The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (61 page)

His first thought had been to kill the rooster.

He had been awakened by the crowing at three that morning, the men around Bauer cursing aloud in the direction of Willis’s tent. Beside him, Corporal Owens had sat up with a violent start, waking Bauer by frantically searching for whatever invisible demon was driving the strange noise into Owens’s head, and threatening to dig for it straight through Bauer’s guts. As the men lost any ability to sleep, the explanation became clear, their logic taking over for the jolt from the amazingly loud cackle from the bird. It was Owens who had gone out into the darkness, calling out Willis’s name, and Bauer suddenly feared for his friend, wondered if Owens respected a captain’s bars more than he demanded his full allotment of sleep.

As Bauer huddled in the tent, avoiding the sharp chill of the breezy dawn, Willis’s rooster had finally quieted, though not before waking the entire battalion of regulars, and from the loud curses beyond the tents, it was likely that the 11th Michigan, camped nearby, was no more pleased with “Henry” than the men around Bauer.

In the cold silence that finally settled over the camps, it was only a
few short minutes before the bugle came. If the rooster had miscalculated the timing of reveille, the bugler had one advantage: He knew how to read a timepiece.

The morning had drifted upon them with patches of fog, but the cold winds soon swept that out toward the east, obscuring the shadowy hulk of Missionary Ridge. As they had done on so many days before, the men peered out from their tents into a dreary dawn, dreading whatever new misery would descend upon them from the skies, and Bauer shared the surprise with the men around him that, in fact, on this day, the sky was blue.

The campfires were welcomed with hand-rubbing enthusiasm, pots of coffee appearing from someplace Bauer knew never to ask. But the coffee actually tasted like the precious fuel he recalled from distant memories, as though some commissary officer had discovered the miraculous, a spring of crystal-clean water, then brewed the mixture using something very close to actual coffee. That was unusual enough, what many of the regular soldiers called unique, as though somewhere, somebody was actually paying attention to the care of the men. But then the wonder changed to awe, the breakfast arriving in wagons that produced odors these men had not enjoyed for many weeks. The cooked bacon seemed reasonably fresh, a miracle in itself, and the bread showed only the first traces of blue and green mold. Bauer reveled in the feast, though when the meal was past, the boxes of hardtack appeared. It was another usual routine, the men cursing the commissaries once again, Bauer wise enough to draw his share, perhaps a bit more. Around the campfires the talk began, the wariest of veterans suggesting that a bountiful breakfast could mean either of two things: The army was staying put in these camps for a while yet, or, more likely, they were about to move. And when the army gave you a meal, there had to be a price attached. If they were moving, it was most likely straight into a fight.

The clues to that were many. The advance to capture Orchard Knob had been a maneuver that seemed only to improve their position, putting them closer to the enemy. It had worked. The attack along the heights on Lookout Mountain had been another purposeful assault, and from all the men had heard, that fight was successful as well. But no real information came to the men about just what had
happened on the mountain. As always, rumors drifted by, and then their speculation had been whisked away by the official version of reality.

As the fog cleared, the prominent stone face of Lookout Mountain had loomed over their right flank like some monument, flecked with canvas tents and men in blue. By midmorning, someone fortunate enough to carry field glasses had called out, sending word in every direction. More field glasses went up, scanning the great mass of the mountain, the glasses passed around, the men allowed to see it for themselves. Bauer had been among the last, the surprise and the enthusiastic clamor toward the mountain now explained. Like the others, he could make out the unmistakable flutter of the flag, the speck of color that no one could mistake for anything but the Stars and Stripes. The flag had been mounted on the tallest peak of Lookout Mountain, caught by the brisk winds in a full glorious display. Word had been passed officially down to Willis, who had passed it on to his company. The rebels were gone completely from the great rock, and it had been the men of the 8th Kentucky who had made the vigorous climb to the summit. Now those men stood proudly around their flag, hoping someone, or everyone, down below was watching. Even if the private soldiers around Bauer didn’t know the details, just what had happened months before from someplace called Chancellorsville, for today, no one who heard the fight rolling over Lookout Mountain had anything bad to say about the men who made that climb, who fought in dense fog, what the quartermaster, Montgomery Meigs, would describe as
the battle above the clouds
.

