The Boys of Chattanooga

By Clyde Hedges

On November 23, 1863, General Ulysses Grant ordered the United States Army of the Cumberland forward to the Confederate base rifle at Missionary Ridge, Chattanooga, Tennessee. What followed was the most amazing and maybe the most courageous charge of the American Civil War. The Boys of Chattanooga tells the story of Billy, Clarence, and Matt, three Union soldiers who made that incredible charge. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clyde Hedges
• Release date: Apr 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386021834

Clyde Hedges

Clyde Hedges was born and raised in Evansville, Indiana. Upon graduation from high school, Clyde enlisted in the army. While stationed in New England, he met his wife Marion. After mustering out, Clyde attended Fitchburg State Teachers College where he majored in secondary education with an emphasis in English and History. Clyde, Marion, and their daughter Stacy settled in Evansville where Clyde taught history and economics. Stacy's health forced them to relocate to Las Vegas where Clyde and Marion taught for 23 years. They are now retired and live in Reno near their daughter Kelly and son-in-law John and their grandson Carrick, whom they dote upon continually.

Book preview

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO THE MEN

BOTH REBEL AND UNION WHO FOUGHT

AT CHICKAMAUGA AND CHATTANOOGA.

CHAPTER 1

CHATTANOOGA, TENNESSEE

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 20, 1863

Under the late afternoon sun, we stood and watched as they ran past us. There were no company ranks or military formations. The Army of the Cumberland was running from the Rebs like frightened boys from a schoolyard fight, and it was all so unexpected.

The week before they had marched out of Chattanooga, the proudest of all the Union Armies. The Cumberland had never been defeated, its battle flags never taken in defeat, and its men were the proud victors of Murfreesboro and the Tennessee campaign. Now everyone of them were little more than cowardly dogs.

I looked at Billy, the one person in the world I might call a friend. His eyes shifted nervously while sweat beaded across his forehead and ran down his face.

He glanced at me and faked a smile. He always panicked. Even if it was a little tussle with the boys, he wanted to be the peacemaker, the one who never fought. I winked to reassure him and glanced at our squad leader, Matt. He wasn't scared like Billy, just grim faced and silent.

In late June, the three of us enlisted when Father Abraham made another call for volunteers. The previous two years, Billy and I had sat in Evansville High School while the battles raged, and that was hard for me to take. I wanted this war. It was going to be my adventure, my chance to prove just how tough I really was.

Billy wasn't so sure, and it surprised the hell out of me when he asked to tag-along. Our only problem was convincing his parents.

Don't you worry, Mom, Pop, I told them that afternoon. Billy will be safe with me.

For over an hour, we'd been sitting in their living room, talking about enlisting, but try as I might, they wouldn't give Billy consent.

Clarence, I know you've been patient, but can't you wait a while longer? The papers say that Vicksburg is about to surrender, and if General Rosecrans drives Bragg out of Tennessee, the Rebs might give up. Couldn't you wait until the end of summer? Mom Briscoll asked.

I hated to turn her down. She and Pop took me in when the Old Man grew feathers and flew the coop. I owed her a lot and knew it, but I was aiming to fight.

Mom, I began again, "I'm big. I could have snuck off to St. Louis and lied about my age and enlisted, but I waited and finished school just like you asked.

I even worked through June to help Pop with the rush, but I'm not putting it off any longer. Abe's made his call, and I'm going to answer it, but don’t you worry about Billy. I’ll be there to take care of him.

I think my promise was what convinced Billy. He turned from me to Mom and then Pop. I guess Clarence is right, Mom, he said with his shy, quiet voice. It's my duty to go.

Mom frowned and patted the side of her light brown hair while tears clouded her eyes. She was still a pretty woman with just a sprinkle of gray in her hair and hardly a line on her face.

She looked up to Pop who stood behind her, staring at the floor. The week before, he'd offered to pay the six hundred dollars to hire substitutes for the both of us.

A lot of money for a small town blacksmith, but running from a fight wasn't Clarence Rutledge's way. In another few minutes, they relented, and Billy and I left for the enlistment station.

Matt was a different story. He'd taken a minnie ball at Murfreesboro and was recuperating in a Louisville hospital when his first enlistment ended.

