The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War

by Jeff Shaara

  Anthony didn’t hesitate, jumped down from the horse, Dayton moving up next to him, both men walking out toward the horseman at a quick pace. Sherman slipped back up onto the railcar, hid himself slightly, strained to hear. The rebel was walking the horse slowly now, the white flag held higher still. Sherman saw the man’s fear, quick glances at the muskets now lining the low ridge. He saw no weapon in the man’s belt, thought, He believes in the power of that white cloth. All right, so do I. For now.

  The two blue-coated officers moved out into the horse’s path, stood side by side, a symbolic attempt to block the man’s way, and Sherman could hear the man speak, a high-pitched shake to his voice.

  “I am Captain Fraley, adjutant to General Chalmers. The general offers his respects to the officer commanding this post, and suggests in the strongest terms that you avoid the slaughter of your men, and surrender this position without incident. The general assures you of fair terms.”

  The officers responded, forced conversation, a chatter of nothing pouring back to the man, social banter, the rebel seeming to take the bait, still nervously eyeing the Federal muskets. Sherman backed away from the window, leaned out the other way, could see Anthony’s makeshift fort just ahead, and beyond, the rounded brick walls of the Collierville depot. His mind was churning, feverish, the old fear rising up, the panic of the unknown. Is it a bluff? Chalmers. He’s a Forrest man. Probably wrecked this track himself, came back to do it again. Do we believe him? Damn it all, how many men is a pile? He looked back out to the ongoing parley, saw Dayton moving toward him, purposeful slowness, the man’s expression carrying a message. Sherman moved back to the rear of the train, and Dayton was there now, said, “Sir, he expects us—”

  “I heard him, Colonel.”

  Sherman felt the heartbeats thundering in his chest, thought of Chalmers, good reputation. Damn rebel cavalry all over this place, and we can’t round ’em up worth a damn. But we aren’t giving up several hundred men right here without a good accounting for it. I did that, Grant would have me whipped.

  “Offer our kindest respects to General Chalmers, but tell that fellow we’re not surrendering a damn thing. You can be polite about it. Tell him the government pays us to fight, not to surrender. Then we’ll see what they’re bringing to this party. But take your damn time about it.”

  Dayton moved off at a casual pace, obeying Sherman’s order. Sherman looked toward McCoy now, said, “You wait until that rebel chap gets tired of all our parleying and as soon as he rides off, you hightail it to the telegraph office at the depot, and get a wire back to Germantown. The Fourth Division’s sashaying through the mud back there, and I want a fire torched under their backsides. Tell them anything you want, but get those fellows up that road as quick as they can move.”

  RAIL DEPOT—COLLIERVILLE, TENNESSEE—

  OCTOBER 11, 1863—MIDDAY

  He had reached the stockade, stout walls of logs and dirt, and knew that beyond, the brick depot was a far stronger position. But here he was anchored between his own men and Anthony’s Indianans, could send orders out in either direction. He could see now, gaps cut through the logs, crude rifle ports for his men to return fire. All around him, smoke boiled past, the destruction of whatever houses were nearby. It was Sherman’s order that if the rebels were coming at them, any structures the rebels could use for cover would be burned. Even now, men with torches scrambled down a small street to the rear of the stockade, another house erupting in flames.

  He stood up high on the makeshift parapet, no need for field glasses, all of it laid out right in front of him. The cornfield was below the rail tracks, the train sitting out to the right, silent, still, the only passengers, one car of the horses. He cursed now, thought of his own, Dolly, his favorite, thought, Nothing I can do about that now. Damn you, McCoy, you should have opened that up, let them all out. But he couldn’t fault his aides, the men doing efficient work putting the troops together, gathering them up to the best position they had. He looked over the men inside the stockade, the Indiana men, tried to recall if he had ever used them before, if they had seen action, taken fire. Well, you’re going to take some now. You’ll learn to appreciate fat logs.

  The regular troops were in place outside the walls of the stockade, some in small rifle pits near the knoll, the narrow stretch of high ground that gave the men a good view of anything around them. Anthony’s Indiana troops were scattered beyond the stockade as well, more rifle pits, the men who dug them now appreciating their labor. Sherman had made a rough count, using Anthony’s numbers, his own, knew he had barely six hundred men close at hand. All he knew yet was that Chalmers had a pile.

