Jewel of Promise

by Marian Wells

  ****

  At Paducah, they discovered the flotilla hadn’t arrived. Phelps returned with information. “Foote has the gunboats in for needed repair. They said he’s apprehensive about going in at all because of the condition of the boats.”

  Late Wednesday night the flotilla headed for the Cumberland River. Alex was at the wheel when Mike came into the pilothouse. “Buddy, I haven’t seen you since we left Cairo over ten days ago. You been hanging on that wheel the whole time? You look exhausted. I’m relieving you for now. Go down and get some rest.”

  The following morning when Alex arose, the riverbank was lined with people shouting and waving. They pointed toward the flag on the boat. A gray-haired man snatched his hat from his head. “Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah for the Union!” As the boat left the man behind, Alex heard him shout, “God bless you, soldiers!”

  “Six gunboats and fourteen transports, and they’re greeting us like liberators. Is that what we are?” The lad looked at Alex with awe.

  “I hope we are,” Alex muttered, heading for the stairs.

  ****

  By Friday the gunboats were in position for attack. Foote faced his men and said, “We hoped this would be a combined assault, however, the terrain has slowed the army and we can’t wait any longer. We’ll clear the way for them. Take the position you had before. Remember, this isn’t going to be an easy task. Fort Donelson is entrenched and ready for us. They are positioned higher, and this gives their guns the advantage. Take it cool and easy. God bless.”

  Slowly the gunboats began to move. In accordance with Commodore Foote’s command, they didn’t stop at a thousand yards and position for firing as they had at Fort Henry. Alex continued to advance. The tension mounted in the pilothouse. Wiping perspiration from his face, Alex wondered about the men on the hurricane deck, poised behind their guns.

  Finally the firing began. A few shells struck the fort, but the watchful silence continued. Alex shifted from one foot to the other, uneasily studying the fort. Looking down the channel to the flagship and back to the fort, he muttered, “We’re putting ourselves right under their guns.”

  Lieutenant Adams, who was standing beside him, lowered his field glasses and looked at Alex. “Bunch of jumpy men! The Tyler and Conestoga are firing over the fort. Our men have got to slow down. They’re shooting like scared idiots.”

  “They don’t like being this close.”

  “Orders, not choice. Keep on course,” snapped the officer as he left the pilothouse.

  Feeling as if he were peering into the depths of the heavy artillery pointed toward them, Alex grasped the wheel and watched the Confederate guns move into position. Abruptly the first line battery fired. Immediately, another battery position fired and the gunboats began their barrage.

  He felt the vessel beneath him reel with the explosion.

  Alex tested the wheel. The gunboat responded, but sluggishly. The lieutenant appeared in the doorway, his face was white with concern. Alex said, “We’re still operational.”

  “We’ve taken some bad shots. So far it’s surface damage.” He lifted the glasses and said, “But we’re getting in some good strikes. Give us fifteen minutes more and we’ll have them. Will you look at that!”

  Alex looked at the fort. The first gun and its crew had disappeared; there was only a gaping hole in the wall of the fort. The gun beside the hole had exploded, fire streaking the air. Then they took a hit. The St. Louis was listing, moving downstream out of control. Another explosion sent the Louisville to join her sister ship, and together they drifted with the current.

  “Two out of six,” Adams muttered. Another explosion had Adams out of the pilothouse at a run. He returned briefly, saying, “It’s the Carondelet. Looks like their gun exploded. There’s going to be heavy casualties.”

  “We’re being signaled to withdraw!” Alex exclaimed.

  They moved downstream. Hidden by the island, the boats regrouped and waited for General Grant to board the ship carrying Commodore Foote. Lieutenant Adams came to the pilothouse. “Commodore Foote has sustained a foot injury. Looks like our job is completed; we’ll be moving back to Cairo.”

  He left the cabin, but returned immediately. “Phelps has been ordered back up the Tennessee to finish off the railroad bridge,” he told Alex. “Seems the job wasn’t completed last week. They’re taking the Tyler; he’s asked you to pilot. Take your gear; you’ll rejoin us in Cairo.”

