The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (52 page)

Buck was up and gone in Poole’s tracks, and Cleburne walked to the edge of the hill, leaned out, could see the railroad tracks running toward him, into the gaping maw beneath his feet. Mangum was beside him now, said, “The tunnel could be very useful. Perhaps an artillery battery? It’s a natural rifle pit.”

“No. It could end up being a trap. Too easy to cut off any number of troops from either end. If the enemy is truly advancing to this position, they might see the tunnel as a tempting target. That’s to our advantage. One twelve-pounder placed behind us, at the far end of the tunnel, could fire canister and sweep the entire opening. No, if we intend to hold our position on this hill, we must wrap ourselves around the crest, and force the enemy to come at us through that dense brush below, between these two hills. That will definitely slow down any advance in this direction. I should like to know just who or how many of the enemy is supposed to be out there on our side of the
river. We should scout Billy Goat Hill.” He paused. “Poole’s right. Who names these places?”

There was a crackling of brush down below, and Cleburne’s guards reacted quickly, a quartet of carbines aimed downward. Mangum said, “Sir, I see them. Our boys!”

Cleburne saw the flicker of clothing, no hint of blue, said, “Hold fire. Someone’s in a bloomin’ hurry.”

The men struggled up through the brush, one man calling out, “Don’t be shootin’ at us, no how! We’re your’n.”

The men completed the climb, three of them collapsing to the bare ground, gasping for breath. One suddenly recognized he was in the presence of a general, pulled himself to his feet.

“Sir, I was expecting Major Poole. Begging your pardon, sir.”

The man snapped up a salute, and Cleburne said, “What’s your hurry, soldier?”

“Plenty a’cause, sir. We’re signalmen. Been up on that other hill out yonder, taking a gander at what’s happening at the river. Fog finally cleared away, and let me tell you, sir, it’s a sight. If’n you was to see what we seen, General, you’d knowed why we made hay up here. There’s a pile of Yankees out there. Been watching ’em for the past hour now. They been bringing more across the river right regular, but we ain’t been able to see much with this nasty weather and all. But there’s a big dang boat out middle of the river, and they done built them a bridge clean across, marching troops and wagons all morning, I reckon. But things is changin’. I guess whoever’s in charge figures enough’s enough. They’re coming, sir. Formed up battle lines, and done stepped off, pushing straight toward that there hill we was on. Figured our job was done. Don’t need no signals to spell out what’s happening.” The man looked at Cleburne’s staff, the few guards. “Um, forgive me for wonderin’, General, but if there’s gonna be a scrap out hereabouts, you’ll be wantin’ to have some muskets to help out.”

Cleburne looked out toward the second hill, nothing to see but timber. The rain was still falling, a light mist, hiding any signs of any movement around the other hill. He turned to Mangum, said, “I’d like to know just what we’re facing. Maybe we better slip down through this tangle and get a better look.”

The signalman put both his hands up. “I wouldn’t be doin’ none of that, begging your pardon, sir. Only thing you’ll find besides Yankees is our signal flags. Left ’em up there. We was in something of a rush, you see. Major Poole’ll make us answer for that, if’n he finds out.”

“I’m not concerned with flags, Private. How many Yankees?”

“More than two divisions, all told. Once the rain lightened up, we could see nothing but blue all over that river.”

Cleburne wiped a wet handkerchief across his face, the rain still a light drizzle. Beside him, Mangum said, “Sir. Drums.”

Cleburne looked back, thought of Poole’s words, a half mile away. Rugged ground, he thought, but we better get out there first. He looked back at the signalman.

“Tough going through that brush, Private?”

“Quite, sir. Briars and vines to strangle a man. Hole’s deeper than it looks, too.”

“Good. Your information is most helpful. If I may ask, what’s your name?”

“That’d be Henry Smith, sir.”

“Indeed? Call that a stroke of fate, Private. Those drums, that column coming up. That would be another
Smith
. My lead brigade, Jim Smith. Texans. They’ll give us our muskets.”

