The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War

by Jeff Shaara

  His escort led him down a side street, a wider square, another hospital to one side, more soldiers huddled together on a sheltered porch. They saw him, but still there was no recognition, just another officer moving past, mud covered, soaked through with the misery of the rain.

  One man called out to him, “Hey! You got crackers? I’ll give you a dollar for an ear of corn!”

  The aides moved up beside Grant, as though shielding him from some potential danger, and Grant ignored that, too, knew if that man was hungry, so were they all. He glanced again at Lookout Mountain, invisible in the blackening sky, no sign of Missionary Ridge in the deepening darkness to the east. He thought of Bragg, wondered how many rebels there were, what kind of strength Bragg still brought to the fight. You must be weak, he thought. Or, you have made a mistake, by taking your time. You thought these men would just starve, and then we would simply surrender. No, sir. If there was ever a chance of that, or a chance that this army would run away from you again, there is no chance of that now.

  He understood his first priority, saw it in the soldiers who watched him as he passed. I will find the way to feed you, he thought. Give you back the strength. There will be more horses, more guns, more ammunition, and most of all, there will be a great many more troops. He ran through those numbers in his mind, the great strength he commanded, the combined forces Stanton had given him. Bragg had these men licked, he thought. But he gave us the magnificent gift of time. We will not starve. We will rebuild and replenish and reinforce. If you keep to those heights, if you are content to merely suffer the rain and watch us, you will see it for yourself. And you will have made a far greater mistake. And with God and these men as my witness, I shall make you pay.

  He moved into the parlor of the house, a larger room ahead, the heat of the fireplace drawing him closer. In the larger room, officers were mostly standing, their talk growing silent, and he saw one older man, leaning on one end of the mantel, gray in his beard, hard eyes, staring silently at Grant. Grant moved to a chair, sat heavily, felt the relief of the leg relaxing, the fire now close in front of him. The silence was odd, uncomfortable, and Grant looked at the older man now, could see his mass, much taller, taller than Rosecrans, wide and stout, every sign of the man in command.

  “General Thomas.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Grant glanced around the room, faces lit by firelight, all watching him, no smiles, no words at all.

  “I am here to assume command of this campaign. I trust you are aware of that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Grant wanted to say more, no one else offering any kind of conversation, no pleasantries, no formal greetings to the man who now commanded them all. He glanced down, saw a puddle of water forming beneath the chair, welcomed the fire even more, set the crutches aside, held out his hands, soaking in the warmth. But the response from the men made him supremely uncomfortable, as though he had stomped the life out of some kind of joyous party. He stared at the fire, stretched his aching leg out, water dripping from his boots. He considered who these men were, what they had done, what they expected of Rosecrans. Unhappy men, to be sure. Probably loved him, and probably hated what happened to their army. Now, they have me. Not sure what I’m supposed to say about that.

  He saw one officer to the side, a cigar clamped in the man’s mouth, thought, Yes, a wonderful idea. He reached in his pocket, saw the mud now on his hands, a thick smear on his coat, realized there was mud on every part of his uniform.

  “Does someone have a dry cloth?”

  Thomas responded with a quick glance to the side, an aide moving away. But the others kept their silence, and Rawlins moved up beside him, knelt low, looked at him with a hint of confusion. Grant waved him back, said to Thomas, “The decision to remove General Rosecrans did not originate with me. By chance, we were able to meet in Stevenson. I believe he understands the necessity for the change.”

  Thomas nodded slowly, said nothing. Grant looked at the others, saw the deference to Thomas, his authority holding everyone to silence. Grant felt the need to stand up now, to say something meaningful. But the leg was throbbing, the fire too comforting, and he settled into a boiling annoyance, thought, Is that how this army is to receive my authority? Will they even listen to my orders?

  The door opened with a clatter, a gust of chilly wind rippling the fire, and Grant turned in the chair, saw his staff officer, Wilson, and a civilian, realized it was Charles Dana. Wilson surged forward, saluted Grant, then seemed to absorb the odd demeanor of the room, said something to Rawlins, quiet words Grant couldn’t hear. Rawlins responded in a whisper, as though even Grant’s chief of staff was unable to break the room’s strange frigidity. Wilson stepped toward the fire now, said to Thomas, “Sir, General Grant and his escorts are most certainly tired, hungry, and wet. General Grant is in pain. His wagons and equipage are no doubt far behind. Can you not offer the general some dry clothes, socks or slippers perhaps, and can your officers not provide some supper?”

  Thomas seemed to come alive, as though the thought had never occurred to him.

  “Yes, of course.” He looked to one side, to his own aide. “Lieutenant, see to it. There are rations in the cellar. I should have prepared something. I do not know of a suitable house that is yet appropriate for a headquarters, but General Grant is most welcome to bed here.”

  Grant saw the surge of activity around him, looked up at Wilson, saw a quick nod. He watched as Thomas moved away, taking charge, and Grant began to understand, thought, He’s as awkward as I am. Never been in this situation before. Well, me neither. I guess it never occurred to him to be anything more than … polite.

