by Jeff Shaara
Mangum said, “Sir, forgive me, but the only fight I hear is … that one.” He pointed out toward Lookout Mountain. “We’re to march the opposite way?”
Cleburne was in no mood for a discussion, even from his former law partner. “I am quite certain there will be further orders. Right now, I am following the only order I have been given. You and Captain Buck will ride with me. Bring two couriers along, and the guard. We shall move out to Tunnel Hill, and see if we can locate Major Poole. Major Benham, you will see to the brigade commanders. Let’s go.”
Already, men around them were moving away, junior officers taking command of their men, some heading for the stacked muskets, some seeking a last handful of warmth beside low fires. Cleburne spurred the horse gently, wouldn’t aggravate the animal, not when he needed to stay upright in the saddle. Buck followed, rode up closest to him, said, “Sir, Mangum is right. The fight is … back there.”
“We are not ordered to engage in any fight, Captain. We are marching to protect a hill. General Hardee would not create this move on his own. General Bragg has his reasons, and I must believe that he also has an instinct for the inevitable. Unless General Hardee orders me to change position yet again, our mission is to prevent the enemy from sealing off our means of retreat.”
Farther to the north, the ridge rose high above deep ravines to both sides, heavily wooded crevasses that laid between the ridge and several smaller hills to the east. Toward the far north end, the ridge dipped lower, then back up to a bald knob, what the local citizens referred to as Tunnel Hill. Beyond the hill, the ground flattened out up toward South Chickamauga Creek, where, farther to the east, the bridge was already being guarded by the brigade of Lucius Polk.
Tunnel Hill itself was mostly hemmed in by thick, wooded ground, but the name came from the passage of the rail line that came north from Chattanooga, passing through the mountain itself, before reaching the depot. The rail line west of the ridge passed through the wide plain where Grant’s army now encamped, and all throughout the campaign, that stretch of track was useless for any kind of passage, easily within range of the artillery batteries on either side. East of Tunnel Hill, the tracks offered a vital artery that moved not only toward Knoxville, but made a connection to the Western & Atlantic Railroad, what could provide an avenue of escape for Bragg’s entire army.
The guard moved out in front of him, nervous men not accustomed to leading their commander through what seemed to be an empty forest. Cleburne appreciated their vigilance, knew as well as they did that the tall trees down below them could hold an enemy sharpshooter, that a lone general would make for a favored target.
He could see the round knob of Tunnel Hill to the front, halted the men, felt the need for caution. He stared out toward the river, a mile away, but the mist and fog was spread all across that part of the field, the river itself nearly invisible. Someone was sent out here, he thought, maybe men on both sides, peeking up over every ridgeline, a quick glance from behind every tree. And someone convinced the commanding general that the enemy is out here in force. I’d rather see that for myself.
“Let’s go. We’re supposed to find Major Poole out there somewhere.” He pulled out his pocket watch, said aloud, “Just past two o’clock. Plenty of time yet. Dark by, what, Captain? Six thirty or so?”
Buck said, “Yes, sir. The rains will bring it on more quickly.”
“The rains will not continue forever, Captain, no matter if it seems that way. We must assume the enemy is waiting for a bit of sunshine before he reveals just what he’s intending to do.”
Cleburne looked back toward Lookout Mountain, the haze too thick to see anything at all. He listened for the rumble of that fight, faint echoes, nothing to tell him there was still a fight at all. I suppose, he thought, we should be told something of that by tonight. General Bragg seems to relish parceling his army out into small pieces, expecting, I suppose, that we can each fight our own private war. He kept his thoughts to himself, had no reason to share that kind of dismay to his staff officers.
“Let’s move out, gentlemen. Major Poole is no doubt anxious for our arrival.”
He kept them to the main trail, glanced toward the river, still little to see, the rain mostly a thick mist now. They rode downward, thickets of dense brush to both sides, the guards eyeing the ground with nervous glances. The trail climbed again, and to the front, the ground cleared, a bare knob, Tunnel Hill. The guards spread out, and Cleburne moved past them, saw the lone officer, his horse off to one side nibbling on a patch of low grass. Cleburne halted the horse, the officers behind him doing the same, and the man seemed desperately relieved to see him, rushed forward, a quick salute.
