by Jeff Shaara
“Falling back? Is that how General Manigault intends to fight this war?”
Bragg kept his eyes on the smoke, the rumble of the fight steady, flickers of motion all along the distant woodlands, blasts of fire, more smoke rising.
The courier stayed up on his horse, said, “Sir, General Manigault says there may be fifty thousand Yankees to his front, sir. Several divisions. He has but six hundred men. He is ordering them to withdraw to the rifle pits at the base of the hill.”
Bragg kept his stare on the distant hills, the man’s report drilling inside him. Fifty thousand?
“General Manigault is a man prone to exaggeration. If his men have more fight in them than their commander, they shall drive the enemy back. Find Anderson. Order him to make the best fight he can. I will not allow retreat, not from such an advantageous position.”
“Yes, sir!”
Bragg glanced that way, saw the man ride quickly away, mud splashing high. He looked at Brent now, said, “Order every division commander on this ridge to make ready to receive the enemy. We have glorious ground, and we shall show the enemy their mistake!”
Brent acknowledged him with a salute, and Bragg returned it, saw the others looking at him, saw fear, wide-eyed doubt, all of them watching the great scene in the distance. He turned toward them, facing them, his back to the distant fight, said, “Look at me! All of you! There are not fifty thousand Yankees in the entire state of Tennessee! Do you hear me? General Manigault is showing us his lack of fitness for command! I will deal with him later. For now, do your jobs! Put these troops to their posts. If the enemy intends to assault these heights, we shall cover that ground with his blood!”
They seemed to energize, more of them watching him, men in motion now, moving away, couriers on horseback, spreading out in both directions. He forced a smile, saw Brent returning, his uniform splattered with mud.
“You’re a disgrace, Colonel. Do you not have a horse?”
“Sir, with all respects. I have sent word to the division commanders. Their aides are already coming in here, sir, reporting all is in readiness.”
“We shall see.” Bragg glanced again at Lookout Mountain. “General Hardee is up there, yes?”
“Yes, sir. Last we knew.”
“He is wasting his time up there. The enemy is coming right at our center. We require additional artillery, whatever batteries Hardee can move down this way. See to it. And make haste.”
“Yes, sir!”
Brent was gone now, and Bragg stood alone, stepped farther out on a rock outcropping, watched the waves of smoke, the bursts of musket fire, thumps of Federal artillery, most of it coming from batteries closer to the town. He focused on what he could see of the Federal troops, the enormous formations spread out to both sides of the low hills. He raised the field glasses, saw Manigault’s men streaming back from the woodlands, saw men in blue visible now on the bald hills, their flags waving in the breeze. Bragg yelled the words to himself, We must have all our artillery! Right here! He knew there was time, the range too great still for any kind of precision. He focused on the waves of men coming back toward him, a steady retreat, thought, No, they’re following Manigault’s orders. Those hills are in the enemy’s hands.
The glasses came down again, and he scanned the hillside below him, saw gun crews at their pieces, preparing for any target. Down below, the men were filling their rifle pits, the long trench lines that extended all across the ridge. The firing had nearly stopped now, the smoke clearing, drifting away. He looked down to the right, the far flank out of his view, miles away, thought of Cleburne, the troops he had ordered to Longstreet.
He spun around abruptly, a handful of aides still there, watching him, said, “Back to the headquarters. We must send word to the rail depot. Longstreet will make his fight with what he has. I need those troops right here.”
By late afternoon, with the low hills in their possession, the Federal forces seemed to halt their advance, content with what Bragg could only guess was a symbolic victory, a show of force that Bragg believed had been meant to frighten his army off the ridge. Manigault’s men had made as much of a fight as their meager numbers would allow, the 24th and 28th Alabama Regiments absorbing enormous casualties. By nightfall, they were back at the base of Missionary Ridge, while the men in blue seemed content to hunker down far out in the plain. With thousands of Confederate muskets and their artillery batteries poised for the assault, the Federal forces held their position. If there was to be an assault on Missionary Ridge, it would not be today.
