The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War

by Jeff Shaara

  “Sir, I must report to you that in a stroke of coincidence, another train has arrived in this station. It seems that General Rosecrans is … here, sir. Or rather, right across the way … there. Should I post a guard?”

  Grant looked out to the darkness, nothing to see but the glimpse of the men standing guard on the platform. He rubbed his chin, reached for a cigar, took his time lighting it, thought of Rosecrans. He would fight a duel?

  “John, I have a better idea. Offer my respects to General Rosecrans, and escort him to my car. I just terminated the man’s career. The least I can do is talk to him.”

  Grant studied Rosecrans carefully, felt idiotic believing Rawlins’s suggestion that Rosecrans might actually attack him. Rawlins stood back, outside the entrance of Grant’s private car, one of Rosecrans’s aides beside him. Grant ignored them, said, “I assure you, General, this rendezvous was not planned. I do not expect you to regard me with any more pleasantness than you ever did before. Perhaps less, considering.”

  Rosecrans still stood at attention, obviously uncomfortable, a feeling Grant shared. Grant had forgotten how much larger the man was, several inches taller than Grant, a thick chest, tall forehead, a handsome man by any standards.

  “I am pleased to meet with you, General Grant. I have always held a high respect for your abilities, and your authority.”

  Grant pointed to the bench seat across from him. “I doubt that. Sit down. You stand like that, you’re making my leg hurt.”

  Rosecrans obeyed with a crisp formality, kept his back straight, looked at Grant’s leg, a hint of curiosity. Grant responded to the unspoken question.

  “Happened in New Orleans. Some horse that didn’t share your respect for my authority. It’ll heal one of these days.”

  “You look fit otherwise, General. Much like West Point, I’d say.”

  The strain in Rosecrans’s compliment dug at Grant, and Grant was curious now if it carried an insult. Grant glanced down at his dingy greatcoat, the wrinkled shirt. Rosecrans was in full finery, what seemed to be a new uniform. Grant looked at the gold braid on the man’s hat, saw his own, even that detail a striking contrast between new and old. Beyond his appearance, the entire Federal command was aware that Rosecrans had graduated fifth in his class at the Point, a year before Grant’s graduation far down the middle of the pack.

  “Don’t really need to discuss the Academy, General. Is it proper I call you William?”

  Rosecrans didn’t flinch, gave Grant no opening. “By your authority, you may address me as you please. I shall address you accordingly, sir.”

  Grant was beginning to regret the decision to bring Rosecrans aboard the train, pulled a long draw from his cigar, the smoke drifting upward. “All right, General. Tell me about Chattanooga.”

  Rosecrans seemed surprised at the question, the first break in his demeanor. “I have made considerable effort to bring in supplies for the men, and I will state with pride that elaborate plans have been devised to turn the enemy away. Conditions in the town and in our camps are most difficult. We have lost most of the livestock.”

  “Horses? Cattle?”

  “Horses and mules. Cattle are making their way in, but their condition is extremely poor, near starvation. There is no forage. The men are using their ingenuity for survival, a trait I hoped to inspire. The enemy’s sharpshooters along the river prevent us from gathering much-needed lumber, either for structures or for fire. There is one route of supply, over the mountains. A most difficult passage, which I just traveled myself. It is the route by which you shall reach your … new command.” He paused. “Sir, I believe the enemy can be removed with the resources that have been sent our way. Excuse me, sir. Your way. With the reinforcements certain to arrive with General Sherman, with the additional strength from General Hooker’s corps, and General Burnside’s forces at Knoxville, I do not believe Bragg’s noose can be tightened any further. I have spoken at length with General Smith, whose engineers are awaiting instruction to open additional routes of supply, possibly driving the enemy back from the river so that the waterway will serve us far more effectively. It is possible a vigorous campaign may be waged to drive the enemy off the heights that threaten our position. I had hoped to be allowed the time to put some kind of strategy into our overall planning, both to relieve the suffering of the men, and to continue our campaign.”

  The words came toward Grant in a flood, but Rosecrans’s energy was weakening, and Grant could see that whatever fire Rosecrans had tried to bring was now flickering.

  Grant waited for more, but Rosecrans seemed content, as though making his case by carefully stopping short of any suggestion that the War Department, or Grant, should reconsider their orders. Grant said, “I wish you to know, General, that the order removing you from command did not originate with me.”