  On deck Alex looked at the damage the fort’s guns had inflicted. He touched the deep dents in the iron plating, fingering the fractures and sections where the armor had separated from the hull. “Makes a person mighty glad we were in an ironclad,” the seaman beside him said. “It’s a scary thing to watch them point those big guns your way.”

  The skiff from the Tyler was approaching. The cold wind swept downriver and Alex clutched his cap and muttered, “Can’t see the men from here, but we know they’re in the heaviest part of battle right now. It’s going to be a cold night out there on the hillside. I pray to God that they get the wounded in before nightfall.”

  “Aye,” the sailor murmured, moving to catch the rope thrown at him. “And finish that bridge off this time.”

  Late the following day, their mission completed, the Tyler returned down the Tennessee, crossed over to the Cumberland, and began moving upriver toward Fort Donelson.

  “Aren’t we heading for Cairo?” Alex asked when Lieutenant Phelps gave him the order.

  “No, Grant wants to keep the St. Louis and the Louisville here. We’re to serve as backup.” Phelps added, “They lost the pilot on the St. Louis. The bombardment wiped out most of the pilothouse. We’re short of pilots again.”

  The sun was setting as they drew even with Fort Donelson. At first the place seemed deserted. Alex saw a hint of movement from the batteries. Light touched the barrels of a few guns. Phelps studied the fort through his field glasses. Slowly he said, “Something major has happened here. There are mighty few men around; certainly not the troops we saw Friday.”

  Then he caught his breath. With a low, incredulous oath, he dropped the binoculars and faced Alex. “That field over yonder is covered with men,” he whispered. “They appear to be dead.” He wiped a shaky hand across his face. “I’ve never seen so many!—Alex, take us down around the bend, out of shell range, and let’s see if we can give a hand.”

  The crew was on deck waiting when Alex reached the shore. Phelps said, “Approach the battlefield from the back side. Daylight is nearly gone; hurry, fellows.” The cold wind whistled through the tops of the trees, pelting Alex in the face as he rushed to join the crew.

  Phelps and his men stood in silence on the edge of the field. With caps in hand, they began to look for signs of life. Then the wind reversed, sweeping the scent of death across their faces. Alex turned away, reeling from the smell and the impact of the scene.

  “Help! Oh, God help me!” The voice was faint.

  Shaking his head slowly, Alex muttered, “Oh, my God, what are we doing?” The scene sickened him. “Is the preservation of the Union more important than the lives of people?”

  A hard hand came down on Alex’s arm. Alex saw the general’s insignia first, then the man’s face, deeply furrowed with fatigue, his eyes blazing. “Lad—” His voice was deliberate and slow. “The Union is people; the slaves are people. Our business is to cause freedom to happen for all people.” The general jerked his head toward the bloody field covered with twisted, ruined bodies. “Lad, if the Union isn’t worth dying for, what is?”

  “But to pull a trigger and take a life?” Alex muttered, wiping his face with a trembling hand.

  “Even then. These lads didn’t back out of pulling a trigger or dying.” The hand released Alex’s shoulder and patted him on the back.

  Gently the general said, “Over there. Boy, the two of you get over there together.” He thrust a seaman toward Alex. “See what you can do. We’ve got to get these men out before they freeze.”

  “Water! Help
!” Alex looked across the field and ordered his numb legs into action. Alex and Tim, the seaman, worked throughout the night. Where there was a sign of life, they stopped to give water and carry the soldier to the riverbank.

  It was nearly dawn when the old general stepped in front of Alex again. “Take some coffee and hardtack; you need it.” Alex eyed the uniform and the man continued in a gentle voice. “It’s ugly, but it’s war.” By the light of the fire, the general’s eyes examined Alex. “I’m Lew Wallace.”

  “General Wallace,” Alex murmured. “I’ve heard about you.”

  “Don’t turn away from a man if he’s wearing the wrong color uniform,” he warned. “We’re all brothers.”

  “I know, sir.” Alex stopped beside the fire, took the cup of coffee and hardtack. He glanced at the tired, drawn face, and impulsively said, “Sir, it’s hard to see God in this.”

  “But He’s here. For some of these fellows, He’s closer than He’s ever been before in their lives. They need to be reminded of that. Don’t judge God by the ugliness man creates.”

