The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War

  “Yes, sir. I’ll return shortly, sir.”

  The man seemed to blow out of the room, and Grant folded his arms, shook his head. No, you don’t need to put the fear of the Almighty in these men. No call for it. Rawlins does that well enough. But certainly, word has spread through this place that I am prepared to ship the lot of them to the front lines. That’s Rawlins, no doubt.

  There was an unnecessary knock at the door, two men now appearing, and Grant saw firewood in both men’s arms. They seemed to be asking permission to enter, silent fear, and Grant waved them in, said, “Gentlemen, I am not a pit viper. I’m annoyed. I have reason to be, which is not your concern.”

  The pair moved to the fire, hushed instructions from one man to the other, a soft argument breaking out between them. Grant had no patience for yet one more controversy, pulled himself to his feet.

  “When you master the art of lighting that fire, inform General Rawlins, or whoever else is in charge of this headquarters, that I have taken my horse for a walk. And, yes, before Rawlins has an attack of apoplexy, assure him I will have the cavalry guard accompany me.”

  The rains had returned, a dismal soaking shower that drove cold all through him. He missed the fire already, glanced back, saw smoke curling up from the chimney of the headquarters, scolded himself for stubbornness. You’ll wish you stayed inside, he thought. This whole affair has got you acting like a ten-year-old. Well, if that’s the way it is, best not let the staff suffer through that. I need obedience from them, not a spanking from Rawlins. He’d do it, too.

  He rode out toward the west, close to the river, Captain Osband’s cavalry keeping back a dozen yards. Grant eyed the pontoon bridge, saw a wagon crossing, a handful of horsemen, thought, Excellent. It’s repaired. Finally. He nudged the horse that way, saw the provosts eyeing him, suddenly aware who he was, Osband moving up, to erase any chance of mistaken identity. But the guards had seen him before, stood back, crisp salutes, which Grant answered limply. He saw the lieutenant in command, an older man, Missouri veteran, a man he had known in St. Louis.

  “Good day, Mr. Hallenby. The bridge is sound?”

  The man stepped closer, offered a salute, said, “Quite so, sir. The enemy has devised a clever tactic of floating enormous logs downstream, which play havoc with the pontoons. The boats are pretty light, sir, no match for a ton of wet timber. We lost six or eight of the boats last night. Just vanished downriver. It’s happened a few times now. We’ve been using the flatboats to get across, but General Smith was through here earlier, had his engineers at work doing the repairs.” Grant caught a glance from Hallenby toward his injured leg, knew what was coming. “Sir, perhaps you shouldn’t ride across. It’s a mite shaky.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll manage. Should I land in the river, it won’t require General Smith’s engineers to fetch me out.” He glanced back toward Osband, saw a smile the man tried to hide. “Captain, let’s cross. If Smith’s out here, he’s somewhere on Moccasin Point. I suppose I should find out what he’s doing.” He left the rest unsaid, thought of the artillery batteries, heavy siege guns Thomas had been hoping to receive. Grant had seen the wire, a request for the kind of heavy artillery that would batter down walls. Grant hadn’t interfered with that, not yet, had expected Thomas to make good use of the thirty-pound Parrott guns against any strong defensive line the rebels might have constructed on the heights. He stopped at the edge of the water, eyed the bridge, thought, Thomas has every intention of placing those batteries out here so he can aim them at that ridiculous mountain. He has no intention at all of wasting his time with my plan. He’s not crossing this river up north unless I flat-out order it, or threaten to relieve him. Grant pushed the horse onto the bridge now, the horse doing its best to keep upright, the pontoons swaying, and Grant felt his legs lock tightly against the horse’s flanks, a spear of pain jabbing his knee. He glanced at the rain-spattered water to both sides, dreaded the thought that the horse might stumble, yet again. He stared out toward the far side of the river, guards there as well, watching him. Anyone makes a wager on me falling, and I’ll put him in a rifle pit. He fought the pain, the horse doing better, the bridge coming to an end, and the horse took him onto solid ground, Grant as relieved as the horse beneath him. He ignored the guards, heard the clop of the cavalrymen behind him, waited for them to complete the crossing, then spurred the horse, rode out away from the river through a muddy bog.

