The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War

by Jeff Shaara

  He rode closer to the trees above him, saw a line of his skirmishers moving farther up, climbing into thickets, pushing to the crest of the hill. He expected musket fire, waited for it, felt the nervous itch, raised the field glasses, nothing to see, his view blinded by fog and watery lenses.

  He turned abruptly, spurred the horse back toward the river, past the men who knew not to cheer. His staff was waiting, a limp flag held high by his color bearer. McCoy was there, seemed anxious, the others just as nervous.

  “Sir, anything up there? Haven’t heard anything here. The pontoon bridge over the South Chickamauga is completed, just like this one. We’re in contact with the regiments in position north of the creek. No sign of the enemy there, either. What do you make of it, sir?”

  McCoy’s jabbering betrayed his fears, and Sherman fought that himself, the same struggle before every fight. He turned to the misty hill again, had no answers for McCoy.

  Another of his officers spoke up now, Dayton, the same high-pitched nervousness.

  “Sir, are we certain this is the correct landing area?”

  Sherman snapped his head around, pointed out to the north, upriver.

  “You see that stream over there? It’s the South Chickamauga. If I thought Baldy Smith would send us to some godforsaken mud hole by mistake, I’d tell Grant to shoot him.” He knew he was talking nonsense, the tension in his voice betraying the anxiousness he could not show his staff. “Never mind that. We’re in the correct location, Colonel. That big damn hill out there is the north end of the Mission Ridge. Bragg’s whole damn army is up there somewhere, and it’s our job to find them.” He paused, shook his head. “I would have thought … they’d be waiting for us. Somebody. A single battery, a heavy skirmish line. Maybe … with all this maneuvering Grant’s been doing, the demonstrations, hell, maybe it’s worked better than we ever thought possible. Maybe Bragg’s pulled his whole army down to the south; maybe he’s really convinced we’re gonna hit him in the center. That ought to make Grant happy.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s a good turn of events, surely.”

  McCoy’s voice held a shiver, and Sherman fought that himself, the cold of the rain only making it worse. He looked again to the misty hill, said, “What time is it?”

  “Six, sir. Just shy. Never thought it would be this easy, sir.”

  Sherman kept his stare on the wooded hills. “It never is, Colonel. It never is. But I’m not satisfied by any of this. We’re supposed to be leading the way, jamming a bayonet into Bragg’s guts. By God, if he’s pulled his people away from here …”

  “Maybe they’ve withdrawn, sir? Maybe we scared him out of here completely.”

  Sherman looked toward the voice, Dayton, a cold stare that quieted the man.

  “That’s about the worst thought imaginable, Colonel. We went to all this trouble so we can whip Bragg, not chase him all over Creation. As soon as all three divisions are across that river, I’m ordering the advance. I didn’t come all this way just to build bridges. Our job is to sweep Bragg off that big damn ridge.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but where in blazes are they?”

  “Only one way to know that, Colonel. Let’s climb that big damn hill.”

  EAST OF CHATTANOOGA,

  SOUTH OF ORCHARD KNOB—NOVEMBER 24, 1863

  They had moved out to the right flank of the great advance the day before, no one really knowing just what enemy they might confront. The fight had been mostly on their left, the round knobs that protruded from the thick woods, but that fight had been brief, several volleys of musket fire punctuated by their own artillery that burst out back near Chattanooga, what they knew as Fort Wood. For Bauer, the first contact with the enemy had been the sudden emergence of the rebel picket line, half a hundred men responding to the massive parade of Federal troops by firing a brief volley of their own, then scrambling away through the vast fields of tall grass and low brush. The skirmishers had been little more than a brief distraction. What had grabbed Bauer’s attention, and that of the men in line around him, was the immense formations of their own troops, long and heavy lines of blue, advancing across the wide-open plain. He had seen massive assaults before, what seemed to be the entire army rolling forward at Vicksburg. But that was a very bad day, the men in blue smacking hard into rebel earthworks, where a well-protected enemy poured out a vicious fire that had punched bloody holes in the Federal advance. This time, there were no earthworks, and no volleys of any significance coming toward them. The only artillery the rebels offered came from the wooded ground near the two bald hills. But even that was brief and ineffective, what seemed to be no more than a single battery, facing off against what Bauer assumed to be four or five divisions. Bauer hadn’t even fired his musket.

