by Jeff Shaara
Out in the center, directly in front of Missionary Ridge, Thomas’s troops made their preparations for an advance, assembling their formations in full view of the observers on both Lookout Mountain and Missionary Ridge. With Sherman finally settling into his designated camps, Grant gave the order to Thomas to proceed.
It had been two months since the Army of the Cumberland had suffered the bloody disgrace of their retreat from Chickamauga. Now, even if the order called for little more than a reconnaissance in force, Thomas would lead them forward again.
NAIL HOUSE, MISSIONARY RIDGE—
NOVEMBER 23, 1863
The morning had been cool and damp, but finally the sun appeared, a welcome show of light reflecting off the vast pools of mud that blanketed the ridgeline. He walked out from the small house, ignored the blue skies, still felt the impact of his breakfast, some kind of sour meat that he tried not to think about. All along the ridge, his men were going about their routines, which for many included very little to do. Even close to the headquarters there was very little shelter beyond anything the men had been able to improvise, and Bragg had been lenient with them, had not insisted that the commanders put the men through the usual drills, parade ground formations on the flatter ground back to the rear of the ridge. For Bragg himself, observing those exercises had become boring in the extreme. His boredom had turned to outright disgust with some of the regiments, some of them so slovenly in appearance, no one would assume them to be soldiers. To his delight, other units had performed their drills and moved through their formations with crisp precision, a source of pride to their colonels, and of course to Bragg. But there were too many of the others who seemed to go about the maneuvers with purposeful sloppiness, as though they found some kind of perverse satisfaction in taunting him. He couldn’t avoid the comparison of those units to bands of unruly children, that no matter how much discipline he tried to force on them, there would always be the stubborn, the rebellious. It bothered Bragg even more that the lack of discipline and deportment was surely a symbol for their disinterest in the Cause they were supposed to be fighting for, the very reason they were facing off against the Yankees. But if they seemed to care not at all for being soldiers, they also continued to show a lack of respect for him. It was the only interpretation that mattered to him, that an army who carried themselves with laziness had contracted that disease from the officers who led them, with no regard for the respect they should be showing to the man at the top. He suspected still that many of the senior officers were participating in secret meetings, what Bragg continued to believe were the conspiracies he could never quite stamp out.
The reassuring letters from Jefferson Davis had come less often, and even those few were less enthusiastic, another stab at Bragg’s concern, that somehow even Davis was being turned against him. Bragg pushed the issue, seeking reassurances in letters of his own, and Davis offered the tepid responses that all was well. But Bragg knew that since he had reduced the size of his army at Chattanooga, he might very well be at a numerical disadvantage, and so he tested Davis’s endorsement with pleas for additional troops. He had petitioned Joe Johnston as well, had suggested strongly that the Confederate garrison at Mobile be reduced, the manpower much more valuable to the fight certain to come at Chattanooga. Davis had been supportive, if only in spirit, no real promises of any additional troops. Johnston seemed to ignore him altogether, showing an infuriating lack of respect that dug hard at Bragg, one more example of the army’s utter disregard for the campaign that Bragg believed might decide the outcome of the entire war. The lukewarm support he was now receiving from Davis forced him to exercise patience, muting the typical fury he would inject into his letters. He felt no great need to put himself into direct confrontation with anyone in Richmond, or any other senior commander outside of his own sphere of control. Victory at Chattanooga would accomplish that far better than any hostile dispatch or bellicose complaint. Time seemed to be on Bragg’s side, despite what the cavalry insisted was an enormous buildup of troops under Grant’s command. Whether or not the cavalry scouts were accurate in their estimates of Federal strength, the enemy across from Bragg had shown no signs that they were intending any kind of assault, or any kind of significant move to thwart what Bragg still believed was an effective siege. The reports had reached him of renewed shortages in the town, of Federal soldiers desperate for food, no matter the infuriating evidence that Grant’s supply lines had been pushed open. For Bragg, there seemed to be more positive news than negative, the constant destruction of the Federal pontoon bridges, and, even better, the obvious loss of enormous numbers of horses and mules. He didn’t need cavalry scouts to tell him that the Yankees had suffered that kind of carnage. The putrid smells carried on the breeze had been evidence enough. The estimates of dead draft animals were in the thousands, a satisfying success that convinced Bragg more than ever that his strategy was working, that no matter how many additional troops Grant brought into Chattanooga, the Federal army was still in serious trouble.
