The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War

by Jeff Shaara

  Cleburne kept to the horse, rode slowly through dense smoke, fought the coughing, the tears in his eyes from the spent powder. The thunder was continuous, bright flashes from the two closest batteries, pouring sprays of shrapnel into targets Cleburne couldn’t see. To the left, the flatter ground, he saw the blue formations pushing up to the base of the hill, the Mississippians aiming their twelve-pounders that way. The blasts from the four Napoleons seemed to rupture the blue masses, formations breaking down. But still they came, and Cleburne felt the first wave of panic, rode that way, knew the ridgeline farther to his left was manned by the men who had marched most of the night, Carter Stevenson’s men. He saw Buck, waved him close, shouted through the din of cannon fire, “Go now, to the left. Find General Stevenson, or his nearest brigade commander. We must have additional support closer to the left. The enemy is in strength there!”

  Buck nodded, silent, the quick salute, rode quickly away. Cleburne watched the blue lines advancing, some of those men hidden by the thickets, some stopping to fire muskets, aiming at targets farther up the hill, men well protected behind their logs. Mangum was calling him again, the same urgency, “Sir! You must not present yourself this way!”

  Cleburne ignored him again, saw uneven rows of Yankees moving up closer to the tall hill, most of them disappearing out of his view, huddling close to the base, some of them close to the railroad tunnel itself. The musket fire roared to life, some of the men in their works farther down the hill. The artillery slowed now, fewer targets, the Yankees too close below them. But the troops were seeking targets of their own, solid volleys now replaced by scattered shots, men taking careful aim, the Yankees with nowhere else to go. The infantry officers were screaming out orders, and Cleburne moved closer to the line along the forward crest of the hill, saw Smith’s men rising up, aiming downward, then dropping back, reloading. The Yankees were returning fire, a sharp whistle of musket balls flowing up past Cleburne, most of it harmless, the lead balls arcing far past him, over the crest of the hill. He moved closer to the works, had to see it for himself, saw the officers watching him, calling their orders out with more volume, responding to the new bursts of firing from below. The men stood as they fired, took their aim at steep angles, and he saw an officer waving to him, a lieutenant.

  “Sir!” the lieutenant exclaimed. “They’re right below us! No more than fifty yards! We’ve got ’em penned up, sir!”

  The man suddenly tumbled backward, his hat flung to one side, facedown into brush. Cleburne absorbed the shock of that, Mangum close behind him again, saying, “Sir! Back here! You must withdraw!”

  Cleburne ignored him still, moved past the fallen officer, guided the horse downward, a narrow trail, keeping a tight grip on the reins, the horse obeying with careful steps. Men were noticing him now, surprised looks, brief cheers from blackened faces, the dark eyes watching him. But there was no time for celebrating, the men pulled around by their officers, muskets reloaded, men standing, aiming downward, firing, reloading again. The air was alive with the buzzing and cracking, more of the high whistles, the quick zips and pops of lead against logs, against stone. The batteries opened up again, the blasts pouring out straight across where Cleburne sat, the horse reacting with a hop, jerking backward. Cleburne kept his knees tight, a hard grip on the reins, No, stay here! I will see! Another officer called to him, the man’s voice obliterated by the sounds of his own muskets, but Cleburne saw past the works now, a cluster of blue, the men lying flat in a bowl of thick grass, no more than twenty yards away.

  He heard a sound behind him, was surprised to see another horse, Smith, the man with a pistol in one hand, and Smith said, “Sir! They’re withdrawing on my right! With your permission, sir, I shall order a pursuit!”

  Cleburne looked down the hill where Smith pointed, saw the men up, ready, watching him, watching their own general.

  “Yes! Go!”

  Smith was away quickly, and in less than a minute, the men were up and over their own earthworks, pouring out down the hill with a terrifying scream, more of them stumbling along the steep slope than any kind of organized advance. He moved the horse that way, saw Smith dismount, pistol and sword, following close behind his men. Cleburne felt the raw, cold thrill, the screams of the men like a thousand banshees, a child’s nightmares long forgotten, the terror now striking toward the enemy, sent by his hand. He drew his own sword, raised it high, called out, no sounds but the musket fire, the artillery, the rebel yell.

