The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (59 page)

By one o’clock, Cleburne’s men were low on ammunition, staring out toward an enemy that showed no signs of pulling away. Cleburne rode again along his lines, encouraging the officers to send men down the slopes to retrieve cartridges and the muskets made to fire them. Within minutes of their last withdrawal, Sherman’s men were up, in line again, and again, they pushed forward.

He did as before, the horse pushing along a narrow path just above the earthworks that held the enemy back from the crest of Tunnel Hill. The sounds had become a continuous deafening roar, the flashes of fire blinding, the smoke pouring out in a fog around him. Cleburne could see by the direction of the Yankee musket fire that one lesson had been learned well. As the men reached the base of the hill, they seemed to focus more toward the batteries, taking aim at the men who worked the big guns.

He moved again toward Key’s battery, saw men falling, half of Key’s gun crews shot down, but the guns still fired. Key was shouting out to the men to one side of him, infantry, Arkansans, and Cleburne knew what Key required, spurred the horse that way, called out, echoing Key’s own plea.

“Soldiers! Man these guns! Keep up the fire!”

The barrels of the twelve-pounders pointed down as steeply as possible, but Cleburne could see now, it wasn’t steep enough. The troops added their hands to assist, but Cleburne saw the blue just below, the Yankees climbing in a desperate scramble straight at the gun pits. He called out, others doing the same, muskets pointing nearly straight down, but the men who stood were targets for the enemy farther down, and men began to drop back now, blood on faces, chests. Cleburne felt the helplessness again, his hand gripping the pistol, drawing it from the holster. Close in front of him, his men were firing at Yankees from only yards away, the men still coming up the hill, closer still, the smoke masking the confusion. The musket fire slowed, and Cleburne saw men in blue coming up over the log wall, met by the men with bayonets, many more using their muskets as clubs. The struggle seemed to roll toward him, a dozen Yankees inside the earthworks, more coming over the logs. He aimed the pistol, didn’t fire, men massed together, shouts, an officer with a pistol of his own, point-blank fire into a man’s face. The club came down now, crushing the man to the ground, others taking his place, the blue surge still coming up over the logs. The horse jerked beneath him, and Cleburne tried to steady it, kept the pistol in his hand, no aim, the animal bouncing. He saw Mangum now, the reins snatched from Cleburne’s hands, the horse turning about, pulled along, up the trail. Cleburne struck out with his hand, jabbing Mangum away, fumbled for the reins, had to see, turned, the fight in the earthworks ongoing, knives and clubs and fists and screaming men. There was a blast of musket fire now, straight back behind him, a storm of smoke blowing past him, blinding, the men descending the hill, driving closer to the works. He saw them now, the Kentuckians, the reserve, another volley from a hundred muskets, the enemy still up on the logs punched away in a flaming blast. The few men in blue still in the works were losing the fight now, too few, too much exhaustion. Cleburne’s men had taken control, the few Yankees still standing pulled backward, prisoners, some of those with bloody wounds. Cleburne watched his men coming together, the Kentuckians keeping their position, making ready for another volley. But there were no targets. The few Yankees who had made it up and over the defenses were down, dead or gripped by hard hands. The men below the works had done what
each of Sherman’s advances had done. It was the Yankee officers who understood the hopelessness, the power they faced above them, the strength Cleburne had put in their path. And so the orders went out, the bugles sounding, the men in blue pulled back off Tunnel Hill, called once more to retreat.

By midafternoon, Sherman’s men had mounted a half-dozen assaults, most directed toward the eminence of Tunnel Hill. The forces under Sherman’s command numbered more than thirty thousand troops. On the hill, facing them, Cleburne had made the fight with barely a fifth of that number. And Cleburne still held the hill.

With the discovery that the rebels had indeed pulled completely off Lookout Mountain, the order had gone out to Joe Hooker early that morning to push onward, down and across Chattanooga Creek, making every effort to drive Bragg’s army so severely that Hooker might be able to establish a Federal force along the southern base of Missionary Ridge. Thomas gave the order as instructed by Grant, and without any hint from Grant, Thomas knew in his heart that neither of them expected Hooker to complete the task.

