The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War

by Jeff Shaara

  Hardee looked at him. “When was the last time you knew General Bragg to be right? No, don’t answer that. You got yourself in enough Dutch already. He’s our commanding general, and we’ll follow him straight to the gates of hell, if he tells us to.” Hardee paused. “That’s what I’m supposed to say, anyway. But if Bragg’s wrong about how long it’ll take those Yankees to starve to death … well, the gates of hell might not be too far from where we’re sitting right now.”

  INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA—OCTOBER 17, 1863

  The leg was killing him, a relentless ache that had kept him on crutches now for weeks. The fall had come at New Orleans, a nasty horse someone had loaned him, the animal doing its best to show Grant who was really in charge. The fall had been brutal, knocking him unconscious, his only real memory of that a gathering of scowling doctors hovering over his bed. He hated the crutches, his underarms as sore as the lingering effects of the bruise all along his side. But Julia insisted, backed up by the orders from the doctors. No matter Grant’s rank or authority over a hundred thousand men, he knew better than to disobey his wife.

  He hobbled his way along the corridor of the railcar, flinched with every step, reached his compartment, the door closed, heard her voice, some conversation about hotel rooms. He rapped one end of the crutch against the door, announcing himself, the door opening quickly, the efficiency of his chief of staff, John Rawlins.

  “Welcome back, General. Were you able to … manage?”

  “If I ever require you to assist me in the latrine, Mr. Rawlins, you shall know before anyone else.” He saw Julia now, caught her glare of disapproval. Grant let out a breath, said, “My apologies. My patience is at a low ebb these days.”

  “Apologies not necessary, sir. Mrs. Grant and I were just discussing the accommodations we are expecting to find in Louisville.”

  Grant shrugged. “The telegram said the Galt House. I’m sure whatever they offer us will be fine. If there’s a bed, I’m happy.”

  “Now, Ulyss,” Julia said, “you be gracious to General Rawlins. He goes to great lengths to look after you. Someone has to, when I’m not about. Just look at you. Your shirt is dirty.”

  Grant nodded in resignation, saw Rawlins step forward, a brief hesitation, then a quick wipe at a smudge on his collar.

  “Get away from me! When I feel the need to change uniforms, I shall inform you. Should I do it in the latrine, you can have double duty.”

  “Ulyss!”

  He knew her tone, that there would be a stern lecture now, once Rawlins had retired. Rawlins seemed to know it as well, made a short bow.

  “I shall leave you, with your permission, sir. Anything you require …”

  “Yes, I know. I’ll belch in your general direction.”

  “Ulysses S. Grant!”

  He closed his eyes, his mind filling with apologies, knew what it meant when she used his full name. There would be little peace anywhere she made her headquarters. Rawlins was slipping out the doorway, stopped, expecting Grant to require something else. It was Rawlins’s way, always had been, the man ever anxious to sweep through any task that surrounded Grant’s command. Grant hobbled toward the bench seat, said, “Leave, Mr. Rawlins. There’s a storm brewing here, and I shall absorb the brunt of it.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Rawlins was quickly out, closed the compartment door behind Grant.

  “Ulyss, why must you be so disagreeable? He is only doing his job, and you need his every effort. Just look at you … your hands are dirty. Even your crutches …”

  “Yes, dear. It has been a tiresome day. And once we reach Louisville, it will be tiresome still.”

  “Do you know yet who we are meeting?”

  The we caught his attention, Julia always hoping that any gathering he was called upon to attend would be more of a social affair than something military. He turned, leaned on the crutches, dropped himself down to the seat with a dull groan. She stood with her hands on her hips, shook her head.

  “I could help you, you know. If you weren’t so stubborn.”

  “My dear, I don’t need your help, really. As for General Rawlins, he provides me all the assistance anyone could ask for, and a good deal more that I don’t ask for. He’s my mother, your mother, and you, all in one.”

  He knew immediately he had made a mistake. She turned away in cold silence, her arms crossed, stared out the train window. He struggled to say something that would help, had learned long ago that the effort would likely make matters worse. He tried to soften his voice, add a lilt of affection.

