by Jeff Shaara
Longstreet looked at Bragg, shook his head. “I have not been in the service of the Army of Tennessee for sufficient tenure for me to offer any opinion. With all respects, sir, I should not be called upon to offer one.”
Bragg looked at Davis, saw a hard stare toward Longstreet. Davis said, “I insist, General. Your observations carry great weight in this army, no matter your tenure here.”
Longstreet slipped the pipe into his pocket, rubbed a hand on his beard, and Bragg waited for the stare again, but Longstreet looked only at Davis.
“If you require me to speak, sir, then I shall obey. My estimate of General Bragg’s abilities is not high. The little experience I have had under his command has not changed that opinion. I believe, sir, that General Bragg could be of far better service to this nation in some other position than by leading the Army of Tennessee.”
Davis seemed surprised, and Bragg saw a quiver in Davis’s hand, the man flexing his fingers for a long moment. Davis said, “General Longstreet, I had hoped …” He stopped, looked down at the desk, and after a pause, said, “General Buckner, will you offer a word of support for General Bragg?”
Bragg looked at Buckner, saw his head slowly shake.
“I am sorry, Your Excellency. I cannot. General Longstreet’s views … are my own. General Bragg is not the man to lead this army.”
Davis did not look up, seemed to close his eyes. “General Hill, will you offer your view?”
Hill did not hesitate, his voice clear and distinct, louder than Bragg wanted to hear. “The others have spoken. I can offer nothing to distract or contradict their words. I would prefer that some other commander be elevated by you, sir, to head this army. The men in my command have little confidence that General Bragg will lead us to victory. As you all are aware, I served as honorably as was in my power under General Lee. In that army, the spirit of the men remains high, even in times of trial. The men there rally to their commanding officer. Such is not the case here, and I do not believe that, unless there is a change … it will ever be.”
Bragg felt a rush of heat, steadied himself in the chair, his face flushed, the sweat soaking his shirt, running down his back. He could feel the familiar fury rising up, the need to shout them down, to strike back at their words. But Davis looked at him now with a hard stare, a silent command, quiet. Bragg felt the energy drained from him, Davis still watching him through tired eyes.
After a pause, Davis said, “General Cheatham, your comments?”
Cheatham hesitated, no surprise to Bragg, the man most new to his command. And perhaps, Bragg thought, he will set them right. He will not be so quick to push me aside. Cheatham cleared his throat, said slowly, “Your Excellency, as you know, I did not add my name to the disgraceful document that was either inspired by or authored by, I would assume, someone in this room. I do not feel it serves our cause, or this army, to embrace such discord as we now suffer.”
Bragg looked at Cheatham, felt his heart racing, felt grateful for the courage it required to speak out against the others. But Cheatham would not look back at him, stared ahead, seemed to fumble for words.
“Though that was my feeling when presented with the petition that I must believe is the reason you have come here … I must now agree with the sentiments expressed. I do not feel General Bragg is the best man to lead this army. I am hopeful that Your Excellency will name a substitute, who shall inspire the confidence of the men, and my fellow officers.”
NAIL HOUSE—BRAGG’S HEADQUARTERS—
MISSIONARY RIDGE—OCTOBER 11, 1863
The rains continued, Bragg staring out the small window, engulfed by the dreary gloom that washed over the men of both armies. He had begun a letter to his wife, a few lines of writing on the paper behind him, had stood, turning away from the desk, still holding the pen in his hand. There were just no words. He watched a horseman move past the house, mud splashing high, a flood of rainwater running off the man’s coat, the man’s head down, enduring the misery as he passed. What mission is so important … or are you just parading past my window for a good show?
He glanced back toward the desk, thought, My dear wife, my dear Elise. She would feel this, as I do. She would know I am betrayed, I am insulted, I have been shamed before the men whose respect I have done so much to earn.
