The Rock of Chickamauga: A Story of the Western Crisis
Dick and his comrades, selecting the dryest place they could find, spread their blankets and lay down. Protecting their faces from the mosquitoes with green leaves, they sank into a deep quiet. Dick even drowsed for a while. He could not think of a way out of the trap, and he was glad it was the duty of older men like Colonel Winchester and the majors and captains to save them.
The heat of the day increased with the coming of afternoon, and Dick’s eyelids grew heavier. He had become so thoroughly hardened to march and battle that the presence of the enemy on the other side of a river did not disturb him. What was the use of bothering about the rebels as long as they did not wish to fire upon one?
His eyes closed for a few minutes, and then his dreaming mind traversed space with incredible rapidity. He was back in Pendleton, sitting on the portico with his mother, watching the flowers on the lawn nod in the gentle wind. His cousin Harry Kenton saluted him with a halloo and came bounding toward the porch, and the halloo caused Dick to awake and sit up. He rubbed his eyes violently and looked around a little bit ashamed. But two captains older than himself were sound asleep with their backs against trees.
Dick stood up and shook himself violently. Whatever others might do he must not allow himself to relax so much. He saw that the sun was slowly descending and that the full heat of the afternoon was passing. Colonel Winchester had withdrawn somewhat among the trees and he beckoned to him. Sergeant Whitley was standing beside the colonel.
“Dick,” said Colonel Winchester, “colored men have brought us news that Colonel Grierson of our army, with a strong raiding force of nearly two thousand cavalry is less than a day’s march away and on the same side of this river that we are. We have received the news from three separate sources and it must be true. Probably Forrest’s men know it, too, but expect Grierson to pass on, wholly ignorant that we’re here. I have chosen you and Sergeant Whitley to bring Grierson to our relief. The horses are ready. Now go, and God speed you. The sergeant will tell you what we know as you ride.”
Dick sprang at once into the saddle, and with a brief good-bye he and the sergeant were soon in the forest riding toward the southeast. Dick was alive and energetic again. All that laziness of mind and body was gone. He rode on a great ride and every sense was alert.
“Tell me,” he said, “just about what the news is.”
“Three men,” replied the sergeant, “came in at different times with tales, but the three tales agree. Grierson has made a great raid, even further down than we have gone. He has more than double our numbers, and if we can unite with him it’s likely that we can turn Forrest into the pursued instead of the pursuer. They say we can hit his trail about twenty-five miles from here, and if that’s so we’ll bring him up to the ford by noon to-morrow. Doesn’t it look promising to you, Lieutenant Mason?”
“It does look promising, Sergeant Whitley, if we don’t happen to be taken by the Johnnies who infest this region. Besides, you’ll have to guide through the dark to-night. You’re trained to that sort of thing.”
“You can see pretty well in the dark yourself, sir; and since our way lies almost wholly through forest I see no reason why we should be captured.”
“That’s so, sergeant. I’m just as much of an optimist as you are. You keep the course, and I’m with you to the finish.”
They rode rather fast at first as the sun had not yet set, picking their way through the woods, and soon left their comrades out of sight. The twilight now came fast, adding a mournful and somber red to the vast expanse of wilderness. The simile of an Indian fight returned to Dick with increased force. This was not like any battle with white men in the open fields. It was a combat of raiders who advanced secretly under cover of the vast wilderness.
The twilight died with the rapidity of the South, and the darkness, thick at the early hours, passed over the curve of the earth. For a time Dick and the sergeant could not see many yards in front and they rode very slowly. After a while, as the sky lightened somewhat and their eyes also grew keen, they made better speed. Then they struck a path through the woods leading in the right direction, and they broke into a trot.
The earth was so soft that their horses’ feet gave back but little sound, and both were confident they would not meet any enemy in the night at least.
“Straight southeast,” said the sergeant, “and we’re bound to strike Grierson’s tracks. After that we’d be blind if we couldn’t follow the trail made by nearly two thousand horsemen.”
The path still led in the direction they wished and they rode on silently for hours. Once they saw a farmhouse set back in the woods, and they were in fear lest dogs come out and bark alarm, but there was no sound and they soon left it far behind.
