VICKSBURG Chapter Sixty-Four

Consciousness slowly returned to 22 year old Corporal William Archinal, of company “I” of the Ohio Volunteers. He had been lying dead to the world on the slope of the Stockade Redoubt since 10:15 that morning, when the Forlorn Hope had made their sacrificial charge. First returned the smell of the soft Vicksburg loam. Then came the deep ringing, like the cathedral bells of his Childhood in Frankfort am Main. Then came the red pain. His head hurt like hell. And ringing in his ears was a distant whine and a repetitive chip, chip, chip. 

He wiped the brown earth from his eyes. Unfocused, he saw only the black gnarled pattern of of oak wood. And then he realized he was hearing the whine and snap of bullets and shrapnel cutting into the log. And abruptly William remembered where he was. The log. It was inches above his head. He had been in the lead, carrying it across the open ground. The shelling. The noise. The scream of the man behind him. The sudden shift in weight throwing him off balance, stumbling, throwing him forward. The ground suddenly falling away from his feet. The Forlorn Hope. Where the hell was he?

The butt of the fat 8 foot log had settled into the ditch, it's nose jammed into the slope of the Redoubt. William Archinal was lying face down in the dirt, the log inches above his head and the barrage of bullets. William realized the firing was coming from the Union lines. His lines. Friendly fire or unfriendly fire, he would be just as dead if it hit him. William struggled to wedge himself closer to heavy scent of the black oak, the musket slung across his back a burden that seem intent on holding him back. He felt the urgent need to get rid of it. But he dare not raise his head. Turning his face to breath in clean air, he saw blood on his hand.

As William slid his fingers to his forehead, he felt a stab of pain. Pushing through it, he felt the soft edges of a sticky wound. He could only think that when he had been flung across the ditch his head had hit a rock. That explained the head ache. His entire body ached. He could still taste the dirt on his lips. The ringing continued in his ears. But he was alive. And for the time being he was relatively safe. William wiggled himself into the dirt like a turtle hiding himself in the mud. Then he closed his eyes. He forced himself to relax. He forced himself to imagine the grey Fulda river and the silent forests of Hessen. And to wait for night fall.

Passing in and out of consciousness, Corporal William Archinal spent that endless, hot sticky Friday afternoon of 22 May, 1863, flat on his stomach beneath the log which was supposed to been a bridge. Finally, the sun began to soften. The shooting slowed and then stopped. He knew should have waited until it was fully dark, but he felt the urgent need to move. His mouth was dry as dust. And he had to piss. He might have just soiled himself, but he also worried that if he passed out again, he would not wake up until morning. And then he really would be a dead man.

William shimmied out from under the log. He held his breath. Then he flopped onto his back and waited for a response from the enemy. He had to get back to his own lines. He had to get help. He tried to stand but the musket strapped across his back made it hard to bend. So he rolled onto his side and unbuttoned the fly of his trousers. His urine made a soft, almost soundless impact on the soil. The relief was heaven for a moment. Then, buttoning up his trousers, William jammed his heels into the loam, allowing the slope to help him stand. And as he did he heard a voice close behind him. “If your finished pissing on Mississippi, Yank, you better just come on up here. We'll give you something to refill yourself, so you can do it again.”

A half dozen rifles were pointed at him. Another Johnny Reb said coldly, “Don't run, Yank. We'll cut you in half.” Deciding surrender was the better part of valor, William Archinal raised his hands and clambered up the slope, arms reaching out to help him to the top while relieving him of his musket and bayonet. They also removed his cartridge case, and rummaged through his pockets, taking all his ammunition and anything else of value. Then they offered him a canteen of warm water, which he almost emptied. Then they pushed him firmly down a ladder and into the fort.

