The dawn of November 7th broke gray and cold across the Mississippi bottoms.
Mist curled above the river like smoke from a vast cauldron, blurring the outlines of the Union gunboats that churned steadily against the current.
Their paddlewheels slapped the water in steady rhythm, and from their decks came the gleam of bayonets—rows of blue uniforms, packed tight, three thousand men bound for the opposite shore.
At their head was Brigadier General Ulysses S. Grant, a stout, unassuming figure, but already whispered of as a man who did not retreat.
On the western bank, five thousand Confederates waited.
They were Missouri regiments mostly—rough, ill-clad, many without proper drill.
But at their rear, silent and unseen, three thousand of Elias's Greybacks stood like a shadow army.
Orders had been precise.
The Confederates were to contest the landing, to hold the bank long enough to pin the Federals in place.
The Greybacks would bleed into their ranks sparingly, a hidden spine to stiffen their line.
But the true stroke lay elsewhere.
In the night, under cover of fog and silence, Rex and Varga had swum the bulk of their legion across the river upstream.
Now, concealed in the low timber and ravines behind Belmont, they crouched like wolves in the brush, waiting for the signal.
Their prey was not the blue columns alone, but their commander.
The battle began with thunder.
Federal cannon boomed from the gunboats, shells screaming into the Confederate positions.
The banks erupted in smoke and fire, earth thrown skyward in dark clods.
Then came the longboats, pushing through the mist, blue-coated infantry leaping into the shallows with muskets raised high.
Confederates fired raggedly at first, but where Greybacks stiffened the line, the volleys came crisp, measured, cutting down the foremost files as they splashed ashore.
The air filled with shouts, splintering wood, the metallic crack of rifle fire.
Yet the Federals pressed on, Grant urging them forward from the deck before stepping onto the shore himself.
His horse splashed through the shallows, his eyes fixed not on the smoke ahead but on the broader ground beyond.
He moved with the calm of a man who already pictured victory.
On the bluffs, Rex received Elias's command through the tether: Hold the line steady. Do not break them too quickly.
The Confederates obeyed, fighting stubbornly but not to annihilation.
Their volleys bloodied the Federal advance but gave ground by inches, drawing the blue ranks deeper onto the bank, deeper into the trap.
By midday, the field at Belmont was a chaos of fire and smoke.
Grant's men surged forward, driving the Confederates from their first positions.
Union banners waved triumphantly over captured cannon.
Drums rattled in celebration, though the fighting was not yet finished.
Soldiers whooped and cheered, believing the enemy routed.
It was then that the woods behind them erupted.
Varga's detachment struck first, bursting from the tree line in disciplined volleys that tore through the Union rear.
Federal soldiers spun in confusion, thinking the Confederates had encircled them.
Panic rippled down the ranks.
Officers shouted to form about, but before order could be restored, Rex's companies swept in from the flank, bayonets gleaming, cutting through the regiments like scythes through wheat.
Union resistance stiffened, but the Greybacks were relentless.
They fired as one, every shot placed, every motion exact.
Against such precision, no formation could hold long.
At the center of the chaos, Grant rallied what men he could.
He rode along the line, hat in hand, his voice steady.
"Stand! Face them! Hold your ground!"
His presence steadied the wavering, kept them from full rout.
But Rex was watching him.
Through the smoke, through the crush of men, his eyes fixed on the figure atop the horse.
There.
The tether carried the thought.
Varga heard it.
Elias heard it.
The prey was marked.
The strike was swift.
Greybacks closed like hounds, cutting a path through blue ranks with brutal efficiency.
Bayonets thrust, musket stocks cracked bone, sabers flashed.
Around Grant, men fell one by one, a ring collapsing under invisible pressure.
Grant fought back.
Dismounting, pistol in hand, he fired into the oncoming press.
His horse reared and bolted, shot through the neck, collapsing in the mud.
Still he stood, cool and grim, emptying his revolver before drawing his sword.
But it was no use.
A Greyback rifle butt caught his arm, sending the blade spinning to the dirt.
Another slammed into his chest, dropping him to one knee.
Rough hands seized him, bound him, dragged him clear even as his men tried desperately to surge forward.
"General down!"
The cry rippled like a shockwave.
Officers shouted, men faltered, lines wavered.
And then the panic broke loose.
The Union retreat became a rout.
Deprived of their commander, discipline collapsed.
Regiments fled in confusion toward the river, trampled underfoot by their own comrades.
Some flung muskets into the mud, others clawed at the boats, desperate to reach the safety of the gunboats offshore.
Confederate volleys tore through the masses, while Greyback fire picked off officers with surgical precision.
By the time the Federals scrambled back onto their transports, a third of their number lay dead, wounded, or captured.
The rest were shaken fugitives, ferried back across the river under the mournful wail of retreating bugles.
On the field, the Confederates raised their ragged cheers.
One hundred dead lay among them, and several hundred groaned with wounds, but they had held the bank, they had repelled the invader.
To them, Belmont was a victory, clear and clean.
But the true triumph lay hidden.
In the timber, under guard of Greybacks who stood like iron statues, Ulysses S. Grant sat bound.
His face was pale but calm, his eyes steady as they regarded his captors.
He asked no questions, offered no pleas.
He only said once, under his breath:
"So this is how it begins."
That night, the Mississippi carried the smoke of burning boats and the cries of the wounded.
Confederate campfires flickered along the bank, men singing rough songs of triumph.
But apart, in the quiet of the shadows, Rex sent the report through the tether.
Objective secured.
Grant lives.
Awaiting further instruction.
Far across the ocean, Elias received the words, closed his eyes, and allowed himself the faintest of smiles.
History had shifted.
The Union's rising star had been plucked from the sky.
What came next would be chaos.
And chaos was the seed from which his design would grow.