The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (21 page)

There were hundreds of them, alongside the rivers of mud the men were forced to travel. He had expected some of this, Rosecrans at least sharing the difficulties of crossing the mountains, what it had
cost the men and their animals. It was, after all, the only supply route open to the army. But nothing could prepare Grant for the smell. As they moved farther away from the river, onto higher ground, the trails became more treacherous, steep and rocky, made narrow by deep gullies and sharp ravines, and in every open place, near the muddy road or just beyond, in the holes and across the patches of wet grass, the remains of dead horses and mules were unending, hundreds becoming thousands.

Some of the animals had been there for days, empty shells of bare ribs, stripped clean by the scavengers that even now circled overhead. Some had died within a day of Grant’s ride, stiffened animals with legs stretched taut, empty eyes and bare teeth, skin stretched tight over rib cages that showed just how poor the animals had been. There were cattle as well, what remained of the small herds driven toward Chattanooga, the weakest animals tumbling over into low places, shoved aside like the horses and mules, too wet to burn, too many to bury.

Up ahead, the narrow trail forced the men to ride in single file, many with their heads down, shielded by the thick misty rain, trying to avoid the stink they couldn’t escape. Others were more curious, or equally horrified, scanning the animals as well as the debris they had left behind. Grant saw that as well, the shattered remnants of wagons, cracked wheels, piles of broken timber. There were abandoned artillery pieces, but not many, and he studied what seemed to be a twelve-pounder, far below in a muddy hole, the roadside too soft to keep the cannon from slipping away, the carriage tumbling down into cracked pieces.

A man rode toward him, water dripping from his hat, a quick wipe of a soggy handkerchief across his face.

“Sir, the road just past that rise is washed out completely. With all respects, sir, I would prefer you not make any attempt to cross. We can take care of it, sir.”

Grant knew this routine all too well. Back at Bridgeport, Grant could barely climb the horse at all, so Rawlins had ordered the aides to lift Grant up like some sack of flour, placing him on the horse as though he might require a tie-down. Grant held his complaints to himself, knew it was the only way. As they climbed farther into the
hills, the mud had grown worse, the narrow roadway often impassable without dismounting. Through it all, Rawlins had been there, the men lowering Grant from the horse, carrying him across some absurd pool of slop, then hoisting him up one more time onto the horse. Now, it would happen again.

He saw the apology on the young man’s face, said, “No matter, Captain. We’ll do what we must. When this is over, I will offer my appreciations to the entire staff.”

Grant halted the horse, patted the wet hair on the mane, reached back, retrieved the crutches from behind him, handed them to an aide, then swung the uninjured leg over the horse’s back. He waited while the hands came up, supporting him, easing him down, Rawlins there now, always the terse command, “Don’t drop him, by God.”

From Stevenson, the boat ride to Bridgeport was uneventful, but it was nothing of a rest for Grant or his staff. The wires were reaching him, details of conditions in Chattanooga, of the progress along the march from the other commanders, Sherman in particular. At the town of Bridgeport, he had been surprised to find General Oliver Howard, whose Eleventh Corps had marched westward under Joe Hooker, part of the grand effort to add to the strength of the forces now facing Braxton Bragg. Howard had been as surprised to see Grant, and Grant had passed through the brief meeting with formal respect, though he knew well that Howard’s men had borne the brunt of the disgrace for the disaster at Chancellorsville, the spring before. That disgrace fell on Hooker as well. Grant knew, as did most of the officers in the army, that President Lincoln had put Hooker in command of the Army of the Potomac with a bit of desperation. There had been too many failures by Hooker’s predecessors, too many losses on too many battlefields so close to Washington. But Hooker had done no better, and so the War Department had sent him to the usual backwater, the same punishment handed out to Ambrose Burnside for his dismal showing at Fredericksburg. But Burnside showed no fire for redeeming himself, more excuses why the Army of the Ohio was mired in their camps around Knoxville. Hooker at least had made a good show of the long journey, his men
now in place for the final leg that would take them directly into Chattanooga. The bulk of Hooker’s forces, Oliver Howard’s corps included, was stopping short of the town as ordered at first by William Rosecrans. That order was backed up now by George Thomas, and Grant understood the wisdom of that, keeping Hooker’s thousands of troops back where the supplies could still reach them. The dismal conditions in Chattanooga were growing more dangerous every day, the single supply line that Grant now traveled hardly suitable for hauling any substantial rations or equipment into the town. The rebels held a strong line all along the south side of the river, completely eliminating that route for supply boats, as well as the wide, flat roads that ran alongside the waterway, which had been so easily passable for wagon trains.

