The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (20 page)

Grant shook his head, bleary-eyed patience. “I know where we are, Lieutenant. I shall be prepared to move in a moment. Is General Rawlins in contact with the boat’s commander?”

The door opened abruptly, Rawlins breathing heavily, pushing past the wide-eyed lieutenant. Rawlins motioned the young aide away, closed the door with a self-conscious flourish. He leaned low toward Grant, and Grant could feel the man’s breaths, had rarely seen Rawlins looking … nervous.

“John, are you all right?”

“Sir! It is something of a surprise. Fate, as it were. Perhaps. Not certain of that, of course. But, it is curious, nonetheless.” Grant reached for the crutches, and Rawlins held up a hand, his words coming in a quick, jabbering flood. “No, sir. Perhaps not just yet. We should remain here. The train.”

“Why? What’s happening out there?” He thought of Sherman now, the amazing close call at Collierville. “Is there a problem?”

Rawlins tried to gather himself, took a deep breath. “Not really certain of that, sir. I’ve heard of duels being fought over this sort of happenstance. There could be a serious issue of pride at stake.”

“What is it, John?”

Grant’s tone left no room for maneuver, and Rawlins snapped himself together, his formal demeanor returning.

“Sir, I must report to you that in a stroke of coincidence, another train has arrived in this station. It seems that General Rosecrans is … here, sir. Or rather, right across the way … there. Should I post a guard?”

Grant looked out to the darkness, nothing to see but the glimpse of the men standing guard on the platform. He rubbed his chin, reached for a cigar, took his time lighting it, thought of Rosecrans. He would fight a duel?

“John, I have a better idea. Offer my respects to General Rosecrans, and escort him to my car. I just terminated the man’s career. The least I can do is talk to him.”

Grant studied Rosecrans carefully, felt idiotic believing Rawlins’s suggestion that Rosecrans might actually attack him. Rawlins stood back, outside the entrance of Grant’s private car, one of Rosecrans’s aides beside him. Grant ignored them, said, “I assure you, General, this rendezvous was not planned. I do not expect you to regard me with any more pleasantness than you ever did before. Perhaps less, considering.”

Rosecrans still stood at attention, obviously uncomfortable, a feeling Grant shared. Grant had forgotten how much larger the man was, several inches taller than Grant, a thick chest, tall forehead, a handsome man by any standards.

“I am pleased to meet with you, General Grant. I have always held a high respect for your abilities, and your authority.”

Grant pointed to the bench seat across from him. “I doubt that. Sit down. You stand like that, you’re making my leg hurt.”

Rosecrans obeyed with a crisp formality, kept his back straight, looked at Grant’s leg, a hint of curiosity. Grant responded to the unspoken question.

“Happened in New Orleans. Some horse that didn’t share your respect for my authority. It’ll heal one of these days.”

“You look fit otherwise, General. Much like West Point, I’d say.”

The strain in Rosecrans’s compliment dug at Grant, and Grant was curious now if it carried an insult. Grant glanced down at his dingy
greatcoat, the wrinkled shirt. Rosecrans was in full finery, what seemed to be a new uniform. Grant looked at the gold braid on the man’s hat, saw his own, even that detail a striking contrast between new and old. Beyond his appearance, the entire Federal command was aware that Rosecrans had graduated fifth in his class at the Point, a year before Grant’s graduation far down the middle of the pack.

“Don’t really need to discuss the Academy, General. Is it proper I call you William?”

Rosecrans didn’t flinch, gave Grant no opening. “By your authority, you may address me as you please. I shall address you accordingly, sir.”

Grant was beginning to regret the decision to bring Rosecrans aboard the train, pulled a long draw from his cigar, the smoke drifting upward. “All right,
General
. Tell me about Chattanooga.”

Rosecrans seemed surprised at the question, the first break in his demeanor. “I have made considerable effort to bring in supplies for the men, and I will state with pride that elaborate plans have been devised to turn the enemy away. Conditions in the town and in our camps are most difficult. We have lost most of the livestock.”

