by Jeff Shaara
“I heard about your marksmanship, Private. You sure you don’t wanna stick with us? Sergeant Burnett here can’t hit a barn from inside the damn thing. We could use a good rifle.”
“Sorry, sir. I’m just hitching a ride. My enlistment papers are right here.”
He tapped his pocket and the lieutenant nodded.
“Yep, I know. We’re just your five-thousand-man escort. Sergeant, get your squad up and ready. General Geary’s aide just passed along marching orders, and there’s already a lot of jabbering about what we’re doing. Expected we’d move east, stay on our side of the river. But General Geary says we’re crossing over, to the south side. That’s gotta be trouble. Strike the tents, be set to march in an hour.”
“Yes, sir. Sounds like trouble to me.”
The officer walked away quickly, and Bauer absorbed the sergeant’s comment. Trouble. Well, sure. That’s what generals are good for. He watched the regiment coming alive, more regiments beyond, spread all along the north bank of the riverside town. Nearby, men were scrambling into tents, then back out, carrying backpacks and bedrolls. Bugle calls came now, a group of horsemen moving past, an intense urgency that always gave Bauer goose bumps.
The sergeant stood with his arms crossed, said, “Army’s always in a damn hurry. Well, looks like the whole division is making ready to get our feet dirty. You, too, Private Regular Army. Don’t worry about the general. He’s probably got a lot in his head. His boy’s close by, a lieutenant in one of the artillery batteries. I see him hanging around the general’s tent every so often. Wouldn’t care for that myself. My son’s just turned ten, back in Philadelphia. If he was out here with the rest of us, I’d be pretty damn edgy about it. No, sir, wouldn’t care for that a’tall.”
Bauer stared up toward the rocky hill, saw the blue horsemen spread out across the hillside, some men down, searching for … what? A dead man with a pair of field glasses? The gloom had surprised him, something contagious that Geary seemed to carry with him, and Bauer thought of the man’s son, serving right under his father’s command. I guess that’d make me nervous, too.
The gloom was easing now, Bauer looking at the musket, a flick of his thumb to knock away the spent percussion cap. He felt the energy returning, bolstered by the activity around him. The 109th were veterans, something Bauer could see in their eyes. They knew what was coming, that a march through the rebel countryside wasn’t for sightseeing. It’s the job, he thought. My job. They know that now. Glad to see that. Just like all those Micks. They appreciated the good aim, made their bets, too, just like these boys. It’s my job, after all. Like the sergeant said … kill rebels. Too many boys didn’t have a chance, went down because some damn rebel was better at killing than they were. That’s Sammie’s lesson. Don’t just learn how to do this … learn how to love it. That reb out there … he was just a target. He said it again, a low voice out loud.
“Just a target.”
The Federal plan created by Baldy Smith came to life just after midnight on October 27. From a landing just above Chattanooga, more than fifty pontoon boats and a ragtag assortment of small transports slipped silently into black water, most carrying twenty-five men each. The orders had been given to the Federal troops only hours before, that their only encumbrance would be their muskets and a fully loaded cartridge box. Once on the river, the current did the work, the boats guided only by oarsmen, ordered to keep the boats as close as possible to their own, northern, side of the river. Silence was essential. For nine miles, the flotilla slipped past camps of the pickets on both sides, the Federal skirmishers hastily ordered into silence, the rebels across from them completely unaware what was moving past them. With extraordinary discipline, the brigade of William B. Hazen, men from Kentucky and Ohio, floated past campfires of rebels in plain view, avoiding any temptation to take a potshot at an unsuspecting enemy. After a gut-twisting journey of nearly three hours, the first of Hazen’s men could see large, well-tended fires on their own side of the river, signal fires to tell the oarsmen exactly the point they were to make their landing, straight across the waterway, the gap in the steep riverbank the maps called Brown’s Ferry. The landings would be made downriver as well, another quarter mile, the boats to disgorge their passengers with speed and silence, General Smith’s agonizing hope that the landings would not be detected until the men were ashore.
