The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War

by Jeff Shaara

  The first hundred feet up the hillside was thick with cut timber where the rebels had taken down trees, the logs used to build their fortifications. Now the treetops and limbs made a brushy tangle, the men struggling through. But there was one great advantage to the obstacle. The brush gave cover, hiding the men from the gunners above. The artillerymen didn’t seek perfect targets, knew only to sweep the hillside as closely as the aim of the big guns would allow. Those men kept up their fire mostly to the side, the slope just below them far too steep to allow the artillery to aim downward. But out to both flanks, the gunners along the crest turned their artillery to the side as much as the ground would allow. In the brushy thickets below, whatever cover the men in blue could find was no barrier to the canister and exploding shells, the sloping ground ripped, the brushy limbs shattered into splintering projectiles.

  Bauer kept flat, his legs pushing against loose dirt and rocks, any kind of foothold. Gradually he made his way upward, followed the churned-up dirt, the small gaps in the brush where men had gone before him. The effort was agonizing, his legs exhausted, burning in his lungs from the strain and the smoke. But above him and out to both sides, many more men were doing the same, no talk, their voices silenced by the effort, by the ongoing fire, the blasts and musket fire still sweeping through them. Bauer grabbed a fat limb, pushed the brush away, saw now, the ground above the brush line was open, dotted with crags and rocks, cut with small ravines, slices in the earth. There were rifle pits above, rebels standing, the quick firing of the musket, then down, reloading. The new earthworks were nearly halfway up the slope, piled dirt and logs that extended in both directions as far as he could see. He saw the heads peering up, quick shots, bursts of smoke from the barrels of a hundred muskets. Around him, men were returning fire, most of that useless, impacting straight into the dirt that protected the rebels. Bauer watched one man right above him, the rebel slow moving, a target, the man’s musket coming up, aiming, but Bauer was in no place to make a shot, and he rolled to one side, the sound of the man’s musket erased by so many others. He lay still, fought for air, wiped dirt from his eyes, could see men in blue now on every side of him, some coming up from below, many more up above, still moving up the hill. Most of those men were finding cover, filling every hole, sliding up behind every rock. Bauer glanced up toward the rebel works again, fifty yards above him, angry at himself, no way to take aim without standing upright. Not now, he thought. Let’s get someplace better than this. He took a breath, spit dust from his mouth, dug his feet into the soft dirt, lunged upward, his feet slipping, then grabbing, a hard struggle for a few feet higher. He wouldn’t stop, pushed harder, his feet catching rock, better traction, saw flashes from above, the rebels making their effort, but the men in blue were closing the distance, some of them waiting for opportunity, for the rebel to show himself, the hard crack close by Bauer, a rebel falling over the dirt, another rising up beside him, suddenly punched backward.

  He kept pushing himself higher, felt the hot breath of wind, canister blowing past him, peppering the hillside below him, pushing him farther, faster, his eyes in a mad search for any safe place. The shouts were more audible now, men calling out from the good cover, bringing others in with them, the men stacking up, banding together. Bauer pushed against a small rock, anchored in the dirt, the boost pushing him farther up, a flat, narrow shelf, big rocks above him, men in a thick line around him. He fell in among them, no one cursing him, the men shoving aside, making space. He tried to shrink himself, to give room, but it was nearly impossible, the men crushed together in what seemed to be a haven, heavy cover. He was on his side, slid the musket upward, still no place to aim, heard the talk now, the men huddled together, sharing their fear, their fury. Bauer tried to see faces, saw mostly hats, men of the 15th, and his own, no one asking for officers, no officer seeking order. The musket fire from close above seemed to slow, men down below Bauer taking aim, picking targets. He felt the eagerness at that, his job, his talent, but not now. Now, what? He looked around, finally an officer, the man standing out to one side, Captain Haymond, then hunkering down, doing his job, searching for the next move, the best route they should take. Men were crawling past, just below, some with eyes of desperate fear, others seeking friends, offering names, units, as though any company commander would care just what boulder his men had called their own.

