Sumter to Shiloh Read online

  Sumter to Shiloh

  Book III in the Duty, Honor, Country Trilogy

  by

  Bob Mayer

  Who commanded the major battles of the Civil War? ------ There were 60 important battles of the War. In 55 of them, graduates commanded on both sides; in the remaining 5, a graduate commanded one of the opposing sides.

  Required Plebe knowledge at West Point.

  Dedication

  Dedicated to the men and women of The Long Gray Line.

  U.S. Grant on Traitors and Patriots

  Galena,

  April 21st, 1861.

  DEAR FATHER:

  We are now in the midst of trying times when every one must be for or against his country, and show his colors too, by his every act. Having been educated for such an emergency, at the expense of the Government, I feel that it has upon me superior claims, such claims as no ordinary motives of self-interest can surmount. I do not wish to act hastily or unadvisedly in the matter, and as there are more than enough to respond to the first call of the President, I have not yet offered myself. I have promised, and am giving all the assistance I can in organizing the company whose services have been accepted from this place. I have promised further to go with them to the State capital, and if I can be of service to the Governor in organizing his state troops to do so. What I ask now is your approval of the course I am taking, or advice in the matter. A letter written this week will reach me in Springfield. I have not time to write to you but a hasty line, for, though Sunday as it is, we are all busy here. In a few minutes I shall be engaged in directing tailors in the style and trim of uniform for our men.

  Whatever may have been my political opinions before, I have but one sentiment now. That is, we have a Government, and laws and a flag, and they must all be sustained. There are but two parties now, traitors and patriots and I want hereafter to be ranked with the latter, and I trust, the stronger party. I do not know but you may be placed in an awkward position, and a dangerous one pecuniarily, but costs cannot now be counted. My advice would be to leave where you are if you are not safe with the views you entertain. I would never stultify my opinion for the sake of a little security.

  I will say nothing about our business. Orvil and Lank will keep you posted as to that.

  Write soon and direct as above.

  Yours truly,

  U.S. GRANT.

  Letter from Sidney Albert Johnston in 1862

  Vicinity Shiloh, TN 23 years later

  Regarding Grant’s invading Army of the Tennessee

  5 April 1862

  To The Soldiers of the Army of the Mississippi:

  I have put into motion to offer battle to the invaders of your country. With the resolution and discipline and valor becoming men fighting, as you are, for all worth living or dying for, you can but march to decisive victory over the agrarian mercenaries sent to subjugate and despoil you of your liberties, property and honor. Remember the dependence of your mothers, your wives, your sisters, and your children on the result; remember the fair, broad, abounding land, the happy homes and the ties that would be desolated by your defeat. The eyes and hopes of eight millions of people rest upon you; you are expected to show yourselves worthy of your lineage, worthy of the women of the South, whose noble devotion in this war has never been exceeded in any time. With such incentives to brave deeds, and with the trust that God is with us, your generals will lead you confidently to the combat—assured of success.

  C.S.A. General Sidney Albert Johnston

  (West Point class of 1826)

  Chapter One

  14 July 1861, Florida, Missouri

  “Florida contained but one hundred people when I was born here twenty-six years ago and I increased the town’s population by one percent. This is more than many of the best men in history could have done for a town.”

  The speaker held an old smoothbore musket in sweaty hands, and he licked his upper lip nervously, a bushy black mustache adorning the space between mouth and nose.

  “Now ya get the chance to defend your town from the Yankees, Sam,” the man next to him said.

  Both men were dressed in civilian clothes, dirty from weeks spent foraging and traveling to and fro across Missouri following the orders of confused and amateur officers. How they’d ended up here was pure chance, the vagaries of war. It was early morning, and the dew had yet to be burned away by the mid-July heat. It was the most comfortable time of the day and would soon be gone.

  “I did leave when I was four, though, so I have no particular fondness for the place,” Samuel Clemens noted.

  “Aint much to it,” his friend agreed as they took in the muddy lane that ran through the small cluster of cabins. The two guards held a position just south of the hamlet where the road peaked a knoll, so they could see in both directions. “Why the devil does this Union Colonel want this place?”

  “Probably same reason we’re standing here,” Clemens said. “Someone told him to.”

  Behind the two pickets, in a trampled cornfield, a cluster of makeshift shelters and men rolled in blankets constituted the small unit sent to defend Florida, Missouri from the Union incursion. It consisted of Clemens’ own group, the self-named Marions Rangers, and other bands of men that could not quite be called a company of light infantry, although they would agree on the light: light on weapons, light on food and light on discipline.

  Hush.” Clemens turned his head, listening. “Riders coming.” He tapped his partner on the shoulder. “Best get the Colonel.”

