by Jeff Shaara
Forrest stared, a glance at one of the aides, a young captain, who avoided his eyes.
“General Bragg, is not the duty of my cavalry to offer you reliable information? You said yourself we have performed well.”
“You fought well, yes. I have not heard any reports of your men failing to carry out their orders. But with all respects to your accomplishments and your reputation, I learned long ago to distrust cavalry. There is a great deal of romance in your service, is there not? All that professed gallantry can lead to carelessness, more time spent impressing the ladies along the way than accuracy in locating the enemy. With respects to you, Mr. Forrest, I must accept your reports with a measure of skepticism.”
Forrest felt a boiling anger sprout in his brain, the insult more than casual. But still … Bragg was in command. And every officer in the army had been insulted by Bragg more than once. He took a long breath, tried to calm the instinctive response, unclenched a tight fist, a weapon that one part of him wanted to plant squarely across Bragg’s chin.
“Sir, I can only offer you what I saw myself. The enemy is in full retreat away from here. He has made a frantic withdrawal through the mountains. I made every attempt to engage him, push a fight against the obstacles he put in our path. His rear guard did little more than delay us. Every observation I made tells me that right now, there is no fight in the Federal army. We must drive General Rosecrans from the sanctuary they seek in Chattanooga. He is defeated. He is inclined toward further retreat. We must see it so. We must not allow him the false confidence of believing us too weak to crush him.”
Bragg shook his head, stared down at the desk. “I wish this entire army shared your passion, Mr. Forrest. But we are in no condition to drive forward with any conviction. We must recover our wounded, regroup, sort out the units. Entire regiments are jumbled about, their officers confused, stumbling about seeking their commands.”
“Sir, I am told that General Longstreet is prepared to move forward, that he has gathered a sizable force.…”
Bragg sniffed loudly, and Forrest saw something awaken in the man, the familiar fury he had seen before, that every officer in the army had seen before.
“Do not speak to me of General Longstreet. The man marches his troops into my command intending to conquer all that lies before him, as though he has been anointed with superior genius, superior forces. Am I to believe that his mission here is simply to assist me? For reasons I do not understand, the president and General Lee believe I require his help in order to succeed. The newspapers trumpet Longstreet’s name as though he alone can save our cause! Are we so inept, so consumed with misdeeds and errors that only a man from the East can deliver us? I will entertain no such notions, General. It is of no interest to me what General Longstreet believes possible, or what he intends to do. I am in command of this army, and I shall make the decisions as to how it is used. We must regroup, we must reorganize, we must replenish. We have been bloodied. We have endured severe losses.”
“What of the enemy’s losses? The enemy has abandoned this field to us. He is fleeing in a panic. Or … he was. I fear now we have granted him a full day to calm his demons. Every moment we delay is worth a thousand men.”
“Too many thousands of men lie out there, never to return. General Forrest, I have allowed you to speak your mind, because I know your horsemen have performed ably, and with honor. Please return to your command, and extend my deepest appreciation for their service. We shall reevaluate our situation in the morning, when this army has regained a portion of its strength. Then we will decide how best to deal with the enemy. If what I am told is accurate, and mind you, I still have my doubts, then isn’t it possible that General Rosecrans is already preparing to march away from here completely, abandoning Chattanooga, and perhaps all of Tennessee? Is not that what a great victory will grant us?”
Forrest felt the responses erupting inside of him, the heat in the room dizzying him.
Bragg rubbed a hand through his beard, seemed satisfied by Forrest’s lack of protest. “Yes, you see? I am well aware of our options. Now, I can see you are tired. It is very late, after all. We are all drained by what has happened here. Be assured, this command recognizes your good work. Get a good night’s rest. I will have orders for you tomorrow, or soon after.”
Orders to do what? Forrest kept the question to himself, saw Bragg’s eyes drift shut, a perfect symbol of the day’s end. Forrest wanted to say more, tried to ignite the protests again, but on one point Bragg was right. It was very late, close to midnight, and Forrest had been in the saddle nearly all day, and two days before that. The helplessness was overwhelming him, the anger and frustration pulling away. Nothing he could say to Bragg would change the man’s resolve to simply … do nothing. He does not believe the enemy is crushed, does not accept what I saw with my own eyes. There is nothing more for me to do here.
Bragg seemed to come awake again, said, “A night’s rest, General. Do you a great deal of good.”
Forrest said nothing, turned to the open door, felt the cool wet breeze flooding the heat in the fire-lit room. He moved out through the door, thought, There will be no rest for the men over there. In Chattanooga, the enemy is doing his own regrouping, reorganizing. He is fortifying those works, and gathering himself for what he must believe is our inevitable attack. But there is nothing … inevitable. Except perhaps … that those dead men General Bragg so mourns will have died for no good reason.
He moved out into the chilling mist, the darkness giving way to the light from a single lantern. His staff was mounting their horses, and Forrest took the reins from an orderly, climbed up into the saddle, sharp pain in his back, a small grunt he tried to keep silent. He looked at the others, saw Captain Seeley watching him, questioning, expectant, the enthusiasm of the young.
