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

he thought. I’m not certain, either. He doesn’t need to know that. My job’s simple: Convince them they can whip the entire Yankee nation. This past couple of days, that’s just what we did. If I have my way, we’ll finish the job.
    He reached the wide crest, another glance at the enormity of Lookout Mountain, but the fog was high, the valley that spread out below clear, bathed by patches of late morning sunlight.
    “Sir!”
    He saw his men, and Major Harvey, farther along the ridge, a gathering near a small cluster of trees, the men surrounding a pair of bluecoats. The major was waving to him, a beaming smile, and Forrest rode that way, his men spreading out just behind the ridge, good training. They would know how visible they might be, the ridgeline mostly open. Any thick mass of cavalry could be a perfect target for enemy artillery. Harvey was still waving, excited energy, and Forrest obliged him, kept his eyes on the two Yankees. He saw the signal flag, heard a whoop high in the tree, looked up, saw one of his own men sitting on a fat branch.
    “What you have here, Major?”
    “Two prisoners, sir. Signalmen. Good place for ’em to be, sir. They were up in the trees, waving them flags like they was calling out for Heavenly Deliverance. Guess it didn’t work.”
    Forrest looked at the two men, both staring up at him, curious. He focused on the younger man, hoped to see fear, but the man was stoic, defiant. Forrest leaned out closer, said, “What’s your name, son?”
    “Kirkman. I’m from Illinois. Not telling you nothing else.”
    “Don’t much care if you do, Mr. Kirkman from Illinois. What I want from you is right there.” Forrest pointed to the man’s chest, the field glasses hanging on a thin leather strap. There was no protest, the man sliding the strap over his head.
    “Here you go, rebel. I reckon you captured these, too.”
    “Yep, that I did. Major, call your man down from that tree. I’d fancy my own look.”
    The trooper slipped down quickly, no order required, and Forrest dismounted, took the field glasses from the Yankee’s hand.
    “Thank you, Mr. Kirkman. Now, I’ll just be taking a look at what your army is up to.”
    Forrest moved to the tallest tree, saw the limbs trimmed, a perfect ladder upward. He draped the field glasses over his neck, climbed, felt the ache. He had taken yet another wound in the fighting the day before, a nagging slice across his back, soothed by the constant motion from the horse. But he felt it now, stiffening, a burning stab. He tried to ignore the pain, moved up higher, one limb at a time. He reached the platform the Yankees had used, their observation point, the last sturdy limb where the thinner branches had been cleared away. He stood gingerly, one hand on the tree, steadied himself, now saw why the signalmen were there. Below him the valley stretched for miles, north and west, and far out in front, the looping meanders of the Tennessee River. Just this side of the river was the city of Chattanooga, lined with stout earthworks and lines of cut timber, most of that work done by Confederates a month or more before. Even at this distance he could make out the flow of humanity, pouring through the mountain passes, across the flat plain, masses of men in blue.
    On every road, in every open field, Federal troops were on the move toward the town. But there was little order, nothing to resemble a march at all. He wanted to shout, felt a great flood of joy, could see what remained of the Federal Army of the Cumberland, a distant swarm of blue insects, a massive ant bed stirred up by the Hand of God. He looked to the left, the near side of the river that wound past the base of Lookout Mountain. There was blue there as well, wagons, teamsters making use of the good road that ran westward along the river, salvaging whatever they could carry, some no doubt hauling the wounded, a great many wounded. Yes, by God, we whipped them. Anyone who has a horse is making his