by Jeff Shaara
He halted his march, stared ahead. Stop that nonsense. If Buck is delayed, there is a reason. He would not do what Bragg is doing, and simply leave me out here … in the dark. He glanced up, eyed the moon, now straight overhead, so bright that the stars were wiped away. It is a perfect opportunity, he thought. How can Bragg just leave these men with no word, no instructions as to what is expected of us?
He turned, walked over to the backside of Tunnel Hill, heard soft voices, men huddled together in their fresh earthworks, shielded from the stiff breeze. The artillery thumped against the far side of the hill, the blasts muffled by the ground. He wanted to climb up once more, to stare at the fires around Billy Goat Hill. But there were hoofbeats now, and he turned abruptly toward the trail leading south. The horseman climbed the rise, dismounted, headed straight for Cleburne. It was Buck.
“Sir! I rode as quickly as I could!”
“It’s been three hours! Is your horse lame, Captain?”
Cleburne pulled at his anger, scolded himself silently. Buck stood straight, said, “Sir, I have orders from General Hardee. The general wishes me to tell you directly, sir, that we shall fight on this ground. It is certain that this position will be heavily attacked, and we must be prepared.”
Cleburne stared at Buck’s face, hidden by the shadow of his hat. “Those words came from General Hardee directly?”
“Yes, sir.”
Cleburne put his hands on his hips, let out a long breath, saw his aides moving closer, responding to Buck’s message. Cleburne turned to them, said, “Go now to General Polk. Instruct him to recall his artillery, and any of the other batteries I ordered to safety. Instruct the brigade commanders to meet with me here. We must place the guns where they can be most useful. If General Bragg will not make the best use of this moonlight, I shall use it to whatever advantage we have. We shall complete the fortifications any way possible, using such time and the moonlight as we now have.”
The men moved away, each one knowing the commander he would seek. Cleburne turned again to Buck, who seemed to anticipate the question, and Buck said, “Sir, my apologies for such delay. It was not a pleasant situation, sir. I was made to remain outside of General Bragg’s headquarters while he and General Breckinridge and General Hardee argued about this very decision. I did not intend to overhear that which was improper.…”
“What did they say?”
Buck lowered his voice. “General Bragg was insistent that this army, as presently situated, holds ground that no force on God’s earth can overrun. There was some agreement with that from General Breckinridge. General Breckinridge was mighty upset about the defeat on Lookout Mountain. He insists we must have our revenge, sir.”
“He would have us fight for … revenge? What did Hardee say?”
“General Hardee insisted in the most vigorous terms, sir, that this army should withdraw. But his view was not subscribed to.”
Cleburne absorbed that, thought, He wrote the book on this subject. Perhaps the others should take the time to read it. Buck leaned in closer, said, “Sir, General Hardee was granted permission to march additional troops to our assistance. General Stevenson’s division, specifically. They should be moving this way even now.”
“Stevenson? Did Stevenson not suffer mightily today on Lookout Mountain?”
“I wouldn’t know about that, sir. But General Hardee is sending him up to support our left.”
The questions burst through Cleburne’s mind. How did Stevenson withdraw his entire force from Lookout Mountain? Was his defeat so profoundly complete that he ordered a full retreat? Is no one holding a line on those heights at all? How many men is he marching … here? He knew Buck wouldn’t have the answers to any of that, thought, It’s likely that even Stevenson doesn’t know his casualty counts, his effective strength. But he will obey, and he will march what remains of his division this way. Thank you, General Hardee.
He heard horses approaching quickly up the trail, looked out past Buck, saw a cluster of riders, a familiar silhouette, and Buck said, “Hooee, sir. That’s—”
“General Hardee.”
It was just past midnight, no one on either side settling in for any sleep. The shelling from Sherman’s guns continued, nearly all of it still aimed at the western face of Tunnel Hill, keeping Cleburne’s men there down in their holes. The two commanders rode out along the spur, kept their horses back off the crest, moving slowly past Cleburne’s earthworks, which now extended more than a mile. Hardee had kept his staff at a distance behind them, as much for safety as for the privacy of his words with Cleburne. In the moonlight, both men understood that a careful lookout might still spot a gathering of horsemen, that a single artillery shell might do more damage to this end of the line than even Bragg would prefer.
