The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (16 page)

Davis kept his stare into the cup, took another sip, a noticeable
curl gripping his face. “Yes, well, we shall endure. I have every expectation that the enemy’s coffee is no better than this.”

Cleburne was puzzled by Davis’s presence, knew only that the president had ridden along the ridge, speaking to many of the camps. But Cleburne hadn’t expected Davis to linger, didn’t know if Davis even understood just how many men were spread out all along the crest of Missionary Ridge, or to the south and west, through the valley that led to the much larger prominence of Lookout Mountain. Does he intend to speak to everyone? Cleburne felt more anxious now, glanced around the tent, an awkward pause, Davis preoccupied, still fingering the coffee cup. He noticed the wetness in Davis’s coat, the man’s face pale, drawn, thought, He can’t enjoy riding all over hell and gone in this weather. But, I suppose, it’s his job. After another long moment, Cleburne said, “Yes, sir. We’re doing all we can to keep the Yankees in their pen. Um … is there anything else I can get you?”

Davis looked at him now, studying, said, “Irish. Knew that. Some of the best officers in this army came to us from the Emerald Isle.”

Cleburne was self-conscious about the slight hint of his lingering accent, but whatever embarrassment he felt was tempered by his pride in the fact that Davis was right. Throughout the army there were the telltale accents, entire companies of Irish and Scots.

“Yes, sir. County Cork.”

Davis nodded idly, stared into the side of the tent, and Cleburne wondered if the president even heard him. Davis didn’t look toward him, said, “A great many Catholics in the army. They do good work, for the most part. Our adversary over there, General Rosecrans, he’s Catholic, you know.”

“Sir, begging your pardon, but my family wasn’t Catholic. We’re Episcopal.”

Davis looked at him now, a glimmer of surprise. “Eh? Don’t say? Hmm. Well, I guess that’s possible. Haven’t studied much about what goes on over there. Pretty nasty business, though. Always some trouble brewing, wars and revolutions and whatnot. Knew some Irishmen marched with us back in Mexico. Turned coat on us. San Patricios, they were called. Another nasty business. A man pledges his loyalty to his nation, then runs off and picks up a musket and
shoots at his own. Outrageous. We hanged a bunch of those fellows. Winfield Scott not a man to give much slack to traitors.” Davis paused. “I’ve seen Northern newspapers that claim the same thing of us, that the Confederacy is just a bunch of treasonous ne’er-do-wells, common criminals. So tired of that nonsense. But that’s what newspapers do: Talk nonsense. This army … well, you know the job we have to do. We make our point with the bayonet, shove a few Northern newspapermen against a wall, and that kind of talk will stop. It’s coming, inevitable, like the sunrise. We’ve come so close. And we will again, and this time, the Almighty will allow us to prevail. Inevitable. Those who fail to understand us … the meaning, the importance of what we’re fighting for … well, I can’t see how the Yankees can keep up the fight. We have the passion for it, General. The passion, the commitment, the dedication. No different than George Washington, Sam Adams. Independence, pure and simple. Break the chains. Much more at stake here than those people out there seem to realize.
Much
more. You agree, don’t you?”

“Certainly, sir. A great many similarities between the Union’s efforts and what the British have done to the Irish people.”

He dreaded the subject, hoped Davis wouldn’t pursue it. Cleburne understood Irish politics, but had little fire for political debate.

“All that history behind you, prepared you well for what’s happening here, I suspect. When did your family come over?”

Cleburne was relieved, recognized Davis’s attempt at polite conversation, though he was still mystified why Davis was there at all.

“Not quite fifteen years ago, sir.”

“Hmm. I’ve heard you were a soldier in the British army. Good stock, that. Maybe you can persuade some of your former comrades to follow your example. Could use some help with the Cause, you know. The British officials don’t listen much to me. Oh, they come by my office, great ceremony in all those official visits, wearing expensive suits made from Southern cotton, smoking Southern tobacco, their women oh so anxious for the grand ballrooms, all of them bursting with good cheer. And every day, they offer promises to us that none of them intend to keep. Maybe take a man like you, go over there and have a council with your generals. Convince them to leave the ball gowns at home. Bring a few brigades over.”

