The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War

by Jeff Shaara

  He stood up high in the wooden stockade, looked beyond the walls, where men in blue moved out through the field, along the tracks, gathering up the wounded, picking up muskets, scavenging for anything still usable. Their own wounded had been gathered up inside the fort, the doctors from Indiana doing their work, the cries of the men sifting through the calm. His own staff did their work as well, the telegraph wire singing again, a different message going back to Memphis, Sherman’s brief report to Grant, nervous staff officers relating his version of the fight, what he knew had been an amazingly close call.

  Sherman heard a voice, one of his aides, the man pointing to the west down the tracks. Sherman looked that way, could see horses, flags, the lead elements of his Fourth Division. He understood now. That’s why the rebels scattered out of here, he thought. They knew help was coming, and they were about to have a fair fight.

  He didn’t know James Chalmers, knew only that a general officer who rode under Nathan Bedford Forrest could be expected to show a stubbornness that would usually bring victories. Sherman stood with his hands on his hips, fixed his gaze far behind the train. He could hear a hint of drums now, the column closing in, men moving with quick steps, expecting a fight, expecting to be heroes. Not today, he thought. There’ll be time for that, sure enough. He looked out toward the trampled cornfield, thought of the rebels, of James Chalmers. If your scouts told you reinforcements were coming, then you did exactly what I’d figured you to do: Get the hell out of here. But I know one thing you don’t, and I hope like hell that one day I have the chance to meet you face-to-face, so I can tell you exactly what you missed here, maybe the best opportunity you’ll ever have. If you’d have known, you wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to leave just because you might have gotten your nose bloodied. Sherman smiled through gritted teeth, stared at the darkening horizon. You had no idea who was standing in the middle of this pile of timber. No idea at all. If you knew, you’d have poured every artillery shell you had into this stockade, sent every carbine and every saber you had … right here. Well, old fellow, you rebel son of a bitch … maybe next time.

  The train left Richmond on October 6, its most prominent passenger bearing a sheaf of letters from the men he had charged with winning this war. The journey was one of necessity, a crisis of command. He believed he had chosen his generals on their merits, and the whispers around him in the capital had been mostly ignored, how too many of the commanders kept their posts only because he favored them, their friendship and loyalty a far more valuable asset than good strategic skills. The most notable exception thus far had been Robert E. Lee. Davis wasn’t ever sure of Lee’s feelings, the man keeping them mostly to himself, but that really didn’t matter to Davis. That train ran on a single track. From the earliest days of the war, Davis had suffered his critics, the men who blamed him for the failings of men like Albert Sidney Johnston, or even Lee himself. The loudest outcries yet had come in the aftermath of the fall of Vicksburg, when another Davis acolyte, John C. Pemberton, was widely blamed for a collapse of command that even Davis couldn’t ignore. Pemberton was now on Davis’s informal staff, and accompanied him on this journey westward. Everyone in Richmond knew that Pemberton ached for another command, and that Davis was sliding through the Confederate hierarchy trying to find him one.

