Alex stood at the wheel of the tugboat. The clouds to the west reflected the rosy dawn in the east. The “sightseers” had left Paducah, Kentucky, before daylight and Cairo, Illinois, lay directly ahead of them.
The door opened behind him and closed softly. Grant spoke. “Foote is impressed with the way you’re handling the tug.”
“It’s good to be behind the wheel again, sir.” Alex kept his eyes on the channel and listened to Grant’s footsteps as he restlessly roamed the narrow quarters.
“Your wife is staying with friends?”
“Yes, sir. The Stevens were glad to have her. I guess I should have insisted she go back to Pennsylvania.”
“A fair number of women follow their men around the country,” Grant mused. “Personally, I find it distracting, and it’s certainly dangerous. The battle of Bull Run proved that.”
“Were there civilian injuries?”
“As far as I know, there weren’t. But I wasn’t there; General McDowell was, and also General Patterson.” He was silent before adding, “But it was a miracle. Some saw it as a spectator sport. It was bad all the way around.”
Alex heard the General’s voice change and glanced at him. Head down, Grant stared at the charts. His voice was muffled as he said, “You mentioned being involved in the Underground Railroad. I don’t expend any energy caring one way or another about slavery, but one thing I have noticed is that the Negroes are more than willing to be in this fight. They seem to make good soldiers. I welcome the time they’ll be allowed to join the army.” He glanced at Alex. “I understand the navy is making a place for them right now.
“I came to tell you the Commodore wants to see you after we dock. He’ll be up, so don’t take off.” The door closed, and Grant was gone.
Alex pulled the bell cord and began to ease into position at the crowded wharf. Mike stuck his head through the door. “I’m heading for the barracks; see you later.”
Alex had finished putting the cabin in order when Commodore Foote came through the door. With a weary sigh, he dropped into the nearest chair and asked, “Is there coffee in the pot?”
“Yes, Commodore Foote; I’ll bring it. General Grant said you wanted to see me.”
“Mostly wanted to tell you I appreciate your cooperation. I was very serious when I asked you to consider joining us for this next offensive. I like the way you handle a boat. There’s a permanent slot open for you—if you want it.”
“Mike mentioned you were having a problem getting pilots,” Alex murmured as he poured coffee and sat across from the commodore.
“Right now we’re nearly desperate.” Foote looked at him intently. “Your wife mentioned that you’ve been making your home with a Quaker family. Certainly I know the Quakers are deeply involved in the abolitionist movement, but they’re also pacifists. Does that have anything to do with your reluctance to pilot a gunboat for us?”
“I’m struggling with it,” Alex replied. “Commodore Foote, Mike tells me that you are a Christian. How have you dealt with this?”
“Son, I became aware of the slave problem as a navy man back in 1849. After stopping a few illegal slave boats, I found myself hating the institution of slavery. You can’t grasp the ugliness of it until you’ve seen black people pirated from home and freedom to be stuffed in the stinking holds of ships and sold as merchandise—if they survive the torture of the trip. The degradation is total, both moral and physical.”
He shook his head. “From beginning to end, it’s dehumanizing—not only for the slaves, but for those who traffic in their flesh. A man cannot treat a fellow man like an animal without becoming an animal himself.”
“Sir, that’s strong talk for a Southerner to hear.”
“Then tell me why you call yourself an abolitionist?”
“When I came crawling to God, slavery passed from being a slightly distasteful situation to a condition I had to do something about.” Alex stared into the distance, remembering. “For years I saw only their shiny, happy faces and heard their quaint songs. At Christ’s feet I learned to see past the smiles to the soul agony, and I began to hear the heart behind the songs.”
Foote fastened him with a stern eye. “And having begun, now faced with the ugly part of the task, you’re going to be a quitter?”
“That’s not so!”