Once inside, the rebels tied the corporal's hands behind his back. Immediately a strong hand clapped him on the shoulder, and William was abruptly faced by a smiling Confederate Colonel with a trim goatee – the commander of the 31st Mississippi regiment, 39 year old Colonel William Wallace Witherspoon. Out of habit Archinal came - as best he could – to attention and avoided the Colonel's eyes. Officers were mysterious creatures, even rebel officers, and you could never tell how they were going to react.

As if greeting an old comrade, the jovial enemy colonel asked, “Well, young man, weren’t you fellows all drunk when you started out this morning?” The Reb soldiers smiled shyly and looked at their shoes. William's wearied senses picked up again. As if on parade, he answered firmly, “‘No, Sir.” The rebel colonel insisted, “Well, they gave you some whiskey before you started, didn’t they?” The smiles on the gray clad enlisted men grew broader. The only thing Archinal was certain of was that he was not in on this rebel joke. He chose the truth and the safe response. ‘No Sir,” William said, “that plan is not practiced in our army.'”

The colonel leaned in close to William's face and spoke in a whisper. “Didn’t you know it was certain death?” he asked. The whiskey wafting off the Colonel's breath drove the Yankee to lean back slightly. It was the whiskey that spurred William to his impudent response. “Well, I don't know”, he said, as if talking to just another soldier. “I am still living.”

That set the Colonel back on his heels for a moment. Under the officer's stern gaze William regretted his words. This officer might have him shot right now. The men surrounding him had been killing Yankees all day. One more was unlikely to bother them. And while looking for a clue as to his fate in the Colonel's eyes, William realized they were perfectly clear. The man might smell of whiskey, but his eyes were sharp and judgmental After a pause, the Colonel bitterly replied, “Yes. You are living. But I can assure you that very few of your comrades are.” The colonel then ordered two of the soldiers to take William to jail, and then dismissed them all with a turn on his heel, and stalked away to deal with what ever problems an officer dealt with.

To his surprise, William was offended by the order. He had never been in jail before. And he felt treating a soldier like a criminal was a sign of disrespect. His guards did their best to get a rise out of him as they marched him up hill, past a cemetery and into the town. But Williams ignored them. By the number of partially repaired damaged buildings it was obvious the town had been shelled for some time. There were few civilians, black and white, on the darkening streets. They all carried bags and satchels. It was unclear where each was going, but they seemed to be in a hurry.

In the ravines between the terraced streets, Williams saw more civilians, women and children mostly, reading or talking, sitting on chairs and chaises around dining tables, children playing or napping at their feet, as if each tableau had been lifted from one of the fine homes standing unprotected atop the ridges. Every time the dull thud of a mortar bellowed from one of the gun boats in the river, the civilians would scurry back into the caves, or make themselves as small as possible against the buildings on the east side of the streets. William had a momentary pang of sympathy for young women he saw. Their faces and hands were soiled, the hems of their dresses tattered. He tried to image them at a gay ball, twirling to a song. But then he pushed that out of his mind and concentrated on the terraced street grid, thinking that in some way it might be of use should he later escape.

They reached the highest ridge and began to steeply descend, street by street, toward the river. Then 3 blocks short of the muddy banks they approached an official looking structure surrounded by a 10 foot high wall. The sign arched over the narrow door read “Warren County Jail” (above).  Across a small interior courtyard rose a 2 story brick building with a slate roof. Inside  William was searched again and his head wound was noted before he was escorted out the back door, into the darkening court yard of a second smaller building. Here several tents had been pitched. In one William was able to find a rectangle of dirt and a blanket to cover himself. At last he was able lay down to rest.

Just as he was dropping off to sleep came another dull thud of distant naval mortars. His experience woke him back up, as this one was coming close. A few seconds later came the thundering crash as the 450 pound black powder shell landed nearby, from the sound of it in the street. William found the familiarity of the sound comforting. But as the methodical bombardment continued, a Rebel civilian in a cell in the main building began to beg for the gunners to please stop. And William thought kindly toward the poor fellow until one mortar round sheered across the slate roof of one of the the buildings with a clang, followed by another earth shaking crash. At that the frightened rebel became hysterical, sobbing in his supplications that Grant should burn the Gomorrah of Vicksburg and all the rebels in it right off the face of the earth. After that William wished the damn fool would just shut the hell up and let him sleep.