“Orders, sir? Is General Bragg going after them?”
Forrest shook his head, looked down, the horse moving uneasily beneath him.
“Captain … I cannot imagine what General Bragg is going to do. I only wonder … if he does not see the value in what we have accomplished here, does not understand the magnitude of our success, the opportunity that we were given. If he has so little faith that we can win victories … then why does he fight battles?”
BRAGG’S HEADQUARTERS—NEAR CHICKAMAUGA CREEK—SEPTEMBER 22, 1863
The breakfast was already sour in his stomach, the ailment that never seemed to leave him.
“Take this away. Are there any rations to be found in this army that are suitable for consumption?”
The aide did not respond, the china plate whisked away. Bragg put a hand on his stomach, probed the discomfort, shook his head.
“What must I endure, Mr. Mackall?”
His chief of staff sat across the long narrow table from him, swallowed quickly, and said, “Sir, I will order the commissary to find something more to your liking. Can you offer me some suggestion what that might be?”
“Better commanders, General. Men who follow orders.” He paused. “Victories.”
Mackall took another bite, and Bragg avoided watching the man eat, stared away, his mind reeling with thoughts of the report he had still to compose, giving Richmond, and especially President Davis, his official accounting of what took place along the Chickamauga. He could hear Mackall chewing the food, the sounds grating, fueling more of the turmoil in his own stomach, and Mackall seemed to understand, had been through this before.
“Sir, I shall retire, if you wish. My presence here is an annoyance.”
“No, certainly not. My stomach problems are my own. One more curse of command. Enjoy your breakfast.”
Mackall had stopped eating, sat back. “Sir, allow me to suggest … this could prove to be a glorious day. Your mood could be heightened considerably if the reports are as accurate as their authors claim. The enemy is most certainly on the run. Or at the very least he is disorganized, and vulnerable to attack.”
Bragg heard the emphasis … authors. There had been a consens
us among his highest-ranking generals that finally Bragg could not ignore. No matter what he still feared, it seemed as though the Federal army had in fact conceded defeat, had withdrawn completely from their camps west and north of Chickamauga Creek. He felt a hard knot growing in his throat, the burning from his gut rising up with Mackall’s optimism.
“You as well? Am I thus to accept that by majority rule, I may claim the fight at Chickamauga Creek to be my magnificent victory? If everyone insists it is so, then who am I to dispute that? I have seen no evidence of anything but a mutual slaughter, but if my generals and my chief of staff insist, well, then it must be so. So, you and half the officers in this army must agree that the next course should be to march this battered army straight to Chattanooga, to provide all the excuse General Rosecrans would need to scamper away. We survived this fight by the grace of God, not by the abilities of my generals. They seek any opportunity to exercise independent commands, to ignore my orders, to belittle my position at every turn. Now they create reasons why my judgment must be questioned. Charge ahead, with no regard for military protocol, or the care of the men.” Bragg sagged in the chair, tried to control his breathing, searched Mackall’s expression again, but Mackall seemed content to wait patiently for his time to speak. Bragg slapped one hand on the table, said, “So tell me, what is our effective strength?”
Mackall seemed to weigh if Bragg’s question was serious. “I’m not entirely certain, sir. Our losses have been significant. The reports are still arriving. But there is much confusion.”
“Yes, by God, there is. One of the most confusing problems seems to be just who commands this army. Before I can engage our effective forces in any kind of campaign, I must know what those forces are, and which generals I may depend upon. I am not certain of any of them. Did you not hear me? Since the president placed me in this command, I have been more heavily assaulted by my own generals than I have by the enemy. Ambition and subterfuge infect them at every turn. I walk among the men, and I hear cheers, adulation, the proper amount of respect due my station. But when I meet with my officers there is silence and intrigue. Every one of them is engulfed by a disease of promotion, thinking more of his own elevation than the well-being of the troops in his care. I will not tolerate this any longer. The president favors me in this chair, and I will do what is necessary to justify the president’s confidence. One mistake I will not make is to rely on the exaggerated boasting of commanders who campaign on the basis of hope, rather than our true tactical situation.”
Mackall stared at him, still expressionless, said nothing. Bragg looked at the man’s plate, a half-eaten slab of hard bread.
“You intend to discard that?”
Mackall glanced down, pushed the plate toward Bragg. “By all means, sir. You must eat.”
Bragg took the bread, bit off one corner, the churning in his stomach calming a bit. He fought to swallow, tried to read Mackall, the man keeping his thoughts hidden away.
William Mackall was a year older than Bragg’s forty-seven, had graduated from West Point in the same class of 1837. They had served together in the Seminole Wars and Mexico, and Bragg had gained respect for Mackall from their service together the year before, when they were both subordinate to Albert Sidney Johnston. Before Johnston’s death at Shiloh in April 1862, Mackall had earned respect as a staff officer, but more so, Bragg knew what Johnston knew, that Mackall could lead troops in the field. That spring, Johnston had appointed him to lead the desperate defense of Island Number Ten, on the Mississippi River, an inevitable defeat for which Mackall could not be blamed. Though captured, Mackall was quickly exchanged, and resumed his good work both in the field and through diligent administration of various commands in the West. Mackall was one of the few general officers in Bragg’s department whom Bragg believed he could trust.
