The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (64 page)

“Get your fat bottoms out of this hole and climb! There’s better cover above. The damn rebs can’t shoot straight down. The higher you go, the easer it’ll be. You don’t wanna take my word for it, the colonel’s up there right now.”

“Captain!”

Bauer looked toward the voice, down the slope, saw one of the colonel’s aides, Lieutenant Moyer, the man crawling up the hill in a panic, pushing through the loose rocks like a deranged spider. Moyer was in good cover now, out of breath, seemed desperately relieved to find Willis, or any officer. He fought to catch his breath, his words coming in short bursts.

“Captain! You have to withdraw these men. They’ve gone too far!”

Willis didn’t respond, stared at the man with a look Bauer knew well. Around Bauer, other men answered, “Too far? It ain’t far enough!”

“We made it halfway up this hill!”

Willis reached down, grabbed the lieutenant’s collar, pulled him up the hill, a hard hiss into the man’s face. “These men have
fought
their way up this hill. If we’d have stayed down there, we’d all be dead. Who in hell thinks we done the wrong thing? Some fat general back there eating his dinner? Colonel Moore is right up above us, in those rocks. You gonna crawl up there and tell him it’s time to go home?”

The lieutenant seemed ready to cry, said, “Captain, it’s orders. Down below. General Johnson’s aide. We were supposed to take the rifle pits down below, and hold there, waiting for orders. You’re not supposed to be up here at all! There’s more rifle pits not too far above us. You can see ’em plain from down below. The rebs are there in force, and they’re hitting our boys good. Same all the way down this ridgeline. Hell, the general says half the army’s gone too far up this hill!”

Willis glanced at Bauer now, as though seeing him for the first time. “You hear that, Dutchie? We disobeyed orders by staying alive.” Willis looked out to the others, all eyes on him, more men out to the side, more rocks, more cover, other officers trying to hear through the showers of artillery fire. Willis looked up, raised his head slightly, then down, smiled.

“You’re right about one thing. There’s rebs not thirty yards up the hill. They gotta be sitting in their own pee, knowing we’re up this close. Lieutenant, I don’t know anything about General Johnson, other than that hairy thing on his face he’s always playing with. But these men followed me out of that pit down there because they didn’t want to die sitting still. Now I don’t aim to die running backward. That’s what you’re telling us to do.”

Men responded now, agreeing with Willis. The lieutenant seemed desperate, staring at Willis, what seemed like an agonizing effort to be understood.

“Captain, all I know is what the general is telling his aides. We’re not supposed to climb this here mountain. The orders are for these men to withdraw back to the rebel works at the base of the ridge.”

There was a burst of musket fire down to the left, more from above, volleys both ways, and Bauer peered up, saw a dozen men in blue rising up, climbing quickly through rocks, one man falling, tumbling backward. Now others did the same, farther away, shouts and screams. Willis looked that way, then turned to the aide.

“Lieutenant, you can go back to General Johnson’s aide and tell him the fight’s up this hill. We push those rebs just a little more, and they’ll haul it out of those rifle pits, and make their way to the top, just like those boys did down below. The higher we go, the better it is for us. You tell the general that if our artillery back there wants to keep up their little show for our benefit, they might aim a little high.”

“Captain … please. I was told …”

Over from Bauer, a deep, thunderous voice, and Bauer looked that way, knew the growl of Corporal Owens.

“Look here. I signed up to kill rebels. Indians. Mexicans. Hell, I don’t rightly care. But right now it’s rebels. And they’re not too far up this hill. Sounds like the place I wanna be. If’n you don’t mind, Captain, I’d rather follow you up this damn hill than run away from a fight ’cause of this bloomer-wearin’ mama squawler, and whatever general he thinks is so damn smart. Running away ain’t never won a fight.”

Willis didn’t smile, said, “There you go, Lieutenant. I don’t care for being called names by none such as this fellow. He wants me to lead him up this hill, that’s what I’m gonna do. With all my respects to General Johnson, and his aide. You can tell the general, or anyone else back there who’s paying mind to what we’re doing, this is a fight we’re aiming to
win
.”

Willis scanned the men closest to him, more agreements, men making ready to move once more. Bauer sat up, saw more men down to the left climbing out of cover, pushing their fight higher, smoke and musket fire engulfing them as they moved upward. All around him, the men began to shout, and Bauer saw others pointing, waving toward them to rise up, to keep moving upward.

Willis responded, his head up over the rocks, said aloud, “They’re running! The rebs are running! Let’s help ’em. If you haven’t fixed bayonets, do it now! Get up! Climb the damn hill! Get to those next earthworks!”

Willis pulled himself up over the rocks, the others following. Bauer waited for the space, rolled over, pulled his bayonet from his belt, tugged it tightly to the musket. He stood, put one foot higher on the slope, then climbed, stepping alongside the others, many more above. He ducked from the whistling canister, blowing past, too high, fought through smoke and dust, the men crowding together, the rebel rifle pits just above him. There were logs there as well, and Bauer saw beyond, above, those men pulling out, muskets dropped, pushing their way uphill. He looked out to the side, stopped, frozen by the stunning view of the enormous blue wave spread all along the ridge. The advance was flowing up the hill all down the slope, Johnson’s division, beyond, Sheridan’s division, and many more Bauer couldn’t see. The rebel artillery fire still came, ripping through the men, clouds of billowing smoke, adding to the musket fire that sought them out, panicked firing by the rebels still holding to the pits along the hillside. But those men were few, most of the rebels doing what their men down below had already done, pulling away, their numbers too few to hold back this enormous wave, the rebels desperate to find the safety at the crest of the hill. Bauer took aim now, finally, leveled the musket at a man staggering up the hill, a dozen yards above him. But another man fired first, the rebel rolling over, sliding back down, Bauer stung by rage, disappointment. He looked for the rival, saw Owens, the big dirty man, a smile through clenched yellow teeth. Owens looked at him now, still smiling, nodded toward him, pointed a crooked finger toward the crest of the hill.

