by Jeff Shaara
The rains had mostly stopped, but the mud was deep and cumbersome, and Thomas watched as Grant struggled, a step at a time, soft grunts from Grant that he most certainly tried to hide. Up ahead, Smith stopped, waited with jumpy impatience, the mind of the engineer already working, designing, picturing what might happen now. Thomas liked Smith, appreciated brilliance when a man knew how to put it to good use. Smith was doing so now. The greatest challenge might be to convince Grant that any plan would work.
William “Baldy” Smith had graduated from West Point two years after Grant, and five after Thomas, and his accomplishments at the Academy had surpassed either one. Smith had graduated fourth in a class of forty-one, had excelled at engineering, immediately earning a position as a professor at West Point, teaching not only engineering but mathematics. In the aftermath of the Federal army’s bloody failure at Fredericksburg, Smith’s outrage had been equal to anyone who observed Ambrose Burnside’s disastrous handling of the battle, but his public calls for Burnside’s dismissal had caught the ear of too many in Washington. After Gettysburg, he assisted George Meade’s pursuit of Lee’s beaten army, but the War Department continued to believe that Smith’s tendency toward criticism of his superiors wasn’t appropriate. Smith fell back on his considerable talent for engineering, and secured an appointment as the chief engineer for the Army of the Cumberland. Thomas had no real feelings for Smith’s temperament one way or the other, but he welcomed the man’s expertise. If the Army of the Cumberland were to break Bragg’s siege, Thomas was confident that Smith would find the way.
Thomas stepped up close to Smith, only feet from the riverbank, Grant settling into position on the other side. Smith was animated, looked out in both directions, as though searching for something. He pointed straight across the river.
“That’s the best place, by far. The gap between Lookout Creek and Raccoon Mountain. The enemy is all over the big mountain, and is probably in force on Raccoon, with people strung out through the valley in between. If we’re quick about it, and hit them hard, I believe we can cut off a sizable portion of whoever’s troops are on Raccoon. They’ll have to withdraw, and take their artillery with them. Once that’s accomplished, this entire section of the river, all the way back to Bridgeport, will be in our control.”
The man’s enthusiasm was usually infectious, but Thomas watched Grant, saw little reaction. Grant smoked a cigar, stared out from under his slouching hat, toward the far side of the river. Behind them, a burst of noise rose up from a low wooded area, something Thomas had heard before. Grant looked that way, said, “What in blazes is that?”
Smith seemed to inflate, pointed back to the thicket behind them. “Sawmill, sir. I made use of a steam engine from a factory in the town, had the men haul it out here, and now, we’re cutting planks. It’s how we were able to construct the pontoon bridge at the town. We’re also in the process of constructing a riverboat. It is expected that the boat could be put to considerable use once this line of passage is opened.”
Grant focused on the trees, nothing to see, and Thomas said, “Keeps that whole thing hidden. Rebels may hear it, but they can’t tell their artillery where to find it. Doubt they care enough anyway. Nothing dangerous about a sawmill. I’ve suggested that the captain of the skirmish detachment keep up their chatter about it, maybe inform any curious rebel that the thing is run by civilians. We’re so generous, we let Southern workers go about their business. Seems to have worked. So far, no artillery has targeted the place.”
He waited for a response from Grant, felt the nagging annoyance again, that Grant was simply observing, no real concept of just what Smith was trying to do. Thomas had his doubts as well, but Smith’s enthusiasm for his evolving plan had convinced Thomas that it might be their best hope to open some passageway for feeding the men. If it didn’t work, they would be no worse off than they were now. Grant surprised Thomas, pulled a small roll of paper from his pocket, studied it. It was a map, and Smith jumped in, more energy still.
“Excellent, yes. Sir, we’re standing … here. Western base of a large loop in the river, the loop that encloses Moccasin Point. Downriver, there is a much larger loop that surrounds Raccoon Mountain. The rebels there are penned in even more so than we are here. I have a larger map back at the horse, if you wish to see more detail.”
Grant made a small gesture with the cigar. “Nah. I can see just fine. Moccasin Point’s to the left. Raccoon Mountain across the way. Rebs all over the place, right?”