They passed many streams, some of which were up to their saddle girths, and then they entered a road which was often so deep in mud that they were compelled to turn into the woods on the side. But no human being had interfered with their journey, and their hopes rose to the zenith.
They came, finally, into an open region of cotton fields, and the sergeant now began to watch closely for the great trail they hoped to find. A force as large as Grierson’s would not attempt a passage through the woods, but would seek some broad road and Sergeant Whitley expected to find it long before morning.
It was now an hour after midnight and they reckoned that they had come about the right distance. There was a good moon and plenty of stars and the sergeant gave himself only a half-hour to find the trail.
“There’s bound to be a wide road somewhere among these fields, the kind we call a county road.”
“It’s over there beyond that rail fence,” said Dick. They urged their horses into a trot, and soon found that Dick was right. A road of red clay soft from the rains stretched before them.
“A man doesn’t have to look twice here for a trail. See,” said the sergeant.
The road from side to side was plowed deep with the hoofs of horses, every footprint pointing northward.
“Grierson’s cavalry,” said Dick.
“I take it that it can’t be anything else. There is certainly in these parts no rebel force of cavalry large enough to make this trail.”
“How old would you say these tracks are?”
“Hard to tell, but they can’t have been made many hours ago. We’ll press forward, lieutenant, and we can save time going through the fields on the edge of the road.”
Although they had to take down fences they made good speed and just as the sun was rising they saw the light of a low campfire among some trees, lining either bank of a small creek. They approached warily, until they saw the faded blue uniforms. Then they galloped forward, shouting that they were friends, and in a few minutes were in the presence of Grierson himself.
He had been making a great raid, but he was eager now for the opportunity to strike at Forrest. He must give his horses a short rest, and then Dick and the sergeant should guide him at speed to the ford where the opposing forces stood.
“It’s twenty-five miles, you tell me?” said Grierson to Dick.
“As nearly as I can calculate, sir. It’s through swampy country, but I think we ought to be there in three or four hours.”
“Then lead the way,” said Grierson. “Like your colonel, I’ll be glad to have a try at Forrest.”
Sergeant Whitley rode in advance. A lumberman first and then a soldier of the plains, he had noted even in the darkness every landmark and he could lead the way back infallibly. But he warned Grierson that such a man as Forrest would be likely to have out scouts, even if they had to swim the river. It was likely that they could not get nearer by three or four miles to Colonel Winchester without being seen.
“Then,” said Grierson, who had the spirit of a Stuart or a Forrest, “we’ll ride straight on, brushing these watchers out of our way, and if by any chance their whole force should cross, we’ll just meet and fight it.”
“The little river is falling fast,” said the sergeant. “It’s likely that it’ll be fordable almost anywhere by noon.”
“Then,” said Grierson, “it’ll be all the easier for us to get at the enemy.”
Dick, just behind Grierson, heard these words and he liked them. Here was a spirit like Colonel Winchester’s own, or like that of the great Southern cavalry leaders. The Southerners were born on horseback, but the Northern men were acquiring the same trick of hard riding. Dick glanced back at the long column. Armed with carbine and saber the men were riding their trained horses like Comanches. Eager and resolute it was a formidable force, and his heart swelled with pride and anticipation. He believed that they were going to give Forrest all he wanted and maybe a little more.
Up rose the sun. Hot beams poured over forest and field, but the cavalrymen still rode fast, the scent of battle in their nostrils. Dick knew that these Southern streams, flooded by torrents of rain, rose fast and also fell fast.
“How much further now, sergeant?” asked Grierson, as they turned from a path into the deep woods.
“Not more than three miles, sir.”
“And they know we’re coming. Listen to that!”
Several rifles cracked among the trees and bullets whizzed by them. Forrest’s skirmishers and scouts were on the south side of the stream. As they had foreseen, the river had sunk so much that it was fordable now at many points. Dick was devoutly grateful that they had found Grierson. Otherwise the Winchester regiment would have been flanked, and its destruction would have followed.
Skirmishers were detached from Grierson’s command and drove off the Southern riflemen. Dick heard the rattling fire of their rifles in the deep wood, but he seldom saw a figure. Then he heard another fire, heavy and continuous, in their front, coming quite clearly on a breeze that blew toward them.
