Against All Odds

by Drew McGunn

  Greeley’s brow creased in frustration, “Are you saying that Virginia, Kentucky and the other remaining slave states are keeping us from putting those traitors down?”

  Greeley caught a glance between the two officers, both of whom were native Virginians. The younger officer replied, “Let me ask you, sir, how would you react if the Southern and Western states allied against New England’s interests? Their trade and economic interests are not the same as New England shipping magnates and industrialists. Imagine these other states threatened your livelihood. How far would you allow them to push you before you acted similarly to Louisiana, South Carolina, or the other states in rebellion?”

  Greeley said, “It’s not an apt comparison, those states entrap millions of Negros in bondage, General Lee.”

  Lee dipped his head, “I agree with you. It’s an imperfect system that needs improvement. But don’t ignore the beam in your eye while condemning the mote in your neighbor’s. When a man is injured in the factory, he’s disposed of, like a bit of rubbish. If you don’t take care of the blight in your own house, don’t be surprised when those workers you willfully dispose of raise the red flag in places like New York and Philadelphia.”

  Lee’s demeanor remained impassive even as he pointed out the flaws of Northern industrialism. He offered a smile. “Your allegiance is as much to your home in New York as mine is to Virginia. Wither Virginia goes, I go.”

  Greeley wished he could commit every word to paper. Instead, he said, “But you’ve been entrusted with command of the US Regulars in Virginia, your duty is to the Union.”

  “Of course it is,” Lee said, “However, every state, whether New York or Louisiana, Massachusetts or South Carolina, or even Maryland or Virginia is due the allegiance of their citizens. Then the Union. Were it not so, why would President Seward have asked the states to raise their armies against the insurrection? If it is as you imply, why does he not command every man in every state to attend to the Union? Each state imposes itself between her citizens and the national government.”

  Against his will, Greeley found himself agreeing with the Virginian. “Why build up an army to stop the traitors?”

  Scott placed his hand on the Brigadier’s arm. “I’ll take that. May I speak in confidence?”

  Even more loathed than slavers, Scott’s words were anathema to a newspaperman. A source that would not let himself be quoted was at times worse than no source at all. Still, he had little choice but to agree.

  Scott said, “President Seward has been in contact with the governors of Virginia, North Carolina, and Kentucky. The fire eaters in these states are vastly outnumbered by more reasonable and loyal men. Even so, they have all echoed the same sentiment. If the president were to simply order the army and the other states’ militias to invade the states in rebellion, four of the other five slave states still loyal to the union would view it,” he paused, searching for the right word, “unfavorably.”

  Greeley connected the information with an earlier interview with President Seward and realized what he was hearing. He blurted, “The price of these slave states’ allegiance is an amendment enshrining slavery in the South. That’s insidious.”

  Scott nodded, “Oh, I agree. We’d be better off if the scourge of slavery on our nation were to die today. But that’s why I’m a military man, and William Seward is the president. However, the amendment doesn’t affect all of the South. Only those who remain loyal to the Union. Also, there’s more. We agreed to stay any military action unless we or our allies were attacked.”

  Incredulous, Greeley stammered, “What about the armories the traitors have seized, the coastal forts they’ve captured?”

  Scott offered a sad smile, “Those were deemed an acceptable loss against the risk of three and a half million more people falling into the rebel ranks. But you may have missed something in what I said.”

  The carriage rolled into an expansive field. Tents stretched as far as the eye could see. Elements of Lee’s brigade of regulars were positioned nearest the Potomac River. Greeley spied flags from Virginia, New York, Pennsylvania, and Massachusetts. He guessed more than ten thousand soldiers were encamped along the southern bank of the Potomac River.

  Ignoring the camp for the moment, Greeley replayed General Scott’s words in his mind. “We have allies?”

  “An ally. A month ago, Secretary of State John Wharton of Texas signed an agreement of friendship with the United States. In a closed session two weeks ago, the Senate ratified the treaty.”

  Greeley chewed on the news before saying, “What about Kentucky, Virginia and the other slave states that remained loyal? How will they respond?”