  Davis had seen the belligerence toward Bragg in the Richmond newspapers, and more recently, had received the letters from the generals themselves, primarily Polk and Longstreet, who echoed what too many of the other commanders in Tennessee were spouting out, lengthy pleadings with Davis that he order Robert E. Lee to travel west, that Lee might be the only man in the Confederacy to carry the army to victory in Tennessee. Davis had approached Lee, feeling out Lee’s thoughts on the matter, but Lee had been adamant. His place was with the Army of Northern Virginia, a battered and bloodied force still reeling from the disaster at Gettysburg. Davis hadn’t tried to persuade Lee to go to Tennessee, knew as well as Lee did that the army closest to the northern borders near the large cities had to be rebuilt. The Federal congress was gleefully expectant that their armies, so victorious during the summer, would once again resume their drive into Southern territory, with yet another eye toward Richmond. Davis accepted Lee’s reasoning for remaining in Virginia, tried his best to ignore the chatter from those who did not understand, as he did, how best to manage this war. But the tide of hostility toward Braxton Bragg had gone far beyond what Davis had ever expected. Bragg could be difficult, had certainly made enemies, especially with his penchant for military discipline. Davis had no problem with that at all. Bragg had risen well under Albert Sidney Johnston, had been used effectively by Johnston to mold an effective fighting army out of a rabble of undisciplined volunteers. But the voices against Bragg had turned far more ugly. The complaints were no longer aimed at the man’s harsh treatment of the men. Now the focus was on Bragg’s lack of leadership, lack of action, failures to follow up successes in the field. For an army desperate for victories, a passive leader was utterly unacceptable. Davis found it hard to fathom that Bragg would have fallen into that kind of lethargy, believed instinctively that men of ambition were seeking to push Bragg aside, serving their own cause. He suspected that of Longstreet, certainly. Longstreet was no better at making friends than Bragg, and there had been talk around Richmond that Longstreet’s failures had been the army’s failures at Gettysburg. Davis had to abide by Lee’s view on that, Lee of course doing the honorable thing, accepting blame himself. Bragg had done the same after the defeats in Kentucky and central Tennessee earlier that year, suggesting that if his generals had lost confidence in his command, Davis should replace him. Davis had rejected that out of hand, as he had rejected Lee’s offer to stand down. In Davis’s mind, there was simply no one more qualified to replace either man. There were experienced generals of course, Joe Johnston and Pierre Beauregard in particular, men who outranked Bragg. But Davis had dismissed them from his thoughts at every turn. He knew, as did everyone else, that neither of those men respected Davis, or regarded their president with the kind of loyalty Davis believed was his due. If they would not show proper deference to him, he certainly wouldn’t reward them with a significant command.

  The lack of activity after Chickamauga was puzzling to many, Davis included. The letters that flowed out of Tennessee had become venomous, violations of military courtesy and protocol that Davis could not merely address with his pen. If his generals needed to know what kind of support Braxton Bragg was receiving from their president, he would communicate that firsthand. Davis had no doubts at all that Bragg would perform, and perform well, as long as his subordinates fell in line behind him.

  If Bragg’s generals had grievances, he would hear them, certainly. As he drew closer to Chickamauga Station, Davis had settled the arguments in his mind, knew that his mission to Tennessee would be one of reason, of reconciliation, that with the proper amount of convincing, even the most cantankerous generals would come to understand that their faith in Bragg should be as strong as his own. To suggest that any one of them could do Bragg’s job any better than Bragg himself was not a question Davis would even consider. After Lee, Joe Johnston, Beauregard, or Pemberton, the primary alternatives would probably be Longstreet or William Hardee. But both seemed to make enemies too easily, demonstrating a level of ambition that didn’t suit their president. As long as Bragg continued to demonstrate complete dedication to Davis’s authority, he simply would not be replaced. All Davis had to do was make that point with perfect clarity.

  As the train lurched to a stop, Davis stepped down absolutely certain that his mission would be a simple one.

  NAIL HOUSE—BRAGG’S HEADQUARTERS—

  MISSIONARY RIDGE—OCTOBER 10, 1863

  They arrived after the evening meal, and as each man entered his headquarters, Bragg felt the strain, the forced politeness. The collective staffs remained outside, Mackall as well, some of the men already engaged in low conversation. There were few secrets in the camp, every soldier in th
e army aware that President Davis had come, every staff officer understanding that his arrival carried far more meaning than some glad-handing social visit.

  Bragg welcomed each man with the same perfunctory handshake, no one rejecting his hand, as Forrest had done, none likely to make such a blatant show of disrespect in the presence of Jefferson Davis.

