The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (11 page)

“Yes, sir. With all respects, sir, and all respects to Colonel Malloy, it is my desire to become a regular soldier. Sir, if I may be frank … there’s no other place feels like home anymore. I have no place else to go.”

The lieutenant shook his head, examined him, questioning. “You’re not homesick? I get every kind of request in here for some fellow to go back home, misses his mama, misses his children. Makes sense. None of us like being off in some Southern pigpen. You’ve no tie back home, no gal?”

“No, sir. Sir, I lost my parents last year. I settled all the affairs. I love Milwaukee, but not sure I have anything waiting for me there. I gotta say, sir … I like the army.”

“So do I, Private, but not sure I want to spend the rest of my life here, or even the rest of this war. Not sure how long this’ll take. None of us do. But when the fight’s done, one way or the other, the army might not need
you
.”

Bauer hadn’t thought of that, that the army might toss him out whether he liked it or not. He tried to imagine Willis’s response to that. “Not sure how that would be, sir. But right now, it’s the only thing I want to do. There’s just no other place I wanna be, sir.”

The lieutenant looked down, picked up another piece of paper. “Private, this just came in today. Your name is on a list of those in Company A to be considered for sergeant. It’s about time you moved up in rank. Better pay, you know.”

Bauer pondered that, another surprise, glanced at his own sleeve, imagined chevrons. “I appreciate that, sir. But, like you said, I’m just a private. I learned how to carry a musket by watching Sammie, following him. I’m hoping, with your permission, sir, I can do that again.”

“Can’t guarantee you’ll end up in the Eighteenth. There’s battalions of regulars all over this army, scattered in different commands.”

“I thought of that, sir. I was wondering if you could put in some kind of recommendation, maybe to Captain Willis’s commander. Since, begging your pardon, sir, I’m willing to let go of a sergeant’s stripes, maybe you can do me this favor?”

The lieutenant laughed again. “All right, Private Bauer. I’m only Colonel Malloy’s adjutant, and my job is to get the papers ready. But the colonel is a reasonable man, and he’ll go along with my recommendation. I’ll contact General McPherson’s adjutant, too. Can’t ever hurt to break the door down at high headquarters. Make some noise.
Army seems to respect that.” He paused, the smile slipping away. “Private, I know you’ve been laid up a good bit.”

“Yes, sir. More than a month.”

“You heard about the fight?”

Bauer felt a stir inside him, gravity in the man’s words. “What fight, sir?”

The lieutenant sat back again. “Hell of a scrap … well, no. It was worse than that. The toughest licking this army has experienced since Chancellorsville. We took a hell of a beating, Private.”

Bauer felt a cold stab, said, “Where, sir? Doesn’t make sense that I wouldn’t hear …”

“Well east of here, in north Georgia. They’re calling it Chickamauga, for some river there. We got busted up pretty bad, lost ground, lost a lot of good men. The whole army’s getting its back up. Word is that General Grant might be sending some of his people thataway to help out. We figure that’ll be Sherman. He’s Grant’s favorite, most experienced. General McPherson’s too fresh to command. That’s just … well, it’s opinion, Private. No need to start rumors.”

“No, sir, certainly not.”

“Point is, the Army of the Cumberland is hurt pretty bad. That’s where your Eighteenth Regulars are now. Not sure what kind of shape they’re in, but I would bet they’re needing some replacements. You want your chance, Private, the damn rebels might have given it to you.”

“Any word, sir … the Eighteenth …”

He felt stupid asking the question, knew that a regimental adjutant wouldn’t know any more than he already said.

“You mean … is your friend all right? No idea. If the papers go through, you’ll find out everything when you get there. If you get there. Don’t be in such a hurry, Private. There’s time enough to die.”

He looked again at the paper, couldn’t focus, the faint light of the lantern not helping, the blur of the ink more from the tears in his eyes. He tried to hold back the sounds, wouldn’t wake anyone with his own grief, wouldn’t let the staff see what they already knew to be the worst tragedy of his life.

The boy was only nine, had begged and cajoled to accompany his father as much as the boy’s mother would permit, and so the boy’s parents had compromised, Sherman taking him along in those places where the enemy was not. The ride through the camps, past lines of drilling soldiers, had been pure joy for the boy, the father very aware that the men responded with an extra bit of precision, making the best show they could for the oldest son of the commanding general. Sherman’s personal guard, a battalion of the 13th Regulars, had adopted young Willie as something of a mascot, which only heightened the boy’s rampant enthusiasm for spending time among soldiers. It had been curious to Sherman how much the troops accepted the boy’s presence, even encouraged it. He had seen that with Grant of course. Fred Grant was three years older than Willie, and so was able to ride a horse with a hint of expertise. With both boys, the most
formidable obstacle to rides with their fathers had of course been their mothers, and Sherman thought of Ellen, all that protest for its own sake. Compromise or not, Sherman knew she had given in more than he had, crumbling in the face of so much enthusiasm from her son. But the wink from her had been clue enough that Ellen was only doing what a mother was supposed to do, acting as the Protector, while her husband, the soldier, would teach the boy just how to be a man. The soldiers seemed to understand that as well, allowing Willie to participate in all manner of camp life, though Sherman had to draw the line when it came to firing a musket. At nine, the boy was simply too small, and Sherman knew that Ellen’s tolerance would draw shut if the boy’s shoulder erupted in a massive bruise.

The typhoid fever had come on gradually, the boy weakening in that horrible way a father can see, the eager smile disappearing, the brightness in young eyes fading. Sherman had sought out the best doctor available, a surgeon from the 55th Illinois, but by the time any help could be found, any medicines procured, it was too late. On October 2, with Ellen and their other three children close by, Willie died.

