The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (44 page)

He kept his stare out toward Chattanooga, could make out the sea of blue that spread out in neat formations all across the face of the town. Around him, men were doing as he did, focusing their attention on the distant Federal camps. No matter what anyone around him thought of the incredible view of the enemy’s army, to Bragg it was simply his target.

His aides were there now, holding men away, the cries still reaching him, but he shut that away, absorbing the marvelous warmth of the sunlight, nearly overhead. Bragg glanced down, saw shadows, his own, dark splotches below the rocks, so very rare for so many days. He tested his ailments, no headache, his stomach finally letting go of
the nagging torment from the breakfast. He thought of Elise again. By God, she should see this. She should be up here, admiring what we have done to the enemy. There they stand, performing their daily rituals, consuming their strength and their limited rations in mindless exercise. He looked up toward Lookout Mountain, could see the signalmen, flags in motion, men doing their jobs. Yes, very good. Keep us informed. I have no desire to make that tedious journey yet again just to learn what my officers should already be telling me.

Down below, he heard shouts, paid no heed to the words. He knew some of the men would cheer him, that on a day like this, when the skies shone blue and the sun relieved their ills, they would understand how much he cared for this army, all that he was giving them, the preparation, the positioning. Yes, you will understand what history will know of you, once this campaign is concluded. You will know of victory.

There were more shouts now, and his staff began to move up beside him, gathering too closely, annoying him. He glanced to the side, was surprised to see Colonel Brent, said, “Why are you out here? Did I not insist you keep close to the headquarters, receive the couriers? I wish to hear reports of the progress of the reinforcements I have ordered to Longstreet. His response to my sudden generosity should be a dispatch worth placing in a picture frame.”

“Sir, forgive me, but the signalmen from Lookout Mountain are telling us that the enemy is making preparations for an advance.”

Bragg looked out toward Chattanooga, saw more of the distant patches of blue, swelling now, as though flooding out in the plain away from their own defenses. He had seen this before, was irritated with Brent’s inexperience.

“Nonsense, Colonel. This break in the infernal rains has encouraged the Yankees to put themselves to work with drilling, occupying their time by practicing what they should already know by heart. It is a lack of effectiveness by their officers.”

Brent didn’t respond, stared out through field glasses. Bragg felt satisfied he had made his point, and he glanced down the hill, more shouts continuing below, and now, off to the side, more cheers and calls from distant camps.

“What on earth is that caterwauling about?”

Brent lowered the field glasses, pointed out toward the center of the Federal lines, the great formations of blue. The masses continued to swell, pushing out farther from the town, all the pomp of a parade ground display.

“That, sir. It appears to me that they are advancing.”

Bragg stared out through his field glasses, saw the flicker of flags, could make out the specks of men on horseback. He scanned the lines, a vast sea, growing larger by the minute. Behind the blue wave came bursts of smoke, and Bragg lowered the glasses, saw the streaks of fire arching up and over the Yankee lines, impacting midway across the plain. In a few seconds, the thunder reached him, dull thumps, more fire from Federal guns, more streaks, plumes of smoke now rising up from the impacting shells in the thickets that spread far out in the plain, between two low hills.

He heard a voice behind him, the man running toward him, out of breath, one of his aides, the words coming in a manic stream, “Sir! The observers on the mountain are saying that the Yankees are advancing to our picket line. The messages say that Yankees are making a fight of it, sir!”

Bragg ignored him, could see a low line of white smoke, waited long seconds, the faint sound of a single chopping blow, the massive volley of musket fire reaching him. Bragg kept his stare to the front, the smoke now rising, obscuring his vision, thought, They’re coming. They have waited for the weather to change, and now they are coming. This is … wonderful.

“Who’s out there? Whose troops are on those small hills?”

Brent stepped away, and Bragg was immediately furious, his question seeming to inspire a debate that spread through his staff. He still watched the smoke, more steady cracks of massed musket fire, heard Brent now.

“Sir, we believe it’s Manigault’s brigade. Patton Anderson’s division.”

“How many men, Colonel? Is that also a secret?”

“Don’t know, sir. I’ll send a courier down that way.”

“Anderson’s division is all around us, Colonel. It can’t be difficult to answer such a simple question.”

“I know, sir. I’ll take care of it.”

Bragg let the field glasses drop against his chest, stared up again toward Lookout Mountain, the signal flags in motion, frightened men communicating the obvious. He felt a rising anger, sensed a stink of incompetence that seemed to swirl around them, men who had no idea what was happening.

He heard a horse approaching, the high-pitched voice of a courier.

“Those men are from Patton Anderson’s division, sir. Manigault’s brigade has the skirmish duty. General Manigault says he had no more than six hundred men in those far trees. Alabamans, sir. He’s sent the order not to make a stand. They’ll be falling back, once they receive his order.”

“Falling back? Is that how General Manigault intends to fight this war?”

Bragg kept his eyes on the smoke, the rumble of the fight steady, flickers of motion all along the distant woodlands, blasts of fire, more smoke rising.

The courier stayed up on his horse, said, “Sir, General Manigault says there may be fifty thousand Yankees to his front, sir. Several divisions. He has but six hundred men. He is ordering them to withdraw to the rifle pits at the base of the hill.”

Bragg kept his stare on the distant hills, the man’s report drilling inside him. Fifty thousand?