“Then, pray tell, what is it? Alex, have you foreseen the future these people will have if the North loses this war? So you don’t like putting a bullet into a man’s head. Neither do I. When this all began, I didn’t consider the outcome of my action against the men promoting slavery, either. But having begun the fight, I dared not back down.” He was silent for a time. Then, looking at Alex, he said, “I must face my Maker some day, and I know the first words I’ll be hearing are those from the book of John when Jesus said—”
“‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends,’” Alex quoted.
“No,” Andrew Foote said gently. “‘He that loveth his life shall lose it; and he that hateth his life in this world shall keep it unto life eternal.’”
“Are you saying my problem is self-love? I honestly thought I’d done all that was expected of me.”
The men sat in silence for a long time. Alex drank his cold coffee; Commodore Foote raised his head and reached for the map. He touched Cairo and drew his finger down to Fort Columbus. In an easy conversational tone he said, “Earlier this month, reconnaissances were made all over the place. The cavalry moved toward Columbus; General Buell has made motions in the eastern part of the state, and we understand Johnston has responded by drawing his forces into Knoxville. You see, Alex, things are drum tight around the whole area, including Tennessee. We’ve made feints until we dare not make another.”
He got to his feet. “Grant has called a meeting for tomorrow morning. I won’t pressure you, but if you want to move out with us, be at the meeting.”
****
The next morning, when Alex walked into the conference room, Grant was seated at the table in the front. Commodore Foote sat beside him. For a fleeting moment, his eyes met Alex’s, and then General Grant got to his feet.
“Briefly, men, this will be the order of action. The gunboats will proceed up the Tennessee, destination: Fort Henry.” He paused briefly. “So we’ll go upriver with the gunboats. They will be followed by ten regiments, transported with artillery and cavalry. On the morning of February fourth, the fleet will assemble nine miles below Fort Henry. Troops will be dispatched from there.”
****
On Tuesday morning, when Alex took his gunboat up the Tennessee, the dawn was grayed by fog. Unseen marsh birds screamed protest while owls surrounded the flotilla with hoots of inquiry. The distant answers had Alex moving uneasily about the pilothouse, wondering if by chance the bird voices were human.
Foote came in. “The Essex, the boat in front of us, has been ordered to continue upriver. We want to draw fire from the fort, to see what their capabilities are.” He turned abruptly. “Don’t be alarmed if there’s a problem. We’re sending in the Essex for a reason. Of all the boats, it’s the most expendable. The tub started out as a ferry in St. Louis. They converted it for us by slapping on some thin iron sheathing. If it holds together, it’ll be a miracle.”
He came to the wheel; Alex, holding the glasses, said, “Don’t see a thing. Wish those owls would lay off; I keep feeling something’s creeping up on us.”
“Could be,” Foote murmured, taking the glasses. The fog began to lift. They watched the Essex bring up her steam and slowly push up the Tennessee.
Foote instructed, “Pull in behind her. Prepare to move in if necessary, but keep plenty of distance for now.” He settled down with a mug of coffee.
The sun was overhead when they sighted the fort. Foote had his field glasses on it when the firing began. Shells hit the water on either side of the Essex. The explosions rattled the pilothouse while water shot up like geysers around them. Alex reduced his speed, but the boat continued to rock.
Giving an exasperated sigh, Foote dropped his binoculars. “Well, that did it. She has a hole in her plating. She’ll make it back, but won’t be good for much.”
The Essex limped past them and headed back downstream. “We’re out of range. Let’s keep it that way for now,” Foote murmured. “We saw a pretty sizable group of men the other day. We’ll work on the assumption they’re still in the fort.” He walked to the opposite window. “The transports behind us will be unloading as soon as it’s dark. The troops will encamp along that ridge. If you noticed the position of the fort during our little sightseeing trip, you’ve probably guessed it won’t be difficult to take. It’s built too low to avoid the rising river water.”
Throughout the day Alex stood at the wheel, watching the fort and surrounding terrain. Late in the afternoon, Commodore Foote reported, “General Grant has called for action tomorrow morning. The Confederates, soggy feet and all, are abandoning their rifle pits,” he added. “The water’s coming up.”
