by Jeff Shaara
Cleburne felt the familiar nervousness, knew he had been given an important task, that no matter Hardee’s sarcasm, it might be critical for Cleburne to bring his men from the depot back to this part of the ridge.
“If you forgive me, General, I should ride back to the depot. I do not know how many have returned, nor how long it will require to assemble them. The general’s orders are clear, and I must put my men to the march.”
“By all means. It feels good, does it not?”
Cleburne wasn’t sure what Hardee meant. “Sir?”
“Doing something. You see that assault today, out there on those hills?”
“No, sir. I was up at the depot.”
“Something’s happening, Patrick. Grant’s run out of patience. And we’ve run out of time for our holiday.”
ORCHARD KNOB—NOVEMBER 23, 1863
What had begun as a demonstration, an attempt to force the rebels to show their hand, had allowed at least two full divisions of Federal troops to shove forward, halving the distance between their guns and the rebels up on the heights. The response from Missionary Ridge had been muted, adding to the suspicions that most of Bragg’s army might have slipped away, but once on the bald hills, Federal observers had a far more precise view of the Confederate position. Even if Bragg kept his men on those heights, conceding the low hills to Thomas’s overwhelming force, the rebels were still in place on the ridge. The vantage point on Orchard Knob showed heavily manned rifle pits, artillery emplacements spread all across the face of the ridge, clearly an army preparing to receive another assault. But the Federal troops had grabbed a good piece of ground, and rather than withdraw the men back to their original camps, Thomas ordered them to stay right where they were.
With the hills swept clean of any lingering enemy troops, Thomas rode forward, making his own observations from the treeless mound of Orchard Knob. As his horse climbed up above the plain, he was already grateful to be outside the miserable environs of Chattanooga. The open ground around him, the sea of blue troops gathering up into their newly organized camps, allowed him a sense of accomplishment, a renewed spirit he hadn’t felt in Chattanooga at all.
As the musket fire faded away, Thomas knew his plan had worked perfectly, a piece of satisfaction he would keep to himself. He never gloated over a victory, that peculiar show of pride that infected some of the subordinates, and he also knew there was no point seeking backslapping approval from Grant.
Thomas had no real reason for his nagging dislike of the man. It was just an instinct, something he couldn’t really explain. Everyone in the Army of the Cumberland knew that Grant had brought something to this campaign that Rosecrans never could, a confident matter-of-factness about his every intention, and a bullheaded determination to carry through every plan. There was no panic in the man, little excitement of any kind that Thomas could see. Despite the casual rumors that flew through the camps, Thomas had almost never seen Grant touch spirits, a glass of wine perhaps before retiring. If there was a single vice that Grant embraced heartily, it was the man’s love for his cigars.
Thomas assumed that Grant could be as stubborn as a mule, a trait Thomas knew they shared. But he respected that Grant could be swayed, would allow himself to weigh an alternative plan. But still, there was a tension between the two men. Grant never welcomed him to any of the meetings with a positive handshake, didn’t really welcome him at all. When the time came to strike the rebels with the massed power behind so many troops, Thomas fully expected, and believed he had earned, the privilege of leading the way. But Grant had other ideas. The army west of the Appalachians belonged to Grant, and Grant had reached that lofty plateau with Sherman by his side, and Grant would rely on Sherman to carry the greatest weight. Should there be a glorious triumph in this campaign, Thomas had to swallow that Grant would elevate Sherman first, and Thomas perhaps not at all.
Thomas had his difficulties with Joe Hooker as well. Hooker’s army had been sent westward as an act of urgency by the War Department, their fear that the Army of the Cumberland was a ripe target for Bragg’s jubilant army after their overwhelming success at Chickamauga. Thomas’s dislike of the man had less to do with personality, and far more with what Thomas saw as the poor quality of Hooker’s leadership. Grant seemed to share those opinions, something Thomas appreciated. Since Hooker’s arrival, Thomas had followed Grant’s lead, and put considerably more faith in Hooker’s immediate subordinate, Oliver Howard. Howard had done no better than his commander at Chancellorsville, but here he seemed in control of his men, moved them with at least an effort toward efficiency. Right now, Howard’s ten thousand men were pushing into position primarily as a reserve in support of Sherman, filing out into the plain to Thomas’s left. If Sherman succeeded in sweeping Bragg’s men off Missionary Ridge, Howard would then be available in support of Thomas, anchoring Thomas’s left flank.