As he made his stroll through soggy ground, past filthy men in muddy shelters, he knew he would hear their complaints. There were always complaints, even on those days, like this one, when the good weather returned. He knew the morale of the army had fallen dangerously low, that even the good men were enduring hardships of food, shelter, and adequate clothing. He could not avoid giving attention to that, no matter how unpleasant the task. The dispatches continued to flow, an absurd and useless argument with the commissary offices, first in Atlanta, and then to Richmond, his pleadings for sustenance and shelter for his army. As had happened all during his campaigns in Tennessee, infuriating rumors filtered back to him that the greater percentage of the critical supplies were still being sent northward, the urgent necessity of rebuilding Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia, an army that had lost its most significant fight of the war. It dug hard at Bragg’s pride that no one in Richmond seemed to acknowledge Lee’s inability to defeat the enemy whose leadership was so questionable, while Bragg was faced with a Federal army deep in the heart of the South led by the man whose reputation had seemed to Bragg to have grown far beyond all reason. Of greater concern to Bragg was that Grant’s army had dug their way well to the south, threatening rail lines and crucial cities, a far greater threat to the Confederacy than what he saw as Lee’s fanciful attempts to find glory in Pennsylvania. But Bragg knew those kinds of sentiments were unwelcome in Richmond, and Bragg could only spew out his anger in letters sent to his greatest ally, his own wife.
He stepped heavily through the mud, his boot heels splashing the brown ooze in every direction. He was angry now, always angry when he thought of Lee, the special treatment Lee received from Richmond. It is politics, he thought. Pure and simple. Perhaps if I was to lose a battle, scamper away in a manic retreat from some bloody confrontation with the enemy, then perhaps I would receive the kind of sympathy afforded General Lee. Instead, my greatest flaw is victory. And so, my men are abused, neglected, and I am to fight campaigns not only here, but in Knoxville, and must suffer the indignation of trying to manage Lee’s own troops, his “favorite son” Longstreet. The man brought a wagonload of vainglory down here, showed only disrespect and disobedience. All right, so if that’s how it must be, I have remedied that with a deft hand. Longstreet has his opportunity handed to him with a gracious bow from this headquarters. And still, he complains and lodges his outrageous protests.
Bragg moved past another of the camps, heard the voices, men calling to him, pleadings for even the most basic of foodstuffs. He ignored what he could, heard his aides behind him offering their usual assurances to gathering clusters of men, promises that no one believed. He moved past a scattering of tree stumps, the trees long gone, and he thought now of his horse. Can’t even ride through here, he thought. Horse could break a leg. We should at least mark the trails, designate those places where lumber may be cut. It’s a complete lack of discipline, of planning, and a complete lack of care for the men. I will not take the bla
me for that. If they spent their time in more useful pursuits, these kinds of matters could be handled. Instead, they slip away from here at their leisure to prey on civilians, with thieving and vandalism, and God knows what other acts of depravity. Punishment is the only solution, swift and strong. There is little difference between desertion in the ranks, and the abuse of civilians, the very people we are here to protect. He glanced to the side, saw a dozen men gathered around the flickers of a small smoking fire, thought, Where do we find these men? Is it just my army that must bear the burden of such moral failure? I am quite certain General Lee receives the cream, the good strong men, stout hearts and devout fiber. I am blessed with the dregs of Southern manhood. And Richmond expects miracles.
