Yet Grant, as happened later on at Shiloh, was taken by surprise.
When the first roar of the battle broke with the dawn he was away
conferring with the wounded naval commander, Foote. His right, under
McClernand, had been caught napping, and eight thousand Southern troops
striking it with a tremendous impact just as the men snatched up their
arms, drove it back in heavy loss and confusion. Its disaster was
increased when a Southern general, Baldwin, led a strong column down
a deep ravine near the river and suddenly hurled it upon the wavering
Union flank.
Whole regiments retreated now, and guns were lost. The Southern
officers, their faces glowing, shouted to each other that the battle was
won. And still the combat raged without the Union commander, Grant,
although he was coming now as fast as he could with the increasing roar
of conflict to draw him on. The battle was lost to the North. But
it might be won back again by a general who would not quit. Only the
bulldog in Grant, the tenacious death grip, could save him now.
Dick and his friends suddenly became conscious that both on their right
and left the thunder of battle was moving back upon the Union camp.
They realized now that they were only the segment of a circle extending
forward practically within the Union lines, and that the combat was
going against them. The word was given to retreat, lest they be
surrounded, and they fell back slowly disputing with desperation every
foot of ground that they gave up.
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