The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War

by Jeff Shaara

  He glanced up, darkness very soon, felt comforted by the tramping of so many feet behind him. Cumming was back close to the head of his column, even more comforting. He knew little of Alfred Cumming but what he had seen today, and the Georgians had done as well as any unit in Cleburne’s lines. A West Pointer, he thought, a veteran. I must thank him for his service today. I would gladly serve with him again. That’s Hardee’s doing, certainly, sending good men to help us.

  Out ahead of him, a dozen guards crept forward, a caution taken by Cumming that Cleburne appreciated. He thought of his pocket watch, tired fingers fumbling with his coat, his attention caught now by a rider coming toward him. He saw the guards jump out into the trail, intercepting the man, heard the manic high-pitched voice, the rider pointing toward him. Cleburne pushed the horse forward, heard the horseman pleading to be let through. The guards stood aside now, one man speaking out.

  “Sir! Says he’s from General Hardee.”

  “He is, soldier. Sergeant Newell, you have another dispatch for me?”

  Newell seemed desperately relieved, saluted Cleburne, said, “Sir! It is most urgent, sir! Your orders have changed. The enemy has overrun the ridge in several places. General Breckinridge’s forces have been cut off from this end of the line, and are thought to be in some confusion, sir.”

  Cleburne stared at the man, looked past him, could still hear scattered thumps of distant artillery. “Is this from General Hardee himself?”

  “I just left him, sir. It is most urgent. General Hardee has formed a line astride this ridge, a half mile or so ahead, attempting to hold back the enemy from this direction.”

  “What are my orders? I have two brigades in this column. What does the general wish me to do?”

  “Sir, General Hardee can best explain himself. It is most distressing, sir. A terrible turn. If you wish to follow me, I will take you to the general.”

  “By all means. Let’s move, Sergeant.”

  He left the two brigades behind, followed the courier in a hard gallop through the dimming light, relied on the horse not to tumble him out of the saddle. There was clear panic in the sergeant’s voice, but he rode with skill, pulling out far ahead of Cleburne, then slowing, allowing Cleburne to catch up. It was a humiliating exercise, but Cleburne focused more on the trail, scattered troops, cracks of musket fire to the front. And now, a cluster of horsemen, a limp flag, and Hardee.

  Cleburne fought to steady the horse, focused on Hardee, who offered no formal greeting, pushed his horse out from the others, said, “The ridge has broken. The enemy has taken strong positions all across what was our lines to the south.”

  Cleburne let the words flow through him, felt a numbing shock, waves of disbelief. Hardee seemed to wait for a response, then said, “General Cleburne, did you not hear me? We are in a dire situation to the south. Your efforts holding the right flank were the only success we had today.”

  Cleburne sat upright in the saddle now, his weariness pushed aside. “How did this occur, sir? We were most strong in the center.”

  “The enemy drove four divisions into Breckinridge’s lines and my far left flank. They made breakthroughs at several points, and now have reinforced. They are in strength along the crest of the ridge. Bragg’s headquarters is in enemy hands, and Bragg has retreated back toward Chickamauga Station.”

  Hardee seemed out of breath, and Cleburne looked out across the ridge, saw troops in motion, flags, men on horseback, the soldiers lined up not to face the great open plain, but down, toward the south.

  He looked again at Hardee, almost expected a smile, as though this news was someone’s bizarre attempt at humor. But he knew Hardee well enough, could see the despair on the man’s face. Cleburne could not stop the words, the question.

  “What happened? How did they break us?”

  “Their army defeated ours, General. What more must you be told?”

  There was no patience in Hardee’s voice, and Cleburne said, “I have two brigades up the trail behind me. They held the position, sir. We did good work on the flank. Sherman could still attempt another assault tonight, but I have yet seen no sign of that.”