  “You intending to smash down that mountain?”

  Smith seemed miserable on the horse, rainwater flooding down from the bill of his hat. “Sure. We haven’t tried that yet. Is that an order, sir?”

  There was little humor in Smith’s response, and Grant could feel Smith’s dark mood, understood immediately.

  “What’s he expecting here?”

  Smith looked at him, said, “I assume you are asking about General Thomas?” Grant didn’t respond, and Smith said, “The general is anticipating an assault against those heights at the earliest moment practicable. He has ordered General Howard to make ready to advance in short notice.”

  Grant caught the name, said, “Howard’s under Hooker. So, Thomas is as skeptical of Hooker as I am?”

  “I said nothing of the sort, sir. It is General Thomas’s desire that we secure the river all the way from Bridgeport to Chattanooga. I do not object to that notion. Unless, of course … you do.”

  Grant understood the awkward position Smith was in. He didn’t want that, needed the man’s cooperation and expertise.

  “Baldy, I want you to carry out the orders you’ve been given. I’ve communicated to Washington that we cannot pull Burnside’s tail out of the fire as quickly as I had hoped. That’s all. No one’s neck is in a noose here.”

  Smith looked at him, a silent nod. Out in front of them, a half-dozen squads of his men were at work with shovels, preparing depressed pits for the big guns. Grant was surprised to see a row of heavy cannon to one side, hidden under a loose mat of cut tree limbs.

  “Those are siege guns.”

  “Yes, sir. If you wish to speak with General Brannan, he’s out through those trees, supervising more of these gun pits.” Grant said nothing, and Smith said, “Not really necessary, though. He knows what he’s doing. He, too, is following orders.”

  Grant still looked toward the heavy cannon. “When did those pieces arrive? It’s not as many as Thomas asked for.”

  “They came this morning. Not sure how many more are on the way, if any. Not my department, sir. My men spent a good many hours last night repairing the bridges. Damn nuisance, that. Rebel gunners across the way keep trying to land a solid shot square on the pontoons, but they’re so far off the mark, I’m guessing they just like to hear the sound of their guns. Those damn floating battering rams are more effective. But, as fast as they can bust up the bridges, we fix ’em. It’s a game, that’s all. Hell of a way to fight a war.”

  “I aim to change that.”

  Smith tilted his head, peered at him from under the hat. “You tried.”

  “I’ll try again. I told Halleck that the best we could do for now was send a small raiding party across upriver, making an attempt to cut the rail line. The enemy does that sort of thing all the time. They have cavalry, we have cavalry. Might as well use it.”

  “Cutting the rail line is a waste of time. Begging your pardon, sir. They’ll have it repaired as quick as we fix these bridges.”

  “But it sounds good in Washington. Grant’s doing something. Sometimes that matters to those people more than fighting a battle.”

  “Not for long. Sooner or later, there’s gonna be a fight. I have no idea what Bragg is thinking. It’s as though he plans every day around trimming his beard, taking a stroll, maybe he’s drilling his men back behind the hills. Other than logs in the river, and random artillery shells, he’s not doing a damn thing to cause us any discomfort. The more time passes, the closer we get. I guess you know that. May I ask, sir, when you expect Sherman to arrive?”

  G
rant watched a handful of men tossing muddy earth out of a wide pit, the rain caving in the sides as quickly as the earth was moved.

  “I wanted him here last week. I expect him … when he gets here.”

  “Well, not sure what you intend to do with him. But I can assure you of one thing, General. Down on this end of the line, we’re gonna put on a show. Howard’s been told, and Hooker before him. Make sure your men can climb a steep damn hill.” Smith looked up into the rain, a thick fog obscuring the heights across from Moccasin Point. “Once you give the word, sir, they’re heading up there. No idea what they’ll find. But if the weather clears, you’ll be able to see the whole thing from the town, like watching a show on a big-city stage.”

