“How big is this city of Vicksburg?” asked Pennington.
“Not big at all,” replied Warner. “There are no big cities in the South except New Orleans, but it's big as a fortress. It's surrounded by earthworks, Frank, from which the Johnnies can pot you any time.”
“Well, at any rate, I'll be glad to see it—from a safe distance. I wouldn't mind sitting down before a town. There's too much wet country around here to suit me.”
“It's likely that you'll have a chance to sit for a long time. We won't take Vicksburg easily.”
But the time for sitting down had not yet come. The confidence of the soldiers in their leader was justified continually. He advanced rapidly toward Vicksburg, and in pursuit of Pemberton's defeated men. The victory at Champion Hill had been so complete that the Southern army was broken into detached fragments, and the Southern generals were now having the greatest difficulty in getting them together again.
Grant, with his loyal subordinate, Sherman, continued to push upon the enemy with the greatest vigor. Sherman had not believed in the success of the campaign, had even filed his written protest, but when Grant insisted he had cooperated with skill and energy. He and Grant stood together on a hill looking toward the future field of conflict, and he told Grant now that he expected continued success.
It was the fortune of the young officers of the Winchester regiment sitting near on their horses to see the two generals who were in such earnest consultation, and who examined the whole circle of the country so long and so carefully through powerful glasses.
The effects of the victory deep in the South were growing hourly in Dick's mind, and the two figures standing there on the hill were full of significance to him. He had a premonition that they were the men more than any others who would achieve the success of the Union, if it were achieved at all. They had dismounted and stood side by side, the figure of Grant short, thick and sturdy, that of Sherman, taller and more slender. They spoke only at intervals, and few words then, but nothing in the country about them escaped their attention.
Dick had glasses of his own, and he, too, began to look. He saw a region much wooded and cut by deep streams. Before them lay the sluggish waters of Chickasaw Bayou, where Sherman had sustained a severe defeat at an earlier time, and farther away flowed the deep, muddy Yazoo.
“See the smoke, George, rising above that line of trees along the river?” said Dick.