The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (70 page)

At Ringgold, there had been word of a fight, much more than a simple skirmish. The name had rattled Sherman, as it had infuriated him at Tunnel Hill. Patrick Cleburne had held off the Federal pursuit, allowing the rebels to escape. It seemed hardly to matter that along the way, they had left behind enough matériel to wage some new campaign for some time to come. But those goods that survived the torch were now in Federal hands, and if the rebels were to make another strong effort at driving Grant’s army away, they would have to find supplies from another source.

Days before, when he crossed into Chattanooga from the valley west of Lookout Mountain, Sherman had left one division behind, commanded by the German, Peter Osterhaus. Osterhaus had then been half of the assault that swept the rebels off of the mountain, and
since, had kept his troops alongside the rest of the men who answered to Joe Hooker. Sherman had expected to rendezvous with Osterhaus at Ringgold, adding that division once more to the Army of Tennessee, filling the gaps in Sherman’s command that had come from the vicious fight at Tunnel Hill. But Hooker had pushed Osterhaus to the vanguard of his pursuit of Bragg’s army, and clearly had expectations of his own. Hooker still seemed to operate beneath the black cloud of low expectations, and despite Grant’s concerns that Bragg’s army might yet be dangerous, Hooker expected nothing of the sort. The Federal troops knew they had been victorious, and Hooker, who expected trumpeting headlines for his conquest of Lookout Mountain, seemed intent on securing his place in the gallant accounts of this campaign. His delays in crossing Chattanooga Creek had seemed to drain away the glory he felt he had earned on the mountain, word reaching him that both Thomas and Grant were severely disappointed by Hooker’s sluggishness. Hooker had been left completely out of the army’s enormous success in driving the enemy away from Missionary Ridge. By all accounts, Hooker seemed eager to erase that stain, and so he drove his men in a rapid pursuit of what he believed to be a gang of terrified fugitives.

At Ringgold Gap, an overeager Joe Hooker sent Osterhaus’s division forward in pursuit of what Hooker thought was the trailing end of the rebel retreat. Instead, Ringgold Gap provided an opportunity for Patrick Cleburne to bloody another Federal nose. Moving quickly forward without the benefit of artillery, Hooker’s drive was ambushed by Cleburne’s far inferior numbers, the gap itself offering good cover, masking Cleburne’s own artillery, a stunning and bloody surprise to the lead elements of Osterhaus’s division. For several hours, Cleburne’s forces punched hard at any effort by Hooker to drive them away, costing Hooker another heavy toll in casualties. When Cleburne did finally withdraw, it was only because he chose to, after receiving word from Bragg that the army was safely to the south. If Hooker had hoped this campaign would elevate his reputation in Washington, and throughout the army, Sherman knew that Grant would offer little praise for his haphazard and costly search for glory. For Sherman, the worst part of Hooker’s blunder had been the loss of
so many of Sherman’s own, the ground in front of Ringgold Gap spread with the bodies of too many men.

Sherman saw the horsemen, moved that way, his staff in tow. The smoke still boiled up from the warehouses along the road, more of the rebel supplies now reduced to smoldering ruins. Throughout the small town, blue-clad soldiers worked through the ash piles. The smells struck him, burnt corn, or the pungent odor of burning flour. Men were slinging sacks of whatever remained over their shoulders, some with the prize of slabs of bacon.

Officers saluted him as he passed, but Sherman ignored most of that, had been in the saddle too long today. He searched through the various flags, saw the larger Stars and Stripes, felt relieved, knew he would find answers to the myriad questions, and even better, would find out just what Grant wanted him to do. He focused on the larger cluster of horsemen, saw civilians among them, the ever-present Charles Dana, others, the newspaper reporters who clamored about the generals like fleas on a house pet. He dreaded that, had learned that lesson long ago, that those men, despite their broad smiles and glad-handing, were not his friends. He saw a pair of them to one side of the gathering officers, men pointing out toward the ridgeline a half mile way, smoke still drifting above the trees, the last signs of Hooker’s absurd fight. Sherman searched the officers for the least conspicuous man in the bunch. He saw him now, an automatic smile, marveling once more at Grant’s utter lack of military decorum. The uniform was plain and dull, Grant seeming to blend into any gathering of officers as the man least likely to be in command. It was the same now, Grant sitting slouched in the saddle, the plain coat, the hat pulled low, as though shading himself from everyone around him.

