As we began to take our seats in the lecture il hall, the professor shuffled his notes, glancing up idly as one of the officer-students settled rather heavily into place. The collection of varied uniforms would probably have looked colorful to most civilians. To the professor it was “old hat.”
We came from all over the United States, and from every branch of service. Somehow, despite our collective experience and our retreating military hairlines, the professor still managed to make us feel like college boys. He loved to stimulate, to challenge, to argue. Perhaps that was why we all looked forward to our sessions with him.
The professor cleared his throat. Then he began abruptly, “Perhaps you have your own ideas about Uncle Sam’s contribution to the military art. What would you say comes first? Battlefield mobility? Improved communications? Massing of firepower?”
“I’ll tell you what,” the professor suggested, “you state your case and I’ll be the devil’s advocate. Perhaps I can convince you that Americans only refined—that most of the basic techniques originated somewhere in Europe.”
“What’s that? You ask what my nomination is?” The professor removed his glasses and began to polish them thoughtfully.
“Joint action. Yes sir, joint action—getting two services to work together. I’m really not sure why this is, especially since we hear so much nonsense about inter-service bickering. I guess Americans want to get the job done; maybe it’s because of some inherent practicality. Perhaps it’s because our joint commanders —at least the top ones—have concentrated on mission rather than service pride or personal reputation. Then, too, maybe it’s because we had a couple of fine men showing the way.”
“Which two men? Why, Commodore Andrew H. Foote and General Ulysses S. Grant, of course.”
The professor chuckled. “Now there was an unlikely pair of collaborators ...”
In January of 1862, “Sam” Grant was 39. He had become a brigadier general almost by chance—thanks to the intercession of an Illinois congressman who barely knew him. His life up to that point had been marked by failure—failure as a farmer, failure as a merchant, failure in the peacetime army. He had resigned seven years before the war. Some people said he drank too much. He was short, plain, sandy-haired, the last man you would notice in a crowd.
Flag Officer Andrew Foote, on the other hand, could look back on a successful life. He was 55; had entered the U. S. Navy as a 17- year-old midshipman; had commanded his own brig; had demonstrated skill in battle all the way from the North African coast to the waters off Canton, China. He was quiet, but genial, a Christian gentleman of firm and uncompromising principle. The sailors, it must be admitted, had a different viewpoint; they knew him chiefly as the man who had managed to have the Navy’s rum ration abolished.
But there the two men were—thrown together by some chance of military fate. Foote, with his gunboat flotilla, struggling to find the boats and the men to man them; Grant, with his inauspicious District of Cairo, Illinois, and its 15,000 raw recruits.
Their mutual commander was General Henry Wager Halleck. Halleck, whom the Union regulars called “Old Brains,” was intelligent, pompous, complaining, and full of excuses for his inaction in the West.
For reasons psychological as well as military, President Abe Lincoln was urging concerted action. Halleck, however, like his counterpart, General Don Carlos Buell in Kentucky, demanded more men, more supplies, more time. On 10 January, the President read a letter from Halleck and noted wearily: “It is exceedingly discouraging. As everywhere else, nothing can be done.”
True to form, Halleck kept a cautious rein on his commanders and rejected their suggestions for offensive action. At Cairo, however, Grant and Foote were making plans. “He and I consulted freely on military matters,” Grant subsequently wrote in his Memoirs.
On 14 January, Foote made a reconnaissance in force with three gunboats. Grant went along. On the 23rd, old General C. F. Smith, Grant’s ablest subordinate, together with Foote’s Lieutenant S. L. Phelps, reconnoitered up the Tennessee in the gunboat Lexington.
Finally, on 28 January, Halleck got a lesson in concerted action. First came a terse, 18- word message from Grant asking permission to take Fort Henry, the strategic Confederate stronghold on the Tennessee River. Moments later came a second message, this one from Foote: “Commanding General Grant and myself are of opinion that Fort Henry can be carried. . . . Have we your authority to move for that purpose when ready?”
Halleck hemmed and hawed, said he was awaiting a report on road conditions. Next day Foote and Grant wired again, this time not only saying they wanted to move against Fort Henry, but also that it had better be done quickly. “P. S.,” countered Foote, “the roads are said to be good. ...”
Grant’s reply to Halleck concluded rather bluntly: “The advantages of this move are as perceptible to the general commanding as to myself, therefore further statements are unnecessary.”