  Bauer awoke before the bugle, his habit now, jarred alert by the cold, a sharp breeze that brought the misty rain straight into the tent. He was shivering, pulled hard at the thin blanket, felt wetness everywhere he touched. His knees were up tight against his chest, but there was little room for movement, one knee thumping into the back of his tent mate, the ever angry Corporal Owens.

  “Huh? What the hell you want?” Owens sat up abruptly, his head brushing the top of the small tent. “Jesus, it’s cold. Rained, too. Dammit anyway. Left my brogans outside.”

  Bauer had his shoes on still, had heard the rain through much of the night, was surprised Owens hadn’t. He looked out across the open ground, the mist visible in the faint gray light, saw men moving past, could see the hats, officers. The bugle blew now, the first call for the battalion to rise, and Owens crawled outside, wrestled with his shoes, low cursing that still impressed Bauer. It was the constant entertainment from Owens, who seemed to create swear words for any occasion, some so profane that Bauer feared the man might be struck down by the hand of God. But Owens continued to blow out his amazing profanity, and Bauer began to wonder if God Himself wasn’t impressed by the man’s utter originality.

  Bauer wasn’t as devout as some, had been raised Lutheran by his German parents. He had spent much of his service time around Catholics, the Irishmen of the 17th Wisconsin, even some of the regulars around him now speaking with a hint of an Irish lilt. Many others were Presbyterians, a few Anabaptists, those men seeming to fear the unseen Hand more than most, going into every fight as though God was judging them. Bauer had seen too many horrors to believe God was there at all, that surely the awful things these armies were doing to each other would not please the Almighty one bit. If there was to be punishment, Bauer had come to believe that the war was punishment enough, that if God was truly watching them, He had to be satisfied with the kind of hell the troops had created.

  The regulars had chaplains, as did every other unit in the army, but the Sunday services drew fewer than half the men, and whatever guilt Bauer had felt about that had dissolved along with the decorum he had thought would be so much a part of the regular army. There was formality, to be sure, those few officers who demanded the crisp salute. But others, like Willis, seemed to care far more for what these men would be called upon to do, performance in battle meaning more than a neatly fitted uniform. Though the rations had been cut by a third or more, ammunition was plentiful, and, finally, Bauer had been given the opportunity to demonstrate those claims Willis had embarrassed him with. Bauer hadn’t disappointed them, shattering glass bottles and rusted mess tins at better than four hundred yards. Just like the Pennsylvanians, the regulars had used Bauer’s marksmanship as a cause for wagering, adding pressure to Bauer’s steady hand. Even Willis joined into that, often betting a quarter dollar with other officers on Bauer’s sharp eye. Willis knew it was a good bet, and Bauer knew as well, that a careful aim was far simpler when the target wasn’t shooting back.

  He crawled out of the tent behind Owens, saw most of the men up and out, the mist giving way to a hint of daylight, a lighter gray rising over the crest of the great ridge to their front. He stood beside Owens, who stretched, scratching himself, rough hands on his chest, stomach
, now down his legs.

  “I’ll kill you, Wisconsin! You done give me the creepers!”

  Bauer took a step away from Owens, was never sure just what this man might do. “Not me. I’m not itching a’tall. Boiled my clothes back in town, all of ’em. They had big pots set up.…”

  “Don’t give me that chicken sludge. I got these things running all over me.”

  “No, Corporal, really. I’m clean!”

  Bauer felt a slight itch on the back of his leg, fought any urge to scratch. Owens continued scratching, and Bauer saw others pointing, a few low laughs. But no one in the company would laugh at Owens for long without paying some kind of brutal price. Owens cursed again, his shirt coming off, scratch marks all across his stomach, every place Owens could reach. Bauer knew what kind of torment lice could bring, had gone through that in the camps outside Vicksburg. The army recognized the misery of that, the best company commanders securing an iron pot or large bucket that could be heated, allowing the men to boil every piece of clothing they had. Bauer had already withstood the indignity of that, standing nearly naked in a line of men, taking his turn at the fire. But the cold rain took away any warmth, and the men scrambled to put on undergarments that quickly turned icy cold. If there was embarrassment from other units nearby, taunts and jeers that came toward the lines of shivering men, those men would be silenced quickly. When the lice swarmed over them, no one was immune. In Willis’s company, it seemed to be the men with the biggest mouths who seemed to suffer the affliction before anyone else, a kind of justice Bauer appreciated.

