The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War

  The enemy had sat on their high ground for far too many weeks, a mystery to Sherman. He had always believed there had to be more to Braxton Bragg than paralysis, more to the generals who commanded his army, a good army, a victorious army. All along the journey from western Tennessee, he knew that the delays and plodding tediousness of his march could cost him any opportunity to be a part of Grant’s campaign. He had disagreed with some of Grant’s methods, argued the decisions, had lobbied often for more aggression. It was Sherman’s way, shoving forward straight into the enemy’s lines and crushing them with a hard fist before there was time for the other fellow to react. To Sherman, preparation took far more time than it was supposed to, gave away any advantage of surprise, and almost always meant that the enemy was just as prepared as you were. The march down along the rail lines in Mississippi and Alabama had driven that home to Sherman every day as they struggled with burned bridges and shattered railroad tracks. Every day of repair gave the enemy a luxury of one more day to rebuild, strengthen, grow fit and strong.

  In late September, the news that the rebels were attempting a siege at Chattanooga infuriated him. It didn’t require a hard jab from the pen of Henry Halleck to educate Sherman about the potential cost of what Bragg was trying to do. Sherman had seen firsthand what an effective siege could do to any army, the rebel army at Vicksburg forced to stagger into surrender with bare bones and rags on their backs. On the march eastward, that image drove him to raw-tempered fury, the delays from weather and roads holding him back from a mission that might mean the survival of an entire Federal army.

  After so many delays, he had expected a thorough blasting from Grant, knew he deserved it. He knew better than to offer excuses for bad roads, knew that there were failings that were his alone. He had no good explanation to offer Grant why he had arranged his divisions in a configuration certain to slow them down. The order that scolded Sherman for his error was more embarrassing to Sherman than he could admit to anyone. But Grant wouldn’t push the issue, wouldn’t write up the mistake in some report for all the world to see. Sherman had done exactly what Grant expected him to do, had corrected his own error, had finally pushed his men forward far more quickly than their cumbersome supply trains. Sherman had been enormously grateful for Grant’s discretion, and Sherman had wondered, if the roles had been reversed, how he might have responded to days of delay from a subordinate who should know better. But Grant was still Grant, had pulled him into the headquarters with the unspoken affection Sherman always hoped to see. Grant seemed to appreciate that what Sherman brought to the fight was far more than numbers. The men who marched behind Sherman knew it, too, saw it in every other encampment they passed.

  It had been that way at Bridgeport, throughout Lookout Valley, marching past Joe Hooker’s “Easterners,” all those officers with polished brass buttons and paper collars, dandies with their shining pistols, their swords housed in clean scabbards. Marching past Hooker’s men had given Sherman that wonderful swell of pride, something he shared with his men. His men were dirty, ragged, the officers’ uniforms showing the wear of the battlefield. Their buttons carried the grime and tarnish of weather and mud and a bloody struggle, and Sherman never pushed them to “clean it up.” This war bore no resemblance to any dress parade, and Hooker’s men most certainly caught Sherman’s message, even as Sherman himself rode past. He heard the calls, the ridicule tossed his way from the men in white shirts, but the catcalls were soon silenced as word spread of the campaigns these men had fought, the victories they had won. By the time they cleared the valley, making their way across the river, Sherman’s troops marched a little straighter, their pace a little quicker. Nearer to Chattanooga, they began moving past the men whose flags carried the word Cumberland, and like Hooker’s men, it was an army that knew defeat. To the soldiers who tramped their way over the pontoon bridges, that story was told in the eyes of the men they passed, something only another soldier could see. Sherman wouldn’t dwell on that, knew that these men around Chattanooga weren’t whipped. The devastating defeat at Chickamauga had come from their leadership, a problem that the War Department and Grant himself had seemed to solve. Sherman’s men marched out to their wooded camps as confident as their commander that whatever had happened to those other men at Chancellorsville or Chickamauga would not be repeated here. Sherman was there to win this fight. If the other parts of this great army were to claim their share of that victory, that would be up to them.