I guess he was like me. He couldn't leave a fight unfinished, and he answered when Abe said more men were needed. I continued staring at him. He shook his head and frowned at me.

This is bad, Clarence. If the Rebels push hard, we’ll be defending Chattanooga before the night is over, he said real seriously.

A thrill of excitement surged through me. Do you really think so, Matt?

Look at them, Clarence, he said while gesturing toward the mob running past us.

The Rebs have the Army of the Cumberland on the run, and if they're smart, they'll keep pushing until we're backed against the river. Then there won’t be any retreat.

Even as we talked two soldiers struggled past us dragging a third. Behind them the stream of wagons and wounded continued.

"Some men limped and others wore bandages on their shoulders or arms while the worst were strapped to horses. What none of us could understand was how Bragg had beaten General Rosecrans.

Ten days before, we’d occupied Chattanooga without firing a shot. Bragg and his army retreated to Georgia, and after resting and refitting Rosecrans followed.

The Rebs were as good as licked, and I was sick with dread that I’d never get to fight because the 89th was left behind to garrison Chattanooga.

I fought and argued with Captain Jenkins when we got our orders. I begged him to transfer Billy and me to a fighting outfit, but he wouldn't do it, and the morning the Cumberland marched for Georgia, we unloaded our first train.

Useful work it might have been, but I didn't like it. Then, on the 19th, things started heating up.

We'd just finished our work detail and after lunch, Billy, Matt, and I walked down to the freight yard to look at the train that arrived an hour before.

Hardtack or cartridges? I asked Matt as we looked at the loaded boxcars.

Like Billy, he was a little bit of a guy, not over five-eight, but quick and wiry, a tough customer if you got on his wrong side.

Probably that and everything else Rosecrans needs. So don't worry about what it is. We're going to unload it no matter what.

Billy stood between us, his head equal to Matt's, but six inches below mine. Looks like work.

Sure does, Matt answered. He was starting to say something else when a low rumble rolled through the gap on the ridge.

What's that? Billy asked as he turned toward the sound.

A cool breeze brushed my face, and I felt a chill. Sounds like thunder, I said. Maybe a storm's brewing.

Another boom roared through the gap, only this time warehouse windows rattled. Matt looked at us, his face concerned and thoughtful. That's not thunder; that's cannon fire.

Matt, I snorted. How can that be cannon? Everyone knows Bragg's retreated to Georgia.

Another blast, louder, more deafening, and Matt shook his head. Sounds like everyone knows but Bragg.

Within minutes the whine and pop of thousands of muskets were added to the cannon. What was happening, none of us could say, we just knew that it was one hell of a fight that grew more violent with every passing minute.

The battle would eventually be called Chickamauga, the bloodiest two days of the war. But that afternoon all we could do was sit and listen. It wasn’t until night stretched its dark fingers across the valley that the fighting stopped.

With the night, our hopes rose. We had learned the Rebs had hit General Rosecrans somewhere near the Georgia border about eight miles south of Chattanooga.

But old Rosey’s defensive line was holding. As long as it did, he had the upper hand. Unfortunately, Bragg was holding a few aces of his own.

Early the next morning, just as I was biting into a piece of hard tack, the Rebs struck with a deafening barrage.

I almost dropped my roll and spilled half my coffee. A few seconds later, Rosecrans answered with his own cannon.

The fighting had resumed, and the second day proved more violent than the first.

Over the night, both generals had reorganized their armies, and in minutes hundreds of men began to die along the banks of a muddy little creek called Chickamauga.

The blasting cannon and musket fire made no difference to Colonel Gibson.

After breakfast, we assembled and marched to the depot and started unloading the train.

While we worked, Matt kept us posted on what was happening. By mid-morning, the news grew grim.

I guess things are pretty tight, he told us.

The whole company had gathered around him to hear the latest word from headquarters.

A messenger just arrived ordering Colonel Gibson to dig a defensive line fronting the gap in the ridge. We’re to start as soon as we unload the train.

Does that mean we'll fight? Billy asked Matt.

It might, Billy. The colonel says that Bragg is attacking everywhere, probing for a weak spot on the line.

It sounded as if Bragg was doing a lot more than probing.

The cannon fire was loud, one thundering barrage after another while thousands of muskets cracked and popped in the background.