  “That hardly matters now, General. Walthall’s and Brown’s brigade have formed a good line across the ridge. We anticipated the enemy pushing up this way, but they seemed to welcome the end of this day as much as we have. Grant seems content with what he has accomplished, and I do not expect any further attacks until morning.” He paused. “What you will do now is protect this army from its utter destruction. Bragg is hoping to withdraw as many of the troops off the ridge as can be gathered up, and pull them to the rail depot, where they can be marched to the south. There are fugitives from our lines for miles, I’m certain of that. I am placing you in command of the three divisions on your flank. Once I am fully satisfied the enemy has halted his efforts, we shall begin an immediate withdrawal to the east, across the creek. I will attempt to find General Bragg at Chickamauga Station.”

  “The army is to withdraw? To the trains?”

  “The enemy has forced our withdrawal, Patrick. I have no idea what remains of this army, how many commanders can rally their men, or if we are in any kind of condition to make another fight. If there are trains, more the better. If not, we must march the men south along the rail line. Bragg has but one duty now, to salvage what he can of the army. Is General Polk still holding the bridge to the northeast?”

  Polk. Cleburne hadn’t thought of Lucius Polk in a while now, that brigade seeing almost no fire from Sherman’s troops.

  “Yes, sir. Polk’s brigade is fresh.”

  “Keep them at that bridge. That’s your route of escape.”

  The word rattled Cleburne, and he couldn’t just accept that as a command. “Sir, forgive me, but are you completely certain this is necessary? My troops have held back a substantial force of the enemy. Sherman’s dead and wounded are thick on that ground down below us. To ask these men to abandon their position, after such a fight …”

  “I am not asking anything, General. I am ordering you to save what remains of this army. It is no more complicated than that.” Hardee stopped, let out a long breath, and Cleburne could feel the man’s anguish, felt it himself. “Patrick, this day has been a disaster for us all. We do not yet know what remains of our troops, our regiments, any organization at all, beyond your forces to the north. Bragg sent a courier here, ordering the army to rendezvous at the station, and prepare for withdrawal southward. Whether or not anyone will be there to follow him … well, we shall see. Our greatest hope right now is that the enemy is content to celebrate in our camps, and keep to this ridge until morning. We have no such luxury. As soon as you can put your men into motion, you will withdraw from your position along this ridge and march them across Chickamauga Creek. Salvage what equipment and guns you believe practicable. There is no time to waste.”

  Hardee was looking down, and Cleburne heard the emotion in his voice. Cleburne waited for more, but Hardee was silent, had said all he needed to say. Cleburne leaned closer to him, said in a low voice, “We can bring my troops down this way, drive the enemy off the ridge. We are very strong. Three divisions. You said it yourself.”

  “And what of Sherman? He’ll be on your backsides before you fire the first musket. It is done, Patrick. You have your orders.”

  Cleburne couldn’t just ride away, so much uncertainty, so many questions. He had never seen Hardee engulfed in so much despair. “Sir, where will you go?”

  “The men are receiving orders now. I will lead what remains of these troops to a place of safety. That is my duty, Patrick. Right now, it’s the only duty.”

  Cleburne still burned with questions, and Hardee looked at him, a grim stare, seemed to read him.

  “Patrick, we have been outmanned, we have been outmaneuvered, and today we were outgeneraled. There is but one choice. Much of that is left to you. You will do what you must. There is nothing left of any defensible positions to the south. I do not wish to see this entire
army ground to dust. Your command is the only organized force remaining in strength. You must protect our withdrawal.”

  It was after ten o’clock, the orders already issued to his brigade commanders, others, the men Cleburne barely knew. But the duty now was clear to them all. They crossed the bridge in good order, led by the men who had led them in the most difficult fight of their lives. There was grousing, complaints, questions for the officers. But the briefest of instructions held the answer, and no one in Cleburne’s force could argue with the perfect logic that their impervious defensive lines had been shattered, that any troops remaining up on Tunnel Hill would most certainly be cut off from any chance of escape. And so, throughout the night they marched, fording an icy stream, pushing on toward the good roads, the rail line, adding to Bragg’s retreat into Georgia.

