by Drew McGunn
It was Will’s turn to laugh. “Juan, how long do you think it will be before Iowa, or the Oregon Territory are admitted as states? Within twenty years, there’ll be a dozen new states, all of them free. When that happens, whatever remains of slavery in the US will die.”
***
1 June 1853
Wagons were lined up in front of the two-story log cabin. Soldiers laden with bags of grain and corn came from around back and heaved the burlap bags into the wagon-beds. A civilian, wearing a brown jacket and a matching pair of trousers stood on the porch wearing a deep scowl. A woman stood behind him in a calico print dress. A young girl stood behind the woman, wearing a matching dress.
As General Jason Lamont rode up the winding narrow wagon path toward the house, he took in their rustic appearance. Despite the house’s size, it still looked crude and poor compared to Saluda Groves. Behind the house, were a half-dozen small log cabins inhabited by the planter’s slaves. Lamont was surprised a planter with twenty slaves, and a sizable cotton crop in the ground couldn’t afford a house more fitting with his station.
Lamont’s nephew, Captain Elliott Brown stood between the planter and the head wagon, his hand resting on his sword’s hilt. As he pulled up next to his nephew, Lamont tipped his hat toward the planter and his family. “Mighty nice of you folks to contribute to the Southern cause.”
The planter crossed his arms, “If by donate, you mean your men riding off with anything that’s not nailed down? Where I come from that’s called theft.”
Over the past couple of weeks as the small army he commanded had made their way northwest, following the Neches River, he’d become inured to such comments. He reached into his pocket and found a few crumpled bank notes. They were Texas cotton-backs. Lamont had picked up a small amount of currency as he’d plundered the farms along his path. He leaned over and offered them to the planter. “We’re not stealing. We’ll pay. I’ve got a bit of local money, but the rest will have to be in an Alliance promissory note.”
The planter pocketed the cotton-backs and glared at Lamont, “Keep your damned promissory note. It ain’t worth the paper you’d write it on.”
Lamont felt his cheeks grow flush and he snapped, “We might have had a setback or two in Texas, but we’ll rout anybody who tries to take our liberty from us.”
The planter said, “Ain’t you heard? General Scott and Lee invaded a few weeks back. I got a newspaper in the house says they’ve captured Columbia.”
Lamont felt a vise squeeze at his heart at the news. With a note of reluctance in his voice, he said, “Mind fetching that paper of yours? I’d like to see it.”
The Planter escorted his family back into the house and reappeared a moment later holding the newspaper, “Might as well, y’all took everything else.”
As he handed the folded newspaper over, he added, “And Missouri has abandoned you, too.”
Lamont felt his jaw sag as he saw in a giant 3-inch headline, “Missouri Rejoins the Union!”
In smaller type over the headline, was the name of the newspaper, The Telegraph & Texas Register. Lamont scanned the article.
Rebel governor Sterling Price was moved by rail from Jefferson City to St. Louis under the guard of loyal state militia forces, as provisional governor Hamilton Gamble assumed control of the state capital with the aid of Missouri and Iowa volunteers. These loyal soldiers were mustered into service immediately following President Seward’s Emancipation Order.
This was made possible when legislators who previously supported the secession resolution recanted their earlier vote and sustained efforts by Unionists, whom they had previously run out of Jefferson City, to depose Governor Price.
In the North, many view their actions as self-serving, given that President Seward has stated the states still in rebellion on 1 July will forfeit their slaves as punishment for their rebellion. Slaveholders in Missouri own more than 70,000 slaves, and the threat of losing more than 30 million dollars in property scared them back into the Federal Union.
Stunned at the news, Lamont fell into a dark mood, waiting for the wagons to pull away with enough food to feed his small army. As he turned, he tossed the newspaper on the ground and dug his heels into the side of his mount.
A few minutes later, he slowed down. Getting angry was no reason to take it out on his mount. It took his nephew a bit to catch up, and when he did, his voice sounded even more morose than Lamont felt. “General, what’re we going to do? If the newspaper is telling the truth, our homes have already fallen to the Yankees. Lord help us, I hope my ma is safe.”