Thomas was intrigued again, more curious just what Grant was thinking. After a long moment, Grant said, “How many rebels up there? You sure you’re just going to cut them off without somebody over there raising one big ruckus in your direction?”
Smith puffed up again, clearly pleased with himself, looked at Thomas, as though seeking some kind of confirmation. Thomas hesitated, then said, “Well, sir, that’s the part of the plan I was hoping you’d agree with. Joe Hooker’s downstream, far side of Raccoon Mountain with ten thousand men or more. It was my intention to have him cross the river out that way, march south of the river, move around south of Raccoon Mountain, and make real damn sure those rebels are cut off. If we try to bring Hooker straight in by the same route you took … well, I think you know why that might be a bad idea. Could take them two months to get here.”
Grant looked at him, the cigar hard in his teeth. “This Rosecrans’s idea?”
Thomas was surprised, appreciated that Grant had at least a flicker of respect for what Rosecrans was trying to do. “Somewhat. He had his hands full with other problems. There was considerable anxiety that Bragg was going to smack us where we sit. I won’t apologize for him, sir. Chickamauga changed him. I’d rather not muddy his name any more than Mr. Dana has done already. General Rosecrans didn’t deserve to be this army’s only scapegoat.”
Grant tilted his head. “Your loyalty is admirable, General. I saw all I needed to see in Rosecrans. I do respect the man. Sometimes that isn’t enough. And you know, it wasn’t solely my decision.” Grant looked at the map again, then across the river. “Nope, this operation was your idea. Both of you. Rosecrans didn’t say anything about this plan to me, and he would have. General Smith, tell me more.”
Smith seemed to dance in place, clearly excited by Grant’s willingness to listen. “Sir, if you see that sweep of the river … with the enemy removed from Raccoon Mountain, we’ll have a clear passage all the way to Kelley’s Ford, and from there, it’s easy transit to Bridgeport. It means crossing the river three times, but when you study the narrow loops this river makes, pontoon bridges are a far simpler way of drawing a straight line, from our supply depots in Alabama, straight to Chattanooga. Right now, the enemy has guns trained on the river well to the west of here, right up to … this point, and probably, sir, right on our position here. Find that rather entertaining, if I may say, sir. Some artillery observer up on that hill is no doubt watching us through his field glasses, wondering why three officers are having this little conversation.”
Thomas glanced at Grant’s uniform, the unbuttoned coat, still muddy from his long ride. Well, he thought, two officers, anyway. Doubt they’d know who this short fellow is.
Grant pointed the cigar across the river. “Guess those fellows are curious, too.”
Thomas could see them clearly now, a squad of rebel skirmishers, maybe two dozen, most just standing in the open, staring back at them. Thomas felt a surge of uneasiness, was suddenly grateful for Grant’s lack of pomp with his uniform. He understood now: Crutches or no crutches, this was why Smith insisted they leave the horses behind.
A voice came toward them now, from a cluster of brush a few yards off the riverbank.
“It’s all right, sirs. They’re just Alabama boys, out for a look-see. All part of the agreement.”
Thomas moved back away from the river’s edge, saw a hollowed-out opening in the brush, occupied by a man in a dirty blue uniform, his hat cocked to one side.
“So, you think it’s good
to listen in on what generals have to say? Or are you assuming to be our bodyguard?”
The man seemed impressed at the word, smiled. “Well, that would be mighty fine, sir, but you’uns don’t really need nothing of the sort out here. We got what you call a peace treaty with those boys. We don’t shoot them, they don’t shoot us. Now, if you’uns were to send a whole mess of blue up here, well then, things would change mighty quick. Same goes for them rebs. We see a few dozen scattered about, nobody complains. They do prize our newspapers, and they do smoke some mighty decent tobacco. That’s more of our treaty. We’ve done worked us out good swapping arrangements. As long as they don’t try to swim a whole bunch of Johnnies over here, we’ll keep doing business with ’em. They feel the same way about us.”
Thomas saw more of the skirmishers now, specks of blue spread out through the brush line, some peering up from their carefully constructed hiding places. He saw a sergeant farther away, who glanced at Thomas with disinterest, more concerned with lighting his pipe.
