by Jeff Shaara
He understood tactics, and whether or not he cared for Sherman’s personality, or his methods, Thomas could not fault Grant’s plan to hammer Bragg’s flanks. If either flank collapsed, the route would be open for a crushing blow all across Bragg’s defenses, heights or not. Attacking Lookout Mountain had paved the way for Hooker to push his people across Rossville Gap, a major artery for escape, should Bragg attempt to withdraw that way. Sherman’s assault could accomplish exactly the same thing to the north. But Thomas understood why Grant put more faith in Sherman than either of them did in Hooker. Sweeping the enemy off Lookout Mountain improved the possibilities of an assault on that end of Missionary Ridge. But crushing Bragg’s right flank would squeeze the center from both directions, and could so jeopardize the rebel army’s route of escape that the entire campaign could end with Bragg’s wholesale surrender. Thomas had grudgingly conceded that the mathematics still made sense, even if Thomas’s men sat idly by. None of the Federal commanders knew just what kind of strength Bragg had on the ridge. But Grant’s army had more than doubled since his arrival, and every indication was that Bragg’s army had been cut in half.
He studied his own camps, the vast sea of canvas around him, many of those men doing what he did now, observing, listening for the sounds of the fight to the north. Even with no advance of their own, they were an imposing force, and Thomas had wondered what the sight of so much blue had done to the minds of the men who hunkered down all along the crest of Missionary Ridge. The rebel deserters brought in wild stories, utterly contradictory, some claiming that Bragg had fled the area completely, others with grandiose tales of enormous numbers of reinforcements arriving, claims that half of Lee’s army in Virginia had suddenly appeared to strengthen Bragg’s lines. Thomas knew better than to trust the word of any deserter, any prisoner. He respected Grant for that same bit of wisdom. But Washington was reacting to every rumor, most of that still fueled by their fears for the survival of Ambrose Burnside. He respected Grant for that as well, that Grant would not be bowed by Halleck’s ranting, would regard the War Department’s missives as advice, suggestions to be followed if the situation allowed it. Thomas had seen Rosecrans crumble under that same kind of pressure, so much uncertainty in Washington, which of course was fed by uncertainty from Rosecrans. But Grant had none of that, seemed to be certain to a fault. His plan was the plan. There might be changes, amendments, but in the end, Grant would not entertain councils of war as the means for making his decisions. From what Thomas could see of Grant, it was grim confidence, but Thomas had to admit that he shared the trait he saw in Grant, what some, including his friend Hough, called stubbornness.
Grant stood beside him, Rawlins close behind, Thomas’s own staff handling the flood of dispatches, most of those passing back and forth to the south. The other senior commanders from Thomas’s army were spread out along the crest of Orchard Knob, some in idle conversation with their subordinates, some just waiting for something to do.
Grant smoked his usual cigar, rocked on his heels slightly, stared out toward Sherman’s fight, plainly audible now. The thunder of the artillery had come in waves, as though the attacks were shifting ground, an ebb and flow that seemed clearly to disturb Grant. He heard the call from Lieutenant Ramsey, turned, saw the paper in the man’s hand, a courier trailing behind.
“What is it now?”
Ramsey handed Thomas the note without speaking, and Thomas stared at the paper with aching dismay. He has time to write notes? Well, yes, that would be Hooker’s way. Trust no one but your own pen.
Grant was looking his way now, said, “What’s he say? They make it across the creek?”
Thomas reread the scribbled words with a silent growl, wanted to rip the paper in two, but he knew Grant was watching his reaction, held the heat inside. “He says the enemy has burned the most usable bridge across the creek.”
“Is that a surprise? That’s why we have engineers. Build another one.”
Thomas folded the paper, returned it to his aide. “He is. Says it might require three hours or more. He does not seem to be concerned.”
Thomas looked toward the valley where Hooker’s troops were supposed to be, waited for some kind of explosion from Grant. Grant said, “He received your orders this morning. I assume he understands just what an order is. Why in blazes did it take him so long to advance? From what we heard, there isn’t a single rebel soldier on that whole mountain.”
