The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (25 page)

Brent pointed to a paper on Bragg’s desk. “Sir, that letter from Major Cummings convinces me that your assessment is accurate. There are stores aplenty in the warehouses in Atlanta, but Major Cummings answers directly to Colonel Northrup, and the orders coming from Richmond are unequivocal. The majority of the supply trains are being sent to Virginia. And no order from this department seems to change that.”

“I should like to meet Colonel Northrup on the field of battle. Two sabers. It would be a brief affair. Major Cummings has informed me of his frustrations. I do not expect him to remain at that post much longer. I have written directly to the adjutant general, Mr. Cooper, explaining our predicament, and thus far, even General Cooper seems to fear the almighty authority of Colonel Northrup. If I did not
believe my presence was essential here, I would go to Richmond myself.” Bragg pondered that for a moment. “Might do so anyway. Someone is keeping the president in the dark on this matter, and no one in Richmond seems immune from the magnificent charms of General Lee. Well, there is a good way, the only way to gain their attention. We shall destroy the enemy in Chattanooga.” He glanced at the lone window that faced Lookout Mountain. “It would be most useful to our cause if we did not have General Lee’s
favorite boy
sitting out there seeking to steal a portion of that glory.”

Bragg stood, fought through a searing headache that had plagued him since that morning. He moved to a map pinned to the wall, a broad sketch of eastern Tennessee.

“What have we heard from Knoxville?”

Brent moved up beside him, pointed. “Sir, General Stevenson is en route, and very soon, he should sit astride any good route that Burnside could use to inconvenience us.”

“But Stevenson is not strong enough to clear the enemy out of Tennessee.”

Brent glanced at the other aides, no one disagreeing with Bragg. “No, sir. Most likely not. He can hope to slow the enemy’s progress, should General Burnside attempt to move this way.”

“Then, that is a situation we must confront with vigor. And the solution to our difficulties is right in front of us. Or rather, just to the west of us. I will prepare a letter to the president, expressing in the most definite terms, that the enemy’s presence in Knoxville is a threat we cannot ignore. I will suggest that as rapidly as they can be put to the march, that General Longstreet’s corps strengthen the meager forces now protecting us from the enemy’s position in Knoxville.”

The others kept silent, and Bragg was suddenly overjoyed, moved to the view of the great mountain. Marvelous, he thought. This is a victory for everyone concerned, even the president.

Brent spoke slowly, choosing his words. “Sir, General Longstreet commands a sizable portion of our strength. If he is sent off, we will be forced to thin our position, spreading the remaining troops across to Lookout Creek. We could become vulnerable to any sudden move by the enemy.”

“What kind of move? The only activity we have seen over there is a change of command. I doubt very seriously that General Thomas, so new to his post, is in any position to launch offensive action in this direction. If anything, he is contemplating a retreat. Should that occur, we can strike his flanks with cavalry, and possibly cut him off on the road to Nashville. General Wheeler is fully capable of striking the enemy as required. We do
not
require General Longstreet.” He returned to the chair, the headache blissfully erased. “Leave me now. I must write the president.”

The officers obeyed, filing out of his room. He turned again toward Lookout Mountain, a hint of fog settling across the center of the great rocky mass, as though separating it in two great pieces.

He was certain of the information they had received from a handful of prisoners. Rosecrans was gone and George Thomas was now in his place. Thomas’s stout defense at Chickamauga had inspired talk not only among the Federals, but in Bragg’s army as well. He is a good tactician, Bragg thought. But he has one fatal flaw, a disability that he cannot overcome. He is after all, a Virginian, and so, in his heart, he knows he has betrayed his cause. It is no different than John Pemberton, another foolish man who believes he can pledge his loyalty as easily as he would choose which shirt he will wear. Pemberton’s heart was not in his fight at Vicksburg, and Thomas will be no different. No, he will not strike us. He will defend, he will maneuver, and very soon, he will bend to pressure from Washington, and he will save his army by attempting to withdraw. And when he abandons his carefully strengthened earthworks, and strings his forces out on every road to the north, we shall crush him piecemeal.

