Strength of position, natural and artificial, was with Pemberton. His task was defensive—to hold what he had. Grant’s was offensive—to possess what he did not have. But the initiative was with him, and to genius that itself is an advantage.
Pemberton knew the ground—the scene of the campaign. Its every natural adaptation of advantage or defense was to him as a thing ingrained in his consciousness and every denizen of the country about him was the friend of his army and his cause.
Grant was in a strange land, without accurate knowledge of its topography or of its natural difficulties of approach or opportunities of defense, and concerning which such knowledge could be acquired only by the exercise of infinite patience, by unremitting toil, and constant investigation. Its inhabitants looked upon him as an invader come to despoil their country—to lay waste their homes. Among them all, his army had no friend, his cause no advocate.
But, while position and natural advantage was with Pemberton, the ability to command armies, the genius of concentration, to decide quickly and accurately, to design with daring boldness and to execute with celerity and rapidity; the tenacity of purpose that, come what will, can not be bent or turned aside, and the grim determination that rises in some men—God’s chosen few—supreme above every let or hindrance—were with Grant. And it was this ability to command, more than all other things, that finally enabled him to wrest the great prize from the hands of Pemberton and the Confederacy, and give it into the keeping of the Union.
The campaign was Grant’s—his alone—in conception and in execution, from the beginning to the end. Its details his government did not know. For a time even its immediate object was unknown in Washington. Its design was without successful military precedent. His most trusted general was opposed to it. But Grant saw and understood. The day he crossed his army at Bruinsburg he was “born again.” He caught a vision that inspired him. He was transformed. There came to him a confidence that thenceforth was never shaken—a faith in which there was no flaw. Less than two years before he had doubtfully asked himself whether he could hope ever to command a division, and if so, whether he could command it successfully. Now he knew he could command an army; that he could plan campaigns, and that he could execute them with high skill and matchless vigor. He had found himself.
General Banks, with a substantial force, was at Port Hudson, two hundred and fifty miles down the river. The two armies were expected by the authorities at Washington to co-operate with each other in an attack upon Pittsburg or Port Hudson. Grant had heard from Banks that he could not come to him at Grand Gulf for weeks. Instantly his purpose crystallized. His resolve was made. He would not go to Banks at Port Hudson nor would he wait for him at Grand Gulf. Waiting meant delay. Delay meant strengthened fortifications and a re-enforced enemy. He would move independently of Banks. His army was inferior in numbers to the aggregate forces of the enemy, but he would invade Mississippi, fight and defeat whatever force he found east of Vicksburg, and invest that city from the rear. And he would not wait a day. He would move at once. He would go now—go swiftly to Jackson, destroy or drive away any force in that direction, and then turn upon Pemberton and drive him into Vicksburg. He would keep his own army a compact force—“round as a cannon ball,” and he would fight and defeat the enemy in detail before his forces could be concentrated. The concept was worthy of Napoleon in his best moments. It was remarkably brilliant, audaciously daring. It was the turning point in Grant’s career—a momentous hour, big with destiny for him, his army, and his country. In its chalice was Vicksburg—Chattanooga—Spotsylvania—Appomattox—national solidarity—and deathless personal fame. The decision was made without excitement, without a tremor of the pulse, in the calmness of conscious power. John Hay fancifully compares his action at this time “to that of the wild bee in the Western woods, who, rising to the clear air, flies for a moment in a circle, and then darts with the speed of a rifle bullet to its destination.”
A long-established and universally accepted axiom of war—one that ought in no case to be violated—required any great body of troops moving against an enemy to go forward only from an established base of supplies, which, together with the communications thereto, should be carefully covered and guarded as the one thing upon which the life of the movement depended. The idea of supporting a moving column in the enemy’s country from the country itself was regarded as impractical and perilous, if not actually impossible. The movement he had determined upon would uncover his base and imperil his communications. Defeat meant irremediable failure and disgrace. The hazard seemed so great, and the proposal so contrary to all the accepted maxims of war and military precedents, that Sherman, seeing the danger, urged Grant “to stop all troops till the army is partially supplied with wagons, and then act as quickly as possible, for this road will be jammed as sure as life.”
Grant knew the difficulty and the peril, but he was not afraid. He knew the military and the political need of the country. He knew his officers. He knew the army he commanded. And, knowing all, he assumed the responsibility and took the hazard; cut loose from his base, severed his communications, went where there was no way, and left a path that will shine while history lasts.
Having decided his course, he telegraphed the government at Washington: “I shall not bring my troops into this place (Grand Gulf), but immediately follow the enemy, and if all promises as favorably as it does now, not stop until Vicksburg is in our possession.” Here was the first and the only intimation of his purpose given the government. The execution of his purpose was immediately begun and pressed with personal energy, attention, and vigor without parallel in the life of a commanding general of an army. Sherman, who of all men had the best opportunity to know and was best qualified to weigh the extent and character of his work, declares: “No commanding general of an army ever gave more of his personal attention to detail, or wrote so many of his own orders, reports, or letters. I still retain many of his letters and notes in his own handwriting, prescribing the route of march of divisions and detachments, specifying the amount of food and tools to be carried along.”
Washburn wrote: “On this whole march of five days he has had neither a horse nor an orderly or servant, a blanket or overcoat, or clean shirt or even a sword. His entire baggage consists of a tooth brush.”