  “My dear, I don’t know who is meeting with us. All I know is what Halleck’s telegram said. They want me in Louisville to meet with an officer of the War Department. Things are … messy these days. I have to assume they want me to help clean it up.”

  “They should be using you more efficiently. Memphis is horrid, a terrible place. No better than Vicksburg. And Cairo … my word, Ulyss, could anyone ever suggest you make your headquarters in such a place?”

  He knew better, that every hint the War Department had given pointed to some place for him much closer to the crisis in Tennessee. He kept his silence, felt the train slowing, and he could see buildings, homes, a general store. He peered out past her, said, “Indianapolis. Train will take on water, or wood, or whatever trains require. No one ever said I should command a railroad.”

  He heard shouts from the platform, could see movement, a man rushing through the small crowd. In a few seconds, there was a hard rap on the door. Julia turned, moved that way, and Grant felt a stab of alarm, held up his hand, “No.” It was a signal she understood, a sternness to his voice when the army got in the way. Grant pulled one crutch close to him, a potential weapon, and she watched him, her face reflecting his concern. “Stand away from the door, please, Julia. I’m not expecting a visitor.”

  He forced himself up from the padded bench, the rap on the door coming again, more insistent, and now a voice, Rawlins.

  “Sir! Most urgent, sir!”

  Grant felt relief, knew Rawlins wouldn’t be there unless it was necessary. “You may enter, General.”

  The door opened, to Rawlins and another man, nervous, out of breath, a civilian. Rawlins seemed annoyed, said, “Sir, this man says he is from the War Department, and that it is imperative the train hold here at the station.”

  Grant looked at the man and said, “I’d like to hear it from you, sir. You have something for me?”

  The man was young, short, small frame, held a hat in both hands. He made a short bow toward Julia, then said, “Sir, if I may speak in front of … um … the lady.”

  “Speak, sir. What is it?”

  “General Grant, I am to inform you that another train, a special train, is just now arriving at the station here. You are to await its passenger. He shall meet with you presently, and possibly accompany you on your journey to Louisville.”

  Rawlins stepped in, as though shielding Grant from the man’s intrusion.

  “This man knows details of your itinerary, sir. It is possible that he is telling the truth. However, I wouldn’t take him solely at his word. Should he be found to carry false information, I shall have him detained.”

  Grant sagged. “General, I detect no subversion here. Sir, in the interest of relieving my chief of staff’s concerns, are you a spy? An assassin perhaps?”

  The man’s eyes widened, and Grant saw far more indignation than fear. The young man seemed to puff up, a distinct air of haughtiness.

  “Most certainly not, sir. My name is Heathcliff Baker. I am here under official orders, with the full authority of the secretary of war.”

  “I know a government man when I hear one, Colonel. So, might I ask, Mr. Baker, just what official of the War Department I am to meet here?”

  The man kept his lofty attitude, a slight sneer toward Rawlins. “Sir, I just told you. The secretary of war. Surely you know him, sir. Mr. Edwin Stanton.”

  Grant had never met Stanton before, though the two
had passed lengthy telegraph messages back and forth, with Henry Halleck’s missives spread throughout. During the Vicksburg campaign, Grant had gone to great lengths to keep telegraph wires far from his headquarters, preventing official Washington from meddling in his day-to-day business. His explanation to official Washington was an easy one for a general in the field, no matter how exaggerated the reasons: He was just too heavily engaged in mortal combat to keep the War Department informed of his every move. Keeping a telegraph operator out of his camp made that explanation easier to enforce. Winning victories over rebel armies, especially significant ones, helped as well. He had never gotten along with General Halleck, knew that any collapse Grant might suffer against the rebels could give Halleck the justification to remove Grant from his command, something Halleck had done once before. But Halleck’s temperament had shown itself too clumsily, Grant dismissed from command after his victory at Fort Donelson. Halleck’s personal animosity toward Grant hadn’t been a sufficient reason for the president or Secretary Stanton to accept Halleck’s strange logic that a winning general had no place under Halleck’s authority. Halleck had grudgingly agreed, putting Grant back in command of the next campaign, which resulted in another, far more bloody victory at Shiloh. Now, with his success at Vicksburg, Grant had to believe that the hearty congratulations he had received from Washington were genuine. It had been Sherman who was quick to point out that Grant’s star was clearly on the rise. Grant paid little heed to that, though he had become confident that Halleck’s personal dislike of Grant would not become a problem again, unless of course Grant suffered a mammoth defeat. Lincoln had suffered too much ineptitude in the East, the morale of the entire Union crushed under the weight of Generals Pope, Burnside, and Hooker, each man handing Robert E. Lee monumental victories that might have ended the war in the South’s favor. It had been the triumphs in July, George Meade’s enormous success at Gettysburg, coupled with Grant’s at Vicksburg, that had swept away the defeatism that poured out from Northern newspapers. But that euphoria was short-lived, and Grant knew that the gift Rosecrans had given the South at Chickamauga had to be answered for. From the smell of the messages that came to him from Washington, Grant assumed that Rosecrans’s hold on command of the Army of the Cumberland was in serious jeopardy.