He turned in the chair, retrieved a blank piece of paper from a drawer to one side. He began to think, forming the words, a knock on his door breaking through his thoughts.

“By God, what is it?”

Brent was trailed by a rough-looking cavalryman, an officer Bragg didn’t know. The horseman followed Brent into the office without hesitation, and Bragg was annoyed, sputtered a curse, but Brent spoke up, his hands out in front of him.

“Sir! This is Lieutenant Garland, of General Wheeler’s first brigade. Lieutenant, make your report.”

There was an authority to Brent’s words that pushed Bragg back in the chair, a gravity to the horseman that Bragg couldn’t help respecting.

“Sir, my men have been in position keeping watch on the enemy’s supply route across Waldron’s Ridge. I have observed personally the overland march of a significant squad of horsemen, a battalion of guards escorting a man that, by all reckoning, sir, we believe to be General Grant.”

“Grant? Grant has come here?”

“Yes, sir. With all respects, sir, we have men posted near the Yankee depot at Stevenson, and near the water at Bridgeport. The talk there is considerable, and I do not believe the enemy is attempting to mislead us in any way. They are claiming that General Grant has been given command of this theater, and that he is now in Chattanooga. We do know that General Sherman is en route through northern Mississippi with a considerable force.”

The man was breathing heavily, aware of the gravity of his report. Brent said, “Sir, I do not wish to dismiss this man’s word, but how can we be certain that Grant has come?”

Bragg was smiling now, felt rejuvenated, a surge of excitement he had not felt in a very long time. “I do not doubt you, Lieutenant. Not at all. It is perfectly reasonable. Washington understands the value of Chattanooga, as they understand the force now threatening their precious Army of the Cumberland.”

“But, sir, we should seek further confirmation.”

The horseman seemed to bristle at Brent, said, “Sir, I witnessed the man from no more than a hundred yards’ distance.”

Bragg rubbed his chin. “Fancy dress uniform? Brass band following close behind him?”

The man seemed puzzled. “No, sir. Nothing like that. He was barely in a uniform at all. Plain dressed, no band, certainly. His staff was carrying him through the worst holes, ’cause of his leg. He was injured, it appeared.”

Bragg smiled now, looked at Brent. “This man knows what he saw, Colonel. And so do I. Grant hasn’t changed since Shiloh, and it makes perfect sense that those biddies in Washington would send him here.” Brent was puzzled, and Bragg kept the smile. “Don’t you see? I expected
this. The enemy has only told us what we already believed. This is the place where they are most afraid. What we do here could turn this war completely in our favor. A great victory here could be the first step in driving the enemy completely out of Tennessee, cutting him off in Alabama and Mississippi, leaving him a single option. They will be forced to retreat to the Gulf Coast. I can imagine that with perfect clarity, Colonel. They will scramble in panic on board their great warships, desperate to survive, as we rid this country of their noxious stain.”

He saw Brent’s stare, the man still not seeming to understand the magnitude of the lieutenant’s report.

“Sir, will you still be writing the president? Certainly, Richmond should be informed of this turn of events.”

For a single moment, Bragg had forgotten the itching torment, the aggravation driven into him every day by the presence of James Longstreet.

“Oh yes, Colonel. Richmond shall know exactly what I intend to do, and exactly who faces us across the way. But what we do here, we will do with this army alone. Longstreet came riding down here with every expectation that he would assume full command,
my
command, or that he would be independent of any authority. Well, on that I shall oblige him. Once he marches away from here, and assumes his new position at Knoxville, he may perform exactly as he wishes. And he will no longer be my problem.”

“You see him? Right above that rock.”

Bauer didn’t answer, felt his hands shaking, shouted silently at himself to calm down. The target was moving in every direction. The musket was jiggling in his hands, his grip sweaty.

“You got him?”

“Yes.”