It was a bad fight, and we were all concerned, and as soon as we emptied the last car, we marched to the gap and began to dig our line.

We didn’t start a minute too soon. I’d just broken the topsoil when a young lieutenant galloped over the ridge heading for Chattanooga like a jockey for the finish line.

All of us stopped and watched as he raced down the road. In a few more minutes we saw Captain Jenkins riding from town. After we formed up, he explained the situation.

Men, the Rebels have broken General Rosecrans’s defenses. Right now, he's falling back on Chattanooga. We have to get this trench deepened and barricaded to cover his retreat.

What happened, Jenk? Matt shouted from the ranks.

He and Captain Jenkins had been good friends in Evansville, so Matt got away with a few improprieties.

I don't know, Matt. At this time, I don't think anyone does, but I'm going to have forty rounds of ammunition issued to every man. You non-commissioned officers see that the men keep their cartridges dry. We may be fighting before the sun sets.

There was a buzz in our ranks and then Jenk dismissed us.

In ten minutes, I was loading my rifle, but the Rebs never showed, just the leg cases as Father Abraham was apt to say.

Like the lieutenant’s horse, they were sweaty and dirty with their faces blackened by gunpowder and mud.

I stood in the trench watching them run. I couldn't understand why they weren’t fighting.

Beyond the mountains, we still heard cannon fire. It was for sure that some units were mixing it up with the Rebs. Why everyone wasn't, I couldn't figure and then Matt poked my side.

Look, he said real seriously.

Billy and I turned to where he pointed. There, right in the middle of the running men galloped a group of twenty or thirty officers, and in the middle of all those stars and eagles and oak leaves was General Rosecrans himself.

I couldn’t believe the change in him. The week before, he'd sat proud in his saddle as he led his army out of Chattanooga for Georgia. But that afternoon, he slumped forward downcast and dejected, barely holding his reins.

Is he wounded? I asked Matt.

He’s worse than wounded, Clarence. He's humiliated.

What do you mean? I asked.

Did you notice the other generals with Rosecrans? Matt asked.

No, I didn't.

I recognized General Crittendon and McCook. They're two of his corps commanders. The third is General Thomas. That must be him and his corps fighting the Rebs.

Are those the cannon we hear? Billy asked.

I guess so, Billy. No one really knows.

How can one corps fight all of Bragg’s army? I asked Matt.

I can't say, Clarence, but if it wasn't for Thomas and his men, we'd have our backs to the river right now, and I'm not too much for swimming this time of year.

I turned from Matt and Billy and looked as the officers rode among the men retreating to the city. Littered along the road were overturned ambulances and caissons with dead horses still in harness.

In Chattanooga conditions were worse. Soldiers milled the streets while hundreds of others lay along the south bank of the Tennessee drinking.

Everything was confusion and chaos. It was for sure we couldn’t defend the city as disorganized as we were, and for some reason I thought of Old Abe safe and sound in Washington.

We’d answered his call and now we were caught up in a sweet mess. I wondered what he was going to do now, just how he was going to handle this crisis.

CHAPTER 2

WASHINGTON DC

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 1863

The tall gaunt man stood in front of the map and stared as a shorter, stout man traced the route the Army of the Cumberland had retreated upon. When he reached Chattanooga, he shook his fist and then pounded the wall.

"Now, he's cabled this that Crittendon and McCook let him down, that they caved into the Rebels, but I noticed from Mr. Dana's report that he was riding between them when they reached Chattanooga.

They might have let him down, but he ran just as fast as both. The stouter man's face remained flushed and angry; the taller one’s sad and upset.

How did Rosecrans cover his retreat? What happened? Why did he cave in so suddenly?

For two days President Lincoln had been asking the same questions, and still Secretary Stanton couldn’t furnish him answers though they were connected by telegraph to Chattanooga.

Stanton frowned and shrugged. "I still can’t say, Mr. President. I only have the scantiest of details.

Mr. Dana says that remnants of the army banded together and covered Rosecrans’s retreat. He says that it’s still too early to tell.

Thomas is Rosecrans’s III Corps commander. Right, Stanton?

Yes, Mr. President.

Though Rosecrans won't admit it, it appears that the Virginian saved him.

Yes, it appears so, Mr. President.