Grant saw him, raised the brim of the hat, and Sherman saw the briefest of smiles from Grant, the slow nod, the cigar offered up in a brief salute. Sherman closed the gap between them, could feel the staff hanging back.

“Good afternoon, Grant. I had hoped we’d put Bragg’s army in a bag.”

Grant pulled away from the others, and Sherman saw Dana watching,
knew Dana would come along. It was Grant’s logic, that including Dana in any conversation now meant that the reports going to Washington would carry Grant’s approval. Sherman knew to guard his words, and Grant moved closer to him, waited for Dana to come up with him, said, “Afternoon, Sherman. Pleasant day. The enemy’s burned enough supplies to last them for months. Curious.”

“Not curious at all. They didn’t have time to grab everything they had back here. Left a mess of artillery and wagons near Graysville. Some of the guns are in good condition, too. We’ll make use of that.” Sherman looked at Dana now, said, “I would hope you’re telling the War Department that they’ve got something to celebrate.”

Grant glared at him, and Sherman wasn’t sure why. Harmless enough question, he thought. Grant said, “He didn’t have to. Told them myself. Rather enjoy crowing about a victory once and again.”

Dana raised his hat, a salute of his own, said, “I’ve told them as well, sir. Marvelous experience, watching that final assault. Like a painting, a work of art, the army assembled in such martial perfection. Quite sure the enemy saw that for what it was. Destiny. Yes, that’s it. Destiny. They could not hope to hold their position in the face of such overwhelming superiority.”

Grant was looking at Sherman, no expression, but Sherman felt the message, had received it too often before. Keep your mouth shut. Dana seemed eager for something back from Sherman, and he forced a smile, said, “Yes, wonderful. Washington should hear some good news occasionally.”

Grant kept his eyes on Sherman, said, “Mr. Dana, if you will allow us a brief moment.”

“By all means, sir. I understand. Permit me to join the others, then.”

Grant gave a quick wave of his hand, all the permission Dana required. They were alone now, and Sherman turned the horse, stared out toward the scavenging soldiers, said, “Heard about Osterhaus. Which regiments got hit the worst?”

Grant let out a breath. “Thirteenth Illinois took it badly. Missouri boys, too. The Seventeenth, Twenty-ninth, Thirty-first. Made a devil of a fight. But Cleburne set it up just right. Perfect ambush.”

Sherman felt a burn. “You sure it was Cleburne?”

Grant tilted his head, held the cigar in his hand. “Matter?”

Sherman stared ahead, fought to keep his voice calm. Yes, by damned. It matters to me. I’ll whip that man yet. The thoughts were held tightly, and Sherman shrugged. “Suppose not.”

“Hooker’s taking it hard. Knows he really messed things up. He’ll probably stay away from you for a while. Not in his nature to apologize for getting his boys killed. In this case,
your
boys.”

Sherman tried to feel something kind for Hooker, thought of the man’s smug handsomeness, couldn’t help but dislike him, even from before the war. “I’ll stay away from him. I assume he’s going back to … wherever he came from.”

“Not sure yet. Up to Halleck.”

“I’ll talk to Osterhaus. He’s gotta be pretty ripped up by this.”

“Did already. But, he’s yours, so, yep. I’d do that.”

Sherman felt a hesitation from Grant, something digging through Sherman he didn’t enjoy.

“You have something to say to me, by damned, say it.”