Thomas looked to the closest man again, pointed toward the river. “You keep a pretty close watch on them, then?”
“Like I said, sir, they want our newspapers real bad. Must not be no printing presses in Georgia. Our lieutenant does have a partiality for tobacco, so we makes sure he gets his, then we get the rest. So, yes, sir, we watch ’em. Don’t quite trust ’em, and sure as the dickens they don’t trust us. But, business is business.”
Thomas looked back toward Smith and Grant, Grant studying the map, Smith still offering details. Thomas saw Grant look up, toward the heights across the river, asking questions in a low voice. Thomas looked again at the small gathering of rebels across the river, saw one man waving, a boisterous call.
“Hi yo, bluebelly! You all got any corn over thataway? Maybe some more of that Yankee coffee?”
The man from the bushes emerged now, walked out past Thomas, shouted back to the rebel, “Hey, Josephus! You mind your manners! You want coffee, you talk to me! These boys here got business to do. You know how them officers is!”
Thomas cringed, moved back quickly to the riverbank, as though to grab Grant, pull him away if the musket fire came.
“Nothing to be scared of, sir. A deal’s a deal. Unless you’re planning to bring a whole passel of our boys out here to stir things up, we’ll just go on about our business.” The man paused, looked at the other two, seemed more impressed with Thomas. “Um, you fellows wouldn’t happen to bring some rations with you? Those boys across the way say they’re in just as much of a hurt as we are. A few ears of corn would go a long way in trade, though we might like to keep that for ourselves. We’uns is all mighty parched, sir. Two crackers at dawn. That’s all they give us. Maybe you brought along some good old Tennessee corn liquor?”
Thomas looked back to the staff officers, a handful of them easing forward. He knew they were eyeing the man, all of them knowing how to discipline a soldier so casual with his commander. But Thomas caught the eye of his adjutant, Lieutenant Ramsey, said, “At least one of you has something stronger in your canteen. Give it to this man.” Thomas looked again to the soldier. “You be generous with your friends, won’t you? We expect you to keep up your vigilance.”
The man looked back at Thomas’s staff, a beaming smile. “Yes, sir, that we will do. I always said you was a real prince, General.”
Thomas felt the punch of alarm again, said, “You know who I am?”
“Oh, yes, sir. General Smith’s been out here for a few days now, drawing up all kinds of maps and such. I’d be mighty honored if you’d tell me when it’s all gonna blow up.”
Thomas felt a strange urge to confide in the man, something disarming about his words. But the temptation passed, one eye still watching Grant’s keen interest in what Smith was telling him. Thomas shook his head.
“We’re just out here doing some … scouting, Private. Don’t give it another thought.”
Ramsey returned now, on foot, the canteen held gingerly, a hint of regret on Ramsey’s face. “Not sure who this one belongs to, sir. The others … just water, sir. This one must have been a mistake, for certain.”
Thomas ignored the man’s embarrassment, said, “We’ll discuss that later, Lieutenant. Since I doubt any one of you will lay claim to these spirits, you will give it to this man here. He has an unenviable duty, and deserves our gratitude.”
The soldier took the canteen with a quick grateful bow, then looked again at Thomas. “I knew it. Dang it all, I knew it. Much obliged, sir, but I know what this means. You’d a not paid a bit of attention to us’ns out here if it weren’t about to get hot. Trouble afoot, that’s for sure.”
Thomas felt the need to pull away from this man, pointed to the brush. “You go on and share that with your friends, Private. And keep your eyes sharp.”
The man made a quick short bow, no salute, backed away to the other skirmishers, who were gathering quickly, aware of their good fortune. Thomas moved closer to Grant, who kept his stare across the river. Grant glanced at Thomas, kept his voice low.
“We can discuss details tonight. But I like this plan a great deal. Mighty risky, if the rebels don’t cooperate.”
Thomas looked at Smith, who held tight to his broad smile. Grant rolled the map up, stuffed it in his coat, and Smith said, “Pontoon bridge will go right here, sir. Already got the lumber cut. That gap in those far hills, as you can see, is straight across. Should make for easy going.”