Abraham Lincoln, sixteenth president of the United States, glanced again at the map of Tennessee and then moved to a map of northern Virginia where General Halleck stood.

As he did with Stanton, Lincoln towered over Halleck. Stanton joined them and for several minutes the three men silently studied the map and the dispositions of General Meade’s huge Army of the Potomac.

Fronting Meade and preventing him from marching to Richmond was the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia commanded by General Robert E. Lee.

Are you sure, General Halleck? Lincoln asked.

General Meade says that he can spare the two corps, Halleck replied.

Lincoln stared uncertainly at the map of Virginia and then at the map of Tennessee.

We have to send Rosecrans reinforcements, Mr. President, and Meade’s army is the only place to get them, Stanton quietly said.

All night the three men had remained at the War Department, planning on how best to aid Rosecrans in Tennessee.

Finally, an hour before, they had reached the decision to take two corps from Meade’s Army and send them to Rosecrans.

Still, Lincoln was wary Meade couldn’t adequately defend Washington.

After Gettysburg last July, General Meade had missed a tremendous opportunity to annihilate Lee’s army.

For two days he had trapped the retreating Rebels against the Potomac. If he had attacked, Lincoln was sure Lee would have been forced to surrender.

The war for all practical purposes would have ended. Now, Lincoln and Stanton were taking two corps from Meade, and Lincoln wondered if the general would grow uncertain with his smaller army and retreat if Lee moved north again?

But he had no other choice. Something had to be done for Rosecrans.

Has Rosecrans secured the heights surrounding Chattanooga? Can he supply his army? Lincoln asked Stanton and Halleck.

Sir, we’ve ordered him to do so. He should be able to withstand anything Bragg might throw at him, Halleck assured him.

And General Meade has said that he can defend Washington without the XI and XII Corps?

Yes, sir, Stanton answered.

For another moment, Lincoln stood and frowned as he studied the maps. Finally, he spoke.

Very well, Stanton, Halleck, but keep me advised of the corps movements. Let me know when they start for Tennessee and when the last train arrives.

Yes, sir, I will, Stanton answered. Within two weeks, we should have both corps in Tennessee.

Taking his tall top hat, Lincoln nodded to the two men and left the conference room and walked across the main floor of the War Department.

Different clerks and soldiers stood, and absent-mindedly he nodded to them. This morning he was preoccupied with the Army of the Cumberland.

He couldn’t understand why Rosecrans had caved in so quickly. Only days before, the general and his men had been on the verge of a great victory.

The road to Atlanta lay before them, now the proud Army of the Cumberland was bottled up in Chattanooga and Lincoln already understood how dangerous the situation was.

Rosecrans had to maintain his supply routes. Chattanooga was completely surrounded by mountains with only a single road and rail line leading to the warehouses in Bridgeport.

If Rosecrans surrendered those heights, then his supply routes would be closed and even the entire Army of Potomac couldn't save him.

Lincoln stood quietly at the top of the War Department stairs and surveyed Pennsylvania Avenue.

Along it, civilians hustled back and forth tending to their lives while a newly formed regiment marched down the cobble stone street, heading south to join Meade’s army.

He was taking away two corps and another regiment was arriving to help fill their gap.

As he watched them, Lincoln began to wonder who the soldiers were, and from which state they had been mustered, and most of all, how many would not survive the week.

Lincoln sighed and rubbed his forehead as he followed the regiment's progress.

The leading captain reached the Virginia turnpike and raised his sword and signaled south. Company by company, the soldiers marched to the middle of the intersection and then pivoted sharply to head for the Potomac Bridge.

When the final soldier passed from sight, Lincoln started for the White House, still thinking about Rosecrans.

Though Rosecrans was a West Point graduate with an admirable record, Stanton had never cared for him.

The general in question had a disturbing habit of complaining about a lack of supplies and equipment, and then using those same complaints as an excuse to not take the field.

Once, Rosecrans went so far as to accuse Stanton of purposely ignoring and under supplying his army after the War Department had sent every musket and cannon he'd requisitioned.

Still, Rosecrans had been successful. Before Chickamauga, he had been one of the Union's best generals. Though he was slow to attack, once he did, he won.

And this summer his Tennessee campaign had been a masterpiece of strategy and tactics. In little more than a month he flanked Bragg across Tennessee and out of Chattanooga without fighting a major engagement and with little loss of life.

