The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (37 page)

The provosts and the gathering soldiers had seemed to quiet the crowd, one officer standing high on a crate of some kind, commanding attention. Grant rode up closer, annoyed by his own curiosity, and the officer spotted him, a major Grant had seen before. The man seemed relieved to see him.

“Sir! Thank goodness, sir. These women have grievances.”

The women seemed to turn toward him in unison, no one seeming impressed with the slouching man in the plain blue coat. One woman stepped toward him now, restrained by a pair of guards, called out to him, “If ye be some kind of commander here, then ye be knowin’ how your army has done desecrated our homes! There’s not a morsel of grain to be had, the babies are going hungry. The cattle are butchered without any compensation. My own boy, Henry, has been sent away!”

Grant held up his hand to her. “Wait. Your son was sent away? By whom? Where?”

“Not my son, you bluebelly scoundrel. My boy! Your blue devils have set them free, scattered them anywhere they wanted to go! They done left us with no help, nothing to tide us through!”

Dana was close beside him now. “General, I do believe she is referring to her slave.”

“Yes, you varmint! If my husband was here, he’d show you how a man stands up for himself. But he’s off digging roots, so we can eat!”

Dana seemed to ignite now, nudged his horse ahead of Grant. “So, your husband sends his wife to do his complaining for him? Your slaves have been freed, and you would blame that on this army?”

Grant was surprised by the genuine fury in Dana’s voice, moved up again, leaned over to him. “Easy, Mr. Dana. Let’s allow the guards to handle this. Major, please have these people return to their homes. If the commissary can spare some grain, corn, flour, anything of the sort, see that the citizens are provided for.” Grant looked again at the woman, no change in her hostility. “As for you, madam, I am General Grant. Please return to your husband, and give him my respects, and assure him that he need not gather roots. But he will also make no effort to gather up your slaves. According to the president of the United States, those men are citizens just like yourselves, and shall be regarded as such.”

“You shall burn in hell, all of ye!”

Grant saw another platoon of soldiers coming in close, order restored, the women starting to scatter. He looked again at the angry woman, saw the finery of her dress, a gold pin at her throat.

“You might be correct, madam. But we who travel to hell shall have ample company from people like you.”

He didn’t wait for a response, turned the horse, Dana following him at a slow gallop.

“That was … amazing! That woman. Have you ever seen such arrogance?”

Grant stared away, the anger still boiling up, but he kept it in, wouldn’t show it to Dana. “Yes, Mr. Dana. There is arrogance aplenty
on both sides of this war. You know that better than anyone. I admit to being surprised.”

“At me, sir? I regret my outburst, my unseemly behavior. I have no authority here to speak in such a way.”

“Not you. Your outrage is admirable.
Her
. A slaveholder. Hadn’t given that much thought since I arrived here. In Mississippi, plantations were everywhere. Slaves by the score, by the thousands. Not nearly so many around here. It’s the land, I suppose. No need for slave labor in a place that’s mostly rocks.”

“But so many women. That was a surprise.”

“Not so. If her husband was out digging roots, I’m an elephant’s toenail. The men stay away, know full well that if they raise an unholy ruckus, we might slap ’em in the stockade. The women can shout out most anything they please, and we’ll treat them with a little more decorum. Not sure how long that will last. One of those genteel Southern belles might have had a pistol in her underpinnings. Something like that can turn ugly very quickly.”

Dana looked back toward the street, eyes wide. “Never thought of that.”

“It’s a war, Mr. Dana. Just because they’re in dresses doesn’t mean they’re harmless.”

“But … what about what she said … the food?”

“We’ll take care of that. But she’s got plenty. I’ve sympathy for the poor ones, Mr. Dana, the ones we put out of their homes, the ones who get caught in the middle of something they can’t help. But she’s a leader. You can tell it by her carriage, by her dress, by the way the others shut up and let her talk for ’em. No sympathy for those people. None. That’s who started this war. That’s who convinced all those others to send their sons off to shoot at us. Now the war’s hit her where it hurts. Took away her slaves. That’s a really good thing, Mr. Dana, a really good thing. That may be as important as any battle we fight with those boys on those hills. The president’s emancipation order freed their slaves, and when we march through this countryside, we’re enforcing that. We take away their ability to plant their crops next spring? To grow cotton or tobacco they can sell to whoever’s buying, whoever’s out there helping them? That’s gonna squeeze them hard.”