  Close beside him, the stink of sweat and blood, a wound on a man’s arm, the blood staining Bauer’s coat, and Bauer grabbed the man’s shoulder, said, “Hey! You’re wounded. Let me stuff a handkerchief into that.”

  Bauer pulled himself up, saw now, it was the boy, Hoover, saw teary-eyed fear, and Hoover said, “I’m killed! They done killed me!”

  “No, they just shot you. Just your arm. Here, hold this tight.”

  Hoover grabbed at Bauer’s hand, wild animal eyes, and Bauer pushed the boy’s hand onto the cloth, knew it was all he could do. Beside the boy, a man Bauer didn’t know, a handful of others, men from the 15th, a few from the 18th. The faces showed every emotion, fear and anger, exhaustion, relief, men finding their strength, and now Bauer heard the familiar voice, the growling curse, Willis, crawling along just below them.

  “Get your fat bottoms out of this hole and climb! There’s better cover above. The damn rebs can’t shoot straight down. The higher you go, the easer it’ll be. You don’t wanna take my word for it, the colonel’s up there right now.”

  “Captain!”

  Bauer looked toward the voice, down the slope, saw one of the colonel’s aides, Lieutenant Moyer, the man crawling up the hill in a panic, pushing through the loose rocks like a deranged spider. Moyer was in good cover now, out of breath, seemed desperately relieved to find Willis, or any officer. He fought to catch his breath, his words coming in short bursts.

  “Captain! You have to withdraw these men. They’ve gone too far!”

  Willis didn’t respond, stared at the man with a look Bauer knew well. Around Bauer, other men answered, “Too far? It ain’t far enough!”

  “We made it halfway up this hill!”

  Willis reached down, grabbed the lieutenant’s collar, pulled him up the hill, a hard hiss into the man’s face. “These men have fought their way up this hill. If we’d have stayed down there, we’d all be dead. Who in hell thinks we done the wrong thing? Some fat general back there eating his dinner? Colonel Moore is right up above us, in those rocks. You gonna crawl up there and tell him it’s time to go home?”

  The lieutenant seemed ready to cry, said, “Captain, it’s orders. Down below. General Johnson’s aide. We were supposed to take the rifle pits down below, and hold there, waiting for orders. You’re not supposed to be up here at all! There’s more rifle pits not too far above us. You can see ’em plain from down below. The rebs are there in force, and they’re hitting our boys good. Same all the way down this ridgeline. Hell, the general says half the army’s gone too far up this hill!”

  Willis glanced at Bauer now, as though seeing him for the first time. “You hear that, Dutchie? We disobeyed orders by staying alive.” Willis looked out to the others, all eyes on him, more men out to the side, more rocks, more cover, other officers trying to hear through the showers of artillery fire. Willis looked up, raised his head slightly, then down, smiled.

  “You’re right about one thing. There’s rebs not thirty yards up the hill. They gotta be sitting in their own pee, knowing we’re up this close. Lieutenant, I don’t know anything about General Johnson, other than that hairy thing on his face he’s always playing with. But these men followed me out of that pit down there because they didn’t want to die sitting still. Now I don’t aim to die running backward. That’s what you’re telling us to do.”

  Men responded now, agreeing with Willis. The lieutenant seemed desperate, staring at Willis, what seemed like an agonizing effort to be understood.

  “Captain, all I know is what the general is telling his aides. We’re not supposed to climb this here mountain. The orders are for these men
to withdraw back to the rebel works at the base of the ridge.”

  There was a burst of musket fire down to the left, more from above, volleys both ways, and Bauer peered up, saw a dozen men in blue rising up, climbing quickly through rocks, one man falling, tumbling backward. Now others did the same, farther away, shouts and screams. Willis looked that way, then turned to the aide.

