The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (60 page)

It was afternoon, and Grant had walked back behind the knob, seeking lunch from the lone commissary wagon parked nearby. Thomas stayed up on the highest part of the hill, along with
most of his generals, kept his gaze on the ridge to his front. For most of the late morning, rebel troops could be seen moving along the ridge, most of them shifting toward Bragg’s right flank. Sherman’s fight had changed very little, beyond the strange message Grant had received, the request for Howard’s troops to be brought forward. Thomas had been surprised by the request, the tone from the courier suggesting an urgency that Grant certainly didn’t expect. Howard’s men had moved out that way, partially exposing Thomas’s flank to the north of Orchard Knob. Grant had remedied that possible weakness by shifting another division from John Palmer’s Fourteenth Corps, under Absalom Baird. But no one on Missionary Ridge seemed to be reacting to any of that at all. What movement of the rebels Thomas could see was a flow of rebels and guns to his left, what he would expect with the volume of fire coming from Sherman. But neither Thomas nor his observers could confirm if Bragg had weakened his center. The field glasses showed without doubt that Bragg’s men along the center of the ridge were still in force, still waiting, watching Thomas’s army. Thomas had to believe that a full-on frontal assault against that position could, even now, cost far more casualties than he was willing to lose.

For the past hour, the fog across the plain had moved off, the skies blue and bright, a harsh, chilling breeze buffeting Thomas from behind. Grant was moving back up the hill, and Thomas heard Rawlins.

“Sir, you must do something! Order more troops that way! General Hooker should be reprimanded, most certainly!”

“Calm yourself, General. Matters are in hand. Battles do not fight themselves in short minutes.”

“Yes, but we should have heard more positive results from General Sherman. I admit to some concern.”

Thomas watched the scene, Grant climbing up with his usual deliberate plod, Rawlins flitting about him like an angry stork. They reached the crest of the hill, Grant still chewing on something, and Rawlins silenced himself, understood decorum around the other senior commanders. Thomas hid a smile, knew his own staff was back behind him, that there would be teasing about Rawlins. For now, Hough, Ramsey, the others were receiving the couriers, would continue to do exactly that unless he called upon them. He actually liked
Rawlins, knew the man was exceptional at his job, the kind of hovering presence Grant seemed to need, whether Grant agreed with that or not. Thomas couldn’t help thinking of the two men as an old married couple, Grant the stern-faced husband, as Rawlins jabbed and poked him with questions and details.

Grant moved up beside Thomas now, said, “Saw General Hunter back there. Man knows how to fill a dinner plate. Crusty, disagreeable fellow. Rather good at his job, though. Knows how to tell a joke. Hates card playing. I had to hold him in check on that one. An inspector general doesn’t need to legislate morals, and the men seem to like it. I admit, I did outlaw card playing in Mississippi. We were on the march, no time for much else.” Grant paused, and Thomas looked at him, surprised at Grant’s unusual chattiness. Grant seemed suddenly uncomfortable, a nervous twitchiness, seemed self-conscious about Thomas actually listening to him. “There is some decent beef at the wagon, and the bread’s not bad. Take a walk back there, if you wish.” Thomas hadn’t felt hungry since breakfast, the cold drilling into him, and he pulled the coat tighter, saw Grant doing the same. Grant said, “Good day for a coat. Cold’s better than the rain. Fog finally gone.”

Thomas could feel some kind of uneasiness in Grant’s babbling conversation, so completely unlike Grant. He glanced back to his staff, four aides, standing with Lieutenant Ramsey, Ramsey responding to his look by moving forward. Thomas held up his hand, said, “Go eat something. Not much to be concerned with right now.”

Ramsey nodded, a quick, short bow, turned, motioning for the others. Thomas was surprised to hear a loud grunt from Grant, who said, “What in blazes? Look there.”

Thomas saw Grant raising the field glasses, other officers across the hill doing the same. Thomas looked through his own, scanned the sloping hills to the north, some of the details hidden by the rough terrain. But one detail was very plain, made more clear by the bright sun. Thomas knew what he was seeing, kept it inside, let the observation come from Grant.