Elise had become a prolific letter writer, had stood tall defending his honor to many of the men who sought to disgrace him, mainly the politicians and newspapermen in Richmond. He enjoyed her letters, angry protests to the War Department, though he had to wonder if anyone there even read them. Do they take her seriously, or do they merely gather around in mockery of her, making light of the angry rants of a general’s wife? I treasure her every word, he thought, no matter her occasional lapse of … well, manners, I suppose. I hope there is at least respect due to the wife of a commanding general, that she is not regarded as a fountain of blather. We shall be vindicated, in the end. You may speak out how you wish, dear wife, since it is sometimes best if I hold my tongue. For now, anyway. I know … I know I have the confidence of the president. But those others … if they sway him. He turned, looked at the letter, said aloud, “No. Not today. I shall not burden you with my disgust. There is no justice on God’s earth if I am to be so … cast aside. I am not, after all, John Pemberton.”
“Sir?”
The voice was Mackall’s, peering in through the door, but Bragg had no desire for company.
“Nothing, General. Go about your duties.”
“Yes, sir. The president has returned, sir. He wishes to speak with you.”
Bragg closed his eyes, felt unsteady, one hand on the back of the chair. “Yes, by all means. There must be a reckoning.”
Davis had spoken to him at length immediately after his arrival, well before the meeting with the senior commanders. Bragg had been gratified by what seemed to be Davis’s ongoing friendship, the president offering him no real hint that Bragg’s command was in jeopardy. But it was painfully obvious that if Davis had not been at all surprised by the outright rejection of Pemberton, he had been stunned by the outpouring of negativity toward Bragg, the amazing frankness of the four men to lay blame for the army’s problems squarely at the feet of its commanding general. Bragg had heard rumors that the petition against him had been written by Buckner, though Bragg couldn’t shake the intense feeling that Longstreet’s hand was there as well. Now the president had had a full night to absorb what had been so brazenly offered directly to his face. Bragg had suffered a night of his own with the usual sleeplessness, made worse by the fear that Davis would turn against him. How can the president stand tall against such … influence? How am I to lead men such as these?
“This way, please, Your Excellency …”
Mackall opened the door, stood aside, and Davis stepped in slowly, dripping wet, Mackall removing the president’s raincoat.
“It is good you have this prominent piece of ground, General. Noah himself would find this rain a challenge. Perhaps if we wait a few more days, the Tennessee River shall flood its banks, and wash the enemy away.”
Bragg did not respond, saw no smile from Davis at his own joke. He knew Davis suffered from a variety of ailments, as Bragg did, the constant nagging of some pain somewhere, the stomach distress, the lack of sleep. Davis looked worn, moved slowly to a chair, sat, leaned his head back, closed his eyes. Mackall said, “If you allow, General Bragg, I shall retire. As you said, I have … duties.”
Bragg nodded, said nothing, felt too weak to speak. He sat heavily in his own chair, pushed the unfinished letter aside. After a long silence, Davis said, “It has been suggested, back east, that General Lee be ordered to this command. General Longstreet seems to prefer that, though I suspect General Longstreet has ambitions of his own. Regardless, General Lee insists his place, for now, is in Virginia, caring for his men. It is hard to argue with a man of such … dedication.”
“So, if I may ask, do you feel General Longstreet is the man for this position?”
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p; Davis seemed to wake up, looked at him. “Of course not. I have given you my confidence, my assurances. You have served this nation well, and I have no doubts that you will continue to do so. This command is yours. Do you doubt that?”
Bragg absorbed Davis’s words, said, “Actually, yes, sir. I have been pushed into doubting that. It is apparent that the officers under my command—”
“Bah! This is your command, and that’s all there is to it. I care nothing for such blatant dissension from men who should know better, who seem to forget what obedience means. You have done nothing to shake my resolve, you have committed no crime, you have made no great blunder. You have given me no cause to remove you from this post. Have you?”
Bragg gripped the edge of the desk, his heart beating faster. “I most certainly have not.”
“I would suggest, however, that you remove yourself from any controversy regarding General Polk. There is nothing to be gained there.”