  Grant looked toward Dana now, the man easing up close to the fire, his hands extended toward the warmth.

  “General, it is good to see you again. We have much to discuss.”

  Grant nodded slowly, couldn’t escape Sherman’s description of the man from his days in Vicksburg: Stanton’s spy. But Grant was here now, had been promoted to this command because Dana had lit that fire. Grant studied the man, saw no subterfuge, no hint of deceit, just a pleasant smile. Dana moved toward him, extended a hand, which Grant accepted, a brief, firm shake.

  “Mr. Dana, Secretary Stanton was most gracious to journey out of Washington to meet with me.”

  “Yes, sir, I am aware. Washington continues to be fully apprised of our situation here. There is great anticipation that your new authority will have a most positive influence.”

  Dana seemed suddenly self-conscious, looked back toward Thomas, who returned to the mantel, staring ahead, nothing to say. The mood of the room was seeping through Grant now, and he began to see it in the faces, in Thomas himself, the others who gathered to greet Grant by not greeting him at all. Grant stared at the fire again, thought, What did you expect? They’re taking a hard look at you, Grant, figuring out just what kind of general you’ll make, what you’ll expect from them, what kind of changes will come. They know Sherman’s coming, they know Hooker’s already close, and they can’t be too happy that they couldn’t get out of this mess by themselves. Not much I can say to that. We’ll worry about what happens next … tomorrow.

  Behind him, men were in motion, a trunk of clothing spread open, Rawlins taking charge, a formal discussion over just what articles were appropriate. Grant knew better than to interfere, made a quick look at Thomas, who was still looking at him. Grant turned again to the fire, suddenly remembered: He outranked me a while back. Now he doesn’t. Maybe he thought he should have more, this whole theater. He’ll obey orders, but he won’t like me giving them. Until I earn his respect. Shouldn’t have to do any of that foolishness. Stanton’s respect is what matters here. He looked toward Dana again, saw the cordial smile, so very different from Thomas.

  “Yes, Mr. Dana. It seems there is much to discuss.”

  THOMAS’S HEADQUARTERS—CHATTANOOGA—OCTOBER 23, 1863

  He hadn’t known what to expect of Grant at all. Their only meeting he could recall had c
ome in the aftermath at Shiloh, when Thomas’s superior, Don Carlos Buell, had rescued Grant’s army from the near destruction they had suffered at the hands of the massive rebel surprise attack. Thomas knew what many were saying, that Buell had done no rescue at all, that after a full day of vicious combat, Grant’s army had regained their courage, the officers gathering up their men into some kind of effective fighting force, so that by the second day, victory over the confused and disorganized Confederates was inevitable. That argument had never ceased, those commanders loyal to Grant insisting Buell was simply late to the party, picking up the pieces. Buell and Thomas had a very different take, had chafed mightily under what was becoming the official version of events, the War Department giving the public an unsatisfying blend of the two sides, as though Edwin Stanton, and possibly Abraham Lincoln, chose to walk the fence, neither offending nor glorifying either Grant or Buell. But now Buell was gone, sitting in some office in Indianapolis, “awaiting orders,” a sentence imposed on him by Washington for what the public perceived as a string of failures against Braxton Bragg in Tennessee and Kentucky. As Buell fell out of favor in Washington, his command had been offered to Thomas, an opportunity Thomas had refused. He respected Buell, but Thomas had more respect for William Rosecrans, believed that he was the better man for that job. And now Rosecrans was suffering the same fate as Buell, shoved into an official closet, while Washington sought out the next general to toss into the fire. Thomas knew his name was trumpeted about Washington, though he never campaigned for anything beyond the care of his men. But newspapers fueled public opinion, and Thomas wasn’t naïve, knew that the War Department might bend to the pressure of all that shouting about Thomas’s army-saving stand at Chickamauga. He still downplayed that, hated the nickname now floating about, many of the newspapers hanging the moniker on him of the Rock of Chickamauga. The men loved that, of course, saluted him with heavy compliments everywhere he went, more so now that he had been called upon to slip into Rosecrans’s shoes. But Secretary Stanton had been praising Thomas a little too loudly for Thomas’s comfort, hints that much more was in store for Thomas, should he perform more successfully than his predecessor. What Thomas did not expect was that Grant would get that nod instead, and Thomas couldn’t help wondering if Stanton’s flowery praise was designed to soften the blow of Grant’s promotion, that Thomas had never really been considered for any higher post than he had now. It was the kind of duplicity Thomas had become accustomed to, that every general had his champion in Washington, until he fell on his face, or a better general could be found. Thomas just didn’t expect that man to be Grant.

