The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (12 page)

Sherman tossed the hat to one side, sat, felt the damp chill in his coat. “Yeah, I guess. Make sure it’s strong. Some aide brought me a cup of something looked like horse pee. You threaten those fellows with a flogging, they do that again.”

McCoy smiled, knew Sherman too well, turned to leave, and Sherman felt the train slowing, heard shouts, a flurry of motion outside, men in blue, horses. He leaned down, peered through the glass, saw officers, a frantic waving of arms.

The train lurched to a stop and Sherman said, “What the hell’s going on?”

McCoy had no response, and Sherman pushed back out to the rear of the train, hopped down from the small deck, his feet splashing into
thick mud. A horseman moved close to him, familiar, the man reining up, calling out, “General! Colonel Dewitt Anthony, Sixty-sixth Indiana. You have to stop this train!”

“I know you, Colonel. What’s the delay?”

Anthony was clearly agitated, looked toward the front of the train, and Sherman heard it now, a short rattle of musket fire.

“Sir, I command the garrison at the depot here … Collierville. We were hit hard by rebel cavalry … drove in my picket line, captured some men, some wagons. There’s a pile of ’em, sir!”

“Easy, Colonel. I’ve got a battalion of regulars on board. Better than two hundred men. We’ll hold off any cavalry raid.”

“Sir, it’s more than a raid! Looked to be at least several regiments! My men are in position to receive an assault, but we have no artillery, and our position isn’t strong. We’ll do what we can, sir!”

Sherman looked back down the empty track, shook his head.

“All right, we’ll back up this damn train. If the rebs are cavalry, we won’t get off too far anyway. Listen, Colonel. Calm yourself down, and do your job!” He turned now, saw McCoy, wide eyes, staring out toward the musket fire, saw to one side, a long knoll, a spur of higher ground. “Colonel, order the troops off the train, position them along that knoll. I want to know just what Colonel Anthony considers to be a
pile
of rebels.”

“Sir!”

McCoy disappeared into the railcar, the troops already jumping down, orders going out from officers who had heard the muskets. An officer ran alongside the train toward him, Captain Smith, the man who received Sherman’s letter.

“General! There’s word we’re in for a scrap! That knoll looks like a good—”

“Already there, Captain. Place your men with care, get them ready. Not sure yet what’s out there, but I suspect we’re close to finding out.”

Sherman followed the officers on foot, Smith pulling the men off the train quickly, McCoy and Sherman’s other aides moving among them, repeating the order. Sherman climbed the knoll, saw a wide cornfield to the south of the track, woodlands beyond. The muskets were silent now, and he stared at the distant woods, a flicker of motion catching his eye.

McCoy called out to him, “Sir! A rider!”

“I see him. Keep moving. Get these men into position.”

Anthony was beside him, still on the horse, said, “Sir, there’s a unit of Illinois cavalry up behind the town. I’ve sent word.… I’m sure they heard the ruckus. My men are pulling back into our stockade at the depot. We’ve got other men positioned inside the depot itself. If your regulars link up with our flank—”

“They know what to do, Colonel. I’m wondering what
that
fellow wants.”

Anthony followed Sherman’s gaze, other officers moving up, staring out. The man was in plain sight now, moving through the cornfield, a rebel officer’s uniform, a white flag above his head, riding with caution, eyeing the Federal troops who were most certainly eyeing him. He seemed to be aiming for Anthony’s horse, understood where the authority might be, rode closer, slowing, and Sherman leaned up toward the horse, said to Anthony, “This is your command. Don’t call me by name. You understand? Get out there and meet him, but keep him away from me.” Sherman glanced back to his own staff, saw Dayton, waiting for instructions. “Colonel, go with Colonel Anthony. This man wants a parley. Give him one. A slow one. Delay him, you understand? Colonel Anthony, leave your horse here. If they have sharpshooters in those far trees, white flag or not, somebody might take you for a tempting target.”

Anthony didn’t hesitate, jumped down from the horse, Dayton moving up next to him, both men walking out toward the horseman at a quick pace. Sherman slipped back up onto the railcar, hid himself slightly, strained to hear. The rebel was walking the horse slowly now, the white flag held higher still. Sherman saw the man’s fear, quick glances at the muskets now lining the low ridge. He saw no weapon in the man’s belt, thought, He believes in the power of that white cloth. All right, so do I. For now.

