The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (47 page)

There was more to his shivering anxiousness than the weather. For the past two days, three-fourths of his army, nearly twenty thousand men, had finally made their way past Chattanooga, marching northward to the location chosen for them by Baldy Smith, buried deep in heavy woods just west of the big river. His fourth division had been caught by the destruction of the pontoon bridge at Brown’s Ferry, and for now, Sherman had agreed that those men would remain at Lookout Valley, available to assist Hooker’s assault on Lookout Mountain. Going into a fight missing a quarter of his strength had given Sherman a hot knot in his stomach, but Grant had waited long enough for this campaign to begin, and Sherman understood that his own indigestion wasn’t as important as Grant’s. The delays in bringing his troops to Chattanooga had gnawed at Sherman like a bulldog at his backside, and despite Grant’s smiling welcome, it was clear to Sherman that Grant’s patience was at low ebb. The smiles and friendly conversation had quickly given way to talk of strategy and tactics, and it became clear that Grant was more agitated than Sherman had ever seen him, a show of stern impatience
that Sherman knew he had earned. The attack had already been postponed for too many days. It was time to go.

As he moved slowly through the rain, he knew that one column of his men was on the move, a full brigade slipping out through the soggy woodlands, easing closer to this small tributary of the Tennessee River, what the maps showed as North Chickamauga Creek. The mission on this night would be to board pontoon boats, slipping silently down the creek to the Tennessee River, the oarsmen working to catch the current to carry them quickly and silently downstream. The landings would come on both sides of the mouth of South Chickamauga Creek, the men making every effort at pushing ashore without alarming any rebel skirmishers anywhere along the route. The river at that point was nearly a quarter mile across, a dangerous gap between the first men across and any support they might need. The single advantage in such a distance was the rain, which would most certainly deaden any noisy mistakes, a stumble in the boats, a clatter of metal, anything to reveal the presence of the troops. The men had been ordered to load their muskets, but no percussion caps, no chance of an accidental discharge. Even the miserable weather wouldn’t hide musket fire, and on this night, there could be no alerting the enemy.

It baffled him still how so many skirmishers could stand ready on each side of the great river, eyeing one another every day for nearly two months, and yet no attempts had been made by either side to punish the other. Downstream, where the sweeping curves wound closer to Chattanooga, the river had narrow places, the men within easy hailing distance, close enough for boats and rafts to paddle across for their bartering, whether the officers approved of that or not. Sherman most definitely did not. He had no tolerance for opposing picket lines who spoke to each other as though perched casually on opposite sides of some country lane, awaiting some parade, all the while tossing bags of sweet treats back and forth like some ridiculous game. If the rebel pickets were out there, on this far north end of Bragg’s position, it would be Sherman’s job to silence them any way possible. That was not a job for any man who considered those other troops to be his friends.

The enemy had sat on their high ground for far too many weeks, a mystery to Sherman. He had always believed there had to be more to Braxton Bragg than paralysis, more to the generals who commanded his army, a good army, a victorious army. All along the journey from western Tennessee, he knew that the delays and plodding tediousness of his march could cost him any opportunity to be a part of Grant’s campaign. He had disagreed with some of Grant’s methods, argued the decisions, had lobbied often for more aggression. It was Sherman’s way, shoving forward straight into the enemy’s lines and crushing them with a hard fist before there was time for the other fellow to react. To Sherman, preparation took far more time than it was supposed to, gave away any advantage of surprise, and almost always meant that the enemy was just as prepared as you were. The march down along the rail lines in Mississippi and Alabama had driven that home to Sherman every day as they struggled with burned bridges and shattered railroad tracks. Every day of repair gave the enemy a luxury of one more day to rebuild, strengthen, grow fit and strong.

In late September, the news that the rebels were attempting a siege at Chattanooga infuriated him. It didn’t require a hard jab from the pen of Henry Halleck to educate Sherman about the potential cost of what Bragg was trying to do. Sherman had seen firsthand what an effective siege could do to any army, the rebel army at Vicksburg forced to stagger into surrender with bare bones and rags on their backs. On the march eastward, that image drove him to raw-tempered fury, the delays from weather and roads holding him back from a mission that might mean the survival of an entire Federal army.