At roughly four in the morning, the first of the boats slid into the muddy bank. In short minutes, Hazen’s men were up and out of the boats, muskets ready, facing the shock and surprise of the rebels, who had no idea what was happening. Within seconds of the first burst of sound, rebel pickets responded, firing blindly at what was now an obvious attack. The rebels were experienced veterans, Alabamans under the command of William C. Oates, the same man who only months before had assaulted the far left flank of the Union position during the second day’s fight at Gettysburg, the hill they now called Little Round Top. Oates had viewed his position at Brown’s Ferry with concern, had asked for reinforcements to bolster the meager forces sent to protect what had once been a well-used river crossing. But Oates had been ignored, and despite his best efforts at a counterattack, the Confederates along the river were too few. On the Federal side of the river, a second brigade, under General John Turchin, Ohioans and Indianans, waited in the dark silence, close by the landing, knowing only that when the first landings had been completed, the now-empty boats would slip quickly across and transport them as well, adding considerable strength to Hazen’s efforts. As the sun rose, the Federal troops pushed inland, establishing a bridgehead on the southern side of the river that the rebels were helpless to stop. With axes and shovels, the Federal troops strengthened their position, pushing up earthworks and felled timber. Immediately Federal engineers worked to lay the pontoon bridge that Smith’s sawmill had constructed, the pathway that would bring even more Federal troops directly across the river. Smith’s plan had anticipated a heavy rebel effort to shove the Federals back, but that effort never came. Oates, badly wounded, conceded the position, and sent word to his commander, Evander Law, that Brown’s Ferry was now in Federal hands. In barely an hour’s time, Hazen and Turchin had begun to anchor more than five thousand Federal troops on the southern side of the river.
By late that afternoon, with the Federals well protected by a strong defensive line, it was clear to Ulysses Grant and George Thomas that Baldy Smith’s plan had not only been successful, but had come with a minimal cost in casualties. All that remained for the plan to be completed was the arrival of Joe Hooker’s divisions, making their march on the southern side of the Tennessee River, pushing up around the southern base of Raccoon Mountain.
LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN—OCTOBER 28, 1863
Bragg had ridden up the long trail to the peak of the mountain in a red-faced rage. The messages had come down from Longstreet all throughout the day before that the Yankees had come across the river, what Longstreet termed a minor incursion. Bragg had responded with messages of his own, adamant in his orders that Longstreet make every effort to drive the Yankees back, securing Brown’s Ferry once more. But Longstreet’s response had been muted, what Colonel Brent described as timid. To Bragg it was insubordination, plain and simple. The next morning, with no satisfactory response coming down from Longstreet at all, Bragg made the decision to ride up to the crest of the great peak, to find Longstreet, and issue the orders straight into the man’s face. If Longstreet had no interest in fighting this war Bragg’s way, Bragg would issue those orders himself, directly to Longstreet’s commanders.
“I assure you, this effort by the enemy was only a diversion. I was very clear about that yesterday. It is of little concern.”
Bragg rocked on his boot heels, Longstreet’s casual arrogance drilling a hole through the searing headache already nesting in his brain. Bragg avoided Longstreet’s eyes, stared past him, to the gray sky beyond the rocky peak. He tried to control his temper, but the rage had blossomed all along the annoying ride up the mountain, and Bragg felt an
enormous urge to strangle the larger man right on the spot. He knew both staffs were listening to everything being said, Bragg’s men in particular anticipating an explosion that one lieutenant had unwisely joked might be heard in Chattanooga. That man had been sent back to Missionary Ridge; Bragg had no patience at all for humor at his own expense.
Below them, far down the face of the sloping rocks, artillery thumped and thundered, streaks of fire launching out toward the Federal batteries at Moccasin Point, those guns answering with fire of their own. But the effect was well away from the crest of the mountain, what Bragg had come to believe was little more than a noisy game played by bored artillerymen. Bragg ignored that, focused all his attention on Longstreet, who turned away from him, staring out, as though watching a scattering of soaring birds. Bragg’s fists were tightly clenched, the words coming in a low, hard growl.
