The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (39 page)

The pair moved to the fire, hushed instructions from one man to the other, a soft argument breaking out between them. Grant had no patience for yet one more controversy, pulled himself to his feet.

“When you master the art of lighting that fire, inform General Rawlins, or whoever else is in charge of this headquarters, that I have taken my horse for a walk. And, yes, before Rawlins has an attack of apoplexy, assure him I will have the cavalry guard accompany me.”

The rains had returned, a dismal soaking shower that drove cold all through him. He missed the fire already, glanced back, saw smoke curling up from the chimney of the headquarters, scolded himself for stubbornness. You’ll wish you stayed inside, he thought. This whole affair has got you acting like a ten-year-old. Well, if that’s the way it is, best not let the staff suffer through that. I need obedience from them, not a spanking from Rawlins. He’d do it, too.

He rode out toward the west, close to the river, Captain Osband’s cavalry keeping back a dozen yards. Grant eyed the pontoon bridge, saw a wagon crossing, a handful of horsemen, thought, Excellent. It’s repaired. Finally. He nudged the horse that way, saw the provosts eyeing him, suddenly aware who he was, Osband moving up, to erase any chance of mistaken identity. But the guards had seen him before, stood back, crisp salutes, which Grant answered limply. He saw the lieutenant in command, an older man, Missouri veteran, a man he had known in St. Louis.

“Good day, Mr. Hallenby. The bridge is sound?”

The man stepped closer, offered a salute, said, “Quite so, sir. The enemy has devised a clever tactic of floating enormous logs downstream, which play havoc with the pontoons. The boats are pretty light, sir, no match for a ton of wet timber. We lost six or eight of the boats last night. Just vanished downriver. It’s happened a few times now. We’ve been using the flatboats to get across, but General Smith was through here earlier, had his engineers at work doing the repairs.” Grant caught a glance from Hallenby toward his injured leg, knew what was coming. “Sir, perhaps you shouldn’t ride across. It’s a mite shaky.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll manage. Should I land in the river, it won’t require General Smith’s engineers to fetch me out.” He glanced back toward Osband, saw a smile the man tried to hide. “Captain, let’s cross. If Smith’s out here, he’s somewhere on Moccasin Point. I suppose I should find out what he’s doing.” He left the rest unsaid, thought of the artillery batteries, heavy siege guns Thomas had been hoping to receive. Grant had seen the wire, a request for the kind of heavy artillery that would batter down walls. Grant hadn’t interfered
with that, not yet, had expected Thomas to make good use of the thirty-pound Parrott guns against any strong defensive line the rebels might have constructed on the heights. He stopped at the edge of the water, eyed the bridge, thought, Thomas has every intention of placing those batteries out here so he can aim them at that ridiculous mountain. He has no intention at all of wasting his time with my plan. He’s not crossing this river up north unless I flat-out order it, or threaten to relieve him. Grant pushed the horse onto the bridge now, the horse doing its best to keep upright, the pontoons swaying, and Grant felt his legs lock tightly against the horse’s flanks, a spear of pain jabbing his knee. He glanced at the rain-spattered water to both sides, dreaded the thought that the horse might stumble, yet again. He stared out toward the far side of the river, guards there as well, watching him. Anyone makes a wager on me falling, and I’ll put him in a rifle pit. He fought the pain, the horse doing better, the bridge coming to an end, and the horse took him onto solid ground, Grant as relieved as the horse beneath him. He ignored the guards, heard the clop of the cavalrymen behind him, waited for them to complete the crossing, then spurred the horse, rode out away from the river through a muddy bog.

“You intending to smash down that mountain?”

Smith seemed miserable on the horse, rainwater flooding down from the bill of his hat. “Sure. We haven’t tried that yet. Is that an order, sir?”

There was little humor in Smith’s response, and Grant could feel Smith’s dark mood, understood immediately.

“What’s he expecting here?”

Smith looked at him, said, “I assume you are asking about General Thomas?” Grant didn’t respond, and Smith said, “The general is anticipating an assault against those heights at the earliest moment practicable. He has ordered General Howard to make ready to advance in short notice.”

Grant caught the name, said, “Howard’s under Hooker. So, Thomas is as skeptical of Hooker as I am?”

“I said nothing of the sort, sir. It is General Thomas’s desire that we secure the river all the way from Bridgeport to Chattanooga. I do not object to that notion. Unless, of course … you do.”

Grant understood the awkward position Smith was in. He didn’t want that, needed the man’s cooperation and expertise.

“Baldy, I want you to carry out the orders you’ve been given. I’ve communicated to Washington that we cannot pull Burnside’s tail out of the fire as quickly as I had hoped. That’s all. No one’s neck is in a noose here.”

Smith looked at him, a silent nod. Out in front of them, a half-dozen squads of his men were at work with shovels, preparing depressed pits for the big guns. Grant was surprised to see a row of heavy cannon to one side, hidden under a loose mat of cut tree limbs.

“Those are siege guns.”

“Yes, sir. If you wish to speak with General Brannan, he’s out through those trees, supervising more of these gun pits.” Grant said nothing, and Smith said, “Not really necessary, though. He knows what he’s doing. He, too, is following orders.”

Grant still looked toward the heavy cannon. “When did those pieces arrive? It’s not as many as Thomas asked for.”

“They came this morning. Not sure how many more are on the way, if any. Not my department, sir. My men spent a good many hours last night repairing the bridges. Damn nuisance, that. Rebel gunners across the way keep trying to land a solid shot square on the pontoons, but they’re so far off the mark, I’m guessing they just like to hear the sound of their guns. Those damn floating battering rams are more effective. But, as fast as they can bust up the bridges, we fix ’em. It’s a game, that’s all. Hell of a way to fight a war.”