The euphoria over the planting of the flag had soon been overshadowed by rumblings from the far end of the line, what seemed to be miles to the north. The men knew what the sounds meant, and with every wave of artillery fire that drifted toward them, Bauer had done what many of the men were doing now, moving out from the comfort of the campfire to stare northward, trying to find out for themselves what no officer would tell them. As each new assault began, the men halted their card playing, their chatter, the various games involving knives and glass marbles.
The mystery was made more curious by their blindness. For most of the morning, the smoke had mixed with the last of the hazy fog, but by midmorning, the bright sun showed the smoke itself, thin clouds that drifted up and over the ridgeline far away, too far for Bauer to see details at all. As always, the rumors sprouted quickly, word passing around the fires with convincing authority that Bragg had launched an attack around the northern flank, others insisting the attack was Sherman’s, some claiming that Burnside had come down from Knoxville, or even that Longstreet’s rebels had returned, assaulting the army’s left flank with a bloody vengeance. Bauer tried to ignore all the talk, as had many of the regulars who had heard so much of this jabber before. If there was anything important enough to affect these men, that word would come soon enough. Bauer had settled close to a fire, talked into playing a wagering card game, had lost most of a month’s pay in a game of chance he really didn’t understand. He left the game to taunts from the other players, understood that his boredom had caused an outbreak of personal stupidity.

No orders had come that morning at all, and the men were already talking of a midday meal, if the army was to be so generous one more time. Bauer felt restless, the cold in his toes and fingers putting him into motion, a brisk walk through the camp, past the stacked muskets, more campfires, all the mundane rituals in the camp performed by the men who, yet again, had little to do. He expected field drills, but Colonel Moore was one of those who seemed to understand that what had been drilled into these men hadn’t been erased by a few weeks’ time, that putting the men into formations and marching them all over the grassy fields just meant they’d be hungrier by the day’s end. Instead, they were allowed their leisure, some of the men filling their day in exhibitions of various talents, singing songs, one man with a ragged fiddle, another helping out the concert with a stringed instrument captured from a rebel, what someone called a banjo. Bauer had grown tired of bad voices and poor attempts at music, kept his wandering around the limits of their camp. Along one boundary, he stood facing the camps of the next unit, the men from Michigan, and beyond them, another battalion of regulars, the 15th. He was curious about those men, if they shared the rough edges he saw among the 18th, no one really talking much about any competition
between the soldiers who had set themselves apart from the volunteers. Like Bauer, most of the men in the 18th Regulars seemed bored. The fight on the mountain had energized them all, and the mysterious artillery assaults to the north seemed to pull at them, adding to the boredom with an annoying sense that someone else was having a good go at the enemy, while these boys played cards.

He moved past more of the muskets, a supply wagon, saw a teamster up on the wagon slicing slivers off a stick with a knife large enough for the kind of fight Bauer never wanted to see. He stepped past the wagon, caught the unmistakable odor of cooking, thought, Dinner indeed. The commissary’s got something going on. Just hope it’s not officers only. Fellows like Corporal Owens don’t take well to that kind of thing. Man scares me. That’s sure as the dickens why Willis stuck me in the same tent with him. Sure, Sammie, make sure I get nightmares, just so you can hear about them.

He looked out toward the larger tent, saw a small herd of horses, a color bearer sitting upright, holding tightly to the Stars and Stripes. Bauer was surprised, moved that way, saw an enormous man standing tall, watching him come, and the man held out his hand.

“What do you want, soldier?”

Bauer looked past the man, saw a pair of officers standing close to Willis’s tent, minding the horses.

“Just came to see the captain.”

“Why? You have a problem, you go see your platoon officer.”

Bauer thought of the only explanation he could offer, kept the words to himself. Well, you grouchy skull cracker, the captain’s not really an officer. He’s my friend. No, he thought, best let that go. He studied the man’s size, a head taller than Bauer, arms like curved logs, a face that leaked cruelty. I bet he’s never laughed once in his whole life.

