by Jeff Shaara
Grumbach lost his glad-handing smile, said, “Why, whatever for?”
Grant leaned down, tilted his hat back on his head. “Mr. Dana, would you like to explain?”
“With pleasure, sir. Mr. Grumbach, I wish to introduce to you, in all his glory and with a stout heart and fiery eyes, General Ulysses Grant.”
“There. To the right of that pair of trees. Right at the crest.”
Dana looked through field glasses of his own, said, “Yes, I see it. You certain, sir?”
“Pretty certain. Some of the scouts go up a whole lot closer than this. Plus, there’s deserters. Those fellows always seem eager to impress us with all that they know, how important they are. If they can convince us they have real good information, they know we’ll reward them for it. That’s one way we confirmed the location of Bragg’s headquarters.”
“So, that house is Bragg’s headquarters?”
“Yep.”
“Why don’t we shell it, begging your pardon, sir?”
Grant sniffed, tossed the spent cigar to one side, thought, Civilians.
“Too far, for one thing. Too high up for the artillery to get the range. And, the more I think about it, Mr. Dana, the more I’m convinced that the greatest advantage we might have in this fight is the man up there who commands the enemy. We knock Bragg down, they might find someone else who’s better. At least, for now, we know what we’re facing.”
“Do we know, sir, why he sent Longstreet away? Something perhaps you haven’t said to General Thomas? If I may be so bold to ask, sir. But you understand. I must report what I can to Secretary Stanton.”
“We have scouts, Mr. Dana. But I have yet to find a spy capable enough to sit on Bragg’s staff. In time, perhaps.”
The name bounced through him now, his old friend, Pete Longstreet. The thought suddenly erupted through his brain. Longstreet is after all … Longstreet. Came down here figuring he’d take command, probably with Lee’s blessing. But then he runs into another old mule in Braxton Bragg. I’ll wager they stood toe-to-toe, like a couple of bantam roosters. But Jefferson Davis has treated Bragg like a favorite son, so that’s a fight Longstreet can’t win. Didn’t win. And now, Longstreet is gone. But Halleck insists we can bring him back, just so we can save Burnside. I suppose that’s what I have to do.
“Mr. Dana, I should return to my headquarters. It’s imperative I complete my orders to General Thomas. I’ll provide you a copy, of course, since you’re going to find one anyway. Then you may send your report to Washington. I’m tired of this place, Mr. Dana. It’s time to move.”
NORTH OF CHATTANOOGA—NOVEMBER 7, 1863
The order had dug at Thomas like a needle in his aching back. Grant’s impatience was obvious, the orders calling for an immediate strike at what was assumed to be Bragg’s right flank, the northern reaches of Missionary Ridge. But Thomas had surveyed this ground far longer than Grant, had intended first to assault the rebel position on Lookout Mountain, where Joe Hooker’s troops were camped close up to the base of the enormous heights. Thus far, the rebels had made no real forays off his protection on the highest ground, but Thomas could not fathom that Bragg would simply sit still while Grant’s army was growing stronger. To Thomas, Bragg’s most logical option would be to launch an assault down into Lookout Valley, straight at Hooker, an attempt to crush the supply lines. Thomas had done all he could to convince Hooker to prepare a strong defensive line. To Thomas’s dismay, Hooker had fared poorly in preparing any kind of position at all. Earthworks were barely in existence, and the few rifle pits were dug in haphazard patterns, as though Hooker could not conceive he might be in any danger. Thomas had hesitated giving Hooker direct orders, even though the War Department had given Thomas command over his divisions.
Hooker had been contrite about his massive failure at Chancellorsville the spring before and Thomas understood that any general who suffered such a defeat would seek redemption. But Hooker’s performance in the valley hadn’t done anything to convince Thomas that he was capable of being any more than a subordinate, a corps commander at best. But Hooker still held what Thomas believed was the key to the entire campaign. If Bragg’s troops could be swept clear of Lookout Mountain, the Federal forces could then drive farther east, dropping down the east side of the mountain, shoving back behind the rebel left flank on Missionary Ridge, threatening to slice behind Bragg’s position, possibly cutting off rebel supply lines. By removing Longstreet’s fifteen thousand men, it was simple mathematics that Bragg had weakened his army by a fourth, possibly a third. There was surely an opportunity on Lookout Mountain that Grant would recognize. Thomas had hoped that he could persuade Grant to strike the rebel left. Instead, Grant’s orders just added to Thomas’s dismay. Grant ordered Thomas to move as many men as possible in as short a time as possible and assault Bragg’s right flank, the far northern tip of Missionary Ridge.