  The men were positioned all along the south wall of the stockade, muskets up in the ragged openings of the logs, more men standing close behind, loaded muskets ready. Sherman dropped down to the hard ground, peered out through one of the holes. Good place, he thought. Tough to get an accurate shot at anyone in here. We may need that, any advantage we can get. He glanced back, saw his staff coming together, their work mostly done, the men spreading out behind him, waiting for orders. He knew they were nervous, had rarely been under direct fire. He glanced at Dayton, thought of the parley, the rebel cavalry officer, thought, Was it all a bluff? They grabbed a few wagons, and might have been content with that. Hell, I’d have tried to push a little bit, done exactly what this Chalmers fellow did. Threaten to kill every damn one of you, unless you surrender right now. See if the commanding officer of the outpost here has anything down his pants. Not sure what Anthony thought he could do here, but I don’t think he’d have given this place up that easy. Chalmers probably figured that out by now. Sorry there, friend. As long as the cartridges hold out, you’ll wish it was a bluff after all.

  He could see the cornfield clearly, well within musket range, heard a single drummer, far distant, looked out to a low ridgeline behind the field, a thick line of gray forming along its crest. Six hundred yards, he thought. Not yet. Nobody get anxious. Above him, men began to shout out, the expected warnings, obvious and unnecessary.

  “Here they come!”

  Now, to one side, another call.

  “They’re at the train! They’re coming in on our flank!”

  “Both flanks! Cavalry coming along the tracks to the east!”

  Sherman moved to one side, stared at the train, the horsemen dismounted, moving in slowly, testing. He slapped a man on the back, said, “Smaller targets. Too bad. But it doesn’t matter. Just aim low.”

  He slipped quickly back to the south wall, found his opening, peered out, could see the rebels moving down into the cornfield, a heavy line, far heavier than he had hoped to see. He scanned as much as he could, saw a scattering of flags, the colors, thought, A couple thousand … maybe more. Yep. That’s a pile.

  The musket fire started outside the walls, a skirmish erupting along the tracks near the train. But the men inside were holding fire, waiting, good discipline, though Sherman knew it wouldn’t last. The first musket fired above him, then a half dozen more, and now the first massive volley from the troops in the field, smacks of lead against the dense wooden walls. Sherman backed away from the hole, a rifleman stepping forward, filling his place, and Sherman watched him, the man peering out, slow and precise, aiming. Sherman waited for the shot, the man, keeping his calm, was saying something, low words, a curse of his own, and Sherman tried to see past him, the hole just wide enough to see the flicker of color beyond, the line of rebels coming up through the cornfield. The yells came now, high shrieks, and Sherman felt the stirring in his gut, the sound he knew well, had heard in so many places before. The man in front of him had chosen his target, and fired the musket.

  The musket fire came at the stockade from three directions. Most of the rebel cavalry had dismounted, had pushed completely through the cornfield, were dueling now with the men on the knoll, the men in the stockade, small fights ongoing around the depot itself. Out both sides of the log structure, the rebels pressed forward as well, seeking some k
ind of vulnerability, an opening to drive through. But the Indiana men kept up the fire, choosing targets, the muskets reloaded, passed forward with a steady rhythm. Sherman stayed back from the wall, could only listen, the skirmishes to both sides steady, but keeping in place. He knew the regulars would hold their ground, would give the rebels a problem, possibly a surprise by their sheer tenacity. He could hear the musket balls still peppering the timbers, wanted to climb up again, a better view of the fight. But his place was back, behind, watching, preparing whatever order might be needed, and right now, there was nothing else he could do.

  After long minutes, the musket fire seemed to slow, shifting direction, the fight growing near the train, and he thought of his horse, the rest of them, helpless, useless. Cavalry, he thought. At least … the rebs’ll know what to do with ’em. If it comes to that. He scanned the wall, watched the riflemen, the others still loading the spent muskets. There were boxes of cartridges by their feet, and he clenched his fists at that, yes! Someone made sure they were prepared. Colonel Anthony did that, had to. Good man. Remember that. Might never have seen a damn rebel before, but now he’s staring down a few thousand of ’em. He could see Anthony now, scurrying along the wall, pistol in hand, doing his job. Sherman called out, “Colonel!”