Thomas stared ahead, Missionary Ridge a mile to the front. “He followed the order the way he has followed every order I’ve given him. I have not served with the man before, but it seems apparent that he arranges all his details in precise order before he moves. I admit, General, to some frustration.”
Grant still looked at him, and Thomas glanced toward him, saw a frown, the cigar clamped hard in Grant’s mouth. Grant said, “He ran like a rabbit at Chancellorsville. Shows he can get up and move when he has to. It’s an acquired skill, the rapid retreat.” Grant paused. “No offense to your army, Mr. Thomas.”
Thomas felt the knife wound from Grant’s comment, had heard too much of that since Chickamauga. “Changes have been made, sir. What happened two months ago shall not be repeated. No one knows that more than you.”
Grant seemed uncomfortable, as though he had pricked a sore wound. “Yes, quite right. I meant no disrespect. Your men have admiration for you, your leadership. Well earned.”
Thomas said nothing, thought, Not so well earned that we’re given anything to do.
He stared out to the south again, the open plain where his army sat with their muskets. There had been plans to have at least three full divisions march out, a hard demonstration for the benefit of the rebel front, perhaps a nudge against the rebel skirmishers, shoving them back to the rifle pits that Bragg had positioned just out from the base of the ridge. But Grant had changed his mind about that, the order canceled the night before, once again his unbridled faith in Sherman overriding any other suggestion Thomas could make.
From some of the field officers, word had filtered toward him that there was grousing in the ranks, many of the soldiers and their officers expecting that the capture of Orchard Knob was just the first step in their inevitable assault against the center of the ridge. To the veterans of Chickamauga, who still carried the shame of such a complete defeat, that kind of assault would offer the opportunity for perfect redemption. None of that had any impact on Grant, that particular tactic dismissed outright, and Thomas was quietly grateful. No matter the sentiment of his men, Thomas knew that a massed assault against Bragg’s strongest point would be precisely what Bragg was hoping for, his entire defense designed for that very move. Grant’s alternative against Bragg’s flanks was sound strategy, opening up the possibility that either flank would be turned completely. Thomas looked again toward the sounds from Sherman’s fight, couldn’t help thinking of the chaotic Federal stampede away from Chickamauga. If Bragg’s army was swept away so completely, he thought, it would be sweet revenge indeed. But the men who should be making that attack, who deserve to have their pride and their reputations restored … are sitting still.
It was afternoon, and Grant had walked back behind the knob, seeking lunch from the lone commissary wagon parked nearby. Thomas stayed up on the highest part of the hill, along with most of his generals, kept his gaze on the ridge to his front. For most of the late morning, rebel troops could be seen moving along the ridge, most of them shifting toward Bragg’s right flank. Sherman’s fight had changed very little, beyond the strange message Grant had received, the request for Howard’s troops to be brought forward. Thomas had been surprised by the request, the tone from the courier suggesting an urgency that Grant certainly didn’t expect. Howard’s men had moved out that way, partially exposing Thomas’s flank to the north of Orchard Knob. Grant had remedied that possible weakness by shifting another division from John Palmer’s Fourteenth Corps, under Absalom Baird. But no one on Missionary Ridge seemed to be reacting to any of that at all. What mov
ement of the rebels Thomas could see was a flow of rebels and guns to his left, what he would expect with the volume of fire coming from Sherman. But neither Thomas nor his observers could confirm if Bragg had weakened his center. The field glasses showed without doubt that Bragg’s men along the center of the ridge were still in force, still waiting, watching Thomas’s army. Thomas had to believe that a full-on frontal assault against that position could, even now, cost far more casualties than he was willing to lose.
For the past hour, the fog across the plain had moved off, the skies blue and bright, a harsh, chilling breeze buffeting Thomas from behind. Grant was moving back up the hill, and Thomas heard Rawlins.
“Sir, you must do something! Order more troops that way! General Hooker should be reprimanded, most certainly!”
“Calm yourself, General. Matters are in hand. Battles do not fight themselves in short minutes.”
“Yes, but we should have heard more positive results from General Sherman. I admit to some concern.”