During the long hot afternoon, while Corporal William Achinal was passed out on slope of the Stockade Redoubt, the entire Federal army threw its strength against the Vicksburg defenses. Their efforts were summed up by Major General William Tecumseh Sherman. After watching a 4:00 p.m. assault intended to draw rebels away from General McClernand's attacks, “Cump” told Major General Frederick Steele, “This is murder. Order those troops back.”

This day cost Grant's army 502 men killed, 2,550 men wounded and 147 men missing. At least half of those casualties were suffered during the afternoon attacks, which were inspired by Major General Alexander McClernand's false reports of progress. At only one point, the Texas Lunette, were the defenders forced to call upon reserves to drive the Yankees back. Said Colonel Ashbel Smith of the 2^nd Texas Infantry, Yankees bodies “lay so thick that one might have walked (200 yards along the Baldwin Ferry road) without touching the ground.”

About 9:00 a.m., Saturday, 23 May, 1863, a Confederate officer arrived at the Warren County Jail to record Corporal Archinal's parole. Later that morning he and other Yankees captured in the assault, were rowed across the Mississippi River to Union lines. He was now prohibited from participating in any military operations until a rebel of equal or greater rank was captured and paroled. The two men, who would never meet,  could then be exchanged, and “Go back to killing each other.” But the defenders of Vicksburg would not have to find food for their prisoners

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VICKSBURG Chapter Sixty-Three

 

At 10:00 a.m. the primary assault against the largest of the 14 rebel forts – The Great Redoubt - was spearheaded by John Dunlap Stevenson's 3^rd Brigade, of Major General Logan's division, was lead by the 7^th Missouri “Shamrock” Infantry regiment, under Captain Robert Buchanan. In the first rush up the Jackson Road, rebel fire killed and wounded so many men that 100 yards from the ditch, the regiment was effectively cut in two and forced to ground.

Urged on by Captain Buchanan, the 7^th continued to advance on their hands and knees until they reached the comparative safety of the ditch. Once there it was discovered their 17 foot scaling ladders having been lowered into the 8 foot deep trench – invisible from the distance - no longer reached the crest of the redoubt.  Still the 7^th Missouri stayed where they were for an hour, while six color bearers, one after another, were shot trying to keep their flag flying on the slope. After suffering 272 causalities, Captain Buchanan was given permission to withdraw.

The initial reports from all three corps commanders - Sherman, McPherson and 3 miles to the south McClernand  (above) – were identical: troops advancing, heavily engaged. Grant had learned to trust the accuracy of Sherman's and McPherson's reports. But as recently as the Battle of Champion Hill, McClernand had misled Grant.  On 16 May, the Illinois political general had been ordered to launch his  assault against the rebel left flank at 10:00 a.m. Instead, despite repeated urging from Grant, the XIII Corps did not advanced until hours later. What ever the reason for the delay, Grant had learned not to believe McClernand's situation reports.

The sole justification for the assaults of 10:00 a.m. Thursday, 22 May, 1863, had been that the defeat at Champion's Hill and the debacle of the Big Black River crossing,  might have so shaken Pemberton's army, that another quick shock might cause it to shatter. That idea had to be tried. An hour later the argument had been rebuked.  Grant decided that Vicksburg would not be carried in a classic Napoleonic sweeping charge, with flags flying forward and bayonets fixed.  Instead Grant was ready to shift to a methodical siege. But his troublesome child, Major General John Alexander McClernand was essentially trying to manipulate Grant into expending the lives of his soldiers.