“There was a considerable skirmish, so I was told. You did not see fit to investigate?”
Longstreet did not look at him, kept his stare toward Chattanooga, a foggy haze drifting past, obscuring the valley below them.
“It is a diversion. They will come at us here. I believe they will drive up from the south. Already, my signalmen and the cavalry patrols report a significant Federal force on the march below the river, and I expect those troops are intending to march south of this mountain, possibly another push toward the same battlefield that still holds their blood. Pride, I suppose. If they are successful in maneuvering that far south of our position, this mountain will become useless to us, a trap. If I ignore that, and commit my troops in a futile effort to address the enemy’s grand show at Brown’s Ferry, I will not have accomplished anything of import, and it will certainly cost us casualties.”
There was little energy in Longstreet’s words, a hint that Longstreet was no happier to be in this position than Bragg was to have him here. Bragg had arrived at Longstreet’s headquarters fully expecting an argument, but not like this. Longstreet seemed filled with a hard gloom that was infecting even his staff.
“General Longstreet, we cannot allow the enemy to hold a strong position on this side of the river. All our efforts at a siege … to starve him out … will have gone for naught. If we cannot keep control of this side of the river, we cannot stop his efforts to resupply. Do you not see that?” Bragg’s anger had wilted, the headache crushing him, new pains in his stomach now blooming into full force; he had no fire at all. “I am in command here. I ordered you to engage the enemy yesterday. To halt their efforts.”
Longstreet continued to look away, his hands clasped behind his back, a small pipe clamped in his mouth. “Their intentions have not yet been made known to us. The cavalry reports that General Hooker has sent at least two divisions south, across the river at Bridgeport. That’s all I know. There is no certainty of their destination, but if I was General Hooker, I would march those men south of this mountain and drive right up our backsides. From Chattanooga, this mountain appears formidable, but the slope to the south is far more accessible. Without a strong force guarding the various passes, we cannot hope to hold him away. I do not have strength enough to defend against a significant advance from more than one direction at a time. If I spread my forces thin, the consequences will be considerable. Your orders were received. But you were not here. You have not been here at all to my knowledge, to see the disposition of my troops. I accepted the responsibility to protect this position the most effective way possible. Is that not clear to you?”
Bragg tried to find the rage again, his mind picking up pieces of what Longstreet was saying. There was logic to the strategy, which drained Bragg even more.
“Why was I not informed of the enemy’s movements south of the river?”
Longstreet faced him now, seemed puzzled. “I sent word that I was preparing to defend the passes to the south, anticipating the enemy’s advance from that direction. Did you not receive that?”
Bragg rolled the details through his head, was puzzled himself now, said, “I thought it prudent that you defend any place the enemy could attack. But, then, he did attack. He has a considerable lodgment now at Brown’s Ferry.”
Longstreet looked away again. “My message was clear. Brown’s Ferry is a diversion.”
“My orders were clear as well!”
The outburst blew across the hillside, faces turning, and Bragg took a single step closer to Longstreet, who seemed determined not to notice. Bragg was aware of the faces watching him, struggled to hold himself calm. He lowered his voice, another growl.
“I do not know how General Lee manages his army. But here, you do not choose which orders are acceptable.”
Longstreet looked at him, grim, silent eyes, removed his hat, ran a hand through his hair, one hand pulling the pipe from his mouth. Bragg tried to stand taller, the ailments pulling him downward, and Bragg felt the man’s strength, the pure stubbornness.
Now it was Longstreet who spoke softly. “General Bragg, there is nothing here that compares to my experiences with General Lee. The general has respect for his subordinates. You do not. If you wish to place yourself in my headquarters, and observe the enemy as I observe him, please do so. I made my decisions based on the most efficient way to employ the forces at my disposal. You may disagree with my decision. But you will not order me to waste an army that is precious to me, as it is precious to General Lee.”