  He wasn’t sure about George Thomas. Defeat could be contagious, and Thomas had risen up through the ranks under Buell and Rosecrans, men who had shown little of the kind of leadership Grant now displayed. Sherman didn’t know either of those men well, knew only what he read in the reports. The campaigns spoke for themselves, and over the past several months, while Grant had crushed his way through Mississippi, while Meade had tossed Lee out of Pennsylvania, these armies in between seemed to stumble about their enemy like a pair of blind bulls. The horns locked once in a while, Stones River, Tullahoma, Perryville, and, of course, the savagery of Chickamauga. But from Sherman’s vantage point during the time he made his camps near the Mississippi River, what had passed for campaigns in middle Tennessee and Kentucky had accomplished very little. He knew the clumsiness had extended to both sides, but if George Thomas had learned his methods in service of those generals, what did that say about Thomas now? All Sherman really knew came from the reports that Grant was issuing to Washington and to Sherman himself, why it was so very important that Sherman’s people get there in good time. There had been two months of suffering and stagnation around Chattanooga and it made sense to Sherman that Grant might lack confidence in George Thomas. Sherman was completely comfortable with the urgency of Grant’s orders, had absolute confidence that any serious problem Thomas could not handle could be solved by his own army.

  Sherman rode slowly along the fresh trail, saw the pontoon boats slid up along the bank of the narrow creek, an endless line far out in the darkness. All along the creek, men were scrambling about, making ready, the kind of energy Sherman expected. His guide was a young captain named Farrow, one of Baldy Smith’s men, and Sherman kept close to the young man, said in a low voice, “Do we know the whereabouts of Colonel McCook?”

  The man pointed ahead. “Should be right up here, sir. According to General Smith, Colonel McCook’s done fine work here. Managed the construction of all these here boats.”

  “How many?”

  “One hundred sixteen, sir. At last count. General Smith likes to be precise about that sort of thing. He is duly impressed with Colonel McCook. An Ohio man, I believe.”

  “Fifty-second Ohio.”

  “You know the colonel then, sir?”

  Sherman scanned the men working around the boats, couldn’t help a smile. “More than that. He used to be my law partner.”

  The captain made a sound, audible surprise. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I didn’t know you had a hankering for the law.”

  Sherman wasn’t in the mood for idle chatter, said, “A long time ago. Long ways away. California.”

  He saw a man step into the road to the front, blocking the way, and now a familiar voice.

  “Well, now, we got sightseers coming our way? Whole bunch of horses, I see. Who needs so many men on his staff? Boats are a much more efficient means of travel. Eat less hay, for one.”

  Sherman halted the horse, said, “I outrank you by about four grades, you know. Watch that big mouth.”

  “Never bigger, General. Never could compete with your skills as an orator. All that talk, and fists to go with it. Heard you had gone completely insane. Or was that last year?”

  Sherman appreciated McCook’s joviality, but the rain and the activity around him kept Sherman’s good humor away. He reached down, took McCook’s hand, a hard shake, felt the rough hide, calluses, a man who worked alongside his men.

  “A hundred sixteen? That enough?”

  “If I gave you a hundred fifty, would you be any happier?
It’s enough, Cump. If you’ll allow me, I’ll mount up and join you. The men are waiting for your order to launch the first boat.”

  Sherman felt the nervousness in the men around him, a faint hum of activity, most of it in hushed silence. He leaned closer to the young captain, said, “How far back to Chattanooga?”

  “Eight miles or so, sir. You aiming to go back?”

  Sherman had no patience for questions, thought, A damn big gap between my boys and Thomas’s flank. That’s Howard’s job. He damn well better be there if we need him.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Captain. Let’s get the job done.”

  There was a finality to his words that silenced the captain. He saw McCook riding toward him now, turning his horse to one side, Sherman following. They pushed through a thick line of brush, past cut timber, tall trees that helped shield him from the rain. The ride was short, barely a minute, and he saw the creek again, more of the pontoon boats, a small fleet of flatboats as well.