  Anthony looked at him, fire in the man’s eyes, something Sherman never took for granted.

  “How’s your ammunition?”

  “Good enough, sir! The magazine’s down those steps, back that way. Good supply!”

  Sherman glanced behind him, saw the quartermaster storehouse, steps leading down, was surprised to see one of his aides coming up the stairs carrying a box of cartridges. The man approached him, breathless, his hat whisked away, and Sherman said, “Lieutenant James, you look a fright. You intending to fight this war with these infantry?”

  “Yes, sir! I’ve armed the orderlies and kitchen staff. There’s plenty of muskets down belowground. Boxes of cartridges. I put them to work, sir. They’re out the backside of this place, figuring out how to shoot rebels. Sir, there’s a passel of rebs in a thicket of woods out that way. They’re in good cover, taking shots at our boys. Most annoying, sir. With your permission, sir, I’d like to rally these men and make a charge. They keep telling me they want to be soldiers. I figure, maybe we should let ’em. We can clean out those woods, give us some relief.”

  Sherman saw youth, blind enthusiasm, knew that James had never been in any kind of fight before.

  “You may do so, Lieutenant, but only if the enemy appears to be drawing closer. But take good care. Our enemy outnumbers us by a good measure. The best time to strike is when they aren’t expecting it. They line up in a formation for advance, strike them before they can prepare. Then you may make your sally.”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  The young man hurried away, and Sherman smiled at his enthusiasm, thought, Yes, cooks and nursemaids had better know how to fight the enemy. Right now, we don’t have much else to offer. He faced forward again, saw men watching him, dirty faces, blackened eyes. Sherman fought through the overwhelming smell of the powder, felt a hard thump, close behind, then more, saw shattering timbers, the impact of solid shot. Men were staggering back, sprayed with splinters from their own protection, one man down, bloody face, pulled away quickly, others stepping forward, manning a smoking breach in the wall, muskets up, answering. Sherman stood in the center of the compound, had nowhere else to go, could hear the artillery shells coming in pairs, thought, One battery to our front. They’ll be more to the flanks. And we have … none. Damn! Where’s the Fourth Division? At least, their artillery teams could be moving up quick. I assume they know the meaning of urgent.

  The smoke rolled through the stockade, thick white, stinking sulfur from the musket fire, and Sherman fought to breathe, the men around him dropping down, kneeling, finding their wind. The artillery shells whistled overhead, impacts behind the stockade, and Sherman could see them, thumping into the timbers from above, more splitting logs to his front. But the solid shot was small, a single round ball rolling past him on the ground, spent, useless. He stared at that for a long second, thought, Two inch? That’s what they’ve got? Surely there’re bigger pieces moving into position. These logs won’t hold up under too much more.

  The men were mostly silent, the muskets moving back and forth, fired, reloaded, then fired again. But the rebels were close, close enough so Sherman could hear the screams, the orders, pieces of the rebel yell. He held his ground, motionless, felt his hands starting to shake, the cold in his chest, shouted out inside himself. The feeling was raw, fresh, the horror of collapse, of panic, desperate flight to safety. It had happened at Bull Run, had nearly happened at Shiloh. But that was long past, too many good fights since. He closed his eyes, cursing hard to himself, pulling himself out of that awful place, those terrible days, those fights when the enemy was too good, too fast, too strong. Or, like now, too many. He opened his eyes, the smoke thick around him, flashes of fire, the muskets inside the stockade still answering, the men still fighting back. He felt utterly powerless, no orders to give, the men fighting for survival, all of them knowing that if the rebels got inside, it was over. He thought of his guard, the battalion of regulars keeping up their fight outside the protection of the timber. Barely more than two hundred men, but they were professionals, men willing to die rather than surrender. They’ll give the rebels all they have, he thought. It might not be enough. Movement caught his eye, Anthony again, still up high, shouting orders, rallying his men, and Sherman thought of the young Captain Smith, outside, knew he would be doing the same.