“Horses? Cattle?”

“Horses and mules. Cattle are making their way in, but their condition is extremely poor, near starvation. There is no forage. The men are using their ingenuity for survival, a trait I hoped to inspire. The enemy’s sharpshooters along the river prevent us from gathering much-needed lumber, either for structures or for fire. There is one route of supply, over the mountains. A most difficult passage, which I just traveled myself. It is the route by which you shall reach your … new command.” He paused. “Sir, I believe the enemy can be removed with the resources that have been sent our way. Excuse me, sir.
Your
way. With the reinforcements certain to arrive with General Sherman, with the additional strength from General Hooker’s corps, and General Burnside’s forces at Knoxville, I do not believe Bragg’s noose can be tightened any further. I have spoken at length with General Smith, whose engineers are awaiting instruction to open additional routes of supply, possibly driving the enemy back from the river so that the waterway will serve us far more effectively. It is possible a
vigorous campaign may be waged to drive the enemy off the heights that threaten our position. I had hoped to be allowed the time to put some kind of strategy into our overall planning, both to relieve the suffering of the men, and to continue our campaign.”

The words came toward Grant in a flood, but Rosecrans’s energy was weakening, and Grant could see that whatever fire Rosecrans had tried to bring was now flickering.

Grant waited for more, but Rosecrans seemed content, as though making his case by carefully stopping short of any suggestion that the War Department, or Grant, should reconsider their orders. Grant said, “I wish you to know, General, that the order removing you from command did not originate with me.”

Rosecrans looked down, shrugged. “Does it matter? I am aware how the War Department functions. Past successes do not compensate for recent failure. After Chickamauga, I was hoping to be allowed to right our wrongs. I have devised what I believe to be several excellent options to reverse our fortunes.”

The question rose up in Grant’s mind now. Options? All this talk of such good plans? Why did you not carry them out? How much time did you require? And how many horses will die waiting for some … plan?

Rosecrans was fidgeting, and Grant could see that the man was anxious to leave.

“Where will you travel now?”

Rosecrans spoke slowly, still nothing friendly in his words. “By rail, to Cincinnati. After that, I will await orders. If orders should come.”

“Well, I am certain your usefulness to this army has not concluded.”

“Are you?”

The question surprised Grant, and Rosecrans stood now, made a gesture of brushing away dust from his clean uniform. Old habits, Grant thought. But now, there are new habits in this man, and they are not positive. He has learned that men will die in his command in a fight that he will lose. What has that taken away from the man?

“General Rosecrans, I thank you for meeting with me. Travel safely. Perhaps we will serve together in some future campaign.”

Rosecrans looked at him now, soft, sad eyes. “With all respects, General Grant, I do not believe that will happen. I do hope that the men in the Army of the Cumberland fare better under your command, and the command of General Thomas, than they did with me. If I may be allowed to continue my journey?”

Grant sifted questions through his mind, any other detail Rosecrans could offer him. But Rosecrans seemed drained, and Grant reached for the crutches, would stand, the only respectful gesture he could make. Rosecrans didn’t wait, turned, moved quickly past his aide, the man staring at Grant with a hint of hostility. Rawlins said something to the aide, who saluted, moved away, following Rosecrans. Grant released the crutches, relaxed again on the seat, Rawlins watching him. Grant stared out, saw Rosecrans and the aide on the platform, passing through the formation of guards, disappearing into the darkness. Grant retrieved another cigar, stared at it for a long moment, then looked at Rawlins.

“He was a brilliant man. A year ahead of me at the Academy. Big fat reputation. One of those men you talk about,
the chosen one
, the great certain future. I doubt he recalls me at all. Just one of the crowd.”

Rawlins bent low, a brief glance outside. “He didn’t do the job, sir. Failure has its price.”