Early the next morning, Commodore Foote stood beside his men on the deck of the Cincinnati. He nodded toward the gray hulks surrounding them. “You four ironclads move out in front. Flagship is Cincinnati. Watch her signals. You other three keep in as close as you can.”
He stressed his words. “It is of absolute importance for you to keep cool. From pilot down to each gunner, keep every action controlled and deliberate. We don’t have ammunition to waste. Furthermore, if these guns get too hot, you’ll blow them up. Remember, we’re here to give the troops coverage and support. Now to your ships, and God bless you and keep you safe.”
Alex took his boat into position. Moving slowly to the pace of the marching troops on the banks of the river, they began a slow advance.
Grasping the wheel, trying to watch the channel and the signal flags from the Cincinnati, Alex was caught off guard when the gunboats behind him began firing. Hanging on to the wheel, he heard the whistle of shells passing over the pilothouse from the boats in the rear.
The skipper came through the door. “Hold it steady,” he shouted, “my men need all the help you can give. Line it up straight and keep it facing the fort.”
Another shell whistled overhead. He heard the explosion, and the skipper shouted, “Got ’em! Hold on now, it’s our turn.” He ran for the stairs. There was another explosion.
Alex yelled, “Skip, that’s the Essex!” The door banged behind the skipper. Alex watched the Essex founder and list sharply. Then her boilers blew.
He threw a quick glance at the fort. As the smoke and dust cleared, he saw a section of wall was beginning to cave in. There was a double explosion, and this time as the smoke and dust drifted away, Alex saw only rubble where cannon and men had stood a moment before. Within minutes, Alex saw the Confederate flag come down. A white flag was quickly lifted.
The Cincinnati signaled a stand-by and Alex hit the gong to cut the engines. Foote had taken a skiff to shore, and Alex watched with his glasses as the commodore was greeted by the gray-uniformed man leaving the fort.
The door opened and Alex turned. “Skipper wants you below,” the seaman said. “Take your gear; you’re piloting the Conestoga upstream. Lieutenant Phelps has asked for you. His pilot is wounded, and they’re moving out now.”
Alex grabbed his bag and sprinted down to the waiting skiff. Boarding the Conestoga, he headed for the pilothouse. Phelps met him. “Move it out as fast as you can. We’re going south on the Tennessee. We’re going to chase down those Confederate gunboats.”
When Alex had put Fort Henry behind them, Phelps returned to the pilothouse. “Twelve miles south of here, the Memphis and Ohio Railroad crosses the river. We’ve got to cut that line. It’s the link between the whole works. From Bowling Green south and west to Memphis, and then north up to Fort Columbus, it’s the Confederate lifeline. We destroy this railroad, and we have their bread and munitions line.”
He picked up the binoculars and moved to the window. “Push it; the Tyler and Lexington are behind us. I figured we’d need help.”
As they approached the railroad bridge, Phelps muttered, “The draw is closed; they’ve probably jammed the gears. We’ve got to get through.”
It took an hour to open the draw. As the bridge creaked open, Phelps sprinted for the boat, yelling, “Men, pour on the steam, we’re gonna catch those Rebs.”
Back in the channel, Phelps finally caught a glimpse of the Rebel boats ahead. He kept his glasses on them, announcing, “We’re gaining.” As he spoke, there was a muffled explosion from behind.
“The Tyler has taken care of the railroad bridge,” he said. “Can you raise more steam? I’d like to force those boats over.”
Alex nodded and reached for the bell cord. They were gaining on the lumbering transport when Alex heard the first rumble. The explosion seemed to turn the vessel in front of them inside out. He grabbed the bell cord just as the concussion knocked him off balance and threw him against the wall.
“Alex!” The sound reached him from a distance; with a groan he shoved himself upright.