  CHATTANOOGA—NOVEMBER 11, 1863

  Grant was annoyed, again. So far, the supply lines between Chattanooga and Bridgeport had been completely free of rebel raiders, and with the return of the rains, the only enemy blocking the way through Lookout Valley was the muddy conditions of the roads. But the wagon trains weren’t merely slow. They were few and far between. From his first days in command, Grant’s orders had been explicit, helped by the strident wording of John Rawlins, that railcars from Memphis, or anywhere else they could be spared, should be transported as rapidly as possible to assist in the hauling of the crucial supplies. Added to that was his order for the increased use of riverboats, to haul food and supplies from the depot at Stevenson, Alabama. But the boats were as scarce as the railcars. To Grant’s enormous frustration, the rebel raiders were having their desired effect, cavalry strikes through northern Mississippi and Alabama requiring constant repairs to the rail lines, raids against smaller ports along the river damaging what few boats could be used. Those boats that did reach Bridgeport were carrying half loads, or even less, empty cargo holds adding to Grant’s fury at a supply system that still kept his army stocked day to day. The aggravation Grant felt over the army’s seeming paralysis at Chattanooga was the challenge he struggled with every day. Regardless of his disagreements with Thomas, Grant knew that some of that idleness was caused by weather, something not even the commanding general could repair. He continued to believe that defeating Bragg by driving him back into Georgia would solve any supply problems for his army.

  CHATTANOOGA—NOVEMBER 15, 1863

  “Anything? Any word?”

  Rawlins looked out through the parlor window, the same show he had performed for most of an hour, said, “No, sir. Nothing.”

  Grant clasped his hands together, stretched them out in front of him, tested the knee, grateful that the pains were finally subsiding. He moved back into his office, pacing more freely now, felt energized, anxious, thought of asking Rawlins to check outside again. But he knew better, knew it would come in time, his attempt at patience waging war with his anticipation.

  In the parlor, staff officers continued their work, the usual business of headquarters, sending more angry missives toward the railroad people, the commissary officers, men who seemed as defensive as Grant was aggressive about getting much-needed food to Chattanooga. Word had come that the warehouses at Stevenson were bulging with supplies, another concern, Grant recalling the rebel raid against his enormous supply depot at Holly Springs, Mississippi, just prior to the Vicksburg campaign. That loss had delayed Grant’s entire operation, and he couldn’t avoid the nagging fear that Stevenson was just another Holly Springs, ripe for some opportunistic rebel cavalryman.

  He had a sudden thought, called out to the parlor. “General Rawlins!”

  Rawlins peered in, seemed as anxious as Grant was.

  “Do we know the whereabouts of Nathan Bedford Forrest?”

  Rawlins seemed surprised by the question. “Um … no, sir. To the west, pretty certain of that. He might be causing some agitation in Memphis. That’s his home, I believe. It’s where I would go, were I him.”

  The image of Rawlins the Cavalry Raider was too much for Grant to absorb. He waved Rawlins away, moved to his chair, sat, slid his hand through the papers on his small desk, read one, familiar, too familiar, reread a dozen times that morning. He tossed it aside, glanced around the room, noticed a portrait of a woman and her dog, the same portrait that had been there since his arrival. Questions bounced through him now, erupting from his nervous energy. What kind of dog is that? Some kind of hound. Well, certainly. They must hunt a good deal around here. The woman … homely lass. Her husband probably likes the dog better …

  “Sir!”

  Grant heard the sounds, a commotion of hoofbeats approaching the house. He stood, bumping the desk, papers sliding away to the floor, ignored that, straightened himself, tugged at his coat, felt for the cigars, let that go, then grabbed one again. He held it out, tried to appear calm, his hand too jumpy for the match. He jabbed the cigar back into his pocket, stood straight again, heard the clatter of boots on the wood floor, the loud voice, a hearty salute to Rawlins. And then the man was in the door, the hat off, the red hair, a ratty short beard spread across the rugged face, and, now, a wide grin.

  “Hello, Grant. Weather really stinks around here.”

  Sherman had arrived.