“He’s dangerous to himself. I believe that. Worse, he’s dangerous to this army.”
Cleburne felt a sickening dismay at Hardee’s words, said, “I had hoped we would be made dangerous to the enemy.”
“We are. If Bragg will allow us to manage this fight the way we ought to. He insists we can maintain our hold on this ridgeline with little more than a regiment of skirmishers. I rather believe he enjoys saying that. And so, he has convinced himself it is true.”
“You know it isn’t.”
“Of course it isn’t. It’s utter foolishness. Bravado for the benefit of Richmond newspapers. Breckinridge supports him for the same reason. If his name is to be shouted about, let it be for his bravery, not for retreat.”
“We shall give them a good thumping here, sir.”
“I know. I’ve seen your dispositions. Your placement of artillery is good, most effective positioning.”
Cleburne said nothing, wouldn’t tell Hardee he had nearly ordered most of the big guns to begin their retreat across the creek, without knowing for certain that order would ever come.
The rumble from Sherman’s cannon thumped mostly behind them, out against the face of the hill, and Cleburne turned, said, “Makes it a mite difficult to place a battery at the tunnel. Ought to have at least something heavy above the tunnel itself. Nuisance, those Yankee gunners.”
Hardee stopped the horse, stared upward, and Cleburne pulled on the reins, heard Hardee say, “I’ll be damned. Never seen one so clearly.”
Cleburne looked upward, saw the arcing shadow cutting across the face of the moon, realized the light had dimmed all around them. To both sides, the men were up from their earthworks, calling out, a hum of excitement through the lines. Hardee said, “It’s gonna be full, complete. Just look at that. You ever see an eclipse?”
Cleburne stared up, could see the slight shift in the shadow, the face of the moon blanketed ever so slowly. “It’s gonna cover up the whole thing?”
Hardee chuckled. “Looks like it.”
He was smiling at Cleburne now, wouldn’t embarrass the man, and Cleburne watched the spectacle, more of his men calling out, pointing upward. He looked back toward the sudden silence now, said, “The guns … Sherman’s stopped shelling us.”
Hardee was still chuckling. “For now. Might be a good time to move your battery into position at the tunnel. This won’t last too very long. The shadow will slip off the other way, just like it never happened.”
Cleburne felt an uneasiness, a memory of very long ago, a small boy, a priest, angry warnings to the townspeople. He stared up, his eyes fixed, said, “I heard it was a sign … bad things to come. God’s warning.”
Hardee seemed surprised. “Some believe that. I believe it’s an eclipse of the moon. The earth getting in between the sun and the moon. A shadow. Amazing sight, that’s all.”
Cleburne kept his eyes skyward, heard nervous talk around him, some of the men standing in the open, watching the event with awe, nervous chatter, and one man, close by, quiet urgency in the man’s voice, soft words Cleburne could barely hear. He was praying.
NEAR BILLY GOAT HILL—NOVEMBER 25, 1863
For the first time in days, the dawn came without the misty r
ains, the hillsides and thickets slowly revealed by a fast-rising sun. Sherman had been up early, his usual routine, had used the brisk cold air to energize him as he rode through the camps of his men. The bugles had sounded early as well, and already the men were up and into formation, word passing through their officers that on this day, there would be no delays. The men he passed already had their muskets, orders going through the lines to load, to prepare, and Sherman thought briefly of breakfast, whether any of these men had time to fortify themselves with the meager rations they carried. Most of the supply wagons remained on the far side of the Tennessee River, a precaution in the event of disaster. But Sherman had every confidence that in this campaign, there would be no disaster. When the enemy had been crushed, the wagons would come soon enough, the men around him now sure to enjoy a meal laced with the raw satisfaction that comes from victory.