  “Lieutenant, you can go back to General Johnson’s aide and tell him the fight’s up this hill. We push those rebs just a little more, and they’ll haul it out of those rifle pits, and make their way to the top, just like those boys did down below. The higher we go, the better it is for us. You tell the general that if our artillery back there wants to keep up their little show for our benefit, they might aim a little high.”

  “Captain … please. I was told …”

  Over from Bauer, a deep, thunderous voice, and Bauer looked that way, knew the growl of Corporal Owens.

  “Look here. I signed up to kill rebels. Indians. Mexicans. Hell, I don’t rightly care. But right now it’s rebels. And they’re not too far up this hill. Sounds like the place I wanna be. If’n you don’t mind, Captain, I’d rather follow you up this damn hill than run away from a fight ’cause of this bloomer-wearin’ mama squawler, and whatever general he thinks is so damn smart. Running away ain’t never won a fight.”

  Willis didn’t smile, said, “There you go, Lieutenant. I don’t care for being called names by none such as this fellow. He wants me to lead him up this hill, that’s what I’m gonna do. With all my respects to General Johnson, and his aide. You can tell the general, or anyone else back there who’s paying mind to what we’re doing, this is a fight we’re aiming to win.”

  Willis scanned the men closest to him, more agreements, men making ready to move once more. Bauer sat up, saw more men down to the left climbing out of cover, pushing their fight higher, smoke and musket fire engulfing them as they moved upward. All around him, the men began to shout, and Bauer saw others pointing, waving toward them to rise up, to keep moving upward.

  Willis responded, his head up over the rocks, said aloud, “They’re running! The rebs are running! Let’s help ’em. If you haven’t fixed bayonets, do it now! Get up! Climb the damn hill! Get to those next earthworks!”

  Willis pulled himself up over the rocks, the others following. Bauer waited for the space, rolled over, pulled his bayonet from his belt, tugged it tightly to the musket. He stood, put one foot higher on the slope, then climbed, stepping alongside the others, many more above. He ducked from the whistling canister, blowing past, too high, fought through smoke and dust, the men crowding together, the rebel rifle pits just above him. There were logs there as well, and Bauer saw beyond, above, those men pulling out, muskets dropped, pushing their way uphill. He looked out to the side, stopped, frozen by the stunning view of the enormous blue wave spread all along the ridge. The advance was flowing up the hill all down the slope, Johnson’s division, beyond, Sheridan’s division, and many more Bauer couldn’t see. The rebel artillery fire still came, ripping through the men, clouds of billowing smoke, adding to the musket fire that sought them out, panicked firing by the rebels still holding to the pits along the hillside. But those men were few, most of the rebels doing what their men down below had already done, pulling away, their numbers too few to hold back this enormous wave, the rebels desperate to find the safety at the crest of the hill. Bauer took aim now, finally, leveled the musket at a man staggering up the hill, a dozen yards above him. But another man fired first, the rebel rolling over, sliding back down, Bauer stung by rage, disappointment. He looked for the rival, saw Owens, the big dirty man, a smile through clenched yellow teeth. Owens looked at him now, still smiling, nodded toward him, pointed a crooked finger toward the crest of the hill.

  ORCHARD KNOB—NOVEMBER 25, 1863—4:30 P.M.

  The advance of the army had been spectacular, the view from Orchard Knob offering a clear panorama of the attack. Thomas had watched in awe, the crisp cold adding to the nervousness inside him he tried to hide from the men around him. Like Thomas, the others had stood in reverent silence as the thick lines of blue infantry pushed first through the dense thickets, the stands of trees, and then, with nearly perfect symmetry, had rolled forward across the final half mile of open ground. But the enemy had watched the same scene, had responded as Thomas knew they would. From their vantage point on the knob, the observers had estimated that the rebels had placed as many as fifty cannon in various positions along the center of Missionary Ridge, and with the blue troops in clear view, every one of those guns had started its work.