  Longstreet had arrived first, and Bragg watched him now, felt a grinding dislike for the man, knew Longstreet felt the same way about him. Bragg felt disgusted by Longstreet’s demeanor, the large man sitting sloppily in a chair to one side of the room, close to the hearth, a small pipe clamped in his teeth. Simon Buckner had arrived shortly after Longstreet, Harvey Hill and Benjamin Cheatham close behind. The four were Bragg’s most senior commanders, but no one mistook the evening to be anything about glad tidings.

  Bragg remained standing, Davis sitting at the desk, and Bragg felt the sweat on his skin, the deep rumblings in his stomach, nothing unusual about that. Davis smiled, a brief formal greeting to each man, pleasant instructions for each to take a chair. There was typical formality to that, Davis not given to friendly banter, the useless small talk that some politicians seemed to enjoy. Bragg appreciated that, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, impatient, still sweating, tried to avoid looking at Longstreet, Longstreet watching him, seeming to taunt him. Bragg felt the man’s smugness, infuriating, Bragg still wondering if Longstreet believed himself to be so far above the rest of them, that his service to Robert E. Lee had somehow imbued the man with angelic powers. Bragg sniffed, tried to erase the thought, looked at Buckner, who nodded toward him, watching Bragg carefully. The stare made Bragg even more uncomfortable, thoughts racing through his brain. What does he know? He has been loyal to me, at least when he served my staff. But give a man power over others … He stifled that, blinked through stinging sweat in his eyes, the heat from the fire at one end of the room beginning to suffocate him.

  Benjamin Cheatham was the only one of the four generals who had not been to West Point, but his skills as a leader in the field had put him in position as the man Bragg had suggested to replace Leonidas Polk. Cheatham seemed more nervous than Bragg, glanced around the room, as though searching for something. Bragg winced at that, thought, Liquor? Is it so true then? It was the one black mark against Cheatham, the rumors that Bragg could never quite confirm, that Cheatham had a tendency toward drunkenness when his leadership was needed the most. Those rumors had extended through the fight at Chickamauga, but Bragg had no direct evidence of that, and so, no real reason to distrust the man. Of the most senior commanders, Cheatham, like Breckinridge, had not placed his signature on the petition calling for Bragg’s ouster. Breckinridge was a politician, his motives simple to dissect. Cheatham’s motives were more of a mystery, whether he had kept his name off the petition as an act of loyalty to Bragg, or whether he was simply too cowardly to document his feelings. Bragg had no idea which.

  Simon Bolivar Buckner was the youngest of the group, but certainly not the least experienced. It was Buckner who had surrendered his forces to Ulysses Grant at Fort Donelson early the year before, the first in a series of battlefield disasters that allowed the Federal army to occupy most of Tennessee. But Buckner carried no stain for that particular defeat, no disgrace. The surrender had been ordered by his commanding general there, John Floyd, who had put Buckner in charge of handling the surrender, while Floyd himself slipped away. The outrage against Floyd had been absolute, and Davis had responded by removing Floyd from command. That had cost Floyd more than pride, the man’s health failing rapidly, his death coming just a few weeks prior to the fight at Chickamauga. For a while, Bragg had appointed Buckner to his staff, but Buckner’s experience in the field made him too valuable to keep that close to headquarters. The inevitability of losing Buckner to field command had annoyed Bragg, but now, knowing Buckner had put his signature on the petition, Bragg had forced himself to forget any good service the man had done. He was simply one more enemy.

  Daniel Harvey Hill had come west after the fight at Gettysburg, though he had not served under Lee for several months. Bragg had already experienced Hill’s disagreeable nature, a penchant for bitter sarcasm, and a surly personality that had tested the patience and the tolerant spirit of Robert E. Lee, as well as several of Lee’s commanders. Prone to feuding, Hill had been received by Bragg as a form of punishment, as though Hill’s inability to get along with anyone had caused Davis to force him on Bragg. Though Hill had served well in Mexico, and led troops in the field up through the Battle of Fredericksburg, Bragg had to wonder if Hill had advanced to the rank of general for any other reason than his being the brother-in-law of the late Stonewall Jackson.