Lamont kept his horse moving at a slow walk. “If the Yankees were under the command of a bunch of codfish aristocrats from the North, I’d worry more, Elliott. But even though they’ve betrayed the South, Winfield Scott and Robert E. Lee won’t let their army come down hard on womenfolk. Unfortunately, I expect they’ll burn Saluda Groves to the ground and run off with my niggers.”
In a soft, worn voice, much older than his twenty years, his nephew said, “What now? There’s a ferry a few miles up the way. We can cross it and head back toward Louisiana. Maybe hook up with General Davis?”
The thought had crossed his mind. He still had the five regiments of the South Carolina Brigade in addition to three cavalry regiments that had been even further north on the army’s right flank in the last battle of Beaumont. Over thirty-five hundred men. But if the war was truly lost, why throw their lives away on another battle under General Davis?
In a whisper that Lamont had to lean over to hear, his nephew said, “What’ll there be to return to, Uncle? Nothing?”
The boy had a point, Lamont conceded. The way of life for millions of Southerners would soon be over. That Yankee president had threatened the South with his Emancipation Order. Aside from Missouri, Lamont was sure the rest of the Alliance would go down swinging, and in the end, lose everything.
When he voiced his fears, once again, Elliott reminded him the boy had a brain between his ears, “Damn Texas for starting this. If they hadn’t revolted, we’d still be back home.”
With a note of reproach, Lamont said, “They’d not have rebelled except that damn-fool Travis had to go off and pass that free-birth bill.”
Thinking of Travis made his bad knee twinge in pain. He’d never forgive Travis for shooting him when he was down. If only he’d been able to strike that insufferable abolitionist down, everything would have been worth it.
If only, he thought. Something else crept into his mind, and he turned to his nephew, “How many miles to the Sabine from here?”
After rummaging through his saddlebag, Brown said, “About one-hundred-twenty miles to Charlestown, Louisiana.”
“What about to Austin?”
Young Brown jerked his head up, his eyes looked like a startled deer. Slowly, a grin settled on his face as he eyed the map. “A bit less than two hundred.”
For the first time since seeing the newspaper, Lamont felt a sense of purpose. He may have lost everything, and his men would become paupers in their own country, but there was one thing he could do.
“Pass the word, Captain Brown, we march to the southwest, to Austin!”
Chapter 26
Horace Greeley clamped a hand over his hat as he slid into the trench. Blue-jacketed soldiers who sat on the firing steps scarcely glanced at him as he landed at their feet. His escort, on loan from General Lee’s headquarters, slid down next to him. The riflemen barely gave the officer a second look.
As he hurried to catch up to the young officer, Lieutenant Terrell, he said, “Why didn’t they salute you?”
Without turning, Terrell said, “They just came off the primary trench line this morning. Instead of moving them away from the front, General Lee’s ordered them into our secondary trenches to rest. With the arrival of General Blanchard’s Corps from out west, Longstreet’s army is close to parity with us.”
Greeley gave a sage nod, as though a month earlier he’d have understood the importance of Longstree
t’s decision to defend the city of Augusta, Georgia against the Federal onslaught. In truth, Longstreet’s decision to mount a determined defense had caught him off guard. The speed with which the enemy general had stayed one step ahead of Lee’s army across the western half of South Carolina had led Greeley to think the rapid retreat signaled the collapse of the Southern Alliance.
Several miles of earthen and wooden fortifications ringed Augusta, proving his earlier view too optimistic.
His escort turned a sharp corner leading into a narrow trench that zig-zagged toward the forward trench works. “Keep your head down, Mr. Greeley. The Allies have snipers that can shoot a tick off a dog’s nose at four hundred yards. We’re considerably closer than that.”
Feeling an itch on his nose, the newspaper man hunched even lower as he picked up his pace to keep up with Terrell. The zig-zagging communication trench intersected with the main fortified trench-line. Greeley followed close on the officer’s heels as they passed by several regiments. When they arrived at their destination, the trench sloped down sharply.