  More artillery came in, piercing the timbers, and now a single whistle, high scream of the iron, and the ground to one side erupted in a fiery blast, the magazine underground seeming to rise up in a single surge. He felt the shock of that, the ground shivering beneath him, more men down to that side, his brain focusing, the magazine. They hit the damn magazine! He saw fire, but not much, the rebel artillery still only the small-bore solid shot. Thank God for that, he thought. A twelve-pounder might have blasted us all to pieces. The iron blew through the timbers in front of him, another volley from the rebel battery, one man screaming, shredded by the splinters, direct hit from the iron ball, blood on dirty blue. Sherman tried not to see that, his mind still clinging to the thought of the good men, one in particular, the young captain Smith, always the smile, until that one day, a week ago, the shock of the man’s unsheathed grief, the flood of tears. And Willie would have been with me, Sherman thought. On the train. He would have been … here. Nine years old.

  The thought of his son in this place made him shudder, and he shoved that away, forced himself to look again at the men still making the strong fight, trading volleys with more rebels than they had ever seen, smoke and fire, screams and curses, orders flowing out from their officers, the men with pistols raised. Sherman stood alone, silent, still, the war raging inside of him, panic and terror and furious hatred for the men outside, the rebel cavalry, their haphazard raid now billowing up into a full-blown battle. Through it all, one image pushed through, forced itself into his brain. Thank God my son is not here.

  The fight lasted for nearly four hours, Sherman’s men holding off a force close to five times their own. With the afternoon passing, the sun starting to set, the rebels began to pull away. The men from Indiana were as surprised as the regulars, watching as the dismounted cavalry returned to their horses, pulling back into formation, then simply riding away. Most expected a return, that the rebels were just regrouping, taking stock, refilling ammunition boxes. At first Sherman had agreed with the men around him, that it could not just … end. Surely, he had thought, the rebels would know they had the numbers, the maneuverability, that if they kept up the assault, the Federal troops would eventually have to surrender. But the rebels didn’t return, had done what good cavalry does, had simply melted away. For their trouble, and their losses in men, the rebels had succeeded in capturing a few wagons and damaging the train, their arti
llery putting a scattering of holes through the engine, a portion of the train put to the torch. Sherman had made his own appraisal of the train’s engine, too many holes to repair, had sent a wire back to Memphis for a replacement, assurances already coming back to him that the new machine was on its way, that there would be no delay in his journey beyond this one day.

  The greatest loss besides the casualties to the men was in horses, including Sherman’s own. But one casualty in particular punched him, and he lowered his head, had seen the young Lieutenant James, the man and his impetuously ridiculous charge, leading men who had no business in a fight at all. Amazingly, James had done the job, had cleared the patch of woods, the rebels choosing retreat rather than engaging what Sherman had to believe was a motley assortment of overweight old men, with one deranged boy at their head. But none of that mattered now. Sherman saw the stretcher, the bearers hauling it into the stockade, calling to Sherman, James with a splatter of blood on his chest. They took him away, the doctor offering Sherman a hint of optimism that the wound was not mortal. But Sherman had seen those kinds of wounds before, knew that a musket ball did terrible things inside a man’s chest. He thought, I told him to go. If I hadn’t, he might have gone anyway. There was too much happening, too many dangerous places. The stupidity of the very young. That thought dug at him, stirred up an angry response. No, it isn’t like that at all. I can’t lead every charge, every attack. It’s their job, and if they happen to be young, it’s just … how it is. They’re volunteers, after all. Stop treating them like they’re being punished for something. The only punishment comes to the generals, when they fail to do the job. He looked to the soldiers inside the stockade, the Indiana men working to make some use of the broken timbers, gathering ammunition, preparing for what might still come. He saw Anthony, issuing orders, the man’s staff attentive, spreading out as he instructed them. That’s what makes up for youth, he thought. Leadership. Anthony did a hell of a good job here. We might have been wiped out. Maybe should have been. These … boys learned something today, something about themselves. If they had any doubts, they know now that they’re soldiers. Lieutenant James … he learned that his place was close to me, not out leading some fool attack.