Grant looked at Thomas, tossed the stub of his cigar into the river, said, “No such thing, General. General Thomas, I wish to go over your thoughts on the specifics of this operation. Clearly, this is not the place for a council, unless you think we should engage some ideas with your skirmishers, or perhaps those fellows across the way?”
Thomas studied Grant’s expression, a hint of a smile, something he had never seen before. “By all means, sir. General Smith has been most thorough. He can go over the smallest details at my headquarters.”
Grant looked again to the river, hoisted the crutches up under his arms. “Yes, by all means. General Smith, I understand your theory that supplies travel best when hauled in straight lines. I commend you.” He looked at Thomas now, another hint of a smile. “Engineers do love their straight lines.”
Grant began to hobble back toward the staffs, and Thomas waited for him to move away, Smith trailing close behind Grant, still with bouncing enthusiasm. Thomas looked again to the river, the hills beyond, the brush lines where the men on both sides had turned this war into some kind of game. He moved away from the water’s edge, saw the man with the canteen, the cluster of blue shirts emerging farther along the brush line. The sergeant was in charge now, making certain each man received his fair share of the precious liquor. Thomas moved past them, the horses gathered farther back in the trees, saw Grant’s aides preparing to hoist him up to the saddle. Thomas couldn’t ignore the skirmisher, the lack of discipline, so many men completely honest about their casual contact with the enemy. There should be discipline for such things, he thought. Well, perhaps another time. The skirmisher’s words rolled into him now, trouble afoot. Yes, young man, I’m afraid so. But if you want something more than a pair of crackers for your breakfast, a push right here, across this river, might open the door.
“I think I ought to go …”
(GENERAL WILLIAM MACKALL, TO HIS WIFE, OCTOBER 1863)
Bragg was shocked when Mackall resigned, the man he believed most faithful to him suddenly announcing that he could no longer serve as Bragg’s chief of staff. There had been little hint that Mackall was discontented, but Bragg could see from the carefully laid out protocol that Mackall’s decision had been planned for some time. On October 16, Mackall himself informed Bragg that he had sought, and been granted, a transfer, and had accepted a new position on the staff of Bragg’s superior, Joseph Johnston. There had been no communication from Johnston about the matter, something that punched hard at Bragg, one more senior commander who seemed to enjoy adding to Bragg
’s torment. As much as Bragg had been surprised by Mackall leaving him, he could not be all that surprised that Mackall’s next move was higher up the chain of command.
But the more Bragg pondered Mackall’s decision, the more convinced he became that Mackall had planned this maneuver to coincide with the plot the field generals had hatched, to toss Bragg from his command. Bragg conceded that Mackall was a clever, intelligent man, and by distancing himself from the conspirators, Mackall might have believed that Bragg would never suspect his true motives. Now that Jefferson Davis had so completely endorsed Bragg, and crushed the obvious conspiracy, Bragg convinced himself that Mackall had no choice but to quietly slip away, thus keeping his reputation intact.
The staff officers around Bragg seemed to share serious regrets about Mackall’s decision. But Bragg took that for duplicity, that Mackall’s absence had created a vacancy that every staff officer would strive to fill, the honored place as Bragg’s chief of staff. Bragg pondered that decision carefully, sifting through the qualifications, and especially the loyalties, of the men, most prominent among them Colonel George Brent, a lawyer and well-known Virginia politician. Bragg had seen little to fear from Brent, studied the man carefully for any hints that Brent might be yet another conspirator in Bragg’s command. The primary difference between Mackall and Brent was experience in the field leading troops. Brent had very little. Though Brent would assume many of Mackall’s duties, Bragg stopped short of promoting the man to chief of staff. After Mackall’s sudden departure, Bragg made the decision to do without a chief of staff at all.
The fear of another uprising against his authority wound through Bragg’s daily routine, aggravated by the physical ailments that continued to plague him. For several weeks after Chickamauga, Bragg had kept his morale high by touring the camps of the men in the field. Their occasional cheers energized him, eased the burdens of a command that called for more attention to his own generals than any problems caused by the Yankees.