Wooden roofing reached over the trench, and as they entered the gloom, Greeley felt himself growing claustrophobic as the walls seemed to close in around him. Lanterns clung to the walls, casting a weak light the further away from sunlight the men traveled.
They turned another corner, and still heading downward, even Greeley’s poor sense of direction couldn’t be fooled, “Lieutenant, why are we heading toward the enemy line?”
Terrell held up a hand, “We’re nearly there, sir.”
True to the officer’s word, from the narrow walkway they entered a small room barely larger than an outhouse. The walls and ceiling were made of heavy wooden planks. Opposite the entrance was a small open door, not quite three feet wide and tall that led deeper underground. An older officer bent over a table, pen in hand as he wrote on a sheet of paper.
Greeley’s guide would have stood straighter, save the ceiling was low and had he rose to his full height, he’d have concussed his head. “Colonel Hancock, sir. Mr. Greeley to see you.”
Greeley stretched out his hand, “Colonel, a singular honor. I’d heard rumors about this in General Lee’s headquarters, but were I not standing here, I’d not believe it.”
The colonel’s smile was tired, and his face was lined with lack of sleep as he said, “That’ll be all, Lieutenant. I think I can manage one newspaper editor.”
Once alone with Greeley, the colonel offered a chair, and as the two sat across from each other, he said, “I heard you wanted to see what a bunch of Pennsylvanian coal miners are up to.”
Greeley’s eyes darted to the cavernous hole on the far wall. “It’s true then. You’re mining under the enemy’s fortification.”
Hancock nodded. “Tell me, Mr. Greeley, does General Lee truly support our endeavors, or to him, is this just a diversion, to keep my men busy?”
Blinking in surprise at the direct question, Greeley stammered, “I’m not privy to the general’s private thoughts. He keeps his own counsel for the most part, but I don’t believe Robert E. Lee is one to issue orders just to keep men busy.”
Greeley hadn’t come all the way to the forwardmost trench to have Colonel Hancock ask the questions. He pulled out his worn notepad and licked the tip of the pencil, ready to dig into the mine tunneled by Colonel Winfield Scott Hancock’s Sixth Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry.
The door to the small room burst inward, and another officer from General Lee’s headquarters stood in the frame, “It’s on! General Lee’s ordered the mine to be readied with explosives. How soon until the mine’s done?”
Hancock came to his feet, a feral smile on his lips. “We finished a couple of days ago.”
It took two days to prepare the mine, and on the twenty-first of June, Greeley found himself standing on an elevated platform far enough away that he was forced to borrow Lt. Terrell’s binoculars to see the forward trenches. Beyond, he could see the Southern Alliance’s unofficial battle flag flying over the enemy ramparts. The single white star rippled on the blue field as gusts of wind snapped at the banner.
Raising the field glasses, Greeley saw the steeple of the First Presbyterian Church of Augusta in the distance, rising above the town.
In the middle of the elevated platform, General Lee lowered his own binoculars, “Send the telegraph message when the mine blows. I want General Jackson’s Virginia Brigade to support Buell’s Division when they attack.”
Below the platform, the faint clattering of a telegraph machine confirmed the order’s transmission. Greeley resisted the urge to look at his pocket watch as the minutes ticked by. Finally, when his hand was reaching to his waistcoat, the earth shook beneath his feet and the platform’s wooden supports swayed. An explosion ripped the ground open in the middle of the rebel fortifications, throwing fire, smoke, earth, wood, and men into the sky.
Despite the distance, the throaty screams of Buell’s division reached the platform, and like a blue carpet being unrolled on a field, the federal troops charged across the distance between the two armies. More than a hundred field pieces and heavier siege guns added to the explosion’s confusion.
Greeley committed everything he saw to memory as the blue wave crashed into the enemy trenches. The binoculars brought into focus that enough of the enemy had recovered from the thunderous explosion to hurt Buell’s attack, as he saw scores of men falling to the ground in the last hundred paces before the Alliance’s fortifications. But it was too little, as the Federal troops surged into the enemy trenches.
