The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (66 page)

His men continued to pour up the hill toward him in a stumbling, exhausted mob, collapsing on the first level ground they reached. He dug the spurs hard into the horse, kept moving along the ridge, seeking answers, seeking anyone who knew why this was happening at all.

The crest of the ridgeline wasn’t level; there were dips and valleys that made coherence difficult for the units whose flanks were supposed to be tied together. The width of the ridge varied as well, and from the placement of the artillery, he could see that little care had been given to defending the ridge itself from a direct Federal assault. The guns were mostly in the wide open, the crews working around them through smoke and heat, many of those men already down, swept away by Federal artillery far across the way. The earthworks held the men who had not yet joined the fight, bristling rows of bayonets, muskets at the ready, but those men were now confronted by the waves of survivors from down below, struggling, exhausted men who had lost the will or the ability to offer any kind of fight. He watched the men tumbling into cover, many rejoining their own units, the regiments divided by placing so much of their strength in the defensive lines now held by the Yankees, what Bragg screamed to himself was Hardee’s great error. He watched in horror as so much of his army crawled and staggered past him, weaponless, some with small wounds, some injured from the climb itself. He looked around frantically, saw junior officers screaming out orders, making the effort to gather their men, but in his mind, he saw only the face of Hardee, the only face that mattered to him now. He fingered the pistol in his belt, thought, If you were here, now, if you could see what you have caused, I would kill you.

His brain fought through a fog, the chaos around him driving through his thoughts. He stared northward, thought of Cleburne, the good fight, but that was miles away, the sounds of any fight on Tunnel Hill erased by the thunderous eruptions around him now, incoming Federal shells impacting all across the ridgeline, keeping his men down in their cover. Along the front edge of the ridge, his own guns kept up their fire, some aimed out toward the distant flashes from Yankee guns, but many more were turning, the barrels pointing
downward, the artillerymen improvising as much as they could to spread fire on the hillside itself.

He jabbed his spurs hard into the horse’s flank, pushed through clouds of smoke from the big guns, heard more shouts of his officers, the men rallying their troops, what was becoming a futile attempt to keep the fugitives from running completely across and over the ridge. Many of the men who had made the climb were regaining their wind, and as quickly as they could rise, they continued their mad dash backward, shoving men aside as they dropped down through their own trench works, then back up and out, across the top of the ridge, only to vanish down the east side of the hill. Bragg jerked the horse to a halt, saw an officer with a sword high, the man imploring his men to stop, to add their strength to the others in the trenches. But there was little strength in those men at all, most of them without muskets. Bragg saw riders coming toward him, couriers, ignored them, spurred the horse again, moved farther to the north, down a slight draw, then back up, more trenches, more exposed artillery. He saw a man on horseback, the colors, rode that way, still fighting the smoke.

Bragg reined up, saw one of the brigade commanders, Arthur Manigault, the South Carolinian, shouted out as the horse bucked beneath him, “What is the meaning of this? Can you not stop these renegades?”

Manigault looked at him with a hard glare of disgust, said, “Sir, this position is intact. But there are enemy soldiers up on the ridge down to the right. A brigade of Mississippians has broken. We will make every attempt to hold here, and by the grace of God, the men are giving them a fight. But the earthworks, sir—”

“I know nothing of earthworks! I know of heart and courage! Do your men possess neither?”

Manigault pointed down the ridgeline, and Bragg could see blue now, a cluster of men on the next mound along the crest, a sharp fight at very close range.

“There! You see! Others will stand tall! What of your men?”

“General Bragg, my men are facing the enemy from works that were dug down the face of the hill. I will not argue this with you, sir. I have done all I could to convince the engineers that their placement
of the trenches was incorrect. I ordered my own brigade to dig their trenches farther down the face of the hill, giving them a line of fire. Look out to both flanks, sir! Look! The works were placed too high, on the crest of the ridge. They can fire no volleys until the enemy has reached the crest!”

“Bah! I see Yankees twenty paces below those far rocks. They must be pressed back, driven away!”

