The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (41 page)

“What do you mean?”

“You ask about orders? I have been ordered to report any deserter we bring back to this camp. The commanding general has chosen not only to wage war against his general officers; he is waging war against our own soldiers, those whose hearts cannot stand up to the hell we are forced to suffer. I will not hear such reports. I will not serve up my men for execution just to satisfy a misguided display of discipline. Do you understand?”

Polk looked at him with surprise. “You have learned lessons, as well.”

Cleburne eyed the edge of the rock, the rains still relentless. “I cannot remain here, perched beneath a rock, daydreaming about what might be. Whether or not the commissary or General Bragg can do anything to help my men, I have to make the attempt. Return to your brigade. We should not discuss General Bragg in such a way. Some would call us traitors.”

Polk did not move, looked hard at Cleburne. “My uncle, the bishop of Louisiana, has been called that. I have heard General Longstreet called that. General Buckner, General Hindman, and even your friend, General Hardee. And here we sit, you and I. Must we pretend we do not know who the real traitor is?”

Cleburne was angry now, fought the urge to shove Polk away.

“Return to your camp.
Now
. If my horse still waits for me in this absurd weather, I will return to mine. I will send another dispatch to headquarters, requesting in the strongest terms that food and blankets and shoes be brought forward. It is my duty. It is yours. We will not concern ourselves with issues of command we cannot control.”

Polk said nothing, slid away from him, moved out into the rain, no salute, disappeared up the trail. Cleburne clenched his fists, knew Polk was his friend, knew that the harsh words would not separate them. He knows this, Cleburne thought. No matter what was done to his uncle’s reputation, Lucius Polk is a soldier. No matter how much
he professes to … hate. No matter how much I might share his feelings, the feelings that are spreading through most of this army, we must obey. It can be no other way.
No other way
.

Cleburne slapped his hat down hard on his head, slid the sword up from its muddy bed, crawled back out into the rain. The horse was there, the groom standing close by, a smile Cleburne ignored. He took the reins, climbed up, the saddle pressing up cold against him, stabbed the horse with his spurs, and rode back up the hill.

The day after Sherman’s arrival, he and Grant had ridden out to the north, to the same overlook where George Thomas had stood beside Baldy Smith. Both of those men came along as well, Smith laying out the geography, explaining just what Sherman might confront. Grant was still holding strongly to the notion that the most effective way to strike the Confederates was on their northern flank, pushing most of Sherman’s troops across the Tennessee River, striking the rebel position just below the mouth of Chickamauga Creek. But Sherman would not focus on a pursuit of Longstreet, or interfering with rail or communication lines to Knoxville. The power in numbers that Sherman was bringing gave Grant full confidence that the time had come to strike Bragg’s rebels as hard as possible, to put an end to what had become a miserable stalemate.

Thomas still prodded Grant that the primary assault be made against Lookout Mountain, which Thomas insisted would be as much a threat to Bragg’s position as Sherman’s attack from the north. But Grant kept his faith in one place Thomas did not: Sherman. Grant focused on Sherman’s raw optimism, the energy that Grant expected, and right now needed. The reconnaissance of the rebel right flank
had shown Grant just what he wanted to see, that from all appearances, the rebels had no expectation at all that Sherman was coming. Earthworks were minimal, most of the rebel forces there seeming to lie back closer to the rail depot off the northern extreme of Missionary Ridge. Sherman had been as enthusiastic as Grant, both men convinced there was no reason to hit the rebels anywhere else. The next step was Grant’s: putting the plan to paper.

The attack would commence on November 21, Sherman’s main thrust pushing discreetly across the river during the night, a scramble of pontoons and planking that would be assembled as rapidly as the army’s engineers could perform the task. Once the bulk of Sherman’s troops were on the east side of the river, they would drive hard through what little rebel opposition seemed to be positioned there. The assault would continue with a rolling charge that would put Sherman’s men directly onto the northern tip of Missionary Ridge. From there, crushing Bragg’s army would be textbook, rolling up the rebel flank southward, until Bragg had no options but to pull back off the ridge completely, or risk annihilation.

On the opposite flank, where Hooker’s men craned their necks toward the eminence of Lookout Mountain, there was no real certainty just how much strength the Confederates had positioned there. Grant knew, and Hooker feared, that Bragg might have compensated for Longstreet’s absence by bringing up reinforcements, adding to the enormous advantages provided by the mountain itself with a powerful force of artillery and infantry. Hooker’s troops had been clearly visible in Lookout Valley for days now, and Grant couldn’t fathom that Bragg would just ignore the seriousness of that threat. To test the rebel strength there, and to possibly draw attention away from Sherman’s assault on the far end of the position, Grant agreed that Hooker would send his men up the mountain the day before Sherman’s crossing. Hooker’s efforts would make considerable noise, and even if Hooker failed to drive the enemy off the mountain, Grant believed that Bragg would counter the assault by shifting troops toward the heights, thus potentially weakening the rebel lines along Missionary Ridge. Should Hooker succeed, as Thomas suggested, the loss of Lookout Mountain might force Bragg to withdraw his forces
back behind Chattanooga Creek, the meandering waterway that ran through the lowlands separating the mountain from Missionary Ridge. If Bragg pulled his troops tightly together on the ridge, both his flanks could be vulnerable, opening up the possibility for Grant to thrust to the right of the ridge, possibly cutting Bragg’s rail line southward, the vital artery that brought supplies to the rebels from Georgia.

Grant’s shaky confidence in Hooker really didn’t matter. Grant understood that if Sherman succeeded in driving Bragg’s army away from Missionary Ridge, any rebel troops who held tightly to any position on Lookout Mountain would know they were cut off completely. If those rebels didn’t surrender, they’d be forced to withdraw southward, directly down the crest of the mountain, pulling them even farther away from Bragg’s main body.