On 30 January, almost reluctantly, Halleck gave permission to move. Grant’s headquarters at Cairo seethed with excitement. A soldier threw his hat in the air and kicked it as it came down. Staff officers knocked over a couple of chairs, pounded the walls with their fists, and in general behaved like enthusiastic schoolboys. Finally, Grant murmured that he liked their spirit, but he really didn’t think they needed to make so much noise that it would disturb the Confederates downriver.
They set to work. Grant assembled his ground forces. Foote marshalled his gunboats and troop transports. The expedition moved out on 3 February, past Paducah, Kentucky, and up the Tennessee. Grant’s men disembarked three miles north of Fort Henry. Soldiers in blue began to move—Major General John A. McClernand’s division on the east bank of the river, Brigadier General Charles F. Smith’s and Major General Lew Wallace’s on the west. An hour later, Foote’s gunboats steamed within range and began to exchange shots with Fort Henry.
The fort, poorly constructed and situated too close to the swollen Tennessee, was nearly indefensible. Sections of it were already under water. Confederate Brigadier General Lloyd Tilghman had already evacuated most of his forces, had sent them streaming eastward toward Fort Donelson.
McClernand had been ordered to block just such a retreat. Muddy, water-filled roads, however, slowed his advance. In any case, he couldn’t have intercepted the Confederate column, which had moved out even before the attack began. As the soldiers moved into assault positions, they could hear cheering from the gunboats. Fort Henry had raised a white flag; Tilghman was en route to Foote’s flagship to surrender.
Credit for the surprisingly easy victory went to the Union Navy. Commodore Foote had led the gunboats and had accepted the surrender. Overnight he became a national hero.
The press was waiting for just such a victory. As news of the capture reached New York, printers took out their largest type. James Gordon Bennett’s Herald ran a banner headline: “THE IMPORTANT VICTORY IN TENNESSEE.” Other headlines read: “Important Naval Victory—Surrender of Fort Henry to the Union Gunboats—The Union Troops Not in the Fight.”
A correspondent of the Chicago Tribune wrote from Washington: “The taking of Fort Henry by Com. Foote, though insignificant in the number of killed and captured, is undoubtedly the most important achievement of the war.”
The Tribune also printed a stirring account written from one of the gunboats. The only reference to Grant was rather disparaging:
It was magnificent: the whistling shot . . . and the cheering of our men as our shots took evident effect. ... At precisely 1:40, the enemy struck his flag, and such cheering, such wild excitement as seized the throats and arms and caps of the 400 or 500 sailors of the gunboats. Well, imagine it. . . .
The land forces under command of General Grant did not arrive at the fort till after the rebels had surrendered, and their army escaped.
Another Tribune story gave credit to Foote (“it was wholly a navy victory”) and Halleck (“ . . . planned the whole thing, and although he was at St. Louis, he had a big finger in the pie”). As for Grant, it merely implied that he had failed to get in the rear of the camp in time to cut it off.
In Washington, a group of Army officers, probably irked by pro-Navy publicity, began in turn to criticize Foote—for not having waited for the land forces to get into position.
The situation was awkward. Had men other than Grant and Foote been involved, a deep cleavage might have formed. These two, however, were more interested in the job at hand than in personal publicity. Moreover, they liked and respected one another. The flames of interservice rivalry, with no fuel being supplied by the principals, quietly flickered out.
Grant wired Halleck in St. Louis: “Fort Henry is ours. The gunboats silenced the batteries before the investment was completed. I think the garrison must have commenced the retreat last night. Our cavalry followed, finding two guns abandoned in the retreat.”
Then he casually added a sentence containing one of the most momentous decisions of the war: “I shall take and destroy Fort Donelson on the 8th and return to Fort Henry.”
Grant was overly optimistic in predicting the fall of Donelson by 8 February. For one thing, the Fort Henry victory had to be consolidated; the Fort’s stores, for example, had to be possessed and itemized. Also, the Union gunboats, a big factor in Grant’s plans, were either off on another mission or under repair back at Cairo. While this was going on, Foote instructed his boat commanders to co-operate with Grant, even if it meant acting independently of Foote. Grant wrote Foote: “I do not feel justified in going without some of your gunboats to cooperate. . . . Should you be deficient in men, an artillery company can be detached to serve in the gunboats temporarily.”
