The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (4 page)

For most of the day, Forrest had waited atop Missionary Ridge with pulsing frustration, continued to send couriers back to the places where the generals were supposed to be. By late afternoon, he had grown sick of his impotence, unable to do anything more than watch from his perfect vantage point as the flood of Yankees drifted across the wide plain into Chattanooga. With no instructions, no words of encouragement from the commanders, he made the decision to leave his horsemen up on the ridgeline, while he and a small number of troopers rode back southward to face the generals himself.

The room was hot, a roaring wood fire from a wide stone hearth, the thick air intoxicating, sleep inducing, Bragg’s aides supporting themselves in small camp chairs or leaning against the crude walls. The wetness in Forrest’s uniform had turned to sweat, both from the heat in the headquarters and Forrest’s manic pacing. He thumped his boot heels into the wooden floor, turned, made the short march back the other way, waited for Bragg to complete some detail, jotting notes on a piece of paper, reading, then rereading, what seemed to Forrest to be a deliberate effort to hold the horseman back.

A new burst of pain drove through Forrest, and the words came now, his weariness and the agony of the wound breaking down his discipline.

“Sir! Please! I was told you received my dispatches.”

Bragg looked up, blinked, as though fighting back sleep. “Yes. Calm yourself, General.”

Forrest could wait no more. “General Bragg, the enemy is filling the defenses at Chattanooga. I have seen it myself. I have sent messages back here, imploring this army to take advantage of the opportunity the enemy is providing us. That opportunity will not last, if we allow him to find the full protection of the barricades in the city. I firmly believe that a swift and decisive push against those works will convince the enemy he cannot remain, that Chattanooga is no safe
haven. He is inclined still to retreat. He is beaten, a whipped dog that needs only a sharp strike from us. He will either surrender, or he will scamper away.”

Forrest was running out of words, nothing coming yet from Bragg. He had little respect for Bragg as a leader, had already experienced Bragg’s tendency to make battlefield decisions based on personality clashes with his own subordinates rather than whatever the enemy might be doing. If Bragg had one characteristic Forrest respected, it was a fierce dedication to discipline. Bragg might shoot a miscreant soldier just to prove a point.

But there was nothing fierce in Bragg’s demeanor now.

“General Forrest, I appreciate your zeal for combat. I share it, as you must certainly know. There is great honor in besting the enemy. I am told we bested him right here. My ranking generals seem convinced we handed General Rosecrans a crushing blow. It puzzles me why officers who are supposed to know something of battles can be so misled by first impressions.”

Forrest stopped moving, tried to decipher whatever message Bragg was giving him.

“Sir, do you not believe the enemy was swept away from this field? Every officer I have spoken to insists we secured a major victory along Chickamauga Creek. Is that not what … you believe?”

“General Polk sent one of his commanders … Maney, I believe … sent him forward to observe the mountain passes. He reports much the same as you. But General Polk has not performed to my expectations, to my orders. I am examining even now a path of corrective action. And so, place yourself in my position, Mr. Forrest. Polk has been derelict, and yet I am to believe everything he tells me. I have thus far no complaint against you. And yet I am to act solely upon your observations. I can most reliably depend upon those things I can see for myself, General. Have you ridden across these fields, these wood lots, these patches of forest? I can rarely recall such carnage, such a human tragedy. The dead and severely wounded of both sides lie mingled in a horror that no general can accept lightly, that no civilian can ever understand. The mothers and wives of our fallen men will find no comfort in this so-called victory.”

Forrest stared, a glance at one of the aides, a young captain, who avoided his eyes.

“General Bragg, is not the duty of my cavalry to offer you reliable information? You said yourself we have performed well.”

“You fought well, yes. I have not heard any reports of your men failing to carry out their orders. But with all respects to your accomplishments and your reputation, I learned long ago to distrust cavalry. There is a great deal of
romance
in your service, is there not? All that professed gallantry can lead to carelessness, more time spent impressing the ladies along the way than accuracy in locating the enemy. With respects to you, Mr. Forrest, I must accept your reports with a measure of skepticism.”

Forrest felt a boiling anger sprout in his brain, the insult more than casual. But still … Bragg was in command. And every officer in the army had been insulted by Bragg more than once. He took a long breath, tried to calm the instinctive response, unclenched a tight fist, a weapon that one part of him wanted to plant squarely across Bragg’s chin.

“Sir, I can only offer you what I saw myself. The enemy is in full retreat away from here. He has made a frantic withdrawal through the mountains. I made every attempt to engage him, push a fight against the obstacles he put in our path. His rear guard did little more than delay us. Every observation I made tells me that right now, there is no fight in the Federal army. We must drive General Rosecrans from the sanctuary they seek in Chattanooga. He is defeated. He is inclined toward further retreat. We must see it so. We must not allow him the false confidence of believing us too weak to crush him.”

Bragg shook his head, stared down at the desk. “I wish this entire army shared your passion, Mr. Forrest. But we are in no condition to drive forward with any conviction. We must recover our wounded, regroup, sort out the units. Entire regiments are jumbled about, their officers confused, stumbling about seeking their commands.”

“Sir, I am told that General Longstreet is prepared to move forward, that he has gathered a sizable force.…”

Bragg sniffed loudly, and Forrest saw something awaken in the man, the familiar fury he had seen before, that every officer in the army had seen before.

“Do not speak to me of General Longstreet. The man marches his troops into my command intending to conquer all that lies before him, as though he has been anointed with superior genius, superior forces. Am I to believe that his mission here is simply to assist me? For reasons I do not understand, the president and General Lee believe I require his help in order to succeed. The newspapers trumpet Longstreet’s name as though he alone can save our cause! Are we so inept, so consumed with misdeeds and errors that only a man from the East can deliver us? I will entertain no such notions, General. It is of no interest to me what General Longstreet believes possible, or what he intends to do. I am in command of this army, and I shall make the decisions as to how it is used. We must regroup, we must reorganize, we must replenish. We have been bloodied. We have endured severe losses.”