"What could have happened at Chickamauga? Lincoln wondered. How had Bragg inflicted such a terrible defeat?

The president frowned and thought of the forty thousand men comprising the Army of the Cumberland.

If what he thought was true, then those men were in grave danger and help wasn’t readily available.

At that moment, the nearest Union Army was in Knoxville, only a hundred miles from Chattanooga, but that army posed another serious problem for Ambrose Burnside commanded it.

It was Burnside who stole two nights march on Bobby Lee only to bog down at the Rappahannock while waiting for pontoon bridges to be brought forward.

With his delay he snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. Lee marched his ragamuffins north and securely entrenched himself in the heights outside Fredericksburg while Burnside hesitated at the river.

Then, when the bridges were at last constructed, Burnside crossed and promptly ordered seven frontal assaults all of which failed disastrously, but not from lack of valor.

Each time the men formed up and marched forward toward certain death. Never did they waver; never did they turn back, while their damage to Lee's army was minimal at best.

Fredericksburg had been a disastrous defeat, and now Lincoln wondered if he should trust that same general to march to Rosecrans's aid?

The next nearest force was Grant’s Army of the Tennessee still encamped at Vicksburg. But two weeks before, Stanton had ordered Grant to dispatch General Sherman and four divisions to Rosecrans and from what they'd gathered Sherman had already departed Vicksburg.

Also, Halleck had seriously reduced Grant's force by sending Ord’s corps to New Orleans.

If he ordered Grant to lead the remainder of his army to Chattanooga, the Mississippi Valley would be open for reoccupation by the Confederates.

He couldn’t allow that. Halleck and Stanton had been correct. Their only choice was to send the XI and XII Corps from the Army of the Potomac.

Coupled with the divisions that Grant had sent, Rosecrans should be able to get back on the road to Atlanta, but Lincoln knew that he had to be quick.

The winter snows would soon be falling in the Georgia mountains and troop movements would be practically impossible once they started.

Lincoln stopped on the grassy common between the White House and War Department and closed his eyes.

Dana had cabled him that thirty percent of Rosecrans’s army had fallen at Chickamauga. The papers in Richmond were saying that Bragg had lost even more men.

When, Lincoln wondered, will the bloodshed end; when will it ever end?

With the great victories at Gettysburg and Vicksburg last July, he had hoped the end of the war was in sight. Now he had an army trapped against the Tennessee River and was rushing reinforcements to it.

As he continued across the common, Lincoln again considered ordering Burnside to Chattanooga. He was only seventy-five miles from Rosecrans, but once he left Knoxville, Rebel reprisals would begin again. That he refused to risk. Since the beginning of the war, he had promised the loyal citizens of Tennessee he would free them when possible, and now he had, and he couldn't abandon them again.

Lincoln reached the White House and opened the front doors and walked unannounced to his upstairs office.

Outside, a line of office seekers waited along with several congressmen and two officers.

They all stood when they saw him, including Nicolay, his only secretary while John Hay was on military assignment in Florida.

Good morning, Mr. President, Nicolay said.

Good morning, John. I won’t be seeing anyone for a moment. I’ll let you know when I’m ready for my first interview.

Yes, sir. Should I have breakfast sent up, or a cup of tea?

Lincoln shook his head. No, John, I can’t eat.

He closed the door behind him and collapsed into his chair. He already believed that the answer to Chattanooga was Grant.

Something about the tone of Rosecrans’s cables, his obvious reluctance to state how Bragg had broken his defenses indicated that much. Rosecrans was severely shaken, and he wondered if the general would ever recover himself?

He stood again and started to pace between his desk and the window, his hands clasped behind his back, his head bowed.

Stanton didn't know it yet, but if Rosecrans didn't retake the initiative, if he didn't attempt to rouse himself and save his army, then Old Mars was going to make a little trip.

It was time Stanton personally assess the Union's most successful general. Unbelievably, neither he nor Stanton had ever met Grant.

Unlike so many other generals, Grant shunned Washington. Only his chief of staff, General Rawlins, had met with him and Stanton after Vicksburg surrendered.

So now he intended to send Stanton to Grant. He had to know as much about the general as possible, especially about his rumored drinking problem.