At 10:30 a.m., McClernand reported, “I am hotly engaged, If McPherson were to attack it would make a diversion”, Grant rode rode down the line far enough to visually confirm that McClernand's troops were actually attacking. But after observing the smoke and gunfire, he sent a message advising McClernand to draw upon his own corps before asking for reinforcements from others. Then Grant returned to Sherman's Corps.

Just before noon, McClernand issued another situation report, but this one phrased so as to put additional pressure on Grant. Ever the politician, McClernand's missive read, “We have possession of 2 forts and the stars and stripes are flying over them. A vigorous push should be made all along the line.”

The two forts McClernand was referring to were the The Railroad Redoubt and to the north, the smaller half moon shaped Texas Lunette.  Both were open to their rear, and from trench lines Confederates were pouring fire into the interior of both forts, preventing any Yankees from entering them. Union flags had been planted on their forward slopes, and a hand full of brave men had perched at the lip of those fortifications. But federal troops did not possess either fort. Once again McClernand was misleading Grant. And Grant sensed it.

Looking for support of his skepticism, Grant (above) handed the note to Sherman. After reading it, the red head mused that McClernand wouldn't make up “a thing like that.” Then Sherman offered to make an additional attack on the Stockade Redoubt. Grant recognized the sacrifice Sherman was asking his soldiers to make, and reluctantly granted McClernand's request. It would take time to move Sherman's reserves into position, and it would take even more time for McPherson's men to change their direction of attack to support McClernand against the Texas Lunette. Against his better judgment Grant ordered all 3 of his corps to launch another assault at 2:00 p.m.

For this second assault against the Stockade Redoubt, Sherman sent the 2^nd Brigade of McArthur's division under the soft spoken 29 year old railroad engineer, Brigadier General Thomas Edwin Greenefield Ransom (above) . His father had been a hero of the Mexican War, killed at Chapultepec when Thomas was just 14.  Quite spoken in private,   in combat E.G. Ransom was, "rash”, and had already been shot 3 times in this war, most recently a head wound at Shiloh. McClernand had seen him there, "...reeling in the saddle, and streaming with blood....” while preforming “prodigies of valor." Sherman was more prosaic, calling Ransom, “...one of the best officers in the service; been shot to pieces, but it doesn’t hurt him.”

This attack was spearheaded by the 300 men of the 72^nd Illinois, aka 'The First Chicago Board of Trade Regiment,' led by the popular , fiercely antislavery 42 year old Lieutenant Colonel Joseph C. Wright. At the stroke of 2:00 p.m, according to the second in command Lieutenant Colonel Joseph Stockton, “the word came to ‘go!' Up we started and rushed ahead with a yell, and were greeted with a most murderous volley”.

As man after man fell in crumpled bloodied forms, the 72nd swept forward, into and up from the ditch, to within 15 feet of the crest of the rebel redoubt. The regimental colors were planted on the slope, “but we could not go forward,” said Stockton, “the fire was too severe, men could not live; we laid down and only the wounded fell back, while shot and shell from the right and left and our own batteries in the rear, whose shell fell short, did terrific work. Men fell ‘like leaves in wintry weather.’”

Colonel Wright was urging his men on when a piece of lead tore into the elbow of his sword arm, shattering the bones. He fell, and the heart went out of the 72^nd.  Colonel Stockton assumed command. By  2:20 p.m.,   the regiment had suffered 20 dead, 71 wounded and 5 missing – one quarter of their strength. Along with the 72^nd, the assault had included the 11^th Illinois – 3 killed, 30 wounded and 9 missing – the 95^th Illinois – 18 killed, 83 wounded and 8 missing - the 14^th Wisconsin – 14 killed, 79 wounded and 4 missing, and the 17^th Wisconsin - 2 killed, 12 wounded and 6 missing. Ramsom's brigade had suffered 360 causalities, almost 60 men killed outright, in just 20 minutes of combat.