Bragg caught the smell of Longstreet’s breath, hot and bitter, the pipe jammed again into Longstreet’s mouth. Longstreet stared hard at him, waited for a response, and Bragg fought the urge still to lunge at the man, to wrap his fingers around Longstreet’s neck, to choke his life away.
“I gave you an order—”
“Sir! General Longstreet! The enemy, sir!”
Bragg forced himself to look that way, Longstreet turning as well. The man was running, pointing to the west, away from the crest of the enormous hill. Longstreet’s adjutant intercepted him, a quick harsh word, but the man was animated, called out again, “Sir! The enemy is in force in the valley!”
Longstreet stepped that way, said, “Leave him be, Major. Are there more definite signals from the lookouts? Which direction are they moving?”
“Sir, a considerable force is marching northward, near the base of this here mountain. It appears to be a full division, sir!”
Longstreet looked back at Bragg, and Bragg focused on the soldier, saw the panic on the man’s sweating face. Bragg still felt the anger, directed it now toward the soldier.
“I do not endorse such sensational alarms. I wish more evidence than the scattered musings of some signalman.”
The man puffed up, and Longstreet’s aide said, “Sergeant, you will watch your tongue.”
The man was clearly exasperated, said now to Bragg, “Sir! There is more than a signal. If you wish, you can observe the enemy yourself!”
The man turned, as though ready to guide them, and Longstreet said to Bragg, “I suppose we should have a look. If you approve, of course.”
They stood on a thick outcropping of rock, the valley to the west of the great mountain curving out far below them, wide and green. Through the floor of the open ground wound a railroad and a roadway, both flanking a narrow stream, Lookout Creek, that flowed directly into the Tennessee. Bragg stared down through his field glasses, Longstreet beside him, doing the same. A cluster of officers had gathered behind them, low talk Bragg ignored. Along the road at the base of the hill he could clearly see the snaking column of blue, driving northward, pushing their way toward the new Federal stronghold at Brown’s Ferry. He lowered the glasses, his hands too unsteady, hot frustration, the anger choking away his words. Longstreet kept the glasses to his eyes, said, “Near five thousand. They’re moving to join those boys at the river.” Longstreet paused, his words now barely audible. “Didn’t expect that.”
Bragg wrapped his fury around Longstreet’s admission, but there was no time now for useless arguments. He tried to focus, more low words from Longstreet.
“Fa
rther down. Another division. Separate. Holding back at that town … Wauhatchie. They might still move east, circle behind us.”
Bragg swung around sharply to Longstreet. “I believe the enemy has now made his intentions known. Even to you. You will attack their line of march as quickly as is practicable, and make use of your entire corps. The enemy is intending to force this position from the west, from the valley right below us! I have no doubt about that. He has already forced open the means to resupply his position in Chattanooga.” Bragg paused, tried to see again through the field glasses, a hint of flags, the line of blue still in motion. “Unless you remove those people from this valley … they will have the means to resupply. We will have failed to accomplish our goal. They will have broken the siege. You must prevent that.”
Bragg turned, his voice fading away. He saw his staff, expectant, some climbing onto horses, saw fear and concern in their faces. He left Longstreet, moved toward a groom holding the reins to his horse, snatched the leather straps from the man’s hand. He took a long breath, pulled himself up on the horse. Longstreet was still staring out through the field glasses, a useless show, and Bragg shouted now, no concern for decorum, for any show of respect at all.
“You will carry out my orders! You will employ your entire corps, if necessary!” Bragg paused, thought suddenly of the obvious. “You will also learn why your cavalry did not report this column hours ago!”
He spun the horse, the aides mounting up as well, his color bearer moving in behind him. He spurred the animal hard, moved past Longstreet’s staff, others, scattered squads of infantry, a battery of cannon, the men scrambling to salute him. He ignored them all, his stare fixed on the far distant Missionary Ridge. He spoke now, to no one, to everyone, to anyone who heard him.