NAIL HOUSE, MISSIONARY RIDGE—
NOVEMBER 23, 1863
It was still daylight when he had reached Bragg’s headquarters. All across the vast ridgeline, he had followed Bragg’s courier, trailed by his own Captain Buck. The aide was for guidance, but Buck was there as a helpful bit of assistance, should Cleburne be tossed into some muddy bog by his unruly horse. As he left the rail depot, the calls came, salutes from the men who served him. As he climbed up onto the northern tip of Missionary Ridge, the salutes were less frequent, the men mostly ignoring yet another senior commander who rode past them without any offer to relieve their suffering.
Bragg’s messages had been ongoing for more than an hour, repeating the same order, as though Bragg wasn’t certain any one of the couriers could be relied upon to deliver the message without some distraction. But Cleburne had done exactly what Bragg ordered, sending word up the rail line to the various depots to the northeast, ordering the engineers to reverse direction, to bring the railcars and their human cargo back down to Chickamauga Station. Some of his men had yet to board the trains, making Cleburne’s job somewhat simpler, and Cleburne reported that to Bragg, his own effort to soothe what seemed to be a heightened level of anxiety at the army’s headquarters.
He left the depot in the hands of Lucius Polk, a fortunate piece of chance that Cleburne’s most capable brigade commander was still with him at the station. Polk understood the forcefulness of Bragg’s order, would press hard for the return of the troops. Whether or not Polk had any use for Braxton Bragg, he would obey Cleburne without fail. Cleburne left the depot with no real timetable for the return of the full two divisions, or understanding of just what Bragg wanted them to do. There was another concern as well: Cleburne had no idea if Longstreet had been informed of the radical change in plans, what would most likely cause an explosion in Longstreet’s headquarters. But there had been too many of those already, and Cleburne knew to stay away from that topic with either man, that if Bragg had his reasons for reversing his offer of support for Longstreet, it was Cleburne’s job only to find out what that meant for those troops he was authorized to command.
As he pulled up onto the northern edge of Missionary Ridge, most of the Federal assault had ended, but the smoke hung low still in the wide valley, drifting across the two distant hills now in Federal hands. He had seen the last of Manigault’s retreat, the pieces of the puzzle coming together in his mind, Bragg’s summons making more sense, that the enemy had made a significant move, possibly presaging an attack straight into the center of Bragg’s strongest position. He was met outside the Nail House by Colonel Brent, who left him standing alone while Brent announced his arrival. Bragg’s thundering voice called him in, very little military decorum to the greeting.
Cleburne stood at Bragg’s desk, saw less decorum now, the man seeming scattered, disheveled, his uniform unbuttoned, no hat, sitting with his head down, staring at a makeshift map.
“Sir, I rode as quickly as I could.”
Bragg looked up, and Cleburne saw a rough, uneven beard, a harsh anger in the man’s expression.
“As well as can be expected, I suppose. Have you recalled your troops? Are they on the march?”
“They have been recalled, sir. General Polk is in command at the depot, and has been ordered to hold the men in readiness as they return. I have received no orders where I am to march them, sir. We await your instructions.”
Cleburne saw a narrow squint in Bragg’s eyes
, as though Bragg was having difficulty seeing him. Bragg seemed to chew on Polk’s name, the mention of Cleburne’s subordinate hanging between them like a moldy blanket.
“You trust him?”
“By all means, sir. Lucius Polk is most able, in the field and as my subordinate.”
“Lucius. The bishop’s nephew, correct?”
Cleburne could see Bragg’s mind working, staring to one side, as though Bragg were chewing his way through a tough piece of meat.
“Yes, sir. He is a most capable man, sir.”
“You said that already. How soon will your men be prepared to march?”
Cleburne was confused, thought, March where? Bragg’s head was down again, the man seeming to suffer some kind of twisting pain, and Cleburne leaned low, said, “Are you all right, sir?”
Bragg looked at him abruptly, tried to stand, his legs seeming to give way, settling him back in the chair. He took a deep breath, and Cleburne could feel heat in the man’s words.
“No, I am not all right! Not one bit, General! Are your troops prepared to meet the enemy? Are they in the field?”