“General Cleburne! Thank the Almighty you have arrived! I am most pleased to receive your company, sir. I am considerably unprepared to defend this hill by myself. I am reinforced by a half-dozen signalmen out there. Not reassuring, sir.”
Cleburne cringed at the announcement of his rank, the sergeant of his guards reacting with an angry grunt. Cleburne dismounted quickly, moved close to the man, said, “Major Poole, it is not in my best interest that you announce to God and anyone else who might hear you, just who I am.”
Poole seemed to understand his indiscretion, made a sharp nod, spoke in a whisper, “My apologies, sir. You are quite right. It has been somewhat trying up here, sir. I am only accompanied by a squad of signalmen, who are even now on that far hill to the northwest. I do not care so much for … isolation. Not with such enemy as seems to be making their way to this side of the river.”
“What enemy? Who? Where are they?”
“Sir, this morning, a company of cavalry under Colonel Grigsby was patrolling near the mouth of Chickamauga Creek, and reported the presence of several brigades of the enemy, forcing a landing on this side of the river. Colonel Grigsby did not have the orders to engage the enemy, and did not believe he had the strength to prevent the crossing. He sent word of this to General Bragg, and withdrew his horsemen so as not to alarm the enemy. Sir, General Hardee urges you in the strongest terms to march your entire division in this direction. You are familiar with this ground, sir? Tunnel Hill?”
“We’re standing on it, I believe. I was here once before, when I was ordered to send my division off to another campaign, using the railroad.”
“Yes, of course, sir. The railroad. Sir, have you marched a brigade to the bridge?”
Cleburne was surprised how much Poole knew, that clearly Hardee had kept him informed just what Bragg was insisting on.
“Yes, General Polk’s brigade should be in position there now. My orders were to guard the depot and protect the railroad bridge. But who am I guarding against?”
“Sir, it is essential that I convey your orders. Please, if you will follow me …?”
Poole walked away quickly, glancing back impatiently for Cleburne to follow. Cleburne obliged him, the two men moving to the far reaches of the knob, Poole pointing out.
“That’s northwest. That hill is called, regrettably, Billy Goat Hill. Foolish names for such places. It’s about a half mile from this peak to that one. General Hardee orders you to deploy one brigade on that eminence. You will deploy the remainder of your division along this ridge, securing Tunnel Hill, and the ridgeline to the south. Your left flank shall make contact and attach to the right flank of General Walker’s division, as it now sits. Thus you will be extending our main line northward, to include this terrain.”
“Major, are you aware that termination of our lines, General Walker’s division, is nearly a mile behind us? If I extend my men to attach to that flank, my lines won’t be heavy enough to hold back a squad of cavalry. I am assuming that General Hardee feels this ground is extremely valuable, and is under considerable threat. Would it not be wiser if additional troops are shifted northward, in support of my own position covering these hills?”
“Sir, any judgment as to what is wise lies with General Hardee. I was ordered to place your people on these hills.”
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��Well, Major, I’ll have my men up here as quickly as I can march them, and we shall make every disposition to protect this high ground. But you will return now to General Hardee and advise him that I must have support to the south. If the enemy drives below these hills, and strikes this ridge to the south, my entire division will be cut off. I will not have that, Major.”
Poole seemed to absorb the situation, said, “Walker’s near a mile that way?”
“Very near that, Major. It is a weakness in our position that could offer the enemy an opportunity. Go now, Major.”
The man seemed to grasp the gravity of what Cleburne was telling him, moved quickly to his horse, a hasty salute, then galloped away southward, the trail Cleburne had just ridden. Cleburne looked to Captain Buck, said, “Go now to General Smith, and make sure word gets to Lowrey and Govan as well. All three brigades are to move as rapidly as possible to this ground. Double time. No complaints, Captain. Get those people up on these hills.”
“Yes, sir!”
