The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (57 page)

“It appears our estimates of our position are in error. Our orders are to dislodge the enemy from Missionary Ridge, and crush his right flank. We will carry out those orders. It just appears that there is a bit
more territory to cover than I had first believed.” He paused, forced the words out through a clenched jaw. “Captain, it is time. Send word to the commanders that they may proceed as ordered, make every effort to cross this ground, and when possible, confront the enemy.”

The first wave pushed through a storm of rebel artillery, and when they reached the base of the ridge, they were struck hard by rebel musket fire. Many of the men stumbled into a surprise, what seemed to be good fortune, a line of abandoned earthworks. But the rebels who had been there had withdrawn up the hill above them, allowing the Federal troops to gather close to the hill, but not much closer to their enemy. And then the crossfire from rebel muskets along the ridgeline poured down through them, artillery to both sides rolling shot and shell into the men who had nothing but brush to protect them. Within minutes, the wave collapsed, many of the troops falling back to their original position.

Out to the right flank, the more open ground, those men met with the same fate, absorbing rebel fire for too long across too much open space, most of that from a vicious crossfire that kept them far back of the rebel works. Though the morning was clear and cold, fog still lingered, drifting through the valleys between the rugged hills, adding to the doubts of the men who drove forward, just what kind of enemy, how much strength they were confronting.

He sat high on the horse, strained to see through the smoke, cursed the new layer of fog that masked most of the rebel position. The musket fire was continuous, the waves of artillery adding to a chaotic blend of sounds that took away any detail, any kind of organization. For the first hour, the reports had come to him, a parade of couriers each with the same plea from their commanders, desperate calls for support, for reinforcements, that the ground took away any advantage they might have in numbers. The casualties were many and everywhere, officers, men he knew well, others, pulled back out of the brush, off the open ground. But many
more still lay in the open, the rebels taking careful aim, punching down every man in blue who made the effort to help the wounded.

He moved the horse to different vantage points, none better than the last, kept his mind focused on whatever help he could provide, shifting troops to assist those in the worst part of the fight. The staff was doing their job as well, working with the couriers, passing along the orders that would maneuver the regiments and brigades where they were most needed. Through it all, the sounds and smells of the fight drove into him, sweeping away the fears, his quiet terror. But he could not lie to himself, and now, even worse, he knew he could not lie to Grant, that his errors from the night before could not be repeated. There was no victory, no progress in securing the larger hill, the ridgeline, and by 8
A.M.,
new reports reached him that the enemy was bringing more troops up along the ridge from the south, strengthening their defensive position. With a hard stare back toward Chattanooga, Sherman knew he had no option. Ignoring the assault to his pride, he sent word to Grant. There was still no accurate estimate of the strength he was facing on the northern end of Missionary Ridge, how his numbers compared to what the rebels had on their good ground. But there was help, if he required it. The message went back to Chattanooga with the kind of urgency Sherman had rarely employed in any note to Grant. He needed reinforcements. It was time for Oliver Howard to move up on Sherman’s right flank.

With the addition of Howard’s division, somewhere in Sherman’s mind, the calculations flowed past, that no matter the fog and smoke and confusion of the fight, he would now have thirty thousand troops on his end of the line. The attacks thus far had been disjointed, heavy skirmish lines testing the ground, the enemy’s defenses, the expectation that the enemy would give way, or would simply be overrun by vastly greater numbers. As the sun rose higher, Sherman understood that his confidence had been misplaced. So far, Sherman had yet to drive the enemy anywhere. For two long hours, Sherman moved back and forth among his commanders, furious at everyone, more furious at himself. For another two hours, the fight mostly stalled, Sherman’s men pulling back, regrouping, bloodied officers struggling to pull their men back together.

At eleven in the morning, Howard’s troops reached Sherman’s lines, their commander reporting personally to Sherman. As the new formations came together, Sherman knew that somewhere close to Chattanooga, Grant was watching, waiting for the results they had all expected, waiting to hear of Sherman’s certain triumph. It was all the inspiration Sherman required to push away the fear, the paralysis, the doubts. With his men regrouped, their lines re-formed, the officers prepared, and the artillery poised to protect the men, Sherman gave the order. It was time to try again.

The first wave had been a beautiful sight, massed lines of blue that stretched out past both flanks of Cleburne’s position on Tunnel Hill. The first clash of fire had been glorious and brutally destructive to the Yankees, Cleburne’s artillery doing the most effective work, a storm of canister that wiped great gaps through the men in blue, pinning them down, keeping them off the hillside in any kind of useful strength. The confusion among the advancing Yankees had been absolute, the men crawling forward through the brush and thickets, and when they were too close for the artillery to find them, the fiery sheets of musket fire from the men in Cleburne’s earthworks proved just as deadly. The men in blue had no alternative but retreat, and as they pulled away, Cleburne could see what they left behind, the valley between the two hills flecked with dead and wounded. From his own men, the cheers went out, and Cleburne had seen it for himself, that the casualty counts among the men on the hills around him were almost nonexistent.

He stayed up on the horse, chased by his staff, staying in motion all along the main part of the line facing Billy Goat Hill. The firing had slowed once more, and the last of the Yankees who could move at all were withdrawing back across the flatter ground. Straight below him, the ravine held more of the enemy than he could see, but those men had little fight to offer, stayed tight behind whatever protection the rough ground gave them.

