Tim studied the map. Morris Island was shaped like a big pork chop, the thin part curving north toward Fort Sumter. At the end of the thin part, on Cummings Point, stood Battery Gregg. Guarding this narrow neck of sand from land assault, Fort Wagner stretched from the ocean on the east to a tidal creek on the west.
As he and Red turned away from the map Tim said under his breath, “That fort is in a strong position. I wish I shared the captain’s confidence.”
Folly was a thin, sandy island stretching northeast like a crooked finger. It was already garrisoned by Union forces.
As the transport ran up Folly River the men could see the tops of Yankee tents above the undergrowth.
The troops disembarked at Pawnee Landing. They cut through a little wood on a well-worn path and made their bivouac in a barren place not far from the beach, close to another Yankee camp.
They built no fires that night. Tim and Red, Dawson and Kautz sat together breaking out their rations, glad for a chance to rest. Captain Dawson turned to Kautz. “I wonder if the Rebels know what’s up?”
“It won’t be long before they do.”
Tim was impatient. “Why can’t we march tomorrow morning?”
“We can boil up our rations and clean our rifles,” Dawson said. “We can make good use of the extra time.”
Red laughed. “If the boys clean their rifles a couple more times they’ll wear the bores down smooth.”