That had given Grant the extra day he needed to pull the divisions of Curtis and Prentiss out of their positions in front of Decatur and Jacksonville and move them a hundred miles by rail to counterattack Jackson’s mobile divisions before Jackson sprung the trapdoor of his encirclement closed. Wallace was destined to become yet another hero to enter into the Free State’s pantheon. As a close personal friend of Lincoln, he would be yet another loss to grieve the President.
Grant’s expression became stern. “We will win this battle and then our independence. It is the least we can do to honor you and the others who have fallen. We will drive the Confederates from every inch of Free State soil and then we shall make peace.”
Wallace looked Grant in the eye for the last time. “You will surely prevail with men such as I have had the honor to command.” Wallace eased into unconsciousness.
Grant got up to leave. He sought words of comfort for Mrs. Wallace, but could not find them. He took her hands in his for a moment and then left. There will be many widows like her before this war is over. Grant put on his hat and went back out into the pouring rain. His thoughts returned to the battle being waged by the living.
As Grant rode forward toward the front he noticed that the sky had begun to show some breaks in the west where the sun was setting. The steamy rain had tapered off, leaving banks of lowlying fog clinging to the ground. Grant reached the command post of Colonel McClernand, who had taken command after Wallace was carried from the field.
“How is Colonel Wallace?” asked McClernand, in a grim tone that indicated he already knew.
Grant shook his head. “Barring a miracle, he won’t live out the day.”
McClernand bowed his head and said a silent prayer.
“Have your men been supplied with food and ammunition?” Grant asked.
“Yes, sir, and they are fighting well. The Confederate attacks on this front are failing. We will not give up the position that Wallace gave his life to hold.”
From what Grant could see McClernand was not making an idle boast. McClernand had chosen his line with military professionalism, about two hundred yards to the east of the railroad line. His men were fighting behind whatever cover they could find in the trees and little rises of ground, and behind occasional barns. The few who had tried to dig trenches had not had much success as the water filled them up immediately, although here and there a few preferred to stand waist-deep in water-filled holes rather than expose their entire bodies to fire. Other men lacking cover were firing while standing upright.
Grant had a superb view of the waning fight. As at the other points on the line, he could tell that the Confederates were getting the worst of it. Only sporadic bursts of smoke spit from their rifles at long intervals. They were either short of ammunition or it was soaked through and would no longer fire. Their men moved slowly, on the point of exhaustion, after slogging through miles of ankle-deep mud. Their lines were thinning as men were killed and wounded and had to be carried away from the firing line by able-bodied men. They didn’t seem able to replace these losses with men moving up from the rear. As their lines thinned they began moving back in groups here and there so as to distance themselves from the Rebels’ fire.
Grant lifted his cap from his head, still throbbing from the blow received outside Springfield, and tried to wipe off the wetness of rain and sweat that could not evaporate in the steaming humidity. The clouds were breaking up now. For the first time in three days Grant felt a light rush of cooler drier wind on his neck. It was gone in an instant, but the fresh humidity-clearing breeze was sufficient to lift his spirits. So did the look of determination in the men manning the fronts and still firing occasional long shots at the retreating Confederates. He began to feel confident for the first time since the battle opened.
“I do believe we’ll hold ‘em here,” he said confidently to McClernand. He wondered whether he should order McClernand to press an attack against the Confederates. After considering it for a moment he decided there was little to be gained. The Confederates were falling back rapidly enough on their own. McClernand had lost at least half his men in the fight and was in no condition to pursue them. Grant thought he might have better luck attacking with the divisions of Curtis and Prentice operating along the Peoria and Oquawka railroad that ran horizontally across the Confederates northern flank. He saluted McClernand and rode back into Urbana to gather his staff and requisition a train for a ride up to the northern flank.
We have defeated this Confederate attack and now we will see what we can do to punish them as they retreat. I hope McDowell is having success on his side of the front.
Battle of the Wabash October 4–5, Grant counterattacks with the divisions of Prentiss and Curtiss, pulled out of the line facing Lee and redeployed by rail to stem the breach to the northeast. The Confederates, marching overland, are slowed by the mud sufficiently to allow Grant time to make the movement.
21
Terre Haute, Indiana, October 6, 1861
Major General of Volunteers Cump Sherman guided his horse carefully around the twisted bodies, many still writhing, in the mud. The moans and cries of the wounded touched even his war-hardened heart.
Anybody who fancies the ‘glory of war’ from the comfort of his parlor should walk among the pitiful dead and wounded here. Those who see it with their own eyes will want no more of war!
Until now most of the dead and wounded had been Confederates. However as Sherman rode closer to Terre Haute he observed that here and there the Confederates had been able to turn their lines around and make determined stands against Mitchel’s counterpunch from the east. He passed one of those places where nearly a hundred Free State men, identified by their yellow overcoats, lay fallen in front of a tree line in between farms about a mile outside of Terre Haute. About thirty were dead, the rest moaning where they had fallen, some with hastily-tied tourniquets inexpertly applied by their comrades.
We’ve got to get some professional doctors into our army.If we don’t, we’re going to have more men dying of infected wounds than killed outright.
However, the Confederates had accomplished nothing more than to delay the onslaught of Mitchel’s army. Sherman had helped Mitchel organize his arriving men into a formation resembling a tightly clenched fist. They had smashed through Confederate General Pemberton’s division laying siege to Terre Haute, wrecking two of its brigades while shoving the other two south and out of the battle.
Sherman paused for a moment to observe some Free State men and captured Confederates loading the wounded of both sides into wagons heading into Terre Haute. His curiosity was aroused by a wounded Free Stater and a wounded Confederate sitting under a tree while waiting their turn for a wagon. The two had a flask of whiskey to dull their pain, and how they were dulling it good and proper! The two were singing “Oh, Susannah” out of key with improvised stanzas of impolite words.
“What a pair we have here!” remarked Sherman.
“Johnny’s my brother,” said the Confederate, too far gone to remember to salute an officer. “Damn fool ran over me with his horse. Imagine that — getting stampeded by your own brother during a battle!”
“Shoulda gotten yourself outa the way, you gourdhead!” said the brother wearing the Free State uniform. He turned to Sherman. “Brother Billy isn’t the brightest candle in the window, if you know what I mean. He proved that by voting for Douglas and throwing his sorry ass in with the Confeds!”