He had moved out first to the left, closer to Chickamauga Creek. Most of the troops who had been positioned north of the creek had crossed southward on the smaller of the pontoon bridges, adding to the strength that Sherman could feel around him. The horses he heard were mostly artillery batteries, moving closer to the enemy’s positions, what the scouts had told him were pockets of infantry, scattered guns along the hilly ridge to their front. He knew of the rail line to the east, cared little for making an assault only to punch artillery shells through railcars. His orders from Grant had told Sherman what he already knew, that his primary goal, the goal for this entire army, was to drive the rebels off the great long ridge, and if they did not withdraw, he would crush them.
He had heard the reports of Hooker’s victory the day before, had barely heard the thumps that peppered the face of Lookout Mountain. He never thought there was much purpose to Hooker’s advance, beyond the diversion meant to pull the enemy’s troops in that direction, possibly weakening the position that Sherman would attack. Sherman believed with absolute certainty that Hooker’s success had been the product of luck, that even with the help of Sherman’s own division, Hooker’s men had stumbled up and over rocky cliffs to find a woefully undermanned enemy, troops who had no expectation of any blue wave suddenly pushing into their mountain perch. Sherman cared little for Hooker at all, a man best known for failure, believed he had been sent to Tennessee as a panicky afterthought by Henry Halleck. Yes, he thought, you are a dashing, handsome man who draws camp followers like insects to honey. If you focused more on fighting, and less on drunken debauchery, you might not have been sent to this wasteland in the first place. But after yesterday, there will be newspaper headlines, no doubt about that. Sherman couldn’t help feeling the disgust for the newspapermen who were flocking around Hooker now, like so many mosquitoes. He is most certainly dancing merrily across his mountain meadows, Sherman thought, chirping like the morning’s songbirds about his great victory. Fine, General. Enjoy that while you can. But let us see if you can offer General Grant more than a single day’s glory.
Sherman was less dismissive of Oliver Howard, Hooker’s subordinate. Howard had brought a full division to camp just behind Sherman’s right flank, would act as a reserve, should Sherman require it. Sherman couldn’t object to that at all, knew it was Grant’s textbook precautions. Grant had placed Sherman at the point of the spear, and whatever else Grant ordered behind Sherman was only sound strategy. But Sherman’s success the day before had given him the confidence that Howard would not be needed at all. If Howard’s men saw any action, it would come in the aftermath of Sherman’s victorious sweep down Missionary Ridge, a mop-up perhaps of the rebel stragglers Sherman had passed by, once Bragg’s army had been destroyed.
He pushed the horse past a cluster of timber, heard men talking, a campfire suddenly doused, someone aware the commanding general was riding past. He acknowledged that with a quick glance, saw an officer standing beside a horse, the man holding a salute. Sherman returned it, couldn’t see the man’s face, could just make out the colors, Illinois. He moved quickly past, saw more troops filling a narrow grassy field, more colors, more horses.
Sherman knew that Grant had ordered Hooker to press forward again, testing the rebel strength that remained on Lookout Mountain. It was still part of Grant’s strategy, creating confusion in Bragg’s camps about just where he should defend. The maps showed a wide creek east of the mountain, the last barrier to an advance against the south end of Missionary Ridge, the opposite flank from where Sherman was now. If the mountain was wholly in Federal hands, the next line of battle for Hooker would certainly be the creek. Sherman had no idea what Hooker would do, and for now, he didn’t care. That was miles away, and if Hooker was successful in driving down off the mountain, pushing straight into the base of Missionary Ridge, or even past it, Sherman knew it would be only because the rebels were more focused on Sherman. Bragg knows the greater threat is here, he thought. And I am quite sure he relishes thoughts of busting me in the mouth.
