The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War

by Jeff Shaara

  “You’ll be okay. Just … get to the hospital.”

  He had seen this before, heard too many agonizing pleas, had come to understand what so many of the veterans knew, that a quick death was the kindest gift from God, and if Bauer was to die, he hoped desperately for that perfect shot, a rebel’s good aim, a musket ball through his head. It was all the inspiration he had needed to perfect that deed on his own. In the camps near the Mississippi, Bauer had practiced, moving the targets out farther, then farther again. He had proven himself at Vicksburg, but those targets were often a hundred yards distant, no real challenge for a man who took his time, who had the knack for relaxing the hands. Very soon he was popping tin plates at two hundred yards, then three, had learned about trajectory and rate of fall, making allowances for sloping ground, or a strong crosswind. Permission for that had come from Willis, allowing Bauer to slip away from the usual field drills, the ridiculous monotony of formations and bugle calls. Musket practice was a luxury for those who professed to be marksmen, and after twenty months in the army, Bauer had come to understand why it attracted him, why it seemed to matter. That lesson had come from Willis as well, and from another officer, a captain who had the gift of the calm hand, the clear eye. Bauer had proven to them he had the skills, what to some was mere trickery, that tin plates were not men, that a long minute’s preparation had no meaning in the midst of a firestorm of musket fire. But Bauer believed differently, knew that killing a man was best done the right way, end the man’s life before he knows it’s happened. Hand him to God, he thought. Here, I’ve done my duty, now he’s Yours. And not in pieces, not like this boy behind me, or the man pouring out his blood in that filthy stretcher.

  He looked again to the dark water, saw the splash of some creature, spreading circles, his mind settling there. A fish, probably. Wonder if they eat them around here. Big river, plenty of critters swimming around. Gators, too, probably. Seen enough of those. Snakes, too. No, just think about the fish. Somebody’s figured out how to hook a few, for sure. That’d be a heap better than hardtack. Just … don’t drink this water. It’s as ugly as that stuff in the Mississippi.

  He stepped off the bridge, welcomed the solid ground, joined a slow-moving line that ended at the provost officer. Bauer pulled his transfer from his pocket, smoothed the papers, was suddenly in front of a sweating sergeant, the man’s round belly pushing toward Bauer, as effective as any roadblock.

  “What you doing here, boy?”

  Bauer was surprised by the distinct Southern lilt in the man’s speech, slid his musket down beside him, held out the papers, saw the cap now, the insignia of Missouri.

  “I’m to report—”

  “Shut the hell up. You’ll report to me, and I’ll decide where you go, if’n you go anywheres besides the stockade. Too many spies running through here. Not on my post. You get that, boy?” The question didn’t seem to require an answer, and Bauer watched as the man scanned the papers. “This is a pile of horse manure, boy. Never heard of nothing like this. I smell a guttin’ coming.”

  Bauer was suddenly scared of this man, thought again of fish. Guttin’. He felt helpless, glanced around, saw passing ambulances, a supply wagon, other provost officers waving them past without hesitation. Bauer sagged, looked at the man’s deep frown, said, “Sergeant, it says there I’m to report—”

  The man silenced him with a hard glare, leaned close to Bauer’s face. “I told you to shut up. I ain’t seen any kind of orders like these before. You try to slip past this post, boy, and I’ll rip your scalp right off’n your head.” The man looked out to the side, waved to a lieutenant, said aloud, “Sir, got a strange one here. This Johnny Reb thinks he can go waltzing right past me, just ’cause he’s wearing a blue coat. You might wanna get over this way. Might have cause for a hangin’.”

  Bauer felt a rising panic, looked at the lieutenant, another older man, serious, thin, gaunt face. He said to the officer, “Sir, please, if you’ll look … there. I was in the Seventeenth Wisconsin …”

  The sergeant leaned in close to him again, and Bauer flinched, waited for the inevitable explosion.

  “Boy, I’m about to snap your neck in four places. Your bones’ll be in that river afore you can holler!”

  The lieutenant took the papers from the sergeant, read slowly, and Bauer felt his brain ticking off seconds, the silent word flowing through, please … please.