  A half mile away, on the other side of Florida, Missouri, Elijah Cord raised a fist in the air, halting the small scouting element. It consisted of him and three other men who’d happened to have their own horses when they enlisted. Colonel Grant’s cavalry, Cord had dubbed the trio. He had turned down a commission and ‘signed on’ as scout with the 21st Illinois by dint of shaking hands with Sam Grant. Unpaid, of course. Which meant he was pretty much a free spirit, allowed to come and go as he pleased, although his allegiance to Grant bound him with greater ties than any commission or pay stub could have. He was anxiously awaiting confirmation from Lucius Rumble that Ben was safely at sea and heading toward the European continent, but the war was disrupting mail service and the past weeks spent in the field had slowed the incoming mail from a trickle to nothing.

  “I smell bad air,” Cord said, peering down the lane toward the small town, which appeared deserted. The road rose on the far side of the town toward a hilltop.

  “’Bad air’?” one of the men repeated.

  “Wait here,” Cord ordered as he dismounted and handed the reins to the man.

  Cord cocked the Lancaster as he wove his way through the woods on the east side of the road, every sense honed by thirteen years surviving the frontier on alert. He circumvented the town and halted at the edge of the wood line near the top of the hill on the other side. He spotted the cluster of sleeping men in the cornfield and the single, nervous picket on the summit watching the road. Cord put the Lancaster to his shoulder and took aim right at the big black mustache.

  Cord felt the rhythm of his heart, the pace of his breathing, his finger on the trigger. It was an easy shot, about three hundred feet. Unbidden, the hunting prayer came to his mind and he slid his finger off the trigger.

  “You a lucky fellow,” Cord whispered.

  Besides, he reasoned, it would alert the Confederates if he killed the picket. That was what he told himself as he let the hammer slowly back down on the cap and backed up, retracing his steps to the soldiers waiting with his horse.

  “Confederates on the other side of town,” Cord informed them. “Maybe a company, maybe less. We need to let the Colonel know.”

  They galloped back the way they had come, heading toward Colonel Gran
t and the bulk of the 21st Illinois.

  Back above Florida, Sam Clemens was trying to shake off the unexpected chill that had suddenly run down his spine.

  His fellow picket came running up. “Colonel on his way.”

  “You know, maybe this soldiering aint such a good idea?” Clemens suggested. “That fellow last night said there’s several hundred of them Yankees coming this way and they’re well equipped and trained.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “We aint exactly Caesar’s legions.”

  The Colonel, their nominal commander, came striding up, hand on the hilt of his sword. “See anything, men, other than hearing some horses?”

  “No, sir,” Clemens said, “but I got a bad feeling.”

  The Colonel peered down the road. “You aren’t the only one, son.” He looked about. “All the townsfolk cleared out. Hell, all the livestock cleared out. My daddy taught me a lot of things, and one of them is when the livestock clears out, it’s a sign.”

  A mile away, coming down the road at a trot, Cord met Grant, who was at the head of the long line of men in dusty blue. Grant gave the order for the regiment to halt and deploy flank security in a normal tone, the regimental sergeant major relaying it in a deep voice. Grant rode forward, out of earshot of the men, gesturing for the other three riders to join the column.

  When they were alone, Grant used a bandana to wipe the sweat off his brow. “What’ve you seen, Elijah?”

  “Less than a company of Confederates on the south side of the town, just over that hill. Not well armed and they don’t look too organized, but they got guns.”

  Grant took a deep breath.

  “Are you all right, Sam?” Cord asked. “You’ve faced hot lead before.”

  “But never in command, Elijah.” He nodded his head toward the long line of blue behind him. “I’m responsible for all these men. Now I know what old Taylor felt in Mexico.” Grant turned in the saddle. “Sergeant major, detail one squad from each company to fill canteens from that creek yonder, then we’ll resume the march.”

  When the men were all well supplied with full canteens, Grant gave the order to advance. Cord rode at his classmate’s side, the Lancaster balanced across the pommel of his saddle. A trickle of sweat escaped Grant’s blue hat and ran down his forehead.

  “That worried about the men?”

  Grant replied in a low voice. “My heart is high in my chest, almost into my throat.”

  “Well,” Cord said, “as my old friend Kit Carson once said, being nervous facing combat makes you normal.”

  They entered the town and rounded the bend, with a clear view of the hill.

  “Picket’s gone,” Cord said.

  Grant began giving orders, deploying skirmishers to the flanks and preparing the column to deploy into line. The essence of Infantry combat was to be able to achieve the latter task. Marching four abreast, the 21st had ten companies, each authorized one hundred men, but all short of that. What Grant had been drilling the men to do for the past month was to go from four abreast to twenty-five wide and four deep at a single command, or even fifty wide and two deep. It was much more difficult to achieve than those untrained in the military arts realized. Beyond those commands, there were numerous others that would advance, halt, wheel, pivot, and do many other maneuvers. All designed to get the mass of men with their firepower to move as one. More difficult, was to have all those men conduct those maneuvers in the face of an enemy force and incoming artillery and musket fire.

  The lead company spread out as they reached the top of the hill. The other companies peeled off at Grant’s commands, left and right, the woods making the maneuvers they’d practiced on the open fields more difficult.

  “Sam,” Cord said. “Remember Old Pete and the wolves that night? The night Ben was born?”

  “Yes.” Grant glanced at Cord and gave a slight smile. “Good point.”