Phelps had the wheel. Alex shook his head and felt blood on his face. “What happened?”
“They’ve blown up the ship; guess they didn’t want us to have their gunpowder.”
When they reached Florence, Alabama, they found a delegation of citizens waiting. Alex looked from the flag flying above his head to the line of people on the wharf. They were smiling, but they seemed apprehensive as Phelps approached. Alex leaned over the railing to listen. The spokesman of the group gestured toward the railroad bridge, pleading, “Please, sir, don’t blow up our bridge.”
When Phelps returned to the pilothouse, he said, “Matey, let’s go home. Mission accomplished.”
“Going to leave the bridge?”
“No reason to destroy it. Strategically, it’s not important to either side.”
After they were back in the channel, Phelps sat down at the chart table to write his report. For a while there was silence in the pilothouse. Finally Phelps came to the wheel. “Alex, I’ve been sitting here thinking, trying to decide what to put in my report. Know what sticks in my mind with significance? It’s the people we’ve met every place we’ve stopped. It nearly tears me up to see how eager they are—not only to see us, but to tell us of their loyalty to the Union. Alex, at first I was skeptical, but it’s happened over and over. These people are sincere.”
Alex nodded. “Several places the crowds have numbered in the hundreds. Instead of shouting like we’re heroes, they could have swarmed aboard and overpowered us. Think of the accolades they would have received from Richmond.”
“But instead they were hailing the flag with genuine love and respect,” Phelps added.
****
When the Lexington and Conestoga reached Fort Henry, it was deserted except for stragglers moving east.
Phelps took the glasses. “Grant said he was going to push on to Fort Donelson, just twelve miles east of here. I’ve a feeling they started marching immediately.”
“Think we’d better stop for information?”
“No, let’s not waste time. We need to move on Donelson as soon as possible. Let’s head for Paducah. We’ll take on supplies and proceed upstream to the Cumberland.”
****
At Paducah, they discovered the flotilla hadn’t arrived. Phelps returned with information. “Foote has the gunboats in for needed repair. They said he’s apprehensive about going in at all because of the condition of the boats.”
Late Wednesday night the flotilla headed for the Cumberland River. Alex was at the wheel when Mike came into the pilothouse. “Buddy, I haven’t seen you since we left Cairo over ten days ago. You been hanging on that wheel the whole time? You look exhausted. I’m relieving you for now. Go down and get some rest.”
The following morning when Alex arose, the riverbank was lined with people shouting and waving. They pointed toward the flag on the boat. A gray-haired man snatched his hat from his head. “Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah for the Union!” As the boat left the man behind, Alex heard him shout, “God bless you, soldiers!”
“Six gunboats and fourteen transports, and they’re greeting us like liberators. Is that what we are?” The lad looked at Alex with awe.
“I hope we are,” Alex muttered, heading for the stairs.
****
By Friday the gunboats were in position for attack. Foote faced his men and said, “We hoped this would be a combined assault, however, the terrain has slowed the army and we can’t wait any longer. We’ll clear the way for them. Take the position you had before. Remember, this isn’t going to be an easy task. Fort Donelson is entrenched and ready for us. They are positioned higher, and this gives their guns the advantage. Take it cool and easy. God bless.”
Slowly the gunboats began to move. In accordance with Commodore Foote’s command, they didn’t stop at a thousand yards and position for firing as they had at Fort Henry. Alex continued to advance. The tension mounted in the pilothouse. Wiping perspiration from his face, Alex wondered about the men on the hurricane deck, poised behind their guns.
Finally the firing began. A few shells struck the fort, but the watchful silence continued. Alex shifted from one foot to the other, uneasily studying the fort. Looking down the channel to the flagship and back to the fort, he muttered, “We’re putting ourselves right under their guns.”
Lieutenant Adams, who was standing beside him, lowered his field glasses and looked at Alex. “Bunch of jumpy men! The Tyler and Conestoga are firing over the fort. Our men have got to slow down. They’re shooting like scared idiots.”