It was Wednesday, 12 February, before Grant’s army started slogging the 12 muddy miles to Fort Donelson. By evening, the two lead divisions were deployed in a loose semicircle—pinning the Confederates against the Cumberland river. Smith’s division was on the left, McClernand’s on the right. By Thursday morning, the investiture was complete, even though the Confederate force (approximately 18,000) was temporarily larger than the Union group opposing it. Roughly, Grant planned to bottle up Donelson from the land side, then to let Foote’s gunboats and the army’s artillery pound the garrison into submission. On Thursday, McClernand made a limited attack from the right flank. Since the gunboats had not yet arrived, Grant postponed any major effort.
By this time it was evident that Donelson was far sturdier than Henry. Donelson, overlooking the Cumberland river near the town of Dover, was well constructed and well armed. Outside the fort proper, along the defensive perimeter, treacherous abatis reinforced sturdy earthen breastworks. “There is no doubt,” said the Missouri Republican, “that the enemy has also been largely reinforced. The battle will be a desperate one.”
To add to the difficulty, a cold rain began to fall Thursday night. It turned to sleet and snow, chilling the lightly clad Federal troops and covering the ground with three inches of snow. Men shivered miserably in the frosty dawn as Foote’s gunboats glided down the Cumberland and opened fire. Confederate gunners answered promptly. Shot after shot crashed into the boats. Foote’s flagship, the St. Louis, was hit 59 separate times. The pilothouse was demolished; the pilot killed, and Foote himself was wounded. Eventually the gunboats backed off as the Confederates inside the fort cheered lustily. Foote counted his 54 casualties and realized that what had toppled Fort Henry would never be enough to take Donelson.
That evening, however, despite having defeated the gunboats, Confederate commanders were pessimistic. They saw the situation as Grant saw it—Donelson was a trap. A breakout was planned to the south.
Early Saturday morning, a fierce Confederate attack drove back the Union right. In the pre-dawn hours, Grant had been consulting with the wounded Foote on board the St. Louis. Hearing sounds of firing in the distance, he galloped back to the Union lines.
This was truly Sam Grant’s “moment of truth.” McClernand had lost 1,500 men. Remnants of his demoralized division were trying to rally behind Wallace’s thin line. Smith, on the left, was too far away to help. Other officers were talking “retreat” or “surrender.”
The Confederate attack, which had done so well up to then, began to lose momentum. Logically, Grant reasoned that such a strong effort by the Confederate left meant their line was stretched thin elsewhere. Also, while riding over the field in the midst of the confusion, Grant had discovered that the knapsacks of the Confederate dead were packed, and that their haversacks were filled with rations. He realized that this was no ordinary attack—that in fact the Southerners were fighting for a road to the open country.
Grant ordered Smith to attack from the Union left. He then sent a hasty message to Foote, asking him to lend the attack all possible support:
If all the gunboats that can will immediately make their appearance to the enemy it may secure us a victory. Otherwise all may be defeated. A terrible conflict ensued in my absence, which has demoralized a portion of my command, and I think the enemy is more so. If the gunboats do not show themselves, it will reassure the enemy and still further demoralize our troops. I must order a charge to save appearances. I do not expect the gunboats to go into action, but to make appearance and throw a few shells at long range.
U. S. Grant,
Brigadier-General, Commanding.
The gunboats appeared on schedule and Smith’s vigorous assault seized the breastworks on the Confederate right. On the other flank, a confused Confederate commander failed to take advantage of the exit he had cleared. Most of the Southern troops returned to their original lines.
Inside Fort Donelson, as darkness ended the day’s fighting, a strange conference of war took place. Close to the Cumberland river, a narrow escape route was still open. Generals John B. Floyd and Gideon Pillow, the two senior officers on hand, did not see it that way. They loaded some 3,000 men on available boats, climbed on board themselves, and eased downriver in the darkness. (Later, Confederate prisoners accused both generals with being overly concerned with their own individual safety.) Simon Bolivar Buckner, Sam Grant’s close friend at West Point and in Mexico, was left in command of Fort Donelson.
Grant made plans to resume the attack at first light. About 3 a.m., however, a Confederate flag of truce came through the lines. With it was a message from Buckner suggesting a temporary armistice so that “commissioners” could be appointed “to agree upon terms of capitulation.”
In his own hand, Grant then wrote one of the most famous messages in American military history. Today the note lies innocently in one of the Smithsonian’s glass cases. Visitors see it, glance idly, and pass on. Occasionally someone pauses to nod acknowledgment:
HEADQUARTERS ARMY IN THE FIELD
Camp near Donelson,
February 16, 1862
General S. B. Buckner,
Confederate Army
Sir,
Yours of this date, proposing armistice and appointment of Commissioners is just received. No terms except an unconditional and immediate surrender can be accepted. I propose to move immediately upon your works.