Sherman’s attack had launched as planned, at first light, and Thomas had stood on the bare hilltop, staring out northward toward the hard rumble of artillery. For the first two hours, there had been nothing to see, the drifting fog masking the ridge from view, and Thomas had stood beside Grant wondering if Grant truly believed Sherman’s fight would decide this thing. Thomas had no reasons to doubt Sherman’s planning, or his fire, had no reason to question the accuracy of his reports to Grant. It was far more to do with Thomas’s own pride, that quiet sense of accomplishment Grant had refused to give him. If Thomas had been stained by failure, any failure, he could
have accepted his dismissal of the Army of the Cumberland. But in this campaign, Thomas had done nothing at all to drain faith away from his abilities. His command of Hooker’s forces had been precise and perfunctory. The assault on Lookout Mountain had been wildly successful, which surprised both Grant and Thomas. But the plan had been Thomas’s alone. If there was credit to be tossed around Hooker’s camp for the accomplishment of those men, Thomas couldn’t avoid feeling that some of that praise should go his way as well.

He’d never admit that, of course, wouldn’t even say that to his own staff, not even to his friend Alfred Hough. But he nursed that bruise inside, trying to understand Grant’s reasoning, why the Army of the Cumberland would spread out as the center of Grant’s position, only to sit and watch while others did the work.

He understood tactics, and whether or not he cared for Sherman’s personality, or his methods, Thomas could not fault Grant’s plan to hammer Bragg’s flanks. If either flank collapsed, the route would be open for a crushing blow all across Bragg’s defenses, heights or not. Attacking Lookout Mountain had paved the way for Hooker to push his people across Rossville Gap, a major artery for escape, should Bragg attempt to withdraw that way. Sherman’s assault could accomplish exactly the same thing to the north. But Thomas understood why Grant put more faith in Sherman than either of them did in Hooker. Sweeping the enemy off Lookout Mountain improved the possibilities of an assault on that end of Missionary Ridge. But crushing Bragg’s right flank would squeeze the center from both directions, and could so jeopardize the rebel army’s route of escape that the entire campaign could end with Bragg’s wholesale surrender. Thomas had grudgingly conceded that the mathematics still made sense, even if Thomas’s men sat idly by. None of the Federal commanders knew just what kind of strength Bragg had on the ridge. But Grant’s army had more than doubled since his arrival, and every indication was that Bragg’s army had been cut in half.

He studied his own camps, the vast sea of canvas around him, many of those men doing what he did now, observing, listening for the sounds of the fight to the north. Even with no advance of their own, they were an imposing force, and Thomas had wondered what
the sight of so much blue had done to the minds of the men who hunkered down all along the crest of Missionary Ridge. The rebel deserters brought in wild stories, utterly contradictory, some claiming that Bragg had fled the area completely, others with grandiose tales of enormous numbers of reinforcements arriving, claims that half of Lee’s army in Virginia had suddenly appeared to strengthen Bragg’s lines. Thomas knew better than to trust the word of any deserter, any prisoner. He respected Grant for that same bit of wisdom. But Washington was reacting to every rumor, most of that still fueled by their fears for the survival of Ambrose Burnside. He respected Grant for that as well, that Grant would not be bowed by Halleck’s ranting, would regard the War Department’s missives as
advice
, suggestions to be followed if the situation allowed it. Thomas had seen Rosecrans crumble under that same kind of pressure, so much uncertainty in Washington, which of course was fed by uncertainty from Rosecrans. But Grant had none of that, seemed to be
certain
to a fault. His plan was
the plan
. There might be changes, amendments, but in the end, Grant would not entertain councils of war as the means for making his decisions. From what Thomas could see of Grant, it was grim confidence, but Thomas had to admit that he shared the trait he saw in Grant, what some, including his friend Hough, called stubbornness.