Cleburne chose his words, spoke slowly. “Sir, my men have been recalled to Chickamauga Station, per your orders. They were previously under your orders to travel toward Longstreet’s command, to reinforce General Longstreet at Knoxville. It was made clear to me, sir, that your instructions had been reversed. As quickly as the men can be returned, they will be gathered up into formation, awaiting your further orders.”
“Is it dark outside?”
Cleburne looked to the one small window behind Bragg, a thick canvas curtain drawn closed. “No, sir. The sun is setting, though. Another hour or so.”
“Not enough time for them. It’s done for today.” Bragg looked at Cleburne again, held up the scribble of a map. “They’re coming, by God. They’ve decided it’s time, and so, they’re coming. The question is where? It has always been the question, has it not? If they come, where will they strike? Every general in this command has offered an opinion on that point. I hear all manner of rumor, mind you. I am forced to fight this campaign with hesitation and uncertainty. My generals toss up their ideas in a maze of conflicting strategy, each one grabbing for the glory in his own part of the field, while I am left to stumble about like some crippled old woman.”
Cleburne kept his silence, saw the shakiness in Bragg’s hands, could hear it in his voice. Bragg held out the map, and Cleburne took it, saw a crude sketch of the ridge, Lookout Mountain, the town, the river. There was a large arrow scratched in pencil, pointing at the center of Missionary Ridge, a small X where Bragg’s headquarters sat.
Bragg stared at the floor to one side of Cleburne, said, “They’re coming for me. That’s what Grant always intended. Sherman despises me, always did, even back in Louisiana. In Mexico, I was the hero, brevetted so many times, the entire army knew my name. Grant recalls that. So do they all. Longstreet, Thomas, Lee. Even the president knows of my accomplishments there. Of them all, only Jefferson Davis considers me his friend.” He focused on Cleburne again. “You weren’t there, were you?”
“No, sir. I was still in Ireland.”
“Good war, that one. Camaraderie, obedience. Zachary Taylor … a man you were happy to fight for, a man you’d follow straight to hell and smile all the way. I wish my wife had met him. General Taylor would have enjoyed that, a woman who speaks her mind.”
“Yes, sir. He was elected president, after all.”
“How do you know that? They teach you such things in Ireland? Well, of course. Yes, he was president. Died very soon after. Dreadful tragedy for this nation. A man like that could have changed our history. Instead, we have Winfield Scott. A Virginian who kisses the feet of Abraham Lincoln. Disgusting.”
Cleburne heard horses outside, voices, but he kept his eyes on Bragg, wasn’t sure what else to do. He still had no idea why he was there.
The boots came in behind him, and Cleburne was surprised to see Hardee, Bragg’s Colonel Brent beside him. Hardee seemed just as surprised to see Cleburne, nodded to him, motioned his hand toward Bragg, as though some important business with Cleburne had been interrupted. There was no change to Bragg’s permanent scowl and Cleburne felt suddenly like a man caught in the firing line of a duel, wanted to back away, but Hardee nodded toward him again.
“Continue, please.”
Cleburne straightened, tried to feel a part of this army’s command, as though anything he would say might actually matter to Bragg. “Sir, I rode here as quickly as I could in response to your courier’s instructions. Do you have orders for me?”
Bragg looked at Hardee now, nodded slowly, said, “Orders for both of you. General Cleburne, you will march your division to the rear of this ridge, close by this headquarters. You will hold your men in reserve, in preparation of receiving the enemy’s attack.” Bragg seemed to energize now, pointed to the map in Cleburne’s hand. “Look there. I am anticipating the enemy to assault this ridge in the morning, most likely where that arrow is drawn. With your men in place behind those troops already positioned along the ridge, we shall offer General Grant an unpleasant surprise. General Hardee, you have too many men up on that mountain.”
Cleburne looked back toward Hardee, stepped to one side, Hardee moving up close. Hardee gave Cleburne a discreet pat on the back, then said, “If you insist, sir.”
“Unnecessary, foolish. The enemy is coming here. If he does not roll up against our center, he will move to the right, and attack us on our flank up toward Chickamauga Creek.”