  Lee rejoined the conversation, “As we understand it, Governors Johnson and Powell agreed that if the states in rebellion continued their attack on Texas, Virginia, and Kentucky would remain loyal. Maryland and Delaware are firmly in the Union camp, too.”

  Greeley felt buoyed by the news. One state remained unaccounted for. “What of North Carolina?”

  Lee said, “Their legislature is in session. I don’t know which direction they’ll go.”

  Scott added, “I don’t think they do, either. Governor Reid favors preserving the Union. The legislature could go either way.”

  A sad sigh escaped from General Lee before he added, “However they vote, the die is cast. The states in rebellion have violated our ally’s sovereign territory. We will act to preserve the Union. By the end of next week, we’ll be knocking on North Carolina’s door. I pray they choose wisely.”

  Chapter 20

  17 April 1853

  “Duckbill, you’ve gone native on us, I swear,”

  Jimmy Hickok turned on the corporal, “Ain’t my fault. My jacket was getting too small.” But the other soldier had a point. Jimmy’s kersey blue woolen trousers had been replaced several months before by the brownish trousers worn by the Texian army. Over the past few months, he’d put on several inches, and his old jacket, once too large, no longer fit. Now, except for the blue kepi the men of the 1st wore, he could have been mistaken for a trooper from one of the Texian battalions in the brigade. But of the men in the 1st New York, he was hardly alone wearing butternut brown.

  Another soldier lifted a pot from the campfire and filled his tin cup with steaming coffee. He said, “What’d you think of President Travis making a to-do about visiting the camp?”

  The corporal spat into the campfire. As the spittle sizzled and burned, he said, “I’d sooner he released Colonel Brown, that’s what I wish. Holding him in a jail cell on account of him ridding the world of a few slave owners don’t seem right.”

  Before the nightmare in Southeast Arkansas, Jimmy would have agreed with the NCO, but seared into his sleepless nights was Bedford Forrest’s reminder that two could play that game. He’d woken during the middle of the night, blinking away the image of his companions swinging in the breeze from tree branches where they’d been hung by Forrest’s men. Had Texas’ Frontier Battalion not shown up and arrested the colonel, Jimmy wondered how far into Hell the vendetta between Forrest and Brown would have gone.

  The coffee drinker wagged his mug in front of the corporal, “I miss the colonel, too. But after we were whipped, this army, this brigade, in particular, came dragging back here with its tail between its legs. Say what you will of Travis, but a’fore he talked to the other battalions, he came over here first. He didn’t have to do that.”

  Jimmy found himself nodding his head. The soldier was right. Morale across the army was a lot higher now.

  A bugle broke the quiet of the morning. Jimmy listened to the notes. Assembly. His stomach lurched, and the sense of wellbeing fled. He ran over to his tent and plucked his belt from the pole. Buckling it, he joined the rest of the regiment as they gathered in front of the regimental flag. Lt. Colonel Cross stood near the regimental colors waiting. He wore a stony expression. He’s got the right of it, Jimmy thought.

  The regimental sergeant major’s voice carried across the parade groun
d, “The First New York Provisional Cavalry is assembled, sir. All troopers are present or accounted for.”

  Lt. Colonel Cross stepped forward. Jimmy found his voice jarring as though every word carefully chosen for its brevity. “Effective the seventh of April, the First New York Provisional Cavalry Regiment and other regiments from the United States currently volunteering in the Republic of Texas are hereby accepted into service of the Volunteer Army of the United States, and subject to the military discipline thereof.”

  Everyone in the regiment knew this. Dread filled Jimmy’s heart as he waited for Cross to continue, “On the tenth of April, Elijah Carter and Sean O’Malley deserted their post and were captured on a train bound for Galveston. In accordance with Article Twenty of the United States Articles of War, a court-martial was convened, and Privates Carter and O’Malley were found guilty of desertion and sentenced to death. The sentence is to be carried out now.”

  Drummers, borrowed from the 3rd Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry, beat a mournful tattoo as a squad of troopers escorted the condemned across the parade ground. At one end, were two wooden coffins. When the condemned arrived next to the coffins, a chaplain stepped forward. Jimmy strained to hear his voice, but whatever the man of the cloth said, was directed only to Carter and O’Malley.