Cleburne’s lead brigade was in position facing west, and Smith immediately pushed a heavy line of his skirmishers out through the thickets and brambles that led down from the bald crest of Tunnel Hill. Their mission was to drive forward as quickly as possible, making a hasty push through the boggy depths of the ravine that separated Tunnel Hill from the smaller mound of Billy Goat Hill. If they could establish a defensive position on the smaller hill, the remainder of Smith’s brigade would follow close behind, allowing Cleburne to fulfill Hardee’s order. As the skirmishers made their way forward, the rest of Smith’s division prepared to move out in support. For long, anxious minutes, Cleburne could only wait and observe, but his field glasses told the tale. When Smith’s skirmish line pushed up the slopes of Billy Goat Hill, they were met by a sharp volley from the men in blue. If this was in fact a race, Cleburne’s men
had lost. The Federal troops were already swarming up across Billy Goat Hill.

Cleburne heard the first clash, expected many more, stood staring at the distant hill fearing his men had stumbled into the teeth of Sherman’s entire force. But the musket fire did not last, Smith’s skirmishers wisely pulling away. Within minutes, the skirmishers, no more than three hundred men, scrambled back into the protected heights of Tunnel Hill. There was blood, but not what Cleburne feared. The damage came mostly from the briars that ripped the shirts and tore through the skin of the men in their mad dash back to safety. With Smith’s men quickly forming a line across the face of Tunnel Hill, Cleburne kept his gaze on the Yankees. He saw a great many men in blue, thought, They will come now. They must know we are only a brigade. But there was no formation, no advancing battle lines. To his amazement, the Yankees seemed more interested in labor. He could see logs hauled up the hillsides, shovels at work. More of them appeared through Cleburne’s glasses, far more strength than Cleburne had beside him, but still they kept to their newly acquired ground. And there they remained.

“Line up here! Form out to the right! Circle the crest. Captain Gilley, position Company A, to the northern perimeter, and do what you can to dig in! Be aware of the ground out toward the creek!”

Cleburne stood back, allowed Smith to complete the troop dispositions along the western face of Tunnel Hill. But Cleburne observed carefully, guided the artillery batteries into place, all the while holding away the fear that if his lone division was to hold the hill, they would certainly have to prepare for the enemy to attempt a sweep around their far north flank. Even now, he could see Sherman’s men crowding the crest of Billy Goat Hill, still digging in, more timber hauled into place, what seemed clearly to be a heavy defensive line. He kept his gaze on them through wet field glasses, felt a strange sense of excitement, thought, They’re taking too long, too much effort to put up a defense that I would never attempt to assault. They must believe we are in serious strength here. And so, they will wait
for their numbers to come forward, waiting to see if I will begin the attack. Cleburne was surprised, thought, Sherman is apparently being … cautious. That is not what I have heard of the man. He thought of Hardee, knew the reports from the great explosion at Shiloh. There, Hardee’s men had burst into Sherman, shoving through his camps, sweeping Sherman’s division away in a riot of pure terror. And yet, he thought, Sherman found his heart. Found the heart of his men, pulled them back to the fight. And then, he
won
that fight. He is a confident man, arrogant perhaps. Surely he expects that we will collapse under his “valiant assault,” that his force cannot be held away. That is what arrogant men believe. It is what any good general
must
believe. Then, why did they stop? The skirmish was only that: a skirmish. They took a few casualties, but we gave them no reason to hold back. If they had pressed us, we are only one brigade. He is … what? Many divisions? He must not know that. Or he believes he has done enough for one day. He won his victory. Cleburne looked at his pocket watch. Three thirty. Three more hours of good daylight. Perhaps he wishes to watch his next great triumph in full sunlight. And so he will come tomorrow. And if he keeps to that ground, he will grant us a truly wonderful gift. If he will not use the remainder of this day for good purposes, I shall.

He glanced southward, back down the trail, his lone column snaking their way forward, his other two brigades led into position by Cleburne’s staff. He walked forward, stood staring out to the north, toward the creek, thought of Polk, protecting the lone railroad bridge over the Chickamauga, what had to be a mile away. He saw now the trailing end of Missionary Ridge, a narrowing spur of land that bent to the right, extending to the east, closer to the creek, and closer to the position Polk had to be. Beyond, he could see the meanders of the creek, the mist clearing, had a jolt of concern for Polk.

“Sir!”

He turned, saw Mangum pointing to a cluster of men on horseback, riding hard toward him, a flag following behind.

“Yes, good. Just the man I require.”