Lieutenant Colonel Wright would be carried to the rear, and treated by doctors, who quickly amputated his right arm to prevent blood infection. Recovering from the shock within 2 days, Wright regained his spirits and reminded a reporter he could still command. “I have one arm left,” he said, “with which I can guide my horse. The carrying of a sword is only for effect, anyhow.” Two weeks later he left Mississippi by boat and then by train for home. But once back in Chicago the stump of his arm became infected, until he was beset by delusional fevers. With his wife and 2 children at his bedside, Joseph C. Wright died on the morning of 6 July, 1863. One more causality in the war required to defeat slavery.

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VICKSBURG Chapter Sixty-Two

 

At 8:00 a.m., on Thursday, 22 May, 1863, the six Parrot guns of the 1^st Wisconsin Light Artillery began to methodically shell the Railroad Redoubt from 600 yards. This massive earthen structure stood above the gorge through which passed the Baldwin Ferry Road and the Southern Railroad line, into Vicksburg.  Boom. Pause. Boom. Pause.  

Six rounds a minute, one round per minute from each rifle, the big Parrots sent 18 pound shell after 18 pound shell screaming at 1,900 feet per second into the packed earth northeastern wall until a portion slumped (above). This created an advantage which did not exist at any other 14 forts, redoubts and redans along the 6 mile front. And this advantage would kill hundreds of Yankee soldiers.

Inside the redoubt - which the rebels had labeled Fort Beauregard - were the traumatized remnants of the 31^st Alabama infantry, some 240 men under Montgomery native, recently promoted Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Mann Arrington. Three weeks earlier, their Colonel, Daniel Hudley, had been shot in the hip and captured at Port Hudson, where the regiment had been decimated. Less than a week ago, at Champion Hill, the 31st had lost another 230 men, killed, wounded and captured - half their strength.

The spear which Major General John Alexander McClernand was about to toss at the Railroad Redoubt was the 22^nd Iowa “Johnson County” regiment, under 35 year old politician, lawyer and judge, Colonel William Milo Stone (above).  Antebellum, Stone had helped nominate Abraham Lincoln. In April of 1862 Major Stone had been taken prisoner at the Battle of Shiloh. Sent to Richmond's Libby prison, William had been invited to meet Confederate President Jefferson Davis, and carried his peace offer to Washington. When Lincoln refused to negotiate anything but a Confederate surrender, Stone had dutifully returned to Libby prison. Exchanged later that same year, Stone was promoted to Colonel of 22^nd Iowa.

Supporting the 22^nd on their right was the 21^st Iowa, as well as the 11^th Wisconsin and the 77^th Illinois, all from Micheal Lawler's 2^nd Brigade, Eugene Asa Carr's 14^th division, as well as the 97^th Illinois regiment, borrowed from 2^nd Brigade, Andrew Jackson Smith's 10^th Division. McClernand held out no forlorn hope for his men. The Yankees came forward with fixed bayonets. Stone did not want his men wasting time getting across the kill zone in front of the Redoubt.

Talladega native, Major George Mathieson of the 31^st Alabama, would dispassionately note that at 10:00 a.m., “...a heavy column of infantry appeared in front, and attempted to charge my position. The men of my command poured a heavy fire into their ranks...” Members of the 22^nd Iowa saw things more emotionally. His sword held high, Colonel Stone set out, shouting, “Forward, 22nd Iowa!” The regimental adjutant, 22 year old Captain Samuel Pryce, wrote that “The regiment sprang forward ... hurling itself like a young hurricane....It was a tornado of iron on our left, a hurricane of shot on our right…we passed through the mouth of hell.”

The initial charge through “... a concentrated fire of grape and musketry...” took no more than 10 minutes, but only about 50 men managed to reach the trench at the foot of the redoubt. Among the wounded was Colonel Stone. With no scaling ladders, and so many officers injured, it was under the direction of 20 year old Sergeant Joseph Evan Griffith of “I” company,  that the men formed a human chain, pulling each other up the wall until there were about 15 or 20 men atop the redoubt. The regimental flag was planted there by Private David Trine.