Thomas watched the scene, Grant climbing up with his usual deliberate plod, Rawlins flitting about him like an angry stork. They reached the crest of the hill, Grant still chewing on something, and Rawlins silenced himself, understood decorum around the other senior commanders. Thomas hid a smile, knew his own staff was back behind him, that there would be teasing about Rawlins. For now, Hough, Ramsey, the others were receiving the couriers, would continue to do exactly that unless he called upon them. He actually liked Rawlins, knew the man was exceptional at his job, the kind of hovering presence Grant seemed to need, whether Grant agreed with that or not. Thomas couldn’t help thinking of the two men as an old married couple, Grant the stern-faced husband, as Rawlins jabbed and poked him with questions and details.
Grant moved up beside Thomas now, said, “Saw General Hunter back there. Man knows how to fill a dinner plate. Crusty, disagreeable fellow. Rather good at his job, though. Knows how to tell a joke. Hates card playing. I had to hold him in check on that one. An inspector general doesn’t need to legislate morals, and the men seem to like it. I admit, I did outlaw card playing in Mississippi. We were on the march, no time for much else.” Grant paused, and Thomas looked at him, surprised at Grant’s unusual chattiness. Grant seemed suddenly uncomfortable, a nervous twitchiness, seemed self-conscious about Thomas actually listening to him. “There is some decent beef at the wagon, and the bread’s not bad. Take a walk back there, if you wish.” Thomas hadn’t felt hungry since breakfast, the cold drilling into him, and he pulled the coat tighter, saw Grant doing the same. Grant said, “Good day for a coat. Cold’s better than the rain. Fog finally gone.”
Thomas could feel some kind of uneasiness in Grant’s babbling conversation, so completely unlike Grant. He glanced back to his staff, four aides, standing with Lieutenant Ramsey, Ramsey responding to his look by moving forward. Thomas held up his hand, said, “Go eat something. Not much to be concerned with right now.”
Ramsey nodded, a quick, short bow, turned, motioning for the others. Thomas was surprised to hear a loud grunt from Grant, who said, “What in blazes? Look there.”
Thomas saw Grant raising the field glasses, other officers across the hill doing the same. Thomas looked through his own, scanned the sloping hills to the north, some of the details hidden by the rough terrain. But one detail was very plain, made more clear by the bright sun. Thomas knew what he was seeing, kept it inside, let the observation come from Grant.
“Those troops … they’re retreating. I cannot understand this. Is he being defeated? What in blazes has Sherman been doing up there?”
Thomas stared silently, knew Grant’s description was accurate. The word crossed through his mind. Stampede. He turned to the south, scanned the far reaches of Missionary Ridge, searching for some signs that Hooker’s men had made their way across the creek, might have shoved up to the southernmost ground near the ridge. Grant said the word, as Thomas thought it.
“Nothing. Hooker’s still fooling around trying to build a bridge. We should have sent him to Burnside, let the two of them trip over each other’s feet.”
Thomas held a blast of anger inside, thought of Hooker. I would have you removed for this. Defeat is one thing. Useless delay is another. Grant turned again toward Sherman’s fight, Thomas as well. He could see a haze of smoke drifting up across the ridge, felt a cold stirring in his stomach. The artillery fire was falling away, but the men in blue could clearly be seen, gathering back along the flatter plain away from the ridge. Grant said, “What time is it?”
Rawlins was there, always. “Three ten, sir.”
“General Thomas, I see General Granger there. Summon his division commanders. Those are the men whose camps are nearest this position, yes?”
Thomas knew the other generals were there, keeping close to Orchard Knob. He motioned to Hough, the others, the aides responding with a quick jog toward Granger. Grant was impatient now, slapped his hands against his heavy coat.
“This is unacceptable. Sherman has sent no word of any collapse. He’s going to shove his people up that hill until no one’s left. He should. No excuses.”
Thomas saw Granger leading his two closest generals, Wood and Sheridan, and behind them, Richard Johnson, who commanded the division farthest to the south. All four were on horseback, moving quickly, followed by Thomas’s aides.