“They don’t like being this close.”
“Orders, not choice. Keep on course,” snapped the officer as he left the pilothouse.
Feeling as if he were peering into the depths of the heavy artillery pointed toward them, Alex grasped the wheel and watched the Confederate guns move into position. Abruptly the first line battery fired. Immediately, another battery position fired and the gunboats began their barrage.
He felt the vessel beneath him reel with the explosion.
Alex tested the wheel. The gunboat responded, but sluggishly. The lieutenant appeared in the doorway, his face was white with concern. Alex said, “We’re still operational.”
“We’ve taken some bad shots. So far it’s surface damage.” He lifted the glasses and said, “But we’re getting in some good strikes. Give us fifteen minutes more and we’ll have them. Will you look at that!”
Alex looked at the fort. The first gun and its crew had disappeared; there was only a gaping hole in the wall of the fort. The gun beside the hole had exploded, fire streaking the air. Then they took a hit. The St. Louis was listing, moving downstream out of control. Another explosion sent the Louisville to join her sister ship, and together they drifted with the current.
“Two out of six,” Adams muttered. Another explosion had Adams out of the pilothouse at a run. He returned briefly, saying, “It’s the Carondelet. Looks like their gun exploded. There’s going to be heavy casualties.”
“We’re being signaled to withdraw!” Alex exclaimed.
They moved downstream. Hidden by the island, the boats regrouped and waited for General Grant to board the ship carrying Commodore Foote. Lieutenant Adams came to the pilothouse. “Commodore Foote has sustained a foot injury. Looks like our job is completed; we’ll be moving back to Cairo.”
He left the cabin, but returned immediately. “Phelps has been ordered back up the Tennessee to finish off the railroad bridge,” he told Alex. “Seems the job wasn’t completed last week. They’re taking the Tyler; he’s asked you to pilot. Take your gear; you’ll rejoin us in Cairo.”
On deck Alex looked at the damage the fort’s guns had inflicted. He touched the deep dents in the iron plating, fingering the fractures and sections where the armor had separated from the hull. “Makes a person mighty glad we were in an ironclad,” the seaman beside him said. “It’s a scary thing to watch them point those big guns your way.”
The skiff from the Tyler was approaching. The cold wind swept downriver and Alex clutched his cap and muttered, “Can’t see the men from here, but we know they’re in the heaviest part of battle right now. It’s going to be a cold night out there on the hillside. I pray to God that they get the wounded in before nightfall.”
“Aye,” the sailor murmured, moving to catch the rope thrown at him. “And finish that bridge off this time.”
Late the following day, their mission completed, the Tyler returned down the Tennessee, crossed over to the Cumberland, and began moving upriver toward Fort Donelson.
“Aren’t we heading for Cairo?” Alex asked when Lieutenant Phelps gave him the order.
“No, Grant wants to keep the St. Louis and the Louisville here. We’re to serve as backup.” Phelps added, “They lost the pilot on the St. Louis. The bombardment wiped out most of the pilothouse. We’re short of pilots again.”
The sun was setting as they drew even with Fort Donelson. At first the place seemed deserted. Alex saw a hint of movement from the batteries. Light touched the barrels of a few guns. Phelps studied the fort through his field glasses. Slowly he said, “Something major has happened here. There are mighty few men around; certainly not the troops we saw Friday.”
Then he caught his breath. With a low, incredulous oath, he dropped the binoculars and faced Alex. “That field over yonder is covered with men,” he whispered. “They appear to be dead.” He wiped a shaky hand across his face. “I’ve never seen so many!—Alex, take us down around the bend, out of shell range, and let’s see if we can give a hand.”
The crew was on deck waiting when Alex reached the shore. Phelps said, “Approach the battlefield from the back side. Daylight is nearly gone; hurry, fellows.” The cold wind whistled through the tops of the trees, pelting Alex in the face as he rushed to join the crew.
