by Jeff Shaara
“Sir!”
He turned, saw Mangum pointing to a cluster of men on horseback, riding hard toward him, a flag following behind.
“Yes, good. Just the man I require.”
He waited, and they halted near him, one man moving up close. He saw salutes from them all, responded with one of his own, said, “Colonel Govan, there is mischief in these hills. The enemy has occupied that knob to the northwest, but thus far has shown little inclination to attack us here. That will most certainly change. Bring your men up and attach to the right of General Lowrey.” He pointed to the north. “Place your men on that narrow ridge that bends to the right, spreading them as far north as you feel able. That will protect our flank, and extend your brigade toward the creek. General Polk is out there, on the creek itself, and I will not have him left alone. General Lowrey has his lines circling the crest of this hill. This ground is Tunnel Hill.”
He saw a nod from Govan.
“Yes, sir. I have consulted the map. But, sir, the orders I received from Captain Buck were to form up to the left of Lowrey, extend back southward along this main ridge.”
Cleburne respected Daniel Govan, as much as he respected his other brigade commanders. Govan had come to the army from Arkansas, a kinship Cleburne took seriously. The brigade was composed exclusively of regiments from Arkansas, and Cleburne knew most of their officers by name. He also knew they were prepared for any fight.
“Your orders have changed as of this moment. General Polk’s brigade is holding position protecting the railroad bridge along the creek. He is vulnerable, and I order you now to fill the space between this hill and his position. Send a courier to locate him, and inform him of your new orders. I assure you, he will welcome your presence.”
“But, sir, there is no one on the ridge to our south. My orders were to fill the gap in that direction, linking up with General Walker’s division. If my men move north, that ground will be unoccupied.”
Cleburne pointed toward Billy Goat Hill, said, “Look out there, Colonel. I have sent a strong skirmish line down through this brush, and their presence will provide ample alarm should the Yankees attempt the same maneuver. Thus far, the Yankees seem to be more interested in digging in than attacking, as though they are expecting us to dislodge them from that far hill. I have no such intentions. My orders are to prevent the enemy from occupying this very ground, and endangering this army’s right flank. I am doing so. You can be of much better service out to the right.”
“Sir, General Walker—”
He looked at Govan, put a hand on his shoulder. “Daniel, General Walker knows our position, and I shall inform him of our situation. He can extend his right in this direction, should he feel threatened. But look at the enemy. They’re not in force anywhere to our left, not without a lengthy march we can observe clearly. I do not know General Sherman’s intentions, but it seems that his gaze is directed right here on Tunnel Hill. If the enemy forces a move to our left, we can change position accordingly. But it is difficult ground below us. Very difficult. There will be no gallant charge up these hills, not through those thickets.”
Govan moved his horse slightly, peering down to the dense ground that separated the two hills.
“This is Shiloh all over again, sir. I pushed my boys through ground like this half the day. Those deep holes, water, mud, thorns. Never saw such tangles. But we pushed through it, sir. That attack was successful, for a while. It could be here. That’s Sherman, sir.”
“We had surprise with us, Daniel. Whatever surprise Sherman brought to this field has been erased. Now, there he sits. And no matter how much more strength he brings across that river, we still have the better ground. If we anchor our flank on the edge of the higher ground, and hold fast to these heights, Sherman’s numbers might not matter. Bring ’em up quick, Colonel.”
Govan saluted him with a smile Cleburne had seen before. “By your leave, General. We’ll teach General Sherman he ought to stay on his side of things.”
Govan turned, rode away quickly, his staff in tow. The column was close, moving fast, Govan ordering them forward at the double-quick. Cleburne kept the horse to one side, saw familiar faces, caught the cheers, smiling salutes as they passed. He pointed the way, called out, “Be ready, my boys! That’s Sherman out there! And he’s sure to come.”
He hesitated, didn’t really know what Sherman’s name might mean to some of the men, if their morale would be affected by the man’s fiery reputation. But there was no hesitation in the troops passing by him, one man raising his musket, calling out to him, “Got Sherman’s musket ball right here, sir!”