  The telegram from Halleck had reached Grant at Cairo, Illinois, that morning, explicit instructions for Grant to take a train to Louisville. Halleck had only hinted to Grant that it might be necessary for Grant to travel to Nashville, where he might assist in reinforcing the Army of the Cumberland, guiding supplies and men to ease the dangerous burden Rosecrans was facing. Grant had no expectation of going to Chattanooga himself, assumed that if Rosecrans was to be removed, the job might be offered to someone else, perhaps George Meade. But Grant also knew that Meade was too fresh in command, and some around Grant’s army, Sherman in particular, were assuming that Meade had wandered into a victory in Pennsylvania by pure good fortune, that the fight had been won more on the backs of men like John Reynolds and Winfield Hancock. But Reynolds was dead and Hancock badly wounded. Even Julia seemed to believe that Grant was being singled out as the best man to take charge of the Army of the Cumberland. That Grant had little desire for a complete change of scenery didn’t seem to matter to any one of them. But he was realistic about his alternatives to anything the War Department wanted him to do. There were none.

  Edwin Stanton was everything Grant expected, a loud voice, heavy handshake, and a man who put his cards directly on the table.

  “General, it is good to finally lay eyes on you. I admit to being curious about your demeanor, your methods. General Halleck has his ways, and I am well aware that there was conflict between the two of you. I assure you that any such disagreements are in the past. The president is mightily impressed by your accomplishments, sir, as am I.”

  The words flowed over Grant in a fog of cigar smoke, inspiring Grant to retrieve his own from his coat pocket. Stanton struck a match, obliging Grant, a show of politeness that made Grant cautious. He leaned forward, his eyes on Stanton still, the small flame rocking with the sudden movement of the train. Stanton returned the stare, Grant averting his eyes, laboring to keep his balance as the train gained speed.

  “Mr. Secretary, I am honored by your making this journey. I assume you had other business to attend to in this part of the war, and that this meeting is a matter of convenience. We should be in Louisville by tonight.”

  Stanton laughed, shook his head. “Sit down, General, before this confounded railroad causes you further injury. Pleasantries wore out a long time ago in Washington. The president sees through such things, as do I. You’re wondering if I came all the way out here just to see you. I did just that. There are important matters for us to address, General. Highly important.” Stanton waited for Grant to tumble into his seat, his attempt at decorum failing miserably. “Are you fit to ride, General?”

  Grant was curious about the question. “Am I to leave the train, sir?”

  “I am merely concerned about your mobility, General. Trains can be tempting targets for enemy raiders. I’m sure General Sherman understands that, if he didn’t before.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m certain General Sherman will take better precautions on his travels.”

  “Can’t have that, General, can’t have senior officers putting themselves at risk.”

  “Sir, it is the job. If I sought a lack of risk, I would have hoped for assignment in Washington.”

  Stanton ignored the joke, and Grant was instantly relieved, had no talent for small talk, scolded himself. Just answer his questions, for God’s sake. Stanton reached into a leather case, produced a sheaf of papers. He sifted through, then pulled two from the rest, held one in each hand.

