A courier from Grand Gulf met the head of the column. “General Bowen says, sir, you’ll have to cross Bayou Pierre at Port Gibson. The bridge is there. Yes, sir, make a détour—yonder’s the road.”
“That turkey track?”
“Yes, sir. General Bowen says he surely will be obliged if you’ll come right on.”
Sundown and Bayou Pierre were reached together. At the mouth of the bridge at Port Gibson waited an aide on horseback.
“General Tracy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“General, we’re in line of battle across the Bruinsburg road, several miles from here! McClernand’s corps is in front of us and he’s got at least four divisions. General Bowen says he knows your men are tired and he’s sorry, but you must move right out. They’ll attack at dawn at latest. We aren’t but five thousand.”
The reinforcements from Vicksburg moved out. At ten o’clock they got into line of battle—a hot, still, dark night, and the soft blurred stars swimming before the men’s eyes. When the order was given, the troops dropped down where they stood, lay on their arms, and slept like the dead.
At two in the morning of the first of May the pickets began firing. Up rose the reinforcements. They looked for breakfast, but breakfast was scant indeed, a stopgap of the slightest description. Presently came the order, “Move to the left and support General Green.”
Missouri formed Bowen’s left, and Missouri fought bravely at Port Gibson. It had to face treble its numbers, artillery and infantry. It faced them so stubbornly that for a time it bade fair to outface them. On that hot May day, on that steaming Southern battle-field, occurred strong fighting, grey and blue at grips, Victory shouting now here, now there, Defeat uncertain yet into which colour finally to let fly the deadly arrow. The battle smoke settled heavily. The bright colours, the singing-birds fled the trees and bushes, the perfume of flowers was smothered and vanished.