Cleburne was increasingly uncomfortable, had never had a conversation with the president at all. Now he had to correct an obvious misimpression. “With all respects, sir, I was only a corporal when I left British service. I don’t think there’s many generals in the Empire who would pay me much heed.”

Davis focused on him through clear eyes, as though for the first time. “Corporal? Hmph. You made good in
this
army. Maybe those fellows missed an opportunity letting you go.”

“Perhaps, sir. Thank you.”

“I suppose, if you had been an officer, with all that tradition and all, you’d have seen the foolishness of putting in with these renegades on this mountainside who spoke out so inappropriately, so distressingly against General Bragg. No protocol, no deportment in that. Weakness of character.”

Cleburne had feared this, hoped Davis might not recall just whose signatures had been on the petition calling for Bragg’s removal.

“I regret that Your Excellency should have had to address this personally. There are times when a division commander reacts in tune with his peers, especially superior officers … men of influence.…”

“Don’t try to be a politician, General. If you knew politics at all, you’d know that it is most often unwise for a man of influence to inform the world of his views. You’re subordinate to John Breckinridge. Pay attention to his … methods. Says a great many things, none of which anyone can recall. That’s why President Buchanan picked him to be his vice president. I made him a general, and even in a uniform, he’s still at it. But I give him credit for not signing some fool piece of paper.”

“Yes, sir. Perhaps I made an unwise decision. I’m just a soldier.”

“Well, a soldier follows orders, respects his superiors, and supports the wishes of his president. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Cleburne felt the weight of the question, understood now that Davis’s visit had a purpose.

“Absolutely, sir.”

Davis seemed to energize, stared at him, mustering strength. “Well,
absolutely
, a man in your position understands that Braxton Bragg commands this army. A man in your position understands that if your commanding general calls upon you in time of crisis, that
it is your duty
absolutely
to respond and perform with all the abilities that took you from that boat from Ireland and put a general’s stars on your collar.”

Davis crossed his arms, the same cold stare directly at Cleburne now. Cleburne stood, straightened, stared ahead.

“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

Throughout Davis’s weeklong visit, the president passed through most of his army, reassuring anyone who might doubt that Braxton Bragg was firmly in command. Davis spoke mainly to the troops, hoping to boost their flagging morale, a president’s attempt to bolster the spirits of miserable men who suffered a want of supplies, who had few tents, and miserably poor rations. The senior officers learned quickly what had taken place in Bragg’s headquarters, the emphasis placed on Davis’s support in a way no one could ignore. If any of the senior officers had counted on a change of command, they knew to keep their disappointment to themselves.

Within a day of Davis’s formal endorsement of Bragg’s position, Bragg acted by reorganizing the army. In Richmond, the War Department acquiesced to Bragg’s strong recommendation that Nathan Bedford Forrest be sent farther west, possibly even an independent command, though Bragg didn’t suggest where. Within days, the appointment was made. Whether or not Forrest appreciated the gesture, Bragg received the order with a sigh of barely disguised relief.

Bragg moved swiftly in other directions as well. With Davis’s approval, Bragg ordered the removal of Simon Bolivar Buckner and Daniel Harvey Hill from the Army of Tennessee. Rumors had sifted through the headquarters that Buckner had indeed authored the infamous petition, reason enough for his dismissal. Hill had been pointed out specifically as the cause for the costly delay in the final day’s fighting at Chickamauga, a charge leveled at him by Leonidas Polk. Whether Polk was seeking to deflect any further criticism of himself, Bragg simply didn’t care. With such a charge, Bragg had no other need to justify removing a man who most agreed could be a thorn in a commander’s side.

With Bragg accepting Davis’s solution to the “Polk problem,” more
reorganizing took place, divisions shifted from one commander to another, Cheatham’s temporary command of Polk’s corps now passing into the hands of the newly arriving William Hardee. Cleburne’s own division was removed from Breckinridge’s command, and put under Hardee’s umbrella of authority, a change that delighted Cleburne. If Hardee was well respected by many of his peers, he was admired enormously by Cleburne. Their connection had gone back to 1861, when Hardee was appointed to command a barely organized brigade in Cleburne’s home state of Arkansas. As a Georgian, Hardee’s authority was questioned by many who had no concept that an army’s command might cross state boundaries. Cleburne commanded the 1st Arkansas Regiment, and had done as much as he could to convince his own men that Hardee was a professional soldier of a stripe that inexperienced men should follow.