  Rosecrans looked down, shrugged. “Does it matter? I am aware how the War Department functions. Past successes do not compensate for recent failure. After Chickamauga, I was hoping to be allowed to right our wrongs. I have devised what I believe to be several excellent options to reverse our fortunes.”

  The question rose up in Grant’s mind now. Options? All this talk of such good plans? Why did you not carry them out? How much time did you require? And how many horses will die waiting for some … plan?

  Rosecrans was fidgeting, and Grant could see that the man was anxious to leave.

  “Where will you travel now?”

  Rosecrans spoke slowly, still nothing friendly in his words. “By rail, to Cincinnati. After that, I will await orders. If orders should come.”

  “Well, I am certain your usefulness to this army has not concluded.”

  “Are you?”

  The question surprised Grant, and Rosecrans stood now, made a gesture of brushing away dust from his clean uniform. Old habits, Grant thought. But now, there are new habits in this man, and they are not positive. He has learned that men will die in his command in a fight that he will lose. What has that taken away from the man?

  “General Rosecrans, I thank you for meeting with me. Travel safely. Perhaps we will serve together in some future campaign.”

  Rosecrans looked at him now, soft, sad eyes. “With all respects, General Grant, I do not believe that will happen. I do hope that the men in the Army of the Cumberland fare better under your command, and the command of General Thomas, than they did with me. If I may be allowed to continue my journey?”

  Grant sifted questions through his mind, any other detail Rosecrans could offer him. But Rosecrans seemed drained, and Grant reached for the crutches, would stand, the only respectful gesture he could make. Rosecrans didn’t wait, turned, moved quickly past his aide, the man staring at Grant with a hint of hostility. Rawlins said something to the aide, who saluted, moved away, following Rosecrans. Grant released the crutches, relaxed again on the seat, Rawlins watching him. Grant stared out, saw Rosecrans and the aide on the platform, passing through the formation of guards, disappearing into the darkness. Grant retrieved another cigar, stared at it for a long moment, then looked at Rawlins.

  “He was a brilliant man. A year ahead of me at the Academy. Big fat reputation. One of those men you talk about, the chosen one, the great certain future. I doubt he recalls me at all. Just one of the crowd.”

  Rawlins bent low, a brief glance outside. “He didn’t do the job, sir. Failure has its price.”

  Grant shook his head. “He has failings, yes. But he also won fights. He bested the enemy far more than he failed this army.”

  “Do you think the War Department made a mistake, removing him?”

  Grant considered the question, the cigar smoke drifting up around his face. “He knew what he was supposed to do. Still does. But he didn’t do it. That’s all it takes, John. This war is a close thing, no matter what the newspapers say. Any of us falls on our face, the cost is too high. And sometimes … it’s time for a change, time for a commander to just go away. Remember that. None of us is infallible. Not Sherman, not Thom
as, not Bragg or Lee or Beauregard or Meade. It’s so rarely about military genius, who the greater tactician might be, who sat higher in his class at West Point. It’s about mistakes, some of them unavoidable, some of them purely stupid. My job is to make fewer mistakes than the enemy, and to ensure that Thomas and Sherman and Burnside don’t pull us into some kind of abyss we can’t escape. It’s that simple.”

  Grant saw a question on Rawlins’s face.

  “What is it?”

  “Sir, just thinking. What of General Thomas? He served under General Rosecrans. Will he be up to the job?”

  Grant finished the cigar, ground the stub into an ashtray. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

  WALDRON’S RIDGE—WEST OF CHATTANOOGA—OCTOBER 22, 1863

  The death of the animals had always been harder for him to accept than the death of soldiers. The animals after all had no choice. None of them had volunteered for this duty, none ever protested the lack of food, none had any concept why their bodies had grown weak, none understood why their legs would no longer climb, why the labor of pulling the wagons had become too much to bear. None understood why, finally, they simply could not move, collapsing alongside the muddy trail, until death swept away the last glimmer of sight, of sound, of feeling.

