The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (56 page)

For the first time in days, the dawn came without the misty rains, the hillsides and thickets slowly revealed by a fast-rising sun. Sherman had been up early, his usual routine, had used the brisk cold air to energize him as he rode through the camps of his men. The bugles had sounded early as well, and already the men were up and into formation, word passing through their officers that on this day, there would be no delays. The men he passed already had their muskets, orders going through the lines to load, to prepare, and Sherman thought briefly of breakfast, whether any of these men had time to fortify themselves with the meager rations they carried. Most of the supply wagons remained on the far side of the Tennessee River, a precaution in the event of disaster. But Sherman had every confidence that in this campaign, there would be no disaster. When the enemy had been crushed, the wagons would come soon enough, the men around him now sure to enjoy a meal laced with the raw satisfaction that comes from victory.

He had moved out first to the left, closer to Chickamauga Creek. Most of the troops who had been positioned north of the creek had crossed southward on the smaller of the pontoon bridges, adding to
the strength that Sherman could feel around him. The horses he heard were mostly artillery batteries, moving closer to the enemy’s positions, what the scouts had told him were pockets of infantry, scattered guns along the hilly ridge to their front. He knew of the rail line to the east, cared little for making an assault only to punch artillery shells through railcars. His orders from Grant had told Sherman what he already knew, that his primary goal, the goal for this entire army, was to drive the rebels off the great long ridge, and if they did not withdraw, he would crush them.

He had heard the reports of Hooker’s victory the day before, had barely heard the thumps that peppered the face of Lookout Mountain. He never thought there was much purpose to Hooker’s advance, beyond the diversion meant to pull the enemy’s troops in that direction, possibly weakening the position that Sherman would attack. Sherman believed with absolute certainty that Hooker’s success had been the product of luck, that even with the help of Sherman’s own division, Hooker’s men had stumbled up and over rocky cliffs to find a woefully undermanned enemy, troops who had no expectation of any blue wave suddenly pushing into their mountain perch. Sherman cared little for Hooker at all, a man best known for failure, believed he had been sent to Tennessee as a panicky afterthought by Henry Halleck. Yes, he thought, you are a dashing, handsome man who draws camp followers like insects to honey. If you focused more on fighting, and less on drunken debauchery, you might not have been sent to this wasteland in the first place. But after yesterday, there will be newspaper headlines, no doubt about that. Sherman couldn’t help feeling the disgust for the newspapermen who were flocking around Hooker now, like so many mosquitoes. He is most certainly dancing merrily across his mountain meadows, Sherman thought, chirping like the morning’s songbirds about his great victory. Fine, General. Enjoy that while you can. But let us see if you can offer General Grant more than a single day’s glory.

Sherman was less dismissive of Oliver Howard, Hooker’s subordinate. Howard had brought a full division to camp just behind Sherman’s right flank, would act as a reserve, should Sherman require it. Sherman couldn’t object to that at all, knew it was Grant’s textbook precautions. Grant had placed Sherman at the point of the spear, and
whatever else Grant ordered behind Sherman was only sound strategy. But Sherman’s success the day before had given him the confidence that Howard would not be needed at all. If Howard’s men saw any action, it would come in the aftermath of Sherman’s victorious sweep down Missionary Ridge, a mop-up perhaps of the rebel stragglers Sherman had passed by, once Bragg’s army had been destroyed.

He pushed the horse past a cluster of timber, heard men talking, a campfire suddenly doused, someone aware the commanding general was riding past. He acknowledged that with a quick glance, saw an officer standing beside a horse, the man holding a salute. Sherman returned it, couldn’t see the man’s face, could just make out the colors, Illinois. He moved quickly past, saw more troops filling a narrow grassy field, more colors, more horses.