The men who made the fight around him were sweating in the chill, dirty faces staring out with wild anticipation of what would happen next. He steadied the horse, stared through field glasses, saw
jumbled lines of blue re-forming in the distance, and to one side of him, General Smith with field glasses of his own, Smith calling to him, “They’re pulling together. You think they’ll come again?”

Cleburne moved the horse that way, saw a smile on Smith’s face, pride, the momentary glow of victory.

“That’s Sherman, James. He’s taking stock, wondering how his nose got bloodied. But wouldn’t you?”

“Sir?”

“Wouldn’t you come again? Look at them. The scouts said three divisions. From the flags we can see, there’s at least that many. That assault wasn’t very strong, a brigade, maybe more. They’re holding back, feeling us out, a test to see how many muskets we’ve got.”

Smith kept the smile. “I suppose, sir, we passed that test.”

Cleburne kept his stare on the distant knob, could see men on horseback standing in the open, saw the flap of the flag, thought, Yes, general, I see you as well. Did we surprise you? Did you expect us to disappear from these heights? Our retreat last night might still have been the correct decision. But we’re past that now, past worrying about whose strategy is better, who’s making mistakes.

Bragg had surprised him yet again, had made a brief inspection along the lines just at dawn, approving the positioning of Cleburne’s men. There had been no opportunity for any kind of discussion about withdrawing, Bragg sweeping past him with a cursory glance at the lines, the defensive works. And just as quickly as he rumbled up the trail, Bragg had disappeared again, back toward his headquarters. But Hardee had come as well, seemed to wait for Bragg to clear out of the way. Hardee did more than glance, rode deliberately through the cut logs, acknowledging the men with praise for their efforts, drawing the kind of salutes Cleburne expected. But Hardee had moved away as well, and in his path had come reinforcements, the commanders farther down the ridgeline shifting position, peeling off regiments that could be spared, adding to Cleburne’s strength.

He kept the stare through the field glasses, could see the men in blue flowing through distant brush, men on horseback, the reflection off muskets, swords, bayonets.

“General, they’re forming up, or will be very soon. Keep your men
tight together, make every effort to fill in any gaps. And instruct them to aim downward.”

He didn’t wait for a response, felt foolish giving James Smith the kind of orders any green lieutenant should understand. But Cleburne couldn’t avoid the anxiousness, the raw excitement of feeling the enemy so close, the pressure, the brute force of so many guns driving hard right toward the center of his lines.

He spurred the horse, always a risky thing to do, the animal leaping forward, Cleburne holding himself steady in the saddle. He gripped hard with his legs, rode out closer to the nearest battery, saw the commander there, Shannon, the man watching him come, a crisp salute. Cleburne returned it from reflex, said, “Well, Lieutenant, have the Mississippians been able to hit anything this morning?”

It was the ongoing game, the rivalry between the Arkansans and the men from the delta country, and the hard look on Shannon’s face betrayed a fierceness that made Cleburne regret the jest.

“We’ve taken their measure, sir. We’re prepared for more. Lost a couple of good men, but we’ll make do. Plenty of canister. All four Napoleons have hit their mark more than once. Short range, mostly.”

Cleburne took Shannon’s words with the same gravity the man offered them. The Mississippi battery was positioned in close support of Smith’s brigade of infantry, and down the line another battery was dug in, centered right above the mouth of the railroad tunnel. Cleburne pulled the horse’s reins, said to Shannon, “Fire as low as you can, Lieutenant. That’s a steep hill.”

He felt suddenly useless, like a strutting martinet, had no reason to give any good artilleryman advice. But Shannon saluted again, said, “We’ll make you proud of us, sir. We’ll give them our best.”

He saw the pride in the young man’s face, heard the confidence in his words. He nodded, no smile, felt a strange burst of fear that Shannon might not survive this fight.

“Keep yourself low as well, Lieutenant. No carelessness.”

“These guns shall be protected, sir. They don’t take kindly to Yankee hands. They’ll not leave this hill without my orders, sir.”

It’s not the guns I’m thinking of, Lieutenant.

He kept the words inside, no time for a show of sentiment, spurred the horse again, moving past a line of cut trees, men settling behind,
checking their muskets, sergeants and officers giving the familiar commands. He rode closer to the second battery, Arkansans commanded by a young lieutenant he knew well, Tom Key. Key was sighting one of his six guns, his gunners calling out Cleburne’s presence. Key looked up toward him, then back to the gun, and Cleburne avoided any kind of joviality, knew Key took his work very seriously, far more than some rivalry with any other battery.

“How is it, Lieutenant? The crews holding up?”

Key looked at him with a glimmer of hostility, and Cleburne knew it wasn’t aimed toward him.

“We killed a pile of ’em, sir. Lost four men. Jake Masters, for one. Neighbor of mine. We’ll make them pay for that. I see ’em forming up out past that hillside. They want this tunnel like it’s some prize.”

“They won’t get it, Lieutenant.”

“No, sir. And they’ll die tryin’.”

Cleburne watched Key move to another of his guns, low talk with the crews, cold efficiency. Cleburne didn’t wait for a salute, moved back up to the crest of the hill, saw Buck there, the others, couriers riding up. Mangum rode out to meet him.