“By whom, sir? The artillery cannot make that shot. I have instructed Captain Dent’s battery to direct his fire as close as possible to the hill, but there is no means to provide cover for his men. His crews are being shot down before they can fire.”

“Then send your men over those rocks and drive the enemy away with the bayonet! Must you be told?”

Bragg spurred the horse again, had no patience for hesitation, for men with excuses. He saw more officers, screaming efforts at pulling their men together, driving a line directly along the ridge. He saw Patton Anderson, Manigault’s division commander, and he moved that way, felt the aching need for a bullwhip, thought, I would whip them right here, show their men how to stand tall!

Anderson saw him coming, pointed down the hill, a hard shout, “Sir! The enemy is in cover down below these rocks. This is not a safe place for you!”

“Then why are you not advancing on their position, if they are so close? I will have your command!”

Anderson seemed to fight for control, holding his temper, and Bragg felt his own heat rising, would welcome an outright act of insubordination, reached for his sword, would slice this man from his saddle. A courier arrived now, riding hard with one of Bragg’s staff officers, the courier reining the horse, in full panic, screaming at him, “Sir! The enemy has broken over the crest near your headquarters!”

Bragg looked that way, too much smoke, men running, some forming up a line far across the next rise, facing south. Anderson pointed that way, toward the far end of Breckinridge’s position, said, “Sir! We must turn the lines to the flank. We must advance where the enemy has broken through!”

Bragg felt a wave of confusion, the smoke obliterating any sign of organization. “Then do what you must to protect your flanks!”

“Sir, there are no flanks. The enemy is already on the crest to the north. We are fighting in three directions!”

Bragg spun the horse, saw a ragged group of Yankees suddenly rising up along the far side of the ridge, men aiming muskets, seeking targets. Bragg ignored Anderson, pushed the horse once more, rode hard to the rear of the ridge, the crest there barely a hundred yards wide. There Manigault’s men were forming up into a new line, and Bragg rode through them, heard the volley behind him, muskets fighting muskets. The smoke was still in thick, stinking clouds, and he drove the horse farther, down an incline, large rocks to his right, saw blue on the rocks, men struggling to climb over, musket fire to his left, the men driven back. He jerked his head around, fought to see whose men they were, thought, Yes, now we shall see! There is one warrior up here, one man among us who understands his duty!

He saw his officers now, some on foot, moving their men into line, turning them to face down the ridge, and Bragg pointed toward the larger rocks, swarming now with Yankees, a hard shout, “Here! Bring them here!”

“Sir! This way! The enemy has broken through!”

Bragg saw it now, another cluster of blue surging up over the ridgeline, pushing straight for the freshly dug trenches, a burst of musket fire blowing into them, cutting them down, halting their advance. Bragg felt a jolt of excitement. Yes! That’s it, boys! Now, the bayonet! He rode that way, would see it up close, would watch his men destroy the enemy, would see the terror on the faces of the men in blue.

“Fire again! Another volley!”

His voice was drowned out by the echoing artillery fire, the thunderous blasts thrown out across the crest, the shells coming in from far out in the plain. He heard it again, the same infuriating plea, “Sir! This is no place for you! The enemy has broken through on both sides of us!”

He turned, saw his own staff officers, fear in their faces, would not hear their cowardice. “Do we know where General Breckinridge is? His men are giving way! There shall be punishment for this! Find him, bring him to me!”

He saw a helplessness on the officer’s face, ignored that, faced the nearest breakthrough, more men in blue rolling up toward him.
Manigault was there again, directing artillery to swing about, firing straight along the ridgeline. Bragg spurred again, rode to the east side of the ridge, the ground falling away, saw men running down the hill,
his
men, making their escape from the enemy. More men were running past him, and he waved his sword in the air, called out to them, “Stop! Fight here! Form a line! Prepare to fire!”

The men ignored him, some pushing into his horse with blind panic as they ran past. He felt a sickening weakness, utter impotence, saw Manigault again, would exact punishment, and Manigault shouted toward him, “Sir! We are making a stand! Colonel Pressley is holding his men together!”