  Once his men had crossed Chickamauga Creek, the bridge had been burned, but Cleburne already knew that no enemy was in pursuit. He allowed his men to rest, an hour’s sleep, then roused them again at two thirty in the morning, continuing the march. Along the way, another courier reached him, a surprising message from Bragg, clear instructions from a man who rarely seemed clear at all. Cleburne’s troops were still to be the army’s rear guard, would march as rapidly as possible to a point of strength some fifteen miles to the southeast, Ringgold Gap, where the road and rail line sliced through a deep and narrow pass. There Cleburne’s men would make every effort to hold off any pursuit by the Yankees until the fugitives of Bragg’s command could be brought together. The order added one phrase Cleburne hoped never to see. He was to hold the gap at all costs.

  As he left the crest of Tunnel Hill, Cleburne could not just pull away from Sherman without taking the right kind of precautions. Mark Lowrey’s brigade was the last to leave the hill, holding the lines just above the mouth of the tunnel that Cleburne had fought so tenaciously to hold. Lowrey was ordered to drive down the hill, shoving Sherman’s picket lines away, preventing any casual observation of the withdrawal. It was sound tactics, preventing the enemy from knowing just when Cleburne’s troops had pulled away, just which direction they would march. But to Cleburne, it was a symbol, a final act of defiance. There was no escaping the utter despair for what had occurred, the entire army forced to give up the best ground Cleburne had ever seen, brought to complete collapse by the better efforts of a superior enemy. But on Tunnel Hill, it had been very different. While Lowrey’s men drove the Yankees away, Cleburne kept his gaze on the scattered musket fire, what was little more than a brief skirmish that drove the enemy’s pickets away. The emotions were unstoppable, the fury, the crushing sadness, the hopelessness of what might happen now. He couldn’t help thinking of Bragg, the others, if there had been generals in this fight who would continue to lead this army, if there was yet some new disaster awaiting them. With Lowrey’s mission completed, Cleburne watched as they pulled back, climbing once more over the crest, joining the rest of Cleburne’s forces beyond the protection of the creek. As they moved past him, Cleburne tried not to hear their cries, their anger, their cheers of well-earned satisfaction. He kept his eyes on the distant campfires, the dark mound of Billy Goat Hill, thought only of Sherman, the enormous numbers of blue troops sent his way, so many assaults over so many hours. He wondered if he would ever meet the man, would have the opportunity to ask him directly if he would admit what had happened here. I would truly like to know that, he thought. No matter the enormous breadth of Grant’s victory, you made your best efforts to crush the men I put in your way, and you did not succeed. No, I would ask him, push him more than that. No matter what else your army accomplished on this day, I would compel you, force you to admit it to these men, that out here, on this one day, across this rolling, wooded ground, you were thoroughly beaten.

  RINGGOLD, GEORGIA—NOVEMBER 27, 1863

  The debris was everywhere, some of it human, rebel stragglers who seemed almost eager for captivity. But much more could be seen from the rapid retreat of Bragg’s army, and Sherman knew, that as his men were advancing, they fought the temptation to sift through the massive amount of equipment the rebels could not or chose not to carry. There had been skirmishes along the way, the town of Graysville hotly contested for brief minutes, the Federal troops surprised to stumble straight into a rebel camp, desperately tired men on both sides. But the rebels seemed unwilling to make a stand against the inevitable, the numbers too few to hold the men in blue back for more than a brief time.

  He had been ordered by Grant to push hard against Bragg’s retreat, had marched his men back away from Billy Goat Hill, moving across Chickamauga Creek on the small pontoon bridge his men had laid days before, then circling around to the north of the creek. Sherman hoped for speed, to cut off a mass of rebels before they could slip through the mountain passes, but the movement of his own men was as plodding and cumbersome as the ragged army they pursued. The lesson learned on Missionary Ridge had been learned first by Sherman, that assuming the rebels would just fall away in the face of a stout charge could cost far more casualties than Grant would find acceptable, and Sherman pushed his men with far more caution now than he had against Tunnel Hill.

