The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (45 page)

As he pulled up onto the northern edge of Missionary Ridge, most of the Federal assault had ended, but the smoke hung low still in the wide valley, drifting across the two distant hills now in Federal hands. He had seen the last of Manigault’s retreat, the pieces of the puzzle coming together in his mind, Bragg’s summons making more sense, that the enemy had made a significant move, possibly presaging an attack straight into the center of Bragg’s strongest position. He was met outside the Nail House by Colonel Brent, who left him standing alone while Brent announced his arrival. Bragg’s thundering voice called him in, very little military decorum to the greeting.

Cleburne stood at Bragg’s desk, saw less decorum now, the man seeming scattered, disheveled, his uniform unbuttoned, no hat, sitting with his head down, staring at a makeshift map.

“Sir, I rode as quickly as I could.”

Bragg looked up, and Cleburne saw a rough, uneven beard, a harsh anger in the man’s expression.

“As well as can be expected, I suppose. Have you recalled your troops? Are they on the march?”

“They have been recalled, sir. General Polk is in command at the depot, and has been ordered to hold the men in readiness as they return. I have received no orders where I am to march them, sir. We await your instructions.”

Cleburne saw a narrow squint in Bragg’s eyes, as though Bragg was having difficulty seeing him. Bragg seemed to chew on Polk’s name, the mention of Cleburne’s subordinate hanging between them like a moldy blanket.

“You trust him?”

“By all means, sir. Lucius Polk is most able, in the field and as my subordinate.”

“Lucius. The bishop’s nephew, correct?”

Cleburne could see Bragg’s mind working, staring to one side, as though Bragg were chewing his way through a tough piece of meat.

“Yes, sir. He is a most capable man, sir.”

“You said that already. How soon will your men be prepared to march?”

Cleburne was confused, thought, March where? Bragg’s head was down again, the man seeming to suffer some kind of twisting pain, and Cleburne leaned low, said, “Are you all right, sir?”

Bragg looked at him abruptly, tried to stand, his legs seeming to give way, settling him back in the chair. He took a deep breath, and Cleburne could feel heat in the man’s words.

“No, I am not all right! Not one bit, General! Are your troops prepared to meet the enemy? Are they in the field?”

Cleburne chose his words, spoke slowly. “Sir, my men have been recalled to Chickamauga Station, per your orders. They were previously under your orders to travel toward Longstreet’s command, to reinforce General Longstreet at Knoxville. It was made clear to me, sir, that your instructions had been reversed. As quickly as the men can be returned, they will be gathered up into formation, awaiting your further orders.”

“Is it dark outside?”

Cleburne looked to the one small window behind Bragg, a thick
canvas curtain drawn closed. “No, sir. The sun is setting, though. Another hour or so.”

“Not enough time for them. It’s done for today.” Bragg looked at Cleburne again, held up the scribble of a map. “They’re coming, by God. They’ve decided it’s time, and so, they’re coming. The question is where? It has always been the question, has it not? If they come, where will they strike? Every general in this command has offered an opinion on that point. I hear all manner of rumor, mind you. I am forced to fight this campaign with hesitation and uncertainty. My generals toss up their ideas in a maze of conflicting strategy, each one grabbing for the glory in his own part of the field, while I am left to stumble about like some crippled old woman.”

Cleburne kept his silence, saw the shakiness in Bragg’s hands, could hear it in his voice. Bragg held out the map, and Cleburne took it, saw a crude sketch of the ridge, Lookout Mountain, the town, the river. There was a large arrow scratched in pencil, pointing at the center of Missionary Ridge, a small X where Bragg’s headquarters sat.

Bragg stared at the floor to one side of Cleburne, said, “They’re coming for me. That’s what Grant always intended. Sherman despises me, always did, even back in Louisiana. In Mexico, I was the hero, brevetted so many times, the entire army knew my name. Grant recalls that. So do they all. Longstreet, Thomas, Lee. Even the president knows of my accomplishments there. Of them all, only Jefferson Davis considers me his friend.” He focused on Cleburne again. “You weren’t there, were you?”