  Thomas welcomed the word that serious numbers of reinforcements were pouring toward Chattanooga. The rebel siege had impacted the Federal forces far more drastically than Rosecrans seemed able to handle. Thomas had acted under Rosecrans’s orders, had strengthened the defenses close to Chattanooga into an impregnable line, manned by troops who seemed to accept the despair of Bragg’s siege with a spirit that surprised even Thomas. Officially the men were on quarter rations, but that was fantasy. Throughout the town, and out on the lone trail that brought the meager supplies, soldiers gathered in hordes, raiding those few wagons that carried corn for the animals, scrounging the roadway for anything edible that might have jostled off the wagons into the mud. Some of the teamsters had hauled their wagons away for good, too frightened by the drawn faces and fierce hunger of the men who took matters into their own hands, violently pirating a wagon for themselves, no matter the cargo. Feeding the army was the highest priority, and Thomas had gone much further than Rosecrans, working late nights to devise some plan to relieve the suffering of the men by opening up a channel, either by water or land, where supplies might reach them.

  There was danger as well from Bragg, a threat that had seemed to push Rosecrans further into a state of panic. Bragg’s army was holding their ground on the ridges, on Lookout Mountain, but Thomas understood that Bragg might move after all, and not toward Chattanooga. Rosecrans’s greatest accomplishment had been the sly maneuver that had tricked Bragg into abandoning Chattanooga months before, the feints and jabs that convinced Bragg that unless he pulled away from the town, and backed his army into Georgia, Rosecrans was likely to surround him. The maneuver worked, which only added to the impact of the failure at Chickamauga, Bragg righting his own ship, shoving the Federal army back to Chattanooga. Now Thomas had to fear that Bragg would make the same maneuver, driving his army westward perhaps, beyond Lookout Mountain, circling up to the west and north of Chattanooga, cutting off the Army of the Cumberland from any supply line at all. Thomas knew the possibilities, that Bragg might also shift northward, threatening Chattanooga from above. Rumors still, birthed by the grandiose claims of rebel deserters that Robert E. Lee himself was on the way, or at least a huge portion of his army, crossing the Appalachian Mountains in a thrust that would obliterate Thomas’s command. That panic erupted from the War Department as well, Henry Halleck playing straight into the hands of the rebels by believing the rumor was true. Thomas knew that panic was his worst enemy, that all around him, men were hungry, low on ammunition, burning houses for firewood. No matter how many hordes of rebels might be descending on his camps, if the men couldn’t find rations, and quickly, none of that would matter.

  Grant’s arrival had been a surprise, and not because of the man’s new authority. Thomas had watched Grant’s entrance with curiosity, his slovenly appearance, crutches and all. There was no dress uniform, no grand show of military formality. In front of the great warm fireplace, Thomas had waited for the ceremony, one of Grant’s aides reading some official order, telling Thomas exactly where he ranked, as though Thomas needed to be reminded. He had been caught off guard by Grant’s silence, couldn’t avoid feeling impressed by Grant’s commitment, riding to Chattanooga as quickly as he could, taking the only route open to the Federal forces, and braving the miserable ride with a crippled leg. But the awkwardness had been just that. His reception for Grant and his staff wasn’t rooted in disrespect. Thomas simply didn’t know what to do.

  For the rest of that evening, Thomas and his senior officers had done only what Grant seemed to want, had laid out the specifics of the crisis that surrounded the Army of the Cumberland. Thomas had hoped for more input from Grant himself, what he expected of them, and more, what Grant was adding to this fight. For a long hour, Grant had sat expressionless, and Thomas began to feel a nervous itch, that perhaps Grant was overwhelmed by the task at hand, that what the officers were telling him was just too much for him to absorb. But then there was a change. The officer who stepped up was “Baldy” Smith, the Army of the Cumberland’s chief engineer. Smith had offered Grant details of a possible assault on rebel forces that might accomplish two enormous objectives. One would be to push the rebels away from a lengthy portion of the Tennessee River, allowing boat traffic to resume on a route much closer to Chattanooga than they could safely travel now. The second had surprised even Thomas. Smith was convinced that if the Federal strike was energetic enough, it could shove the rebels back far enough from the river to give the men in blue a bridgehead on the far side of the river. It might create the opening they would need, not only to expand the Cracker Line, but to break out of Chattanooga altogether. Then came the greatest surprise of all for Thomas. Grant’s entire demeanor abruptly changed, and with each of Thomas’s officers completing their reports, Grant suddenly turned inquisitor, ripping through the room with questions, clearly absorbing every detail offered him. If Thomas suspected that Grant’s appointment might be little more than a political reward for success at Vicksburg, by the end of the evening, Thomas began to feel that Grant might actually know what he was doing.

  NEAR BROWN’S FERRY, ON THE TENNESSEE

  RIVER—OCTOBER 24, 1863

  They eased along on foot, Thomas following up behind Grant, who hobbled close behind Baldy Smith. The staffs had spread out in all directions, alerting the skirmishers who held position on the Federal side of the river. Th
omas had done this before, knew the ground, knew that as the engineer, Smith had covered every foot of shoreline along the river, seeking the opportunity to exploit any weakness in the rebel positions.