“I aim to change that.”

Smith tilted his head, peered at him from under the hat. “You tried.”

“I’ll try again. I told Halleck that the best we could do for now was send a small raiding party across upriver, making an attempt to cut the rail line. The enemy does that sort of thing all the time. They have cavalry, we have cavalry. Might as well use it.”

“Cutting the rail line is a waste of time. Begging your pardon, sir. They’ll have it repaired as quick as we fix these bridges.”

“But it sounds good in Washington.
Grant’s doing something
. Sometimes that matters to those people more than fighting a battle.”

“Not for long. Sooner or later, there’s gonna be a fight. I have no idea what Bragg is thinking. It’s as though he plans every day around trimming his beard, taking a stroll, maybe he’s drilling his men back behind the hills. Other than logs in the river, and random artillery shells, he’s not doing a damn thing to cause us any discomfort. The more time passes, the closer we get. I guess you know that. May I ask, sir, when you expect Sherman to arrive?”

Grant watched a handful of men tossing muddy earth out of a wide pit, the rain caving in the sides as quickly as the earth was moved.

“I wanted him here last week. I expect him … when he gets here.”

“Well, not sure what you intend to do with him. But I can assure you of one thing, General. Down on this end of the line, we’re gonna put on a show. Howard’s been told, and Hooker before him. Make sure your men can climb a steep damn hill.” Smith looked up into the rain, a thick fog obscuring the heights across from Moccasin Point. “Once you give the word, sir, they’re heading up there. No idea what they’ll find. But if the weather clears, you’ll be able to see the whole thing from the town, like watching a show on a big-city stage.”

Grant was annoyed, again. So far, the supply lines between Chattanooga and Bridgeport had been completely free of rebel raiders, and with the return of the rains, the only enemy blocking the way through Lookout Valley was the muddy conditions of the roads. But the wagon trains weren’t merely slow. They were few and far between. From his first days in command, Grant’s orders had been explicit, helped by the strident wording of John Rawlins, that railcars from Memphis, or anywhere else they could be spared, should be transported as rapidly as possible to assist in the hauling of the crucial supplies. Added to that was his order for the increased use of riverboats, to haul food and supplies from the depot at Stevenson, Alabama. But the boats were as scarce as the railcars. To Grant’s enormous
frustration, the rebel raiders were having their desired effect, cavalry strikes through northern Mississippi and Alabama requiring constant repairs to the rail lines, raids against smaller ports along the river damaging what few boats could be used. Those boats that did reach Bridgeport were carrying half loads, or even less, empty cargo holds adding to Grant’s fury at a supply system that still kept his army stocked day to day. The aggravation Grant felt over the army’s seeming paralysis at Chattanooga was the challenge he struggled with every day. Regardless of his disagreements with Thomas, Grant knew that some of that idleness was caused by weather, something not even the commanding general could repair. He continued to believe that defeating Bragg by driving him back into Georgia would solve any supply problems for his army.

“Anything? Any word?”

Rawlins looked out through the parlor window, the same show he had performed for most of an hour, said, “No, sir. Nothing.”

Grant clasped his hands together, stretched them out in front of him, tested the knee, grateful that the pains were finally subsiding. He moved back into his office, pacing more freely now, felt energized, anxious, thought of asking Rawlins to check outside again. But he knew better, knew it would come in time, his attempt at patience waging war with his anticipation.

In the parlor, staff officers continued their work, the usual business of headquarters, sending more angry missives toward the railroad people, the commissary officers, men who seemed as defensive as Grant was aggressive about getting much-needed food to Chattanooga. Word had come that the warehouses at Stevenson were bulging with supplies, another concern, Grant recalling the rebel raid against his enormous supply depot at Holly Springs, Mississippi, just prior to the Vicksburg campaign. That loss had delayed Grant’s entire operation, and he couldn’t avoid the nagging fear that Stevenson was just another Holly Springs, ripe for some opportunistic rebel cavalryman.

He had a sudden thought, called out to the parlor. “General Rawlins!”

Rawlins peered in, seemed as anxious as Grant was.

“Do we know the whereabouts of Nathan Bedford Forrest?”

Rawlins seemed surprised by the question. “Um … no, sir. To the west, pretty certain of that. He might be causing some agitation in Memphis. That’s his home, I believe. It’s where I would go, were I him.”

The image of Rawlins the Cavalry Raider was too much for Grant to absorb. He waved Rawlins away, moved to his chair, sat, slid his hand through the papers on his small desk, read one, familiar, too familiar, reread a dozen times that morning. He tossed it aside, glanced around the room, noticed a portrait of a woman and her dog, the same portrait that had been there since his arrival. Questions bounced through him now, erupting from his nervous energy. What kind of dog is that? Some kind of hound. Well, certainly. They must hunt a good deal around here. The woman … homely lass. Her husband probably likes the dog better …

“Sir!”

Grant heard the sounds, a commotion of hoofbeats approaching the house. He stood, bumping the desk, papers sliding away to the floor, ignored that, straightened himself, tugged at his coat, felt for the cigars, let that go, then grabbed one again. He held it out, tried to appear calm, his hand too jumpy for the match. He jabbed the cigar back into his pocket, stood straight again, heard the clatter of boots on the wood floor, the loud voice, a hearty salute to Rawlins. And then the man was in the door, the hat off, the red hair, a ratty short beard spread across the rugged face, and, now, a wide grin.

“Hello, Grant. Weather really stinks around here.”

Sherman had arrived.