  After an agonizing minute, the officer said, “Eighteenth Regulars. First Battalion. All right, Private. Go down that street there, all the way to the end. Turn right, go another three streets. Then left, out into the field. Tents on both sides of the road. Yours will be on the right. Report to the provost officer on duty there. You’ll see a headquarters tent, easy to spot. Bigger’n the rest.”

  The lieutenant moved away now, and Bauer watched him with breathless relief, turned to the sergeant, saw a wide, toothy smirk.

  “Well, now, I guess my lieutenant likes what he sees in you, boy. You must seem awful pretty. No gals hereabouts worth pouncing on. Get outta here.”

  Bauer didn’t hesitate, shouldered his musket, moved out into the path of an ambulance, heard a loud curse, jumped aside. He pushed through the dust, coughed, stood off the dirt street, his heartbeat returning to normal. He looked back toward the fat sergeant, thought of Willis, half the man’s size, what Willis would do to the man regardless. Wish I could do that, he thought. Man acts like a scoundrel, just because he can.

  Bauer looked out across the street, more streets, alleys and pathways, open ground, and broken storefronts. Well, he thought, you’re in Chattanooga. Damn lovely place.

  His first impression was no real impression at all, yet another Southern town trampled by the war. He walked now, down the street the lieutenant had directed him, moved past blasted foundations, shattered brick walls. Most of the timbers were gone completely, and Bauer stepped past one smoldering wreck of a house, saw a small flock of civilians, what had to be the citizens of this dismal place, moving slowly through the army that had occupied every part of their lives. Bauer saw the faces, weary and desperate, walking through the men in blue with glances of fear, surrender, hunger. There was a large tent, and Bauer smelled food, something boiling in a large pot, saw the civilians moving that way, noticed tin cups and plates in their hands. He kept walking, thought of the hardtack in his pocket, no appetite now, but that would change. Maybe in the camps … they got real food. He was suddenly swallowed, crushed by an odor that curled his face. He made a sound, one hand coming up to his nose, looked to the side, saw a growing bonfire, a heap of carcasses, a mound of dead mules, two men stoking the fire. The men seemed oblivious to the stink around them, one man tossing a split log onto the fire, the wood piercing the gut of a massively swollen animal. Bauer made another sound, quickened his step, saw now out past the bonfire, a corral, a dozen more animals, skeletal beasts with heads hung low. More soldiers were hauling in cloth sacks, spreading corn and grain into a trough, the horses lurching that way, some of them just standing still, too weak to eat. Bauer felt a cold shiver, had not expected this. The wounded men were a part of every fight, but the horses seemed always to be scattered out there, mounds of dead flesh far out in the fields, easier to avoid. The burial parties never had to worry about them, the vultures and other scavengers doing that job, the army usually moving on before the smells grew overwhelming. But the smells were there now, and Bauer pushed through it, eyed the street, pulled his brain back to the instructions he had heard from the lieutenant. He had forgotten to count the streets, looked back toward the pontoon bridge, a long block away. He focused on the officer’s words, looked the other way, saw a large brick building, a single sign, THE CRUTCHFIELD HOUSE. It was a surprise, an imposing three-story building that seemed untouched by the war. He was curious, stepped that way, saw a gathering of soldiers, a line of ambulances, and now, beside a row of open windows, a stack of severed limbs. He stopped abruptly, had seen that as well, knew that whatever the Crutchfield House had on
ce been, right now, it was a hospital. He thought of the boy on the bridge, the festering wound, closed his eyes, turned away. He blinked hard, searched his mind for the lieutenant’s instructions, gripped the musket, laid it high across his shoulder, turned toward an open street, more soldiers, another scrawny horse, the way the officer had told him to go.

  Bauer had been directed to the brigade headquarters, had been jubilant at seeing Willis there, as though his friend was waiting for him. But that illusion was swept away quickly. The show of emotion from his friend had been what he expected, an unsmiling shake of the hand, no display of Willis’s affection for him in front of the brass. But Bauer had seen the scolding frown, silently questioning why Bauer seemed to need to follow his friend through whatever hell Willis could find. Willis kept his decorum, had formally introduced him to the brigade’s commander, Colonel Marshall Moore, Bauer’s paperwork handed off to the colonel’s adjutant. Bauer had expected more, at least a hearty shake of his shoulders, but Willis was engulfed by the business of the army, maps spread on tables, officers in clean uniforms passing along orders from men high above Colonel Moore. Bauer knew he was out of place, that the meetings went on only because no one seemed to notice him, Willis included. After a crisp salute toward Moore, Willis had motioned Bauer away, then followed him, still no hearty jostling between them, the captain and the private keeping to their place as Willis led him through the camps. In no more than a minute, Willis had taken him to a row of campfires, as familiar to Bauer as the camps of the men he had traveled with, the Pennsylvanians he had now left behind. Willis called the men to attention, but it was not parade drill, the men staying close to the fires, obeying their captain by simply paying attention to what he had to say.