Others picked up the chant, and Cleburne saw the fight they carried. He stared out past them, toward Billy Goat Hill, saw flecks of movement, an enormous force of blue spread out down both sides, the work ongoing, earthworks and log walls. He stared out with the field glasses, could see a heavy line of men across the crest of their hill, saw hands in the air, as though someone had called them together, the sound reaching him now, a strangely boisterous cheer.
CHATTANOOGA—NOVEMBER 24, 1863
With the evening meal concluded, Grant had expected the usual crush of unpleasant visitors, men like the quartermaster, Montgomery Meigs, who would punish Grant with some new tirade about the supply routes. If Meigs didn’t torment him, the unpleasantness might come from Thomas, the man’s stoic manner seeming to Grant to hide a hostile surliness that had made Grant weary. To Grant it seemed that Thomas only dwelled on the negative, the dispatches focusing on bad news rather than the army’s successes. Grant knew that Thomas had earned praise, was worthy of the command he had been given, but something in Thomas’s tone seemed to push Grant toward criticism. Throughout the day, Grant had absorbed the sounds that rolled down from Lookout Mountain, but the dispatches from Joe Hooker were few and lacking any real details about the fight. Grant had expected that kind of hesitation from Hooker, knew Thomas dreaded any dealings with the man. Hooker had only grudgingly accepted his subordinate role in this campaign, but neither Thomas nor Grant had any patience for the man’s bruised ego. Though Grant shared Thomas’s uncertainty about Hooker doing the job, by midafternoon word had come that the rebels had been swept clear of the north face of the mountain, a triumph that Hooker could rightfully claim as his own. But Grant had absorbed too much of Thomas’s pessimism about Hooker’s abilities, couldn’t avoid concerns that Hooker might still make some grievous error, handing the rebels back everything he had gained.
No one was cheered by the weight of the gray skies, unending bouts of rain and fog. But, as Grant received word of Hooker’s success, the rains had stopped, the fog lifting, the mist clearing. More riders had come, Hooker trumpeting his victory. By late in the day, Grant could see it for himself, blue troops spread across the plateau, their flags caught by a stiff chilling breeze. The rebels were said to be shoved back completely to the east face of the mountain, Hooker insisting that dense fog had masked the rebel positions, that any further advance on this day could be dangerous. Grant had no way of knowing what the conditions were on that part of the mountain, and for now, he would accept Hooker’s version of events. Thomas had agreed with Grant that digging in a strong defensive position along the north face of the mountain was wise, that if there was any attempt by the rebels to take back what they had lost, Hooker should at least be prepared. Grant and Thomas both seemed content to let Hooker enjoy his victory. What might happen tomorrow had much to do with the decisions made by Braxton Bragg.
There had been more dispatches as well, the news throughout the day growing brighter for Grant. From Knoxville had come word of a stalemate in the fighting there, that Burnside was holding Longstreet away with a stubbornness no one expected. Grant was enormously relieved. By holding Longstreet away, if only for a few more days, Burnside had given Grant the opportunity to complete the task at Chattanooga.
The rumors about Bragg’s withdrawal had calmed as well. Along the vast sweep of Missionary Ridge, it had become clear that Bragg�
�s troops were still in place, had not made the massive retreat Grant had feared. From their perches east of Orchard Knob, the Federal lookouts confirmed that Bragg’s defenses had not changed, with one notable exception. Rather than sending support to the beleaguered Carter Stevenson on Lookout Mountain, Bragg was shifting his forces the other way. Grant had ridden forward to Orchard Knob, and along with Thomas, had observed that movement himself, a column of troops punctuated by flags and wagons, all moving northward. There was only one conclusion to draw: Bragg was responding to the sudden appearance of Sherman on Bragg’s side of the Tennessee River.
And then, with Grant pacing anxiously around his headquarters, the word finally came from the most important piece of Grant’s puzzle. Not only had Sherman’s crossing of the river gone without any major problems for the troops, but he had advanced virtually without opposition, his right flank rolling upward to occupy the northern extremes of Missionary Ridge, while his left flank had marched away from the Tennessee River by keeping close to Chickamauga Creek. Sherman’s reports reassured Grant that by the next morning, Sherman would begin the last great shove southward, sweeping away any rebel forces from the creek, all the way to Bragg’s headquarters. Once Sherman’s attack began, Grant was convinced, Bragg’s only alternative would be to vacate the ridge altogether, or risk annihilation. That pursuit would not be the cat-and-mouse game that Grant had feared. Sherman would be moving forward, and Bragg would have little opportunity for any head start that would take him out of danger.