At the same time, on their right, the 22^nd Iowa made the same charge, but 22 year old college student, Sargent Nicolas Claire Messenger, led 11 men of the 22^nd to the left, up and out of the ravine, directly into the partially collapsed flank of the redoubt.

Messenger was the first to breach the fort, where, according to an Iowa witness, “While standing on the parapet, Messenger fired his gun from his hips, and either killed or wounded a confederate with gray whiskers...” A Confederate witness confirmed that “The first man to enter, a sergeant, was rather tall (Messenger was almost 6 feet)...shot and killed a Confederate dressed in a new gray suit, sitting close to the brass cannon, and he then jumped in upon the balance of us...(and) commenced to club them with his musket...”

Of the 11 Iowa boys who entered the fort, only two made it out. Sargent Messenger survived because he stumbled upon a Confederate Lieutenant with 16 rebels caught between the lines. The big sergeant told them it was too hot for any man to stay and live, and ordered them to follow him. And they did. As they climbed back over the collapsed wall of the fort, 4 or the surrendering rebels were killed. But as soon as Messenger could turn his prisoners over to another, he clambered “....up on the top of the fort and there deliberately stuck his ramrod in the ground and commenced to load his gun...but he did not stay there long, as some of his comrades pulled him down ...”

Nick himself wrote later, “I was struck by three balls below the left knee...I pulled up my pants to inspect the damage...” But still he kept firing. There were only 15 to 20 men with him atop the redoubt, the best shots in the regiment each staying until they were either shot or could no longer hold themselves there. Adjunct Pryce said, “There was no room on the slope for more men. Neither was it an easy task to plant a heavy flagstaff into the hard ground with bullets flying all around.”

Another witness tried to describe the incomprehensible scene. “A surge of death and destruction swept over the parapet,” he wrote, “... blotting out men’s lives as a reaper cuts down standing grain. The missiles were flying and whistling...hands and faces were already streaming with blood. The ground was covered with the desperately wounded and dead.” Another soldier remembered flashes of horror. “The ground was covered with the dead and wounded on both sides.” At about noon, Welsh born Sargent Joe Griffith was ordered to escort Messenger's surviving prisoners to the rear.

The remnants of the 31^st Alabama had reformed in the trench line behind the redoubt, where they were reinforced by the remnants of the 46^th Alabama. The Confederates kept up a steady fire on the Yankees, and Major Mathieson noted the Yankee, “... killed and wounded lay thick on the field...I do not know the precise amount of his loss, but think it must have been 150 or 200 in killed and wounded.” As of 11:00 a.m., an hour into the assault, the Iowa boys sent back their second request for reinforcements. At the same time, everyone else on the battlefield had decided the day was a failure.

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VICKSBURG Chapter Sixty-One

 

At almost exactly 10:00 a.m. on Thursday, 22 May, 1863, the first 50 volunteers of The Forlorn Hope came running out of a ravine onto the Graveyard Road 500 yards in front of the Stockade Redoubt.

Leading the way in the first group was color bearer Private Howell Gilliam Trogden, from the 8^th Missouri Infantry. William recalled being “...met by a terrific fire...so deadly that our little band was almost annihilated."

Not far behind was 22 year old Private Uriah Brown, of Company G of the 30^th Ohio. Between him and his partner they carried an 8 foot log, lifting it by handles driven into its pulp. Almost immediately the Captain running to Uriah's left was shot down, dead. A few steps later, the face of the Lieutenant to his right was reduced to a scarlet mask. Uriah kept running,

As 22 year old German born Corporal William J. Archinal, from Company “I” of the 30^th Ohio, approached the ditch, his “log” rear partner was shot down. The abrupt loss of lift threw William off balance. Momentum carried him and the log forward, across the ditch - where William hit his head on a rock and was knocked out.