Grant stood beside him, Rawlins close behind, Thomas’s own staff handling the flood of dispatches, most of those passing back and forth to the south. The other senior commanders from Thomas’s army were spread out along the crest of Orchard Knob, some in idle conversation with their subordinates, some just waiting for something to do.

Grant smoked his usual cigar, rocked on his heels slightly, stared out toward Sherman’s fight, plainly audible now. The thunder of the artillery had come in waves, as though the attacks were shifting ground, an ebb and flow that seemed clearly to disturb Grant. He heard the call from Lieutenant Ramsey, turned, saw the paper in the man’s hand, a courier trailing behind.

“What is it now?”

Ramsey handed Thomas the note without speaking, and Thomas stared at the paper with aching dismay. He has time to write notes? Well, yes, that would be Hooker’s way. Trust no one but your own pen.

Grant was looking his way now, said, “What’s he say? They make it across the creek?”

Thomas reread the scribbled words with a silent growl, wanted to rip the paper in two, but he knew Grant was watching his reaction, held the heat inside. “He says the enemy has burned the most usable bridge across the creek.”

“Is that a surprise? That’s why we have engineers. Build another one.”

Thomas folded the paper, returned it to his aide. “He is. Says it might require three hours or more. He does not seem to be concerned.”

Thomas looked toward the valley where Hooker’s troops were supposed to be, waited for some kind of explosion from Grant. Grant said, “He received your orders this morning. I assume he understands just what an
order
is. Why in blazes did it take him so long to advance? From what we heard, there isn’t a single rebel soldier on that whole mountain.”

Thomas stared ahead, Missionary Ridge a mile to the front. “He followed the order the way he has followed every order I’ve given him. I have not served with the man before, but it seems apparent that he arranges all his details in precise order before he moves. I admit, General, to some frustration.”

Grant still looked at him, and Thomas glanced toward him, saw a frown, the cigar clamped hard in Grant’s mouth. Grant said, “He ran like a rabbit at Chancellorsville. Shows he can get up and
move
when he has to. It’s an acquired skill, the rapid retreat.” Grant paused. “No offense to your army, Mr. Thomas.”

Thomas felt the knife wound from Grant’s comment, had heard too much of that since Chickamauga. “Changes have been made, sir. What happened two months ago shall not be repeated. No one knows that more than you.”

Grant seemed uncomfortable, as though he had pricked a sore
wound. “Yes, quite right. I meant no disrespect. Your men have admiration for you, your leadership. Well earned.”

Thomas said nothing, thought, Not so well earned that we’re given anything to do.

He stared out to the south again, the open plain where his army sat with their muskets. There had been plans to have at least three full divisions march out, a hard demonstration for the benefit of the rebel front, perhaps a nudge against the rebel skirmishers, shoving them back to the rifle pits that Bragg had positioned just out from the base of the ridge. But Grant had changed his mind about that, the order canceled the night before, once again his unbridled faith in Sherman overriding any other suggestion Thomas could make.

From some of the field officers, word had filtered toward him that there was grousing in the ranks, many of the soldiers and their officers expecting that the capture of Orchard Knob was just the first step in their inevitable assault against the center of the ridge. To the veterans of Chickamauga, who still carried the shame of such a complete defeat, that kind of assault would offer the opportunity for perfect redemption. None of that had any impact on Grant, that particular tactic dismissed outright, and Thomas was quietly grateful. No matter the sentiment of his men, Thomas knew that a massed assault against Bragg’s strongest point would be precisely what Bragg was hoping for, his entire defense designed for that very move. Grant’s alternative against Bragg’s flanks was sound strategy, opening up the possibility that either flank would be turned completely. Thomas looked again toward the sounds from Sherman’s fight, couldn’t help thinking of the chaotic Federal stampede away from Chickamauga. If Bragg’s army was swept away so completely, he thought, it would be sweet revenge indeed. But the men who should be making that attack, who deserve to have their pride and their reputations restored … are sitting still.