One of McPherson’s staff officers remembered how they looked when he rode in along the Jackson road: “A long line of high, rugged, irregular bluffs, clearly cut against the sky, crowned with cannon which peered ominously from embrasures to the right and left as far as the eye could see. Lines of heavy rifle-pits, surmounted with head logs, ran along the bluffs, connecting fort with fort, and filled with veteran infantry.” In front, on the slopes, was a tangle of fallen timber, tree-tops interlaced to make an almost impenetrable abatis. The officer confessed: “The approaches to this position were frightful—enough to appal the stoutest heart.”1 But the Federal Army was cocky, from Commanding General down to the men in the ranks. At Champion Hill they had seen Pemberton’s army streaming off in disorganized retreat, and the business at the crossings of the Big Black had been a stampede rather than a battle; these works might be strong, but the army that held them looked weak, and one quick, hard smash might settle matters.