In the center, Thomas’s Army of the Cumberland held the ground that spread out along the limits of Chattanooga itself, directly facing the bulk of the rebels on Missionary Ridge. Thomas’s role would be to offer a noisy demonstration, troop formations marching out in all their glory, in full view of the rebels on the ridge. Grant believed that the show itself would be sufficient, the massed troops sent forward from the Federal lines in a grand display that would force Bragg to keep his rebel army firmly in their works. Creating uncertainty in Bragg’s mind was one of Grant’s primary goals, forcing Bragg to hold his entire army right where it was positioned now, keeping Bragg utterly confused as to where the heaviest hammer blow would come. In Grant’s mind, and now, in the plan he put together, it didn’t really matter where Bragg’s greatest strength might lie. The primary assault would be Sherman’s, there being no doubt at all in Grant’s mind, or Sherman’s, that rolling up the rebel right flank would decide this campaign once and for all. Once Bragg had been driven southward, forced to withdraw completely from Missionary Ridge, the rest of Grant’s army would be in perfect position to clean up any stragglers Bragg might leave behind.

The day after their scouting mission north of the town, Sherman left Chattanooga, riding out westward again, to oversee the final advance by his army.

Grant stormed out of his room, saw staff officers jump in their chairs, wide-eyed.

“Where is he? Any word at all?”

Rawlins motioned to an aide, who read directly from the telegram Grant had already seen.

“It says, sir … ‘Arrived at Kelley’s Ford. No boat there. Someone disobeyed my orders to remain. At Bridgeport now. Army advancing. Rather slow work crossing the bridge. Will arrive at Chattanooga as soon as possible.’ We have nothing further, sir.”

“What is the problem? Why is it taking so long? There is no enemy obstructing his advance.”

There was no answer from his staff, and Grant stared out through the windows, a steady drizzle, dark misery from the skies.

“What of the supply trains? Is there some word of that?”

Rawlins shook his head. “The nearest bridge has been repaired. Not sure of the others. It has been most annoying, sir.”

Grant stared at Rawlins, had his own feelings about what was annoying him right now. “Keep me informed. Any news! You understand?”

“Certainly, sir.”

Grant kept his stare at them, rocked back and forth, the nervous anxiety pulling his stomach inside out. “Do what you must. Just keep me informed. I will not have good men put once more into starvation.”

The wagon trains had been kept away from Chattanooga for the past few days, the entire army beginning to suffer again from a lack of rations. It was one more of the ongoing frustrations for Grant, the slow arrival of supplies, made more difficult by the rebels’ uncanny success at wrecking the pontoon bridges. But it wasn’t just the rebels who played havoc with Federal engineering. The rains had swollen every waterway, and so the Tennessee River was in full roar, and even if the pontoon bridges held, the crossings
could be treacherous. But they had not held, the main bridge into Chattanooga smashed by heavily laden rafts sent downriver by the rebels. The lightweight pontoons had been no match for the floating projectiles, nor could they withstand the swirling currents, Grant’s engineers scampering downstream in a frustrating attempt to locate and retrieve as many of the small boats as could be found. In the meantime, the flatboats ferried supplies across, but in the harsh current, it was slow going at best. The results were predictable. The food supplies had dwindled, the commissary forced to limit the men to less than a pound of meat per day. Worse for the horses, the forage was disappearing again, the already weakened animals now nearly useless. Grant had seen the reports from Thomas, that the Army of the Cumberland had lost more than ten thousand animals. That number was certain to grow. Grant knew that Sherman was equipped with nearly six thousand animals of his own. If forage was not brought quickly along the supply lines, starving horses would mean paralysis, what Grant had witnessed too often already.

Grant turned abruptly, marched noisily into his room, his eye settling on the dying fire. He felt a furious need to blister an aide for that, spun back around, was surprised to see the door closed behind him.
Rawlins
. Grant forced himself to calm, pounded one hand into the other. You know what is best, he thought, whether I want you to or not. I do not need my staff observing the spectacle of their commanding general screaming like a banshee.

He moved to the fire, reached for the iron poker leaning up against the stone, stabbed at the ashes. The flames responded, and he picked up a log from the wood box nearby, set it into the fire. He added one more, the fire taking hold, the warmth filling him, soothing, and he sat on the floor, close to the fire, stared at the flames. There can be no assault, he thought. Not on my schedule. You cannot fault Sherman. He hates waiting far more than you do. He would make his army
swim
that confounded river, if it would get them here any sooner.

He thought of his wife now, the soft image filling him, drawn by the warmth of the fire. Julia would insist there was some Design in this, some Hand that we cannot understand. But there is no curse
upon this army, the Almighty is not casting plagues upon us. Have we not proven that? The greatest accomplishments of this army, the victories that will win this war … no matter what kind of success, none of those fights have been simple. How often do campaigns follow what is written on paper? If it was that easy, there would not be a war at all. We could just … plan it away.

The memories came now, Sherman, the others, salvaging success from disaster. Shiloh, he thought, such a close thing. We were very nearly crushed. And if that had been the outcome, where would you be now, Grant? What path would this army have taken with Buell in command, or Rosecrans? Burnside, Hooker? Men who lose battles. No mystery about that, I suppose. This war might be over, and not the way the president intended it to be. He thought of Julia, always with the devout blessing, the reliance on the Almighty. With all apologies to you, my dear, I am here by the hand of Lincoln, not the hand of God. He rubbed his chin, blinked at the fire. Or, perhaps they are one and the same. Lincoln would never take credit for his better decisions. But he will most certainly suffer the blame if this goes badly.