  As the flashes of fire blew down off the heights, Federal guns had begun their efforts to assist the advance, those gunners already knowing the range, the practice they had engaged in for the past several days. What had once annoyed Thomas, those useless duels that did nothing but consume ammunition, now became purposeful and precise. The rebel cannon responded to the batteries close to Orchard Knob, but more often, their muzzles were aimed at the oncoming infantry. Thomas had seen that kind of assault before, could never just accept that artillery fire was one of the usual hazards for men who had only their legs to propel them. In every fight, he had watched his men moving closer to the enemy with the same twisting dread, each blast burrowing through the lines of blue hitting him somewhere inside. It was the same today, that final race to the rebel rifle pits staggered by the waves of shelling, and then, the musket fire from those rebels brave enough to make a stand at the foot of the ridge. The couriers had come then, uncertain, nervous men, asking for orders, for clarity of what they had already been told. It had infuriated Thomas that the same men who had stood before Grant were now showing such uncertainty, or that each man seemed to regard the assault in a different way. The complaints came as well, fears that the attack was doomed to disaster, that with so much firepower raining down on them from the heights, even the rifle pits were a challenge the men could not overcome. For nearly an hour, Thomas had stood close beside Grant, fielding the doubts, the pessimism, the confusion, had responded to the couriers and staff officers by repeating the command they had been given already: Grab the first line, capture the rebels there, and wait for instructions.

  Grant had grown furious at the confusion, and Thomas knew the anger was directed at him. It was logical, in its own way, Thomas being the senior commander on the field. But Thomas also knew he was being scrutinized by civilian eyes, too many for comfort. The newspapermen had come forward, men like Sylvanus Cadwallader, who seemed to trail behind Grant like an overeager puppy. Charles Dana was there as well, no surprise, Dana sure to record any possibility of disaster in his next wire to the War Department. Thomas had grown to dislike Dana intensely, had wondered for some time now if Dana would ever care to send Secretary Stanton a dispatch that contained good news.

  The staffs were there as well, no harm in that, Grant’s aides as useful as Thomas’s in fielding the steady stream of riders from out front. Thomas had expected Granger to keep close, especially since it was the corps commander’s two divisions who held the center point of the entire advance. But Granger had slipped away, and Thomas had learned that Granger’s love of artillery had superseded his care for his own generals. Granger had occupied himself with ranging the guns of an Indiana battery, inserting himself into a job far more suited to the men who stood to the side, helpless to object. Whether or not Granger’s gunners appreciated the intrusion, Thomas knew Grant was not happy at all. The comments had come with pointed subtlety, Grant agreeing with Thomas that a corps commander had better things to do in the middle of a fight than play with cannons. With Grant’s displeasure reinforcing his own, Thomas had ordered Granger to return to the peak of Orchard Knob, Granger told in precise terms that his guns were already in capable hands.

  As the troops pressed closer to the rebel positions, the smoke had risen, obscuring most of the details, beyond glimpses of disorganization in the lines. It was to be expected, the men advancing at different speeds, depending on the
punishment each regiment was absorbing. But the smoke continued to rise, enveloping the ridge itself, adding considerably to Thomas’s anxiety. He stared through field glasses, a dozen more pairs spread out across the knob, eyes fixed on anything that would tell the commanders just what was happening.

  Beside him, Grant chewed furiously on a cigar, then shouted to a nearby aide, “Have we heard any more? Is Sherman succeeding?”

  The aide responded in a low voice, as though no one else should know just what Sherman might be doing. “I’m not certain, sir. No word has yet come since your last order, at three o’clock. Shall I send another rider up that way?”

  Grant seemed to growl, the cigar moving, shifting in his tightening jaw. “He will not keep me in the dark. There is nothing to be seen that way except smoke, and I must believe that he is carrying the fight.” Grant turned to Thomas, who knew the man’s anger would flow his way. “What is happening out here? I will not tolerate failure on such a scale, General.”