Phelps and his men stood in silence on the edge of the field. With caps in hand, they began to look for signs of life. Then the wind reversed, sweeping the scent of death across their faces. Alex turned away, reeling from the smell and the impact of the scene.
“Help! Oh, God help me!” The voice was faint.
Shaking his head slowly, Alex muttered, “Oh, my God, what are we doing?” The scene sickened him. “Is the preservation of the Union more important than the lives of people?”
A hard hand came down on Alex’s arm. Alex saw the general’s insignia first, then the man’s face, deeply furrowed with fatigue, his eyes blazing. “Lad—” His voice was deliberate and slow. “The Union is people; the slaves are people. Our business is to cause freedom to happen for all people.” The general jerked his head toward the bloody field covered with twisted, ruined bodies. “Lad, if the Union isn’t worth dying for, what is?”
“But to pull a trigger and take a life?” Alex muttered, wiping his face with a trembling hand.
“Even then. These lads didn’t back out of pulling a trigger or dying.” The hand released Alex’s shoulder and patted him on the back.
Gently the general said, “Over there. Boy, the two of you get over there together.” He thrust a seaman toward Alex. “See what you can do. We’ve got to get these men out before they freeze.”
“Water! Help!” Alex looked across the field and ordered his numb legs into action. Alex and Tim, the seaman, worked throughout the night. Where there was a sign of life, they stopped to give water and carry the soldier to the riverbank.
It was nearly dawn when the old general stepped in front of Alex again. “Take some coffee and hardtack; you need it.” Alex eyed the uniform and the man continued in a gentle voice. “It’s ugly, but it’s war.” By the light of the fire, the general’s eyes examined Alex. “I’m Lew Wallace.”
“General Wallace,” Alex murmured. “I’ve heard about you.”
“Don’t turn away from a man if he’s wearing the wrong color uniform,” he warned. “We’re all brothers.”
“I know, sir.” Alex stopped beside the fire, took the cup of coffee and hardtack. He glanced at the tired, drawn face, and impulsively said, “Sir, it’s hard to see God in this.”
“But He’s here. For some of these fellows, He’s closer than He’s ever been before in their lives. They need to be reminded of that. Don’t judge God by the ugliness man creates.”
At dawn the last shovel full of earth had been thrown into the last shallow grave. Wallace faced the soldiers clustered around him, “Return to your positions. We must prepare to take Fort Donelson this morning.”
For an unbelieving moment Alex stared at him. But with another glance at that face, he knew General Wallace meant what he said. The lines of fatigue had deepened into lines of determination. Alex headed for his gunboat.
Back in the pilothouse Alex ordered the steam up. He waited until he felt the engines send a shudder through the ship. Deeply conscious of the wounded lined on the riverbank, he signaled to reverse the gears and slipped in behind the St. Louis and the Louisville.
Phelps stuck his head through the door. “We’re going to join them.” He closed the door behind himself. The morning sun touched the ruined entrance to Fort Donelson. Light bathed the Union troops, guns ready as they flanked the fort. Alex’s eyes swept over the waiting men. In that moment, when it seemed as if life itself held its breath, the flagpole inside the fort quivered, and slowly a white flag was lifted.
The sun touched the figure of a man poised in the entrance to the fort. Light picked at the glory of gold braid on his uniform and the white flag he bore as he made his way across the field toward General Grant. Hardly believing his eyes, Alex sighed and muttered, “So they’re tired of fighting, too.”
As Alex waited to receive the prisoners, Phelps stood at his side with the glasses trained on the men. “There are at least ten thousand men,” he murmured. “Look at them, dressed like farmers. What a contrast to all the gold braid the officers are sporting.”
Alex watched the weary faces, lined with defeat. He felt a strange kinship, wondering, Are Olivia’s cousins in that group? Have any of my kin been taken captive? Someone has called this a brother’s war, and how real it is. I look at those defeated, hungry, weary faces and see my own.