Only weeks before, Grant had injured his leg while reviewing troops in New Orleans, and immediately rumors surfaced that Grant was drinking, and he had heard and read the rumors, and as usual Senator Swineburne and Representative Sanders called to protest Grant holding such an exalted command. And the complaints and attacks hadn’t ended with them.

The Chicago Times, the largest paper in Illinois, Lincoln and Grant’s home state, hotly disputed Grant’s ability to command, warning in editorial after editorial that the general’s drinking would eventually catch up with him and that thousands of men would die when it did.

Of course the Times Lincoln dismissed as rhetoric. The paper had been against him when he ran for the house, the senate, even the Presidency. For some reason home grown boys were not popular with that august journal.

He leaned against the window casement and drummed his fingers thinking of the ever silent Grant. 

Rescued from obscurity when the war started, Grant  received a command and then began to fight better than any officer in the service until he ran into problems at Shiloh.

There, his advance guard had been surprised and his army suffered a terrible mauling until the second day when they drove the Rebels back to Corinth, but the damage had been done.

More Americans died at Shiloh than in all the battles previously fought on the North American Continent combined.

He remembered too well the carnage, the loss of life, and how Congress and the papers had howled for Grant’s dismissal, claiming that he was carousing with his staff before the Rebel attack. Through it all Grant remained silent, not bothering to issue a single denial. And Shiloh wasn’t the last time.

He had heard rumors Grant went on a binge during the Vicksburg siege, and still there were no denials, just reports in the papers and complaints in Congress.

General Rawlins had met with him and Stanton after Vicksburg, and Grant’s chief of staff assured them the general abstained.

He believed Rawlins, but Grant would make matters much easier if he stepped forward to his own defense. Now once again he remained mute about his accident in New Orleans while the Times reviled him with every edition.

Because of those rumors and accusations, he had to be particularly careful about Grant.

He had never been securely entrenched with the American people or Congress, and at that moment, it looked doubtful that the later would support him if he sent the general to Chattanooga.

Hopefully, Grant wouldn’t be needed, but Lincoln had his doubts, very strong doubts.

He knew that as long as the Army of the Cumberland held Chattanooga they were a thorn in the Rebels' vitals, but Atlanta was the real prize, the queen city of the South.

He estimated that after leaving Chattanooga, five to six months of hard fighting would be required to reach Atlanta.

He also estimated that if the queen city didn't capitulate before next November, he would not be returned to office. Then his successor would most likely make peace despite the sacrifices of so many men and their families.

But for the moment he must wait and hope that Rosecrans would rouse himself.

Promoting Grant or sending him to Chattanooga might prove too risky, for if the general sipped a single whiskey, or suffered another surprise attack, or failed to whip Bragg; then he would no longer be able to sustain him or his administration.

Before the war, he had stated that a house divided against itself could not stand, but promoting Grant might be building a house of cards that would topple with his first drink.

Still, he might not have any choice. It all depended upon Rosecrans.

Unclasping his hands, Lincoln walked to his office door. John, I’ll see my first applicant, he said to Nicolay. Another day at the office had begun.

CHAPTER 3

VICKSBURG, MISSISSIPPI

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1863

Brigadier John Rawlins, General Grant’s friend and chief of staff walked down the main hall of the Lum Mansion, the finest home in Vicksburg, Mississippi. Rawlins reached the last door and knocked quietly.

Come in Rawlins, a strained voice called from within.

Rawlins opened the door and entered. Across the nearly barren room stood a huge canopied bed surrounded by white, lacy curtains and covered with fitted cotton sheets. Lying on the bed, fully clothed in his wool uniform was General Ulysses S. Grant, Commander of the United States Army of the Tennessee.

What is it, Rawlins? Grant asked.

Rawlins looked at Grant and worried anew. Though Grant's expression remained impassive, the pallor of his skin and bags under his eyes manifested pain.

A cable from Washington, General, Rawlins said.

Read it to me, John, Grant whispered again. The effort of speaking made him grimace.

Since his accident, four different doctors had examined Grant’s leg. None had detected any broken bones, not the slightest crack, yet his leg remained swollen from ankle to hip with the slightest movement bringing instant pain.

"The Cable is marked For General Grant's Eyes Only, " Rawlins explained.