Hardee’s army career had begun well before the Mexican War, and his rise in rank was attributed not only to success on the battlefield, but to his studious understanding of infantry tactics and strategies. In the mid-1850s, Hardee had authored a text on drill and maneuver that was still used at West Point, but with the outbreak of the war, Hardee chose loyalty to his home state of Georgia. He had served alongside Braxton Bragg at Shiloh, and later, throughout the campaigns in Kentucky, as Bragg’s subordinate. But Bragg had tired of Hardee’s willingness to impart his own expertise, and, like so many others under Bragg’s command, Hardee found himself on Bragg’s list of enemies. By July 1863, while most of the nation reeled from the twin disasters at Vicksburg and Gettysburg, Bragg had made the move that sent Hardee away, the War Department replacing him with Harvey Hill. But Jefferson Davis saw past the clash of personalities, knew that Hardee brought more experience to the front lines than any other corps commander in this theater of the war. Bragg’s grumbling protests notwithstanding, Hardee was back under Bragg’s authority.

“They moving out there at all?”

Cleburne knew that Hardee would already have a clear idea what
was happening across the wide valley below, that he would never ride out to the lines without complete knowledge of what he would face. The question was simply good manners.

“Not a whit, sir. Rain solid most of the past two weeks. Nobody’s going anywhere anytime soon. Only my opinion, of course.”

Hardee lowered the field glasses, looked at him with a smile. “Of course.” He nodded, still smiled. “Really good to see you, Patrick. Hard to sit tight in some backwater, while the action’s happening somewhere else. I heard nothing but good things about your division. Took some heavy losses. Not sure if that would have been different, if I’d have been here. You know what to do when it gets hot.”

Cleburne nodded, didn’t respond. He had taken serious losses before, all the way back to Shiloh, through the fight at Tullahoma, to the brutal day at Chickamauga. And, in every case, the casualties had grown beyond anything Cleburne expected because of the orders that came to him from Braxton Bragg.

Hardee looked back toward the others, his own staff, a pair of Cleburne’s aides. “Gentlemen, I recall when your commanding officer ran his regiment by himself. They promoted him to brigadier, and he found out that entitled him to a staff. Never saw an officer so reluctant to have somebody do his chores for him.” He looked again at Cleburne. “Now, Major General Cleburne, I see you’ve accepted your responsibility to delegate a few things. I saw Lucius Polk this morning. Full of vinegar about what Bragg did to his uncle. But he kept it brief. Knows he’s your man, and wants to keep the job. He’ll keep his mouth closed. I see you’ve brought along your own counselor.” Hardee looked back again. “Lieutenant Mangum, you have ambitions to join General Cleburne at the top? Some catching up to do. His horse left you behind.”

Mangum smiled in return, said, “Yes, sir. He’ll stumble, I’ll be there to pick him up. Always been that way.”

Learned Mangum had been Cleburne’s law partner in Little Rock, and, like Lucius Polk, had been a good friend of Cleburne well before the war. Now they wore the uniform, and Cleburne still had a difficult time giving them orders, accepting that he had the power to tell them what to do, anytime, anywhere.

Cleburne stared out across the misty valley, said, “I use the whip once in a while. They’re gettin’ it.”

Hardee moved the horse forward a step, a sign Cleburne understood. The banter with the staff was over for now, Hardee staring again through the field glasses.

“Bragg thinks they’re starving to death, that we’ve got ’em right where he wants. What do you think?”

Cleburne knew better than to give Hardee an opinion of strategy. “I think the commanding general gives orders, and I follow them.”

Hardee didn’t laugh, sniffed, lowered the glasses again, said in a low voice, “Not a good thing, Patrick. Not at all. This army’s in tatters, and I don’t just mean the shirts on the men’s backs. Longstreet’s up there on Lookout Mountain like he owns the whole place, and he’s made it pretty clear he isn’t paying much attention to the
orders
coming from our commanding general. Dangerous, stupid. Feuds have no place in a high command, and we’ve got feuds in every direction. Bragg thinks he’s done himself good by sending away all his detractors. But now, it’s going to get worse. You hear about Knoxville?”