He sat back in the chair, stared at the lantern, blinked through the wetness, wiped his face. They loved him, he thought. The whole battalion. He’d have joined them one day, no doubt about that. Another argument with Ellen, that he would be too young. He’d insist on it as soon as he was old enough to shoulder the musket, and then we’d have had a brawl about it. Sixteen? No, I wouldn’t have that. Eighteen at least. But she would insist on twenty-five. Or perhaps … never. Now … it will never be. The other three children … Tom is my only boy now, and Ellen will grab on to him like a small piece of treasure. And I cannot object. Ever.

He scanned the room, something to occupy his mind. You cannot just brood, he thought. But how can a father have so little power, so little control over what might happen, what God might do to his children? And why? Is it my sins? Is it punishment for my … what? Cowardice? My fears and lack of faith? Is it the killing?

He pushed through those thoughts, knew there would be no answers, and no one he could ask. He glanced down at his uniform, thought, A general can command anything he wishes, can move
thousands of men and kill everyone who stands in his way. And with all that authority, all the
official power
, I could do nothing for a nine-year-old boy.
My
boy. And now, I must let him go. He will never be a soldier now, and there is no satisfaction for his mother in that. Not this way. The other three children were there, by his side. A blessing in that. They will remember him, no matter how small they are now. I will make sure they remember every detail. They will grow up knowing a wonderful child was taken away, from all of them. And from me.

He shifted in the hard chair, the piece of paper on the desk in front of him. He thought of the soldiers, one, Captain Smith, the battalion commander, the man sobbing out loud, as full of grief for the loss of the boy as Sherman’s own family. They all felt that way, he thought, the men in the ranks. So very generous of them. Remember that, Sherman. Next time you order them to charge the enemy, to face death because you think perhaps it is the right thing to do … remember that they loved your son.

He stood, slammed his hands down on the desk. Stop this! You cannot do this, you cannot spread your grief around like some miserable shroud over your army. It is enough that Ellen bear this, and Minnie and Lizzie and Tom. This is our own burden, not the army’s.

He paced the small hotel room, glanced down at the sheet of white paper, stopped, let out a breath. Nine years old. They loved him. They made him a sergeant, for God’s sake. Grandest smile I ever saw, that I will ever see.

He sat again, moved the lantern closer, illuminating the paper, picked up the pen, dipped it in the inkwell. He stared at it, had written only the heading.

Captain C. C. Smith, Commanding, Battalion Thirteenth United States Regulars
.

He thought a moment, blinked again through the wetness, put the pen to the paper, began to write.

“My Dear Friend: I cannot sleep tonight till I record an expression of the deep feelings of my heart to you, and to the officers and soldiers of the battalion, for their kind behavior to my poor child.…”

He stopped, stared ahead to the blank wall.
Nine years old
. He continued
writing, long minutes, then finished the note, his signature at the bottom, then read it over, one line digging into him.

“On, on I must go, to meet a soldier’s fate.…”

The captain will understand that. We have no choice. And now … it’s time to go.

The order had come within two days of the disaster at Chickamauga, handed him by Grant, passed along from General Halleck in Washington. Sherman had wondered about Rosecrans, if the defeat in north Georgia would just erase the man from the army, condemn Rosecrans to permanent shame. But that judgment would be made by others, and right now, Sherman had no other concerns but the single order. The Army of the Cumberland required immediate assistance, Halleck giving Grant the call to mobilize a significant portion of his army, those men mostly in garrison duty along the Mississippi River. It was no surprise to Sherman that Grant would come to him. If there was a single piece of Grant’s army that would move as Grant expected, and Washington would demand, it would be Sherman’s.

They would move by rail, but the rail lines had been wrecked continuously by rebel cavalry patrols, and any movement at all would require repairs. It was infuriating to Sherman that there could be no rapid march, no quick transport. Instead his divisions could only move eastward as rapidly as the tracks were replaced. By the ninth of October, two divisions were on the move, but Sherman would move faster, would push himself and his small guard of regulars to explore for himself just how bad a situation Rosecrans had created for himself. Halleck’s orders still came, the tenor somewhat hysterical, warning of impending doom for the entire Army of the Cumberland, something Sherman doubted. He knew Halleck well, an old friend even before Mexico, knew how excitable the man could be. But then, rumors had flown westward that Robert E. Lee himself was headed toward Chattanooga, and whether or not that was true, he knew that
Halleck’s hysteria would only grow. If Lee was indeed moving that way, Rosecrans was in serious trouble, and so, for now, Sherman understood that his mission was one of rescue.

As the train passed through Germantown, a few miles outside Memphis, he had stopped his work in the railcar, stared out toward the roadway near the tracks, where his own Fourth Division was marching. He stepped outside, stood in swirling mist on the small rear platform of the last railcar. It was all for show, a demonstration to his men that their commanding general was aware of their misery on the march. At the very least, seeing him salute them might inspire a small boost in morale for men who, so far, had to use their feet. He watched them for a while, the train rocking precariously on freshly laid track. There were men on horseback, a cluster of officers, and they watched him with calm respect, obviously aware who he was. He returned their salutes, but studied the road more than the men, saw deepening mud, the infantry’s blue pants legs soaked to the knees. That will get worse, he thought. Hell of a way to move an army. Rivers of mud and busted-up rail lines. Could take us a month to get across this damn state, and I don’t think Rosecrans can wait that long.

He slipped back into the car, wiped rainwater off his sleeves, removed his hat, slapped it dry against his leg. Behind him, the familiar helpfulness of Colonel McCoy.

“Get you some coffee, sir? They say it’s not near what we had in Memphis, but beats nothing at all.”