FORT DONELSON.
Commodore Foote and General U. S. Grant sat conversing in the
headquarters of the latter at Cairo, Illinois. The general was puffing a
cigar, and answered in monosyllables between puffs.
"You have heard nothing yet, have you, General," the commodore was
asking, "of that request we united in sending to General Halleck?"
"Nothing," answered Grant, moodily.
There was silence for some time, the general apparently in deep thought.
The commodore broke the silence by asking:
"You went to see him personally once on this matter, did you not?"
"He ungraciously gave me permission to visit St. Louis in order to see
him, after I had begged for the privilege at least half a dozen times,"
Grant answered.
"And you laid the matter before him in all its bearings?"
"I tried to."
"What did he say?"
"Say! he struck me."
"Struck you?" asked the commodore, starting in surprise.
Grant smiled. "I mean," said he, "that he struck me metaphorically. I
don't believe he would have hurt me as badly, if he had really struck
me. I was never so cut in all my life. I came away feeling that I had
committed an unpardonable sin from a military standpoint."
"Then he would not hear to the proposition at all?"
"Hear it! He would not listen to me. I came away resolving never to ask
another favor of him. Yet so anxious am I to make this campaign that, as
you know, I swallowed my pride and united with you in making the request
that we be allowed to make the movement."
"It is strange," replied the commodore, "that he should ignore both our
requests, not favoring us even with a reply. Yet it seems that he must
see that Fort Henry should be reduced at once. If we delay, both the
Cumberland and the Tennessee will be so strongly fortified that it will
be almost impossible to force a passage. Everything is to be gained by
moving at once. Everything may be lost by delay."
"Even a civilian ought to see that," replied Grant, as he slowly blew a
cloud of smoke from his mouth, and watched it as it lazily curled
upward.
"The truth of it is," Grant continued slowly, as if weighing every word,
"too many of us are afraid that another general may win more honor than
we. Then there are altogether too many separate commands. Now, here are
Buell and myself; each with a separate command, yet both working for the
same object. I should either be subject to the command of Buell, or he
should be subject to my orders. We are now like two men trying to lift
the same burden, and instead of lifting together, one will lift and then
the other. Such a system can but prolong the war indefinitely."
"General," said the commodore, earnestly, "I sincerely wish you had the
supreme command here in the West. I believe we would see different
results, and that very soon."
Grant blushed like a schoolgirl, fidgeted in his seat, and then said:
"Commodore, you do me altogether too much honor. But this I will say, if
I had supreme command I should not sit still and see the Tennessee and
Cumberland rivers fortified without raising a hand to prevent it.
Neither do I believe in letting month after month go by for the purpose
of drilling and organizing. The Government seems to forget that time
gives the enemy the same privilege. What is wanted is hard blows, and
these blows should be delivered as soon as possible. Sherman was right
when he asked for 200,000 men to march to the Gulf, yet he was sneered
at by the War Department, hounded by every paper in the land, called
insane, and now he is occupying a subordinate position. The war could be
ended in a year. No one now can tell how long it will last."
Just then a telegram was placed in Grant's hands. He read it, and his
whole face lighted up with pleasure.
"You look pleased," said the commodore. "The telegram must bring good
news."
Without a word Grant placed the telegram in the hands of the commodore.
It was an order from General Halleck to move up the Tennessee as soon as
possible and capture Fort Henry.
"At last," said the commodore, his face showing as much pleasure as did
Grant's.
"At last," responded Grant; and then, quickly, "Commodore, we may have
done an injustice to General Halleck. There may be good reasons we know
not of why this order should not have been made before. Commodore, be
ready to move with your fleet to-morrow."
"That soon?" asked the commodore.
"That soon," responded Grant.
"General, I shall be ready; and now good-bye, for both of us have much
before us. But before I go, let me congratulate you. I believe that
success and great honor await you," and with these words the commodore
withdrew.
The next day, with 15,000 men, General Grant was steaming up the
Tennessee.