  At dawn the last shovel full of earth had been thrown into the last shallow grave. Wallace faced the soldiers clustered around him, “Return to your positions. We must prepare to take Fort Donelson this morning.”

  For an unbelieving moment Alex stared at him. But with another glance at that face, he knew General Wallace meant what he said. The lines of fatigue had deepened into lines of determination. Alex headed for his gunboat.

  Back in the pilothouse Alex ordered the steam up. He waited until he felt the engines send a shudder through the ship. Deeply conscious of the wounded lined on the riverbank, he signaled to reverse the gears and slipped in behind the St. Louis and the Louisville.

  Phelps stuck his head through the door. “We’re going to join them.” He closed the door behind himself. The morning sun touched the ruined entrance to Fort Donelson. Light bathed the Union troops, guns ready as they flanked the fort. Alex’s eyes swept over the waiting men. In that moment, when it seemed as if life itself held its breath, the flagpole inside the fort quivered, and slowly a white flag was lifted.

  The sun touched the figure of a man poised in the entrance to the fort. Light picked at the glory of gold braid on his uniform and the white flag he bore as he made his way across the field toward General Grant. Hardly believing his eyes, Alex sighed and muttered, “So they’re tired of fighting, too.”

  As Alex waited to receive the prisoners, Phelps stood at his side with the glasses trained on the men. “There are at least ten thousand men,” he murmured. “Look at them, dressed like farmers. What a contrast to all the gold braid the officers are sporting.”

  Alex watched the weary faces, lined with defeat. He felt a strange kinship, wondering, Are Olivia’s cousins in that group? Have any of my kin been taken captive? Someone has called this a brother’s war, and how real it is. I look at those defeated, hungry, weary faces and see my own.

  Chapter 19

  Olivia paced between the window and the Stevens’ cozy kitchen. “It’s been so cold lately,” she murmured. “I keep thinking of all those men out there. Louisa,” she turned to Mrs. Stevens, noting her serene face and the gray knob of hair on her neck, “why do men fight? I mean, they could just refuse to fight.”

  Louisa Stevens shook her head as she turned the freshly baked bread out of the pan. “All the men I’ve known wouldn’t do otherwise.”

  For a moment Olivia’s heavy spirit lifted and she laughed. “Oh, Louisa! How Southern you are, and how much I’ve forgotten. Of course, it’s male pride. But don’t you get extremely tired of it?”

  “Don’t know anything else.” She looked at Olivia with serious eyes. “It’s hard on the folks around them. I’m right sick of duels and swords. For one thing, I don’t believe the Lord intends people to be living out the Old Testament nowadays, otherwise there’d be no need for a New Testament.”

  “Love rather than fighting?” Olivia nodded. “Alex would say we’re to live the New Covenant; the Old is dead.”

  “But love doesn’t seem to come natural. Guess a body’s forced to listen to the Lord before he’s willing to change his way of life.” Louisa wrapped a loaf of bread in a clean towel and added, “Now let’s walk this bread down to Lily Mae’s place. She’s in the dumps, too. Hope this war’s over before they start taking old men like mine.”

  Olivia handed the shawl to Louisa, and together they left the house and turned down the path. “It’s only February; it’s going to be an early spring.” Olivia pointed to the dogwoods and willows with their beginning buds. The grass along the creek banks held nestling bunches of violets. The wild geraniums had unfolded their leaves, revealing a promise of buds.

  Olivia sighed deeply. “It’s good to see nature responding just as it should. Everything else in life is starting to appear twisted and unreal. War, war, that’s all we hear.” Impulsively she turned to Mrs. Stevens. “How good of you to let me stay with you. I couldn’t bear going back to Pennsylvania without Alex.”

  “He’s a dear lad; I’m glad to see you both so happy with each other,” Louisa said. There was a troubled frown on her face.

  “What is it?” Olivia whispered.

  “Wondering how you feel fighting against the South like this. Kentucky is my home, there’s no way I could ever see myself taking up arms and shooting my neighbors.”

  “Alex says we aren’t fighting against the South, but against slavery. In addition, we fight for the liberation of the people.”

  “You mean the slaves?”