And then, Thomas’s men achieved a different kind of success. On most days when the weather allowed, observers in many parts of the line could see the Confederate signalmen, flags waving, passing messages from peak to peak. On both sides, the signalmen were taught specific codes, allowing them to keep their messages private from the eyes of the enemy. After weeks of sitting still, observing the same signalmen offering similar messages every hour of every day, the Federal observers had made the breakthrough. The rebel code had been broken.
“Are you certain?”
Thomas fought to breathe through Grant’s cigar smoke, nodded. “Quite. Carter Stevenson’s division appears to be the sole force holding the mountain. Bragg has withdrawn everyone else, moved them onto the ridge.”
Grant pulled the soggy end of the cigar from his mouth, stared at it, what Thomas now understood to be a look of satisfaction.
“And you’re certain?”
“Dead certain. They’ve shifted a number of artillery pieces off the mountain as well. We’ve picked that up already. They’re not responding to our usual idiocy of duels with quite the same vigor. Fewer shells mean fewer guns.” He paused. “Bragg has to believe we’re going to hit him in the center, and he’s making preparations.”
Grant stuffed the cigar back in his mouth, tilted his head, looked at Thomas from beneath the low brim of his hat. “You like this, don’t you?”
“Is that allowed?”
“Yep, I’ll give you that. This demonstration of yours worked as well as we could have hoped.” Grant moved toward the entrance of the large tent. “Not as comfortable as that big stone fireplace, but we’ve got a better view. Just about see the far north end of that ridge. Might actually see Sherman’s attack.”
Thomas sagged, didn’t let it show. But he couldn’t just keep silent. “I truly believe that we have the strength right here to drive the rebels off those heights. General Stevenson has signaled to Bragg that he expects us to hit him first, that he feels the far left flank, the mountain, will be our primary point of attack. I must assume that General Stevenson is considerably distressed at being left alone up there.”
Grant suddenly stepped away, moved outside the tent, and Thomas followed, annoyed now. He knew Grant wouldn’t debate this, not outside, not in front of the men. It was Grant’s way of ending the discussion, at least for now.
All around them, the troops were moving up guns, supply wagons, more tents pitched close to the hills, Thomas’s headquarters taking shape. The fires were spread out in every direction, the new camps of the army, fresh ground, far removed from the town. Yes, he thought, this was my plan. It should still be my plan. He watched Grant for a long moment, the tip of the cigar glowing orange, Grant seeming to stare off into nothing. Thomas looked upward, the rain in a light spray, the men at the campfires struggling to keep the blazes high. He knew he could do nothing to push the man, Grant seemingly lost in thought, that when Grant was ready to discuss their options, Thomas would know.
The rain had begun again an hour before, and Thomas knew the first to curse Mother Nature would be the supply officers. They all knew that wi
thout several days of easy passage for the wagon trains, without fully loaded riverboats coming upstream from the ports in Alabama, the rations for the men would have to be cut again. Grant had been furious at the delays, and just as furious that Sherman’s arrival had been so sluggish. It had surprised Thomas that Grant excused that, seemed willing to excuse anything Sherman might do. But Thomas knew that no amount of blame would improve the roads, the trails that had become virtually unusable. Like the pontoon bridges, there was a constant need for repairs, repairs that required too much time. It had cost Sherman the use of one of his own divisions. Those men were trapped south of Brown’s Ferry, and Grant had no choice but to place them under command of Joe Hooker.
Thomas felt the rain seeping through his coat, cold down his back, his patience gone. “Sir, might we speak inside?”
Grant turned to him, his hat dripping, seemed to ponder the thought, then pointed the way. Thomas returned to his tent quickly, back into the lingering cloud of smoke.