Buck was up and gone in Poole’s tracks, and Cleburne walked to the edge of the hill, leaned out, could see the railroad tracks running toward him, into the gaping maw beneath his feet. Mangum was beside him now, said, “The tunnel could be very useful. Perhaps an artillery battery? It’s a natural rifle pit.”
“No. It could end up being a trap. Too easy to cut off any number of troops from either end. If the enemy is truly advancing to this position, they might see the tunnel as a tempting target. That’s to our advantage. One twelve-pounder placed behind us, at the far end of the tunnel, could fire canister and sweep the entire opening. No, if we intend to hold our position on this hill, we must wrap ourselves around the crest, and force the enemy to come at us through that dense brush below, between these two hills. That will definitely slow down any advance in this direction. I should like to know just who or how many of the enemy is supposed to be out there on our side of the river. We should scout Billy Goat Hill.” He paused. “Poole’s right. Who names these places?”
There was a crackling of brush down below, and Cleburne’s guards reacted quickly, a quartet of carbines aimed downward. Mangum said, “Sir, I see them. Our boys!”
Cleburne saw the flicker of clothing, no hint of blue, said, “Hold fire. Someone’s in a bloomin’ hurry.”
The men struggled up through the brush, one man calling out, “Don’t be shootin’ at us, no how! We’re your’n.”
The men completed the climb, three of them collapsing to the bare ground, gasping for breath. One suddenly recognized he was in the presence of a general, pulled himself to his feet.
“Sir, I was expecting Major Poole. Begging your pardon, sir.”
The man snapped up a salute, and Cleburne said, “What’s your hurry, soldier?”
“Plenty a’cause, sir. We’re signalmen. Been up on that other hill out yonder, taking a gander at what’s happening at the river. Fog finally cleared away, and let me tell you, sir, it’s a sight. If’n you was to see what we seen, General, you’d knowed why we made hay up here. There’s a pile of Yankees out there. Been watching ’em for the past hour now. They been bringing more across the river right regular, but we ain’t been able to see much with this nasty weather and all. But there’s a big dang boat out middle of the river, and they done built them a bridge clean across, marching troops and wagons all morning, I reckon. But things is changin’. I guess whoever’s in charge figures enough’s enough. They’re coming, sir. Formed up battle lines, and done stepped off, pushing straight toward that there hill we was on. Figured our job was done. Don’t need no signals to spell out what’s happening.” The man looked at Cleburne’s staff, the few guards. “Um, forgive me for wonderin’, General, but if there’s gonna be a scrap out hereabouts, you’ll be wantin’ to have some muskets to help out.”
Cleburne looked out toward the second hill, nothing to see but timber. The rain was still falling, a light mist, hiding any signs of any movement around the other hill. He turned to Mangum, said, “I’d like to know just what we’re facing. Maybe we better slip down through this tangle and get a better look.”
The signalman put both his hands up. “I wouldn’t be doin’ none of that, begging your pardon, sir. Only thing you’ll find besides Yankees is our signal flags. Left ’em up there. We was in something of a rush, you see. Major Poole’ll make us answer for that, if’n he finds out.”
“I’m not concerned with flags, Private. How many Yankees?”
“More than two divisions, all told. Once the rain lightened up, we could see nothing but blue all over that river.”
Cleburne wiped a wet handkerchief across his face, the rain still a light drizzle. Beside him, Mangum said, “Sir. Drums.”
Cleburne looked back, thought of Poole’s words, a half mile away. Rugged ground, he thought, but we better get out there first. He looked back at the signalman.
“Tough going through that brush, Private?”
“Quite, sir. Briars and vines to strangle a man. Hole’s deeper than it looks, too.”
“Good. Your information is most helpful. If I may ask, what’s your name?”
“That’d be Henry Smith, sir.”
“Indeed? Call that a stroke of fate, Private. Those drums, that column coming up. That would be another Smith. My lead brigade, Jim Smith. Texans. They’ll give us our muskets.”
