The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (22 page)

“Mr. Dana, Secretary Stanton was most gracious to journey out of Washington to meet with me.”

“Yes, sir, I am aware. Washington continues to be fully apprised of our situation here. There is great anticipation that your new authority will have a most positive influence.”

Dana seemed suddenly self-conscious, looked back toward Thomas, who returned to the mantel, staring ahead, nothing to say. The mood of the room was seeping through Grant now, and he began to see it in the faces, in Thomas himself, the others who gathered to greet Grant by not greeting him at all. Grant stared at the fire again, thought, What did you expect? They’re taking a hard look at you, Grant, figuring out just what kind of general you’ll make, what you’ll expect from them, what kind of changes will come. They know Sherman’s coming, they know Hooker’s already close, and they can’t be too happy that they couldn’t get out of this mess by themselves. Not much I can say to that. We’ll worry about what happens next … tomorrow.

Behind him, men were in motion, a trunk of clothing spread open,
Rawlins taking charge, a formal discussion over just what articles were appropriate. Grant knew better than to interfere, made a quick look at Thomas, who was still looking at him. Grant turned again to the fire, suddenly remembered: He outranked me a while back. Now he doesn’t. Maybe he thought he should have more, this whole theater. He’ll obey orders, but he won’t like me giving them. Until I earn his respect. Shouldn’t have to do any of that foolishness. Stanton’s respect is what matters here. He looked toward Dana again, saw the cordial smile, so very different from Thomas.

“Yes, Mr. Dana. It seems there is much to discuss.”

He hadn’t known what to expect of Grant at all. Their only meeting he could recall had come in the aftermath at Shiloh, when Thomas’s superior, Don Carlos Buell, had rescued Grant’s army from the near destruction they had suffered at the hands of the massive rebel surprise attack. Thomas knew what many were saying, that Buell had done no rescue at all, that after a full day of vicious combat, Grant’s army had regained their courage, the officers gathering up their men into some kind of effective fighting force, so that by the second day, victory over the confused and disorganized Confederates was inevitable. That argument had never ceased, those commanders loyal to Grant insisting Buell was simply late to the party, picking up the pieces. Buell and Thomas had a very different take, had chafed mightily under what was becoming the official version of events, the War Department giving the public an unsatisfying blend of the two sides, as though Edwin Stanton, and possibly Abraham Lincoln, chose to walk the fence, neither offending nor glorifying either Grant or Buell. But now Buell was gone, sitting in some office in Indianapolis, “awaiting orders,” a sentence imposed on him by Washington for what the public perceived as a string of failures
against Braxton Bragg in Tennessee and Kentucky. As Buell fell out of favor in Washington, his command had been offered to Thomas, an opportunity Thomas had refused. He respected Buell, but Thomas had more respect for William Rosecrans, believed that he was the better man for that job. And now Rosecrans was suffering the same fate as Buell, shoved into an official closet, while Washington sought out the next general to toss into the fire. Thomas knew his name was trumpeted about Washington, though he never campaigned for anything beyond the care of his men. But newspapers fueled public opinion, and Thomas wasn’t naïve, knew that the War Department might bend to the pressure of all that shouting about Thomas’s army-saving stand at Chickamauga. He still downplayed that, hated the nickname now floating about, many of the newspapers hanging the moniker on him of the
Rock of Chickamauga
. The men loved that, of course, saluted him with heavy compliments everywhere he went, more so now that he had been called upon to slip into Rosecrans’s shoes. But Secretary Stanton had been praising Thomas a little too loudly for Thomas’s comfort, hints that much more was in store for Thomas, should he perform more successfully than his predecessor. What Thomas did not expect was that Grant would get that nod instead, and Thomas couldn’t help wondering if Stanton’s flowery praise was designed to soften the blow of Grant’s promotion, that Thomas had never really been considered for any higher post than he had now. It was the kind of duplicity Thomas had become accustomed to, that every general had his champion in Washington, until he fell on his face, or a better general could be found. Thomas just didn’t expect that man to be Grant.