  Within a half hour, Smith had pulled his men back to their defenses, breathless and delirious, more of the backslapping pride, some with hearty laughter through their gasping breaths. Others kept the grim stare, what Cleburne knew well, the men who ignored small victories, who tended first to their muskets, tightening the bayonets, checking cartridge boxes. The sounds of the fight had drifted away to scattered volleys, a hard skirmish far to the right, well beyond where he could see. Others were taking their aim farther down the hill, and he saw that now, men in blue in the open ground, some crawling, men with lighter wounds. But there was no cover, no terrain to hide them, and so, the men on the hillside took their time, made the careful aim, the single shots that dropped the wounded man flat into the grass.

  He turned away from that, thought, No, not proper. Save it for the men who can hurt you. But he wouldn’t hold them back, wouldn’t temper the lust for the fight, the hatred for the Yankees.

  He moved the horse back up the hill, had to know what was happening farther down the line, out on the spur to the east. But the firing that way had been light, a surprise, no real attempt by Sherman to drive past his right flank. He pulled the horse up to the crest, caught a cool breath of clear air, coughed out the smoke, saw Buck, who saluted him, said, “Sir! I spoke with General Hardee! He was down to the left, keeping a good eye on the lines there.”

  Cleburne was suddenly concerned. “Does he wish to see me? Is there a problem?”

  “Oh, no, sir. Not that he said. The enemy is keeping their assault up this way.”

  Cleburne looked down that way, southward, saw a column of troops moving up at the double-quick, their flag, Kentucky. Buck smiled now, pointed.

  “Those would be General Lewis’s brigade, sir. General Hardee ordered them to march up here. General Lewis is to make himself known to you upon his arrival. Uh … right now, sir.”

  Cleburne turned the horse, saw a dapper man, a wide, perfect hat, followed by four aides and the color bearer.

  “General Cleburne, I believe! General Joseph Lewis, sir. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am told you might require my men up this way. I am at your disposal, sir.”

  Cleburne offered a hand, and the man seemed surprised, took it with a smile, and Cleburne said, “Thank you. Your assistance is appreciated.”

  “My, a gentleman to boot. Forgive me, sir. I’ve heard tales of the Irish fighting man. You give lie to the image, sir.”

  Cleburne wasn’t sure what the man meant, realized it was most likely a compliment. “Not sure about the other Irishmen in this army, General, but I intend to kill Yankees until the job is complete. Does that strike you as acceptable?”

  “Oh, my, yes! Good one! Allow me to help, sir. Where should I place my men?”

  Cleburne saw the column still moving up the slope of the hill, pointed behind the crest. “For now, put them in a reserve just off the knob here. We can expect another assault.”

  “Are you certain, sir? Your men have done exemplary work driving the enemy away. Mighty fine effort, if I do say.”

  Cleburne detected a hint of politics in the man’s tone, pointed again. “Right back there, General. When they come again, we’ll see where they hit us.”

  “By your leave, sir!”

  The orders went out quickly, the Kentuckians following, lining up just back of the crest. Cleburne turned, saw Buck pointing toward the front side of the hill, saw Lieutenant Key waving frantically toward him. Cleburne spun the horse around, had no more time for Lewis’s pleasantri
es, pushed the horse up close to Key, who said, “Sir! We must have support to the right. The enemy came within twenty paces of my guns. We cannot depress the angle once they’re on the face of the hill. We’re losing crew as quick as we can fire. I had men roll rocks down on them, anything we could find. If we lose these guns, sir, they could advance right over the hill.”

  Cleburne looked back the other way, toward the Mississippi battery. “Return to your guns. I’ll have your support.”

  He motioned to Buck, said, “Go to Lieutenant Shannon, order him to move two of his guns out to the right of the Arkansas battery. We must have better crossfire across this hill. Send a courier to Douglas’s battery, order them to expend more fire downward. No wasting ammunition seeing how far they can shoot.”

  Buck was gone, and Cleburne saw a satisfied glare from Key, who saluted him, moved quickly back over the edge of the hill.

  More couriers were coming in, Mangum, the others intercepting them, and Cleburne moved that way, said, “Is there any difficulty? Are there weaknesses we must confront?”

