The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (28 page)

The man turned, as though ready to guide them, and Longstreet said to Bragg, “I suppose we should have a look. If you approve, of course.”

They stood on a thick outcropping of rock, the valley to the west of the great mountain curving out far below them, wide and green. Through the floor of the open ground wound a railroad and a roadway, both flanking a narrow stream, Lookout Creek, that flowed directly into the Tennessee. Bragg stared down through his field glasses, Longstreet beside him, doing the same. A cluster of officers had gathered behind them, low talk Bragg ignored. Along the road at the base of the hill he could clearly see the snaking column of blue, driving northward, pushing their way toward the new Federal stronghold at Brown’s Ferry. He lowered the glasses, his hands too unsteady, hot frustration, the anger choking away his words. Longstreet kept the glasses to his eyes, said, “Near five thousand. They’re moving to join those boys at the river.” Longstreet paused, his words now barely audible. “Didn’t expect that.”

Bragg wrapped his fury around Longstreet’s admission, but there was no time now for useless arguments. He tried to focus, more low words from Longstreet.

“Farther down. Another division. Separate. Holding back at that town … Wauhatchie. They might still move east, circle behind us.”

Bragg swung around sharply to Longstreet. “I believe the enemy has now made his intentions known. Even to
you
. You will attack their line of march as quickly as is practicable, and make use of your entire corps. The enemy is intending to force this position from the west, from the valley right below us! I have no doubt about that. He has already forced open the means to resupply his position in Chattanooga.” Bragg paused, tried to see again through the field glasses, a hint of flags, the line of blue still in motion. “Unless you remove those people from this valley … they will have the means to resupply. We will have failed to accomplish our goal. They will have broken the siege. You must prevent that.”

Bragg turned, his voice fading away. He saw his staff, expectant, some climbing onto horses, saw fear and concern in their faces. He left Longstreet, moved toward a groom holding the reins to his horse, snatched the leather straps from the man’s hand. He took a long breath, pulled himself up on the horse. Longstreet was still staring out through the field glasses, a useless show, and Bragg shouted now, no concern for decorum, for any show of respect at all.

“You will carry out my orders! You will employ your entire corps, if necessary!” Bragg paused, thought suddenly of the obvious. “You will also learn why your cavalry did not report this column hours ago!”

He spun the horse, the aides mounting up as well, his color bearer moving in behind him. He spurred the animal hard, moved past Longstreet’s staff, others, scattered squads of infantry, a battery of cannon, the men scrambling to salute him. He ignored them all, his stare fixed on the far distant Missionary Ridge. He spoke now, to no one, to everyone, to anyone who heard him.

“He will pay … he will suffer for this. I will not have such men. He is overrated in every extreme. His lack of ability … his lack of obedience … cannot be tolerated.”

The words continued, his mind rattling out curses, his staff following down the steep, rocky trail, the road back to his headquarters.

The march had been like so many others, a full day on roads made dusty by the footsteps of a column miles long. Geary’s division had moved out from the river crossing at Bridgeport last in line, and already, most of Joe Hooker’s newly arrived army was pushing far ahead, aiming for a rendezvous with the growing Federal presence south of the Tennessee River at Brown’s Ferry.

The route of march took them past low rolling hills and fat mountains, and Bauer was struck by the beauty of the place, the hillsides green and misty, the road sometimes wrapped in every direction by the lush forests that rose up close enough to hide the sunlight. The hills gave way to bowl-shaped valleys, lush and fertile, with only a scattering of meager farms. The civilians here seemed unaware a war was being fought at all, some coming out to watch the soldiers pass with looks that spoke more of curiosity than hostility. Some were more generous to the men in blue than Bauer had ever seen before, farmers and their families offering barrels of cool water pulled up from deep wells, some with milk cows right along the road, pails of rich milk, a luxury these troops had not enjoyed in a long time. Women appeared, mostly wives and daughters of the families who
worked the rugged land, a playful flirtatiousness Bauer had seen before. No matter their obvious charms, the blushing smiles and friendly calls, there was still a tinge of fear in the women that made Bauer uncomfortable. Most of the soldiers had seen these kinds of displays in the past, many long marches through lands where the civilians flocked to the roadsides. But these people had likely never seen a column of soldiers, not like this, thousands of men in a steady stream, all those uniforms and so much weaponry. For all their welcoming greetings, Bauer could see hints of intimidation, a fear of the unknown, that Bauer knew might be justified. There were too many stories in this army about abuse and plunder, the worst in the violations of women, a kind of violence the army handled with ruthless punishment.

