by Jeff Shaara
MISSIONARY RIDGE—OCTOBER 25, 1863
He rode over the crest of the ridge seeking a remedy for the twisting torment in his stomach, would move past the various camps, seeking some kind of positive response from the troops, the boisterous salutes that inspired him, erased the fears of what kinds of conversations were happening in the various headquarters. He passed through Hardee’s corps, had no interest in meeting with Hardee, or any of his commanders. He had come for what he saw now, dozens of campfires spread out just back of the ridgeline. Men were in clusters around each fire, the chill of the breezy morning drawing them to the warm places. He pulled himself taller in the saddle, his aides strung out behind him, made a cursory inspection of an artillery battery, the same big guns in the same dug-out hollows he had seen before. Along the crest of the ridge, men were at work, shovels tossing muddy dirt to the front, strengthening still the lines of rifle pits Bragg believed they would never need. But the labor kept the men busy, constructive work overseen by the engineers. Down below, on the steep hillside that faced Chattanooga, the same kind of work went on, rifle pits and barricades that made the great ridge an impregnable natural fortress. At the base of the hill, more work, more rifle pits, and he moved the horse down that way, halted, peered over a stout rock outcropping, could see the activity far below. Excellent, he thought. This will inspire them, far more than parade ground drills. This is labor that strengthens the men as it strengthens this entire army.
He glanced upward, a blanket of thick gray clouds, but the rains had stopped, the fog lifting, even the peak of Lookout Mountain clearly visible. He marveled at that, the natural formation that added so much to the invincibility of his army. He thought of Hardee, glanced back up along the ridge, dreaded seeing him, but he couldn’t avoid respect for the man’s tactical skills. Hardee’s textbook was used even now by officers on both sides, and Bragg stared again at Lookout Mountain, thought, Not even an expert like Hardee would ever hope to have such ground as this. And the foolishness of the enemy who handed it to us … that requires no textbook to appreciate the magnitude of such a mistake. By God, we ripped every advantage away from those boys in that town. Now we shall wait with patience and vigilance. And if those fellows don’t run away, then we shall bag them up and ship them off wrapped by a neat ribbon, a gift for the prison camps of the Confederacy, courtesy of Braxton Bragg.
He waved his hand, the signal to the aides to follow as he pushed the horse back up to the top of the ridge, then over, away from Chattanooga. He could smell the smoke from the fires, a gray haze that drifted past him, lingering in the tops of the few remaining trees. There were stumps scattered about, the men taking down most of the timber for whatever they required, most likely serving as the crude shelters he could see now. The sight dug at him for a long moment, the utter lack of tents, no more than one or two per regiment, manned by their most senior commands. He led the aides through a boggy mud hole, toward a cluster of campfires, thought, It is one more cross we must bear. The enemy can have their canvas. We have the strength of our cause. Nothing in Hardee’s textbook can defeat a soldier who loves his bayonet. And that is why we will prevail. And that is why I have been granted the power to remove those who would block our way.
He couldn’t keep the anger away, the churn in his stomach rolling over, fueled by the nagging controversies that still poured toward him from his generals. Most all of the key participants in the plot against him were gone, assigned officially to new posts. The infuriating exception was Longstreet, who had been assigned to the peak of Lookout Mountain.
He rode near the largest campfire, saw a dozen men huddled close, passing around what seemed to be the very emaciated carcass of a chicken. They barely acknowledged him, not what he expected, and he stopped the horse, waited for the usual recognition. One man caught his eye, a dirty face, rags of a coat, the man struggling to chew whatever it was they were eating.
“Afternoon, General. I’d ask you to join in with us here, but there ain’t much to go around.”
Bragg kept to the horse, saw the others turning toward him, a few casual nods. “What exactly is that?”
The first man spoke, held up a small bone. “That’d be goose, sir.”
Bragg turned toward his aides, pointed to the man. “I do not recall the commissary issuing goose meat to these men.” He spoke to them all now. “Who is your company commander?”