  Bauer was nervous, held his musket by his side, saw stacked arms beyond the fire, wondered where they would allow him to add his own to the muskets of the rest. He stood for a long silent moment, waited while the men responded to Willis’s call, saw no smile from them, no polite greetings, no friendly camaraderie. They simply watched him, no one speaking, and Willis stepped in front of him.

  “New man. Private Bauer. He’s a veteran. Believe that. You’ll want him along for the ride. I’ve seen you baboons empty your cartridge boxes at a rebel fifty yards away. Well, you’ll want this man to finish the job. Best sharpshooter in the Wisconsin regiments. His fists aren’t worth a good damn, so none of you fog brains need to test him. He loses any teeth, I’ll come after yours. No time for stupidity.”

  Bauer saw no change of expression in any of the men. One man spit into the campfire, then turned away, some of the others doing the same. Bauer tried to read the faces, some of the men doing the same to him, but Willis’s words seemed to have meaning.

  Willis grabbed his arm, said, “This way, Private. I’ll show you where you sleep. Tents, we’ve got plenty. Bedrolls, too. Yours looks like it’s been eaten by worms. You carrying any vermin? Any passengers?”

  “No, sir. Boiled my uniform back in Bridgeport. The Pennsylvania boys I tagged along with had ’em aplenty.”

  “Thought you said he was Wisconsin, Captain.”

  Bauer looked toward the voice, an older man, a corporal, seated in a loose curl of thin legs, burnt red skin, a hat that carried a small round hole.

  Willis nudged Bauer. “Answer him.”

  Bauer tried to add a seriousness to his voice. “Milwaukee, Wisconsin, born and raised. They stuck me in with those Eastern fellows just for the march.”

  “I heard tell they’re soft as a baby’s ass, every one of ’em.”

  Bauer realized he was being challenged, felt Willis watching him.

  “That’s the way I saw it. I might not have been in as many scraps as you, but I did my piece at Shiloh, Corinth, Vicksburg. On the march with those Pennsylvanians … fell into a fight in the valley back over across the river a couple nights ago. Those Pennsylvania fellows … well, there was a considerable amount of pee let out when the rebs opened up on us.”

  He had the man’s interest, others eyeing him.

  “What about you?”

  Bauer was in the game now, put a hand on his lower gut.

  “Still got mine right here. You got a latrine hereabouts, or you just hold yourself over the fire till it steams out?”

  The men laughed, Bauer’s ridiculous boast seeming to work. Some of the men went back to their business, the faces looking away, the formal introductions past. The corporal still watched him, a grim smile, looked again to the fire.

  “Okay, Captain. If he can shoot as big as he talks, he’ll be fine. You can bed him with me, if you want. Got a space since Garvey went down.”

  Bauer felt a tug on his sleeve, and Willis said, “Musket over there. That first stack. Then, follow me.”

  Willis walked away, and Bauer went to the stack of muskets, eased his up carefully, glanced at the other weapons, some of them nearly new, a dark sheen on the barrels. He turned, saw Willis waiting for him, moved that way. He felt a stir in his stomach, realized how nervous he had been. Regulars, he thought.

  Willis led him past a row of tents, then turned, pointed. “In there.”

  Bauer bent low, peered in, saw another man’s bedroll, and Willis shoved him from behind, Bauer tumbling face-first onto the soft dirt, the floor of the tent. Bauer spit dust from his mouth, turned, expected Willis’s usual scowl, was surprised to see a smile.

  “You’ve not changed a whit. Dumb as an oyster, you know that?” Bauer cleared the dirt from his mouth, and Willis knelt down. “You do know that it’s only gonna be a day or so before those boys make you show ’em how to do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Just how it is that you … pee.”