Grant was now insisting on a major offensive that would so threaten Bragg’s position that he would be forced to recall Longstreet back toward Chattanooga, thus sparing Ambrose Burnside’s precarious hold on Knoxville. Whether Burnside was exaggerating his own peril, neither Thomas nor Grant had any idea. Burnside’s reputation for leadership or tactical effectiveness was no better than Joe Hooker’s. But Thomas respected that Grant was being hounded incessantly from Washington, and that for reasons known only to Henry Halleck, Burnside’s precarious position at Knoxville was the greater priority. For Thomas, it was the one saving grace of having Grant as his superior. The avalanche of telegrams coming from the War Department were landing squarely on Grant’s desk, not his own.
He rode northward along a wide trail that paralleled the river, a scattering of guards keeping far out in the brush, hidden as much as possible along the river itself. He was joined by Baldy Smith, had wanted Smith’s firsthand explanation why an assault on the enemy’s northern flanks was any kind of a good idea. With them rode General John Brannan, Thomas’s chief of artillery. For most of the past week, Brannan had put his focus south of Chattanooga, anticipating an attack on Lookout Mountain. But Grant’s order would require Thomas to haul considerable artillery in the opposite direction, up from the stronghold at Chattanooga, a job that would fall on Brannan.
The horses took them up a low rise, the brush falling away, bare rocks and scrub trees, well above the river. Thomas had followed Smith to a vantage point where the mouth of Chickamauga Creek was visible. He saw it now, feeding into the Tennessee from the far side, and Thomas halted the horse, raised his field glasses, saw a scattering of men along both banks of the smaller creek, a dozen or more rebel pickets.
“They’re fishing.”
Beside him, Brannan said nervously, “One of them’s waving at us. Not certain this is a good idea, sir.”
Thomas stared through the field glasses, didn’t share Brannan’s concern. “No matter, John. No one along this entire river seems to care whether we make a fight at all. This campaign has become one massive holiday, a hundred thousand men gazing across this river at each other as though we’ve nothing better to do.”
He looked toward Smith now, saw the engineer sitting quietly, no field glasses. Smith had been over every part of this ground, and Thomas knew he had probably memorized every tree.
Thomas said, “Well, this is what you proposed. Cross here, hit them straight up that creek, grab that rail depot beyond. Still think it’s the right plan?”
Smith rubbed the ragged beard on his chin. “Given this some thought. My apologies, sir, but there are some details here that escaped me before. That one hill across the way, down to the right, those heights with so much timber. It concerns me, sir, that the maps may not be correct.”
It was not what Thomas wanted to hear. “Which maps? These maps? The ones I’m to rely upon to carry out Grant’s orders?”
“Maybe so. I’m wondering … if I may ask … how many men can be marched up this way by tomorrow?”
Thomas fought the urge to say none. He thought a moment.
&n
bsp; “It’s possible to bring two divisions up here, no more. But that’s not the whole problem.” He looked at Brannan. “John, do you think you can haul sufficient artillery up here with the draft animals we have now?”
Brannan lowered the glasses, still eyed the rebels, who still eyed him. “The animals are in terrible condition. This kind of march will kill most of them. They haven’t grown strong enough yet. We must have replacements, or allow the beasts time to strengthen from additional forage. I don’t see how any real strength can be brought here. A few batteries at best.”
“Wonderful. I’m to make this assault with almost no artillery.”
He stared out for a long moment, dreaded the ride back to the town, knew his back would suffer for it. He felt a wave of black despair, put his hand on the paper in his pocket, Grant’s order.