“You mean … the British?”

“Maybe. That’s not my responsibility, Mr. Dana. My job is to deal with that army up on those hills.”

“Hey there! Halloo, gentlemen!”

Grant saw a man jogging slowly toward him, a civilian, a small box in his hand. Grant glanced back, saw Captain Osband, his cavalry guards there, knew they were never far away. Osband spurred his horse, held a pistol in his hand. Grant looked again at the civilian, the man eyeing the cavalryman, dropping the box, his hands in the air.

“Please, sir! I’ve no weapon! My name is Horatio Grumbach. I’m a merchant hereabouts.”

Osband moved up close to Grant, and Grant said, “It’s all right, for now. Let’s see what Mr. Grumbach is offering.”

The man seemed to know his way was clear, reached down for the box, beaming a salesman’s smile.

“Thank you! Yes, indeed.” He looked to the captain, who kept the pistol in his hand. “You, too, fine sir! I’ve only good to offer, only good, I assure you! Allow me to open this case.”

Osband said, “Very slowly, sir.”

“Ah, yes, of course! No threat here, none! Look! Very valuable! And these can be yours for very little!”

Grant was curious now, Grumbach stepping closer, the box held open.

“What is that? Photographic cards?”

“
Carte de visites
, sir! And the image is not just anyone. This is your rare opportunity to own a likeness of General Grant himself! I cannot make this offer to anyone else. I’ve only the … um … three artifacts, taken in the heat of battle!”

Grant looked into the box, said, “May I see one of those?”

“Ah, yes. Examine the merchandise, by all means. Only twenty-five cents each, sir. One quarter of a dollar! A pittance for a fine gentleman such as your friend here.” Grant realized the man was motioning to Dana, fought hard to hide his smile. He held up a piece of stiff paper, saw the image of an officer, holding a sword, staring back at him with a cartoonish anger, as though intending something dangerous. Grant glanced down, saw two more in the box, identical,
and the man said, “There you have it, sir! General Grant, a vision of heroism!”

Grant smiled, handed the card to Dana. Dana said, “What? Who is this?”

“Why, that’s General Grant himself, sir! Notice the fire in the eyes, the sign of a stout heart! The pure image of courage!”

Dana stared wide-eyed, looked at Grant now, and Grant felt the laughter coming, couldn’t hold it, the first real laugh he had enjoyed in weeks. Dana seemed to fall into Grant’s good humor, smiled, looked at the salesman, said, “Sir, how much for all three?”

“Oh, well now, perhaps fifty cents for the lot. Likenesses of General Grant are extremely hard to come by.”

Grant looked toward Osband now, said, “Yes, my good man, they certainly are. Captain Osband, please take this man into custody, and have him arrested for fraud.”

Grumbach lost his glad-handing smile, said, “Why, whatever for?”

Grant leaned down, tilted his hat back on his head. “Mr. Dana, would you like to explain?”

“With pleasure, sir. Mr. Grumbach, I wish to introduce to you, in all his glory and with a stout heart and fiery eyes, General Ulysses Grant.”

“There. To the right of that pair of trees. Right at the crest.”

Dana looked through field glasses of his own, said, “Yes, I see it. You certain, sir?”

“Pretty certain. Some of the scouts go up a whole lot closer than this. Plus, there’s deserters. Those fellows always seem eager to impress us with all that they know, how important they are. If they can convince us they have real good information, they know we’ll reward them for it. That’s one way we confirmed the location of Bragg’s headquarters.”

“So, that house is Bragg’s headquarters?”

“Yep.”

“Why don’t we shell it, begging your pardon, sir?”

Grant sniffed, tossed the spent cigar to one side, thought, Civilians.