  He said to McCook, “How far out to the Tennessee?”

  “Two hundred yards or so. Far enough that no one over there has the slightest notion what’s up. Be certain of that, Cump. It’s going well enough.”

  Sherman knew better, that no plan would ever go as smoothly as planned. The construction of the boats had been a secret as carefully guarded as any secret could be in an army this size. The men camped nearby had been kept away from the creek completely, and if the sound of sawmills and carpentry inspired more than idle curiosity, Sherman’s provost guards blocked every trail.

  He glanced back in the darkness, no telltale signs that more than twenty thousand men were camped in the woods to his rear, no lights, no fires. Good, very good. He looked out toward the big river, thought, How far to the first big rebel camp? Doesn’t matter, I guess. We get this job done right, the rebs won’t know about it until daylight. And they’ll be in a serious fix.

  McCook halted on a low rise close to the water, and Sherman saw the single boat, men gathered around it, working in silence, the boat sliding through the mud to the water’s edge. He dismounted, said to his closest aides, anonymous in the dark, “Stay here. Don’t need to look like a squad of cavalry out here. No telling who might be right across that creek. Take my horse.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He didn’t have to watch his staff officer, McCoy, pulling the aides back to the edge of the trees. He walked out over soft mud, McCook following, the young captain as well. To one side, a line of soldiers moved forward, men handpicked for the job by their captain, an Ohioan named Hess. They were halting near the boat, others on board already, oars being moved about, the boat’s crew, commanded by another man Smith had suggested. Sherman leaned closer to McCook now, said, “That would be Major Hipp?”

  “The same. You’ve made his acquaintance, I believe.”

  “Baldy Smith says the major’s men know how to row a boat. That makes him the right man for the task at hand.”

  “Helps that he’s from Ohio.”

  Sherman ignored the joke, was consumed by the tension now. The soldiers began to move forward, and Sherman walked closer to the boat, out in the open, the rain soaking his face, dripping from his hat. He called out in a harsh whisper, “Easy, men. Quiet. Plenty of room for all of you. Boat holds thirty.”

  He stopped himself, his voice slicing through the cold darkness. The men moved past, and an officer stepped out of the boat, moved close.

  “Who might you be, then?”

  “Name’s Sherman. You Major Hipp?”

  “That I am, sir. We’ll be on the water in a quick minute. Unless you have other orders, sir.”

  “No changes, Major. They’re all yours.”

  The men boarded the boat, low talk, some of it aimed toward Sherman. He felt his hands shaking, the cold and the nervousness, felt it rolling all through him. He ached for a cigar, his fists clenching, unclenching, turmoil in his stomach. He wanted to push them into place himself, hurry them along, but the men had been trained well, knew what they were supposed to do. In no more than a minute, the thirty men were settled into the bottom of the boat, the order whispered to the men waiting onshore. They moved together, pushed the boat out into the creek, and Sherman heard the whispered order, the major from Ohio. The rain coated the creek with a rippling hiss, and Sherman pulled his fists in tight to his stomach, watched as the oars made low splashes through the black water, the boat slipping silently away.

  They made the four-mile journey in less than two hours, the boat pulled by the oars and the current, the first boat turning to slip up inside South Chickamauga Creek. The purpose was simple: Disgorge the men where they would likely be behind any rebel skirmishers eyeing the big river. From all the men could tell, the rebel skirmishers had heard nothing of the landing, no lookouts sounding a warning, no sounds at all. When the thirty men slipped inland, easing toward the enemy outpost at the river’s edge, the first of the rebels who heard them coming called out to them, had assumed that the Federal troops were in fact their replacements. In a matter of seconds, the surprised rebels were staring into the muzzles of thirty muskets, were gathered up and paraded back to the boat, soon to be hauled away by Major Hipp and a small group of guards. The Federal troops couldn’t be completely certain they had captured the entire squad of pickets at the landing point, the nervous talk growing that a single rebel had slipped past them, escaping into the darkness. But so far, the east side of the river stayed quiet, no sign of any rebels in force, of any alarm spreading anywhere along the enemy’s side of the river. Sherman’s campaign had begun in silence, a perfect piece of maneuver, Major Hipp’s boat crossing back to the west side of the river with the stunned cargo of rebels. It was two thirty in the morning.

