The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (27 page)

The Federal plan created by Baldy Smith came to life just after midnight on October 27. From a landing just above Chattanooga, more than fifty pontoon boats and a ragtag assortment of small transports slipped silently into black water, most carrying twenty-five men each. The orders had been given to the Federal troops only hours before, that their only encumbrance would be their muskets and a fully loaded cartridge box. Once on the river, the current did the work, the boats guided only by oarsmen, ordered to keep the boats as close as possible to their own, northern, side of the river. Silence was essential. For nine miles, the flotilla slipped past camps of the pickets on both sides, the Federal skirmishers hastily ordered into silence, the rebels across from them completely unaware what was moving past them. With extraordinary discipline, the brigade of William B. Hazen, men from Kentucky and Ohio, floated past campfires of rebels in plain view, avoiding any temptation to take a potshot at an unsuspecting enemy. After a gut-twisting journey of nearly three hours, the first of Hazen’s men could see large, well-tended fires on their own side of the river, signal fires to tell the oarsmen exactly the point they were to make their landing, straight
across the waterway, the gap in the steep riverbank the maps called Brown’s Ferry. The landings would be made downriver as well, another quarter mile, the boats to disgorge their passengers with speed and silence, General Smith’s agonizing hope that the landings would not be detected until the men were ashore.

At roughly four in the morning, the first of the boats slid into the muddy bank. In short minutes, Hazen’s men were up and out of the boats, muskets ready, facing the shock and surprise of the rebels, who had no idea what was happening. Within seconds of the first burst of sound, rebel pickets responded, firing blindly at what was now an obvious attack. The rebels were experienced veterans, Alabamans under the command of William C. Oates, the same man who only months before had assaulted the far left flank of the Union position during the second day’s fight at Gettysburg, the hill they now called Little Round Top. Oates had viewed his position at Brown’s Ferry with concern, had asked for reinforcements to bolster the meager forces sent to protect what had once been a well-used river crossing. But Oates had been ignored, and despite his best efforts at a counterattack, the Confederates along the river were too few. On the Federal side of the river, a second brigade, under General John Turchin, Ohioans and Indianans, waited in the dark silence, close by the landing, knowing only that when the first landings had been completed, the now-empty boats would slip quickly across and transport them as well, adding considerable strength to Hazen’s efforts. As the sun rose, the Federal troops pushed inland, establishing a bridgehead on the southern side of the river that the rebels were helpless to stop. With axes and shovels, the Federal troops strengthened their position, pushing up earthworks and felled timber. Immediately Federal engineers worked to lay the pontoon bridge that Smith’s sawmill had constructed, the pathway that would bring even more Federal troops directly across the river. Smith’s plan had anticipated a heavy rebel effort to shove the Federals back, but that effort never came. Oates, badly wounded, conceded the position, and sent word to his commander, Evander Law, that Brown’s Ferry was now in Federal hands. In barely an hour’s time, Hazen and Turchin had begun to anchor more than five thousand Federal troops on the southern side of the river.

By late that afternoon, with the Federals well protected by a strong defensive line, it was clear to Ulysses Grant and George Thomas that Baldy Smith’s plan had not only been successful, but had come with a minimal cost in casualties. All that remained for the plan to be completed was the arrival of Joe Hooker’s divisions, making their march on the southern side of the Tennessee River, pushing up around the southern base of Raccoon Mountain.

Bragg had ridden up the long trail to the peak of the mountain in a red-faced rage. The messages had come down from Longstreet all
throughout the day before that the Yankees had come across the river, what Longstreet termed a minor incursion. Bragg had responded with messages of his own, adamant in his orders that Longstreet make every effort to drive the Yankees back, securing Brown’s Ferry once more. But Longstreet’s response had been muted, what Colonel Brent described as timid. To Bragg it was insubordination, plain and simple. The next morning, with no satisfactory response coming down from Longstreet at all, Bragg made the decision to ride up to the crest of the great peak, to find Longstreet, and issue the orders straight into the man’s face. If Longstreet had no interest in fighting this war Bragg’s way, Bragg would issue those orders himself, directly to Longstreet’s commanders.

“I assure you, this effort by the enemy was only a diversion. I was very clear about that yesterday. It is of little concern.”

Bragg rocked on his boot heels, Longstreet’s casual arrogance drilling a hole through the searing headache already nesting in his brain. Bragg avoided Longstreet’s eyes, stared past him, to the gray sky beyond the rocky peak. He tried to control his temper, but the rage had blossomed all along the annoying ride up the mountain, and Bragg felt an enormous urge to strangle the larger man right on the spot. He knew both staffs were listening to everything being said, Bragg’s men in particular anticipating an explosion that one lieutenant had unwisely joked might be heard in Chattanooga. That man had been sent back to Missionary Ridge; Bragg had no patience at all for humor at his own expense.

Below them, far down the face of the sloping rocks, artillery thumped and thundered, streaks of fire launching out toward the Federal batteries at Moccasin Point, those guns answering with fire of their own. But the effect was well away from the crest of the mountain, what Bragg had come to believe was little more than a noisy game played by bored artillerymen. Bragg ignored that, focused all his attention on Longstreet, who turned away from him, staring out, as though watching a scattering of soaring birds. Bragg’s fists were tightly clenched, the words coming in a low, hard growl.