The advance of the army had been spectacular, the view from Orchard Knob offering a clear panorama of the attack. Thomas had watched in awe, the crisp cold adding to the nervousness inside him he tried to hide from the men around him. Like Thomas, the others had stood in reverent silence as the thick lines of blue infantry pushed first through the dense thickets, the stands of trees, and then, with nearly perfect symmetry, had rolled forward across the final half mile of open ground. But the enemy had watched the same scene, had responded as Thomas knew they would. From their vantage point on the knob, the observers had estimated that the rebels had placed as many as fifty cannon in various positions along the center of Missionary Ridge, and with the blue troops in clear view, every one of those guns had started its work.

As the flashes of fire blew down off the heights, Federal guns had begun their efforts to assist the advance, those gunners already knowing the range, the practice they had engaged in for the past several days. What had once annoyed Thomas, those useless duels that did nothing but consume ammunition, now became purposeful and precise. The rebel cannon responded to the batteries close to Orchard
Knob, but more often, their muzzles were aimed at the oncoming infantry. Thomas had seen that kind of assault before, could never just accept that artillery fire was one of the usual hazards for men who had only their legs to propel them. In every fight, he had watched his men moving closer to the enemy with the same twisting dread, each blast burrowing through the lines of blue hitting him somewhere inside. It was the same today, that final race to the rebel rifle pits staggered by the waves of shelling, and then, the musket fire from those rebels brave enough to make a stand at the foot of the ridge. The couriers had come then, uncertain, nervous men, asking for orders, for clarity of what they had already been told. It had infuriated Thomas that the same men who had stood before Grant were now showing such uncertainty, or that each man seemed to regard the assault in a different way. The complaints came as well, fears that the attack was doomed to disaster, that with so much firepower raining down on them from the heights, even the rifle pits were a challenge the men could not overcome. For nearly an hour, Thomas had stood close beside Grant, fielding the doubts, the pessimism, the confusion, had responded to the couriers and staff officers by repeating the command they had been given already: Grab the first line, capture the rebels there, and wait for instructions.

Grant had grown furious at the confusion, and Thomas knew the anger was directed at him. It was logical, in its own way, Thomas being the senior commander on the field. But Thomas also knew he was being scrutinized by civilian eyes, too many for comfort. The newspapermen had come forward, men like Sylvanus Cadwallader, who seemed to trail behind Grant like an overeager puppy. Charles Dana was there as well, no surprise, Dana sure to record any possibility of disaster in his next wire to the War Department. Thomas had grown to dislike Dana intensely, had wondered for some time now if Dana would ever care to send Secretary Stanton a dispatch that contained
good
news.

The staffs were there as well, no harm in that, Grant’s aides as useful as Thomas’s in fielding the steady stream of riders from out front. Thomas had expected Granger to keep close, especially since it was the corps commander’s two divisions who held the center point of the entire advance. But Granger had slipped away, and Thomas had
learned that Granger’s love of artillery had superseded his care for his own generals. Granger had occupied himself with ranging the guns of an Indiana battery, inserting himself into a job far more suited to the men who stood to the side, helpless to object. Whether or not Granger’s gunners appreciated the intrusion, Thomas knew Grant was not happy at all. The comments had come with pointed subtlety, Grant agreeing with Thomas that a corps commander had better things to do in the middle of a fight than play with cannons. With Grant’s displeasure reinforcing his own, Thomas had ordered Granger to return to the peak of Orchard Knob, Granger told in precise terms that his guns were already in capable hands.

As the troops pressed closer to the rebel positions, the smoke had risen, obscuring most of the details, beyond glimpses of disorganization in the lines. It was to be expected, the men advancing at different speeds, depending on the punishment each regiment was absorbing. But the smoke continued to rise, enveloping the ridge itself, adding considerably to Thomas’s anxiety. He stared through field glasses, a dozen more pairs spread out across the knob, eyes fixed on anything that would tell the commanders just what was happening.

Beside him, Grant chewed furiously on a cigar, then shouted to a nearby aide, “Have we heard any more? Is Sherman succeeding?”

The aide responded in a low voice, as though no one else should know just what Sherman might be doing. “I’m not certain, sir. No word has yet come since your last order, at three o’clock. Shall I send another rider up that way?”

Grant seemed to growl, the cigar moving, shifting in his tightening jaw. “He will not keep me in the dark. There is nothing to be seen that way except smoke, and I must believe that he is carrying the fight.” Grant turned to Thomas, who knew the man’s anger would flow his way. “What is happening out here? I will not tolerate failure on such a scale, General.”

Thomas felt the stab of Grant’s question, gritted his teeth before answering. “I know all that you know, sir. We have all kept to this same position. You have heard the couriers. The men have pushed hard against the rebel works. If there is anything significant in that, either for the good or the bad, I trust we shall be told soon enough.”

Grant stared through the glasses, said nothing, and Thomas
glanced toward Granger, who had watched the brief conversation. Granger shook his head, no comfort to Thomas, and Granger raised his glasses again, said, “Oh. My word. I see troops on the hillside. A great many troops.”

Thomas aimed his stare that way, caught the slight clearing in the smoke, saw what Granger saw, men in blue spreading upward. They stared in silence for a long minute, the smoke clearing again, more of the ridge visible, the blue pushing upward in wide swaths, most of the advance far past the place they were ordered to hold. Thomas absorbed the sight, felt his nervousness increasing, heard low mumbling from Grant, and now Grant lowered the glasses, said, “General Thomas, who gave that order? Who ordered those troops to climb that ridge?”