“Your whole regiment is engaged,” exclaimed Grierson. “Forrest must have forded the river elsewhere!”
He turned and shook aloft his saber.
“Forward, lads!” he shouted. “Gallant men of our own army will be overwhelmed unless we get up in time!”
The whole force broke into a gallop through the woods, the fire in their front rapidly growing heavier. In ten minutes they would be there, but rifles suddenly blazed from the forest on their flank and many saddles were emptied. Nothing upsets like surprise, and for a few moments the whole command was in disorder. It was evident that Forrest was attacking Winchester with only a part of his force, while he formed an ambush for Grierson.
But the Northern cavalrymen had not learned in vain through disaster and experience. Grierson quickly restored order and drew his men back into the forest. As the enemy followed the Northern carbines began to flash fast. The troopers in gray were unable to flank them or drive them back. Grierson, sure of his superior numbers, pushed on toward Winchester, while fighting off the foe at the same time.
Dick and the sergeant kept in the van, and presently they came within sight of Colonel Winchester’s men, who, dismounted, were holding off as best they could the overwhelming attack of Forrest. The Southern leader, after sending the majority of his men to a new crossing lower down had forced the ford before the Winchester regiment, and would have crushed it if it had not been for the opportune arrival of Grierson.
But a tremendous cheer arose as the Northern cavalry leader, who was already proving his greatness, charged into the battle with his grim troopers. The men in blue were now more numerous, and, fighting with the resolve to win or die, they gradually forced back Forrest. Dick began to foresee a victory won over the great Southern cavalryman.
But the astute Forrest, seeing that the odds were now heavily against him, ordered a retreat. The trumpets sang the recall and suddenly the Southern horsemen, carrying their dead with them, vanished in the forest, where the Northern cavalry, fearful of ambushes and new forces, did not dare to pursue.
But Winchester and Grierson were shaking hands, and Winchester thanked the other in brief but emphatic words.
“Say no more, colonel,” exclaimed Grierson. “We’re all trying to serve our common country. You’d help me just the same if we had the chance, and I think you’ll find the road clear to Grant. While the siege of Vicksburg was determined on long ago, as you know, I believe that he is now moving toward Grand Gulf. You know he has to deal with the armies of Johnston and Pemberton.”
“We’ll find him,” said Winchester.
A quarter of an hour later his regiment was galloping toward Grant, while Grierson’s command rode eastward to deal with other forces of the Confederacy.
CHAPTER III. GRANT MOVES
The Winchester regiment had not suffered greatly. A dozen men who had fallen were given speedy burial, and all the wounded were taken away on horseback by their friends. Dick rejoiced greatly at their escape from Forrest, and the daring and skill of Grierson. He felt anew that he was in stronger hands in the West than he had been in the East. In the East things seemed to go wrong nearly always, and the West they seemed to go right nearly always. It could not be chance continued so long. He believed in his soul that it was Grant, the heroic Thomas, and the great fighting powers of the western men, used to all the roughness of life out-of-doors and on the border.
They turned their course toward the Mississippi and that afternoon they met a Union scout who told them that Grant, now in the very heart of the far South, was gathering his forces for a daring attack upon Grand Gulf, a Confederate fortress on the Mississippi. In the North and at Washington his venture was regarded with alarm. There was a telegram to him to stop, but it was sent too late. He had disappeared in the Southern wilderness.
But Dick understood. He had both knowledge and intuition. Colonel Winchester on his long and daring scout had learned that the Confederate forces in the South were scattered and their leaders in doubt. Grant, taking a daring offensive and hiding his movements, had put them on the defensive, and there were so many points to defend that they did not know which to choose. Joe Johnston, just recovered from his wound at Fair Oaks the year before, and a general of the first rank, was coming, but he was not yet here.
Meanwhile Pemberton held the chief command, but he seemed to lack energy and decision. There were forces under other generals scattered along the river, including eight thousand commanded by Bowen, who held Grand Gulf, but concert of action did not exist among them.
This knowledge was not Dick’s alone. It extended to every man in the regiment, and when the colonel urged them to greater speed they responded gladly.
“If we don’t ride faster,” he said, “we won’t be up in time for the taking of Grand Gulf.”
No greater spur was needed and the Winchester regiment went forward as fast as horses could carry them.