Bragg felt confused, said, “But, I was very clear in my complaints—”
“Nothing to be gained! They will serve this nation yet, in great capacity. Do not concern yourself with their station. It most certainly will be pleasing to you if I remove them from your theater. Leave it at that.”
Bragg felt energized, thought, That is the compromise. That is how he justifies ignoring the others. He is, after all, loyal to Polk. As he is loyal to me.
“Your Excellency, are you telling me that if I devote my attentions … closer to home, as it were, that you will allow me to resume my campaigns, in my own fashion?”
“I didn’t say that, precisely. But you’re close. I have no reason to restrict what you do. I would not dare to instruct my generals how to manage their actions.”
Bragg knew better, let the words slide by. He stood now, took a few steps, turned, paced back through the small room, looked again at Davis.
“I must ask … I must know. Am I to be allowed to determine who my most capable commanders are?”
Davis tilted his head, nodded slowly. “This is your army, General Bragg. The command decisions are yours to make. Your recommendations as to promotions will be given highest priority, as they always have been.”
“I was not thinking of promotions.…”
He regretted saying the words out loud, but Davis smiled, surprising him.
“General Bragg, if there is anyone in your service who is not performing to your high standards, it is of course your prerogative to take appropriate action. But, use some reason, General. You cannot cast out everyone in this army who dares to disagree with you. Certainly not. Put your men to the best use you see fit. That is after all what a commanding officer must do.”
There was a finality to Davis’s words, no explanation required. Bragg paced again, the pains gone, the fire in his brain taking over, and he pounded a fist into his open hand, did it again. Now they will know their places, he thought. There will be no discussion, no dissent, no obscene petitions. I have the authority, the command, the power. Deliver me from mine enemies, O Lord … or I shall do it myself.
MISSIONARY RIDGE—OCTOBER 13, 1863
The rains had slowed, a light mist, but everywhere Cleburne rode, the mud holes were deep enough to break a horse’s leg. He moved the animal carefully, pushed slowly past one of the camps, Arkansas men, some of his own, familiar faces. But few were cheering him, few noticing him at all. They tended mostly to laboring over the makeshift shelters of leaves and branches, the only thing they had to pass for tents. There was smoke, someone’s dismal attempt at a campfire, but most didn’t bother, nothing anywhere near them that would burn. He shivered, as his men did, pulled at the rubber raincoat that few others had, felt that pang of guilt, always, never took for granted that just by the formality of his gray uniform, a division commander deserved the luxuries. In this weather, a dry shirt might be as much luxury as his men would hope for. That, and something more than a single ear of corn for a day’s rations.
He looked back, saw Captain Buck leaning low from his saddle, speaking to an officer. Cleburne pulled at the reins, halting the horse, watched, wondered if there was some business that required his attention. The officer acknowledged him with a quick salute, said something else to Buck, then pointed, and Cleburne looked that way. Through a foggy mist he saw more of his men, a few horses, but there was movement, more men emerging from the crude shelters, the crowd increasing. Buck moved up alongside him now, his breath coming in short bursts of fog.
“Sir, there’s some kind of ruckus over thataway, some visitor that’s got the men all churned up.”
Cleburne had no interest in a show of graciousness toward some dignitary.
“Did that lieutenant have any idea who it is?”
“No, sir. Just said there was a hoot and holler about somebody special.”
“Let’s hope for a commissary officer. That would put a bounce in their step.”
“Just don’t know, sir. That lieutenant just said … a bunch of horses, some bigwig, maybe some kinda speech.”
Cleburne slumped in the saddle. “Perfectly charmin’, eh, Captain? The men are eatin’ little more than mashed-up dirt, and some Richmond political types decide they’ll bring us a morale boost. Unless they brought a wagon full of corn or a passel of blankets, I doubt the boys’ll pay much mind.”
The crowd was growing, a few shouts, hands in the air, and Cleburne heard a cheer, thought, Must be a decent speaker. Those boys don’t have piss else to cheer for.