  “Dumb beasts,” he had heard, teamsters and supply officers sometimes abusing the animals, but if they did that in Grant’s presence, they never did it again. He had loved horses even before Mexico, had become an expert rider, a surprise to many in a man of his small stature. Some insisted it took brawn, sheer muscle to control the great beasts, but Grant had his own way, held the reins loosely, seemed clumsy at first, helpless, inspiring laughter from the other troops as he rode away. But he never lost control, never let the horse know he was afraid, and very soon the horse seemed to know that the rider was not simply a burden, but his partner, the ride over any kind of terrain an equal challenge for both of them. Grant loved the gracefulness, the ease in climbing rocky hills, no trail too narrow, no hill too steep. It was a marvel to him that the horses could absorb the sounds that terrified so many of the men, the shock of the artillery blasts, musket fire inches away, rarely any reaction at all. The artillerymen knew that of course, shared his respect for their mounts, understood that in the worst fights, the men would lose their nerve long before the beasts. They were targets, certainly, far larger than the men who rode them, and so in every great attack, the horses went down more quickly than the lines of men who marched beside them. It was something he had come to accept, as the cavalrymen did, that you could love the beast, but you could not expect to keep it, not if you rode into the fight at the head of your men. Even then, the horses could absorb far more punishment than any man, and Grant had seen mounts with a dozen wounds in the most vulnerable places, the animal still charging forward, until the legs gave way and the blood ran dry.

  The horse beneath him now was called Kangaroo, had been abandoned by a rebel in Mississippi. The animal inspired jeers among the men who found him, a horse of odd coloring, a slightly misshapen face, none of the handsomeness that any cavalry commander would insist on. But Grant knew fine stock, knew the horse was a thoroughbred, even if his own staff joked behind his back that the animal was far too ugly to serve the commanding general. Very soon, Grant and Kangaroo had reached that understanding common to good horsemen, and as they left the riverside town of Bridgeport, pushing through the sixty miles of ragged mountainous terrain, the horse seemed to know of Grant’s injury, kept the gait slow, rhythmic, no lurching bumps. Grant returned the favor with a gentle hand, steadying himself on the slippery roads by leaning more on the horse’s neck rather than jerking back on the reins. If the weather and the muddy conditions made the journey a challenge in itself, Grant had not been prepared for the horror that met him along the way, the grisly sight of so much carnage, so many carcasses of fallen horses.

  There were hundreds of them, alongside the rivers of mud the men were forced to travel. He had expected some of this, Rosecrans at least sharing the difficulties of crossing the mountains, what it had cost the men and their animals. It was, after all, the only supply route open to the army. But nothing could prepare Grant for the smell. As they moved farther away from the river, onto higher ground, the trails became more treacherous, steep and rocky, made narrow by deep gullies and sharp ravines, and in every open place, near the muddy road or just beyond, in the holes and across the patches of wet grass, the remains of dead horses and mules were unending, hundreds becoming thousands.

  Some of the animals had been there for days, empty shells of bare ribs, stripped clean by the scavengers that even now circled overhead. Some had died within a day of Grant’s ride, stiffened animals with legs stretched taut, empty eyes and bare teeth, skin stretched tight over rib cages that showed just how poor the animals had been. There were cattle as well, what remained of the small herds driven toward Chattanooga, the weakest animals tumbling over into low places, shoved aside like the horses and mules, too wet to burn, too many to bury.

  Up ahead, the narrow trail forced the men to ride in single file, many with their heads down, shielded by the thick misty rain, trying to avoid the stink they couldn’t escape. Others were more curious, or equally horrified, scanning the animals as well as the debris they had left behind. Grant saw that as well, the shattered remnants of wagons, cracked wheels, piles of broken timber. There were abandoned artillery pieces, but not many, and he studied what seemed to be a twelve-pounder, far below in a muddy hole, the roadside too soft to keep the cannon from slipping away, the carriage tumbling down into cracked pieces.

  A man rode toward him, water dripping from his hat, a quick wipe of a soggy handkerchief across his face.

  “Sir, the road just past that rise is washed out completely. With all respects, sir, I would prefer you not make any attempt to cross. We can take care of it, sir.”

  Grant knew this routine all too well. Back at Bridgeport, Grant could barely climb the horse at all, so Rawlins had ordered the aides to lift Grant up like some sack of flour, placing him on the horse as though he might require a tie-down. Grant held his complaints to himself, knew it was the only way. As they climbed farther into the hills, the mud had grown worse, the narrow roadway often impassable without dismounting. Through it all, Rawlins had been there, the men lowering Grant from the horse, carrying him across some absurd pool of slop, then hoisting him up one more time onto the horse. Now, it would happen again.

  He saw the apology on the young man’s face, said, “No matter, Captain. We’ll do what we must. When this is over, I will offer my appreciations to the entire staff.”