  Willis laughed again, sat now, his knees up to his chest.

  “What the hell were you thinking about? They toss you out of the Seventeenth Wisconsin, or did you just run away?”

  “Glad to see you, too, Sammie.” He caught the reaction on Willis’s face, had gone through the scolding before, his casual lack of formality. “Sorry. Captain Willis, sir.”

  “They told me you had signed up for this, that the colonel approved it. So you want to be a regular soldier. You know what that means, Dutchie? It means you’ll be expected to like this. They’ve got officers in this unit who went to West Point. That corporal out there? Toughest hombre I’ve ever seen. I watched him rip a rebel’s arm out of his shoulder at Chickamauga. Took the fellow’s head off with a knife. The rest? Well, they know how to fight. Been at Stones River, and most everywhere else Buell and Rosecrans decided to put ’em.” Willis paused. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing. It’s different now, that’s all. Just not so damn scared anymore. It’s a job, Sammie. Captain. Damn.”

  “It’s okay. We’re alone. Some of those older gents out there don’t pay much mind to rank anyway. They made me prove I was tougher’n nails before they’d pay a bit of attention. Colonel Moore’s a good man, they listen to him. He gave me permission to smack any one of ’em if I didn’t like the way they looked at me. Only did it once. Broke a fellow’s jaw. Big talker. Not so big anymore. Made my point, so now they pay attention. Most of ’em still don’t salute, except maybe toward the colonel. The generals? They stay the hell out of here. And woe be to the stupid volunteer who wanders through this camp by mistake. These boys love their reputation, the legends, all those tall tales about regulars. It’s all bull, but the volunteers don’t know that. They think we’re over here ripping trees out of the ground with our teeth, gnawing on horse bones. So far, not one cannibal in the bunch, at least so I’ve been told.” Willis laughed again. “And this is where you want to be?”

  “Yeah, Sammie.”

  “They fight like hell, Dutchie. There’s no bull about that, I promise you. I’m the tough-assed company commander now, but I tell you what. I used to want to be out front so I could kill the first rebel, lead the way into hellfire all by myself. Still want to, I guess. But these boys … only difference between me
and them is the rank, the bars on my shoulder. It’s like most of these boys hope this war never ends, that we can keep killing rebels, or Mexicans or Indians or whoever else sticks their nose in our business. One day, all those volunteer regiments will toss off their uniforms and run home to their mamas. But these boys will still be out here eating dirt. Like I said, Dutchie. They like it.”

  “That’s why you came here, isn’t it? You like it, too.”

  Willis looked down between his knees. “I came over here because this is my home. Figured it out a while back. I’m gonna die a soldier. Only thing that matters to me. I’m gonna kill every rebel who stands up in front of me, until one of ’em gets lucky enough to get me first.”

  Bauer hesitated, one thought rolling through him. He took a long breath. “What about … home, Sammie? What about your boy?”

  Willis kept his stare on the ground. “Knew you’d ask me that. She took him. Ran off with some … shopkeeper, banker, not even sure. Wrote me not to look for her. Headed to someplace west, California maybe. Might as well be on the moon. I got no son, Dutchie. Maybe best I never seen him. Maybe best she’s got a man can give them more than I could.”

  Bauer felt a cold horror. “My God. How could she.…”

  Willis jerked his head up, a hard, cold stare Bauer had seen before. “Let it go, Dutchie. It’s done. The closest thing I got to a son … to family … is these boys. And now, you. God help me.”

  There was a hint of humor in Willis’s words, and Bauer felt relief, watched his friend for some sign of sadness. But Willis was as stoic as he had always been.

  Bauer slipped the backpack off his shoulders, said, “That corporal … he sleep here?”

  “When he sleeps at all. You heard him. There’s a space in here ’cause we lost a man … few days ago. Rebel picked him off poking out too far past the picket line. Thought he’d go fight a little bit of the war by himself. No patience for that, no matter how tough these boys think they are. Official word went back to the colonel that he was picked off bathing in the river. Didn’t want some high-brass jackass coming in here chewing us out about protocol.” Willis paused again, looked hard at Bauer. “You sure this is what you want?”