The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (40 page)

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 but 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.

He stared out, disgusted with himself. Would you have your men hear such whining? What kind of man wallows in both mud and misery, and considers only himself? Up on that hill behind you, spread out all over this ground, are men who are starving. The Yankees have tents and rations, and they can build fires even in this astounding weather. It’s the one part of the vision of Chattanooga we can truly observe. Seas of white tents and smoke from campfires.
What am I to do about that? Well, one thing. Go out there and take those tents. Drive the enemy away. Is that not why we’re here?

“Sir?”

He looked out toward the edge of his rocky shelter, saw a face, then another. He expected to see his staff officers, knew they would keep close eye on his whereabouts, no matter his momentary escape from the duties of his camps, the need to get down from the horse. Captain Buck was there, always there, a man whose loyalty Cleburne appreciated more than Buck would ever know. But the surprise was in the other man. It was one of Cleburne’s brigade commanders, Lucius Polk. Buck was bent low, his hat suddenly falling from his head, rolling down the steep incline, well below the rocky ledge. Cleburne saw the man’s dismay, as he saw the salute, and Cleburne pointed down the hill.

“Retrieve your headgear, Captain. No formality is required out here, not on a day like this.”

Buck scampered down after the hat, and Cleburne saw Polk staring at him, a glimmer of concern on the man’s face.

“Quite sorry to bother you, General, but I’ve just come from headquarters.”

“Sorry, Lucius. I should have sent word to them just where I was going. Didn’t know myself until I saw this wonderful piece of shelter. Nature provides, I suppose. Some problem? Major Benham have need of me?”

“Oh, no, sir. I mean … 
headquarters
. General Bragg sent for a number of us. Didn’t know what to expect, still not certain I understand it.”

Cleburne felt the tug of concern now. “You still commanding one of my brigades?”

“Well, yes, sir. As far as I can tell.” Polk pointed to the muddy area out beside Cleburne. “Um, sir, do you mind?”

Cleburne pulled his sword in closer, said, “By all means. Sorry. There is misery enough for us all without forcing you to stand out there. A warning, though. It’s not much drier under here.”

“It will suffice, sir.”

Polk moved in beside him, and Buck had returned now, the hat covered with a muddy sheen. Cleburne saw the misery on the young
man’s face, said, “Captain, you may return to camp. Seek some shelter, if you can. I’m certain nothing is happening today. Neither side will be keeping their powder dry, and unless General Bragg orders us to fight this war with rocks and tree limbs, we’re staying put.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be at the camp if you require. There is a pair of couriers out here still, at your service.”

Cleburne glanced around him, the narrow shelter not large enough for more than the two officers. “My apologies to those boys, Captain. Have them seek some shelter beneath their mounts. I doubt I shall require their services, but one never knows.”

Buck started to back away, stopped, leaned in again. “Sir, if I may inquire … what are you doing under there?”

Cleburne stared out, the rains filling the great valley below him with a heavy mist, nothing visible but the low mounds that rose up halfway to the town.

“Observation, Captain. And now, a conference with General Polk.”

“Whatever you say, sir. If I may take my leave …”

“Go. I’ll not be here much longer. Or, perhaps I will.”

Buck was gone now, and Polk sat beside him, adjusted his own sword, said, “All right. You won’t tell him. So perhaps you’ll tell me. Why is our division commander sitting under a big rock?”

“Easier than riding a horse.”

“You think you’ll just sit here until the rain stops? That might be three weeks.”

“I’m not sure the rains will ever stop, Lucius. And there’s more than one kind of rain. This entire army is awash in bad morale. That execution this morning. Bragg is trying to punch us with his notion that discipline will win out. All we need do is keep our focus, our hatred for the enemy, and that alone will carry us to victory.”

“I hate the man, Patrick.”

Polk seemed to catch himself, and Cleburne saw the glance toward him, silence now. Cleburne weighed the sentiment, and after a long moment, said, “Haven’t heard it expressed quite that way.”

“That was not appropriate. My apologies. I should not allow my feelings to take control. My men would not understand such an outburst.”