“No, sir. I was still in Ireland.”

“Good war, that one. Camaraderie, obedience. Zachary Taylor … a man you were happy to fight for, a man you’d follow straight to hell and smile all the way. I wish my wife had met him. General Taylor would have enjoyed that, a woman who speaks her mind.”

“Yes, sir. He was elected president, after all.”

“How do you know that? They teach you such things in Ireland? Well, of course. Yes, he was president. Died very soon after. Dreadful tragedy for this nation. A man like that could have changed our history. Instead, we have Winfield Scott. A Virginian who kisses the feet of Abraham Lincoln. Disgusting.”

Cleburne heard horses outside, voices, but he kept his eyes on Bragg, wasn’t sure what else to do. He still had no idea why he was there.

The boots came in behind him, and Cleburne was surprised to see Hardee, Bragg’s Colonel Brent beside him. Hardee seemed just as surprised to see Cleburne, nodded to him, motioned his hand toward Bragg, as though some important business with Cleburne had been interrupted. There was no change to Bragg’s permanent scowl and Cleburne felt suddenly like a man caught in the firing line of a duel, wanted to back away, but Hardee nodded toward him again.

“Continue, please.”

Cleburne straightened, tried to feel a part of this army’s command, as though anything he would say might actually matter to Bragg. “Sir, I rode here as quickly as I could in response to your courier’s instructions. Do you have orders for me?”

Bragg looked at Hardee now, nodded slowly, said, “Orders for both of you. General Cleburne, you will march your division to the rear of this ridge, close by this headquarters. You will hold your men in reserve, in preparation of receiving the enemy’s attack.” Bragg seemed to energize now, pointed to the map in Cleburne’s hand. “Look there. I am anticipating the enemy to assault this ridge in the morning, most likely where that arrow is drawn. With your men in place behind those troops already positioned along the ridge, we shall offer General Grant an unpleasant surprise. General Hardee, you have too many men up on that mountain.”

Cleburne looked back toward Hardee, stepped to one side, Hardee moving up close. Hardee gave Cleburne a discreet pat on the back, then said, “If you insist, sir.”

“Unnecessary, foolish. The enemy is coming here. If he does not roll up against our center, he will move to the right, and attack us on our flank up toward Chickamauga Creek.”

Hardee studied Bragg, his words slow and precise. “Am I to assume you wish me to remove a portion of my troops on Lookout Mountain, and join them with General Cleburne’s men in reserve?”

“No! Did you not hear me? They’re coming on the right flank! I want you to ride there with all haste, and take command of whoever is out there. You will remove your troops from the mountain, leaving
a token defense. The enemy has no reason to attack a big steep rock when they can more easily climb a hill! You are supposed to be the grand master of strategy in this camp, so your acolytes insist. Does this not make sense to you?”

Cleburne flinched slightly, wondered if Hardee would respond to the insult. But Hardee kept his voice low and even.

“I can leave Carter Stevenson’s division on the mountain. Walker’s division is situated on the low ground along Chattanooga Creek. They can be on the march within minutes.”

“Order it done! Move them as quickly as possible to the right flank! General Cleburne, you will leave some force out there as well, guarding against any raid toward the rail depot. We shall be prepared for the enemy’s next move with a force that will crush any plan Grant dares to exercise. General Cleburne, you will march your men all night if necessary until they are in position as my reserve. I shall not have our backsides exposed!”

Cleburne waited for more, but Bragg seemed to deflate again, the momentary fire fading away. Hardee said, “If you will excuse me, sir, I will see to carrying out your orders.”

“Not yet! One more thing. We shall withdraw the infantry from the rifle pits at the base of this ridge. The artillery as well. Have them pulled back uphill, to strengthen our lines up here.”

Hardee said, “Sir, there are no lines up here. The men are encamped in scattered positions.”

