The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War

  Thomas kept his eye on Grant, a short nod. “How goes your conference, sir?”

  Rawlins spun around, silenced by the momentary embarrassment, and Grant said, “In here, please, General. Any such conference should include you. There is considerable agitation in Washington, directed at this command.”

  Thomas moved slowly past Rawlins, followed Grant into the room. Dana was standing now, the room with only one extra chair. Grant watched Thomas move toward the chair, saw the pain in the man’s face, another common sight. Grant said, “It seems we are both aging badly, General. Perhaps it is why wars are fought by the young.”

  Grant moved to his perch in front of the fire, Thomas to one side, Dana moving to the corner of the room, eyes on both men. Thomas kept his gaze downward, said, “Every day. Never relief. I’m afraid this ailment shall punish me for a long time.”

  Grant knew only that Thomas had injured his back, didn’t expect such gloom. Grant reached into his pocket, retrieved a cigar, said, “Like one? Should suit you. Supposed to be good Virginia tobacco.”

  Dana made an audible grunt, and Thomas looked at Grant with a hard stare.

  “I never smoke. And it has nothing at all to do with Virginia.”

  Grant realized his clumsiness now. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to suggest anything. I never question your loyalty to our country. I meant no insult to you at all.”

  Grant felt helpless, Thomas seeming to fill the room with the air of bitterness. Dana stepped forward, nervous now, said, “General Thomas, I am quite certain General Grant did not mean to suggest anything of your loyalty to Virginia. Winfield Scott is a Virginian, as we all know.”

  Grant saw no change in Thomas, said, “And of course, General Pemberton is a Pennsylvanian. Didn’t prevent him from pledging his loyalties to the South. This war has turned our nation upside down. It is a curse.”

  Thomas looked at him now, a silent moment, Grant feeling completely idiotic, no words to smooth over the awkwardness.

  “General Grant, I swore the same oath as you. I obey the same orders as you. I fight the same enemy. I need not prove myself to anyone.”

  Dana jumped in, seemed eager to smooth the obvious tension. “Absolutely not, sir! General Grant certainly understands that. After all, his father-in-law, Colonel Dent, is in fact a slaveholder!”

  Thomas blinked at Grant, a glimmer of surprise, and Grant silenced Dana with a deep frown, thought, Did I ask for your assistance? Dana slipped backward to his corner again, and Grant said, “Yes, well, we all have our crosses to bear. Colonel Dent and I are not especially … close. He was not terribly accepting of his daughter marrying a soldier. Ironic, of course, since Colonel Dent is a soldier himself.” Grant was running out of energy for this, had no gift for banter. “Look, General. Washington is burying me in telegrams because there is deep concern over General Burnside’s vulnerability at Knoxville. Sherman’s divisions are still many days away, and I am being ordered to respond to Longstreet’s march with the strength at hand. I am preparing orders for you, to strike out to our left flank, a vigorous assault against the enemy’s northern flank along the northern portion of Missionary Ridge. The rail line there is close, and Bragg will surely have to respond. He cannot allow us to cut him off from Longstreet. I admit to curiosity why Bragg sent Longstreet away in the first place. It must surely weaken his position here. But General Halleck is more deeply concerned about Burnside than he is our situation here.”

  “He shouldn’t be. Longstreet is still days away from Knoxville. The rail line he’s using only goes partway. He will have to move his forces by wagon, or on foot. He will not be ready to make an attack on Knoxville for several days. There could be a better opportunity for us right here. Removing the enemy from Lookout Mountain could be a far simpler task, and could accomplish the same goal.”

  “Could be. But the War Department has other concerns. We may assume that Knoxville is Longstreet’s destination, and we may assume that the absurd rumors of General Lee abandoning Virginia could possibly be accurate. One of General Halleck’s dispatches reveals a fear that all of this rebel activity might be the first steps toward a campaign against Nashville, which could open the way to another invasion of Kentucky.”

  Thomas tilted his head. “You believe that will occur?”

  “Nope.”

  “You believe Lee is coming?”

  “Nope.”