“I take it that Grant means to scoop in the Johnnies in detail,” said Warner.
“It seems so,” said Pennington. “This is a big country down here, and we can fight one Confederate army while another is mired up a hundred miles away.
“That’s General Grant’s plan. He doesn’t look like any hero of romance, but he acts like one. He plunges into the middle of the enemy, and if he gets licked he’s up and at ‘em again right away.”
Night closed in, and they stopped at an abandoned plantation—it seemed to Dick that the houses were abandoned everywhere—where they spent the night. The troopers would have willingly pushed on through the darkness, but the horses were so near exhaustion that another hour or two would have broken them down permanently. Moreover, Colonel Winchester did not feel much apprehension of an attack now. Forrest had certainly turned in another direction, and they were too close to the Union lines to be attacked by any other foe.
The house on this plantation was not by any means so large and fine as Bellevue, but, like the other, it had broad piazzas all about it, and Dick, in view of his strenuous experience, was allowed to take his saddle as a pillow and his blankets and go to sleep soon after dark in a comfortable place against the wall.
Never was slumber quicker or sweeter. There was not an unhealthy tissue in his body, and most of his nerves had disappeared in a life amid battles, scoutings, and marchings. He slept heavily all through the night, inhaling new strength and vitality with every breath of the crisp, fresh air. There was no interruption this time, and early in the morning the regiment was up and away.
They descended now into lower grounds near the Mississippi. All around them was a vast and luxuriant vegetation, cut by sluggish streams and bayous. But the same desolation reigned everywhere. The people had fled before the advance of the armies. Late in the afternoon they saw pickets in blue, then the Mississippi, and a little later they rode into a Union camp.
“Dick,” said Colonel Winchester, “I shall want you to go with the senior officers and myself to report to General Grant on the other side of the Mississippi. You rode on that mission to Grierson and he may want to ask you questions.”
Dick was glad to go with them. He was eager to see once more the man who had taken Henry and Donelson and who had hung on at Shiloh until Buell came. The general’s tent was in a grove on a bit of high ground, and he was sitting before it on a little camp stool, smoking a short cigar, and gazing reflectively in the direction of Grand Gulf.
He greeted the three officers quietly but with warmth and then he listened to Colonel Winchester’s detailed account of what he had seen and learned in his raid toward Jackson. It was a long narrative, showing how the Southern forces were scattered, and, as he listened, Grant’s face began to show satisfaction.
But he seldom interrupted.
“And you think they have no large force at Jackson?” he said.
“I’m quite sure of it,” replied Colonel Winchester.
Grant chewed his cigar a little while and then said:
“Grierson is doing well. It was an achievement for you and him to beat off Forrest. It will raise the prestige of our cavalry, which needs it. I believe it was you, Lieutenant Mason, who brought Grierson.”
“It was chiefly, sir, a sergeant named Whitley. I rode with him and outranked him, but he is a veteran of the plains, and it was he who did the real work.”
The general’s stern features were lightened by a smile.
“I’m glad you give the sergeant credit,” he said. “Not many officers would do it.”
He listened a while longer and then the three were permitted to withdraw to their regiment, which was posted back of Grand Gulf, and which had quickly become a part of an army flushed with victory and eager for further action.
Before sunset Dick, Warner, and Pennington looked at Grand Gulf, a little village standing on high cliffs overlooking the Mississippi, just below the point where the dark stream known as the Big Black River empties into the Father of Waters. Around the crown of the heights was a ring of batteries and lower down, enclosing the town, was another ring.
Far off on the Mississippi the three saw puffing black smoke marking the presence of a Union fleet, which never for one instant in the whole course of the war relaxed its grip of steel upon the Confederacy. Dick’s heart thrilled at the sight of the brave ships. He felt then, as most of us have felt since, that whatever happened the American navy would never fail.
“I hear the ships are going to bombard,” said Warner.
“I heard so, too,” said Pennington, “and I heard also that they will have to do it under the most difficult circumstances. The water in front of Grand Gulf is so deep that the ships can’t anchor. It has a swift current, too, making at that point more than six knots an hour. There are powerful eddies, too, and the batteries crowning the cliffs are so high that the cannon of the gunboats will have trouble in reaching them.”