Sherman knew that Grant had ordered Hooker to press forward again, testing the rebel strength that remained on Lookout Mountain. It was still part of Grant’s strategy, creating confusion in Bragg’s camps about just where he should defend. The maps showed a wide creek east of the mountain, the last barrier to an advance against the south end of Missionary Ridge, the opposite flank from where Sherman was now. If the mountain was wholly in Federal hands, the next line of battle for Hooker would certainly be the creek. Sherman had no idea what Hooker would do, and for now, he didn’t care. That was miles away, and if Hooker was successful in driving down off the mountain, pushing straight into the base of Missionary Ridge, or even past it, Sherman knew it would be only because the rebels were more focused on Sherman. Bragg knows the greater threat is here, he thought. And I am quite sure he relishes thoughts of busting me in the mouth.

There were too many memories of Louisiana, long before the war, the two men familiar acquaintances, though no one would describe them as friends. He never cared for me, Sherman thought, seemed always to be fearful of me, as though every opinion was an insult, every conversation some hidden assault on his honor. What was he fighting against? No one there particularly liked the man, but no one challenged him to a duel. He seemed to expect that, as though he suffered through every day in some struggle all his own, a duel with himself. Well, today, we shall bring that to pass. If he ever believed I
was a challenge to his honor, to his dignity, today, I will prove him correct.

Grant’s final order had come to Sherman very late, after midnight, responding to Sherman’s reports of glowing success the day before. Sherman was ordered to launch his primary assault early, against whatever rebel forces were in front of him. The daylight had not yet spread across the ground his men would cross, and he stared impatiently to the east, knew it would come very soon. He knew that Grant would be waiting, expecting to hear the first thunder from Sherman’s guns.

Sherman kept the horse moving, couldn’t help a wave of nervousness, glanced out to several batteries placed with a perfect field of fire toward where the rebels seemed to be the day before. He wasn’t entirely certain just where they were positioned now, had been told by Grant that Bragg had responded to his surprising presence by marching a column of troops northward up the ridge. It matters very little, he thought. Unless Bragg has sent his entire army to mass together on this part of the ridgeline, he cannot hold us away. And if he weakens his center, then he merely opens the door for Thomas’s people to waltz straight up to the face of the ridge. No, Bragg is caught in a hard squeeze, and it makes very little difference whom he marched up this way. Once we step off, they will not stop us. It simply isn’t possible.

He watched a formation of men moving into line, their officers aware he was watching them, crisp precision, self-conscious looks his way. He held his cigar tightly in his teeth, gripped the leather straps, felt the nervous churning inside. It was this way before every fight, what had once been a kind of sickening terror, that any order he gave would be a grievous error, that men would die because he made a mistake. That kind of fear had been with him since the first fight at Bull Run, far worse then, but still it followed him, a struggle he tried to hide from his staff, from any of his officers. The torment angered him, and he tried to keep his thoughts
out there
, aiming his impatient wrath at someone else, some show of sluggishness that would give Sherman an excuse for blistering a man who might not always deserve it.

He spurred the horse again, moved up a low incline, the daylight expanding his vision. He continued to climb, seeking a better vantage
point, the horse splashing along a muddy trail, a narrow path through tall thin trees. The staff was strung out behind him, and he ignored them, had no need for orders, for couriers. That would come soon, when that first order went out to his division commanders, those few words that carried such weight, that would put this enormous force into motion. The horse carried him out onto clear ground now, the rocky crest of a bald hill. He pulled the reins, stopping the horse, studied the ground. The sky was lighter still, and he was puzzled to see a taller hill to the front, silhouetted by the glow of the rising sun. He glanced around, the hill he was on falling away in all directions. He could see it plainly now, a rocky knob, his men manning batteries down both sides, smoldering remains of campfires spreading out to both sides. There was brush in vast thickets, a flat plain spreading out to his right. The anxiety in his brain tightened, fueled by questions. The staff had caught up to him, kept back, other officers on the hill watching him, as though expecting orders. He kept his stare on the far ridge, felt overwhelmed by a sudden burst of uncertainty, questions he did not want to ask. But the fear had anchored inside him, a voice in his brain he couldn’t ignore, that something was very wrong, that the ground was not what he expected it to be.

The butt of the cigar was chewed to mush, and he spit it out, glanced around again, the artillery batteries making ready, officers calling out orders. He looked back toward the staff, felt a cold pit in his stomach, searched the faces, his voice coming out in an unexpected shout.

“McCoy!”