Grant shook his head. “He has failings, yes. But he also won fights. He bested the enemy far more than he failed this army.”

“Do you think the War Department made a mistake, removing him?”

Grant considered the question, the cigar smoke drifting up around his face. “He knew what he was supposed to do. Still does. But he didn’t
do
it. That’s all it takes, John. This war is a close thing, no matter what the newspapers say. Any of us falls on our face, the cost is too high. And sometimes … it’s time for a change, time for a commander to just go away. Remember that. None of us is infallible. Not Sherman, not Thomas, not Bragg or Lee or Beauregard or Meade. It’s so rarely about military genius, who the greater tactician might be, who sat higher in his class at West Point. It’s about mistakes, some of them unavoidable, some of them purely stupid. My job is to make fewer mistakes than the enemy, and to ensure that Thomas and Sherman and Burnside don’t pull us into some kind of abyss we can’t escape. It’s that simple.”

Grant saw a question on Rawlins’s face.

“What is it?”

“Sir, just thinking. What of General Thomas? He served under General Rosecrans. Will he be up to the job?”

Grant finished the cigar, ground the stub into an ashtray. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

The death of the animals had always been harder for him to accept than the death of soldiers. The animals after all had no choice. None of them had volunteered for this duty, none ever protested the lack of food, none had any concept why their bodies had grown weak, none understood why their legs would no longer climb, why the labor of pulling the wagons had become too much to bear. None understood why, finally, they simply could not move, collapsing alongside the muddy trail, until death swept away the last glimmer of sight, of sound, of feeling.

“Dumb beasts,” he had heard, teamsters and supply officers sometimes abusing the animals, but if they did that in Grant’s presence, they never did it again. He had loved horses even before Mexico, had become an expert rider, a surprise to many in a man of his small stature. Some insisted it took brawn, sheer muscle to control the great beasts, but Grant had his own way, held the reins loosely, seemed clumsy at first, helpless, inspiring laughter from the other troops as he rode away. But he never lost control, never let the horse know he was afraid, and very soon the horse seemed to know that the rider was not simply a burden, but his partner, the ride over any kind of
terrain an equal challenge for both of them. Grant loved the gracefulness, the ease in climbing rocky hills, no trail too narrow, no hill too steep. It was a marvel to him that the horses could absorb the sounds that terrified so many of the men, the shock of the artillery blasts, musket fire inches away, rarely any reaction at all. The artillerymen knew that of course, shared his respect for their mounts, understood that in the worst fights, the men would lose their nerve long before the beasts. They were targets, certainly, far larger than the men who rode them, and so in every great attack, the horses went down more quickly than the lines of men who marched beside them. It was something he had come to accept, as the cavalrymen did, that you could love the beast, but you could not expect to keep it, not if you rode into the fight at the head of your men. Even then, the horses could absorb far more punishment than any man, and Grant had seen mounts with a dozen wounds in the most vulnerable places, the animal still charging forward, until the legs gave way and the blood ran dry.

The horse beneath him now was called Kangaroo, had been abandoned by a rebel in Mississippi. The animal inspired jeers among the men who found him, a horse of odd coloring, a slightly misshapen face, none of the handsomeness that any cavalry commander would insist on. But Grant knew fine stock, knew the horse was a thoroughbred, even if his own staff joked behind his back that the animal was far too ugly to serve the commanding general. Very soon, Grant and Kangaroo had reached that understanding common to good horsemen, and as they left the riverside town of Bridgeport, pushing through the sixty miles of ragged mountainous terrain, the horse seemed to know of Grant’s injury, kept the gait slow, rhythmic, no lurching bumps. Grant returned the favor with a gentle hand, steadying himself on the slippery roads by leaning more on the horse’s neck rather than jerking back on the reins. If the weather and the muddy conditions made the journey a challenge in itself, Grant had not been prepared for the horror that met him along the way, the grisly sight of so much carnage, so many carcasses of fallen horses.