“Tell you what, Captain. We’ll ease over that way, see what’s up. Not likely some high-faloot chap will know who I am all bundled up in this raincoat. If we know him, we’ll have a word. Pay our respects, as it were. If it’s not worth soaking up any more rain, we’ll slip on by.”
“As you wish, General.”
He led Buck past a gaping mud puddle, saw a nearby battery, the gunners leaving their post, a quartet of brass twelve-pounders, barrels glistening in the rain. The artillerymen recognized him, friendly waves through the mud-soaked shirts, a few of those men fortunate enough to have coats. Cleburne felt a tug in his chest, knew how badly the men were suffering, that there was nothing he could give them, no supply wagons of any kind for several days now. And still, something had their attention. If it’s not a few ears of corn, maybe it’s General Bragg, telling us all we can go home.
He moved close to the wide sea of men, saw the speaker on horseback, others back behind him, and now he heard the words, “… as you shall bring honor to our nation and our cause. The commanding general of the Army of Tennessee has my full support and admiration. With the help of good Southern men such as yourselves, we shall prevail. I must ask you all to endure, strengthened by the knowledge that our entire nation is behind you with utmost enthusiasm. This rain is a misery unto itself, but there is misery aplenty out there, in the camps of the enemy. The Yankees will suffer God’s own wrath for their invasion of our soil, and it is you men, the cream of our manhood, that shall add mightily to that suffering, until every last one of those blue-coated vermin has been driven from our sacred land. God bless you men. God bless you all!”
The cheers went up again, men pushing past Cleburne to catch a better look at the speaker. Cleburne could see clearly now. It was Jefferson Davis.
“I must say, General, your performance in the field has earned you the respect of your men, and of every officer with whom I have spoken. You are to be commended for that. It is not always so in this army. Though, when respect is called for, we should pay heed. Perhaps you should consider that the performance of the commanding general in this very army is worthy of your respect.”
Davis kept the tone of his words pleasant, but Cleburne heard the scolding.
“Your Excellency, I regret the unpleasantness that has embroiled us here. I will certainly do what I can to inspire men to move forward, putting any dissent behind us. If I may offer, sir, your words to my troops have put me to shame. I am no orator. Any time you wish to add some fire to the spirit of my soldiers, yo
u are most welcome.” Davis didn’t react, seemed occupied with the cup of coffee in his hand, a brew whose parts Cleburne knew the mess sergeant best keep to himself. “Very sorry about the taste of the coffee, sir. We are making do with what the commissary can supply.”
Davis kept his stare into the cup, took another sip, a noticeable curl gripping his face. “Yes, well, we shall endure. I have every expectation that the enemy’s coffee is no better than this.”
Cleburne was puzzled by Davis’s presence, knew only that the president had ridden along the ridge, speaking to many of the camps. But Cleburne hadn’t expected Davis to linger, didn’t know if Davis even understood just how many men were spread out all along the crest of Missionary Ridge, or to the south and west, through the valley that led to the much larger prominence of Lookout Mountain. Does he intend to speak to everyone? Cleburne felt more anxious now, glanced around the tent, an awkward pause, Davis preoccupied, still fingering the coffee cup. He noticed the wetness in Davis’s coat, the man’s face pale, drawn, thought, He can’t enjoy riding all over hell and gone in this weather. But, I suppose, it’s his job. After another long moment, Cleburne said, “Yes, sir. We’re doing all we can to keep the Yankees in their pen. Um … is there anything else I can get you?”
Davis looked at him now, studying, said, “Irish. Knew that. Some of the best officers in this army came to us from the Emerald Isle.”
Cleburne was self-conscious about the slight hint of his lingering accent, but whatever embarrassment he felt was tempered by his pride in the fact that Davis was right. Throughout the army there were the telltale accents, entire companies of Irish and Scots.
“Yes, sir. County Cork.”
Davis nodded idly, stared into the side of the tent, and Cleburne wondered if the president even heard him. Davis didn’t look toward him, said, “A great many Catholics in the army. They do good work, for the most part. Our adversary over there, General Rosecrans, he’s Catholic, you know.”