He thought of Longstreet again, the constant extension of the nagging hostility he felt toward Lee. For several days, Longstreet had peppered Bragg with desperate calls for reinforcements, and Bragg had read them all with growing disgust. He regards me with no respect at all, he thought. Now he faces an enemy he should crush with ease, a general in Burnside whom he has already defeated handily, and yet now he complains that his army is not adequate to the task. He despises me, and yet he calls upon me for assistance. But his failures at Knoxville will not bloody my hands.
Bragg was suddenly very pleased with himself, stopped, hands on his hips, a gaze out to the north, along the ridgeline, toward the rail station far beyond. Very well, he thought, I have obliged his weaknesses, I have granted him the greatest of favors, and if there is success at Knoxville, those accolades shall rightly fall upon me.
The day before, Bragg had finally agreed to add strength to Longstreet’s forces by sending two divisions, eleven thousand men, to add to the fifteen thousand Longstreet had marched away from Chattanooga. Even now, Bragg knew those men would be gathering near the rail depot on Chickamauga Creek, starting the journey that would take them partway toward Knoxville. The smaller division, four thousand men, belonged to Simon Buckner, one of the conspirators against Bragg who, despite Bragg’s loathing of the man, still remained at hand, a problem Bragg had to accept. Buckner’s division had been designated something of an independent unit, one of the odd twists in Jefferson Davis’s organization of the army, a compromise Bragg had been forced to swallow during Davis’s visit in October. The larger division, seven thousand men, belonged to Patrick Cleburne, a man Bragg still didn’t fully understand and certainly didn’t trust. Since Cleburne’s Arkansas regiments had come east to add to the campaigns in Kentucky and Tennessee, Cleburne had earned enormous respect from Davis, and from the other commanders. Bragg had been assured by Davis that even though Cleburne had signed that damnable petition against him, the Irishman had come around, the president now fully confident that Cleburne embraced a strong loyalty to Bragg, and would perform well in the field. Sending Cleburne to assist Longstreet was an idea that had burst into Bragg’s mind like a bolt of blue light, an ingenious way to keep a capable eye on Longstreet’s performance, while making certain that Longstreet did in fact return to Chattanooga.
He moved on through the mud, thought of the letter he was composing, anticipating Longstreet’s missives to his friends in Richmond. If he fails at Knoxville, Bragg thought, the excuses will flood the War Department. I must be prepared for that, respond to it even before Longstreet spouts out his lies. If there is failure, he alone shall bear the responsibility. I have seen to that, after all. His forces will nearly equal what I have here, and if he cannot complete his task with such men, then he cannot complete any task at all. And who shall be free of blame?
He ran those words through his mind again. Very good. You should write that to Elise, seek her approval. She would insist you tell the president, tell all of them of the sacrifices you make. She would certainly scold you for keeping silent. This is no time for humility, for soft modesty. She will chastise you for allowing them to abuse your reputation. I should have brought her here, an inspiration to the men. Or perhaps she should go to Richmond, make her calls upon the War Department and the president, and give loud voice to my difficulties here. He smiled. I could employ no one better for the task.
He kept his stare out toward Chattanooga, could make out the sea of blue that spread out in neat formations all across the face of the town. Around him, men were doing as he did, focusing their attention on the distant Federal camps. No matter what anyone around him thought of the incredible view of the enemy’s army, to Bragg it was simply his target.
His aides were there now, holding men away, the cries still reaching him, but he shut that away, absorbing the marvelous warmth of the sunlight, nearly overhead. Bragg glanced down, saw shadows, his own, dark splotches below the rocks, so very rare for so many days. He tested his ailments, no headache, his stomach finally letting go of the nagging torment from the breakfast. He thought of Elise again. By God, she should see this. She should be up here, admiring what we have done to the enemy. There they stand, performing their daily rituals, consuming their strength and their limited rations in mindless exercise. He looked up toward Lookout Mountain, could see the signalmen, flags in motion, men doing their jobs. Yes, very good. Keep us informed. I have no desire to make that tedious journey yet again just to learn what my officers should already be telling me.