Thomas welcomed the word that serious numbers of reinforcements were pouring toward Chattanooga. The rebel siege had impacted the Federal forces far more drastically than Rosecrans seemed able to handle. Thomas had acted under Rosecrans’s orders, had strengthened the defenses close to Chattanooga into an impregnable line, manned by troops who seemed to accept the despair of Bragg’s siege with a spirit that surprised even Thomas. Officially the men were on quarter rations, but that was fantasy. Throughout the town, and out on the lone trail that brought the meager supplies, soldiers gathered in hordes, raiding those few wagons that carried corn for
the animals, scrounging the roadway for anything edible that might have jostled off the wagons into the mud. Some of the teamsters had hauled their wagons away for good, too frightened by the drawn faces and fierce hunger of the men who took matters into their own hands, violently pirating a wagon for themselves, no matter the cargo. Feeding the army was the highest priority, and Thomas had gone much further than Rosecrans, working late nights to devise some plan to relieve the suffering of the men by opening up a channel, either by water or land, where supplies might reach them.

There was danger as well from Bragg, a threat that had seemed to push Rosecrans further into a state of panic. Bragg’s army was holding their ground on the ridges, on Lookout Mountain, but Thomas understood that Bragg might move after all, and not toward Chattanooga. Rosecrans’s greatest accomplishment had been the sly maneuver that had tricked Bragg into abandoning Chattanooga months before, the feints and jabs that convinced Bragg that unless he pulled away from the town, and backed his army into Georgia, Rosecrans was likely to surround him. The maneuver worked, which only added to the impact of the failure at Chickamauga, Bragg righting his own ship, shoving the Federal army back to Chattanooga. Now Thomas had to fear that Bragg would make the same maneuver, driving his army westward perhaps, beyond Lookout Mountain, circling up to the west and north of Chattanooga, cutting off the Army of the Cumberland from any supply line at all. Thomas knew the possibilities, that Bragg might also shift northward, threatening Chattanooga from above. Rumors still, birthed by the grandiose claims of rebel deserters that Robert E. Lee himself was on the way, or at least a huge portion of his army, crossing the Appalachian Mountains in a thrust that would obliterate Thomas’s command. That panic erupted from the War Department as well, Henry Halleck playing straight into the hands of the rebels by believing the rumor was true. Thomas knew that panic was his worst enemy, that all around him, men were hungry, low on ammunition, burning houses for firewood. No matter how many hordes of rebels might be descending on his camps, if the men couldn’t find rations, and quickly, none of that would matter.

Grant’s arrival had been a surprise, and not because of the man’s new authority. Thomas had watched Grant’s entrance with curiosity,
his slovenly appearance, crutches and all. There was no dress uniform, no grand show of military formality. In front of the great warm fireplace, Thomas had waited for the ceremony, one of Grant’s aides reading some official order, telling Thomas exactly where he ranked, as though Thomas needed to be reminded. He had been caught off guard by Grant’s silence, couldn’t avoid feeling impressed by Grant’s commitment, riding to Chattanooga as quickly as he could, taking the only route open to the Federal forces, and braving the miserable ride with a crippled leg. But the awkwardness had been just that. His reception for Grant and his staff wasn’t rooted in disrespect. Thomas simply didn’t know what to do.