  When the chaplain finished, another officer instructed the condemned to sit on the edge of their coffins and then placed a burlap bag over their heads. Then he pinned a small red sheet of paper over their hearts.

  The squad that escorted the two troopers into the parade ground now formed a line ten paces away from them. They stood at attention, their carbines in the crook of their arms, waiting.

  Jimmy cringed as the young officer in command of the squad barked, “Squad, ready!”

  The troopers shifted, bringing their carbines down, one hand on the stock and the other under the barrel. The metallic click of eight hammers made Jimmy flinch.

  “Aim!”

  In one smooth motion, the troopers raised the butts of their carbines to their right shoulders and stabilized the barrel with the other hand and waited.

  A long delay tore at Jimmy’s heart. “Fire!”

  Seven bullets sped across the ten paces, tearing apart the targets over the condemned men’s hearts before killing both instantly and propelling them into the caskets. As the smoke cleared, Jimmy saw the dead men’s legs hanging over the side of the coffins.

  One carbine had fired a blank charge, allowing each of the executioners to believe, if they chose, that his carbine alone had been the one with the blank.

  “Shoulder arms!”

  With a single look from Lt. Colonel Cross, the sergeant major raised his voice over the muttering from the men, “Dismissed!”

  Jimmy followed the men from his squad back toward the campfire. Conversation was subdued. Before, it was uncommon for deserters to be caught. And across the seven volunteer regiments from the North, hundreds of men had, over the past few months, decided to head for home, one way or another. Now, though, the volunteers from the United States knew there was no turning back, no going back home until the war was over.

  ***

  General Jefferson Davis stepped away from the camp table, cluttered with maps and stacks of orders. He gripped the pole supporting one corner of a tarp which stretched over his headquarters. A troop of cavalry kicked up dust on the nearby road as they rode toward the Neches River. Behind the horsemen, a wagon lumbered by. It carried an overturned barge. By Davis’ count, more than forty had been brought forward from the Sabine River. He pulled at his graying beard, thinking, “Nearly enough to risk a crossing.” He cast a furtive glance at correspondence sharing the table with maps and bit his lip until he the coppery taste of blood hit his tongue.

  “I need more time,” he muttered.

  A throat cleared behind him and Davis turned back to the table. Commander of the army’s I Corps, William Hardee sauntered into the tent, laying his black service hat on the edge of the table, and leaned against it, “Time’s the only resource we can’t get more of.”

  Davis’s laugh held a sharp edge to it. “That’s the sad, sorry truth, Bill. Although the further away we get from the Sabine, the more inclined I am to think there are other resources we’ll soon be short of than simply time.”

  Hardee glanced down at the maps on the table and studied it. “We’re only two days away from the railhead, Jeff. What with the miracles General Wyatt seems capable of producing, supplies shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Until recently, we were the only army the Southern Alliance fielded. Now, there’s the Army of the Tennessee near Nashville and the Army of the Carolinas to compete for resources. I’ll grant you Payton Wyatt has wrangled every resource we’ve needed out of Louisiana, but the reports I’ve received tell a different story. We’ve got enough food for a week’s campaign right now. If he doesn’t come through with more, we’d better hope we can live off the countryside.” Davis said, indicating to their locations on one of the maps.

  Hardee gave a perfunctory nod. “I might not mind foraging a bit. Have you seen those meat biscuits Wyatt’s shipped? Nasty things. Makes you hanker for a bit of spoiled sausage or hardtack. I hear tell the Texans invented them. Now, they’re being manufactured in New Orleans by the wagon load.”

  Davis had tried a meat biscuit. Once. He figured his belly would need to be rubbing up against his backbone before he’d willingly add it to his daily diet. “I can almost forgive Gail Borden his meat biscuits, given how popular his canned milk has become. Almost.”

  Hardee chewed on his lip, thinking. “When we capture West Liberty and Trinity Park, we’ll capture the manufacturing plant for Borden’s Condensed Milk. As if we needed another reason to capture Texas.” He glanced up and looked about. “But, between you and me, I wonder if we bit off more than we can chew.”

