The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War

by Jeff Shaara

  He stared out, disgusted with himself. Would you have your men hear such whining? What kind of man wallows in both mud and misery, and considers only himself? Up on that hill behind you, spread out all over this ground, are men who are starving. The Yankees have tents and rations, and they can build fires even in this astounding weather. It’s the one part of the vision of Chattanooga we can truly observe. Seas of white tents and smoke from campfires. What am I to do about that? Well, one thing. Go out there and take those tents. Drive the enemy away. Is that not why we’re here?

  “Sir?”

  He looked out toward the edge of his rocky shelter, saw a face, then another. He expected to see his staff officers, knew they would keep close eye on his whereabouts, no matter his momentary escape from the duties of his camps, the need to get down from the horse. Captain Buck was there, always there, a man whose loyalty Cleburne appreciated more than Buck would ever know. But the surprise was in the other man. It was one of Cleburne’s brigade commanders, Lucius Polk. Buck was bent low, his hat suddenly falling from his head, rolling down the steep incline, well below the rocky ledge. Cleburne saw the man’s dismay, as he saw the salute, and Cleburne pointed down the hill.

  “Retrieve your headgear, Captain. No formality is required out here, not on a day like this.”

  Buck scampered down after the hat, and Cleburne saw Polk staring at him, a glimmer of concern on the man’s face.

  “Quite sorry to bother you, General, but I’ve just come from headquarters.”

  “Sorry, Lucius. I should have sent word to them just where I was going. Didn’t know myself until I saw this wonderful piece of shelter. Nature provides, I suppose. Some problem? Major Benham have need of me?”

  “Oh, no, sir. I mean … headquarters. General Bragg sent for a number of us. Didn’t know what to expect, still not certain I understand it.”

  Cleburne felt the tug of concern now. “You still commanding one of my brigades?”

  “Well, yes, sir. As far as I can tell.” Polk pointed to the muddy area out beside Cleburne. “Um, sir, do you mind?”

  Cleburne pulled his sword in closer, said, “By all means. Sorry. There is misery enough for us all without forcing you to stand out there. A warning, though. It’s not much drier under here.”

  “It will suffice, sir.”

  Polk moved in beside him, and Buck had returned now, the hat covered with a muddy sheen. Cleburne saw the misery on the young man’s face, said, “Captain, you may return to camp. Seek some shelter, if you can. I’m certain nothing is happening today. Neither side will be keeping their powder dry, and unless General Bragg orders us to fight this war with rocks and tree limbs, we’re staying put.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be at the camp if you require. There is a pair of couriers out here still, at your service.”

  Cleburne glanced around him, the narrow shelter not large enough for more than the two officers. “My apologies to those boys, Captain. Have them seek some shelter beneath their mounts. I doubt I shall require their services, but one never knows.”

  Buck started to back away, stopped, leaned in again. “Sir, if I may inquire … what are you doing under there?”

  Cleburne stared out, the rains filling the great valley below him with a heavy mist, nothing visible but the low mounds that rose up halfway to the town.

  “Observation, Captain. And now, a conference with General Polk.”

  “Whatever you say, sir. If I may take my leave …”

  “Go. I’ll not be here much longer. Or, perhaps I will.”

  Buck was gone now, and Polk sat beside him, adjusted his own sword, said, “All right. You won’t tell him. So perhaps you’ll tell me. Why is our division commander sitting under a big rock?”

  “Easier than riding a horse.”

  “You think you’ll just sit here until the rain stops? That might be three weeks.”

  “I’m not sure the rains will ever stop, Lucius. And there’s more than one kind of rain. This entire army is awash in bad morale. That execution this morning. Bragg is trying to punch us with his notion that discipline will win out. All we need do is keep our focus, our hatred for the enemy, and that alone will carry us to victory.”

  “I hate the man, Patrick.”

  Polk seemed to catch himself, and Cleburne saw the glance toward him, silence now. Cleburne weighed the sentiment, and after a long moment, said, “Haven’t heard it expressed quite that way.”