  “No, everyone. There’s a frightening feeling that until slavery goes, there’s little chance of growing up to be the nation we should be. Alex explained it by saying it’s like keeping a child forever a baby by depriving him of the opportunity to grow. A small stomach can’t eat bread and meat if we insist on giving the child only milk. A baby will never walk if we carry him constantly.”

  “And you think the South is like that?”

  “It seems there’s an unwillingness to grow beyond what they are. We heard a man talk about the lack of industry in the South. He also mentioned the lack of education for poor white people as well as for the slaves.”

  “My children never had much of a school to attend,” Louisa said slowly. “I always thought it was just wishful thinking to want more. ’Specially since the slaves around us had nothing in the way of teaching. So you think the South needs to be forced to grow?”

  “No, not forced. That goes against the grain. Alex says sometimes we have to feel pain before we want to learn a better way of living.”

  “Do you regret that Lincoln didn’t just let the South go?”

  Olivia sighed heavily. “I think I will before this is over. At times I think anything is better than war.”

  Together they walked silently up the path to Lily Mae’s house. The woman who opened the door was red-eyed. She twisted her apron and stood back for them to enter. “Aw, this war,” she sniffled as they sat down at the kitchen table. “Why God doesn’t just blow the North off the earth, I’ll never know. Surely this war is judgment against them, but it’s hurting us all.”

  Olivia winced as Louisa placed the bread on the table and asked, “What’s troubling you today?”

  “The cow’s gone dry and I can’t get no one to plow for me. My pa would, but he’s just too old.”

  “Why don’t you and the young’uns do it? I’ve handled the plow for Mr. Stevens. It’s hard work, but it’s better than going hungry.”

  “How do you plow?” Both women turned to look at Olivia. Feeling foolish, she said, “I’ve never been around when there’s plowing going on. Seems it ought to be a thing for a woman to learn.”

  “Well, it isn’t easy,” Lily Mae said shortly. “You’ve got to work the mule and that stubborn hunk of metal at the same time. Of the two, the plow’s more apt to take off in the wrong direction.”

  “Well, let’s give it a try,” Olivia got to her feet. For a moment Louisa’s eyes sparkled,
but with a sober face she stood up.

  When the afternoon sun sloped toward the west, nearly three furrows had been plowed. Olivia surveyed her crooked furrow, looked at her blistered hands, and sighed wearily as she said, “Can’t you just plant corn where the plow did go?”

  “Might,” Lily Mae admitted.

  “No,” Louisa said. “We’ll be back tomorrow to help. And Lily Mae, if my man ends up going to battle, can I count on you to help me?”

  When they entered the Stevens’ kitchen, Mr. Stevens looked up from his newspaper. “Saw you down the road. Most fun I’ve had for sometime.”

  The merriment died out of his eyes as Louisa grabbed a spoon and shook it at him. “Harold Stevens, are you laughing at three helpless women plowing behind that lazy mule? I’m ashamed of you!”

  “Louisa, might be it won’t hurt you women a bit. It’s better’n going hungry. Read in the newspaper where there’s shortages of food down in the cotton belt. Can’t get things moving smoothly enough to get crops in.” He paused. “’Tisn’t the women’s fault. Some of the farmers are still planting cotton when they should be planting corn, wheat, and ’taters.”

  “Cotton brings more money, if they can sell it.” Louisa slowly put the skillet on the stove. “Are you saying that we need to learn to do for ourselves, because you men may not be around to do it? It’s that bad, huh?”

  “It’s bad and getting worse.” His jaw tightened. “Might be when the South gets organized it won’t be, but right now—” He sighed and bent over the newspaper. “Last week we read that while General Grant was taking Fort Donelson, other Federal troops were moving against Bowling Green and then Fort Columbus. Now today’s paper says here that General Grant’s headed south. Next he’ll probably push into big places in Tennessee, like Nashville, Memphis, and Clarksville.”

  “Why are you sighing like that?”

  He looked up at his wife. “I was just thinking how much trouble we’d have saved ourselves if we’d been a little more outspoken when the matter of secession came up before the state legislature. You know it was like a stack of cards. One strong push from either direction would gain the vote. The Confederates pushed the hardest.”