“What of the enemy’s losses? The enemy has abandoned this field to us. He is fleeing in a panic. Or … he was. I fear now we have granted him a full day to calm his demons. Every moment we delay is worth a thousand men.”

“Too many thousands of men lie out there, never to return. General Forrest, I have allowed you to speak your mind, because I know your horsemen have performed ably, and with honor. Please return to your command, and extend my deepest appreciation for their service. We shall reevaluate our situation in the morning, when this army has regained a portion of its strength. Then we will decide how best to deal with the enemy. If what I am told is accurate, and mind you, I still have my doubts, then isn’t it possible that General Rosecrans is already preparing to march away from here completely, abandoning Chattanooga, and perhaps all of Tennessee? Is not that what a great victory will grant us?”

Forrest felt the responses erupting inside of him, the heat in the room dizzying him.

Bragg rubbed a hand through his beard, seemed satisfied by Forrest’s lack of protest. “Yes, you see? I am well aware of our options. Now, I can see you are tired. It is very late, after all. We are all drained by what has happened here. Be assured, this command recognizes your good work. Get a good night’s rest. I will have orders for you tomorrow, or soon after.”

Orders to do what? Forrest kept the question to himself, saw Bragg’s eyes drift shut, a perfect symbol of the day’s end. Forrest wanted to say more, tried to ignite the protests again, but on one point Bragg was right. It was very late, close to midnight, and Forrest had been in the saddle nearly all day, and two days before that. The helplessness was overwhelming him, the anger and frustration pulling away. Nothing he could say to Bragg would change the man’s resolve to simply … do nothing. He does not believe the enemy is crushed, does not accept what I saw with my own eyes. There is nothing more for me to do here.

Bragg seemed to come awake again, said, “A night’s rest, General. Do you a great deal of good.”

Forrest said nothing, turned to the open door, felt the cool wet breeze flooding the heat in the fire-lit room. He moved out through the door, thought, There will be no rest for the men
over there
. In Chattanooga, the enemy is doing his own regrouping, reorganizing. He is fortifying those works, and gathering himself for what he must believe is our inevitable attack. But there is nothing … inevitable. Except perhaps … that those dead men General Bragg so mourns will have died for no good reason.

He moved out into the chilling mist, the darkness giving way to the light from a single lantern. His staff was mounting their horses, and Forrest took the reins from an orderly, climbed up into the saddle, sharp pain in his back, a small grunt he tried to keep silent. He looked at the others, saw Captain Seeley watching him, questioning, expectant, the enthusiasm of the young.

“Orders, sir? Is General Bragg going after them?”

Forrest shook his head, looked down, the horse moving uneasily beneath him.

“Captain … I cannot imagine what General Bragg is going to do. I only wonder … if he does not see the value in what we have accomplished here, does not understand the magnitude of our success, the opportunity that we were given. If he has so little faith that we can win victories … then why does he fight battles?”

The breakfast was already sour in his stomach, the ailment that never seemed to leave him.

“Take this away. Are there any rations to be found in this army that are suitable for consumption?”

The aide did not respond, the china plate whisked away. Bragg put a hand on his stomach, probed the discomfort, shook his head.

“What must I endure, Mr. Mackall?”

His chief of staff sat across the long narrow table from him, swallowed quickly, and said, “Sir, I will order the commissary to find something more to your liking. Can you offer me some suggestion what that might be?”

“Better commanders, General. Men who follow orders.” He paused. “Victories.”

Mackall took another bite, and Bragg avoided watching the man eat, stared away, his mind reeling with thoughts of the report he had still to compose, giving Richmond, and especially President Davis, his official accounting of what took place along the Chickamauga. He could hear Mackall chewing the food, the sounds grating, fueling
more of the turmoil in his own stomach, and Mackall seemed to understand, had been through this before.

“Sir, I shall retire, if you wish. My presence here is an annoyance.”

“No, certainly not. My stomach problems are my own. One more curse of command. Enjoy your breakfast.”

Mackall had stopped eating, sat back. “Sir, allow me to suggest … this could prove to be a glorious day. Your mood could be heightened considerably if the reports are as accurate as their authors claim. The enemy is most certainly on the run. Or at the very least he is disorganized, and vulnerable to attack.”

Bragg heard the emphasis … authors. There had been a consensus among his highest-ranking generals that finally Bragg could not ignore. No matter what he still feared, it seemed as though the Federal army had in fact conceded defeat, had withdrawn completely from their camps west and north of Chickamauga Creek. He felt a hard knot growing in his throat, the burning from his gut rising up with Mackall’s optimism.

“You as well? Am I thus to accept that by majority rule, I may claim the fight at Chickamauga Creek to be my magnificent victory? If everyone insists it is so, then who am I to dispute that? I have seen no evidence of anything but a mutual slaughter, but if my generals and my chief of staff insist, well, then it must be so. So, you and half the officers in this army must agree that the next course should be to march this battered army straight to Chattanooga, to provide all the excuse General Rosecrans would need to scamper away. We survived this fight by the grace of God, not by the abilities of my generals. They seek any opportunity to exercise independent commands, to ignore my orders, to belittle my position at every turn. Now they create reasons why my judgment must be questioned. Charge ahead, with no regard for military protocol, or the care of the men.” Bragg sagged in the chair, tried to control his breathing, searched Mackall’s expression again, but Mackall seemed content to wait patiently for his time to speak. Bragg slapped one hand on the table, said, “So tell me, what is our effective strength?”