The men continued to eat, one man speaking up through whatever remained in his mouth. “Today, sir, I’d say it’s Captain Bird.”
“And does Captain Bird approve of you men plundering the local farms for your rations?” Bragg was angry now, said to his closest aide, “Find this Bird fellow. Report him to his regimental commander. I won’t have this.”
“Uh, sir?” The voice came from closer to him, the near side of the fire. “I’m Corporal Keene. Captain Bird is … uh … presently unavailable. Not sure when he’ll be around again.”
There was a low laugh through the crowd of men, and Bragg didn’t get the joke, but their insubordination was punching his anger to a raw boil.
“On your feet! You will address your commanding general with a proper military attitude! You men were trained by your officers, and are most certainly veterans. On your feet now!”
The group complied, some of them still chewing, moving together, forming a crooked line.
Bragg saw more men in the distance, another fire, his voice carrying, those men rising, an officer emerging from a leafy shelter, moving quickly toward him. Bragg held tight to the horse’s reins, the horse protesting, a slow turning dance, and Bragg felt unsteady, realized the horse might stumble. He swung one leg over, leapt down, his boots sinking into soft mud. He wiped furiously, the mud only worse, in full temper now, and the officer was there, stopped, threw up a crisp salute.
“Sir! Captain Winkler, Company D.”
Bragg ignored the salute, saw more officers coming toward him, more dugouts and shelters farther away. He suddenly felt enormously satisfied, his anger inspiring men to their discipline as soldiers. He stood with his hands on his hips, waited for the handful of officers to gather close, then said to them all, “I am witness to the depraved disregard for those good Southern civilians who, by no fault of their own, are in proximity to this conflict. It is very clear to me that these men here have availed themselves of some farmer’s private property, by killing a goose that most certainly is not a part of our commissary. I will not tolerate raiding and plundering of the innocent. I would like an explanation. Where is Captain Bird?”
There was a ripple of giggles along the line of men, and Bragg saw questions on the faces of the officers. One of them stepped forward, another young captain.
“Sir, I am not aware of a Captain Bird in this regiment.”
Bragg saw the scattered bones around the fire, heard the low laughter, saw the men looking away, suddenly got the joke.
“I believe you are correct. These men find it amusing to demonstrate their lack of respect for this command by toying with their commanding general. I will not tolerate this. So now, two offenses have been committed here. Captain, other than the remains of some poor farmer’s personal property here, who might be the true commander of this company?”
The first captain spoke up now. “That would be myself, sir. Captain Herman Winkler.”
Bragg looked at the man, older, a scar on his cheek, the sleeve of his coat ripped at the elbow. Bragg studied him, saw a grim stare, the hard look of a man who has seen the fight.
“Captain Winkler, since I was elevated to command of this department last year, it has been my singular goal to rid this army of malcontents and ne’er-do-wells. In the past, this army suffered often from a complete lack of discipline, and it seems, that curse has not been lifted. Despite my most dedicated intentions, these men feel no hesitation in stealing from the citizens they are here to protect. I must assume their behavior is even worse than that, since of course, a commanding general only sees his men in two instances: when they
fight, and when they rest. Since there is no fighting at present, and these unceasing rains have made rest difficult for us all, I must therefore conclude that these men are engaged in nefarious activity, beyond the scope of my orders.”
“Sir, these men—”
“I did not ask you to respond, Captain.”
From the line of soldiers, one man spoke up. “Sir, with all respects, sir, we ain’t had so much as a corncob in the last two days.”
“What are you talking about?”
The captain waved the man into silence, took a step toward Bragg. “Sir, you may remove me from this command if you wish it, but it is the God’s honest truth. If this army’s got any commissary wagons at all, we haven’t seen them up here. Major White told me that the kitchens are all set up well behind the lines, and by the time any of that food gets anywhere close to this hill, it’s grabbed up. Begging your pardon, sir, but I have to agree with the major. He heard the same from our brigade commander, General Manigault. Someone’s not paying much mind to these boys who are out here looking right down on the enemy. If it weren’t for the good flow of a spring back down in those woods there, we wouldn’t even have decent water to drink.”
