck wants to make sure we gather up every soldier in a thousand miles of here before he’ll be comfortable enough for us to attack.”
Sherman looked out past the doorway, saw the doctor pacing, concern on the man’s face. Sherman motioned to the man, a sharp wave of his hand, here, now.