Cleburne’s lead brigade was in position facing west, and Smith immediately pushed a heavy line of his skirmishers out through the thickets and brambles that led down from the bald crest of Tunnel Hill. Their mission was to drive forward as quickly as possible, making a hasty push through the boggy depths of the ravine that separated Tunnel Hill from the smaller mound of Billy Goat Hill. If they could establish a defensive position on the smaller hill, the remainder of Smith’s brigade would follow close behind, allowing Cleburne to fulfill Hardee’s order. As the skirmishers made their way forward, the rest of Smith’s division prepared to move out in support. For long, anxious minutes, Cleburne could only wait and observe, but his field glasses told the tale. When Smith’s skirmish line pushed up the slopes of Billy Goat Hill, they were met by a sharp volley from the men in blue. If this was in fact a race, Cleburne’s men had lost. The Federal troops were already swarming up across Billy Goat Hill.
Cleburne heard the first clash, expected many more, stood staring at the distant hill fearing his men had stumbled into the teeth of Sherman’s entire force. But the musket fire did not last, Smith’s skirmishers wisely pulling away. Within minutes, the skirmishers, no more than three hundred men, scrambled back into the protected heights of Tunnel Hill. There was blood, but not what Cleburne feared. The damage came mostly from the briars that ripped the shirts and tore through the skin of the men in their mad dash back to safety. With Smith’s men quickly forming a line across the face of Tunnel Hill, Cleburne kept his gaze on the Yankees. He saw a great many men in blue, thought, They will come now. They must know we are only a brigade. But there was no formation, no advancing battle lines. To his amazement, the Yankees seemed more interested in labor. He could see logs hauled up the hillsides, shovels at work. More of them appeared through Cleburne’s glasses, far more strength than Cleburne had beside him, but still they kept to their newly acquired ground. And there they remained.
“Line up here! Form out to the right! Circle the crest. Captain Gilley, position Company A, to the northern perimeter, and do what you can to dig in! Be aware of the ground out toward the creek!”
Cleburne stood back, allowed Smith to complete the troop dispositions along the western face of Tunnel Hill. But Cleburne observed carefully, guided the artillery batteries into place, all the while holding away the fear that if his lone division was to hold the hill, they would certainly have to prepare for the enemy to attempt a sweep around their far north flank. Even now, he could see Sherman’s men crowding the crest of Billy Goat Hill, still digging in, more timber hauled into place, what seemed clearly to be a heavy defensive line. He kept his gaze on them through wet field
glasses, felt a strange sense of excitement, thought, They’re taking too long, too much effort to put up a defense that I would never attempt to assault. They must believe we are in serious strength here. And so, they will wait for their numbers to come forward, waiting to see if I will begin the attack. Cleburne was surprised, thought, Sherman is apparently being … cautious. That is not what I have heard of the man. He thought of Hardee, knew the reports from the great explosion at Shiloh. There, Hardee’s men had burst into Sherman, shoving through his camps, sweeping Sherman’s division away in a riot of pure terror. And yet, he thought, Sherman found his heart. Found the heart of his men, pulled them back to the fight. And then, he won that fight. He is a confident man, arrogant perhaps. Surely he expects that we will collapse under his “valiant assault,” that his force cannot be held away. That is what arrogant men believe. It is what any good general must believe. Then, why did they stop? The skirmish was only that: a skirmish. They took a few casualties, but we gave them no reason to hold back. If they had pressed us, we are only one brigade. He is … what? Many divisions? He must not know that. Or he believes he has done enough for one day. He won his victory. Cleburne looked at his pocket watch. Three thirty. Three more hours of good daylight. Perhaps he wishes to watch his next great triumph in full sunlight. And so he will come tomorrow. And if he keeps to that ground, he will grant us a truly wonderful gift. If he will not use the remainder of this day for good purposes, I shall.
He glanced southward, back down the trail, his lone column snaking their way forward, his other two brigades led into position by Cleburne’s staff. He walked forward, stood staring out to the north, toward the creek, thought of Polk, protecting the lone railroad bridge over the Chickamauga, what had to be a mile away. He saw now the trailing end of Missionary Ridge, a narrowing spur of land that bent to the right, extending to the east, closer to the creek, and closer to the position Polk had to be. Beyond, he could see the meanders of the creek, the mist clearing, had a jolt of concern for Polk.