“Those troops … they’re retreating. I cannot understand this. Is he being defeated? What in blazes has Sherman been doing up there?”

Thomas stared silently, knew Grant’s description was accurate.
The word crossed through his mind.
Stampede
. He turned to the south, scanned the far reaches of Missionary Ridge, searching for some signs that Hooker’s men had made their way across the creek, might have shoved up to the southernmost ground near the ridge. Grant said the word, as Thomas thought it.

“Nothing. Hooker’s still fooling around trying to build a bridge. We should have sent him to Burnside, let the two of them trip over each other’s feet.”

Thomas held a blast of anger inside, thought of Hooker. I would have you removed for this. Defeat is one thing. Useless delay is another. Grant turned again toward Sherman’s fight, Thomas as well. He could see a haze of smoke drifting up across the ridge, felt a cold stirring in his stomach. The artillery fire was falling away, but the men in blue could clearly be seen, gathering back along the flatter plain away from the ridge. Grant said, “What time is it?”

Rawlins was there, always. “Three ten, sir.”

“General Thomas, I see General Granger there. Summon his division commanders. Those are the men whose camps are nearest this position, yes?”

Thomas knew the other generals were there, keeping close to Orchard Knob. He motioned to Hough, the others, the aides responding with a quick jog toward Granger. Grant was impatient now, slapped his hands against his heavy coat.

“This is unacceptable. Sherman has sent no word of any collapse. He’s going to shove his people up that hill until no one’s left. He should. No excuses.”

Thomas saw Granger leading his two closest generals, Wood and Sheridan, and behind them, Richard Johnson, who commanded the division farthest to the south. All four were on horseback, moving quickly, followed by Thomas’s aides.

Gordon Granger had endeared himself to Thomas by his performance at Chickamauga, adding strength to Thomas’s final stand, allowing the rest of Rosecrans’s army to escape annihilation. But Granger carried a chip on his shoulder, had thought himself capable of a senior command, an opinion not shared by the War Department. From early 1862, he had commanded the Army of Kentucky, but with the fights expanding down through Tennessee, the War Department
merged his command with Rosecrans’s Army of the Cumberland, a move Granger took to be an obvious slap against his abilities. Instead of the independent command of an army, Granger now had to accept a subordinate position as a corps commander. Thomas had never been impressed with Granger’s efficiency, wasn’t sure if Grant felt the same way. But his men were the closest at hand, and, along with Johnson’s division, would be the ones most capable of putting their troops into position, should Grant actually order an attack.

Tom Wood was a small, wiry man, straight-backed, carrying the look of the dashing cavalier. Like Granger, Wood was another of the veterans of Mexico, was an obvious choice for a command position at the start of the war. The only real stain on Wood’s reputation had come at Chickamauga, through no fault of his own. It was Rosecrans’s order to Wood to relocate his division that had opened a yawning gap in the Federal lines, allowing Longstreet’s rebels to crush straight through the entire position. But Wood had kept his command, not even Rosecrans making the excuse that any of that disaster was Wood’s fault.

Phil Sheridan was by far the youngest of the group, not much beyond thirty years old. Like Wood, Sheridan was a small, tightly wound man, who had built an excellent reputation for field command under both Rosecrans and Don Carlos Buell. It had surprised Thomas that Sheridan had been close friends with Sherman early in the war, and along the way, had endeared himself to Henry Halleck, no easy feat.

Richard Johnson was known as much for his outsized handlebar mustache as he was for good leadership in the field, a man beloved by his troops for his appearance as well as his sturdiness under fire. Like Granger, Johnson had been with Thomas at Chickamauga, and though he served a different corps commander than Granger, by chance his positioning in line had put him on the right flank of Thomas’s position, with Johnson’s right resting against a loop on Chattanooga Creek.

All four men were West Pointers, all had impatient, energized troops, who seemed even now to be reacting to the summoning of their generals with a scattering of cheers.