“Baldy, this plan won’t work, not with the means we have now. Grant insists we launch this attack tomorrow. I have to tell him it can’t be done. I’d like some support for that position.”
Smith let out a deep breath. “It was my idea. Not the entire plan, mind you, but I believed we could send some skirmishers across, surprise the enemy, maybe send a larger force in as support, push hard enough and grab the rail depot. At least, we might cut the rail lines, or cut any communications Bragg has with his forces at Knoxville. Still think it’s a good plan. Grant wants to jab Bragg hard, agitate him enough to recall Longstreet. I thought it could work.” He paused. “How in blazes did I miss those hills? That’s not what the map shows, not at all.”
Thomas was growing more annoyed. “So, fix the maps. Right now, I don’t care how accurate they are. I cannot obey Grant’s orders without weakening our position at Chattanooga. We’re several miles from the northern limits of our own defensive lines. Bragg’s not a complete fool. He sees us move a sizable force up this way, he’ll know we’re vulnerable in the town. Or worse, he could launch a counterattack just below us right here, cutting off whatever troops we bring up here. We get pinched like that, and then, Longstreet suddenly arrives, we’re in serious trouble up here. I’ll not have it. We simply need more strength, more numbers.”
Smith didn’t respond, Thomas angrier by the minute, thought of Grant. Why in blazes aren’t you out here? See this for yourself. We’re too far removed from the town, from any protection at all. He kept his anger inside, a long silent moment, the cheerful voices of the rebels across the river plainly audible, Federal pickets below responding, their good humor digging into Thomas, more of the same friendly banter that annoyed him everywhere he went. Brannan seemed jumpy still, broke the silence.
“Sir, General Grant will not be pleased with your refusal. You should offer some alternative plan, something the general will find to his liking.”
Thomas sniffed, sat back in the saddle, twisted slightly, testing the nagging pain in his back. “Grant believes in this plan, and he is being growled at from Washington. The only alternative I can suggest is that this plan be carried out exactly as he proposes.”
Smith said, “What do you mean? At the very least, we would have to delay a day or two.”
“Maybe longer than that. But Grant wants this flank hit and hit hard. I continue to believe that the best strategy is to strike the enemy on the opposite flank, pushing up onto Lookout Mountain. That attack could yield a great deal of fruit. The only pleasing alternative to this plan is if, somehow, we can launch both assaults. And for that we will require more troops, more guns, and someone who, from what I’ve heard, pays little attention to the accuracy of his maps. General Grant will just have to bide his time. There can be no grand assault against this section of Bragg’s forces until Sherman arrives.”
CHATTANOOGA—NOVEMBER 8, 1863
He paced about the room, as rapidly as the pain in his leg allowed, hands clasped behind his back. The fire had died down to embers, but Rawlins and the other staff officers knew when to leave Grant alone, and now was as good a time as there might ever have been. Grant thought of smoking a cigar, needed the warmth of that, something to clear away the sour taste that rose up as he pondered the impossibility of carrying out his orders. He knew he couldn’t display his anger to his staff, that no matter how he felt about his subordinates, as the commanding general, his job seemed to fall more to the role of peacemaker. He knew of others who weren’t so discreet, men like Halleck who made no effort to hide their displeasure. The victims of the outbursts might not be the ones most deserving, and Grant knew enough of chain of command to understand that a general might carry ultimate responsibility for some failure, but often, the failure came from a subordinate who just didn’t do the job. He had seen too much of that throughout the war, knew that both armies suffered from various failings, that more often, it was the commanding general who endured the disgrace. But to blister any field commander out of hand without knowing every detail was a habit practiced by others, generals for whom Grant held little respect. That description applied to Sherman, certainly, who was legendary for his temper, who would launch artillery shells into the faces of anyone in proximity, even his own staff, when, occasionally, the failure had been Sherman’s alone. But Grant’s feelings for Sherman were very different, a closeness born of respect and friendship. I suppose, he thought, that a bad temper is not always a bad thing. Sherman knows when he’s made a bad mistake, and if he’s furious about that, it means he’s less likely to repeat the mistake. But today … Thomas … he sees no mistake. To him, any error of strategy is mine, my bad plan, calling on him to do a job he’s just not capable of. Or worse, giving him a task he doesn’t feel his army can accomplish. Grant heard Thomas’s words now, grim and absolute, as though Grant should know better. Too many difficulties in maneuvering this army, too many problems with artillery horses. So, in his mind, it’s impossible to carry out my plan, the plan that first came from his own engineer.