After so many delays, he had expected a thorough blasting from Grant, knew he deserved it. He knew better than to offer excuses for bad roads, knew that there were failings that were his alone. He had no good explanation to offer Grant why he had arranged his divisions in a configuration certain to slow them down. The order that scolded Sherman for his error was more embarrassing to Sherman than he could admit to anyone. But Grant wouldn’t push the issue, wouldn’t write up the mistake in some report for all the world to see. Sherman had done exactly what Grant expected him to do, had corrected his own error, had finally pushed his men forward far more
quickly than their cumbersome supply trains. Sherman had been enormously grateful for Grant’s discretion, and Sherman had wondered, if the roles had been reversed, how he might have responded to days of delay from a subordinate who should know better. But Grant was still Grant, had pulled him into the headquarters with the unspoken affection Sherman always hoped to see. Grant seemed to appreciate that what Sherman brought to the fight was far more than numbers. The men who marched behind Sherman knew it, too, saw it in every other encampment they passed.

It had been that way at Bridgeport, throughout Lookout Valley, marching past Joe Hooker’s “Easterners,” all those officers with polished brass buttons and paper collars, dandies with their shining pistols, their swords housed in clean scabbards. Marching past Hooker’s men had given Sherman that wonderful swell of pride, something he shared with his men. His men were dirty, ragged, the officers’ uniforms showing the wear of the battlefield. Their buttons carried the grime and tarnish of weather and mud and a bloody struggle, and Sherman never pushed them to “clean it up.” This war bore no resemblance to any dress parade, and Hooker’s men most certainly caught Sherman’s message, even as Sherman himself rode past. He heard the calls, the ridicule tossed his way from the men in white shirts, but the catcalls were soon silenced as word spread of the campaigns these men had fought, the victories they had won. By the time they cleared the valley, making their way across the river, Sherman’s troops marched a little straighter, their pace a little quicker. Nearer to Chattanooga, they began moving past the men whose flags carried the word
Cumberland
, and like Hooker’s men, it was an army that knew defeat. To the soldiers who tramped their way over the pontoon bridges, that story was told in the eyes of the men they passed, something only another soldier could see. Sherman wouldn’t dwell on that, knew that these men around Chattanooga weren’t whipped. The devastating defeat at Chickamauga had come from their leadership, a problem that the War Department and Grant himself had seemed to solve. Sherman’s men marched out to their wooded camps as confident as their commander that whatever had happened to those
other men
at Chancellorsville or Chickamauga would not be repeated here. Sherman was there to win this fight. If the other parts of this
great army were to claim their share of that victory, that would be up to them.

He wasn’t sure about George Thomas. Defeat could be contagious, and Thomas had risen up through the ranks under Buell and Rosecrans, men who had shown little of the kind of leadership Grant now displayed. Sherman didn’t know either of those men well, knew only what he read in the reports. The campaigns spoke for themselves, and over the past several months, while Grant had crushed his way through Mississippi, while Meade had tossed Lee out of Pennsylvania, these armies in between seemed to stumble about their enemy like a pair of blind bulls. The horns locked once in a while, Stones River, Tullahoma, Perryville, and, of course, the savagery of Chickamauga. But from Sherman’s vantage point during the time he made his camps near the Mississippi River, what had passed for campaigns in middle Tennessee and Kentucky had accomplished very little. He knew the clumsiness had extended to both sides, but if George Thomas had learned his methods in service of those generals, what did that say about Thomas now? All Sherman really knew came from the reports that Grant was issuing to Washington and to Sherman himself, why it was so very important that Sherman’s people get there in good time. There had been two months of suffering and stagnation around Chattanooga and it made sense to Sherman that Grant might lack confidence in George Thomas. Sherman was completely comfortable with the urgency of Grant’s orders, had absolute confidence that any serious problem Thomas could not handle could be solved by his own army.