  The silence in the room was complete now, the greetings past, Bragg’s nervousness growing, his fists clenched by his side. He caught the continuing look from Longstreet, saw a hint of a smile, but there was no friendliness to that, Longstreet staring at him with more of a smirk. Bragg tried to look away, couldn’t avoid Longstreet’s show of slovenliness, the man showing a kind of relaxed confidence, as though something had been decided, some secret that only Longstreet knew. Bragg waited for Davis, who said, “Please, General Bragg. Be seated. It is my honor to be among such an illustrious group of commanders, distinguished as you all have been. There are two purposes for my visit here. I should like to address the presence in this camp of a man you all certainly know, in the hope that the charitable hearts among you should find a place for him at your councils. I refer of course to General Pemberton. I have asked the general to remain away from this meeting, so as not to cause him any undue embarrassment. I had thought we could discuss an opportunity for returning him to the field, at the head of a corps perhaps. Every army must make use of experience where it is found, and John Pemberton is certainly a man of experience at leading troops in the field. I defer to General Bragg of course, as to what, if any position there might be here. General?”

  Bragg blinked sweat out of his eyes, had suspected this was coming. He had met briefly with Pemberton when Davis first arrived, a formal, awkward conversation about nothing at all. Pemberton’s eagerness to find a place in Bragg’s army was painfully apparent, but Bragg had done nothing to encourage the man. Now Davis was asking for a formal response to a question that most of the Confederacy already answered. There was no confusion as to who carried the blame for the catastrophic failure at Vicksburg.

  Bragg shifted his weight in the chair, glanced at the others, saw nothing pleasant in their expressions, thought, Yes, it’s good Pemberton isn’t sitting here. This could be most humiliating.

  “Your Excellency, with all respects to General Pemberton and yourself, I do not feel there is an appropriate place for General Pemberton in this army. I have given this a great deal of thought, and I do not believe anyone here would disagree, though of course I will not speak for these men. But, in my opinion, sir, if General Pemberton was given command of a corps, or even a single division, there would be a mass protest that might very well result in a great many desertions from this army. No man from Mississippi would serve under him, I assure you.”

  Davis seemed annoyed, and Bragg felt he had tripped over Davis’s foot. Surely, he thought, he does not believe Pemberton will be accepted. Davis shrugged, another surprise.

  “Yes, well, I defer to your judgment, General. I continue to believe that General Pemberton will yet serve this nation in some excellent capacity. His zeal for our cause is unquestioned.”

  Bragg looked at the others, Cheatham shaking his head, Hill and Buckner staring down, Longstreet chewing on the pipe with irritating disinterest. Bragg said, “Does anyone wish to comment? Does anyone here feel that General Pemberton would serve well beside you?”

  Longstreet said, “Nope.”

  Cheatham shook his head again, said, “I regret to say that no soldier from Tennessee would serve under him.”

  The others kept silent, and Davis said, “Well, then, I shall explain to General Pemberton that his place shall r
emain with me. Any disappointment in that regard shall remain private. Let us move past that. I did not make this disagreeable train ride solely to find a command for a friend. I am hoping to understand why, in the Army of Tennessee, there has been so much … well, turmoil. General Bragg has won a truly marvelous victory against our enemies. I for one am greatly pleased with his leadership. But there is discord here. I have been informed that the victory at Chickamauga is regarded by some as an empty one, a triumph for which we gained nothing. I do not agree with that. Not at all. I am hoping that this gathering shall convince me that you do not believe that, either. I intend to put a halt to the loose talk I have heard coming from this place. You can assist me by offering your absolute support and loyalty to your commanding general. I should like to hear from each of you. I should like to know your feelings about General Bragg, and I would like you to offer a constructive view as to how this army can move forward with General Bragg at its head. General Longstreet, as ranking officer here, will you lead the way?”