“Then we shall dig lines! Have the men go to work, and have far more earthworks and trenches prepared across the crest of the ridge. It should have been done weeks ago!”

Hardee responded, his words still controlled. “We shall dig all night long if need be. I shall relocate a full division of my men to the right. General Cleburne shall move into reserve to the rear of this ridge. Those are your orders?”

Bragg stared up at Hardee with the familiar squint. “Is there some confusion?”

“None.”

“You both are dismissed. Go about your work, and do it with haste!”

Hardee stepped back, looked at Cleburne, who welcomed the opportunity
for an exit. He expected Hardee to move out first, but Hardee waited, extended a hand, making way for Cleburne to pass. Cleburne glanced at Hardee as he moved by, heard the soft words, “With haste, General.”

They moved outside, Colonel Brent there, Bragg’s staff officer watching as the two generals climbed up in the saddle. Hardee said to Brent, “You have anything to add to your commanding officer’s instructions, Colonel?”

Brent shook his head, and Cleburne detected a deep sadness in the man. Hardee called to his staff, who gathered quickly, said to an aide, “Go now to General Walker. Order him to put his men to the march as quickly as he can. He is to immediately vacate the low ground along Chattanooga Creek and march his men along the rear of this ridge, making camp as far northward as he can by daylight. These are General Bragg’s orders, do you understand?”

Hardee turned to Cleburne, said, “You best ride hard, get word to your General Polk what our commanding general has in mind.”

Cleburne heard a hint of sarcasm, said, “Do you not agree with his orders?”

“Should I disagree? You saw his carefully drawn ‘map.’ Is there something of a problem with what he anticipates?”

Cleburne shook his head and said, “No, certainly not.”

“Then we shall have the men who are now camped along this part of the ridge go to work. Anderson’s division. They will spend their evening digging earthworks they should have completed a month ago. I must give credit to General Bragg for understanding what must be done, even if he is somewhat late in doing it. However …” Cleburne saw Hardee look toward the west side of the ridge, where the rows of rifle pits down below still held the men who had watched the Yankee assault, who still expected one even now. “We will not withdraw the men from the base of the hill. I will instruct General Anderson to divide his forces, some up along this ridge, some remaining below. It is still a good position. We cannot allow General Bragg’s fears to take priority over effective tactics.”

Cleburne saw a wagon moving up behind the ridge, the order for
shovels already passing to the supply officers nearby. The troops began to move that way, lining up, the shovels handed out, the men guided by their officers to the labor suddenly tossed upon them.

Cleburne felt the familiar nervousness, knew he had been given an important task, that no matter Hardee’s sarcasm, it might be critical for Cleburne to bring his men from the depot back to this part of the ridge.

“If you forgive me, General, I should ride back to the depot. I do not know how many have returned, nor how long it will require to assemble them. The general’s orders are clear, and I must put my men to the march.”

“By all means. It feels good, does it not?”

Cleburne wasn’t sure what Hardee meant. “Sir?”

“Doing something. You see that assault today, out there on those hills?”

“No, sir. I was up at the depot.”

“Something’s happening, Patrick. Grant’s run out of patience. And we’ve run out of time for our holiday.”

What had begun as a demonstration, an attempt to force the rebels to show their hand, had allowed at least two full divisions of Federal troops to shove forward, halving the distance between their guns and the rebels up on the heights. The response from Missionary Ridge had been muted, adding to the suspicions that most of Bragg’s army might have slipped away, but once on the bald hills, Federal observers had a far more precise view of the Confederate position. Even if Bragg kept his men on those heights, conceding the low hills to Thomas’s overwhelming force, the rebels were still in place on the ridge. The vantage point on Orchard Knob showed heavily manned rifle pits, artillery emplacements spread all across the face of the ridge, clearly an army preparing to receive another assault. But the Federal troops had grabbed a good piece of ground, and rather than withdraw the men back to their original camps, Thomas ordered them to stay right where they were.