With Sherman’s reports, the mood of the headquarters camp had boiled over to a raucous chorus of congratulations. For the first time in this entire campaign, Grant felt a burst of buoyancy, that after so many weeks of gnawing frustration, a victory might be at hand.
He sat on the porch of the house, the cigar warming him, stared up at the flickering lights from the great mountain to the south. There was more musket fire than he expected to hear from scattered picket lines. The wind, he thought. Breezy here, must be blowing a gale up there. The rebels will not try anything significant tonight. But Hooker’s colonels had best take that for what it is: a warning. If you haven’t finished digging in, finish that tonight.
Dana sat beside him, quiet, composing the letter that Grant knew would go to Washington, possibly tonight. Today’s successes would make for good reading at the War Department, and Grant heard the pen scratching, thought, Make it lengthy, Mr. Dana. Give the secretary something to help him sleep.
There had been another rain shower just at dusk, but that had blown through quickly, replaced now by a breezy chill. He pulled the coat more tightly around him, knew Rawlins was close by, no doubt scowling at Grant for breathing in the cold night air, when inside, the stone hearth offered so much comfort. The coat around Grant was just warm enough, and he felt the delicious cold in his lungs, a brisk contrast to the heat from the cigar. He savored the taste of the tobacco, rolled it around his mouth as though chewing on it, the smoke led away by the steady breeze. He glanced at Dana, thought, I should offer him the smoke, calm him down a bit. But no, he rather enjoys all that chirping, telling his stories to Washington with broad flourishes. A great many flourishes today. Yes, this was one of those rare things, Grant. A very good day, a very good fight on two fronts. Pay attention to that. There will be those other days soon enough.
To one side of the house, out in a wide street, several of his staff had built a roaring fire, fueled by the excess timbers carried to town from the woods near Orchard Knob. Thomas’s gift, he thought. Even he’s in a jovial mood, as much as that’s possible.
He watched the aides, who gathered close to the fire, standing alongside a handful of his cavalry guards, open hands, the light reflecting off smiling faces. Men were laughing, glances in Grant’s direction, and he turned away from that, knew there would be jolly talk, a few jokes, possibly at his expense. Give them that, he thought. Just … keep it out of my hearing. And Rawlins. Where is that man, anyway? No, sit tight. You start looking for him, and no doubt you’ll find him.
He looked up now, above the skeletons of the homes across the street, held the cigar away, pulled himself up from the chair.
“Would you look at that.”
Dana peered up from his paper, said, “What? The fire? Pretty big.”
Grant pointed upward. “There. The stars. It’s a clear night. Haven’t seen that in a while, not around here.”
“My God.”
Grant wasn’t quite as excited as Dana sounded, but he understood Dana, a man whose emotions could explode all over anyone standing near him.
“They’re just stars, Mr. Dana.”
“No, sir. Well, yes, but … look out there. The mountain. There’s a fight.”
Grant stared up at the dark hulk of Lookout Mountain, had already seen what Dana saw now, scattered flickers of light, like sparks on a piece of flint.
“Skirmishers, Mr. Dana. Nothing more. Men get brave in the darkness. No doubt the rebels are probing, testing just where we are. Their General Stevenson is a good man, to a point. Faced off against him near Vicksburg, Champion Hill. Whipped him. Today, whipped him again.” He paused. “I’ve changed my mind. He let Joe Hooker whip him. Might be a good man. Maybe not such a good general.”
“Sir, I must say, without wishing to sound maudlin … but the mountain appears covered with fireflies. It’s … beautiful to behold.”
Grant followed Dana’s stare, said, “Every one of those fireflies is a musket ball, Mr. Dana. Not so beautiful if you’re the target.”
“Well, yes, of course, sir. I don’t mean to dismiss the importance of the troops. I have only the deepest respects … oh, dear. I have offended the honor of the men.”
