The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (43 page)

As they marched past the numerous Confederate lookouts, Sherman followed another of Grant’s instructions, that his army make every effort to be seen by the rebels, a blue-clad parade that would most likely inspire couriers to ride hard from their perches on Lookout Mountain, keeping Bragg informed of Sherman’s arrival. But once across Brown’s Ferry, Sherman’s men would be put into camps
far west of the river, in thickets and forest lands where no Confederate might see them. Thus, the seeds of uncertainty could be planted in Bragg’s mind just where Sherman was intending to go.

Out in the center, directly in front of Missionary Ridge, Thomas’s troops made their preparations for an advance, assembling their formations in full view of the observers on both Lookout Mountain and Missionary Ridge. With Sherman finally settling into his designated camps, Grant gave the order to Thomas to proceed.

It had been two months since the Army of the Cumberland had suffered the bloody disgrace of their retreat from Chickamauga. Now, even if the order called for little more than a reconnaissance in force, Thomas would lead them forward again.

The morning had been cool and damp, but finally the sun appeared, a welcome show of light reflecting off the vast pools of mud that blanketed the ridgeline. He walked out from the small house, ignored the blue skies, still felt the impact of his breakfast, some kind of sour meat that he tried not to think about. All along the ridge, his men were going about their routines, which for many included very little to do. Even close to the headquarters there was very little shelter beyond anything the men had been able to improvise, and Bragg had been lenient with them, had not insisted that the commanders put the men through the usual drills, parade ground formations on the flatter ground back to the rear of the ridge. For Bragg himself, observing those exercises had become boring in the extreme. His boredom had turned to outright disgust with some of the regiments, some of them so slovenly in appearance, no one would assume them to be soldiers. To his delight, other units had performed their drills and moved through their formations with crisp precision, a source of pride to their colonels, and of course to Bragg. But there were too many of the others who seemed to go about the maneuvers with purposeful sloppiness, as though they found
some kind of perverse satisfaction in taunting him. He couldn’t avoid the comparison of those units to bands of unruly children, that no matter how much discipline he tried to force on them, there would always be the stubborn, the rebellious. It bothered Bragg even more that the lack of discipline and deportment was surely a symbol for their disinterest in the Cause they were supposed to be fighting for, the very reason they were facing off against the Yankees. But if they seemed to care not at all for being soldiers, they also continued to show a lack of respect for him. It was the only interpretation that mattered to him, that an army who carried themselves with laziness had contracted that disease from the officers who led them, with no regard for the respect they should be showing to the man at the top. He suspected still that many of the senior officers were participating in secret meetings, what Bragg continued to believe were the conspiracies he could never quite stamp out.

The reassuring letters from Jefferson Davis had come less often, and even those few were less enthusiastic, another stab at Bragg’s concern, that somehow even Davis was being turned against him. Bragg pushed the issue, seeking reassurances in letters of his own, and Davis offered the tepid responses that all was well. But Bragg knew that since he had reduced the size of his army at Chattanooga, he might very well be at a numerical disadvantage, and so he tested Davis’s endorsement with pleas for additional troops. He had petitioned Joe Johnston as well, had suggested strongly that the Confederate garrison at Mobile be reduced, the manpower much more valuable to the fight certain to come at Chattanooga. Davis had been supportive, if only in spirit, no real promises of any additional troops. Johnston seemed to ignore him altogether, showing an infuriating lack of respect that dug hard at Bragg, one more example of the army’s utter disregard for the campaign that Bragg believed might decide the outcome of the entire war. The lukewarm support he was now receiving from Davis forced him to exercise patience, muting the typical fury he would inject into his letters. He felt no great need to put himself into direct confrontation with anyone in Richmond, or any other senior commander outside of his own sphere of control. Victory at Chattanooga would accomplish that far better than any hostile dispatch or bellicose complaint. Time seemed to be on Bragg’s
side, despite what the cavalry insisted was an enormous buildup of troops under Grant’s command. Whether or not the cavalry scouts were accurate in their estimates of Federal strength, the enemy across from Bragg had shown no signs that they were intending any kind of assault, or any kind of significant move to thwart what Bragg still believed was an effective siege. The reports had reached him of renewed shortages in the town, of Federal soldiers desperate for food, no matter the infuriating evidence that Grant’s supply lines had been pushed open. For Bragg, there seemed to be more positive news than negative, the constant destruction of the Federal pontoon bridges, and, even better, the obvious loss of enormous numbers of horses and mules. He didn’t need cavalry scouts to tell him that the Yankees had suffered that kind of carnage. The putrid smells carried on the breeze had been evidence enough. The estimates of dead draft animals were in the thousands, a satisfying success that convinced Bragg more than ever that his strategy was working, that no matter how many additional troops Grant brought into Chattanooga, the Federal army was still in serious trouble.

As he made his stroll through soggy ground, past filthy men in muddy shelters, he knew he would hear their complaints. There were always complaints, even on those days, like this one, when the good weather returned. He knew the morale of the army had fallen dangerously low, that even the good men were enduring hardships of food, shelter, and adequate clothing. He could not avoid giving attention to that, no matter how unpleasant the task. The dispatches continued to flow, an absurd and useless argument with the commissary offices, first in Atlanta, and then to Richmond, his pleadings for sustenance and shelter for his army. As had happened all during his campaigns in Tennessee, infuriating rumors filtered back to him that the greater percentage of the critical supplies were still being sent northward, the urgent necessity of rebuilding Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia, an army that had lost its most significant fight of the war. It dug hard at Bragg’s pride that no one in Richmond seemed to acknowledge Lee’s inability to defeat the enemy whose leadership was so questionable, while Bragg was faced with a Federal army deep in the heart of the South led by the man whose reputation had seemed to Bragg to have grown far beyond all reason. Of greater concern to
Bragg was that Grant’s army had dug their way well to the south, threatening rail lines and crucial cities, a far greater threat to the Confederacy than what he saw as Lee’s fanciful attempts to find glory in Pennsylvania. But Bragg knew those kinds of sentiments were unwelcome in Richmond, and Bragg could only spew out his anger in letters sent to his greatest ally, his own wife.