The two blue-coated officers moved out into the horse’s path, stood side by side, a symbolic attempt to block the man’s way, and Sherman could hear the man speak, a high-pitched shake to his voice.

“I am Captain Fraley, adjutant to General Chalmers. The general offers his respects to the officer commanding this post, and suggests in the strongest terms that you avoid the slaughter of your men, and
surrender this position without incident. The general assures you of fair terms.”

The officers responded, forced conversation, a chatter of nothing pouring back to the man, social banter, the rebel seeming to take the bait, still nervously eyeing the Federal muskets. Sherman backed away from the window, leaned out the other way, could see Anthony’s makeshift fort just ahead, and beyond, the rounded brick walls of the Collierville depot. His mind was churning, feverish, the old fear rising up, the panic of the unknown. Is it a bluff? Chalmers. He’s a Forrest man. Probably wrecked this track himself, came back to do it again. Do we believe him? Damn it all, how many men is a
pile
? He looked back out to the ongoing parley, saw Dayton moving toward him, purposeful slowness, the man’s expression carrying a message. Sherman moved back to the rear of the train, and Dayton was there now, said, “Sir, he expects us—”

“I heard him, Colonel.”

Sherman felt the heartbeats thundering in his chest, thought of Chalmers, good reputation. Damn rebel cavalry all over this place, and we can’t round ’em up worth a damn. But we aren’t giving up several hundred men right here without a good accounting for it. I did that, Grant would have me whipped.

“Offer our kindest respects to General Chalmers, but tell that fellow we’re not surrendering a damn thing. You can be polite about it. Tell him the government pays us to fight, not to surrender. Then we’ll see what they’re bringing to this party. But take your damn time about it.”

Dayton moved off at a casual pace, obeying Sherman’s order. Sherman looked toward McCoy now, said, “You wait until that rebel chap gets tired of all our
parleying
and as soon as he rides off, you hightail it to the telegraph office at the depot, and get a wire back to Germantown. The Fourth Division’s sashaying through the mud back there, and I want a fire torched under their backsides. Tell them anything you want, but get those fellows up that road as quick as they can move.”

He had reached the stockade, stout walls of logs and dirt, and knew that beyond, the brick depot was a far stronger position. But here he was anchored between his own men and Anthony’s Indianans, could send orders out in either direction. He could see now, gaps cut through the logs, crude rifle ports for his men to return fire. All around him, smoke boiled past, the destruction of whatever houses were nearby. It was Sherman’s order that if the rebels were coming at them, any structures the rebels could use for cover would be burned. Even now, men with torches scrambled down a small street to the rear of the stockade, another house erupting in flames.

He stood up high on the makeshift parapet, no need for field glasses, all of it laid out right in front of him. The cornfield was below the rail tracks, the train sitting out to the right, silent, still, the only passengers, one car of the horses. He cursed now, thought of his own, Dolly, his favorite, thought, Nothing I can do about that now. Damn you, McCoy, you should have opened that up, let them all out. But he couldn’t fault his aides, the men doing efficient work putting the troops together, gathering them up to the best position they had. He looked over the men inside the stockade, the Indiana men, tried to recall if he had ever used them before, if they had seen action, taken fire. Well, you’re going to take some now. You’ll learn to appreciate fat logs.

The regular troops were in place outside the walls of the stockade, some in small rifle pits near the knoll, the narrow stretch of high ground that gave the men a good view of anything around them. Anthony’s Indiana troops were scattered beyond the stockade as well, more rifle pits, the men who dug them now appreciating their labor. Sherman had made a rough count, using Anthony’s numbers, his own, knew he had barely six hundred men close at hand. All he knew yet was that Chalmers had a
pile
.