Grant had heard enough, said, “Mr. Dana, no one is offended. It is rather a sight.” Grant stepped down from the porch, walked out to the edge of the house, stared out toward Missionary Ridge. “Look here. Another sight.”
Dana stood as well, moved out beside him, said, “Oh. The moon is rising. Full moon.” Dana paused, seemed captured by some thought. “General, I must observe, there is something reverential to this, to all of this. The wide-open ground, the campfires of the men spread out beyond the town, the dreariness of this place swept away by the Hand of the Almighty. Perhaps it is a gesture, offered to our success. Who among us does not believe we are doing His work here, yes? So much to observe, so much beauty in the midst of the horror. Think of it, sir. Such conflict of symbolism.”
Grant didn’t respond, moved back to the porch, sat, lit another cigar, smiled to himself. Dana lingered, staring at the moon, and Grant said, “You should write poetry, Mr. Dana. You have a skill for language. General Halleck could benefit from reading such things.”
Dana moved up to the porch, sat again, moved a small lantern, lighting the pad of paper.
“I am just a newspaperman, General. Poetry is not encouraged.” Dana paused. “Do you think it will start up again in the morning? Rebels can’t be too happy giving up that mountain. Could try to take it back.”
“Could. Doubt they will. All the troop movement we saw today was north, away from that place. Bragg knows he can’t hold all this ground with the strength he has now. He might try to hit back at Hooker, but we can probably hold on to the place. Like to ride up there myself, see just what that view is like. Still wonder why Rosecrans didn’t understand the value of the heights.” He realized Dana was watching him, and Grant knew anything he said might end up on Halleck’s desk. “Never mind, Mr. Dana. Our attentions should be aimed at tomorrow. I’ve told Thomas to keep Hooker in readiness to advance. If the rebels need one more push to get them off that mountain, Hooker needs to take advantage. But I don’t expect much from the rebels up there. There’s that big creek between the mountain and Mission Ridge. Good defensive line. Bragg’ll make use of that. It’ll shorten his lines, make it easier for him to defend his left flank. We’ll see what Hooker finds in the morning. If the rebels give it to him, Hooker should shove right down that mountain to the cre
ek, and if he’s got any fire in his backside, he’ll find a way to shove across. I’m more concerned that he pay attention to the troops down here, the right flank that butts up to that creek. That’s Palmer’s corps, and Hooker needs to keep his people close to Palmer’s right. This is no time to be careless. No flanks in the air. For all we know, there’s rebel cavalry out there, looking for an opportunity.”
“But surely, sir, you believe the enemy is on the run? Bragg cannot withstand too many more days like this one. Victory is certain, wouldn’t you say?”
Grant pulled at the cigar, the fire at the tip glowing bright orange. “That’s probably what Rosecrans said the day before the fight at Chickamauga. Never take anything for granted, Mr. Dana. Bragg’s still dangerous. He’s got good men in command of good divisions up there. They can shoot straight, and they’ve got plenty of bluecoats out here to aim at.”
The moonlight was already lighting the streets through the town, a shadow cast by Grant’s headquarters. The large fire was dying out, the men moving away, Captain Osband’s guards moving to their posts, relieving the others who had kept out in the dark, a vigilance Grant appreciated. He focused on the last two inches of the cigar, saw Dana scratching away on his pad of paper, felt relief at that. Sometimes the man just wants to talk too much. One advantage to having Thomas here, he thought. Doesn’t like to jabber all the night through.
The wind picked up again, and Grant pulled the coat tight once more. Cold night tonight, he thought. He glanced up toward Lookout Mountain again. Wonder if Hooker thought of that? I bet when they stepped off, he made them leave their packs behind, their coats. Man climbs a big mountain, he sweats, figures he’ll not need anything to keep him warm. Mistake. Hooker’s probably still in the valley, nice big fire of his own. Has no idea his men up there are chattering their teeth together. Maybe worse for the rebels. Never saw so many bare feet, or maybe that’s just the ones we grab. But nobody’s lighting big campfires up there with so many skirmishers about. Nothing poetic about that.