Bragg pressed his hands hard into his hips, fought to keep his composure, wanted to launch a fist at this man. “I did not grant you permission to speak with such disregard for officers over which you have no control, commissary or otherwise. I shall speak with General Manigault myself about this. But you had best tell Major White to use his mouth to positive effect, instead of passing along that kind of injurious lie. This army is well fed, and well equipped. Any sacrifice we make up on this line will be made worthwhile by the inevitable victory we shall enjoy over the enemy. Captain, I know miscreants when I see them. These men … your men have ignored my regulations, and have stolen private property. Do I punish them … or you?”
“Sir, with all respects to you, it is no lie. There are no rations to speak of on this ridgeline, at least in this position. The last we saw of anything from the commissary, they sent us spoiled beef and meal rife with worms. But even then, sir, there wasn’t enough for a half pound per man. If other units have sufficient rations, then someone has chosen this one unit for starvation. I cannot speak for any other command, sir, but I do not believe that is the case. These are good South Carolina men, and they’ve never run from a fight. If you must inflict punishment on this particular company, I will accept the responsibility for feeding my men.”
Bragg looked at the faces watching him, no smiles now, no one else speaking out. He looked back to his aides, saw the young Lieutenant Scruggs, said, “Lieutenant, you will determine just how much a goose should be worth, and have Captain Winkler make restitution to the farmer.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bragg mounted the horse, saw another salute from the captain, the man’s eyes looking away. Bragg pulled on the horse’s reins, the horse turning clumsily in the mud, and he called back to his aides.
“I have had enough of this. We shall return to my headquarters. Next time I wish to ride among the men, find me a unit who understands respect.”
NAIL HOUSE—BRAGG’S HEADQUARTERS—
MISSIONARY RIDGE—OCTOBER 26, 1863
“I’m afraid it’s true, sir. The commissary reports that rations are being issued with all due efficiency, but that the preparation areas are well to the rear.”
“Who’s responsible for that?”
Brent seemed nervous, looked to the man beside him, neither man willing to speak out. Bragg sat back, nodded.
“Yes, so I see. You do not wish to incriminate General Mackall. I have seen many details that are lacking since Mr. Mackall’s departure. Certainly he knew of his shortcomings, and chose to leave this post before his perfidy was discovered. Well, gentlemen, this matter shall be handled straight from this office. I have struggled mightily with Colonel Northrup, who holds court over his commissary supply from some glorious palace in Richmond. Not even the president seems able to contradict Northrup’s treasonous lack of concern for this army. All I hear about is General Lee, about the most pressing requirements of the Army of Northern Virginia. Lee requires cattle, Lee requires railcars, Lee must have the corn. And for what? Lee sacrifices his army in the worst defeat this nation has suffered since the start of the war, and so he engenders sympathy. Here, we achieve victories, and are ignored!”
Brent pointed to a paper on Bragg’s desk. “Sir, that letter from Major Cummings convinces me that your assessment is accurate. There are stores aplenty in the warehouses in Atlanta, but Major Cummings answers directly to Colonel Northrup, and the orders coming from Richmond are unequivocal. The majority of the supply trains are being sent to Virginia. And no order from this department seems to change that.”
“I should like to meet Colonel Northrup on the field of battle. Two sabers. It would be a brief affair. Major Cummings has informed me of his frustrations. I do not expect him to remain at that post much longer. I have written directly to the adjutant general, Mr. Cooper, explaining our predicament, and thus far, even General Cooper seems to fear the almighty authority of Colonel Northrup. If I did not believe my presence was essential here, I would go to Richmond myself.” Bragg pondered that for a moment. “Might do so anyway. Someone is keeping the president in the dark on this matter, and no one in Richmond seems immune from the magnificent charms of General Lee. Well, there is a good way, the only way to gain their attention. We shall destroy the enemy in Chattanooga.” He glanced at the lone window that faced Lookout Mountain. “It would be most useful to our cause if we did not have General Lee’s favorite boy sitting out there seeking to steal a portion of that glory.”