Grant moved to a small camp chair, bathed himself in another plume of smoke, said, “What do you want to do about Hooker?”
Thomas knew this might be his only opportunity. “Sir, I cannot emphasize this strongly enough. We have been presented with a gift. We know that Bragg has weakened his defenses on Lookout Mountain, and strengthened his center. Now, we know that General Stevenson is up there in full anticipation that we will attack the mountain. Bragg most certainly disagrees with him, which is why Bragg shifted so much strength elsewhere. I believe we should oblige General Stevenson, and make all the noise we can, convincing him he is correct, that Bragg was wrong to remove so much troop strength from the mountain.” Thomas paused. “You agreed to this demonstration today as a means to divert Bragg’s attention toward our true goal. I have disagreed with many parts of your plan, but I will obey whatever you instruct me to do. I just ask you to consider that an attack moving uphill out of Lookout Valley, pushing into what should be a meager defense, might serve to confuse Bragg even further, convince him that Stevenson is correct after all, and that we’re coming at him from that direction. Bragg might respond by shifting troops back up onto the mountain, thus weakening his center.”
“I’m more concerned about Bragg’s right. I’ve not changed my mind. Sherman is going in hard on the enemy’s right. I’m through debating that with you or anyone else.”
“I’m not suggesting otherwise. But you have said yourself that Bragg’s uncertainty is a valuable asset to us, certainly to General Sherman as well. Hooker is sitting down there in Lookout Valley with a full division of his own, plus the added strength from Sherman. General Sherman has consented that his troops be used where you see fit. Hooker’s men … all they’re doing is guarding the supply routes. Should we not make use of this, employ those men to our advantage? And, sir, anything we can do to lessen Bragg’s expectations of an attack on his right flank will have to aid General Sherman.”
He knew he had grabbed Grant’s attention, saw the cigar come out of Grant’s mouth, Grant rolling it over between his fingers.
“A demonstration. No more than that. I don’t see how Hooker or anybody else can push that large a force up that big rock without taking considerable fire.”
“General Grant, if the reports are accurate, and you know I believe them to be, there won’t be much enemy fire up there to start with.”
Grant stared at him for a long moment, the cigar plugged back into his mouth, called out, “What time is it?”
Thomas heard a voice from outside, knew it was Rawlins.
“Just after eleven, sir.”
Thomas said, “He listen in on every council you have?”
Grant shrugged. “Always has.” Grant looked out toward the darkness beyond the tent, raised his voice. “Might have to shoot him one day, he hears one too many secrets.”
Thomas realized it was Grant’s kind of humor, heard a low apology from outside the tent. Thomas thought again of Hooker, said, “We can get a courier to Lookout Valley within an hour. If you will authorize it, I will order him to advance up that mountain at daylight tomorrow, or as quickly as he can put his men into motion. I will not tolerate any debate from him. Begging your pardon, sir.”
Grant lowered his head. “This is Hooker you’re talking about. He doesn’t require debate to find a reason why it can’t be done, why he has to prepare and inspect and check God knows what.”
“I propose, sir, we take that chance. I’ll be … specific in my order. Something to the effect … ‘General commanding desires that you make demonstrations early as possible after daybreak on point of Lookout Mountain.’ Hard for him to misinterpret that.”
“Maybe. I doubt he’ll be able to do more than wake up the rebel lookouts. That’s a big mountain. Taking that hill completely might require a large-scale assault, open up a general engagement, with our men staring straight up. Can’t have that. If the going’s easy, fine. If not, make sure he keeps it to a demonstration. That’s all.”
“That’s my intention. Whether we take that mountain altogether, or merely shove Stevenson’s troops around a bit, we will make our point. Our goal is to confuse Braxton Bragg.”
“And for that, we will depend on Joe Hooker. God help us, General.”
“I am hoping, sir, we will depend more on his soldiers. If those men can make that climb, the rebel position will be in jeopardy.” Thomas paused, thought, Be careful here. He knows, after all, how you feel about this. “I am equally concerned about General Sherman.”
Grant looked at him, the cigar stuck firmly in one side of his mouth. “Why?”