  “That was not appropriate. My apologies. I should not allow my feelings to take control. My men would not understand such an outburst.”

  Cleburne looked at Polk, a man five years Cleburne’s junior, seeming much younger now. “I believe your men would understand quite well. I would, however, not repeat your choice of words.”

  Polk looked down between his knees. “I received a letter from my uncle today. The bishop is in Atlanta still, and he is a bitter man, Patrick. I never thought I would see that. Bishop Polk loves life, loves mankind, loves the Almighty. And because of Braxton Bragg, a truly great man sits in exile. That’s it. Exile. Why? Because he does not perform? Who among us can claim to be Caesar? Napoleon? Who among our leaders is above reproach? There is a stink here, Patrick. I shall not forgive Bragg. We are being led by a man who has no other goal than to witness our destruction.”

  Cleburne wasn’t surprised by the venom in Polk’s words, knew he could not agree, not even with perfect privacy.

  “We are suffering, Lucius. There is misery everywhere about us. But we cannot forget why we are here. There is an enemy out there, an enemy who seeks to destroy everything this nation, your nation stands for. Yes, I observe the sickness, the lack of spirit, the collapse of our morale, and I feel helpless to change that. I will not deny that. I hear men call out for clean water, and the rains come, and even the rains make them sick.”

  “It is punishment, Patrick. The Almighty condemns us for following such a man as Bragg.”

  “Enough of that. One day, you may fight your duel with the commanding general, but right now, you have a responsibility to obey him. Start by obeying me. See to your men. A commander is responsible for his men, yes. But he is responsible to them as well. No matter your feelings for General Bragg, you will inspire obedience, and you will show respect for their sacrifice.” He paused, suddenly curious. “Why were you summoned to headquarters?”

  Polk looked at him, shook his head in raw disgust. “General Bragg is continuing his reorganization of this army. His purge of commanding officers has seemed to abate. Now he is shifting regiments from one brigade to another, without any apparent reason. Florida men are now serving beside Tennessee men, Alabamans with Kentuckians. It is as though he desires that no one in this army should stand by a friend. We must learn to fight alongside strangers. Does that make us a better army, Patrick?”

  Cleburne was suddenly concerned. “I was not informed of this. Have any of my regiments been moved? I must know the details.”

  “No. That’s the strange part of this. I was summoned by Bragg’s staff just to observe these changes, as though I’m being schooled, taught some lesson.”

  Cleburne could see it now, more of the chess game. “Learn that lesson, my friend. General Bragg is a student of Napoleon, after all. He is still dividing his enemies. The generals who threatened him have been removed. Now he has turned his attentions to the troops themselves. Divide the Tennesseans, the Kentuckians, split their loyalties so there is no united front against him. It is the only explanation.”

  “But … what of the enemy? The real enemy? You said it yourself, Patrick. Why are we here?”

  Cleburne stared out again to the wide plain. “Sherman’s out there, you know. The scouts brought word to General Breckinridge. General Hardee spoke of it last evening. They estimate he has close to twenty-five thousand men on the march, which will add considerably to Grant’s forces. Everyone in this army is aware what is happening out there. We have been told that this campaign has been halted by the miserable conditions, that
for now, this army is paralyzed by the weather. It is apparent the Yankees are not so afflicted.”

  “It is possible they intend to send Sherman on toward Knoxville, strike our troops there from two sides.”

  “Possible.”

  “Are we just to remain here? Have you received any kind of orders? Again, Patrick, why are we here? If we are not to fight, then why do we not withdraw, secure the army in the passes in Georgia, or move the army westward, cut off the Yankees from their bases there? I am losing men every day to sickness, to dysentery. They have no tents, many of them have no coats, no shoes. Winter is coming rapidly. I am losing men every day to desertion. I have officers telling me that their men will not stand guard, that skirmish lines simply … vanish. I am hearing that no matter what conditions the Yankees might be suffering, their starvation rations are far better than what our commissary insists is a full day’s sustenance. The Yankees have coats, and I have platoon commanders telling me that the color of that coat no longer matters. Men will survive any way they can.”