Sherman rode slowly along the fresh trail, saw the pontoon boats slid up along the bank of the narrow creek, an endless line far out in the darkness. All along the creek, men were scrambling about, making ready, the kind of energy Sherman expected. His guide was a young captain named Farrow, one of Baldy Smith’s men, and Sherman kept close to the young man, said in a low voice, “Do we know the whereabouts of Colonel McCook?”

The man pointed ahead. “Should be right up here, sir. According
to General Smith, Colonel McCook’s done fine work here. Managed the construction of all these here boats.”

“How many?”

“One hundred sixteen, sir. At last count. General Smith likes to be precise about that sort of thing. He is duly impressed with Colonel McCook. An Ohio man, I believe.”

“Fifty-second Ohio.”

“You know the colonel then, sir?”

Sherman scanned the men working around the boats, couldn’t help a smile. “More than that. He used to be my law partner.”

The captain made a sound, audible surprise. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I didn’t know you had a hankering for the law.”

Sherman wasn’t in the mood for idle chatter, said, “A long time ago. Long ways away. California.”

He saw a man step into the road to the front, blocking the way, and now a familiar voice.

“Well, now, we got sightseers coming our way? Whole bunch of horses, I see. Who needs so many men on his staff? Boats are a much more efficient means of travel. Eat less hay, for one.”

Sherman halted the horse, said, “I outrank you by about four grades, you know. Watch that big mouth.”

“Never bigger, General. Never could compete with your skills as an orator. All that talk, and fists to go with it. Heard you had gone completely insane. Or was that last year?”

Sherman appreciated McCook’s joviality, but the rain and the activity around him kept Sherman’s good humor away. He reached down, took McCook’s hand, a hard shake, felt the rough hide, calluses, a man who worked alongside his men.

“A hundred sixteen? That enough?”

“If I gave you a hundred fifty, would you be any happier? It’s enough, Cump. If you’ll allow me, I’ll mount up and join you. The men are waiting for your order to launch the first boat.”

Sherman felt the nervousness in the men around him, a faint hum of activity, most of it in hushed silence. He leaned closer to the young captain, said, “How far back to Chattanooga?”

“Eight miles or so, sir. You aiming to go back?”

Sherman had no patience for questions, thought, A damn big gap between my boys and Thomas’s flank. That’s Howard’s job. He damn well better be there if we need him.

“I’m not going anywhere, Captain. Let’s get the job done.”

There was a finality to his words that silenced the captain. He saw McCook riding toward him now, turning his horse to one side, Sherman following. They pushed through a thick line of brush, past cut timber, tall trees that helped shield him from the rain. The ride was short, barely a minute, and he saw the creek again, more of the pontoon boats, a small fleet of flatboats as well.

He said to McCook, “How far out to the Tennessee?”

“Two hundred yards or so. Far enough that no one over there has the slightest notion what’s up. Be certain of that, Cump. It’s going well enough.”

Sherman knew better, that no plan would ever go as smoothly as planned. The construction of the boats had been a secret as carefully guarded as any secret could be in an army this size. The men camped nearby had been kept away from the creek completely, and if the sound of sawmills and carpentry inspired more than idle curiosity, Sherman’s provost guards blocked every trail.

He glanced back in the darkness, no telltale signs that more than twenty thousand men were camped in the woods to his rear, no lights, no fires. Good, very good. He looked out toward the big river, thought, How far to the first big rebel camp? Doesn’t matter, I guess. We get this job done right, the rebs won’t know about it until daylight. And they’ll be in a serious fix.

McCook halted on a low rise close to the water, and Sherman saw the single boat, men gathered around it, working in silence, the boat sliding through the mud to the water’s edge. He dismounted, said to his closest aides, anonymous in the dark, “Stay here. Don’t need to look like a squad of cavalry out here. No telling who might be right across that creek. Take my horse.”

“Yes, sir.”

He didn’t have to watch his staff officer, McCoy, pulling the aides back to the edge of the trees. He walked out over soft mud, McCook following, the young captain as well. To one side, a line of soldiers moved forward, men handpicked for the job by their captain, an
Ohioan named Hess. They were halting near the boat, others on board already, oars being moved about, the boat’s crew, commanded by another man Smith had suggested. Sherman leaned closer to McCook now, said, “That would be Major Hipp?”