They descended now into lower grounds near the Mississippi. All around them was a vast and luxuriant vegetation, cut by sluggish streams and bayous. But the same desolation reigned everywhere. The people had fled before the advance of the armies. Late in the afternoon they saw pickets in blue, then the Mississippi, and a little later they rode into a Union camp.
“Dick,” said Colonel Winchester, “I shall want you to go with the senior officers and myself to report to General Grant on the other side of the Mississippi. You rode on that mission to Grierson and he may want to ask you questions.”
Dick was glad to go with them. He was eager to see once more the man who had taken Henry and Donelson and who had hung on at Shiloh until Buell came. The general’s tent was in a grove on a bit of high ground, and he was sitting before it on a little camp stool, smoking a short cigar, and gazing reflectively in the direction of Grand Gulf.
He greeted the three officers quietly but with warmth and then he listened to Colonel Winchester’s detailed account of what he had seen and learned in his raid toward Jackson. It was a long narrative, showing how the Southern forces were scattered, and, as he listened, Grant’s face began to show satisfaction.
But he seldom interrupted.
“And you think they have no large force at Jackson?” he said.
“I’m quite sure of it,” replied Colonel Winchester.
Grant chewed his cigar a little while and then said:
“Grierson is doing well. It was an achievement for you and him to beat off Forrest. It will raise the prestige of our cavalry, which needs it. I believe it was you, Lieutenant Mason, who brought Grierson.”
“It was chiefly, sir, a sergeant named Whitley. I rode with him and outranked him, but he is a veteran of the plains, and it was he who did the real work.”
The general’s stern features were lightened by a smile.
“I’m glad you give the sergeant credit,” he said. “Not many officers would do it.”
He listened a while longer and then the three were permitted to withdraw to their regiment, which was posted back of Grand Gulf, and which had quickly become a part of an army flushed with victory and eager for further action.
Before sunset Dick, Warner, and Pennington looked at Grand Gulf, a little village standing on high cliffs overlooking the Mississippi, just below the point where the dark stream known as the Big Black River empties into the Father of Waters. Around the crown of the heights was a ring of batteries and lower down, enclosing the town, was another ring.
Far off on the Mississippi the three saw puffing black smoke marking the presence of a Union fleet, which never for one instant in the whole course of the war relaxed its grip of steel upon the Confederacy. Dick’s heart thrilled at the sight of the brave ships. He felt then, as most of us have felt since, that whatever happened the American navy would never fail.
“I hear the ships are going to bombard,” said Warner.
“I heard so, too,” said Pennington, “and I heard also that they will have to do it under the most difficult circumstances. The water in front of Grand Gulf is so deep that the ships can’t anchor. It has a swift current, too, making at that point more than six knots an hour. There are powerful eddies, too, and the batteries crowning the cliffs are so high that the cannon of the gunboats will have trouble in reaching them.”
“Still, Mr. Pessimist,” said Dick, “remember what the gunboats did at Fort Henry. You’ll find the same kind of men here.”
“I wasn’t trying to discourage you. I was merely telling the worst first. We’re going to win. We nearly always win here in the West, but it seems to me the country is against us now. This doesn’t look much like the plains, Dick, with its big, deep rivers, its high bluffs along the banks, and its miles and miles of swamp or wet lowlands. How wide would you say the Mississippi is here?”