Gordon Granger had endeared himself to Thomas by his performance at Chickamauga, adding strength to Thomas’s final stand, allowing the rest of Rosecrans’s army to escape annihilation. But Granger carried a chip on his shoulder, had thought himself capable of a senior command, an opinion not shared by the War Department. From early 1862, he had commanded the Army of Kentucky, but with the fights expanding down through Tennessee, the War Department merged his command with Rosecrans’s Army of the Cumberland, a move Granger took to be an obvious slap against his abilities. Instead of the independent command of an army, Granger now had to accept a subordinate position as a corps commander. Thomas had never been impressed with Granger’s efficiency, wasn’t sure if Grant felt the same way. But his men were the closest at hand, and, along with Johnson’s division, would be the ones most capable of putting their troops into position, should Grant actually order an attack.
Tom Wood was a small, wiry man, straight-backed, carrying the look of the dashing cavalier. Like Granger, Wood was another of the veterans of Mexico, was an obvious choice for a command position at the start of the war. The only real stain on Wood’s reputation had come at Chickamauga, through no fault of his own. It was Rosecrans’s order to Wood to relocate his division that had opened a yawning gap in the Federal lines, allowing Longstreet’s rebels to crush straight through the entire position. But Wood had kept his command, not even Rosecrans making the excuse that any of that disaster was Wood’s fault.
Phil Sheridan was by far the youngest of the group, not much beyond thirty years old. Like Wood, Sheridan was a small, tightly wound man, who had built an excellent reputation for field command under both Rosecrans and Don Carlos Buell. It had surprised Thomas that Sheridan had been close friends with Sherman early in the war, and along the way, had endeared himself to Henry Halleck, no easy feat.
Richard Johnson was known as much for his outsized handlebar mustache as he was for good leadership in the field, a man beloved by his troops for his appearance as well as his sturdiness under fire. Like Granger, Johnson had been with Thomas at Chickamauga, and though he served a different corps commander than Granger, by chance his positioning in line had put him on the right flank of Thomas’s position, with Johnson’s right resting against a loop on Chattanooga Creek.
All four men were West Pointers, all had impatient, energized troops, who seemed even now to be reacting to the summoning of their generals with a scattering of cheers.
Grant watched with Thomas, the men dismounting, and Grant said, “Last evening, I reversed my order for your men to advance in demonstration against that ridge.” Thomas saw the men glancing back and forth between h
im and Grant, and Grant seemed to hesitate, as though trying to recall just how much he knew of these men. Grant spoke first to Wood, didn’t seem to care that Granger outranked him, and Thomas had no reason to object. He had more faith in Wood than he had in Granger. Perhaps Grant felt the same way.
After a long moment Grant said, “General Wood, it seems that General Sherman is having a difficult time. I think that if you were to advance your divisions and carry the enemy’s rifle pits along the base of the ridge, it would threaten Bragg’s center, so that he might feel the urgency of removing troops from his right flank. This could assist General Sherman’s efforts. Do you agree?”
Wood looked at Granger, then Thomas, as though seeking permission to speak for the others. Thomas nodded, and Wood said, “Perhaps it will work out that way, sir. If you order it, we shall try it. I believe we can carry those entrenchments without any serious difficulty.”
Thomas felt a stab of nervousness, said, “Sir, we will be exposing a considerable number of good men to murderous fire. Once they move out across that open ground, the enemy’s artillery will play heavily on their ranks.”
Grant pulled the cigar from his mouth, glanced at the others, then said to Thomas, “Right now, rebel artillery is playing heavily on Sherman. Wouldn’t you agree? We can sit on our perches here and watch that, or we can do something about it. If these gentlemen agree, I prefer the latter course.”
There was no room for argument in Grant’s expression, and Thomas knew the order had to be given. The others spoke to one another, Grant paying more attention to them, the details of what he expected them to do. Thomas pulled himself back, his mind working on the plan. He knew Grant had made a mistake reversing the order that would have sent these men forward at first light. But that kind of discussion was useless, would only damage the strange air of tension he felt with Grant now.