  Owens seemed to accept Bauer’s claims of innocence, though Bauer still felt the one nagging itch, clamped his jaw, clenched his fists, a hard struggle against the desperate need to scratch. He saw the sergeant now, others gathering, Owens called over, a quick word from the company’s first sergeant. Bauer welcomed the brief diversion, responded with a fast grab at his leg, a hard rub against his skin, the itch growing worse, spreading. No! Not again. He watched Owens speaking to the other sergeants, saw one of the lieutenants move close, speaking to them, then another, the platoon commanders. Bauer saw the sergeants scratching themselves as well, and now Willis was there, a glance toward Bauer, who froze, the agony still burning through his pants.

  Willis said aloud, “Boil your clothes, all of you. There’s a vermin outbreak. Doctor says it’s probably this new grass. These little critters are happy to have fresh meat. I guess by now, the reb skirmishers we chased away had gotten stale. I’ll not have you going into the fight with one hand twiddling your tenders. Line up over by that tent, where the doctor’s standing. Pot’s on the fire, and it’ll be aboil soon. Then make it quick. We’ve got work to do.”

  They moved together, and Bauer could see the doctor now beside the larger tent, a broad smile on the man’s face. Always smiling, he thought. How on this earth can a doctor in the army be happy? Most miserable job there is.

  “Keep moving, all of you.”

  Willis walked alongside the forming line, and to one side of Bauer, a voice, the boy, Hoover.

  “Hey, Captain, how come officers never get these cootie things?”

  Willis stopped, one hand resting on his holster. Bauer knew when Willis was trying to be deadly serious, but Bauer knew better, caught a hint of a smile. He saw Willis glance at him, trying to heighten his ferocity, his voice coming out just a bit deeper than usual.

  “Boy, it’s like this. A skin critter is just like you. He knows full well that if he offends his company commander, he’s in for a busted head. Besides, it’s hard for those little turd lickers to hold on to a hunk of skin when they’ve got one hand always saluting.”

  Hoover seemed to know he was the butt of the joke, the men around him relentless, slapping his back, the good-natured teasing that seemed always to pour out on the youngest men. Willis stood with his hands on both hips now, the men moving past in good order. Just beyond the tent, Bauer could see the campfire, a roaring blaze, supplied by timber cut the night before. Resting on stout green logs was a huge iron kettle, steam rising, the men first in line knowing the routine, already disrobing. Bauer loosened his pants, began to unbutton his shirt, moved past Willis, who still watched them with a grim stare. He caught Bauer’s eye now, and Bauer was surprised there was no smile. Willis’s jaw seemed clamped shut, his fists clenched by his side, a low curse slipping out, words Bauer could barely hear. And now, with a quick jerk of his hand, Willis scratched himself.

  It was full daylight now, the rain coming in a wispy swirl, carried past by a relentless fog, the entire field cloaked in thick clouds. He knew a skirmish line had been sent forward, those men a quarter mile or more to the front, invisible in the thickets and tall grass. He was grateful to avoid that today, had no interest in another game of chatter with any rebels who might be there. Bet those boys ain’t so friendly now, he thought. Everybody was getting along just dandy, and then we come marching out here and shove the whole army into their parlors. So now, we’re on new ground, and somewhere out there is a bunch of angry rebels. Glad Sammie let somebody else do that job today. I’d just like something decent to eat.

  The breakfast had been as bad as anything they’d been given the past few days, moldy crackers, a small sliver of sour bacon. In the wide fields around them, some of the men had taken to chasing rabbits, but those were scarce, and Bauer assumed the rebels had spent many of their long hours on skirmish duty grabbing every rabbit in the area.