“General Manigault is a man prone to exaggeration. If his men have more fight in them than their commander, they shall drive the enemy back. Find Anderson. Order him to make the best fight he can. I will not allow retreat, not from such an advantageous position.”

“Yes, sir!”

Bragg glanced that way, saw the man ride quickly away, mud splashing high. He looked at Brent now, said, “Order every division commander on this ridge to make ready to receive the enemy. We have glorious ground, and we shall show the enemy their mistake!”

Brent acknowledged him with a salute, and Bragg returned it, saw the others looking at him, saw fear, wide-eyed doubt, all of them watching the great scene in the distance. He turned toward them, facing them, his back to the distant fight, said, “Look at me! All of you! There are not fifty thousand Yankees in the entire state of Tennessee! Do you hear me? General Manigault is showing us his lack of fitness for command! I will deal with him later. For now, do your jobs! Put these troops to their posts. If the enemy intends to assault these heights, we shall cover that ground with his blood!”

They seemed to energize, more of them watching him, men in motion now, moving away, couriers on horseback, spreading out in both directions. He forced a smile, saw Brent returning, his uniform splattered with mud.

“You’re a disgrace, Colonel. Do you not have a horse?”

“Sir, with all respects. I have sent word to the division commanders.
Their aides are already coming in here, sir, reporting all is in readiness.”

“We shall see.” Bragg glanced again at Lookout Mountain. “General Hardee is up there, yes?”

“Yes, sir. Last we knew.”

“He is wasting his time up there. The enemy is coming right at our center. We require additional artillery, whatever batteries Hardee can move down this way. See to it. And make haste.”

“Yes, sir!”

Brent was gone now, and Bragg stood alone, stepped farther out on a rock outcropping, watched the waves of smoke, the bursts of musket fire, thumps of Federal artillery, most of it coming from batteries closer to the town. He focused on what he could see of the Federal troops, the enormous formations spread out to both sides of the low hills. He raised the field glasses, saw Manigault’s men streaming back from the woodlands, saw men in blue visible now on the bald hills, their flags waving in the breeze. Bragg yelled the words to himself, We must have all our artillery! Right here! He knew there was time, the range too great still for any kind of precision. He focused on the waves of men coming back toward him, a steady retreat, thought, No, they’re following Manigault’s orders. Those hills are in the enemy’s hands.

The glasses came down again, and he scanned the hillside below him, saw gun crews at their pieces, preparing for any target. Down below, the men were filling their rifle pits, the long trench lines that extended all across the ridge. The firing had nearly stopped now, the smoke clearing, drifting away. He looked down to the right, the far flank out of his view, miles away, thought of Cleburne, the troops he had ordered to Longstreet.

He spun around abruptly, a handful of aides still there, watching him, said, “Back to the headquarters. We must send word to the rail depot. Longstreet will make his fight with what he has. I need those troops right here.”

By late afternoon, with the low hills in their possession, the Federal forces seemed to halt their advance, content with what Bragg could only guess was a symbolic victory, a show
of force that Bragg believed had been meant to frighten his army off the ridge. Manigault’s men had made as much of a fight as their meager numbers would allow, the 24th and 28th Alabama Regiments absorbing enormous casualties. By nightfall, they were back at the base of Missionary Ridge, while the men in blue seemed content to hunker down far out in the plain. With thousands of Confederate muskets and their artillery batteries poised for the assault, the Federal forces held their position. If there was to be an assault on Missionary Ridge, it would not be today.

It was still daylight when he had reached Bragg’s headquarters. All across the vast ridgeline, he had followed Bragg’s courier, trailed by his own Captain Buck. The aide was for guidance, but Buck was there as a helpful bit of assistance, should Cleburne be tossed into some muddy bog by his unruly horse. As he left the rail depot, the calls came, salutes from the men who served him. As he climbed up onto the northern tip of Missionary Ridge, the salutes were less frequent, the men mostly ignoring yet another senior commander who rode past them without any offer to relieve their suffering.

Bragg’s messages had been ongoing for more than an hour, repeating the same order, as though Bragg wasn’t certain any one of the couriers could be relied upon to deliver the message without some distraction. But Cleburne had done exactly what Bragg ordered, sending word up the rail line to the various depots to the northeast, ordering the engineers to reverse direction, to bring the railcars and their human cargo back down to Chickamauga Station. Some of his men had yet to board the trains, making Cleburne’s job somewhat simpler, and Cleburne reported that to Bragg, his own effort to soothe
what seemed to be a heightened level of anxiety at the army’s headquarters.

He left the depot in the hands of Lucius Polk, a fortunate piece of chance that Cleburne’s most capable brigade commander was still with him at the station. Polk understood the forcefulness of Bragg’s order, would press hard for the return of the troops. Whether or not Polk had any use for Braxton Bragg, he would obey Cleburne without fail. Cleburne left the depot with no real timetable for the return of the full two divisions, or understanding of just what Bragg wanted them to do. There was another concern as well: Cleburne had no idea if Longstreet had been informed of the radical change in plans, what would most likely cause an explosion in Longstreet’s headquarters. But there had been too many of those already, and Cleburne knew to stay away from that topic with either man, that if Bragg had his reasons for reversing his offer of support for Longstreet, it was Cleburne’s job only to find out what that meant for those troops he was authorized to command.