Grant watched with Thomas, the men dismounting, and Grant said, “Last evening, I reversed my order for your men to advance in demonstration against that ridge.” Thomas saw the men glancing back and forth between him and Grant, and Grant seemed to hesitate, as though trying to recall just how much he knew of these men. Grant spoke first to Wood, didn’t seem to care that Granger outranked him, and Thomas had no reason to object. He had more faith in Wood than he had in Granger. Perhaps Grant felt the same way.

After a long moment Grant said, “General Wood, it seems that General Sherman is having a difficult time. I think that if you were to advance your divisions and carry the enemy’s rifle pits along the base of the ridge, it would threaten Bragg’s center, so that he might feel the urgency of removing troops from his right flank. This could assist General Sherman’s efforts. Do you agree?”

Wood looked at Granger, then Thomas, as though seeking permission to speak for the others. Thomas nodded, and Wood said, “Perhaps it will work out that way, sir. If you order it, we shall try it. I believe we can carry those entrenchments without any serious difficulty.”

Thomas felt a stab of nervousness, said, “Sir, we will be exposing a considerable number of good men to murderous fire. Once they move out across that open ground, the enemy’s artillery will play heavily on their ranks.”

Grant pulled the cigar from his mouth, glanced at the others, then said to Thomas, “Right now, rebel artillery is playing heavily on Sherman. Wouldn’t you agree? We can sit on our perches here and watch that, or we can do something about it. If these gentlemen agree, I prefer the latter course.”

There was no room for argument in Grant’s expression, and Thomas knew the order had to be given. The others spoke to one another, Grant paying more attention to them, the details of what he expected them to do. Thomas pulled himself back, his mind working on the plan. He knew Grant had made a mistake reversing the order that would have sent these men forward at first light. But that kind of discussion was useless, would only damage the strange air of tension he felt with Grant now.

He waited for a silent moment, said, “There will be casualties. Gentlemen, I expect you to advance your ranks with alacrity. Do what is required to convince Bragg we’re coming with all hell right through his center.”

He looked at Sheridan, saw the man shifting his feet nervously, a hard stare toward the ground. The others were absorbing what Grant was telling them to do, all of them as aware as Thomas what the cost might be. Granger seemed the most energized, eager, as though engulfed by a sudden wave of childlike excitement.

Thomas pointed toward him, said, “You will remain here, close to this command. General Wood, General Sheridan, General Johnson … it is essential that you be alert to what you might encounter. The enemy will most certainly not come down off those heights to engage you. They will rely on artillery and muskets. Stay close to your troops, but do not expose yourself needlessly.”

Thomas looked back out toward the far ridge, toward Sherman’s attack, thought of Grant’s words,
Assist General Sherman’s efforts
. That is, he thought, what we are here for. Perhaps we shall allow Sherman to have his success. He looked at the four, Granger speaking to his aides, a groom moving off with his horse. Sheridan and Johnson walked slowly toward their own horses, both men staring silently out toward the ridge. Wood was still looking at Grant, but the questions were past, the decision made, the order given.

Thomas said, “General Granger, tell the others; we shall fire six guns in quick succession from Fort Wood. That will be the signal to step off. No straggling, no one holds back. Do the job, capture and hold those rifle pits at the base of the hill. The order shall be sent if it is determined the men should remain there, or return back to their camps.”

Wood moved away, brief words with the other three, and Thomas looked at Grant, saw him staring out toward Sherman yet again. Thomas said, “We shall do what we can to
assist
him, sir.”

Grant looked back at him, a brief glance. “Yes, well, see it through. There shall be no celebration in Bragg’s headquarters. Not on this day.”

Thomas turned away, saw the flags gathering, the staffs of the
generals moving out to pass along the orders. He glanced again to the pass east of Lookout Mountain. Still nothing from Hooker, he thought. No word, no sign, no fight. And, probably, no bridge. So, we shall make our demonstration, and if we perform our duty well enough, General Sherman shall have his victory.