The man rode forward, and Sherman pointed out to the far ridgeline.

“What ridge is that? What hill?”

McCoy didn’t respond, and Sherman felt the familiar fury growling through him.

“I asked you, Captain, what ground is that?”

“I don’t know, sir. Begging your pardon.”

“What ground is
this
?”

“We were informed by the scouts that this was Missionary Ridge, sir.”

“What scouts?”

“Not certain of that, sir. I assumed you had been given a report by the cavalry last evening. Perhaps the skirmishers reported. There are the maps—”

“The maps show nothing like this. This ground is not where it is supposed to be.”

He silenced himself, clamped his jaw shut, knew how ridiculous he sounded. McCoy looked back to the other aides, as though seeking help, and Sherman spurred the horse again, moved out across the crest of the open hill, past another battery, saw an officer, sword in hand, guiding his men into formation. Sherman stopped again, could make out the man’s face, young, familiar.

“Major, what do you call this ground?”

The man saluted him, and Sherman returned it out of reflex, the man responding with a shout. “Sir, we call this Tennessee! Tonight it will be Federal ground once more!”

Sherman ignored the mindless boasting, dug his spurs into the horse’s flanks, moved on past, his temper flooding through him. He rode downhill now, saw more troops in line, avoided their officers, didn’t need the annoyance of more glad-handing patriotism. He stared out again to the wooded hill before him, looked back to the left, saw another smaller hill, the ground cut and uneven. But his eyes centered on the larger bulge out in front of him, another bare knob, ground that his artillery had targeted throughout the night, what the observers insisted was an enemy laboring at their defenses.

“Why is there a valley between these hills?”

McCoy was there again, the others, no one answering him, but there was no answer he wanted to hear.

He saw movement on the far ridge, the dawn expanding with a soft pink glow above that larger hill, silhouettes of men in motion. He raised his field glasses, felt a cold paralysis, his eyes scanning, absorbing the details, clearer by the minute. The ridge extended to the left, seemed to fade downward, the face of the hill specked with artillery batteries, rifle pits.

McCoy said, “We do know that the creek is up to the left, sir. Is that what you were asking?”

Sherman felt sick, a haze of blurriness in his eyes. He ignored McCoy, knew exactly where the creek was, kept his eyes on the tallest
mound, another bald hill, like this one, could see with perfect clarity, just below the crest of the tallest hill, the mouth of a railroad tunnel.

“It seems, Captain, that I have misinterpreted our position. My dispatch to General Grant last evening might have been somewhat inaccurate. The rains yesterday … there was no way to be certain.” He raised his field glasses again, focused first on the tunnel, could see rebel batteries spread out to both sides, movement, men, rifle pits, earthworks, cut logs, the growing daylight revealing rows of musket.

McCoy was still there, the man’s words coming with high nervousness. “Sir, there’s a good bit of distance between us and the enemy. We do not appear to be on Missionary Ridge.”

Sherman wanted to strike the man, slap him with his sword, held the fury inside, the ice in his chest expanding, a quivering in his hands. He felt the worst of it now, the terrifying fog in his brain, clouding his thoughts, his reason, his courage. He closed his eyes, felt suddenly like crying, fought that, a silent screaming struggle, his heart pounding. The image of yesterday came to him, the rain and fog and mist that hid so much of the terrain, that drew him into a trap of overconfidence, a trap of his own making. There was talk behind him, the staff offering opinions, advice, worthless sounds his brain tossed away.

He opened his eyes, blinked through the blurriness, his mind alive with curses, fury at his own weakness. He tried to turn it outward, aim it elsewhere, said in a low voice, “Damn the fog, damn this miserable weather, this miserable place. Damn Baldy Smith and his maps, damn the enemy for knowing his own ground better than we do. Damn my own arrogance for believing I can do anything Grant requires of me.”

Grant
. The thought brought him back to a sharp moment, the image of the small, quiet man, the subtle smile, the warm handshake. He took a deep, cold breath, tried to calm the hard thumping in his chest. McCoy had backed away, seemed to understand what Sherman was doing, and Sherman turned to him, forced calm into his words.