I am, sir, very respectfully,
Your ob’t Sevt.,
U. S. Grant Brig. Gen.
Thanks to Floyd, Pillow, and the Union Army, Buckner was hardly in the best of humor. He and Grant had once been friends; perhaps he felt Grant should take such things into consideration. In any case, he responded rather peevishly:
The distribution of the forces under my command incident to an unexpected change of commanders and the overwhelming force under your command compel me, notwithstanding the brilliant success of the Confederate arms yesterday, to accept the ungenerous and unchivalrous terms which you propose.
I am, sir,
Your very obt. svt.,
S. B. Buckner Brig. Gen. C. S. A.
That was that. In a few hours, Grant was accepting the surrender of nearly 15,000 men, including Generals Buckner and Bushrod Johnson. In addition, he had captured large quantities of arms and ammunition, artillery, horses, and commissary stores.
The New York Herald called it “the most important victory yet achieved by the armies of the government.”
Chicago, reported the Tribune, “was on the rampage . . . was crazy with delight and insane with jubilation upon the receipt of the glorious news from Ft. Donelson. In fact, Chicago didn’t care an expletive whether the school house kept open or not.”
Afterwards, of course, Grant moved on to other places—to Vicksburg, to Appomattox, to the White House. Foote received the thanks of a grateful nation, and was promoted to the grade of rear admiral, but he never recovered fully from his Donelson wounds. He died in New York the following year.
“So there it is,” the professor said, “a study in joint action. From the start, the two men just seemed to sense the proper ingredients for military partnership. As far as I know, Halleck never appointed Grant as a ‘task force commander’ or anything like that. However, it was basically a ground action, and both men assumed that Grant was in charge. During the reconnaissances, though, it was obviously a Navy show, even when the joint recon was being done by a mere Navy Lieutenant named Phelps and a full-fledged Army Brigadier General named Smith. I might add, incidentally, that it was no accident that Smith and Phelps worked so well together. Co-operation at the top seems to breed more of the same on down the line. Now, then, are there any other observations about this unlikely pair?”
A student spoke up: “How about the willingness to act independently? It seems to me that Foote could have been in trouble with the Navy if he had lost all his ships while under Army orders.”
“Yes,” agreed the professor, “although he was scrupulous about reporting everything to Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles in Washington. Still, he was willing to stick his neck out as the Navy ‘expert’ without always having to consult someone higher up.”
“Speaking of independent action,” another student pointed out, “how about Foote’s willingness to let his subordinate boat commanders work directly with the ground forces? That seems significant—the willingness to form several smaller teams if the situation calls for it—even though there may be some loss in service identity.”
Now the discussion picked up. “Loss of identity,” someone laughed, “I’d say Grant deserves the prize for the man least worried about such things. Just imagine—offering Army artillerymen to man Navy guns. I wonder how many commanders would be so liberal in their thinking today if the situation called for it?”
“Of course, Grant never did get too concerned about the niceties,” the professor commented. “I honestly don’t think he cared who got the credit for Fort Henry, any more than Foote worried about losing the glory at Donelson. As a result, neither man wasted any time getting into name-calling sessions with the gentlemen of the press.”
“Did Grant manage to stay that detached about his press coverage?” a student asked.
“Yes,” answered the professor, “he was remarkable that way. Even though he could be stung by press criticism, and often worried about its effect on his family, he somehow managed to rise above it. In 1864, General George Meade wrote his wife that ‘Grant thinks, as long as a man is sustained by his own conscience, his superiors, and the government, it is not worth his while to trouble himself about the newspapers.’ ”
“Speaking of newspapers,” the professor remarked, “don’t forget that there were many men about this time who were trying to use the correspondents to further their own ambitions. Not so with Grant and Foote. Even Horace Greeley’s New York Tribune, which was often critical of Grant, said in May of ’62 that Grant was ‘free of the wretched jealousies which so often disgrace the army, and never speaks ungenerously or unkindly of his brother officers.’ Not a bad comment to come from a critic, I should say.”
“We have considered, then,” the professor concluded, “an early example of joint military action—an example which clearly indicates that proper co-ordination demands not only a variety of professional techniques, but also requires some strong traits of character. Traits such as ‘courage,’ ‘tact,’ ‘judgment under pressure’—all of these merit mention—but perhaps most important to any combined effort is the quality of ‘selflessness.’”