“Pressley? Who is that?”

“Tenth South Carolina, sir! The Twenty-eighth, Colonel Butler, is doing well down the hill there!”

Bragg felt his anger blunted, could not find fault with Manigault now, searched for another bit of fury, pointed back down the hill to the east.

“Who are those men? They are running away!”

“Deas’s brigade, sir. They have broken.”

“I will find Deas, then. I will have his command. This is not excusable, not at all!”

Manigault stared at him silently, turned his horse, moved again to his men. Another volley of musket fire erupted, Manigault’s men staggering back, more Yankees rolling up the hill toward them. Bragg jerked the horse’s head to one side, dug his spurs in, the animal lurching forward, and Bragg kept the name in his head,
Deas
. I will have Breckinridge remove him, once I settle these matters. I will not have such officers in my command.
Never
.

He rode back toward his headquarters now, remembered the courier’s panic, saw a gathering of blue moving around the house, more of them far down the ridge. In every direction, there were more of his officers, vain attempts to rally fleeing troops, more of his men running from their protection, straight toward him, toward the backside of the ridge. They must see me, he thought, they will obey my orders!

He dismounted, stood tall with his sword high, waved the blade above his head. “Rally with me here! We shall drive them off!”

Men looked at him as they passed, and he was shocked to see
smiles, one man laughing out loud, others with the unstoppable fear, tears and raw panic. He tried the call again, “Hold with me here! Do not disgrace yourselves. Do not disgrace your country! I am your general! Fight with me!”

His voice left him, the energy draining away. More men were watching him as they passed, an officer, calling out to him, “Leave here, sir! The enemy is close to both sides! You must withdraw!”

“We must fight! Do not disgrace your families!”

But the energy was gone, and he lowered the sword, felt a sudden jerk around his waist, was picked up off the ground, a booming voice in his ear, “And here’s your mule! Yessir, Old Bragg,
he’s hell on retreat
!”

The man dropped him now, Bragg falling to one knee, pulled himself up, saw others laughing out loud, still moving away from him. The Yankees were closer now, their lines coming together, more organized, spreading out through the batteries, some of them swinging the guns around, others firing muskets into the backs of his men.

“Sir! This way!”

Bragg saw the horse, another officer, one of his own, saw his colors, the color bearer staying close. Bragg started to speak, caught the look on the young man’s face, had never noticed him before, clean-shaven, terrified eyes, another aide there now, with Bragg’s horse.

“Sir! We must leave this place!”

Bragg stared out to the front again, the rocky ledge, the ground falling away, a swarm of blue still climbing up, moving his way, scattered firing, a hard thump of artillery, more horsemen, officers, pulling their men back. He still held the sword, pointed it slowly out, toward the gathering lines of the enemy, felt a single spark of defiance. I will not allow this. I will fight you myself. But there was a hand on his shoulder, pulling him, the horse’s reins put into his hand, the voices of the aides reaching him.

“Sir! We must go! Now!”

He struggled to climb the horse, swung his leg over, searched out to both flanks, expected to see lines of his men advancing, the counterattack, driving the bluebellies off the ridge. More smoke drifted past, hiding the fight, but even the clearings were darkening, and he looked upward, the daylight nearly gone. He slid the sword back into
its scabbard, looked again along the ridge, the good high ground, the strong perfect lines of his army, broken, shattered by … what? He ran names through his mind, would have them charged, thought, There will be inquiries. There will be consequences!

He ignored the hand pulling his horse, looked out to the west, saw silhouettes along the rocks, more of the Yankees crawling, rising up, rushing forward, blue-coated officers calling out, bringing their men together. Bragg ignored the movement of the horse, the helping hands from his aides, his mind drifting away, absorbing the terrible dream. He tried to focus his eyes, looked past the enemy troops, stared now at the last glow of sunlight settling down onto the hills far to the west, out beyond Chattanooga.