An M-1 at Fort Donelson
by Charles L. Fontenay
Illustration by Jonathan and Lisa Hunt
It was a wet winter in north central Tennessee, rainy and chilly in Stewart County, and rivers and branches were on the rise. The day had been mild, almost like spring; there had been a rare winter thunderstorm and just before it quit raining a lightning bolt split the big old oak down by the creek.
The smell of ozone still hung in the air when Jem Hardaway caught sight of the stranger, afoot—on shank’s mare, Aunt Jessie called it—plodding through the woodlot toward the house.
Jem, sitting on the white-columned veranda, called over his shoulder: “Rich, bring me my gun.”
“Yas suh, Mistuh Jem,” said the slave, and disappeared into the house.
It might be an unnecessary precaution. There hadn’t been any Yankee raiders in this area and the white trash stayed away from Five Oaks. But the word had come down that Fort Henry, twelve miles west, had fallen and Federal scouts might be out.
Jem sat in the wicker-backed chair, rocking gently and looking out at the twilight sky. Jem’s grey coat lay across his shoulders against the cold, moist breeze from the southwest. Thin curry-comb clouds skimmed across the sky and black Uncle Jobe, quoting his ancient joints, was predicting snow in the next few days.
The stranger was hallway up the winding road through the woodlot when Rich reappeared with Jem’s gun, a three-foot Sharps carbine with iron-bound walnut stock, made by S. C. Robinson in Richmond. It was not a common gun and Jem was fond of it.
Jem saw that the man also carried a musket loosely under his arm but he was not in uniform. A hunter, maybe—but his olive-brown jacket and trousers were clothes such as Jem had never seen.
Jem laid his carbine across his knees and shifted in his rocker, easing the wounded hip. The spotted guineas went pot-racking around the corner of the house as the stranger opened the gate to the front yard, their red-wattled heads jerking back and forth in alarm. He came up the weathered brick walk toward Jem.
The stranger was elderly, maybe sixtyish, wearing a cap of the same color as his clothes which from its shape could be either Confederate or Yankee. A tentative smile was on his face and he lifted his free hand in a half-hearted flap of greeting.
“Evenin’,” said Jem flatly, shifting the carbine slightly to point in the newcomer’s general direction. The man stopped at the foot of the wooden porch steps, looking up at him.
“Hello,” said the man. “I’m looking for the way to Fort Donelson.”
It wasn’t a Yankee accent but it wasn’t from around here, either.
“You can go east to the Nashville and Charlotte Road or the other way to Wynn’s Ferry Road and turn no’th,” said Jem. The man wasn’t likely a Yankee scout if he was headed for Donelson. The fort was a Confederate stronghold. “ ’Bout the same distance either way. But it’s four or five miles to Dover. You don’t aim to walk it tonight, do you?”
“I don’t know what else. I don’t have a horse.”
“Well, it’s gettin’ dark for travelin’ when you don’t know your way. Come up and set a spell, and we’ll have us a whiskey.”
As the man came up the steps Jem turned and held out the carbine to Rich.
“Rich, hold this firearm for me,” he said. Rich could handle the carbine and would react instantly if the stranger made the wrong move. “And holler to Tammie to fix us a pair of hot toddies. Tell her we’ve got company for supper.”
“Thanks,” said the stranger. “That’s the kind of Southern hospitality I’ve always heard about. I’m Harry Vick. Harry Maitland Vick. From… from Union City.”
“Lieutenant Jem Hardaway, C.S.A., Colonel Forrest’s Tennessee Cavalry.” Jem waved him to another of the wicker-backed rockers. Vick sat down and Jem noticed his shoes: heavy shoes, farm-type shoes, now splashed with mud. Shoes that meant business.
Jem looked at the newcomer’s weapon curiously as he laid it on the porch floor beside him, and commented, “Uncommon-lookin’ musket. Foreign?”
“Garand M-l,” replied the other.
It must be foreign. Jem had never heard the name. Vick picked it up and handed it to him for inspection.
“Breech-loader?” asked Jem, not able to make too much out of the strange mechanism. He handed it back and indicated his Sharps. “Mine is. You get any flashback?”
“Not so you’d notice,” replied Vick briefly.
Tammie, a saucy-looking black girl of thirteen, brought their drinks. The two men sat and sipped at the warm whiskey as the twilight deepened.
“What you want to get to Fort Donelson for?” Jem asked. “Sellin’ supplies?”
Jem thought he had Vick pegged now: a trader, maybe agent for some company. Maybe the strange breech-loading gun was a sample. Only thing was, it looked like if he was going to offer a new kind of gun to the Army he’d take it up with somebody like General Johnston at Bowling Green, not a subordinate like General Tilghman at Fort Donelson.
Vick evaded the question. Instead of settling back expansively and touting the superiority of his wares, as Jem expected, he countered.
“You say you’re a lieutenant,” said Vick. “Why aren’t you on the line somewhere, with the Federals cornin’ down through Kentucky?”
“I don’t know that they’re movin’ east from Fort Henry,” demurred Jem, sensing criticism. “I’m with Forrest’s cavalry and by rights I ought to be at Donelson. I took a minie ball in the hip on a raid. It’s not a bad wound but, livin’ so close, I came home to heal. I’m due back with my troop at Donelson in a week.”
“Too late. It’ll be in Union hands,” said Vick positively. “Fort Henry fell four days ago.”
“So they say. We heard the artillery here.”
“Three days from now Grant will move on Fort Donelson with fifteen thousand troops under McClernand, Smith, and Wallace, and he’ll take it unless I can get over there and get my job done. If Donelson falls it’s the beginning of the end for the South.”
Jem stared at him. Vick spoke with the confidence of some general on President Davis’s staff with an overall view of the wartime situation.
“Just who are you?” demanded Jem. “How do you know what the Yankees figure on doin’—if you do? And what makes you think fifteen thousand Bluebellies can take a fort like Donelson? There’s more Confederates there than that and it takes a five-to-one advantage to capture a strongpoint.”
“That’s the way it should be,” said Vick. “But Floyd will lose his nerve and surrender Donelson. More important than Donelson, if Grant lives he’ll win the war for the North.”
“Floyd? General Tilghman’s in command at Donelson.”
“Not any more. Tilghman was captured at Fort Henry. Pillow arrived at Fort Donelson today and Floyd will take over from him four days from now.”
Vick took a large, appreciative swig of his toddy, looking thoughtfully out over the yard. It was winter-bare, its flower beds asleep, its trees leafless. A Dominecker hen clucked among the fallen, sodden leaves. Beyond the white picket fence half a dozen horses nosed at what grass they could find in the woodlot.
“Well now, Mistuh Vick,” Jem drawled, “I don’t reckon you got second sight to prognosticate what Gen’l Floyd or that Yankee Gen’l Grant’s goin’ to do but, still and all, you do seem to know a lot about troop movements on both sides. I’d like to know how that is.”
“Take my word for it, I know what’s going to happen here,” replied Vick. “The Union general, Grant, is one of the two keys to the fall of Fort Donelson. And if you’ll help me get to that area in time, I think I know a way to assassinate Grant.”
Corporal Harry Vick was wearing this same uniform, not quite so tight on him, with helmet instead of fatigue cap, as his unit, the Second Battalion of the Rainbow Division’s 222nd Infantry, crossed the Rhine on Easter Eve to be greeted by an overly friendly German population. Staring at the welcoming throng, Corporal Jerry McKenneth commented scornfully, “No, not a single Nazi in that bunch!”