Exasperated, Grant waved his hand and winced again. John, you're the very next person I'll discuss the contents with. So please read it and save us both time and effort.

Rawlins nodded and opened the envelope and removed the message.

General Grant, As I advised you in my last cable, forward Sherman and his four divisions to General Rosecrans in Chattanooga. We are expecting intense resistance when Rosecrans invades Georgia. Our spies inform us that General Longstreet and his corps have left Lee and are en route to reinforce Bragg. What other assistance you can furnish will be greatly appreciated by President Lincoln and Secretary Stanton. It is essential that we hold Chattanooga and from it invade Georgia.

General Halleck commanding 

When did Halleck send this message? Grant gasped when Rawlins finished.

September 14th, Rawlins answered. It took ten days to get through.

So there’s no telling what’s happening in Chattanooga, and Washington has no idea that I dispatched Sherman yesterday.

I wish we had a line through to Washington, Rawlins said.

No sense in wishing that, John. As soon as we repair it, Rebel guerrillas tear it down.

Yes, they do, Rawlins agreed.

Grant didn't speak for a minute. Instead, he thought intently about Halleck’s cable. While he thought, he began to flex his fingers and hands, loosening them, preparing to use them. Dressing this morning had been especially arduous.

For a few brief seconds he'd forgotten his leg and moved without preparing himself. The pain had been excruciating, worse than anything he'd felt in his entire life, and he'd collapsed back onto his bed.

Ten days for this message to get through? Grant asked.

Yes, General, Rawlins answered.

"That's too long. Something must be happening in Tennessee, and if Pete Longstreet is bolstering Bragg, then they're going to make real trouble for Rosecrans. We have to speed up the messages between Washington and us.

Yes, General, Rawlins answered again.

Cairo has a direct line to Washington, doesn’t it?

Yes, sir, Rawlins answered.

Grant thought for a moment. Dispatch Wilson to Cairo. Order him to man a message center there. As soon as he gets a message from Washington, have him forward it to Vicksburg immediately. Use riders, commander a steamboat if necessary, and send it directly here, nonstop. I have to know what is happening in Tennessee.

Yes, sir, Rawlins answered.

As he talked, Grant began to bend and rotate his arms while flexing his shoulders and breathing deeply. His arms felt weak and watery, but the deeper breathing invigorated him.

Rawlins stood above him; sweat beading across his forehead, while outside a deep voice ordered a company to march upon the Vicksburg Commons. Grant smiled as he listened to the commands.

Something is very wrong in Tennessee, John, Grant said after a moment.

Why do you think so, sir?

"Halleck and Stanton wouldn’t be asking for troops if there wasn’t and this telegram is ten days old. A battle could have been fought and lost already and Sherman is at least two months from reaching Rosecrans.

He has to repair that railroad as he marches. The last we heard Rosecrans had taken Chattanooga. We don’t know what’s happened since. If he needs help, it’s going to be several months before Sherman can give it to him.

The giant bed creaked and groaned as Grant punched his hands above his chest, rotating and flexing them while manipulating his chest and abdomen.

Rawlins stepped back and studied Grant who was concentrating on his exercises. Outside in the heat, a second sergeant began to bark sharp commands while several hundred feet drummed the Vicksburg parade grounds.

Grant flexed his left leg, tensing first the calf muscle and foot, moving up and back and to the left and right. He worked his body methodically, preparing it for a painful exit from the frilly bed.

Rawlins wondered how Halleck could possibly expect Grant to take the field when he couldn’t walk without assistance. How Grant dressed himself, he still puzzled over.

Almost everything about Ulysses Grant was a puzzle. His small stature and unassuming personality made it difficult for people to believe that Grant was the officer who had moved so vigorously against Paducah and then went on to conqueror Forts Donelson and Henry and to receive the surrender of fifteen thousand Rebels and their equipment.

Those had been glorious victories; the first major victories of the war, and Grant had become a national hero until his even greater victory at Shiloh.

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Shiloh - he damn well remembered Shiloh.

Grant had called for a staff meeting at breakfast that morning and there were almost thirty officers in attendance, sitting beneath the field canopy drinking coffee while waiting to eat.

Then suddenly the snap and crack of picket fire sounded in the distance. None of the officers paid attention. He didn’t either.