General Buell sat in his headquarters at Louisville. General Nelson,
accompanied by Fred, had dropped in to see his general, and at the same
time to give vent to some of his pent-up feelings.
"It's a shame, a shame!" he fumed, "for us to sit here and let the
Rebels fortify Bowling Green and Dover and Columbus, and build forts to
blockade the Tennessee, and we not raise a finger to prevent it."
Buell smiled at his irate general, and asked: "And what would you do,
Nelson?"
"Do!" roared Nelson, "do! I would strike, and strike hard. I would give
them precious little time to build forts."
Before General Buell could answer, an orderly entered with a telegram.
He read it, and turning to Nelson, said:
"Well, General, you can cease your fuming. This telegram is from General
Halleck. He tells me he has ordered General Grant up the Tennessee to
reduce Fort Henry, and he wants me to co-operate as much as possible in
the movement."
Nelson was on his feet in an instant.
"General," he exclaimed, "I have a favor, a great favor to ask of you."
Buell smilingly answered: "I think I know what it is without your
asking. You want me to send your division."
Nelson bowed.
"I do not see how I can spare so many men; you know we have Johnston at
Bowling Green to look after."
"But General," answered Nelson, "the Tennessee and Cumberland must be
defended. In all probability the most of Johnston's army will be
transferred there."
"In that case, General," answered Buell, "I will remember you. Your
division shall be the first one sent."
"Thank you, General, thank you," replied Nelson. "I only wish I knew I
was going."
"As it is now," continued Buell, "I shall order General Crittenden to
send Cruft's brigade. That brigade is near the mouth of Green river.
There is no force of the enemy, in any number, before them, and the
brigade can well be spared. I shall send no more men unless it is
absolutely necessary. I shall at once dispatch an officer to General
Crittenden with necessary orders."
"General," now spoke up Fred, "like General Nelson, I have a request to
make, and by your kindness I hope to meet with better success."
"Ah!" said Buell, "you wish to carry the orders. If Nelson has no
objection, I think I can grant that request. The general has told me
something of your history, Mr. Shackelford. General Thomas also speaks
in the highest terms of you."
"You can go if you wish, Fred," answered Nelson. "I only hope I shall
soon be with you."
So it was settled, and before night Fred and his good horse Prince were
on their way down the Ohio. Fred not only carried dispatches to General
Crittenden, but he had personal letters both from General Buell and
General Nelson to General Cruft commending him to the latter officer.
Disembarking at Owensboro, Fred made a swift ride to Calhoun, the
headquarters of General Crittenden. He delivered his dispatches to the
general, and at once sought the headquarters of General Cruft. The
general read Fred's letters, and then said: "You are very welcome, Mr.
Shackelford; you may consider yourself as one of my staff until such
time as General Nelson may join us."
Soon orders came to General Cruft to at once prepare to join Grant.
It was nearly noon on February the 14th when the fleet on which General
Cruft's brigade had embarked arrived at Fort Donelson. The place had
already been invested two days, and some severe fighting had taken
place. The weather, from being warm and rainy, had suddenly turned cold
on the afternoon of the 13th, and Fred shivered as he emerged from the
comfortable cabin of the steamboat and stepped out on the cold, desolate
bank of the river. The ground was covered with ice and snow, and the
scene was dreary in the extreme.
Now and then the heavy reverberation of a cannon came rolling down the
river, and echoed and re-echoed among the hills. A fleet of gunboats lay
anchored in the river, the mouths of their great guns looking out over
the dark sullen water as though watching for their prey. General Cruft's
brigade was assigned to the division of General Lew Wallace, which
occupied the center of the Federal army. Back in the rear little groups
of soldiers stood shivering around small fires, trying to warm their
benumbed limbs, or to cook their scanty rations.