There were too many memories of Louisiana, long before the war, the two men familiar acquaintances, though no one would describe them as friends. He never cared for me, Sherman thought, seemed always to be fearful of me, as though every opinion was an insult, every conversation some hidden assault on his honor. What was he fighting against? No one there particularly liked the man, but no one challenged him to a duel. He seemed to expect that, as though he suffered through every day in some struggle all his own, a duel with himself. Well, today, we shall bring that to pass. If he ever believed I was a challenge to his honor, to his dignity, today, I will prove him correct.
Grant’s final order had come to Sherman very late, after midnight, responding to Sherman’s reports of glowing success the day before. Sherman was ordered to launch his primary assault early, against whatever rebel forces were in front of him. The daylight had not yet spread across the ground his men would cross, and he stared impatiently to the east, knew it would come very soon. He knew that Grant would be waiting, expecting to hear the first thunder from Sherman’s guns.
Sherman kept the horse moving, couldn’t help a wave of nervousness, glanced out to several batteries placed with a perfect field of fire toward where the rebels seemed to be the day before. He wasn’t entirely certain just where they were positioned now, had been told by Grant that Bragg had responded to his surprising presence by marching a column of troops northward up the ridge. It matters very little, he thought. Unless Bragg has sent his entire army to mass together on this part of the ridgeline, he cannot hold us away. And if he weakens his center, then he merely opens the door for Thomas’s people to waltz straight up to the face of the ridge. No, Bragg is caught in a hard squeeze, and it makes very little difference whom he marched up this way. Once we step off, they will not stop us. It simply isn’t possible.
He watched a formation of men moving into line, their officers aware he was watching them, crisp precision, self-conscious looks his way. He held his cigar tightly in his teeth, gripped the leather straps, felt the nervous churning inside. It was this way before every fight, what had once been a kind of sickening terror, that any order he gave would be a grievous error, that men would die because he made a mistake. That kind of fear had been with him since the first fight at Bull Run, far worse then, but still it followed him, a struggle he tried to hide from his staff, from any of his officers. The torment angered him, and he tried to keep his thoughts out there, aiming his impatient wrath at someone else, some show of sluggishness that would give Sherman an excuse for blistering a man who might not always deserve it.
He spurred the horse again, moved up a low incline, the daylight expanding his vision. He continued to climb, seeking a better vantage point, the horse splashing along a muddy trail, a narrow path through tall thin trees. The staff was strung out behind him, and he ignored them, had no need for orders, for couriers. That would come soon, when that first order went out to his division commanders, those few words that carried such weight, that would put this enormous force into motion. The horse carried him out onto clear ground now, the rocky crest of a bald h
ill. He pulled the reins, stopping the horse, studied the ground. The sky was lighter still, and he was puzzled to see a taller hill to the front, silhouetted by the glow of the rising sun. He glanced around, the hill he was on falling away in all directions. He could see it plainly now, a rocky knob, his men manning batteries down both sides, smoldering remains of campfires spreading out to both sides. There was brush in vast thickets, a flat plain spreading out to his right. The anxiety in his brain tightened, fueled by questions. The staff had caught up to him, kept back, other officers on the hill watching him, as though expecting orders. He kept his stare on the far ridge, felt overwhelmed by a sudden burst of uncertainty, questions he did not want to ask. But the fear had anchored inside him, a voice in his brain he couldn’t ignore, that something was very wrong, that the ground was not what he expected it to be.
The butt of the cigar was chewed to mush, and he spit it out, glanced around again, the artillery batteries making ready, officers calling out orders. He looked back toward the staff, felt a cold pit in his stomach, searched the faces, his voice coming out in an unexpected shout.
“McCoy!”
The man rode forward, and Sherman pointed out to the far ridgeline.
“What ridge is that? What hill?”
McCoy didn’t respond, and Sherman felt the familiar fury growling through him.
“I asked you, Captain, what ground is that?”
“I don’t know, sir. Begging your pardon.”
“What ground is this?”
“We were informed by the scouts that this was Missionary Ridge, sir.”
“What scouts?”
“Not certain of that, sir. I assumed you had been given a report by the cavalry last evening. Perhaps the skirmishers reported. There are the maps—”