The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War Read Free Page A

see the man’s weariness, felt it himself.
    “Major, take fifty men, move out through those scattered trees. There’s Yankees scampering away on every path, every trail. Round up what you can. Be sharp, keep your eyes out for a skirmish line, for any sign of an ambush. But I’m betting the Yankee cavalry’s mostly gone. If we’d have started sooner, pushed them harder …”
    He let the words trail away, stared back down the muddy road, over the heads of his men. He knew they were exhausted, that their mounts were in worse shape than the men, little time for forage, for water, for rest at all. He felt the soaking wetness from the rain, magnifying his own weariness, adding to his frustration. This is our chance, he thought. Our best chance in months. And by God, we’re letting them get away.
    He looked again up the long slope, saw past the debris in the road, the hill cresting in a scattering of timber.
    “Forward!”
    He spurred the horse, felt the unfamiliar gait, the uncomfortable rhythm, had a sudden flash of sadness. His own horse had gone down with a fatal wound not an hour before, another brief skirmish with Yankee cavalry that had gone his way. The Yankees had gotten theworst of it, again, but the wound to the horse had given him a jolt. He had seen that before, many times, the great obedient beasts standing tall in the storm of shot, absorbing the musket fire as though it were just part of their duty. Some horses could suffer a half-dozen wounds, yet still move forward, seemingly oblivious to agony or pain, determined only to serve. But his own mount had been hit in some vulnerable place, a horrible spurt of blood, which Forrest had tried to stop with his own hand. The animal had staggered, and even as his men drove the Yankees away, Forrest had dismounted, focusing on the beast, had spoken to it, soothing words, as though it might help. But the wound was deep, the blood unstoppable, and within short minutes the horse had collapsed, one more casualty. There were other horses there, of course, but the unfamiliar mount was the cavalryman’s curse, suddenly astride a stranger, no bond between them, no rhythm to the ride. Forrest tried to ignore that, had driven the fresh animal to the head of the column, resuming the pursuit. He reached down and slapped the horse’s neck.
    “Let’s go to work, old boy. This is a glorious day. You’ll see that for yourself.”
    He crested the hill, saw a larger hill to the front, a long, high ridge that spread out to the north, speckled with a scattering of trees. To the left, westward, was the vast hulk of Lookout Mountain, rising up into heavy mist, the crown of the enormous rock disguised by a layer of fog. He glanced that way, nothing to see, pushed the horse beyond the ridge, rode down into a low bowl, the timber closing in on the road. Careful, he thought. One coward, trying to be a hero, taking his last shot at some officer on a horse. Not how I want to die. Stand up and face me, bluebelly. Let’s see who the better man might be.
    Beside him, one of his officers moved close, the man’s voice, Captain Seeley.
    “Sir, that’s the big ridge. Mission Ridge. The enemy’s likely to make a stand there. Good defensive position.”
    “Nope. They’re not making a stand anywhere, not today. You see all that equipment along the road? They’re whipped. We keep pushing them hard, we’ll haul in the whole Army of the Cumberland. About time, too. I want to see the faces of all those bluebellies who thought they could shove their way anyplace they saw fit. We handedthem Tennessee. But not Georgia.” He paused. “Let’s get to the top, see what kind of view we have of Chattanooga. If the fog’s not low in the valley, I’m wagering you’ll see just how right I am.”
    He raised his hand, pointed toward the long ridge, spurred the horse to a trot. The climb was long and steady, and he knew the young captain would be alert, wouldn’t just take Forrest’s word for it. Good,