“There was a considerable skirmish, so I was told. You did not see fit to investigate?”

Longstreet did not look at him, kept his stare toward Chattanooga, a foggy haze drifting past, obscuring the valley below them.

“It is a diversion. They will come at us here. I believe they will drive up from the south. Already, my signalmen and the cavalry patrols report a significant Federal force on the march below the river, and I expect those troops are intending to march south of this mountain, possibly another push toward the same battlefield that still holds their blood. Pride, I suppose. If they are successful in maneuvering that far south of our position, this mountain will become useless to us, a trap. If I ignore that, and commit my troops in a futile effort to address the enemy’s grand show at Brown’s Ferry, I will not have accomplished anything of import, and it will certainly cost us casualties.”

There was little energy in Longstreet’s words, a hint that Longstreet was no happier to be in this position than Bragg was to have him here. Bragg had arrived at Longstreet’s headquarters fully expecting an argument, but not like this. Longstreet seemed filled with a hard gloom that was infecting even his staff.

“General Longstreet, we cannot allow the enemy to hold a strong position on this side of the river. All our efforts at a siege … to starve him out … will have gone for naught. If we cannot keep control of this side of the river, we cannot stop his efforts to resupply. Do you not see that?” Bragg’s anger had wilted, the headache crushing him, new pains in his stomach now blooming into full force; he had no fire at all. “I am in command here. I ordered you to engage the enemy yesterday. To halt their efforts.”

Longstreet continued to look away, his hands clasped behind his back, a small pipe clamped in his mouth. “Their intentions have not yet been made known to us. The cavalry reports that General Hooker has sent at least two divisions south, across the river at Bridgeport. That’s all I know. There is no certainty of their destination, but if I was General Hooker, I would march those men south of this mountain and drive right up our backsides. From Chattanooga, this mountain appears formidable, but the slope to the south is far more accessible.
Without a strong force guarding the various passes, we cannot hope to hold him away. I do not have strength enough to defend against a significant advance from more than one direction at a time. If I spread my forces thin, the consequences will be considerable. Your orders were received. But you were not
here
. You have not been here at all to my knowledge, to see the disposition of my troops. I accepted the responsibility to protect this position the most effective way possible. Is that not clear to
you
?”

Bragg tried to find the rage again, his mind picking up pieces of what Longstreet was saying. There was logic to the strategy, which drained Bragg even more.

“Why was I not informed of the enemy’s movements south of the river?”

Longstreet faced him now, seemed puzzled. “I sent word that I was preparing to defend the passes to the south, anticipating the enemy’s advance from that direction. Did you not receive that?”

Bragg rolled the details through his head, was puzzled himself now, said, “I thought it prudent that you defend any place the enemy could attack. But, then, he
did
attack. He has a considerable lodgment now at Brown’s Ferry.”

Longstreet looked away again. “My message was clear. Brown’s Ferry is a diversion.”

“My orders were clear as well!”

The outburst blew across the hillside, faces turning, and Bragg took a single step closer to Longstreet, who seemed determined not to notice. Bragg was aware of the faces watching him, struggled to hold himself calm. He lowered his voice, another growl.

“I do not know how General Lee manages his army. But here, you do not choose which orders are acceptable.”

Longstreet looked at him, grim, silent eyes, removed his hat, ran a hand through his hair, one hand pulling the pipe from his mouth. Bragg tried to stand taller, the ailments pulling him downward, and Bragg felt the man’s strength, the pure stubbornness.

Now it was Longstreet who spoke softly. “General Bragg, there is nothing here that compares to my experiences with General Lee. The general has respect for his subordinates. You do not. If you wish to
place yourself in my headquarters, and observe the enemy as I observe him, please do so. I made my decisions based on the most efficient way to employ the forces at my disposal. You may disagree with my decision. But you will not order me to waste an army that is precious to me, as it is precious to General Lee.”

Bragg caught the smell of Longstreet’s breath, hot and bitter, the pipe jammed again into Longstreet’s mouth. Longstreet stared hard at him, waited for a response, and Bragg fought the urge still to lunge at the man, to wrap his fingers around Longstreet’s neck, to choke his life away.

“I gave you an order—”

“Sir! General Longstreet! The enemy, sir!”

Bragg forced himself to look that way, Longstreet turning as well. The man was running, pointing to the west, away from the crest of the enormous hill. Longstreet’s adjutant intercepted him, a quick harsh word, but the man was animated, called out again, “Sir! The enemy is in force in the valley!”

Longstreet stepped that way, said, “Leave him be, Major. Are there more definite signals from the lookouts? Which direction are they moving?”

“Sir, a considerable force is marching northward, near the base of this here mountain. It appears to be a full division, sir!”

Longstreet looked back at Bragg, and Bragg focused on the soldier, saw the panic on the man’s sweating face. Bragg still felt the anger, directed it now toward the soldier.

“I do not endorse such sensational alarms. I wish more evidence than the scattered musings of some signalman.”

The man puffed up, and Longstreet’s aide said, “Sergeant, you will watch your tongue.”

The man was clearly exasperated, said now to Bragg, “Sir! There is more than a signal. If you wish, you can observe the enemy yourself!”