Grant pulled at the cigar, stared away, watching the soldiers. “Like what?”

“Like Cleburne fought one hell of a fight. Like I should have taken that ridge. Like you put me up on that flank to win this thing.”

Grant still didn’t look at him. “We won this thing. That’s what the War Department will care about. Shame they got away, though. Cavalry says Bragg’s headed for Dalton. They’ll likely resupply, refit, wait for us to come after them. Can’t yet.”

Sherman wanted to say more about his fight, about Cleburne, could feel a numbing cold in Grant’s words. He glanced to the side, no one close. “It was a hell of a fight, Grant. Made one bad mistake, relying on the maps. That ground was cut up, hills and woods. Damnedest place to try to move. Enemy had the good ground, dug in strong. Lost some good men. Maybe too many.”

“Maybe. That’s more than Hooker will say.”

Sherman stared at Grant, who avoided his eyes. He ached for something more from Grant, a scorching blast, the kind of response Sherman would put out himself. But he knew it wasn’t Grant’s way. He glanced down at the dusty ground beneath them, felt the chill of a cold wind.

Grant said, “Thomas’s people did something I’d never thought I’d see. Disobeyed orders and made themselves heroes. I wouldn’t say this to Washington, but I’d rather they not do that.”

Sherman absorbed the obvious, that the newspapers would latch on to Thomas more than anyone else. He rolled that over in his mind, shrugged. “Dana was there. Saw it for what it was. A real spectacle. If he’d have been up on my end of things … well, might not go well for me.”

Grant looked at him now. “He wasn’t on your end. And he told Washington what they needed to hear, which was the truth. Thomas broke through, sent Bragg scurrying off into the woods. Any reason he shouldn’t get credit for that? Man saved the army at Chickamauga, so everyone keeps telling me. His star’s rising, no doubt. He’ll keep command of the Army of the Cumberland, for certain.”

“And the Army of Tennessee?”

“You resigning?”

Sherman was stunned at the question. “Hell no. Um … should I?”

Grant looked at him again, a brief smile. “Not while I’m your superior. Besides, got a job for you. Once Bragg was whipped, I ordered Granger to move it quick up to Knoxville. You want to get a rise out of the War Department, have them think we forgot about Burnside. It seems General Granger didn’t like the assignment. Dallied about, took his time putting his men together. Not sure what he has against Burnside, but I changed his orders, told him to stay put in Chattanooga. I need you to march up to Knoxville, as quick as you can get moving. Burnside collapses, and none of this will matter. Halleck’s been on me from the beginning to take care of Knoxville, and now that we’re not so
distracted
by things around here, they’re squalling again.”

Sherman slumped, had no use for Burnside at all. “I had hoped my men would get some rest.”

“It’s winter. Go up there and kick Longstreet in the backside, and they’ll get all the rest they need. And Washington will be mighty grateful for your good work.”

It was rare sarcasm from Grant, but Sherman knew he was being given a gift, that Grant was offering him a way to move past what had happened to him at Tunnel Hill. He looked out toward the gap, the
smoke fading, men and wagons moving back from the ground where the fight had been, wounded men hauled to makeshift hospitals, the houses in Ringgold now fulfilling a service that their residents never expected to see.

“Hope I run into that fellow again.”

“Who?”

“General Cleburne.”

“It’s not your personal war, Sherman. You go help Burnside. The rest will follow in time.”

Sherman heard meaning in Grant’s words. “You have a plan? You do, don’t you? You already know what we’re going to do next.”

“Don’t you?”

Sherman kept his stare on the distant gap in the hills, felt Grant’s eyes. “Well, since I have my orders, my first priority will be to march my men toward Knoxville. After that, I suppose there’s one place left to go.”

“Knoxville first. Clean up things there. Let Burnside go back to Washington for his parade.”

Sherman waited for more, and Grant smiled at him again, held out a cigar.

“Then, we’ll talk about Atlanta.”