  The couriers deferred to Mangum, who said, “Sir, the lines are holding well. The Yankees are not putting any strong force to the far right. Colonel Govan is secure in his position. He requests, sir, that we send more of the enemy his way.”

  He looked at Govan’s courier, saw a hint of a smile.

  “Return to Colonel Govan, corporal. Offer him my respects and tell him that if he desires to meet the enemy, we shall do our best to arrange that. Perhaps when they’re in our stockades. But advise the colonel that it is wise to temper one’s wishes. There are still a great many Yankees out there.”

  The man wiped away the smile, saluted, was gone up along the ridgeline.

  Cleburne moved again toward the front crest of the hill, smoke lingering in the deep valley beneath him.

  “They coming again, sir?”

  He looked back at Mangum, felt energized by the question. “Of course they are, Lieutenant. That’s still Sherman, and as I told Govan’s courier, he’s got a good many men to throw against us.”

  “Then we’ll keep killing them, sir!”

  Cleburne knew the joke had come first from him, but the words didn’t settle well, Cleburne avoiding Mangum’s smile. He stared out toward the flat ground to the left of Billy Goat Hill, thought of the wounded Yankees, the potshots taken by his men against targets who had no place to hide. Those Yankees did their duty, he thought. A wounded man is no threat. I must speak with General Smith about that.

  “Sir! The Yankees are forming again!”

  Cleburne looked out over the low ground, raised field glasses, saw the blue coming together, men on horses, more colors. He heard hoofbeats now, saw a pair of artillery pieces changing position, moving out to the right, past the mouth of the tunnel, his orders to Shannon carried out.

  Mangum moved closer to him, said in a low voice, “Dang it all, Patrick. If I have to rope you like a bull, I’ll do it. You got no need to be riding out right in the middle of the storm! You’re just making yourself a bloomin’ target.”

  Cleburne caught the tease, Mangum’s words coming with an Irish brogue.

  “I’ve got a job to do, Lieutenant. Stay close to me. The enemy has surely learned a few things about our position. We have to be prepared to make changes, shift troops as need be. He most certainly has the advantage in numbers, but we have a compact line.”

  Mangum seemed resigned to the task at hand, said, “Well, at least duck your head once in a while.”

  “I’ll follow your example.”

  Mangum nodded with a smile. “Plenty of that, sir.”

  They came in heavy lines once more, Cleburne’s artillery blasting enormous gaps in the blue formations, closed by men who knew just where they were supposed to go. Once more, Sherman’s men moved up to hug the base of the hills, then drove up, close to Cleburne’s earthworks. The artillery continued to do their good work, the crossfire sweeping the brushy hillsides with searing storms of scrap iron, the canister that ripped through the brush and the men who sought any kind of cover. The assault collapsed as quickly as the one before, the Yankees pulling back once more, leaving the brush and the open ground littered with dead and the screaming wounded.

  By one o’clock, Cleburne’s men were low on ammunition, staring out toward an enemy that showed no signs of pulling away. Cleburne rode again along his lines, encouraging the officers to send men down the slopes to retrieve cartridges and the muskets made to fire them. Within minutes of their last withdrawal, Sherman’s men were up, in line again, and again, they pushed forward.

  He did as before, the horse pushing along a narrow path just above the earthworks that held the enemy back from the crest of Tunnel Hill. The sounds had become a continuous deafening roar, the flashes of fire blinding, the smoke pouring out in a fog around him. Cleburne could see by the direction of the Yankee musket fire that one lesson had been learned well. As the men reached the base of the hill, they seemed to focus more toward the batteries, taking aim at the men who worked the big guns.

  He moved again toward Key’s battery, saw men falling, half of Key’s gun crews shot down, but the guns still fired. Key was shouting out to the men to one side of him, infantry, Arkansans, and Cleburne knew what Key required, spurred the horse that way, called out, echoing Key’s own plea.

  “Soldiers! Man these guns! Keep up the fire!”