From Willis’s tent, three men suddenly appeared, and Bauer watched them with wide-eyed wonder, said aloud, “Brass. What’re they doing with Sammie?”

The guard ignored him, moved off that way, and Bauer waited, watched as they all mounted the horses. Willis emerged from the tent, saluted the men with stiff-backed respect, something Bauer had never seen. Willis seemed to wait as the horses shifted into formation,
the guard glancing back out toward Bauer, then past, scanning the tents, searching for … what? He’s a bodyguard, for certain. For who?

The men rode off now, the color bearer bringing up the rear, and Bauer realized it was the second Stars and Stripes he had seen that day. That’s big brass, he thought. Damn it all, Sammie, what did you do?

The horsemen were out on the flattened trail now, moving toward the camp of the Michigan men, and Bauer took advantage, moved toward Willis with quick steps. Willis saw him, his shoulders returning to their familiar droop, Willis always seeming to crouch slightly, as though ready to throw a fist.

“Hey, Sammie, what’s happening? You get in trouble? I saw Colonel Moore. Who were the other fellows?”

Willis motioned him with a discreet wave of the hand, backed into the tent. Bauer knew when to be quiet, followed, Willis’s tent perfumed with cigar and pipe smoke. Willis waited for him to get inside, peered out past, as though looking for eavesdroppers.

“We’ll be calling formation in a minute. No wasting time. You might as well know, since you’re the nosiest man in this outfit.”

“Naw. It’s just ’cause I know you’ll tell me secrets, before you tell anybody else.”

“Keep that to yourself, you stump brain.”

“So, who’s the brass?”

“General Johnson’s aide, Major Hawke. The general’s sending staff out to every company, issuing us orders.”

“Wowee, Sammie. That fellow had a guard with him. Tough-looking brute. He didn’t like me coming round, for sure. I never seen you talking to so much brass since you become an officer. That’s pretty impressive.”

“Not that impressive. Hell, Dutchie, you done met General Grant.”

That was a piece of pride Bauer carried since Vicksburg. There had been an opportunity for him to show off his marksmanship by taking down another rebel officer. But this time, the shot had been witnessed by Grant himself. Grant’s presence had been pure chance, fortunate timing for Bauer, but Bauer made no effort to stop the embellishment
of the story that soon flowed through the camp of the regiment, that Grant had actually come to see Bauer on purpose.

“Wait a minute, Sammie. A general’s adjutant makes a big show of coming to see you?”

“They’re sending word out to every company. I guess they’re making sure we keep our brains unscrambled.”

“You yankin’ on me again? Dang it, you been promoted again?”

“Yeah, that’s it. General Thomas is stepping aside. Picked my name out of a hat to run the whole damn Army of the Cumberland. Now listen, beef brain. We’re lining up pretty quick, moving out against that ridgeline. We’re supposed to hit the rebels hard enough to take their earthworks along the base of the ridge. If we can make it that far without getting blown to bits by their artillery, we hunker down in their works and wait for the order to pull back. If the rebs don’t like the looks of us sitting so close to ’em, they might withdraw, pull out of here completely. They do that, we might get to climb that ridgeline, see what the view’s like. But that’s for another day. Barely enough daylight left to make it to the first line of reb sharpshooters.”

Bauer soaked up the explanation, could see the seriousness in Willis’s face. Bauer shook his head. “Makes no sense. You telling me we risk getting killed crossing all that open ground just so we can chase the rebs away, and then just sit out there waiting for the generals to figure out what’s happening next?”

“One more reason you’re not an officer. What we’re doing is called a
demonstration
. That’s why the general’s staff is giving out the order to every company commander. They’re worried we’ll either fall down too quick, or that we’ll keep fighting after dark, when it’s all over up north.”

“Up north … where? Kentucky?”

“A whole damn bag of walnuts has more brains than you. You been listening to that fight all morning, up to the left flank. That’s Sherman, and he’s having a tough go. General Grant wants us to help him out. Maybe we should just send
you
.”