He stepped heavily through the mud, his boot heels splashing the brown ooze in every direction. He was angry now, always angry when he thought of Lee, the special treatment Lee received from Richmond. It is politics, he thought. Pure and simple. Perhaps if I was to
lose
a battle, scamper away in a manic retreat from some bloody confrontation with the enemy, then perhaps I would receive the kind of sympathy afforded General Lee. Instead, my greatest flaw is
victory
. And so, my men are abused, neglected, and I am to fight campaigns not only here, but in Knoxville, and must suffer the indignation of trying to manage Lee’s own troops, his “favorite son” Longstreet. The man brought a wagonload of vainglory down here, showed only disrespect and disobedience. All right, so if that’s how it must be, I have remedied that with a deft hand. Longstreet has his opportunity handed to him with a gracious bow from this headquarters. And still, he complains and lodges his outrageous protests.

Bragg moved past another of the camps, heard the voices, men calling to him, pleadings for even the most basic of foodstuffs. He ignored what he could, heard his aides behind him offering their usual assurances to gathering clusters of men, promises that no one believed. He moved past a scattering of tree stumps, the trees long gone, and he thought now of his horse. Can’t even ride through here, he thought. Horse could break a leg. We should at least mark the trails, designate those places where lumber may be cut. It’s a complete lack of discipline, of planning, and a complete lack of care for the men. I will not take the blame for that. If they spent their time in more useful pursuits, these kinds of matters could be handled. Instead, they slip away from here at their leisure to prey on civilians, with thieving and vandalism, and God knows what other acts of depravity. Punishment is the only solution, swift and strong. There is little difference between desertion in the ranks, and the abuse of civilians, the very people we are here to protect. He glanced to the side,
saw a dozen men gathered around the flickers of a small smoking fire, thought, Where do we find these men? Is it just
my
army that must bear the burden of such moral failure? I am quite certain General Lee receives the cream, the good strong men, stout hearts and devout fiber. I am blessed with the dregs of Southern manhood. And Richmond expects miracles.

He thought of Longstreet again, the constant extension of the nagging hostility he felt toward Lee. For several days, Longstreet had peppered Bragg with desperate calls for reinforcements, and Bragg had read them all with growing disgust. He regards me with no respect at all, he thought. Now he faces an enemy he should crush with ease, a general in Burnside whom he has already defeated handily, and yet now he complains that his army is not adequate to the task. He despises me, and yet he calls upon me for assistance. But his failures at Knoxville will not bloody my hands.

Bragg was suddenly very pleased with himself, stopped, hands on his hips, a gaze out to the north, along the ridgeline, toward the rail station far beyond. Very well, he thought, I have obliged his weaknesses, I have granted him the greatest of favors, and if there is success at Knoxville, those accolades shall rightly fall upon
me
.

The day before, Bragg had finally agreed to add strength to Longstreet’s forces by sending two divisions, eleven thousand men, to add to the fifteen thousand Longstreet had marched away from Chattanooga. Even now, Bragg knew those men would be gathering near the rail depot on Chickamauga Creek, starting the journey that would take them partway toward Knoxville. The smaller division, four thousand men, belonged to Simon Buckner, one of the conspirators against Bragg who, despite Bragg’s loathing of the man, still remained at hand, a problem Bragg had to accept. Buckner’s division had been designated something of an independent unit, one of the odd twists in Jefferson Davis’s organization of the army, a compromise Bragg had been forced to swallow during Davis’s visit in October. The larger division, seven thousand men, belonged to Patrick Cleburne, a man Bragg still didn’t fully understand and certainly didn’t trust. Since Cleburne’s Arkansas regiments had come east to add to the campaigns in Kentucky and Tennessee, Cleburne had earned enormous respect from Davis, and from the other commanders.
Bragg had been assured by Davis that even though Cleburne had signed that damnable petition against him, the Irishman had come around, the president now fully confident that Cleburne embraced a strong loyalty to Bragg, and would perform well in the field. Sending Cleburne to assist Longstreet was an idea that had burst into Bragg’s mind like a bolt of blue light, an ingenious way to keep a capable eye on Longstreet’s performance, while making certain that Longstreet did in fact return to Chattanooga.

He moved on through the mud, thought of the letter he was composing, anticipating Longstreet’s missives to his friends in Richmond. If he fails at Knoxville, Bragg thought, the excuses will flood the War Department. I must be prepared for that, respond to it even before Longstreet spouts out his lies. If there is failure, he alone shall bear the responsibility. I have seen to that, after all. His forces will nearly equal what I have here, and if he cannot complete his task with such men, then he cannot complete any task at all. And who shall be free of blame?

He ran those words through his mind again. Very good. You should write that to Elise, seek her approval. She would insist you tell the president, tell all of them of the sacrifices you make. She would certainly scold you for keeping silent. This is no time for humility, for soft modesty. She will chastise you for allowing them to abuse your reputation. I should have brought her here, an inspiration to the men. Or perhaps she should go to Richmond, make her calls upon the War Department and the president, and give loud voice to my difficulties here. He smiled. I could employ no one better for the task.