“Not all of his troops are yet across the river. I know you have ordered him to begin his operations tonight.”
“I ordered him to do what he knows he can accomplish. He has given me assurances that, even without his full complement, his advance can begin.” Grant looked away, into the dark again. “I have every confidence in him.”
Thomas nodded, thought, Yes, and we shall find if that is justified. Some would doubt it.
“He is on unfamiliar ground, sir. It is a dangerous undertaking.”
Grant looked at him, the cigar still in place, his words coming through gritted teeth. “He will confront a familiar enemy. And he will cross a river. One more river, in a country full of them.” Grant removed the cigar now, a hard stare at Thomas. “I will not repeat this. I have every confidence in him. Are we in agreement?”
Thomas knew he was in a delicate place, a test from Grant that Thomas could not really win.
“I agree that you have confidence in him. I have not yet fought alongside General Sherman. I can only judge what I know. I have confidence in my men. I would assume General Sherman has confidence in his. And, in his commanding officer.”
Thomas waited for the question, but Grant didn’t ask, and Thomas understood, that whether or not he had any confidence in Grant didn’t matter. He had the same task facing him as Sherman did right now. When the enemy stands tall, knock him down.
NORTH CHICKAMAUGA CREEK—NOVEMBER 24, 1863
There was more to his shivering anxiousness than the weather. For the past two days, three-fourths of his army, nearly twenty thousand men, had finally made their way past Chattanooga, marching northward to the location chosen for them by Baldy Smith, buried deep in heavy woods just west of the big river. His fourth division had been caught by the destruction of the pontoon bridge at Brown’s Ferry, and for now, Sherman had agreed that those men would remain at Lookout Valley, available to assist Hooker’s assault on Lookout Mountain. Going into a fight missing a quarter of his strength had given Sherman a hot knot in his stomach, but Grant had waited long enough for this campaign to begin, and Sherman understood that his own indigestion wasn’t as important as Grant’s. The delays in bringing his troops to Chattanooga had gnawed at Sherman like a bulldog at his backside, and despite Grant’s smiling welcome, it was clear to Sherman that Grant’s patience was at low ebb. The smiles and friendly conversation had quickly given way to talk of
strategy and tactics, and it became clear that Grant was more agitated than Sherman had ever seen him, a show of stern impatience that Sherman knew he had earned. The attack had already been postponed for too many days. It was time to go.
As he moved slowly through the rain, he knew that one column of his men was on the move, a full brigade slipping out through the soggy woodlands, easing closer to this small tributary of the Tennessee River, what the maps showed as North Chickamauga Creek. The mission on this night would be to board pontoon boats, slipping silently down the creek to the Tennessee River, the oarsmen working to catch the current to carry them quickly and silently downstream. The landings would come on both sides of the mouth of South Chickamauga Creek, the men making every effort at pushing ashore without alarming any rebel skirmishers anywhere along the route. The river at that point was nearly a quarter mile across, a dangerous gap between the first men across and any support they might need. The single advantage in such a distance was the rain, which would most certainly deaden any noisy mistakes, a stumble in the boats, a clatter of metal, anything to reveal the presence of the troops. The men had been ordered to load their muskets, but no percussion caps, no chance of an accidental discharge. Even the miserable weather wouldn’t hide musket fire, and on this night, there could be no alerting the enemy.
It baffled him still how so many skirmishers could stand ready on each side of the great river, eyeing one another every day for nearly two months, and yet no attempts had been made by either side to punish the other. Downstream, where the sweeping curves wound closer to Chattanooga, the river had narrow places, the men within easy hailing distance, close enough for boats and rafts to paddle across for their bartering, whether the officers approved of that or not. Sherman most definitely did not. He had no tolerance for opposing picket lines who spoke to each other as though perched casually on opposite sides of some country lane, awaiting some parade, all the while tossing bags of sweet treats back and forth like some ridiculous game. If the rebel pickets were out there, on this far north end of Bragg’s position, it would be Sherman’s job to silence them any way possible. That was not a job for any man who considered those other troops to be his friends.