  In the camps the morning before, they’d been given the typical three-day rations, and just as typical, most of the men devoured their three-day supply within the first hour. It was commonplace now, so many of the men convinced they might not live through the day, or might suffer a wound that would put them in the dreaded hospitals. Bauer had once done that himself, and then suffered for it, an empty backpack and a hollow stomach for two or three days, the memory of that one gorging feast not lasting more than a few hours. He saw men shuffling through their packs now, thought, That’s right. You go and gobble down every scrap the army gives you, and then what? We didn’t get hit with a single casualty yesterday, and now, every one of those boys who thought the world was gonna end is gonna come looking for grub. And they know I keep mine. Sure as shooting, somebody’s gonna find out I got a handful of crackers left over. Best not let anybody see you eating nothing. Some of these boys get a bit ornery when they get hungry. Owens scares the daylights outta me.

  The men were packed tightly, close to the fires, and even with the light spray of rain, their clothes were drying out. Wet or not, for now, the vicious curse of the cooties was gone. The men were mostly silent, a sure sign of hunger, the chills far worse when a man’s stomach was empty. Bauer thought of the hardtack in his backpack, felt suddenly guilty, thought, Yeah, I’ll share. But I wish these new fellows would learn that lesson. It ain’t never been that all of us gets hit. And what good’s a full stomach gonna do you if you’re dead?

  “Private!”

  He turned with the others, saw one of the sergeants pointing directly at him.

  “Yep, Sarge. Me?”

  “You. Captain wants to see you.”

  The men around him ignored that, so very different from how it had been in the 17th Wisconsin. Then, he had come into the regiment as an officer’s “pal,” inviting a cascade of ridicule. It bothered Bauer every time, as though the men would think Willis was such a poor platoon commander, he’d show obvious favors to his friend. That had faded, especially when the men learned that Bauer would stand tall in even the worst fights. But that seemed a long time in the past, and Bauer was surprised, and relieved that these men didn’t seem to care if Captain Willis was his friend or not. Bauer wasn’t really sure why. But he had to believe that Willis had already shown these men he could lead them, and at Chickamauga, he had done just that, in one of the most miserable fights of the war. If the captain had a friend close by, more power to him. He had earned their respect. Friendship was just a bonus.

  Bauer followed the sergeant,
who stopped now, pointing the way.

  “The big tent. Might be your lucky day, Private. They might have coffee.”

  Bauer had been in officers’ tents before, knew they rarely offered any private whatever treat they had for themselves. He moved that way, was surprised to see the company’s four lieutenants emerging from the tent, all of them staring up high, back past Bauer. He turned, followed their stares, saw nothing but fog, rain in his eyes. He knew better than to ask, moved by them, stopped at the opening of the tent, heard the familiar voice.

  “Get in here. You like standing in the rain?”

  Bauer ducked inside, saw Willis sitting on a bedroll, no chairs, no desk. A company commander didn’t rank high enough for those kinds of luxuries, and Bauer glanced around, saw a map by Willis’s side.

  “Well, I’m here, sir. I earn a promotion? It my birthday or something?”

  “Don’t sass me, Dutchie. No time to play with you. Big doings today. Tomorrow, too. That big show we watched yesterday was only the first act. The brass has plans, and they’re not telling me everything. Just that we need to stay close to camp, be ready to move if they need us.”

  “We moved yesterday, Sammie, and we didn’t hardly do anything but take a walk.”

  “Shut up. Nobody made you smart overnight.”

  Bauer saw movement behind Willis, jumped in surprise, called out, “Hooey! Sammie, there’s a chicken! What’s he doing … it’s a rooster!”

  Willis seemed to ignore him, the tall bird moving toward a scrap of something Willis had been eating. The rooster pecked the ground, gobbled up the small morsel, and Willis said, “Meet Henry. Followed me out here, I guess. Had to. Don’t think he’d have lasted out here for very long. The rebs would’ve eaten him for sure. You ever try eating a rooster? Nasty, tough as nails. Soup, maybe, but don’t try to roast it over a fire. Actually, nobody at all better be roasting or frying or anything else with Old Henry. I figure he’s pretty old. Ugly enough. But he’s kind of adopted me.”