  “But you want Longstreet to turn about and return here?”

  “It’s not what I want. General Halleck is insisting in the strongest terms that we take a significant step toward protecting Burnside. Since I have no intention of uprooting this army and shoving northward, we must convince General Bragg that we are posing a serious threat to his position. Thus will he recall Longstreet. We’re estimating Longstreet’s strength at fifteen thousand men. For Bragg to order that large a portion of his army away, he must believe Knoxville is some kind of lynchpin to this entire theater. Why else would he weaken himself so profoundly, knowing we’re growing stronger?”

  Thomas seemed unconvinced, and Grant didn’t have the energy for a discussion.

  “I’m preparing your orders, and will have them to you by this evening.”

  “I will await them, sir. We can discuss this further at that time, if you don’t mind, sir. I would prefer right now to return to my quarters.”

  Grant had no reason to object, saw the pain in the man’s face, Thomas sitting crookedly in the chair.

  “You are dismissed, General.”

  Thomas stood slowly, pulling himself up like an injured bear. “Thank you, sir. I shall be better by tonight. This aggravation flares up occasionally.”

  Grant nodded, pointed toward the door. “Rest your back, General. Very soon, this army shall require both of us to be in a more agreeable spirit.”

  Thomas moved slowly out of the room, silence beyond, no commotion at all from Rawlins. Dana moved to the door, closed it, returned to the chair.

  “It is disturbing to see the general in such pain. He never finds relief, so it seems.” Dana looked at Grant’s knee again. “Well, of course, both of you.”

  “A horse fell on me, Mr. Dana. It’s happened before, and no doubt will happen again. Not sure what to make of General Thomas’s condition. Only he knows. I just hope he is fit for what must happen now.”

  “I wouldn’t be concerned about your reference to Virginia, sir. I’m certain that General Thomas has endured a great deal of personal agony for that decision. As he noted, sir, he did take an oath to serve. I credit him for his loyalty to his country.”

  “No argument there.” Grant pulled his legs in again, pushed himself out of the chair, Dana knowing to stay away. Grant moved to the mantel, retrieved his hat, planted it on his head, realized he was still holding the unlit cigar. Dana seemed to read him, bent low to the fire, pulled out a narrow piece of wood, a bit of flame at the tip, offered it to Grant. The cigar was lit quickly, the delicious smoke swirling around Grant, Dana retrieving one of his own. Grant watched him for a long second, saw Dana absorbing the smoke around both of them, thought, Good, yes. He held back the thought, the reference to Virginia tobacco. It’s one thing to disavow former allegiances. But I can’t say I’ve ever fully trusted a man who says he never smokes.

  “Mr. Dana, I wish to ride. Accompany me?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Dana moved to the door, held it open, waited for Grant to hobble past. Grant heard the usual brief pleasantries between Dana and Rawlins, the nods to other staff officers, a handful of aides spread out in the rooms of the house.

  Grant ignored them all, said to no one in particular, “Going for a ride. Inspection. Something.”

  Rawlins jumped into action, the energy Grant dreaded. “I shall alert the guard, sir. You cannot just go out among the people here without protection.”

  Grant sagged, didn’t look back. “If you insist.”

  He moved outside, the gray sky low overhead, masking the face of Lookout Mountain. The sounds of a
rtillery thumped out to one side, more of the useless duels that spread across the valley every day. Grant had considered ordering a halt to that, allowing the rebels to expend all the shot and shell they wanted to, while he kept his own supplies well stocked. But the wagons now brought an abundance of ammunition, and trading fire seemed to accomplish something besides entertaining the gunners. With artillery peppering the face of Lookout Mountain, it wasn’t likely the rebels were going to make any kind of serious advance from that direction. If the rebels came at all, it would likely be across the flat plain that fed down from Missionary Ridge.

  In the wide street, wagons passed, no one paying him any mind, the flag above his headquarters the only hint that the man called Grant was there at all. He enjoyed going unrecognized, never dressed with the pomp of the army’s commanding general, and even now, he kept the guards at a distance.

