CHICKAMAUGA.
Rosecrans maneuvered Bragg out of Chattanooga. He now seemed to have
a contempt for his adversary, and divided his army into three columns
in an effort to bring ours to bay. One crossed the mountains and took
position at Alpine, forty miles south of the center, evidently to gain
the rear of the Confederates.
We were sent to look after this column. Lieutenant Baylor of the
Rangers reported to Wharton that a heavy force of infantry was at
Alpine. Wharton reported this to Bragg with a note vouching for
Baylor’s reliability. Bragg broke out:
“Lieutenant Baylor lies: there is no infantry south of us!”
In a day or two, however, he became convinced that the report was true,
and made some feeble effort to attack them in detail. Nothing came of
it except that Rosecrans, who now discovered that his enemy was not
retreating so precipitately, took the alarm and began to concentrate
his widely separated columns. The force at Alpine had to cross the
mountains. It took them two days to get to the center, now menaced by
the Confederates. Imagine Stonewall Jackson in Bragg’s place!
Of the larger events of the battle of Chickamauga I shall treat very
briefly. It has been truthfully called the soldiers’ battle. Whatsoever
of strategy or generalship there had been had miscarried and the two
armies stood face to face for a trial of strength: a test of manhood.
The numbers were about equal, not far from 70,000 on a side. The
Federals had the advantage of position, which they had fortified. The
Confederates had to attack. Never was fiercer attack and defense. Never
was shown greater courage.
The enemy were driven from their works, but with frightful loss to the
Confederates. Their killed numbered 2389. The wounded 13,412; while the
Federals’ loss in killed was 1656, wounded, 9769. It was such dearly
bought and fruitless victories as this which finally defeated the South.
The Terry Rangers were on the extreme left of the line and were ordered
to drive the enemy from their front. This order was executed in
handsome style. The enemy proved to be our old antagonists, the Third
Ohio Cavalry. After the charge a message was brought to Lieutenant
Dechard, of the Rangers, that a wounded Federal officer wished to see
him. He rode to the spot and dismounted. When he saw the wounded man,
he said:
“Why, it’s my old friend, Major Cupp. I am sorry to see you thus.”
“Lieutenant Colonel Cupp,” replied the other, “but I’ve had my last
promotion. You people have got me this time.”
More than a year before, these officers, each a lieutenant in command
of an escort for a flag of truce, had met. They met again, a few weeks
later, under the same circumstances, but Cupp was now a captain. After
the fight in Bardstown Dechard was in command of the guard for the
prisoners, and recognized his former acquaintance. “Captain Cupp, I am
glad to see you,” said he.
“Major Cupp,” corrected the prisoner, “but I can not say that I am glad
to see you under the circumstances.”
As the cartel was still in force, he was soon exchanged, and as we have
seen when he fell, Dechard was near. These facts were related to me
by Dechard himself, and he was known to be perfectly reliable. These
incidents confirm the old adage, “Truth is stranger than fiction.”
The dying officer desired Dechard to take his watch and other
belongings and send them to his relatives in Ohio, which was done a few
days later by flag of truce.
Wheeler and Forrest followed the discomfited Federals up to
Chattanooga. Here it was remembered that two detachments under
Lieutenants Friend and Batchelor had been left on picket in gaps of
the mountain away to the left of the battlefield, and I was ordered to
go to them at once and direct them to join the command, which would be
found on the Athens road.
There was about an hour of daylight, and I hoped to pass the ground of
the terrible struggle before night, knowing that there was nothing for
me or my horse until I did so. In this I was disappointed. Darkness
came on shortly after I reached the scene of that awful carnage. Many
of the Federal dead and wounded still lay where they had fallen. The
air was freighted with a horrible odor, the battlefield’s commentary
on war. The wounded hearing my horse’s footfalls, began calling me to
give some assistance. Dismounting I picked my way to the first one. He
desired to be turned over. Another wanted his canteen. The poor fellow
had struggled while there was strength, and now unable to move further,
was out of reach of his canteen. These were relieved and others not
specially remembered here. It seemed that hundreds were calling. I was
ever a coward in the presence of suffering, besides duty required that
I should proceed on my journey. So I asked:
“Are you aware that your own surgeons with their details and ambulances
are here uncontrolled on the field?”
“Oh, yes,” was the answer, “they come around every day and leave us
water, a little food and medicine, but it is awful to lie here this
way.”
I mounted and rode off, feeling sad at the fate of these men dying
unattended hundreds of miles from home and loved ones, but I steeled my
heart by the thought that if they had stayed at home with their loved
ones they would not be thus dying.
I was now lost. It was dark and my horse could not follow any road,
for roads were everywhere. Artillery wheels make many roads on a
battlefield. After a while I saw a light and went to it. It was the
camp fire of the details for the care of the wounded. These men sat
around. The ambulances and mules were near. There was a little house,
too. On the porch I saw some officers in uniform. Surgeons they were.
I inquired for some resident. A slender girl came to the door and in
reply to my request directed me to Lee and Gordon’s mill.
The moon was now rising. I was on that part of the field from which
the dead and wounded had been removed, but there was wreck and ruin
everywhere. Maimed and groaning horses, and no one to waste a load of
ammunition to end their suffering; broken gun carriages, the debris of
a battlefield.
I crossed and watered my horse in the stream at the mill. As I rode
up the hill I met two of my own company, who had been at the wagon
camp cooking for the company. When they learned how far it was to the
command and the horrors of the battlefield, they readily agreed to
camp, for it was now late. So I had supper, for my comrades had sacks
of bread and bacon, but my poor horse had nothing. We lay down and
slept under the shining moon, although but a few miles away hundreds of
human beings lay dying.
On the morrow I proceeded on my journey. When I reached the first
detachment under Lieutenant Friend and delivered my message, he kindly
sent one of his men on to tell Batchelor: gave me some forage for my
horse, and all gathered around anxious for news of the battle. Here
they had been in sound of the mighty struggle, the boom of the great
guns, even the rattle of small arms, while their comrades were in dire
peril, but denied the privilege of sharing in their danger or triumph.
They had heard that the enemy had been driven from the field, but had
heard nothing from their own command. They were hungry for news from
the Rangers. What part they took, and who were killed or wounded? For
they knew if the Rangers had been engaged somebody was hurt.
These occurrences took place nearly forty-eight years ago, and yet
their memory is clear in my mind, and when I think of my lonely ride in
Chickamauga’s gloomy woods, of the dead and dying, the wreck and ruin
of that awful night, I am convinced that there is no more expressive
definition of war than General Sherman has given.
When Batchelor’s squad came up we started to overtake the command,
joining it on the following day, as well as I remember. It was then
well on its way to the Federal rear in middle Tennessee.