He said nothing else, could feel the small crowd of men behind him, eyes following his, small voices distracting him, whispers and taunts. He kept his eye focused down the barrel of the musket, knew some of the men had bet against him, were trying to break his concentration, while the others, the ones who dared to risk a dime or a dollar, were only adding tension to his aim. He closed his eyes, tried to relax, opened again, blinked, focusing, the target still dancing through the iron sights, but slower now, less movement; his hands were more settled. He blocked out the sounds behind him, had done this so many times, his careful routine, strengthening and narrowing his focus. He slid the musket back and forth a few inches along the soft padding of the leather cushion. His hands pulled the musket tighter against his shoulder, anchoring it firmly, but not too firmly.
The voices still engulfed him, men cheering him on with intense nervousness, a part of the game. They were testing him, after all, no surprise to Bauer. He was the outsider, the stranger, the only man among all these Pennsylvanians who was no longer a part of the volunteers.

“Come on, boy, take him down!”

The voice came from the sergeant, close behind him, Bauer catching the hint of whiskey on the man’s breath. He didn’t respond, kept his stare down the long barrel of the musket, found the target again, a wide gray hat, the man’s head and chest clearly visible, something small and black blocking the man’s face. Field glasses. Looking at what? Me?

His own voice took command now, calming him from inside, soft, intense, erasing the chatter from the others, his eyes and his brain settling onto the one place that mattered, on the head and the chest of the man in gray. He eased his finger into the trigger guard, then slowly, carefully wrapped his finger around the trigger, a minuscule space between his skin and the steel, putting no pressure on the trigger at all. His cheek rested on the smooth wood, and now he was alone, nothing else around him, staring out toward a far distant speck of color. Just me, just you. He spoke silently to the man in the distance, too far to see details of the man’s face, assumed from the uniform it had to be an officer. The field glasses appeared to drop, the man jostling just a bit, and Bauer hesitated, thought, A horse. He’s sitting on a horse. Definitely an officer. The black spot came up again, the field glasses obscuring the man’s head completely, nothing visible but the hat, the small patch of gray, the man’s upper body. Half hidden, he thought. Thinks he’s safe, protected by rocks. Thinks he’s
clever
.

Bauer centered himself on his own breathing, slow, steady, pushed his shoulders downward, a slight adjustment, to raise the iron sights, just above the man’s head. Four hundred yards, he thought. At least. Raise it a bit more. He was aiming higher now, two feet, three feet above the hat, and the voice in his brain grew quiet, no other sound reaching him, everything coming together into his eyes, and again, the slight touch of cold steel at the tip of his finger, his lungs emptying slowly, no movement at all.

The musket fired now, surprising him, as it always should. The
smoke blew out in a thick white cloud, and Bauer let out the rest of the deep breath, didn’t move, felt the jarring shock in his shoulder, his cheek. It was the worst moment, always, the agonizing seconds when you couldn’t see anything, but behind him, the others were scattered out beyond the smoke, one man with field glasses of his own, the smoke now giving way.

“Hooeee! You see that? He fell like a sack of flour!”

The men were shouting now, moving in close, a hard slap on Bauer’s back, and he closed his eyes, another piece of his routine, a quick, silent
Thank you
. He didn’t have to see the target to know what he had done. The sights hadn’t moved. The musket was aimed perfectly; the ball should have thumped straight into the man’s chest. And it did.

“Dangdest shootin’ I ever seen! I give it to you, Dutchman. Didn’t think anybody’d be that dang good.”

The others joined in the grand congratulations, more slaps, Bauer opening his eyes now, the smell of the powder lingering. He rolled over, sat up, allowed himself to enjoy this part of it, the approval of the others, all the blue coats, smiling faces, shaking heads. Back behind the men was a cluster of officers he hadn’t noticed before, observing silently. Nearby, a handful of men were paying off their bets to the winners, those who believed in him, happier still. He rested his arms across his knees, said to the man with the field glasses, “Keep a good watch. They might have somebody out there send a ball this way. There’s some good shooters among those boys.”