As Private Brown reached the trench he and his partner threw their log across, only to discover it had been cut too short. While they tried to make sense of this, a spinning bit of metal creased William's temple. He also passed out and fell into the ditch, beneath the log he had carried.

In the second group was 23 year old Private Jacob Sanford, from the 55^th Illinois Infantry. As he ran forward he could feel and hear the minnie balls zipping through the air around his head, and pulling at his clothes. He would later find 2 holes in his hat and nine through his army blouse. Just as the ditch came into sight a ricocheting piece of grape shot hit the board he was carrying, slammed it against his ankle, tripping him up and sending him tumbling, conscious, into the trench.

Private Howell Trogden struggled to force his way up the slope, the brown loam spilling over the tops of his shoes, the national flag seemingly pulling him up the slope. Then, “A canister struck the staff a few inches above my hand and cut it half in two.” The flag snapped and toppled. Howell grabbed the shortened staff and held it aloft for an instant. Then, he added, “...they depressed their guns and a cannon ball struck the folds and carried it half away, knocking it out of my hands." Trogden fell face down into the redoubt's wall, and slid back almost to the ditch – by now “strewn with mangled bodies, with heads and limbs blown off.”

All these men had come to the Forlorn Hope by individual paths, but perhaps none so odd as the trail of flag carrier Howell Trogden (above).  He had been born along the Deep River, among the Separate Baptists, Quakers and Wesleyans in the Piedmont of Randolph County, Confederate North Carolina. Before Howell celebrated his 20^th birthday, the staunch unionist moved north to Missouri and found work as a steamboat cabin boy. Shortly after the bombardment of Fort Sumter, Howell joined Company “B”, of the American Zouaves, 8^th Missouri infantry.

In June of 1862, Holwell volunteered to carry confidential messages between General William Tecumseh Sherman and his friend, fellow Union General Schuyler Hamilton - grandson of Alexander Hamilton. But in July, while trying to sneak through Ripley, Mississippi, Howell was captured by Confederate soldiers. Howell was tried and convicted as a spy and sentenced to death. His sentence was quickly commuted, and he spent 4 months in various prison camps before being paroled in November. By winter he had been exchanged and rejoined his Union regiment in Tennessee.

Watching the Forlorn Hope from behind the lines, General Sherman observed, “...about half of them were shot down.” “When the survivors reached the ditch,” wrote Sherman, “they were unable to construct the bridges as too many logs had been lost along the way when their bearers were shot down....For about two hours, we had a severe and bloody battle, but at every point we were repulsed...Of the storming party 85 % were either killed or dangerously wounded, and few of them escaped without a wound of some kind.’  Inside the fort, Sargent George Powell Clark of the 36th

Mississippi recalled the Yankee soldiers "fell like grass before the reaper."

Private William Trogden would later recall, “Only three of my comrades succeeded in reaching the fort with me: Sergeant Nagle who was killed on the spot and a private from 54th regiment...shared the same fate.” And now, with the rebel minnie balls screaming an inch over his head, he taunted the rebel soldiers just 10 feet away, ‘What flag are you fighting under today, Johnny?” His unseen enemy heard the words as sheer bravado and shouting back, “You'd better surrender, Yank.” But William was as stubborn as any other North Carolina native. “Oh, no, Johnny”, he replied. “You’ll surrender first.”

Private Uriah Brown recovered conciseness to the thud of musket balls slamming into the log he had carried. What he could see of the situation was a total disaster. There were no logs for the bridges, no steps for the men carrying scaling ladders to run across. The forlorn hope had done no more than deliver a few dozen, mostly wounded, Yankees to the foot of the strongest rebel fort in the entire Vicksburg defensive line. And now they were all pinned down.

Then the rebels began cutting the fuses of artillery shells and rolling them down the slope. Some brave Yankees tried catching them and throwing them back. Sometimes that worked. But most of the Forlorn Hope were slashing away at the slope with their bayonets, desperately struggling to create a vertical foxhole. Three times Uriah Brown paused while slashing his own cover to drag a wounded man into the shelter of the slope, and carving them a haven. Eventually an officer ordered him to stop that and concentrate on firing at the top of the slope, to keep the rebel's heads down. That helped a little.