“Too far, for one thing. Too high up for the artillery to get the range. And, the more I think about it, Mr. Dana, the more I’m convinced that the greatest advantage we might have in this fight is the man up there who commands the enemy. We knock Bragg down, they might find someone else who’s better. At least, for now, we know what we’re facing.”

“Do we know, sir, why he sent Longstreet away? Something perhaps you haven’t said to General Thomas? If I may be so bold to ask, sir. But you understand. I must report what I can to Secretary Stanton.”

“We have scouts, Mr. Dana. But I have yet to find a spy capable enough to sit on Bragg’s staff. In time, perhaps.”

The name bounced through him now, his old friend, Pete Longstreet. The thought suddenly erupted through his brain. Longstreet is after all … Longstreet. Came down here figuring he’d take command, probably with Lee’s blessing. But then he runs into another old mule in Braxton Bragg. I’ll wager they stood toe-to-toe, like a couple of bantam roosters. But Jefferson Davis has treated Bragg like a favorite son, so that’s a fight Longstreet can’t win.
Didn’t
win. And now, Longstreet is gone. But Halleck insists we can bring him back, just so we can save Burnside. I suppose that’s what I have to do.

“Mr. Dana, I should return to my headquarters. It’s imperative I complete my orders to General Thomas. I’ll provide you a copy, of course, since you’re going to find one anyway. Then you may send your report to Washington. I’m tired of this place, Mr. Dana. It’s time to move.”

The order had dug at Thomas like a needle in his aching back. Grant’s impatience was obvious, the orders calling for an immediate strike at what was assumed to be Bragg’s right flank, the northern reaches of Missionary Ridge. But Thomas had surveyed this ground far longer than Grant, had intended first to assault the rebel position on Lookout Mountain, where Joe Hooker’s troops were camped close up to the base of the enormous heights. Thus far, the rebels had made no real forays off his protection on the highest ground, but Thomas could not fathom that Bragg would simply sit still while Grant’s army was growing stronger. To Thomas, Bragg’s most logical option would be to launch an assault down into Lookout Valley, straight at Hooker, an attempt to crush the supply lines. Thomas had done all he could to convince Hooker to prepare a strong defensive line. To Thomas’s dismay, Hooker had fared poorly in preparing any kind of position at all. Earthworks were barely in existence, and the few rifle pits were dug in haphazard patterns, as though Hooker could not conceive he might be in any danger. Thomas had hesitated giving Hooker direct orders, even though the War Department had given Thomas command over his divisions.

Hooker had been contrite about his massive failure at Chancellorsville the spring before and Thomas understood that any general who suffered such a defeat would seek redemption. But Hooker’s performance in the valley hadn’t done anything to convince Thomas that he was capable of being any more than a subordinate, a corps commander at best. But Hooker still held what Thomas believed was the key to the entire campaign. If Bragg’s troops could be swept clear of Lookout Mountain, the Federal forces could then drive farther east, dropping down the east side of the mountain, shoving back behind the rebel left flank on Missionary Ridge, threatening to slice behind Bragg’s position, possibly cutting off rebel supply lines. By removing Longstreet’s fifteen thousand men, it was simple mathematics that Bragg had weakened his army by a fourth, possibly a third. There was surely an opportunity on Lookout Mountain that Grant would recognize. Thomas had hoped that he could persuade Grant to strike the rebel left. Instead, Grant’s orders just added to Thomas’s dismay. Grant ordered Thomas to move as many men as possible in as short a time as possible and assault Bragg’s right flank, the far northern tip of Missionary Ridge.

Grant was now insisting on a major offensive that would so threaten Bragg’s position that he would be forced to recall Longstreet back toward Chattanooga, thus sparing Ambrose Burnside’s precarious hold on Knoxville. Whether Burnside was exaggerating his own peril, neither Thomas nor Grant had any idea. Burnside’s reputation for leadership or tactical effectiveness was no better than Joe Hooker’s. But Thomas respected that Grant was being hounded incessantly from Washington, and that for reasons known only to Henry Halleck, Burnside’s precarious position at Knoxville was the greater priority. For Thomas, it was the one saving grace of having Grant as his superior. The avalanche of telegrams coming from the War Department were landing squarely on Grant’s desk, not his own.