  The words stung Cleburne, and he held up a hand. “No. Do not speak of that. I cannot know anything of that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You ask about orders? I have been ordered to report any deserter we bring back to this camp. The commanding general has chosen not only to wage war against his general officers; he is waging war against our own soldiers, those whose hearts cannot stand up to the hell we are forced to suffer. I will not hear such reports. I will not serve up my men for execution just to satisfy a misguided display of discipline. Do you understand?”

  Polk looked at him with surprise. “You have learned lessons, as well.”

  Cleburne eyed the edge of the rock, the rains still relentless. “I cannot remain here, perched beneath a rock, daydreaming about what might be. Whether or not the commissary or General Bragg can do anything to help my men, I have to make the attempt. Return to your brigade. We should not discuss General Bragg in such a way. Some would call us traitors.”

  Polk did not move, looked hard at Cleburne. “My uncle, the bishop of Louisiana, has been called that. I have heard General Longstreet called that. General Buckner, General Hindman, and even your friend, General Hardee. And here we sit, you and I. Must we pretend we do not know who the real traitor is?”

  Cleburne was angry now, fought the urge to shove Polk away.

  “Return to your camp. Now. If my horse still waits for me in this absurd weather, I will return to mine. I will send another dispatch to headquarters, requesting in the strongest terms that food and blankets and shoes be brought forward. It is my duty. It is yours. We will not concern ourselves with issues of command we cannot control.”

  Polk said nothing, slid away from him, moved out into the rain, no salute, disappeared up the trail. Cleburne clenched his fists, knew Polk was his friend, knew that the harsh words would not separate them. He knows this, Cleburne thought. No matter what was done to his uncle’s reputation, Lucius Polk is a soldier. No matter how much he professes to … hate. No matter how much I might share his feelings, the feelings that are spreading through most of this army, we must obey. It can be no other way. No other way.

  Cleburne slapped his hat down hard on his head, slid the sword up from its muddy bed, crawled back out into the rain. The horse was there, the groom standing close by, a smile Cleburne ignored. He took the reins, climbed up, the saddle pressing up cold against him, stabbed the horse with his spurs, and rode back up the hill.

  The day after Sherman’s arrival, he and Grant had ridden out to the north, to the same overlook where George Thomas had stood beside Baldy Smith. Both of those men came along as well, Smith laying out the geography, explaining just what Sherman might confront. Grant was still holding strongly to the notion that the most effective way to strike the Confederates was on their northern flank, pushing most of Sherman’s troops across the Tennessee River, striking the rebel position just below the mouth of Chickamauga Creek. But Sherman would not focus on a pursuit of Longstreet, or interfering with rail or communication lines to Knoxville. The power in numbers that Sherman was bringing gave Grant full confidence that the time had come to strike Bragg’s rebels as hard as possible, to put an end to what had become a miserable stalemate.

  Thomas still prodded Grant that the primary assault be made against Lookout Mountain, which Thomas insisted would be as much a threat to Bragg’s position as Sherman’s attack from the north. But Grant kept his faith in one place Thomas did not: Sherman. Grant focused on Sherman’s raw optimism, the energy that Grant expected, and right now needed. The reconnaissance of the rebel right flank had shown Grant just what he wanted to see, that from all appearances, the rebels had no expectation at all that Sherman was coming. Earthworks were minimal, most of the rebel forces there seeming to lie back closer to the rail depot off the northern extreme of Missionary Ridge. Sherman had been as enthusiastic as Grant, both men convinced there was no reason to hit the rebels anywhere else. The next step was Grant’s: putting the plan to paper.

  The attack would commence on November 21, Sherman’s main thrust pushing discreetly across the river during the night, a scramble of pontoons and planking that would be assembled as rapidly as the army’s engineers could perform the task. Once the bulk of Sherman’s troops were on the east side of the river, they would drive hard through what little rebel opposition seemed to be positioned there. The assault would continue with a rolling charge that would put Sherman’s men directly onto the northern tip of Missionary Ridge. From there, crushing Bragg’s army would be textbook, rolling up the rebel flank southward, until Bragg had no options but to pull back off the ridge completely, or risk annihilation.