It hadn’t helped Grant’s mood to see Baldy Smith standing alongside Thomas when the refusal came. Grant respected Smith, still would, knew that a good engineer should recognize his errors, and work to correct them. Smith was loyal to Thomas, certainly, another trait Grant had to admire. But, Baldy, he thought, it was your idea. You’re the one who thought we could charge across that river and slice up Bragg’s rail lines, scare the daylights out of every rebel from here to Knoxville, change the entire course of this campaign. Grant stopped pacing, closed his eyes, knew it really wasn’t like that. Smith’s original plan had suggested a limited expedition across the river, a surprise raid that would grab the rebel pickets, hitting the tracks and the depot with just enough energy to sting Braxton Bragg, convincing him to pull Longstreet back from Knoxville. No, the illusion of some grand campaign up there was all my own. I thought the Army of the Cumberland, and its commander, would be capable of doing something on this ground besides digging ditches, and waiting for winter to arrive. This is worse than Vicksburg.
He hated sieges, the notion that one army could just surround the other until the besieged forces choked to death. If there had been someone else in charge at Vicksburg, someone besides that turncoat Pennsylvanian Pemberton, our mighty siege there could have blown right back in our faces. I got lucky with that. Washington thinks I’m a hero for it. So does Sherman. And Julia. But in that campaign I had a weak enemy, a man who specializes in uncertainty. Now, what do I have? An enemy who sits up on big fat hills and seems perfectly willing for me to do something. All right, Mr. Bragg, I tried. Now what? Is George Thomas just as content as you seem to be to go into winter quarters, so we may begin this conversation again in the spring?
He was pacing again, ignored the stiffness in his knee. Methodical. That’s the word, he thought. Thomas is methodical. So was Burnside at Fredericksburg, and it bloodied us as badly as any campaign of the war. Lee at Gettysburg … the last thing you’d ever say about Bobby Lee is that he’s methodical. He got beat to pieces up there, but he did it by moving forward.
Grant grabbed the back of the chair, sat heavily, felt exhausted by his own anger. Good
thing I’m alone. My brain’s spitting out babble. I don’t know what Lee did wrong, and all I know of Burnside is what I’m hearing right now, that he screams for help when he sees a rebel skirmish line. Actually, I’m not hearing anything from Burnside right now.
“Mr. Rawlins!”
He stared at the door, saw it open slowly, the face of Major Babcock.
“Yes, sir? General Rawlins is detained at the moment, sir. May I be of assistance?”
“Is the telegraph to Knoxville still out?”
“Yes, sir. Captain James just returned from the office, said it’s silent, no responses at all to our inquiries.”
Grant fumed, stared at the dead fire, felt the chill now.
“Send an aide in here to light this thing.”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
The door closed, and Grant felt the restlessness, called out again, “Major!”
“Sir?”
“Do we know where Sherman is?”
The man shook his head slowly, as though expecting Grant to erupt. “No, sir. Sorry. I’ll try to find out.”
“Fine idea.”
Babcock was gone again, and in a quick moment, the door opened, one of the couriers carrying a flaming stick, the man going quickly to the hearth, leaning low, stabbing at the remains of the fire. Grant watched the man fiddling with the embers, small remnants of burned logs, a thick blanket of gray ash smothering his efforts. The man seemed more agitated, glanced back at Grant, preparing to apologize, and Grant said, “Son, go get some firewood, and do this right. You’re so nervous, you’re giving me hives.”
The young man stood, left the flaming stick to die in the ashes, saluted him, said, “Yes, sir. I didn’t wish to disturb you, sir. General Rawlins was most insistent.…”
“And General Rawlins is not here, correct?”
“Correct, sir.”
“Then we’ll do things my way. Get some sticks and logs, and light the fire. Understand?”