Hardee studied Bragg, his words slow and precise. “Am I to assume you wish me to remove a portion of my troops on Lookout Mountain, and join them with General Cleburne’s men in reserve?”
“No! Did you not hear me? They’re coming on the right flank! I want you to ride there with all haste, and take command of whoever is out there. You will remove your troops from the mountain, leaving a token defense. The enemy has no reason to attack a big steep rock when they can more easily climb a hill! You are supposed to be the grand master of strategy in this camp, so your acolytes insist. Does this not make sense to you?”
Cleburne flinched slightly, wondered if Hardee would respond to the insult. But Hardee kept his voice low and even.
“I can leave Carter Stevenson’s division on the mountain. Walker’s division is situated on the low ground along Chattanooga Creek. They can be on the march within minutes.”
“Order it done! Move them as quickly as possible to the right flank! General Cleburne, you will leave some force out there as well, guarding against any raid toward the rail depot. We shall be prepared for the enemy’s next move with a force that will crush any plan Grant dares to exercise. General Cleburne, you will march your men all night if necessary until they are in position as my reserve. I shall not have our backsides exposed!”
Cleburne waited for more, but Bragg seemed to deflate again, the momentary fire fading away. Hardee said, “If you will excuse me, sir, I will see to carrying out your orders.”
“Not yet! One more thing. We shall withdraw the infantry from the rifle pits at the base of this ridge. The artillery as well. Have them pulled back uphill, to strengthen our lines up here.”
Hardee said, “Sir, there are no lines up here. The men are encamped in scattered positions.”
“Then we shall dig lines! Have the men go to work, and have far more earthworks and trenches prepared across the crest of the ridge. It should have been done weeks ago!”
Hardee responded, his words still controlled. “We shall dig all night long if need be. I shall relocate a full division of my men to the right. General Cleburne shall move into reserve to the rear of this ridge. Those are your orders?”
Bragg stared up at Hardee with the familiar squint. “Is there some confusion?”
“None.”
“You both are dismissed. Go about your work, and do it with haste!”
Hardee stepped back, looked at Cleburne, who welcomed the opportunity for an
exit. He expected Hardee to move out first, but Hardee waited, extended a hand, making way for Cleburne to pass. Cleburne glanced at Hardee as he moved by, heard the soft words, “With haste, General.”
They moved outside, Colonel Brent there, Bragg’s staff officer watching as the two generals climbed up in the saddle. Hardee said to Brent, “You have anything to add to your commanding officer’s instructions, Colonel?”
Brent shook his head, and Cleburne detected a deep sadness in the man. Hardee called to his staff, who gathered quickly, said to an aide, “Go now to General Walker. Order him to put his men to the march as quickly as he can. He is to immediately vacate the low ground along Chattanooga Creek and march his men along the rear of this ridge, making camp as far northward as he can by daylight. These are General Bragg’s orders, do you understand?”
Hardee turned to Cleburne, said, “You best ride hard, get word to your General Polk what our commanding general has in mind.”
Cleburne heard a hint of sarcasm, said, “Do you not agree with his orders?”
“Should I disagree? You saw his carefully drawn ‘map.’ Is there something of a problem with what he anticipates?”
Cleburne shook his head and said, “No, certainly not.”
“Then we shall have the men who are now camped along this part of the ridge go to work. Anderson’s division. They will spend their evening digging earthworks they should have completed a month ago. I must give credit to General Bragg for understanding what must be done, even if he is somewhat late in doing it. However …” Cleburne saw Hardee look toward the west side of the ridge, where the rows of rifle pits down below still held the men who had watched the Yankee assault, who still expected one even now. “We will not withdraw the men from the base of the hill. I will instruct General Anderson to divide his forces, some up along this ridge, some remaining below. It is still a good position. We cannot allow General Bragg’s fears to take priority over effective tactics.”
Cleburne saw a wagon moving up behind the ridge, the order for shovels already passing to the supply officers nearby. The troops began to move that way, lining up, the shovels handed out, the men guided by their officers to the labor suddenly tossed upon them.