  Davis scanned the area. The nearest orderly was at a campfire, too far away to hear Hardee’s whispered confession. “We’re fighting for our rights, Bill. Without Texas, we’ll be overwhelmed. Seward won the election without a single Southern state. It also destroyed the balance between our two regions. Now the North knows they don’t have to compromise with us anymore and can force their policies on the nation.”

  Seeing the look on Hardee’s face, Davis added, “Oh, I’ll give you that when Beauregard failed to knock Sidney Johnston’s army out, we should have tucked our tails between our legs and stayed on our side of the Sabine.” A melancholy expression crossed his face, “But when Mississippi called on me, who was I to refuse?”

  Hardee offered half a smile, “True. Georgia has first call on my allegiance. Where does that leave us?”

  Davis took a couple of letters from next to the regional map and handed it to Hardee. “With little enough time.”

  Davis pointed to the regional map, adding, “We still have more than forty thousand men in the army fit for duty. I wanted more time for some of our soldiers who were lightly wounded to return to the ranks, but as you’ll surmise, that’s no longer an option.”

  He pointed to Beaumont on the map, “We’ll hold Johnston’s force there with your Corps. You’ll have around twenty-five thousand men. I’ll send Swift’s corps around their flank. Both his infantry and cavalry this time to flank the Texans.”

  Raising his eyebrows, Hardee said, “Isn’t it risky to use the same tactic twice in two fights?”

  Dipping his head slightly, Davis said, “There is a risk. No doubt. We’ve sent scouts across the river, and they’ve reported back that Johnston has less than twenty-thousand men. You’ve got to hold his army on the river until the flanking movement can swing around.”

  Hardee set the orders aside and came over next to Davis and looked at the map. “You’d have Swift’s corps be the hammer and mine be the anvil?”

  “Exactly,” Davis said.

  Hardee nodded at the orders, “You seem to be in a bit of a bind. These orders contradict each other.”

  Davis grimaced. “That’s one way
to look at it. President Cass has ordered me to destroy Johnston’s army. The War Department has ordered me to release your corps to return east. They want you to reinforce General Longstreet’s Army of the Carolinas. The orders from back east are as clear as the Mississippi River after a rainstorm.”

  Hardee waved his hand over the map, “Can we pull this proposed attack off before my corps has to leave?”

  Davis nodded toward a small writing desk near the maps table, “Given President Cass’s orders, I have asked the War Department for clarification. It’ll go out this afternoon.”

  “By courier?”

  Davis gave a nasty grin, “No. It’ll be bundled up with the payroll receipts. It’ll take two or three days to get to the Sabine. Another day to get to New Orleans. By then some enterprising staff officer will probably send it by telegram to Montgomery. It’ll take a couple of days to untangle the orders. And then three or four days to get them back. By the time the War Department’s answer arrives, we’ll have defeated Johnston’s army and be halfway to Austin.”

  ***

  20 April 1853

  “Careful, you jackass. Drop this and you’ll blow us all to kingdom come!” A Ranger hissed.

  Jesse Running Creek pivoted around. Several men lifted a crate out of a wagon bed. Despite the irate warning, they paid close attention to their work.

  Well they should, Jesse thought as he waited for the container to reach the ground before he approached. He lifted a cotton tarp covering the crate and whistled in appreciation as he stared at the contents. Cushioned by thick cotton bunting were a half-dozen small iron round boxes. Next to each box was a much smaller flat piece of metal, perfectly round. Jesse retrieved one of the tiny “pressure plates” that accompanied each land torpedo, as the creators at the Trinity Gun Works called them.

  He turned it over, and a thin iron spike extended an inch from the bottom of the plate.

  The wagon shook a bit as the driver climbed down, “The pressure plate is harmless as a dove, Major. At least by itself.”

  The driver cautiously removed one of the round, iron boxes and gingerly set it on the ground. “There’s enough nitrogenated processed guncotton in this little devil to blow this wagon to smithereens. But it’s more or less harmless without something to trigger it.”