Greeley felt a rush of righteous fury, watching the gray-uniformed ant-like figures streaming away from the trenches. Blue-jacketed soldiers chased them, stopping only to fire.
He lowered the field glasses as moisture gathered at the corners of his eyes. “Is this the beginning of the end?” he whispered, he closed his eyes and added, “Lord, smite your enemy and destroy them.”
General Lee turned and said, “Amen. Don’t forget, Mr. Greeley, when you write your reports, that war is cruel. I wonder if they would still clamor for their neighbor’s blood if they could pick up your newspaper and see daguerreotypes of the battlefield littered with the broken bodies of their sons and fathers.”
***
29 June 1853
Major Charlie Travis willed his stomach to settle down as the balloon shifted. A brief glance below showed what he feared. A few of his ground crew raced after one of the four ropes tethering the balloon.
Standing beside the telegraph machine, Sam Williams swore as one of the ground crew leapt into the air and grabbed hold of the thick rope. The soldier came off the ground as the wind whipped the tether higher into the air. “Damned if I’d rather be free-floating, Major. At least then we’d be able to see them enemy forts better.”
Charlie gripped the wicker basket until his knuckles turned white. “Not me, I’d rather be on solid ground, Sam. If this thing comes loose, we’d likely crash somewhere in Mississippi. I doubt they’d leave the latch string out for us.”
Several more soldiers managed to grab hold of the wayward tether, and the balloon stopped twisting in the breeze. Charlie loathed taking the fragile airship into the sky under windy conditions, but the continuous thunder of heavy guns to the south forced his hand. Even so, the other two balloons remained grounded. He’d not risk anyone else.
“Look, sir,” Sam pointed toward the expansive Mississippi River. Black smudges revealed the location of the Yankee and Texian ships, whether from their coal burning engines, their heavy guns or from damage taken from the steady artillery barrage from the earthen forts alongside the mighty river, Charlie couldn’t tell. There was but a single fort firing on the combined fleet. A second fort, on the river’s western bank, sat empty; its guns transferred to the eastern fort in the days immediately following General Davis’ retreat into Louisiana.
A large square-masted ship led the procession of vessels, an iron-plated box sat on the side of the ship, protecting the side paddlewheel from s
hot and shell. As Charlie stared through his binoculars, Sam said, “That’s the Powhatan. She’s a Yankee frigate powered by a side-paddlewheel.”
The ship shuddered, as Charlie focused his glasses on the Powhatan, whether from taking a hit or the recoil of her guns, he couldn’t tell. The balloon was simply too far away even with the binocular’s magnification.
“I count thirty-six gun emplacements at Fort Jackson, sir. Some of those guns have got to be firing one-hundred-pound rounds. They’ll pulverize a wooden ship,” Sam said as he sent the information down the attached telegraph line.
Charlie nodded and kept his eyes glued to the river. The water around the Powhatan churned where shots slammed into the water. Heavy solid shot clanged into the armored wheelhouse casing, bending the iron plating, and turning severed rivet-heads into deadly projectiles.
A flash of light filled the binocular’s lenses, and Charlie blinked in pain as he pulled the glasses away from his face. In the distance, where the Powhatan once sailed, flames burned along the waterline.
“Dear God, there had to have been three hundred men on that ship,” he muttered as he watched another ship, the Zavala, one of Texas’ seven ships in the attacking squadron, seem to leap forward as black clouds billowed from her smokestack. She appeared to have made it through the barrage of guns as Charlie turned his focus to a trio of squat ships lagging behind the rest of the squadron. They were still nearly a mile away from the fort when the first one’s bow dipped. A heavy mortar fired a shell from the ship’s deck. Charlie followed the shell’s trajectory, watching it as it fell short, landing in the river just a few dozen paces from the earthen fort.
The next ship fired a few minutes later. The shell disappeared within the walls of Fort Jackson before it exploded, sending smoldering debris into the air. Every few minutes one of the ships fired and dropped their shells in and around the fort. Despite the steady barrage, the fort’s guns continued to fire on the ships racing by.
“Major, we’re losing the daylight. Should I send the signal to bring us down?”