Bauer was relieved to hear that these Pennsylvanians didn’t carry the blatant hostility toward civilians he had seen in Mississippi. There the slaveholders inspired a wrath from the troops that surprised him, especially when those feelings infected
him
. All throughout the Vicksburg campaign, the march through the villages and vast plantations, the slaves had emerged from their fields and homesteads, flocking gleefully to the blue-clad troops, the soldiers entertained by salutes and joyful greetings for “Missuh Lincom’s boys.” Many of those slaves had been abandoned by their masters, and so the Negroes abandoned the plantations that had kept them captive. They fell into line, following along behind the soldiers as in a holiday parade. Bauer had marveled at that, curious about the Negroes, so many of the Wisconsin men rarely ever seeing a black man at all. As the Federal column wound its way through the plantations, the outpouring of jubilation from the Negroes had added to the morale of the troops who were whipping the rebels at every turn. The campaign had belonged to Grant, to be sure, the general’s reputation among the politicians now eclipsing every other general in blue. But it was the soldiers who fought the good fight, and who, like Bauer now, carried the pride of an army that had not been defeated. The freed slaves had been a symbol of that, and some of the troops had taken the symbolism a step further, putting the torch to the grand mansions that might still house the white slaveholders. Bauer had been shocked at the viciousness from the men around him, until he had felt it himself. The
civilians could be as dangerous as the rebel soldiers, potshots from primitive flintlocks aimed at the passing column, rocks hurled from hidden places. As more slaves sought the sanctuary of the passing army, the tolerance from the soldiers for the grandeur of the plantation homes had turned sour, the response toward any real threat brutal and swift. Bauer had thrown a torch of his own through window glass, had absorbed too much vitriolic spew tossed from behind curtained windows.

But that was Mississippi.

With darkness settling through the green around them, the footsore troops were ordered into camps in a wooded plain near Wauhatchie, a nondescript village nestled in the valley that was flanked now by Raccoon Mountain to the west, and the enormous mass of Lookout Mountain to the east. To the east, closer to the base of the larger mountain, a wide creek flowed northward, flanked by a rail line that extended north and south, Bauer surprised to hear that the state of Georgia was only a few miles below them. As the soldiers pitched their small tents, the people accepted their presence with the same odd gratitude that Bauer had seen all through this part of Tennessee. The faces were smiling, the waves friendly, several older men of the village seeking out the commanders, offering information on the rebels. Whether or not any of that was useful or accurate, Bauer only knew that these people, who seemed so isolated from the rest of the Confederacy, were genuinely happy that the Federal troops had chosen their town for their camp.

The tents had been pitched, the officers gathering close to their superiors, orders passed for what they were expected to do tomorrow. One farmer in particular had spread alarm that an enormous mass of rebels was camped close by, not much more than a mile away, on the far side of Lookout Creek. As the daylight faded away in the deep trough between the two great hills, some of the men held tightly to their muskets, fearing that the rumors were accurate, that the enemy might be slipping toward them through the deep woods. The others, like Bauer, knew that a fight in the darkness was rare, and so the fires blazed high.

The fires rose all through the various regiments, no shortage of firewood anywhere around them. Bauer sat cross-legged, chewed on
a greasy slab of dried bacon. He had copied the others, piercing the meat with a stick, holding it over the fire, the pop and sizzle of the fat spreading a marvelous odor. Bauer struggled to chew through the tough meat, the usual routine, caught a glimpse of the man beside him producing a small silver flask, a quick sip of what Bauer assumed to be a beverage more potent than spring water. But the man wasn’t discreet enough for the men around him, who had no doubt watched that exercise before. Across from Bauer, through the fire, another man said, “Hey, Zane. At it again? You still not gonna share? Pretty dang rude, if you ask me.”

There was a playfulness to the talk, and Bauer looked at Zane, saw the flask slip away quickly into a pocket.

“Ain’t got enough even for me. Ain’t even got my lips wet. Mind yourself.”

On Bauer’s other side, a man nudged Bauer’s shoulder.

“He’s never without that dang whiskey. Won’t never tell us where he gets it. Hey, Zane, you been shinin’ some general’s boots?”

The man didn’t respond, made a show of gnawing on a piece of meat.

The man across from Bauer said, “I bet he’s got a whiskey still somewhere’s back there. You must be rich. You have your pappy bring you your own wagon? That’s it, ain’t it? Makes his own brew. I’ll find out, sooner or later.”

The others joined in, good-natured chatter aimed at the man Bauer studied now, who seemed uneasy, self-conscious as he pretended to struggle with the bacon.

He looked back at Bauer, said, “Hey, Regular Army. You mind yourself. I ain’t seen
you
offer nothing to none of us.”

Bauer knew he was the outsider, a natural target for taunts and teases. It had been that way through his first weeks in the 17th Wisconsin, the Irishmen only accepting this German after Bauer showed them he could fight. He was curious about these Easterners, saw little difference between their ways and anything he had gone through before. He only knew of Gettysburg from what little the Wisconsin officers had passed along, had a curiosity about that, wondered if what these men had done in Pennsylvania was any different from what Bauer had been through at Shiloh the year before. But there was no
talk about that, and Bauer knew enough of veterans not to ask. If they wanted to tell their stories, they would.

“I’m not messing with you, Zane. Don’t drink much of nothing stronger than water. Maybe coffee, when we can get it.”

The talk seemed to slow, the subject exhausted, and Bauer realized most of the dozen men were staring at him, something he couldn’t quite get used to. To one side, a man said, “You think being a regular soldier makes you better’n us?”

It was the kind of question Bauer dreaded, and expected. “Not a bit. But I’m betting that every one of you wishes you were back home right now. Families, children, all that?”

There was a low hum of comments, heads nodding. The man kept his stare on Bauer, an edge of hostility.

“Ain’t you? You some kind of outcast? You escape from prison or something?”

Bauer knew the man was picking a fight, aiming his wrath at the only target presenting itself: the man who wasn’t one of them.