At Bridgeport, the talk had centered on the frustration of the commissary officers, excuses pouring out where none were needed. The men now holding their place in Chattanooga were calling the lone supply route the
Cracker Line
, and Grant thought of that even as he traveled the same trail, that the few wagons that had survived the treacherous journey would likely have added little to anyone’s relief, even if all the men expected was … crackers.

The trail sloped downward, the hills now behind them. The last leg of the route had offered Grant a panoramic view of the Tennessee River, the great hills beyond, where Bragg’s army seemed only to wait. Once they reached the river itself, far downstream from the rebel sharpshooters, Grant had been relieved to find a pontoon bridge, the last part of the journey that now took Grant straight into the town. There, escorts had joined his staff, guards leading him through the streets. There was no escaping the mud, just as deep here as it had been in the hills, and Grant focused more on what remained of the buildings, homes and businesses now reduced to skeletons, some of the structures only a rocky foundation. He expected that, knew from the reports reaching Bridgeport that the soldiers had made use of the only lumber available, adding to the defensive positions,
creating shelters for themselves at the expense of the civilians. What wasn’t used for shelter went up in flames, the grim necessity of keeping men warm. The few homes still standing held the distinct odor of hospitals, and Grant passed by one, saw a row of graves, crude wooden headstones, the resting place for men who might have survived Chickamauga, carried back here in ambulances, only to die behind the safety of Rosecrans’s defensive lines. There were men outside every hospital, some just sitting in the rain, ragged coats pulled over their heads, others with barely a shirt. By their faces alone, Grant knew they were the sick, whatever plague had spread through the Army of the Cumberland, brought on by a lack of food, of clean water, of clean anything at all. There were civilians as well, small gatherings who watched him pass, none recognizing him, few with any expression beyond the faint hope that what remained of their homes would not be swept away in a firestorm of battle. A few spoke out to him, a counterfeit salute, or a plea for some kind of help. But he knew they saw him as only one more Yankee officer, and Grant ignored that, could do nothing for these people at all. The first priority was his army, the soldiers here, now, who had to be fed. The dead horses were here, too, dragged into piles, still too wet to burn. And once more, with the beasts came the smells, the rain doing nothing to disguise the horror of so many swollen carcasses.

His escort led him down a side street, a wider square, another hospital to one side, more soldiers huddled together on a sheltered porch. They saw him, but still there was no recognition, just another officer moving past, mud covered, soaked through with the misery of the rain.

One man called out to him, “Hey! You got crackers? I’ll give you a dollar for an ear of corn!”

The aides moved up beside Grant, as though shielding him from some potential danger, and Grant ignored that, too, knew if that man was hungry, so were they all. He glanced again at Lookout Mountain, invisible in the blackening sky, no sign of Missionary Ridge in the deepening darkness to the east. He thought of Bragg, wondered how many rebels there were, what kind of strength Bragg still brought to the fight. You must be weak, he thought. Or, you have made a mistake, by taking your time. You thought these men would just starve,
and then we would simply surrender. No, sir. If there was ever a chance of that, or a chance that this army would run away from you again, there is no chance of that now.

He understood his first priority, saw it in the soldiers who watched him as he passed. I will find the way to feed you, he thought. Give you back the strength. There will be more horses, more guns, more ammunition, and most of all, there will be a great many more troops. He ran through those numbers in his mind, the great strength he commanded, the combined forces Stanton had given him. Bragg had these men licked, he thought. But he gave us the magnificent gift of time. We will not starve. We will rebuild and replenish and reinforce. If you keep to those heights, if you are content to merely suffer the rain and watch us, you will see it for yourself. And you will have made a far greater mistake. And with God and these men as my witness, I shall make you pay.