Bragg stood, fought through a searing headache that had plagued him since that morning. He moved to a map pinned to the wall, a broad sketch of eastern Tennessee.
“What have we heard from Knoxville?”
Brent moved up beside him, pointed. “Sir, General Stevenson is en route, and very soon, he should sit astride any good route that Burnside could use to inconvenience us.”
“But Stevenson is not strong enough to clear the enemy out of Tennessee.”
Brent glanced at the other aides, no one disagreeing with Bragg. “No, sir. Most likely not. He can hope to slow the enemy’s progress, should General Burnside attempt to move this way.”
“Then, that is a situation we must confront with vigor. And the solution to our difficulties is right in front of us. Or rather, just to the west of us. I will prepare a letter to the president, expressing in the most definite terms, that the enemy’s presence in Knoxville is a threat we cannot ignore. I will suggest that as rapidly as they can be put to the march, that General Longstreet’s corps strengthen the meager forces now protecting us from the enemy’s position in Knoxville.”
The others kept silent, and Bragg was suddenly overjoyed, moved to the view of the great mountain. Marvelous, he thought. This is a victory for everyone concerned, even the president.
Brent spoke slowly, choosing his words. “Sir, General Longstreet commands a sizable portion of our strength. If he is sent off, we will be forced to thin our position, spreading the remaining troops across to Lookout Creek. We could become vulnerable to any sudden move by the enemy.”
“What kind of move? The only activity we have seen over there is a change of command. I doubt very seriously that General Thomas, so new to his post, is in any position to launch offensive action in this direction. If anything, he is contemplating a retreat. Should that occur, we can strike his flanks with cavalry, and possibly cut him off on the road to Nashville. General Wheeler is fully capable of striking the enemy as required. We do not require General Longstreet.” He returned to the chair, the headache blissfully erased. “Leave me now. I must write the president.”
The officers obeyed, filing out of his room. He turned again toward Lookout Mountain, a hint of fog settling across the center of the great rocky mass, as though separating it in two great pieces.
He was certain
of the information they had received from a handful of prisoners. Rosecrans was gone and George Thomas was now in his place. Thomas’s stout defense at Chickamauga had inspired talk not only among the Federals, but in Bragg’s army as well. He is a good tactician, Bragg thought. But he has one fatal flaw, a disability that he cannot overcome. He is after all, a Virginian, and so, in his heart, he knows he has betrayed his cause. It is no different than John Pemberton, another foolish man who believes he can pledge his loyalty as easily as he would choose which shirt he will wear. Pemberton’s heart was not in his fight at Vicksburg, and Thomas will be no different. No, he will not strike us. He will defend, he will maneuver, and very soon, he will bend to pressure from Washington, and he will save his army by attempting to withdraw. And when he abandons his carefully strengthened earthworks, and strings his forces out on every road to the north, we shall crush him piecemeal.
He turned in the chair, retrieved a blank piece of paper from a drawer to one side. He began to think, forming the words, a knock on his door breaking through his thoughts.
“By God, what is it?”
Brent was trailed by a rough-looking cavalryman, an officer Bragg didn’t know. The horseman followed Brent into the office without hesitation, and Bragg was annoyed, sputtered a curse, but Brent spoke up, his hands out in front of him.
“Sir! This is Lieutenant Garland, of General Wheeler’s first brigade. Lieutenant, make your report.”
There was an authority to Brent’s words that pushed Bragg back in the chair, a gravity to the horseman that Bragg couldn’t help respecting.
“Sir, my men have been in position keeping watch on the enemy’s supply route across Waldron’s Ridge. I have observed personally the overland march of a significant squad of horsemen, a battalion of guards escorting a man that, by all reckoning, sir, we believe to be General Grant.”
“Grant? Grant has come here?”