The condition of the soldiers was pitiable in the extreme. There were
no tents; but few had overcoats, and many on the hard, muddy march from
Fort Henry had even thrown away their blankets. In the front lines no
fires could be lighted, and there the soldiers stood, exposed to the
furious storm of sleet and snow, hungry, benumbed, hardly knowing
whether they were dead or alive. Such were the heroes who stood for
three days before Donelson.
As Fred looked on all this suffering, he wondered at the fortitude with
which it was endured. There were few complaints from the soldiers; they
were even cheerful and eager to meet the foe.
About three o'clock the gunboats came steaming up the river and engaged
the Confederate batteries.
It was a most sublime spectacle, and held Fred spellbound. The very
heavens seemed splitting, and the earth shook and trembled from the
heavy concussions. Nearer and nearer the gunboats came to the batteries
until it seemed to Fred the great guns were vomiting fire and smoke into
each other's throats.
During the fight Fred noticed a small, thickset man sitting on his horse
intently watching the fight. His countenance was perfectly impassive,
and one could not tell by watching him whether he sympathized with
friend or foe.
For two hours the conflict raged. The boilers of the Essex had been
blown up, the other boats were bruised and battered and torn by the
great shots which had struck them, and were helplessly drifting down
the stream. The gunboats had been defeated. From the Federal side there
went up a great groan of disappointment, while from the Confederate
lines there arose the wild cheers of victory.
The silent man on horseback turned and rode away. Not a sign, not a word
that he was disappointed.
"Who is that man?" asked Fred of an officer standing by him.
"That, young man," was the answer, "is General Grant. He must be awfully
cut up, but he does not show it."
Fred turned and looked after Grant as he rode slowly away. "There,"
thought Fred, "is a man who is going to make his mark in this war. In
some of his actions he reminds me of General Thomas. Nothing seems to
excite him."
Night and darkness came. On the frozen ground, without tents or fire,
the soldiers once more made their beds. The wind sighed and moaned
through the bare branches, as if weeping at the suffering it caused.
Many, to keep from freezing, never lay down, but kept up a weary march,
so that the blood might circulate. The long hours dragged slowly along.
Over in the Confederate lines all was activity. A council of war was
held, and it was resolved that in the morning they would cut their way
through the lines of steel which Grant had thrown around them. All
preparations were made, every order given, and then they waited for the
light of morning--the last morning that hundreds would ever see.
It was hardly light when Fred was awakened by the fitful sound of
musketry over on the right. In front of Wallace's division only the
report of a rifle of a picket was heard now and then. Hurriedly eating a
little breakfast, he mounted his horse and reported to General Cruft for
duty. The men were all standing at arms, but there was nothing for them
to do. But over on the right the rattle of musketry grew more intense,
the roll of heavy volleys began to be heard, and then the deep-voiced
cannon joined in the chorus. Louder and louder grew the din of the
conflict. The smoke of battle began to ascend above the treetops like
smoke from a burning coal-pit. The sound of battle came nearer, the roll
of musketry was incessant, the thunder of cannon never ceased.
An officer wild with excitement came spurring his foaming horse up to
General Wallace.
"General McClernand wants help," he gasped. "The whole Rebel army has
attacked his division."
"I have orders from General Grant to hold this position at all hazards,"
replied Wallace. "I must have orders from him."
To Grant's headquarters the officer rides in frantic haste. The general
was away; he had started at five o'clock to see Commodore Foote, who had
been wounded in the battle of the night before, and was on board of one
of his gunboats, and the boats lay some five or six miles below.
Would not some one of his staff give orders to send reinforcements to
McClernand. No; none would take the responsibility. The officer groaned,
and rode back to McClernand with the heavy tidings.
Minutes go by, the thunder of battle is terrific. The Federals are being
driven. The exultant cheering of the advancing foe is heard above the
roar of conflict.
Another officer, with his horse bleeding from wounds, his hat gone, and
tears streaming down his face, rides to General Wallace. "For God's
sake, help!" he gasps, "or everything is lost; we are flanked, we cannot
hold out longer."