He moved into the parlor of the house, a larger room ahead, the heat of the fireplace drawing him closer. In the larger room, officers were mostly standing, their talk growing silent, and he saw one older man, leaning on one end of the mantel, gray in his beard, hard eyes, staring silently at Grant. Grant moved to a chair, sat heavily, felt the relief of the leg relaxing, the fire now close in front of him. The silence was odd, uncomfortable, and Grant looked at the older man now, could see his mass, much taller, taller than Rosecrans, wide and stout, every sign of the man in command.

“General Thomas.”

“Yes, sir.”

Grant glanced around the room, faces lit by firelight, all watching him, no smiles, no words at all.

“I am here to assume command of this campaign. I trust you are aware of that.”

“Yes, sir.”

Grant wanted to say more, no one else offering any kind of conversation, no pleasantries, no formal greetings to the man who now commanded them all. He glanced down, saw a puddle of water forming beneath the chair, welcomed the fire even more, set the crutches
aside, held out his hands, soaking in the warmth. But the response from the men made him supremely uncomfortable, as though he had stomped the life out of some kind of joyous party. He stared at the fire, stretched his aching leg out, water dripping from his boots. He considered who these men were, what they had done, what they expected of Rosecrans. Unhappy men, to be sure. Probably loved him, and probably hated what happened to their army. Now, they have me. Not sure what I’m supposed to say about that.

He saw one officer to the side, a cigar clamped in the man’s mouth, thought, Yes, a wonderful idea. He reached in his pocket, saw the mud now on his hands, a thick smear on his coat, realized there was mud on every part of his uniform.

“Does someone have a dry cloth?”

Thomas responded with a quick glance to the side, an aide moving away. But the others kept their silence, and Rawlins moved up beside him, knelt low, looked at him with a hint of confusion. Grant waved him back, said to Thomas, “The decision to remove General Rosecrans did not originate with me. By chance, we were able to meet in Stevenson. I believe he understands the necessity for the change.”

Thomas nodded slowly, said nothing. Grant looked at the others, saw the deference to Thomas, his authority holding everyone to silence. Grant felt the need to stand up now, to say something
meaningful
. But the leg was throbbing, the fire too comforting, and he settled into a boiling annoyance, thought, Is that how this army is to receive my authority? Will they even listen to my orders?

The door opened with a clatter, a gust of chilly wind rippling the fire, and Grant turned in the chair, saw his staff officer, Wilson, and a civilian, realized it was Charles Dana. Wilson surged forward, saluted Grant, then seemed to absorb the odd demeanor of the room, said something to Rawlins, quiet words Grant couldn’t hear. Rawlins responded in a whisper, as though even Grant’s chief of staff was unable to break the room’s strange frigidity. Wilson stepped toward the fire now, said to Thomas, “Sir, General Grant and his escorts are most certainly tired, hungry, and wet. General Grant is in pain. His wagons and equipage are no doubt far behind. Can you not offer the general some dry clothes, socks or slippers perhaps, and can your officers not provide some supper?”

Thomas seemed to come alive, as though the thought had never occurred to him.

“Yes, of course.” He looked to one side, to his own aide. “Lieutenant, see to it. There are rations in the cellar. I should have prepared something. I do not know of a suitable house that is yet appropriate for a headquarters, but General Grant is most welcome to bed here.”

Grant saw the surge of activity around him, looked up at Wilson, saw a quick nod. He watched as Thomas moved away, taking charge, and Grant began to understand, thought, He’s as awkward as I am. Never been in this situation before. Well, me neither. I guess it never occurred to him to be anything more than … polite.

Grant looked toward Dana now, the man easing up close to the fire, his hands extended toward the warmth.

“General, it is good to see you again. We have much to discuss.”

Grant nodded slowly, couldn’t escape Sherman’s description of the man from his days in Vicksburg: Stanton’s spy. But Grant was here now, had been promoted to this command because Dana had lit that fire. Grant studied the man, saw no subterfuge, no hint of deceit, just a pleasant smile. Dana moved toward him, extended a hand, which Grant accepted, a brief, firm shake.