“Your suggestions are welcome, Mr. Mackall. You know that. Is there some flaw in my thinking? You cannot deny that there has been discussion as to how others might usurp my authority. I am not without my sources, you know.”
Mackall seemed to hesitate, then said, “I cannot report what I have not witnessed, sir. I agree that you cannot lead this entire army by yourself. But I am not aware that every officer seeks to rise to your position, and I do not believe every officer is as ambitious as you say. With all respects, sir.”
“You will make a fine politician one day.” He had no real reason to be angry with Mackall, felt a sudden twinge of guilt. “I return your respects, Mr. Mackall, but I must suggest that until you occupy this chair, you cannot understand the pressures I must endure. Think about what has happened. Barely three months ago, this nation was forced to swallow two enormous catastrophes. I admit to having little faith in General Pemberton’s efforts to hold Vicksburg. But I did not anticipate General Lee could be so utterly defeated, certainly not in such an advantageous position on the enemy’s own soil. And now, I find it no coincidence that of all the troops that could have been sent to our assistance here, the president and General Lee chose General Longstreet. I am not fooled by Longstreet’s strutting arrogance. There is something of punishment in his being sent here, I feel certain of that. Lee removed him for a reason. I walk this path with great care, General. The people of the Confederacy have been battered by the failure of their generals. There is despair throughout this nation. My duty is clear: Turn the tide back in our favor. And yet, all the while the president expects me to be our savior, I am to regain all that is lost with subordinate officers who have shown me little respect, and on occasion, outright disobedience. Now, am I to feel blessed that the great Longstreet performs his tricks in my part of this war? I am already hearing talk, General, that this fight at Chickamauga Creek was won by Longstreet alone. The newspapers back east will embrace that, no doubt. So, regardless of what I have seen on this ground, regardless of the destruction of this army, I am to move out in pursuit of a dangerous enemy solely because Longstreet leads the way?”
Mackall shook his head slowly, stared down at his empty plate. “I would suggest, sir, that you lead this army against the enemy because it is the right thing to do. If the Federal army is inclined to retreat, as General Forrest and others have suggested, that is an opportunity we must explore.”
Bragg rubbed his aching stomach again. “Forrest is a raider, a pirate, nothing more. He is celebrated with tactics that amount to little more than a mad rush into some weakly defended place, causing terror among the helpless. He steals horses and burns a few houses and then scampers away again. For that he is a hero. And that is the kind of man whose observations I should rely upon? No simple cavalryman can appreciate the necessity for strategy, for care, for diligence. If the Federals have retreated into Chattanooga, then the correct strategy is to sweep around their flanks, maneuver to the northwest, cut Rosecrans off from any supply line, before he can make good his escape. General Forrest tells me that with just a minor push, the Federal army will be inclined to do just that. He is certain of it. And then, in the same moment, he tells me the enemy is perhaps not yet retreating, but in fact could be gathering, regrouping behind the defenses at Chattanooga. Which is it? Is Rosecrans leaving? Or is he preparing to receive an attack? If we attempt to flank him now, spread our forces out in the mountain passes, we could be vulnerable to an attack from him. If we drive straight into Chattanooga, and he does not simply melt away, we might find ourselves crushed against a strong defensive position. General Rosecrans is no doubt receiving urgent orders from Washington, Lincoln’s minions screaming at him for his failures in Georgia. The Northern people are spoiled by their recent successes. If Rosecrans has indeed been defeated here, there will be little patience for that in Washington. He is also a man of ambition, is he not? If he wishes to hold on to his command, he must satisfy those loud voices behind him. And so, he will strengthen and resupply. Or he will leave Chattanooga behind him, and seek the protection of the Tennessee River. Or even the Duck River. We might very well fight him again at Stones River, or Tullahoma, or Murfreesboro.
How am I to decide such things when I cannot rely on the information my own generals are providing me?”
Bragg tried to inhale, fought the tightness in his throat, the agonizing pains in his gut, and Mackall took advantage of the pause, said, “Sir, the best way we can know what General Rosecrans is doing is to see for ourselves. If you do not rely on the reports of your scouts, your cavalry, your senior officers, then perhaps we should ride out there ourselves.”
Bragg soaked up the simple logic. “Yes. I had thought of that. Very well. We shall continue to receive the reports as they come in here. Send word to the commanders that if they do not find the enemy in strength, they may push their people closer to Chattanooga. Be sure General Longstreet receives that order with perfect clarity. Be certain he understands whose authority he answers to here. And communicate to every division commander that there must be no significant confrontation with the enemy. We cannot withstand another general engagement. No one in this army can convince me we are ready for another sharp fight. If all goes well today, then in the morning, order the aides to prepare the horses, and we shall ride out there ourselves, you and me. We will advance toward Chattanooga, as far as the enemy allows. If there is to be an honest victory here, if we are to inform Richmond of great success, I suppose I should get the facts for myself.”