For the rest of that evening, Thomas and his senior officers had done only what Grant seemed to want, had laid out the specifics of the crisis that surrounded the Army of the Cumberland. Thomas had hoped for more input from Grant himself, what he expected of them, and more, what Grant was adding to this fight. For a long hour, Grant had sat expressionless, and Thomas began to feel a nervous itch, that perhaps Grant was overwhelmed by the task at hand, that what the officers were telling him was just too much for him to absorb. But then there was a change. The officer who stepped up was “Baldy” Smith, the Army of the Cumberland’s chief engineer. Smith had offered Grant details of a possible assault on rebel forces that might accomplish two enormous objectives. One would be to push the rebels away from a lengthy portion of the Tennessee River, allowing boat traffic to resume on a route much closer to Chattanooga than they could safely travel now. The second had surprised even Thomas. Smith was convinced that if the Federal strike was energetic enough, it could shove the rebels back far enough from the river to give the men in blue a bridgehead on the far side of the river. It might create the opening they would need, not only to expand the Cracker Line, but to break out of Chattanooga altogether. Then came the greatest surprise of all for Thomas. Grant’s entire demeanor abruptly changed, and with each of Thomas’s officers completing their reports, Grant suddenly turned inquisitor, ripping through the room with questions, clearly absorbing every detail offered him. If Thomas suspected that Grant’s appointment might be little more than a political reward
for success at Vicksburg, by the end of the evening, Thomas began to feel that Grant might actually know what he was doing.

They eased along on foot, Thomas following up behind Grant, who hobbled close behind Baldy Smith. The staffs had spread out in all directions, alerting the skirmishers who held position on the Federal side of the river. Thomas had done this before, knew the ground, knew that as the engineer, Smith had covered every foot of shoreline along the river, seeking the opportunity to exploit any weakness in the rebel positions.

The rains had mostly stopped, but the mud was deep and cumbersome, and Thomas watched as Grant struggled, a step at a time, soft grunts from Grant that he most certainly tried to hide. Up ahead, Smith stopped, waited with jumpy impatience, the mind of the engineer already working, designing, picturing what might happen now. Thomas liked Smith, appreciated brilliance when a man knew how to put it to good use. Smith was doing so now. The greatest challenge might be to convince Grant that any plan would work.

William “Baldy” Smith had graduated from West Point two years after Grant, and five after Thomas, and his accomplishments at the Academy had surpassed either one. Smith had graduated fourth in a class of forty-one, had excelled at engineering, immediately earning a position as a professor at West Point, teaching not only engineering but mathematics. In the aftermath of the Federal army’s bloody failure at Fredericksburg, Smith’s outrage had been equal to anyone who observed Ambrose Burnside’s disastrous handling of the battle, but his public calls for Burnside’s dismissal had caught the ear of too many in Washington. After Gettysburg, he assisted George Meade’s pursuit of Lee’s beaten army, but the War Department continued to believe that Smith’s tendency toward criticism of his superiors wasn’t appropriate. Smith fell back on his considerable talent for engineering, and secured an appointment as the chief engineer for the Army
of the Cumberland. Thomas had no real feelings for Smith’s temperament one way or the other, but he welcomed the man’s expertise. If the Army of the Cumberland were to break Bragg’s siege, Thomas was confident that Smith would find the way.

Thomas stepped up close to Smith, only feet from the riverbank, Grant settling into position on the other side. Smith was animated, looked out in both directions, as though searching for something. He pointed straight across the river.

“That’s the best place, by far. The gap between Lookout Creek and Raccoon Mountain. The enemy is all over the big mountain, and is probably in force on Raccoon, with people strung out through the valley in between. If we’re quick about it, and hit them hard, I believe we can cut off a sizable portion of whoever’s troops are on Raccoon. They’ll have to withdraw, and take their artillery with them. Once that’s accomplished, this entire section of the river, all the way back to Bridgeport, will be in our control.”

The man’s enthusiasm was usually infectious, but Thomas watched Grant, saw little reaction. Grant smoked a cigar, stared out from under his slouching hat, toward the far side of the river. Behind them, a burst of noise rose up from a low wooded area, something Thomas had heard before. Grant looked that way, said, “What in blazes is that?”

Smith seemed to inflate, pointed back to the thicket behind them. “Sawmill, sir. I made use of a steam engine from a factory in the town, had the men haul it out here, and now, we’re cutting planks. It’s how we were able to construct the pontoon bridge at the town. We’re also in the process of constructing a riverboat. It is expected that the boat could be put to considerable use once this line of passage is opened.”