  CHATTANOOGA—NOVEMBER 16, 1863

  He had witnessed executions before, this one as solemn as any. Bragg was making an example of deserters, and Cleburne understood, as they all did, that according to the rules of war, it was entirely justified, that a man who refused to stand up and fight was a danger not only to his comrades, but to the entire army. But Cleburne felt more uneasiness than usual, that Bragg was trying to make a point that went far beyond good army discipline. The man was a deserter, to be sure, had slipped down off the heights, seeking whatever comforts could be found in the warm bosom of Yankee camps. But in the dark wetness of the rains, the man had stumbled into his own picket line, and it was the man’s misfortune to make his plea straight into the face of an officer, a man Cleburne imagined was suffering deprivations enough of his own. Arrested, the would-be deserter had somehow caught Bragg’s attention, a mystery to Cleburne even now why the commanding general would embrace this one man’s indiscretion as such a powerful symbol. And it was powerful indeed. More than five hundred men from the man’s own division had been called out into the rains to witness the firing squad. Those men would spread the word to thousands more, until every man perched in the wet misery of the Confederate camps would feel the stab of it, one more weapon shoved into their gloom, pushed hard by Braxton Bragg.

  Around Cleburne’s camp, the men were still suffering from a lack of food and a lack of shelter. Entreaties from all parts of the field had gone through Bragg’s office, and Cleburne had received the same response as had every other division commander. It was the Yankees who had refused to engage in a prisoner exchange, and so the Confederate commissary was forced to provide food and shelter for scores of Yankee prisoners. To Cleburne’s amazement, Bragg hung on to that excuse, as though the army would simply accept the explanation without doubt. Cleburne didn’t know how many prisoners were penned up in Confederate stockades, whether or not those men were even still in Tennessee. But Bragg’s explanation had been forcefully spread throughout the army, blame of course laid at the feet of Ulysses Grant. No one dared to ask Bragg just how many prisoners were in Northern hands.

  The rock ledge protruded far out from the face of the sloping hillside, a natural shelter from the rain. Cleburne had eyed the place several times, moved there now, his horse left in the care of a groom, a black servant named Billy, whose care for the horses seemed to outweigh any discomfort he might feel standing in the rain.

  On his passes through the troop camps, Cleburne had grown increasingly nervous on the horse, the muddy lanes and steep trails offering too many possibilities for a hard tumble out of the saddle. Many months ago, with his elevation to regimental command, he had been given a mount, as appropriate for such a command. The addition of an actual staff, a cluster of officers to do his bidding, was an interesting luxury, but the horse was not. Now, as a division commander, it was not only expected b
ut required that Cleburne make his inspections and tours on the animal’s back. What he kept hidden, even from his closest aides, was that he was a poor rider, believed without any doubt that though his command extended over several thousand men, he had no command at all over the beast beneath him. Their relationship was a one-sided agreement, the horse firmly in charge. He had enormous admiration for those Southern officers who seemed to have been born in the saddle, gallant horsemen, skilled cavalrymen, all of them in a kind of partnership with their mounts, mutual affection that produced all those gallant assaults. Cleburne’s greatest attachment to his horse now was the hard clamping hold from his legs, the fear that should the horse decide to dump him down the hillside, he would do so for no reason at all.

  He had slid beneath the ledge, the rock just above his head. But the ground was not much drier than the trail he had left behind. The rock itself seemed to squeeze out water, dripping on all sides of him, his hat protecting him from one particular stream that seemed aimed directly at anyone who dared to believe this place could be dry.

  He shifted himself, more mud, his pants cold, soaked, resigned himself to the discomfort. Down below, men were posted in the rifle pits, and Cleburne saw a steady flow of loose mud drifting past his rock, one of thousands along the face of the hill. They dug pits, he thought, and so, they now have troughs of water in which to sit. Perhaps not. Perhaps they have some kind of cover, like this. Perhaps they have constructed shelters of limbs or brush. He leaned out, tried to see. Yes, and perhaps they will all grow gills, and merely swim out of here when all of this has passed. He folded his arms across his knees, pulled them up tightly to his chest. His sword rested to one side, settling into the mud, and he stared at it for a long moment, thought, My glorious weapon. Slayer of dragons. Excalibur, pulled from a rock, the great hero standing tall, sword high, invincible against his enemies.