He waited, and they halted near him, one man moving up close. He saw salutes from them all, responded with one of his own, said, “Colonel Govan, there is mischief in these hills. The enemy has occupied
that knob to the northwest, but thus far has shown little inclination to attack us here. That will most certainly change. Bring your men up and attach to the right of General Lowrey.” He pointed to the north. “Place your men on that narrow ridge that bends to the right, spreading them as far north as you feel able. That will protect our flank, and extend your brigade toward the creek. General Polk is out there, on the creek itself, and I will not have him left alone. General Lowrey has his lines circling the crest of this hill. This ground is Tunnel Hill.”

He saw a nod from Govan.

“Yes, sir. I have consulted the map. But, sir, the orders I received from Captain Buck were to form up to the left of Lowrey, extend back southward along this main ridge.”

Cleburne respected Daniel Govan, as much as he respected his other brigade commanders. Govan had come to the army from Arkansas, a kinship Cleburne took seriously. The brigade was composed exclusively of regiments from Arkansas, and Cleburne knew most of their officers by name. He also knew they were prepared for any fight.

“Your orders have changed as of this moment. General Polk’s brigade is holding position protecting the railroad bridge along the creek. He is vulnerable, and I order you now to fill the space between this hill and his position. Send a courier to locate him, and inform him of your new orders. I assure you, he will welcome your presence.”

“But, sir, there is no one on the ridge to our south. My orders were to fill the gap in that direction, linking up with General Walker’s division. If my men move north, that ground will be unoccupied.”

Cleburne pointed toward Billy Goat Hill, said, “Look out there, Colonel. I have sent a strong skirmish line down through this brush, and their presence will provide ample alarm should the Yankees attempt the same maneuver. Thus far, the Yankees seem to be more interested in digging in than attacking, as though they are expecting us to dislodge them from that far hill. I have no such intentions. My orders are to prevent the enemy from occupying this very ground, and endangering this army’s right flank. I am doing so. You can be of much better service out to the right.”

“Sir, General Walker—”

He looked at Govan, put a hand on his shoulder. “Daniel, General Walker knows our position, and I shall inform him of our situation. He can extend his right in this direction, should he feel threatened. But look at the enemy. They’re not in force anywhere to our left, not without a lengthy march we can observe clearly. I do not know General Sherman’s intentions, but it seems that his gaze is directed right here on Tunnel Hill. If the enemy forces a move to our left, we can change position accordingly. But it is difficult ground below us. Very difficult. There will be no gallant charge up these hills, not through those thickets.”

Govan moved his horse slightly, peering down to the dense ground that separated the two hills.

“This is Shiloh all over again, sir. I pushed my boys through ground like this half the day. Those deep holes, water, mud, thorns. Never saw such tangles. But we pushed through it, sir. That attack was successful, for a while. It could be here. That’s Sherman, sir.”

“We had
surprise
with us, Daniel. Whatever surprise Sherman brought to this field has been erased. Now, there he sits. And no matter how much more strength he brings across that river, we still have the better ground. If we anchor our flank on the edge of the higher ground, and hold fast to these heights, Sherman’s numbers might not matter. Bring ’em up quick, Colonel.”

Govan saluted him with a smile Cleburne had seen before. “By your leave, General. We’ll teach General Sherman he ought to stay on
his
side of things.”

Govan turned, rode away quickly, his staff in tow. The column was close, moving fast, Govan ordering them forward at the double-quick. Cleburne kept the horse to one side, saw familiar faces, caught the cheers, smiling salutes as they passed. He pointed the way, called out, “Be ready, my boys! That’s Sherman out there! And he’s sure to come.”

He hesitated, didn’t really know what Sherman’s name might mean to some of the men, if their morale would be affected by the man’s fiery reputation. But there was no hesitation in the troops passing by him, one man raising his musket, calling out to him, “Got Sherman’s musket ball right here, sir!”

Others picked up the chant, and Cleburne saw the fight they carried.
He stared out past them, toward Billy Goat Hill, saw flecks of movement, an enormous force of blue spread out down both sides, the work ongoing, earthworks and log walls. He stared out with the field glasses, could see a heavy line of men across the crest of their hill, saw hands in the air, as though someone had called them together, the sound reaching him now, a strangely boisterous cheer.