  On the opposite flank, where Hooker’s men craned their necks toward the eminence of Lookout Mountain, there was no real certainty just how much strength the Confederates had positioned there. Grant knew, and Hooker feared, that Bragg might have compensated for Longstreet’s absence by bringing up reinforcements, adding to the enormous advantages provided by the mountain itself with a powerful force of artillery and infantry. Hooker’s troops had been clearly visible in Lookout Valley for days now, and Grant couldn’t fathom that Bragg would just ignore the seriousness of that threat. To test the rebel strength there, and to possibly draw attention away from Sherman’s assault on the far end of the position, Grant agreed that Hooker would send his men up the mountain the day before Sherman’s crossing. Hooker’s efforts would make considerable noise, and even if Hooker failed to drive the enemy off the mountain, Grant believed that Bragg would counter the assault by shifting troops toward the heights, thus potentially weakening the rebel lines along Missionary Ridge. Should Hooker succeed, as Thomas suggested, the loss of Lookout Mountain might force Bragg to withdraw his forces back behind Chattanooga Creek, the meandering waterway that ran through the lowlands separating the mountain from Missionary Ridge. If Bragg pulled his troops tightly together on the ridge, both his flanks could be vulnerable, opening up the possibility for Grant to thrust to the right of the ridge, possibly cutting Bragg’s rail line southward, the vital artery that brought supplies to the rebels from Georgia.

  Grant’s shaky confidence in Hooker really didn’t matter. Grant understood that if Sherman succeeded in driving Bragg’s army away from Missionary Ridge, any rebel troops who held tightly to any position on Lookout Mountain would know they were cut off completely. If those rebels didn’t surrender, they’d be forced to withdraw southward, directly down the crest of the mountain, pulling them even farther away from Bragg’s main body.

  In the center, Thomas’s Army of the Cumberland held the ground that spread out along the limits of Chattanooga itself, directly facing the bulk of the rebels on Missionary Ridge. Thomas’s role would be to offer a noisy demonstration, troop formations marching out in all their glory, in full view of the rebels on the ridge. Grant believed that the show itself would be sufficient, the massed troops sent forward from the Federal lines in a grand display that would force Bragg
to keep his rebel army firmly in their works. Creating uncertainty in Bragg’s mind was one of Grant’s primary goals, forcing Bragg to hold his entire army right where it was positioned now, keeping Bragg utterly confused as to where the heaviest hammer blow would come. In Grant’s mind, and now, in the plan he put together, it didn’t really matter where Bragg’s greatest strength might lie. The primary assault would be Sherman’s, there being no doubt at all in Grant’s mind, or Sherman’s, that rolling up the rebel right flank would decide this campaign once and for all. Once Bragg had been driven southward, forced to withdraw completely from Missionary Ridge, the rest of Grant’s army would be in perfect position to clean up any stragglers Bragg might leave behind.

  The day after their scouting mission north of the town, Sherman left Chattanooga, riding out westward again, to oversee the final advance by his army.

  CHATTANOOGA—NOVEMBER 19, 1863

  Grant stormed out of his room, saw staff officers jump in their chairs, wide-eyed.

  “Where is he? Any word at all?”

  Rawlins motioned to an aide, who read directly from the telegram Grant had already seen.

  “It says, sir … ‘Arrived at Kelley’s Ford. No boat there. Someone disobeyed my orders to remain. At Bridgeport now. Army advancing. Rather slow work crossing the bridge. Will arrive at Chattanooga as soon as possible.’ We have nothing further, sir.”

  “What is the problem? Why is it taking so long? There is no enemy obstructing his advance.”

  There was no answer from his staff, and Grant stared out through the windows, a steady drizzle, dark misery from the skies.

  “What of the supply trains? Is there some word of that?”

  Rawlins shook his head. “The nearest bridge has been repaired. Not sure of the others. It has been most annoying, sir.”

  Grant stared at Rawlins, had his own feelings about what was annoying him right now. “Keep me informed. Any news! You understand?”