  Cord and Grant crested the summit and reined in their horses.

  The Confederate camp was deserted.

  Cord laughed in relief. “Hell, Sam, they were as afraid of us as we were of them.”

  Grant slowly nodded. “I’d never thought of that. All through Mexico it never occurred to me.” He turned toward Cord and grinned, the sparkle back in his eyes. “But I’ll never forget it from here on out.”

  17 July 1861, Washington DC

  Rumble was heartily sick of the capitol. Mid-July was the time when any native of the city with an ounce of sense made for the hills of Virginia for relief from the heat. But not this summer. For those hills were now enemy territory.

  It wasn’t the heat that bothered Rumble so much, but the sycophants who crowded the city, seeking appointments to jobs where they could draw a government salary and also keep from going into the army. It seemed as if he and Delafield were last in line to every person they were supposed to see.

  “Where to today?” Ben asked.

  They were housed in the sweltering attic of a private home, the best accommodations that Delafield had been able to procure for them in a city at the center of war. A window fore and aft had been thrown open, but no welcoming breeze disturbed the air as Rumble buttoned his blue tunic up to the throat.

  “I’ll find out when I meet the General,” Rumble said. He grabbed his leather-bound folder containing the transcribed notes from all the little books he’d carried through the Mexican War. So far no one had asked to read them, never mind get a copy.

  Ben stretched his arms over his head, yawning. “I believe the Founding Fathers were not as wise as I once thought for making this intolerable place the capitol. And think; Richmond is but a hundred miles distant. It seems as if one army or the other were to sneeze, they would take the other’s capitol.”

  Rumble was grim. “It will take more than a sneeze either way.”

  “That’s not the word on the street. They say McDowell is preparing the army for an attack on the Secessionists very soon and the war will be over before we know it.”

  “They always say many things,” Rumble said, “and rarely are they right.”

  He led the way down the narrow stairs and out a side door. Exactly on time as General Delafield’s carriage rattled to a halt, the driver pulling back hard on the leads.

  “Sergeant Major!” Delafield called out from the back seat.

  Rumble saluted. “General.”

  Delafield greeted Ben hurriedly, while gesturing for Rumble to climb on board and checking his pocket watch.

  “I’ll see you this afternoon,” Rumble said as he boarded the carriage. It was moving before he was seated, leaving Ben in cloud of dust.

  Rumble grabbed hold to keep from tumbling over the side. “What’s the hurry, sir?”

  “We’ve been summoned.” Delafield was looking through his thin leather briefcase, checking to see if he had whatever papers it was he thought he was missing.

  As they raced through downtown Washington, it seemed a city in disrepair, although it was actually a city paused in building. The monument to Washington was a stump, abandoned by a bickering Congress. The Capitol Dome was also incomplete, although cranes hovered over it, a hint that perhaps some progress might be made, some day, but not this day. Troops were camped everywhere as more and more volunteers poured in. Regiments were even being housed on the floor of Congress, which was perhaps a better use of the chamber.

  “Sir, if you would tell me—“ Rumble paused in mid-question as the carriage pulled up to the gate for the President’s House, also called by some the White House, and whose official title was the Executive Mansion, which no one called it.

  A pair of armed soldiers lounged in the shade of a wilted tree and one took a tentative step into the early morning sun to offer a token of security. He saw Delafield and Rumble’s uniforms, gave a half-hearted salute and then the carriage was pulling up to the building.

  A servant flipped down the step on the side of the carriage and helped General Delafield disembark. Rumble hopped down behind him and followed as they were escorted into
the White House.

  People hurried to and fro, a good third in uniform, and one hundred percent of them ignoring the newcomers. A one-star general was nothing to get excited over in these hallways or in this city. Delafield halted in the main hallway, as lost as Rumble.

  Rumble leaned close to the old man. “Who are we to see, sir?”

  “A lawyer named Stanton,” Delafield said. “He works for Secretary of War Cameron and was Attorney General under President Buchanan.”

  “Shouldn’t we be at the War Department then, sir?”

  “I received a note last night to be here,” Delafield said.

  A large man waded down the hallway, everyone parting for him. He had steel-rimmed glasses, a fringe beard like Delafield’s, and a look on his face that indicated permanent displeasure.

  “Delafield? I’m Stanton.”

  “Yes, sir. This is--”

  “Come with me.” Stanton was heading back the way he’d come before Delafield could get another word out.

  They went upstairs, down another crowded hallway. A young man sat at a tiny desk outside a door at the end of the hallway.

  “Gentlemen, wait a moment please.”

  The young man opened the door and leaned in. Looking past, Rumble could see four boys pinning a man in a frock coat to the floor in a rough and tumble wrestling match. The door shut before he could make out much more and seconds later, the boys were squirting out the door, laughing and giggling.

  The young man nodded at Stanton and indicated the open door.

  The three men crowded into a small room dominated by an unusually tall desk. Behind which sat an unusually tall man. Delafield and Rumble snapped to attention in the presence of the President as the door shut behind them.