Cleburne looked at Polk, a man five years Cleburne’s junior, seeming
much younger now. “I believe your men would understand quite well. I would, however, not repeat your choice of words.”

Polk looked down between his knees. “I received a letter from my uncle today. The bishop is in Atlanta still, and he is a bitter man, Patrick. I never thought I would see that. Bishop Polk loves life, loves mankind, loves the Almighty. And because of Braxton Bragg, a truly great man sits in exile. That’s it. Exile. Why? Because he does not perform? Who among us can claim to be Caesar? Napoleon? Who among our leaders is above reproach? There is a stink here, Patrick. I shall not forgive Bragg. We are being led by a man who has no other goal than to witness our destruction.”

Cleburne wasn’t surprised by the venom in Polk’s words, knew he could not agree, not even with perfect privacy.

“We are suffering, Lucius. There is misery everywhere about us. But we cannot forget why we are here. There is an enemy out there, an enemy who seeks to destroy everything this nation,
your
nation stands for. Yes, I observe the sickness, the lack of spirit, the collapse of our morale, and I feel helpless to change that. I will not deny that. I hear men call out for clean water, and the rains come, and even the rains make them sick.”

“It is punishment, Patrick. The Almighty condemns us for following such a man as Bragg.”

“Enough of that. One day, you may fight your duel with the commanding general, but right now, you have a responsibility to obey him. Start by obeying me. See to your men. A commander is responsible for his men, yes. But he is responsible
to
them as well. No matter your feelings for General Bragg, you will inspire obedience, and you will show respect for their sacrifice.” He paused, suddenly curious. “Why were you summoned to headquarters?”

Polk looked at him, shook his head in raw disgust. “General Bragg is continuing his reorganization of this army. His purge of commanding officers has seemed to abate. Now he is shifting regiments from one brigade to another, without any apparent reason. Florida men are now serving beside Tennessee men, Alabamans with Kentuckians. It is as though he desires that no one in this army should stand by a friend. We must learn to fight alongside strangers. Does that make us a better army, Patrick?”

Cleburne was suddenly concerned. “I was not informed of this. Have any of my regiments been moved? I must know the details.”

“No. That’s the strange part of this. I was summoned by Bragg’s staff just to observe these changes, as though I’m being schooled, taught some lesson.”

Cleburne could see it now, more of the chess game. “Learn that lesson, my friend. General Bragg is a student of Napoleon, after all. He is still dividing his enemies. The generals who threatened him have been removed. Now he has turned his attentions to the troops themselves. Divide the Tennesseans, the Kentuckians, split their loyalties so there is no united front against him. It is the only explanation.”

“But … what of the enemy? The real enemy? You said it yourself, Patrick. Why are we here?”

Cleburne stared out again to the wide plain. “Sherman’s out there, you know. The scouts brought word to General Breckinridge. General Hardee spoke of it last evening. They estimate he has close to twenty-five thousand men on the march, which will add considerably to Grant’s forces. Everyone in this army is aware what is happening out there. We have been told that this campaign has been halted by the miserable conditions, that for now, this army is paralyzed by the weather. It is apparent the Yankees are not so afflicted.”

“It is possible they intend to send Sherman on toward Knoxville, strike our troops there from two sides.”

“Possible.”

“Are we just to remain here? Have you received any kind of orders? Again, Patrick, why are we here? If we are not to fight, then why do we not withdraw, secure the army in the passes in Georgia, or move the army westward, cut off the Yankees from their bases there? I am losing men every day to sickness, to dysentery. They have no tents, many of them have no coats, no shoes. Winter is coming rapidly. I am losing men every day to desertion. I have officers telling me that their men will not stand guard, that skirmish lines simply … vanish. I am hearing that no matter what conditions the Yankees might be suffering, their
starvation
rations are far better than what our commissary insists is a full day’s sustenance. The Yankees have coats, and I have
platoon commanders telling me that the color of that coat no longer matters. Men will survive any way they can.”

The words stung Cleburne, and he held up a hand. “No. Do not speak of that. I cannot know anything of that.”