  To Sherman’s surprise, and certainly to Grant’s, the rebels had moved away far more quickly than any disorganized force could be expected to travel. The retreat was so efficient that Sherman could not avoid the first of several surprises when he reached the town of Ringgold. The deserters had offered great tales of woe, a starving rebel army, men forced to eat the leather on their shoes. But along the route of Sherman’s pursuit, he had ridden often toward rising columns of black smoke, warehouses engulfed in flames, put to the torch by rebel soldiers who had no wagons and no time to haul away the supplies. In some places, the warehouses seemed bursting with rations, sacks of corn and flour, even meat, the distinct odor flowing through the smoke, the hypnotic smells that captured the attention of his own men. Sherman had passed the destruction in wonder, had seen too many Confederate troops with gaunt faces, men who seemed for all the world to be starving. Yet their supply depots had been abundant, and Sherman could only wonder if the rebels he had seen had been denied sustenance by some grotesque inefficiency that seemed to suit the personality of Braxton Bragg.

  At Ringgold, there had been word of a fight, much more than a simple skirmish. The name had rattled Sherman, as it had infuriated him at Tunnel Hill. Patrick Cleburne had held off the Federal pursuit, allowing the rebels to escape. It seemed hardly to matter that along the way, they had left behind enough matériel to wage some new campaign for some time to come. But those goods that survived the torch were now in Federal hands, and if the rebels were to make another strong effort at driving Grant’s army away, they would have to find supplies from another source.

  Days before, when he crossed into Chattanooga from the valley west of Lookout Mountain, Sherman had left one division behind, commanded by the German, Peter Osterhaus. Osterhaus had then been half of the assault that swept the rebels off of the mountain, and since, had kept his troops alongside the rest of the men who answered to Joe Hooker. Sherman had expected to rendezvous with Osterhaus at Ringgold, adding that division once more to the Army of Tennessee, filling the gaps in Sherman’s command that had come from the vicious fight at Tunnel Hill. But Hooker had pushed Osterhaus to the vanguard of his pursuit of Bragg’s army, and clearly had expectations of his own. Hooker still seemed to operate beneath the black cloud of low expectations, and despite Grant’s concerns that Bragg’s army might yet be dangerous, Hooker expected nothing of the sort. The Federal troops knew they had been victorious, and Hooker, who expected trumpeting headlines for his conquest of Lookout Mountain, seemed intent on securing his place in the gallant accounts of this campaign. His delays in crossing Chattanooga Creek had seemed to drain away the glory he felt he had earned on the mountain, word reaching him that both Thomas and Grant were severely disappointed by Hooker’s sluggishness. Hooker had been left completely out of the army’s enormous success in driving the enemy away from Missio
nary Ridge. By all accounts, Hooker seemed eager to erase that stain, and so he drove his men in a rapid pursuit of what he believed to be a gang of terrified fugitives.

  At Ringgold Gap, an overeager Joe Hooker sent Osterhaus’s division forward in pursuit of what Hooker thought was the trailing end of the rebel retreat. Instead, Ringgold Gap provided an opportunity for Patrick Cleburne to bloody another Federal nose. Moving quickly forward without the benefit of artillery, Hooker’s drive was ambushed by Cleburne’s far inferior numbers, the gap itself offering good cover, masking Cleburne’s own artillery, a stunning and bloody surprise to the lead elements of Osterhaus’s division. For several hours, Cleburne’s forces punched hard at any effort by Hooker to drive them away, costing Hooker another heavy toll in casualties. When Cleburne did finally withdraw, it was only because he chose to, after receiving word from Bragg that the army was safely to the south. If Hooker had hoped this campaign would elevate his reputation in Washington, and throughout the army, Sherman knew that Grant would offer little praise for his haphazard and costly search for glory. For Sherman, the worst part of Hooker’s blunder had been the loss of so many of Sherman’s own, the ground in front of Ringgold Gap spread with the bodies of too many men.

  Sherman saw the horsemen, moved that way, his staff in tow. The smoke still boiled up from the warehouses along the road, more of the rebel supplies now reduced to smoldering ruins. Throughout the small town, blue-clad soldiers worked through the ash piles. The smells struck him, burnt corn, or the pungent odor of burning flour. Men were slinging sacks of whatever remained over their shoulders, some with the prize of slabs of bacon.