  The barrels of the twelve-pounders pointed down as steeply as possible, but Cleburne could see now, it wasn’t steep enough. The troops added their hands to assist, but Cleburne saw the blue just below, the Yankees climbing in a desperate scramble straight at the gun pits. He called out, others doing the same, muskets pointing nearly straight down, but the men who stood were targets for the enemy farther down, and men began to drop back now, blood on faces, chests. Cleburne felt the helplessness again, his hand gripping the pistol, drawing it from the holster. Close in front of him, his men were firing at Yankees from only yards away, the men still coming up the hill, closer still, the smoke masking the confusion. The musket fire slowed, and Cleburne saw men in blue coming up over the log wall, met by the men with bayonets, many more using their muskets as clubs. The struggle seemed to roll toward him, a dozen Yankees inside the earthworks, more coming over the logs. He aimed the pistol, didn’t fire, men massed together, shouts, an officer with a pistol of his own, point-blank fire into a man’s face. The club came down now, crushing the man to the ground, others taking his place, the blue surge still coming up over the logs. The horse jerked beneath him, and Cleburne tried to steady it, kept the pistol in his hand, no aim, the animal bouncing. He saw Mangum now, the reins snatched from Cleburne’s hands, the horse turning about, pulled along, up the trail. Cleburne struck out with his hand, jabbing Mangum away, fumbled for the reins, had to see, turned, the fight in the earthworks ongoing, knives and clubs and fists and screaming men. There was a blast of musket fire now, straight back behind him, a storm of smoke blowing past him, blinding, the men descending the hill, driving closer to the works. He saw them now, the Kentuckians, the reserve, another volley from a hundred muskets, the enemy still up on the logs punched away in a flaming blast. The few men in blue still in the works were losing the fight now, too few, too much exhaustion. Cleburne’s men had taken control, the few Yankees still standing pulled backward, prisoners, some of those with bloody wounds. Cleburne watched his men coming together, the Kentuckians keeping their position, making ready for another volley. But there were no targets. The few Yankees who had made it up and over the defenses were down, dead or gripped by hard hands. The men below the works had done what each of Sherman’s advances had done. It was the Yankee officers who understood the hopelessness, the power they faced above them, the strength Cleburne had put in their path. And so the orders went out, the bugles sounding, the men in blue pulled back off Tunnel Hill, called once more to retreat.

  By midafternoon, Sherman’s men had mounted a half-dozen assaults, most directed toward the eminence of Tun
nel Hill. The forces under Sherman’s command numbered more than thirty thousand troops. On the hill, facing them, Cleburne had made the fight with barely a fifth of that number. And Cleburne still held the hill.

  ORCHARD KNOB—NOVEMBER 25, 1863

  With the discovery that the rebels had indeed pulled completely off Lookout Mountain, the order had gone out to Joe Hooker early that morning to push onward, down and across Chattanooga Creek, making every effort to drive Bragg’s army so severely that Hooker might be able to establish a Federal force along the southern base of Missionary Ridge. Thomas gave the order as instructed by Grant, and without any hint from Grant, Thomas knew in his heart that neither of them expected Hooker to complete the task.

  Sherman’s attack had launched as planned, at first light, and Thomas had stood on the bare hilltop, staring out northward toward the hard rumble of artillery. For the first two hours, there had been nothing to see, the drifting fog masking the ridge from view, and Thomas had stood beside Grant wondering if Grant truly believed Sherman’s fight would decide this thing. Thomas had no reasons to doubt Sherman’s planning, or his fire, had no reason to question the accuracy of his reports to Grant. It was far more to do with Thomas’s own pride, that quiet sense of accomplishment Grant had refused to give him. If Thomas had been stained by failure, any failure, he could have accepted his dismissal of the Army of the Cumberland. But in this campaign, Thomas had done nothing at all to drain faith away from his abilities. His command of Hooker’s forces had been precise and perfunctory. The assault on Lookout Mountain had been wildly successful, which surprised both Grant and Thomas. But the plan had been Thomas’s alone. If there was credit to be tossed around Hooker’s camp for the accomplishment of those men, Thomas couldn’t avoid feeling that some of that praise should go his way as well.

  He’d never admit that, of course, wouldn’t even say that to his own staff, not even to his friend Alfred Hough. But he nursed that bruise inside, trying to understand Grant’s reasoning, why the Army of the Cumberland would spread out as the center of Grant’s position, only to sit and watch while others did the work.