Down below, he heard shouts, paid no heed to the words. He knew some of the men would cheer him, that on a day like this, when the skies shone blue and the sun relieved their ills, they would understand how much he cared for this army, all that he was giving them, the preparation, the positioning. Yes, you will understand what history will know of you, once this campaign is concluded. You will know of victory.
There were more shouts now, and his staff began to move up beside him, gathering too closely, annoying him. He glanced to the side, was surprised to see Colonel Brent, said, “Why are you out here? Did I not insist you keep close to the headquarters, receive the couriers? I wish to hear reports of the progress of the reinforcements I have ordered to Longstreet. His response to my sudden generosity should be a dispatch worth placing in a picture frame.”
“Sir, forgive me, but the signalmen from Lookout Mountain are telling us that the enemy is making preparations for an advance.”
Bragg looked out toward Chattanooga, saw more of the distant patches of blue, swelling now, as though flooding out in the plain away from their own defenses. He had seen this before, was irritated with Brent’s inexperience.
“Nonsense, Colonel. This break in the infernal rains has encouraged the Yankees to put themselves to work with drilling, occupying their time by practicing what they should already know by heart. It is a lack of effectiveness by their officers.”
Brent didn’t respond, stared out through field glasses. Bragg felt satisfied he had made his point, and he glanced down the hill, more shouts continuing below, and now, off to the side, more cheers and calls from distant camps.
“What on earth is that caterwauling about?”
Brent lowered the field glasses, pointed out toward the center of the Federal lines, the great formations of blue. The masses continued to swell, pushing out farther from the town, all the pomp of a parade ground display.
“That, sir. It appears to me that they are advancing.”
Bragg stared out through his field glasses, saw the flicker of flags, could make out the specks of men on horseback. He scanned the lines, a vast sea, growing larger by the minute. Behind the blue wave came bursts of smoke, and Bragg lowered the glasses, saw the streaks of fire arching up and over the Yankee lines, impacting midway across the plain. In a few seconds, the thunder reached him, dull thumps, more fire from Federal guns, more streaks, plumes of smoke now rising up from the impacting shells in the thickets that spread far out in the plain, between two low hills.
He heard a voice behind him, the man running toward him, out of breath, one of his aides, the words coming in a manic stream, “Sir! The observers on the mountain are saying that the Yankees are advancing to our picket line. The messages say that Yankees are making a f
ight of it, sir!”
Bragg ignored him, could see a low line of white smoke, waited long seconds, the faint sound of a single chopping blow, the massive volley of musket fire reaching him. Bragg kept his stare to the front, the smoke now rising, obscuring his vision, thought, They’re coming. They have waited for the weather to change, and now they are coming. This is … wonderful.
“Who’s out there? Whose troops are on those small hills?”
Brent stepped away, and Bragg was immediately furious, his question seeming to inspire a debate that spread through his staff. He still watched the smoke, more steady cracks of massed musket fire, heard Brent now.
“Sir, we believe it’s Manigault’s brigade. Patton Anderson’s division.”
“How many men, Colonel? Is that also a secret?”
“Don’t know, sir. I’ll send a courier down that way.”
“Anderson’s division is all around us, Colonel. It can’t be difficult to answer such a simple question.”
“I know, sir. I’ll take care of it.”
Bragg let the field glasses drop against his chest, stared up again toward Lookout Mountain, the signal flags in motion, frightened men communicating the obvious. He felt a rising anger, sensed a stink of incompetence that seemed to swirl around them, men who had no idea what was happening.
He heard a horse approaching, the high-pitched voice of a courier.
“Those men are from Patton Anderson’s division, sir. Manigault’s brigade has the skirmish duty. General Manigault says he had no more than six hundred men in those far trees. Alabamans, sir. He’s sent the order not to make a stand. They’ll be falling back, once they receive his order.”