The men were positioned all along the south wall of the stockade, muskets up in the ragged openings of the logs, more men standing close behind, loaded muskets ready. Sherman dropped down to the hard ground, peered out through one of the holes. Good place, he
thought. Tough to get an accurate shot at anyone in here. We may need that, any advantage we can get. He glanced back, saw his staff coming together, their work mostly done, the men spreading out behind him, waiting for orders. He knew they were nervous, had rarely been under direct fire. He glanced at Dayton, thought of the parley, the rebel cavalry officer, thought, Was it all a bluff? They grabbed a few wagons, and might have been content with that. Hell, I’d have tried to push a little bit, done exactly what this Chalmers fellow did. Threaten to kill every damn one of you, unless you surrender right now. See if the commanding officer of the outpost here has anything down his pants. Not sure what Anthony thought he could do here, but I don’t think he’d have given this place up that easy. Chalmers probably figured that out by now. Sorry there, friend. As long as the cartridges hold out, you’ll wish it was a bluff after all.

He could see the cornfield clearly, well within musket range, heard a single drummer, far distant, looked out to a low ridgeline behind the field, a thick line of gray forming along its crest. Six hundred yards, he thought. Not yet. Nobody get anxious. Above him, men began to shout out, the expected warnings, obvious and unnecessary.

“Here they come!”

Now, to one side, another call.

“They’re at the train! They’re coming in on our flank!”

“Both flanks! Cavalry coming along the tracks to the east!”

Sherman moved to one side, stared at the train, the horsemen dismounted, moving in slowly, testing. He slapped a man on the back, said, “Smaller targets. Too bad. But it doesn’t matter. Just aim low.”

He slipped quickly back to the south wall, found his opening, peered out, could see the rebels moving down into the cornfield, a heavy line, far heavier than he had hoped to see. He scanned as much as he could, saw a scattering of flags, the colors, thought, A couple thousand … maybe more. Yep. That’s a
pile
.

The musket fire started outside the walls, a skirmish erupting along the tracks near the train. But the men inside were holding fire, waiting, good discipline, though Sherman knew it wouldn’t last. The first musket fired above him, then a half dozen more, and now the first massive volley from the troops in the field, smacks of lead against the dense wooden walls. Sherman backed away from the hole, a rifleman
stepping forward, filling his place, and Sherman watched him, the man peering out, slow and precise, aiming. Sherman waited for the shot, the man, keeping his calm, was saying something, low words, a curse of his own, and Sherman tried to see past him, the hole just wide enough to see the flicker of color beyond, the line of rebels coming up through the cornfield. The yells came now, high shrieks, and Sherman felt the stirring in his gut, the sound he knew well, had heard in so many places before. The man in front of him had chosen his target, and fired the musket.

The musket fire came at the stockade from three directions. Most of the rebel cavalry had dismounted, had pushed completely through the cornfield, were dueling now with the men on the knoll, the men in the stockade, small fights ongoing around the depot itself. Out both sides of the log structure, the rebels pressed forward as well, seeking some kind of vulnerability, an opening to drive through. But the Indiana men kept up the fire, choosing targets, the muskets reloaded, passed forward with a steady rhythm. Sherman stayed back from the wall, could only listen, the skirmishes to both sides steady, but keeping in place. He knew the regulars would hold their ground, would give the rebels a problem, possibly a surprise by their sheer tenacity. He could hear the musket balls still peppering the timbers, wanted to climb up again, a better view of the fight. But his place was back, behind, watching, preparing whatever order might be needed, and right now, there was nothing else he could do.

After long minutes, the musket fire seemed to slow, shifting direction, the fight growing near the train, and he thought of his horse, the rest of them, helpless, useless. Cavalry, he thought. At least … the rebs’ll know what to do with ’em. If it comes to that. He scanned the wall, watched the riflemen, the others still loading the spent muskets. There were boxes of cartridges by their feet, and he clenched his fists at that, yes! Someone made sure they were prepared. Colonel Anthony did that, had to. Good man. Remember that. Might never have seen a damn rebel before, but now he’s staring down a few thousand
of ’em. He could see Anthony now, scurrying along the wall, pistol in hand, doing his job. Sherman called out, “Colonel!”

Anthony looked at him, fire in the man’s eyes, something Sherman never took for granted.

“How’s your ammunition?”

“Good enough, sir! The magazine’s down those steps, back that way. Good supply!”

Sherman glanced behind him, saw the quartermaster storehouse, steps leading down, was surprised to see one of his aides coming up the stairs carrying a box of cartridges. The man approached him, breathless, his hat whisked away, and Sherman said, “Lieutenant James, you look a fright. You intending to fight this war with these infantry?”