  Fifteen minutes behind the first launch, the other boats had slipped out down the creek, making their way to the river. Sherman paced nervously along the muddy bank of the creek as the boats made their move, four oarsmen each pulling the craft away from the bank until they too caught the flow of the current. With as little fanfare as Major Hipp’s single craft, the first two regiments began their journey, men from Illinois and Missouri. Some of those boats made their landing on the north side of South Chickamauga Creek, the majority slipping down below, where the first thirty offered them the signal that all was clear. With no angry reception from any rebels, the men began a different kind of labor, moving inland, shovels in hand, digging in, piling logs and earth, creating a defensive line.

  To the cheering delight of Sherman, and the utter surprise of his engineers, the brigade’s crossing had been made without any opposition at all, as though no one on the far side of the river was even awake. As the first thousand of Sherman’s men completed the work on their defensive position, more men came forward from their camps, lining up along the west side of the river. Quickly the boats were ferried back and forth, each one carrying another load of troops to strengthen their hold on the rebel side. With so little attention from the rebels, Baldy Smith made a daring move, ordering a Federal steamboat, the Dunbar, to steam upriver from Chattanooga and pass directly through that part of the river the Federal troops had now secured. The Dunbar added its decks to the effort, hundreds of men hauled across the waterway in short minutes. By daybreak, several thousand of Sherman’s men had floated across, creating a stout defensive position nearly a mile wide. Following along on a flatboat, even before the first hint of daylight, came their commander.

  He watched the engineers as they shifted and paddled the pontoon boats into position. The bridge had reached the near shore, stretching completely across the quarter-mile span, anchored against the current by the Dunbar. Already, men and their equipment were making the march across the river, adding to the thousands of men already there.

  He kept to the horse now, scanned the waterfront, supplies piling high, stacked muskets, the soldiers who would carry them still doing more work with the shovel. With the first hint of daylight, he had moved out through the laboring men, past the cut logs and dugout trench
es. He stared up to the wooded hills, a hazy fog blocking most of the view. All he knew of the ground beyond the dark hilly woods was what Baldy Smith had told him, and the maps he had now in his pocket. He yelled silently toward the sun, urging it upward, hoping the dense gray of the clouds would finally thin.

  Far up the hill, the scouts had gone out, perching into good hiding places, awaiting the sunlight with one precise mission: Find the rebels. As the army around him continued to swell, the mystery of the peaceful landing confounded him. He stared up toward the shadowy blackness, the tree-lined hills closest to his front, thought, Is no one watching us? No cavalry scout, no skirmish line? Is there no artillery anywhere close enough to disrupt our labor?

  So far, the only answer seemed to be that this part of the riverfront held no rebels at all. The few dozen men they had captured had been hauled back to the far side of the river, men who told no tales of vast rebel armies perched up in these hills. That was unexpected, a contradiction to what Sherman had heard in nearly every fight. Rebel prisoners always seemed eager to tell their stories, how the bluebellies would be trampled beneath the magnificent stampede of a glorious rebel army. He had yet to experience anything so dramatic, and his officers had learned how to play on rebel boastfulness to gain useful information. But here, the men Major Hipp had transported back to the west side of the river had nothing to give, no hints that any real force was on the hillsides, hiding in thick woods, no hoards of artillery hidden away, waiting for the signal to hammer the men in blue. Instead the dawn came with an eerie silence, the only sounds the light rain on the dark river, punctuated by the shovels and axes of his men.