“Still, Mr. Pessimist,” said Dick, “remember what the gunboats did at Fort Henry. You’ll find the same kind of men here.”
“I wasn’t trying to discourage you. I was merely telling the worst first. We’re going to win. We nearly always win here in the West, but it seems to me the country is against us now. This doesn’t look much like the plains, Dick, with its big, deep rivers, its high bluffs along the banks, and its miles and miles of swamp or wet lowlands. How wide would you say the Mississippi is here?”
“Somewhere between a mile and a mile and a half.”
“And they say it’s two or three hundred feet deep. Look at the steamers, boys. How many are there?”
“I count seven pyramids of smoke,” said Warner, “four in one group and three in another. All the pyramids are becoming a little faint as the twilight is advancing. Dick, you call me a cold mathematical person, but this vast river flowing in its deep channel, the dark bluffs up there, and the vast forests would make me feel mighty lonely if you fellows were not here. It’s a long way to Vermont.”
“Fifteen hundred or maybe two thousand miles,” said Dick, “but look how fast the dark is coming. I was wrong in saying it’s coming. It just drops down. The smoke of the steamers has melted into the night, and you don’t see them any more. The surface of the river has turned black as ink, the bluffs of Grand Gulf have gone, and we’ve turned back three or four hundred years.”
“What do you mean by going back three or four hundred years?” asked Warner, looking curiously at Dick.
“Why, don’t you see them out there?”
“See them out there? See what?”
“Why, the queer little ships with the high sides and prows! On my soul, George, they’re the caravels of Spain! Look, they’re stopping! Now they lower something in black over the side of the first caravel. I see a man in a black robe like a priest, holding a cross in his hand and standing at the ship’s edge saying something. I think he’s praying, boys. Now sailors cut the ropes that hold the dark object. It falls into the river and disappears. It’s the burial of De Soto in the Father of Waters which he discovered!”
“Dick, you’re dreaming,” exclaimed Pennington.
“Yes, I know, but once there was a Chinaman who dreamed that he was a lily. When he woke up he didn’t know whether he was a Chinaman who had dreamed he was a lily or a lily now dreaming he was a Chinaman.”
“I like that story, Dick, but you’ve got too much imagination. The tale of the death and burial of De Soto has always been so vivid to you that you just stood there and re-created the scene for yourself.”
“Of course that’s it,” said Pennington, “but why can’t a fellow create things with his mind, when things that don’t exist jump right up before his eyes? I’ve often seen the mirage, generally about dark, far out on the western plains. I’ve seen a beautiful lake and green gardens where there was nothing but the brown swells rolling on.”
“I concede all you say,” said Dick readily. “I have flashes sometimes, and so does Harry Kenton and others I know.”
“Flashes! What do you mean?” asked Warner.
“Why, a sort of lightning stroke out of the past. Something that lasts only a second, but in which you have a share. Boys, one day I saw myself a Carthaginian soldier following Hannibal over the Alps.”
“Maybe,” said Pennington, “we have lived other lives on this earth, and sometimes a faint glimpse of them comes to us. It’s just a guess.”
“That’s so,” said Warner, “and we’d better be getting back to the regiment. Grand Gulf defended by Bowen and eight thousand good men is really enough for us. I think we’re going to see some lively fighting here.”
The heavy boom of a cannon from the upper circle of batteries swept over the vast sheet of water flowing so swiftly toward the Gulf. The sound came back in dying echoes, and then there was complete silence among besieged and besiegers.
The Winchesters had found a good solid place, a little hill among the marshes, and they were encamped there with their horses. Dick had no messages to carry, but he remained awake, while his comrades slept soundly. He had slept so much the night before that he had no desire for sleep now.
From his position he could see the Confederate bluffs and a few lights moving there, but otherwise the two armies were under a blanket of darkness. He again felt deeply the sense of isolation and loneliness, not for himself alone, but for the whole army. Grant had certainly shown supreme daring in pushing far into the South, and the government at Washington had cause for alarm lest he be reckless. If there were any strong hand to draw together the forces of the Confederacy they could surely crush him. But he had already learned in this war that those who struck swift and hard were sure to win. That was Stonewall Jackson’s way, and it seemed to be Grant’s way, too.