  Down the wide street he saw a small group of provost officers, a loud scuffle growing with a crowd of civilians, and he moved out beside the horse, tried to see what was happening.

  “Mr. Dana, perhaps you should remain here. The local citizens seemed displeased about something.” He turned, saw his aides emerging from the house, responding to the commotion. “Captain Hudson, send a courier to the closest infantry camp. Alert them to a possible problem. Have at least a company of men move this way with haste.”

  The young man saluted him, moved away quickly. Dana said, “It appears to be mostly women, sir.”

  Grant girded himself for the inevitable pain, put one foot in the saddle, pulled himself up on the horse with a low grunt. He had a better view of the scene now, more men in blue gathering around the civilians.

  “It seems you are correct. I suppose we should have a closer look.”

  He spurred the horse, regretted now that it was the statuesque Old Jack, the enormous animal that had tumbled him over in New Orleans. Kangaroo was far less recognizable, and he still had no energy for a confrontation that might center on him.

  The provosts and the gathering soldiers had seemed to quiet the crowd, one officer standing high on a crate of some kind, commanding attention. Grant rode up closer, annoyed by his own curiosity, and the officer spotted him, a major Grant had seen before. The man seemed relieved to see him.

  “Sir! Thank goodness, sir. These women have grievances.”

  The women seemed to turn toward him in unison, no one seeming impressed with the slouching man in the plain blue coat. One woman stepped toward him now, restrained by a pair of guards, called out to him, “If ye be some kind of commander here, then ye be knowin’ how your army has done desecrated our homes! There’s not a morsel of grain to be had, the babies are going hungry. The cattle are butchered without any compensation. My own boy, Henry, has been sent away!”

  Grant held up his hand to her. “Wait. Your son was sent away? By whom? Where?”

  “Not my son, you bluebelly scoundrel. My boy! Your blue devils have set them free, scattered them anywhere they wanted to go! They done left us with no help, nothing to tide us through!”

  Dana was close beside him now. “General, I do believe she is referring to her slave.”

  “Yes, you varmint! If my husband was here, he’d show you how a man stands up for himself. But he’s off digging roots, so we can eat!”

  Dana seemed to ignite now, nudged his horse ahead of Grant. “So, your husband sends his wife to do his complaining for him? Your slaves have been freed, and you would blame that on this army?”

  Grant was surprised by the genuine fury in Dana’s voice, moved up again, leaned over to him. “Easy, Mr. Dana. Let’s allow the guards to handle this. Major, please have these people return to their homes. If the commissary can spare some grain, corn, flour, anything of the sort, see that the citizens are provided for.” Grant looked again at the woman, no change in her hostility. “As for you, madam, I am General Grant. Please return to your husband, and give him my respects, and assure him that he need not gather roots. But he will also make no effort to gather up your slaves. According to the president of the United States, those men are citizens just like yourselves, and shall be regarded as such.”

  “You shall burn in hell, all of ye!”

  Grant saw another platoon of soldiers coming in close, order restored, the women starting to scatter. He looked again at the angry woman, saw the finery of her dress, a gold pin at her throat.

  “You might be correct, madam. But we who travel to hell shall have ample company from people like you.”

  He didn’t wait for a response, turned the horse, Dana following him at a slow gallop.

  “That was … amazing! That woman. Have you ever seen such arrogance?”

  Grant stared away, the anger still boiling up, but he kept it in, wouldn’t show it to Dana. “Yes, Mr. Dana. There is arrogance aplenty on both sides of this war. You know that better than anyone. I admit to being surprised.”

  “At me, sir? I regret my outburst, my unseemly behavior. I have no authority here to speak in such a way.”

  “Not you. Your outrage is admirable. Her. A slaveholder. Hadn’t given that much thought since I arrived here. In Mississippi, plantations were everywhere. Slaves by the score, by the thousands. Not nearly so many around here. It’s the land, I suppose. No need for slave labor in a place that’s mostly rocks.”

  “But so many women. That was a surprise.”