  Grant halted the horse, patted the wet hair on the mane, reached back, retrieved the crutches from behind him, handed them to an aide, then swung the uninjured leg over the horse’s back. He waited while the hands came up, supporting him, easing him down, Rawlins there now, always the terse command, “Don’t drop him, by God.”

  From Stevenson, the boat ride to Bridgeport was uneventful, but it was nothing of a rest for Grant or his staff. The wires were reaching him, details of conditions in Chattanooga, of the progress along the march from the other commanders, Sherman in particular. At the town of Bridgeport, he had been surprised to find General Oliver Howard, whose Eleventh Corps had marched westward under Joe Hooker, part of the grand effort to add to the strength of the forces now facing Braxton Bragg. Howard had been as surprised to see Grant, and Grant had passed through the brief meeting with formal respect, though he knew well that Howard’s men had borne the brunt of the disgrace for the disaster at Chancellorsville, the spring before. That disgrace fell on Hooker as well. Grant knew, as did most of the officers in the army, that President Lincoln had put Hooker in command of the Army of the Potomac with a bit of desperation. There had been too many failures by Hooker’s predecessors, too many losses on too many battlefields so close to Washington. But Hooker had done no better, and so the War Department had sent him to the usual backwater, the same punishment handed out to Ambros
e Burnside for his dismal showing at Fredericksburg. But Burnside showed no fire for redeeming himself, more excuses why the Army of the Ohio was mired in their camps around Knoxville. Hooker at least had made a good show of the long journey, his men now in place for the final leg that would take them directly into Chattanooga. The bulk of Hooker’s forces, Oliver Howard’s corps included, was stopping short of the town as ordered at first by William Rosecrans. That order was backed up now by George Thomas, and Grant understood the wisdom of that, keeping Hooker’s thousands of troops back where the supplies could still reach them. The dismal conditions in Chattanooga were growing more dangerous every day, the single supply line that Grant now traveled hardly suitable for hauling any substantial rations or equipment into the town. The rebels held a strong line all along the south side of the river, completely eliminating that route for supply boats, as well as the wide, flat roads that ran alongside the waterway, which had been so easily passable for wagon trains.

  At Bridgeport, the talk had centered on the frustration of the commissary officers, excuses pouring out where none were needed. The men now holding their place in Chattanooga were calling the lone supply route the Cracker Line, and Grant thought of that even as he traveled the same trail, that the few wagons that had survived the treacherous journey would likely have added little to anyone’s relief, even if all the men expected was … crackers.

  CHATTANOOGA—OCTOBER 23, 1863

  The trail sloped downward, the hills now behind them. The last leg of the route had offered Grant a panoramic view of the Tennessee River, the great hills beyond, where Bragg’s army seemed only to wait. Once they reached the river itself, far downstream from the rebel sharpshooters, Grant had been relieved to find a pontoon bridge, the last part of the journey that now took Grant straight into the town. There, escorts had joined his staff, guards leading him through the streets. There was no escaping the mud, just as deep here as it had been in the hills, and Grant focused more on what remained of the buildings, homes and businesses now reduced to skeletons, some of the structures only a rocky foundation. He expected that, knew from the reports reaching Bridgeport that the soldiers had made use of the only lumber available, adding to the defensive positions, creating shelters for themselves at the expense of the civilians. What wasn’t used for shelter went up in flames, the grim necessity of keeping men warm. The few homes still standing held the distinct odor of hospitals, and Grant passed by one, saw a row of graves, crude wooden headstones, the resting place for men who might have survived Chickamauga, carried back here in ambulances, only to die behind the safety of Rosecrans’s defensive lines. There were men outside every hospital, some just sitting in the rain, ragged coats pulled over their heads, others with barely a shirt. By their faces alone, Grant knew they were the sick, whatever plague had spread through the Army of the Cumberland, brought on by a lack of food, of clean water, of clean anything at all. There were civilians as well, small gatherings who watched him pass, none recognizing him, few with any expression beyond the faint hope that what remained of their homes would not be swept away in a firestorm of battle. A few spoke out to him, a counterfeit salute, or a plea for some kind of help. But he knew they saw him as only one more Yankee officer, and Grant ignored that, could do nothing for these people at all. The first priority was his army, the soldiers here, now, who had to be fed. The dead horses were here, too, dragged into piles, still too wet to burn. And once more, with the beasts came the smells, the rain doing nothing to disguise the horror of so many swollen carcasses.