The first of the “follow on” regiments was the 37^th Ohio Volunteers. They had already provided six men for the Forlorn Hope group. But in the few yards the unit advanced 4 abreast, up the Graveyard Road they suffered enough casualties to convince them it was a useless assault. Sensibly they took what cover they could, and lay down on the road. 

These men were no more cowards than any other soldiers, as proven when 20 year old Chillicothe native, Private Joseph Hanks of company E, spotted one of the Forlorn Hope wounded a few yards further up the road, begging for water. Under intense fire, Hanks crawled forward, shared his canteen, and then dragged the wounded man off the field, all the while under fire.

As following regiments tried to find a way around the roadblock of the 37^th, they suffered casualties from flanking fire. None were able to approach the Stockade Redoubt. By 11:00 a.m., General Sherman had seen enough, stopped any further attacks and ordered the 37^th to withdraw. Union artillery also began to cease firing, since they ran as much risk of hitting the remnants of the Forlorn Hope as the rebels.

Meanwhile, the fierce little fight on the slope of the Stockade Redan continued. Members of the 36^th Mississippi managed to use their bayoneted muskets to extend their reach and topple the flag which Private Trogen had planted on the fort's slope. Now they were trying to use the same method to snare the flag and pull it into the fort for capture. Trogden attempted to borrow a musket and bayonet to fend them off. But the soldier he asked, Corporal Robert Cox of “K” company, of the 55^th Illinois, “... concluded to try it myself. I raised my head again about as high as the safety of the case would permit, and pushed my gun across the intervening space...gave their bayonets a swipe with mine, and dodged down just in time to escape being riddled. I did not want any more of that kind of amusement,...”

It was about now that Corporal William J. Archinal recovered conciseness. He found himself, “...lying on my face with the log across my body and showers of bullets whistling through the air and dropping all around me....I could hear the bullets striking the log in dozens. Sometime during the afternoon one of our cannon balls struck the log close to my head; the log bounded in the air and fell a little way from me, but I crawled up to it again and hugged it close.”

Private David Jones, an 18 year old in Company “D” of the 57^th Ohio, spent the afternoon under the hot Mississippi sun, deaf to the violence around him. His ears were bleeding from the explosion of a shell rolled down by the rebels. During the attack, 15 year old Private David F. Day, of Company “D” had been shot in the right wrist, and was unable to hold his musket. Yet he stayed, and used his bayonet to carve a shelter with his good hand. Corporal Robert Cox was so close to the rebels inside the fort they suggested the Yankees come on in, give up, and share dinner with with the garrison. According to Cox, “We positively declined...unless they would come out and give us a chance to see if the invitation were genuine. This they refused to do, but agreed to send a messenger. By and by it arrived in the shape of a shell, which went flying down the hill...”

At some point in the long hot close afternoon, Private Uriah Brown felt an “overwhelming desire to return” to the Federal lines. The 22 year old slid into the bloody ditch, and crawled across fifty yards of the open ground. Amazingly, the rebel snipers ignored him. Perhaps he was so covered in blood they assumed like a wounded dog, he was crawling away to die. At some point he found a little knoll which provided enough cover he could stop and catch his breath. He might have continued on to safety, but he heard 2 men moaning a few yards away. Uriah crawled from his sanctuary and one at a time, pulled the men to join him behind the knoll, dressed their wounds as best he could and gave them water from his own canteen. By his survival, Private Uriah Brown, named for the Hittite dispatched to the forefront of the hottest battle, had saved the lives of five wounded men that day.

Of the 150 men who had volunteered for The Forlorn Hope, 77 would later be presented with the Congressional Medal of Honor.  Almost as many had been killed. And the day was not yet half over.

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