  “Not so. If her husband was out digging roots, I’m an elephant’s toenail. The men stay away, know full well that if they raise an unholy ruckus, we might slap ’em in the stockade. The women can shout out most anything they please, and we’ll treat them with a little more decorum. Not sure how long that will last. One of those genteel Southern belles might have had a pistol in her underpinnings. Something like that can turn ugly very quickly.”

  Dana looked back toward the street, eyes wide. “Never thought of that.”

  “It’s a war, Mr. Dana. Just because they’re in dresses doesn’t mean they’re harmless.”

  “But … what about what she said … the food?”

  “We’ll take care of that. But she’s got plenty. I’ve sympathy for the poor ones, Mr. Dana, the ones we put out of their homes, the ones who get caught in the middle of something they can’t help. But she’s a leader. You can tell it by her carriage, by her dress, by the way the others shut up and let her talk for ’em. No sympathy for those people. None. That’s who started this war. That’s who convinced all those others to send their sons off to shoot at us. Now the war’s hit her where it hurts. Took away her slaves. That’s a really good thing, Mr. Dana, a really good thing. That may be as important as any battle we fight with those boys on those hills. The president’s emancipation order freed their slaves, and when we march through this countryside, we’re enforcing that. We take away their ability to plant their crops next spring? To grow cotton or tobacco they can sell to whoever’s buying, whoever’s out there helping them? That’s gonna squeeze them hard.”

  “You mean … the British?”

  “Maybe. That’s not my responsibility, Mr. Dana. My job is to deal with that army up on those hills.”

  “Hey there! Halloo, gentlemen!”

  Grant saw a man jogging slowly toward him, a civilian, a small box in his hand. Grant glanced back, saw Captain Osband, his cavalry guards there, knew they were never far away. Osband spurred his horse, held a pistol in his hand. Grant looked again at the civilian, the man eyeing the cavalryman, dropping the box, his hands in the air.

  “Please, sir! I’ve no weapon! My name is Horatio Grumbach. I’m a merchant hereabouts.”

  Osband moved up close to Grant, and Grant said, “It’s all right, for now. Let’s see what Mr. Grumbach is offering.”

  The man seemed to know his way was clear, reached down for the box, beaming a salesman’s smile.

  “Thank you! Yes, indeed.” He looked to the captain, who kept the pistol in his hand. “You, too, fine sir! I’ve only good to offer, only good, I assure you! Allow me to open this case.”
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  Osband said, “Very slowly, sir.”

  “Ah, yes, of course! No threat here, none! Look! Very valuable! And these can be yours for very little!”

  Grant was curious now, Grumbach stepping closer, the box held open.

  “What is that? Photographic cards?”

  “Carte de visites, sir! And the image is not just anyone. This is your rare opportunity to own a likeness of General Grant himself! I cannot make this offer to anyone else. I’ve only the … um … three artifacts, taken in the heat of battle!”

  Grant looked into the box, said, “May I see one of those?”

  “Ah, yes. Examine the merchandise, by all means. Only twenty-five cents each, sir. One quarter of a dollar! A pittance for a fine gentleman such as your friend here.” Grant realized the man was motioning to Dana, fought hard to hide his smile. He held up a piece of stiff paper, saw the image of an officer, holding a sword, staring back at him with a cartoonish anger, as though intending something dangerous. Grant glanced down, saw two more in the box, identical, and the man said, “There you have it, sir! General Grant, a vision of heroism!”

  Grant smiled, handed the card to Dana. Dana said, “What? Who is this?”

  “Why, that’s General Grant himself, sir! Notice the fire in the eyes, the sign of a stout heart! The pure image of courage!”

  Dana stared wide-eyed, looked at Grant now, and Grant felt the laughter coming, couldn’t hold it, the first real laugh he had enjoyed in weeks. Dana seemed to fall into Grant’s good humor, smiled, looked at the salesman, said, “Sir, how much for all three?”

  “Oh, well now, perhaps fifty cents for the lot. Likenesses of General Grant are extremely hard to come by.”

  Grant looked toward Osband now, said, “Yes, my good man, they certainly are. Captain Osband, please take this man into custody, and have him arrested for fraud.”