The army had been advancing against light resistance for the past three days, and picket fire wasn’t unusual, but after the first half dozen shots, Grant stopped talking and signaled the seated officers to be quiet.

They all looked at him puzzled. Like the others, he thought there was nothing to be alarmed about, but in a moment, Grant stood and looked around the table.

Gentlemen, return to your units, he ordered them.

Within twenty minutes he and Grant were on a steamer heading upstream, and as the boat fought the river’s current, the battle grew more intense.

Hundreds of cannon could be heard along with thousands of muskets, and through it all Grant remained on the main deck listening while wondering what was happening.

Thirty minutes later, they reached Bluffs Landing where the main army was encamped. Already hundreds of soldiers were crowded along the riverfront, hiding from the terrible onslaught that General Johnston had hurled against them. Grant paid the cowering soldiers little attention. Instead, he called for his horse and rode directly to the front lines.

All around him the fighting was desperate, yet Grant manifested no fear, no shock. Calmly, he went from division to division and met with his commanders and bolstered their confidence while suggesting tactics and ordering them to hang on until help arrived. The lone exception had been Sherman.

They met briefly on a salient almost completely surrounded by Rebels and with bullets flying so thick and fast that they sounded like hornets.

What do you think, Sherman? Grant calmly asked.

We’re holding our own, but we’re running low on ammunition.

I’ve already ordered it sent forward, Grant replied as if they were watching a Sunday afternoon parade.

We’ll make good use of it, Sherman assured him. Grant nodded and rode on to another section of the field to do what he could.

There was no doubt in his mind that any other Union general would have withdrawn, maybe surrendered, but not Grant. The small man lying on the frilly canopied bed in front of Rawlins fought, and he fought brilliantly.

The problem, and Rawlins knew only too well the problem, was Grant’s drinking.

Ten years before, Grant’s commanding officer forced him to resign his commission when he became intoxicated at a post party.

After his resignation, he drifted from job to job until Jesse Grant took pity upon his eldest son and employed him as a sales clerk in his leather goods store in Galena, Illinois.

There, Rawlins met him and understood within a few minutes that Grant was no ordinary man.

Though a half starving seed salesman, he followed the political issues with a keen, alert mind, and when he did speak, his thoughts were clearly and soundly enunciated.

And now, this quiet unassuming man had proven his critics wrong. Rosecrans's defeat left Grant the only undefeated General in the United States Army, but one with a soiled reputation.

* * * *

Grant made a final effort with his arms, bending and flexing them above and across his chest before straightening and dropping them to his side. A film of perspiration spread across his forehead, but he appeared refreshed.

There are blessings, though, John, Grant said.

What are they, sir?

"Braxton Bragg is commanding the Rebel army in Tennessee. I served with him before the war, and he's a highly intelligent officer, but the most contentious, bickering man I've ever known.

Even more important, he's too timid to make a bold move after a major battle. He’ll lie back and wait for Rosecrans to attack. While he's waiting, he'll make problems for himself and his army. It's in his nature.

What about General Sherman, sir? From what Secretary Stanton states, Washington doesn't know that you've already dispatched him to Rosecrans.

Grant smiled at the mention of his best friend's name.

Have Wilson cable from Cairo that Sherman is en route to Chattanooga, and that he left on the 22nd. Then send messengers to Sherman informing him of Halleck’s message. Tell him to redouble his efforts, but not to forget the railroad. Repairing it is almost as important as reinforcing Rosecrans.

Slowly, gingerly, Grant sat up on his bed, renewing his pain.

Help me to my chair, John. he gasped after he swung his legs over the edge to the floor.

Then spread maps of Mississippi, Tennessee, Alabama, and Georgia on the planning table. Then get those cables off, and arrange for a staff meeting to commence this evening at six.

Gingerly, Rawlins sat beside Grant and helped him stand. Once upright, they limped together across the room. Rawlins worried anew at how light Grant felt.

Three days before, while dining at the officers' mess, Grant had attempted to munch a slice of buttered toast. The effort proved too much.

In mid bite, he stopped chewing and spat the bread upon his plate beside the single boiled egg and cup of black coffee he'd ordered. Then he motioned for Rawlins to help him back to his room.

My leg hurts too badly to sit at the table and chew food, he explained when he and Rawlins were