  “General Grant, I wish you to read both of these. They are mostly identical, but there is one significant difference. I wish you to choose the one you find most acceptable.”

  Grant took the papers, more curious now, read through the first, stopped partway, read the second. Both began the same way. Grant paused, looked at Stanton, who sat back, clearly pleased with the drama of the moment.

  “Sir, does this mean I am being promoted?”

  “It means that your sphere of authority is being expanded. The president has approved placing you in command of the newly created Military Division of the Mississippi, which will encompass the Departments of the Ohio, the Cumberland, and the Tennessee. I suppose you could refer to that as a promotion, though your rank remains major general. But you will now be superior in rank to the commanders of all three departments.”

  “Sir, I am presently commander of the Department of the Tennessee. I now outrank myself?”

  Stanton studied him, and Grant felt he was being examined, thought, He’s trying to figure out if I’m especially thickheaded. Just answer his questions.

  Stanton rubbed one hand on his stomach, peered at Grant through his small spectacles. “It has been decided, General, that you should choose a successor to command the Department of the Tennessee. Obviously.”

  Grant nodded, silent, realized that there was nothing lighthearted about Stanton or the purpose for this meeting. There was only one name that poured into Grant’s mind, the only man Grant had the confidence in to move up to take his own command.

  “If I may be allowed to suggest, sir, General Sherman is the most suited for that command.”

  “We assumed such. You’ll get no objections from Washington, as long as you can assure us that General Sherman’s … um … unfortunate tendencies are in the past.”

  Grant hated the assumption that Sherman still had to be watched over, like some errant child. “I have full confidence in General Sherman, sir.”

  “Yes, well, most in Washington would agree with you. But don’t be hasty in your decision. There is time. Sherman is still on the march, is he not?”

  “Yes, sir. Two divisions are en route to Chattanooga. Additional troops are preparing to follow. Their progress has been delayed somewhat
by General Halleck’s order that Sherman repair the railroad along the way. Given the state of crisis at Chattanooga, it seems more efficient for Sherman to move his people more quickly. If I’m not exceeding my authority, sir.”

  “See to it. You’ll need every railroad you can get, I would imagine. But you’re probably right. You need Sherman’s troops even more.” Stanton pointed to the papers still in Grant’s hands. “Finish reading, please.”

  Grant complied, read silently, saw now the difference between the two orders. He looked up at Stanton, bit down hard on the butt of his cigar.

  “You are leaving this decision up to me?”

  “You’re the commanding general. You know who inspires confidence in the field and who does not. This is no time for avoiding hurt feelings, General.”

  Grant had little affection for William Rosecrans, the two men dueling over authority and Washington’s attentions well before now. It was a common thread that ran through the entire Federal military, competing spheres, army versus navy, the Army of the Potomac versus the Army of the Ohio, on and on, each commander trying to make himself heard above the din, the effort to gain priority for supplies and reinforcements. But now, the order given him by Stanton had elevated him to full authority over any force west of the Appalachian Mountains, all the way to the Mississippi River. And the orders were clear and to the point. One called for Grant to assume command over Rosecrans, and handle the situation at Chattanooga by assisting Rosecrans in holding the rebels away. The other called for Rosecrans’s outright removal, with command of the Army of the Cumberland to fall upon George Thomas. Grant stared at the papers, felt the weight of what Stanton was doing.

  Stanton seemed to enjoy himself, smiled, said, “It’s the very thing you generals crow about the most. Washington keeping its nose out of your affairs, Washington permitting you to run your commands the way you see fit. I’ve been hearing that since the first weeks of the war. George McClellan spent every waking hour badgering the War Department, insisting we round up a half-million volunteers to fight off a scourge that would otherwise engulf the entire Union. In return, he expected Washington, and especially the president, to keep out of his way. No questions, no suggestions. Unfortunately, there were also no victories. As well, McClellan was prone to exaggeration. I do not believe that affliction applies to you.” Stanton paused, still enjoying the moment. “Well, General, this time, you are getting what I assume to be your greatest desire. You may choose your subordinates. The War Department is confident you will choose wisely. So, which is it? Which order do you accept?”