Then General Wallace said: "I will take the responsibility; help you
shall have." And with his face lighted up with joy the officer dashed
back to tell McClernand that help was coming.
An order comes to General Cruft to at once march his brigade to the
scene of action. No sooner is the command given than the brigade is on
the way. Soon shot and shell are crashing overhead, and singing bullets
begin to cut the twigs of the bushes around. Now and then a soldier
falters and goes down. A smooth-faced, florid man rides up to General
Cruft. "I am Colonel Oglesby," he says; "my brigade is being flanked on
the right. Let me lead you in position; my men are nearly out of
ammunition." And then as calmly as if on parade Colonel Dick Oglesby
leads Cruft's brigade to the relief of his men. Soon the brigade is in
the midst of the conflict. Here and there Fred rides carrying orders.
The excitement of battle is on him, and he feels no fear.
Oglesby's brigade is out of ammunition. Sullenly his men fall back,
leaving over 800 of their number dead and wounded on the field, but his
left regiment refuses to go. The colonel, a large, dark man, with hair
as black as midnight, eyes like flaming stars, rages up and down the
line like a lion. Fred gazes on him in admiration. He is typical of war
incarnate.
"Who is he?" Fred asks of a wounded soldier hobbling back.
"Colonel John A. Logan," is the answer.
At last his men are out of ammunition, and Logan, bleeding from two
wounds, is obliged to lead his regiment back. Another regiment takes its
place, and after a dreadful conflict, is compelled to fall back, leaving
over 300 of their number dead and wounded.
Cruft's brigade was now on the extreme right, cut off from the rest of
the army. The enemy pressed upon them; a withering volley sent them
reeling back. "Charge!" was the order. Fred spurred forward, and seizing
the colors of a Kentucky regiment, shouted: "Now, boys, for the honor of
old Kentucky."
The enemy flew before them like frightened sheep. But on either flank
the enemy pressed, and the brigade, combating every foot, was forced
back.
The enemy had gained the desired end; McClernand's division was out of
the way, the road to retreat was open. Why was it not taken advantage
of? Because of the imbecility of Generals Floyd and Pillow.
Broken, and with a third of its number dead and wounded, McClernand's
division is driven back on Lew Wallace. Officers, stunned with the
disaster, come wildly galloping through Wallace's lines, shouting, "All
is lost! all is lost!"
Wallace changes front to meet the exultant, advancing foe. Firm as
adamant his lines stand. In the faces of the charging Confederates his
men pour their crushing volleys. The enemy waver, reel, then go
staggering, bleeding back.
Where is Grant all of this time? In conference with Commodore Foote on
board of a gunboat six miles down the river. He is too far away to hear
the roll of musketry, and the thunder of artillery he thinks but
cannonading between the two lines. It is past noon when the conference
is ended and he is rowed ashore. There stands a staff officer with
bloodless face and shaking limbs. In a few words the story of the
disaster is told. Without a word Grant listens, and then mounts his
horse. The iron shoes of his steed strike fire on the frozen ground as
he gallops back. He arrives just as the foe is repulsed by Wallace's
division. His eye sweeps the field.
"Why, boys," he cries, "they are trying to get away; we mustn't let
them."
[Illustration: "Why, boys, they are trying to get away; we mustn't let
them."]
The words act like magic as they are borne along the lines. Cartridge
boxes are replenished, and the soldiers, who a few moments before were
in retreat, are now eager to advance. The lines are re-formed and the
army sweeps forward. This time it is the Confederates who are pressed
back, and soon the open road is closed. The chance to escape is forever
gone; Fort Donelson is doomed.
Darkness once more came, and with it another night of cold and
suffering. The early morning light showed a white flag floating from the
ramparts of the fort. Donelson had surrendered. Cold and hunger were
forgotten, as the soldiers in their joy embraced each other, and their
shouts of victory rose and fell like the swells of the ocean. The first
great victory of the war had been won.
Fifteen thousand Confederates were prisoners.