maturity; and it would surprise you farmers to see how soon a ten-acre
field of green corn would be used up by an army. But how did the boys
prepare it so as to make it good and wholesome? Of course, it could be
roasted on the ear, but that was too slow a process. By this time, in
our experience as soldiers, we had divided into messes of about four.
One would carry a small tin pail or kettle, holding about four quarts;
another would carry a small frying pan; the third would carry a
coffeepot (without which the rebellion could not have been put down);
while the fourth would carry some other article necessary to the
culinary art. The commissary supplied us with salt pork or bacon, and
also with salt and pepper. Now the culinary process is this: the corn is
gathered and carefully silked, then with a sharp knife (and every
soldier was supposed to have one—or if left lying about loose) the corn
was shaven from the cob, put into the frying pan with a slice of pork or
bacon, and cooked until tender; add salt and pepper to suit taste, and
you have a dish good enough to set before a union soldier—and too good
for a king.
We remained in this beautiful valley until the corn was all used up; and
one would be surprised to see how it helped out our rations. One other
notable thing about this green-corn diet—some of our men that were sick,
but dreaded to be sent back to hospital and had kept along with us as
best they could, were entirely cured by this change of diet. It was the
vegetable food that did the good work for them. I have known green
apples, that are always supposed to be harmful to a well person, help a
sick soldier.
One could not help thinking, what was to become of these poor people of
this valley, whose only means of support we had eaten up and destroyed;
but war is merciless, "war is hell," as General Sherman said.
When we broke up our camp we pushed straight for Waldron's ridge lying
directly in front of us. We found the ascent of this ridge much more
difficult than that of the other had been, but finally we reached the
top of the mountain. It was very singular to find here a country with
all the characteristics of level or table-land—lying more than two
thousand feet above the country we had left behind us, or the valley of
the river beyond. The next day we resumed the march, and in the
afternoon began the descent into the valley of the Tennessee.
The road down the mountain was the worst, by far, that we had
encountered. In some places the road lay over ledges of rocks that were
four feet directly down; and many wagons were broken, as well as axles
of cannons and caissons. I suppose, to this day, there could be found
evidences of that fearful descent, in the wreck of government property
lying along that mountain road.
The valley of the Tennessee at last reached, we went into camp at Poe's
tavern, and remained there some three weeks, spending the most of our
time in foraging for our animals, as well as ourselves.
In this locality there is one of the greatest curiosities it was ever my
privilege to behold. It consists of a lake or pond on the top of the
ridge we last came down. Directly to the west of where we were encamped,
the ridge breaks off into palisades, some five hundred feet in height.
Hearing of this curious lake from some of the natives, a party of us set
out one day to explore it. We were compelled to go up the ridge by the
same road we had come down, which took us some distance to the northward
of the place where we had been informed the lake was located. At last
our efforts were rewarded by finding the place. The lake is almost a
circle of about six hundred feet in diameter; on one side the rocks had
fallen down on an angle of about forty-five degrees, making it possible
to descend into this terrible looking place. Once down to the water's
edge one could look up the perpendicular sides of this walled-in lake
for three hundred feet. It looks as though at some time the rocks had
sunken down into the great cave beneath, and left this basin which
filled with water from the springs of the mountains. One of the most
curious features of this curious basin is that the water has a rise and
fall of fifteen feet, at regular intervals. The water was as clear as
"mountain dew," and some of our party, on going in to swim, thought they
could dive out of sight; but no effort of a swimmer that could go down
eighteen feet, seemed to make any difference with his visibility. The
natives looked upon this place with great awe, and gave it the fearful
name of "Devil's Washbowl."
We had not been at this camp many days before the mystery of the rising
and falling of the water in the bowl was fully explained. About a half
mile below our camp was a large spring from which some of our brigade
got water; on going there for water one day a soldier found the spring
had failed, and so reported. In a few days thereafter another soldier
went for water, and found the spring flowing as bountifully as when
first discovered. An investigation showed that when the spring ceased to
flow, the water in the bowl began to rise, and when the water in the
spring began to run, the water in the bowl began to fall. And so it
turned out to be an intermitting spring, the philosophy of which every
schoolboy that hears me to-night is familiar; and the devil lost the
most of his reputation in that locality.
We made quite a long stop at this camp, but at last the order to march
came; we went directly down the west bank of the river for about twenty
miles, and went into camp for the night; the next morning we marched out
to the river, and were informed that we must ford the same.
The Tennessee, where we were required to ford it, was a little less than
a mile in width, and in some places quite swift. We were ordered to
remove our clothing, but the order was regarded more advisory than
imperative; and while some did their clothing up in neat bundles and
bore them on their bayonets, others kept theirs on and trusted to the
warmth of their bodies to dry them on the other side.
We started in four ranks, the usual marching order; we got on very well
until we came to the deep and rapid portion of the river, when some of
our short men became very apprehensive, and I remember we had to keep
hold of hands to prevent the current from carrying us down the stream;
while we had to take our shortest men on our shoulders to keep their
heads above water. It is a sight never to be forgotten to see a mile of
men in the water. After having gained the east bank in safety we spent
the time in watching the others come across, or in drying our water
soaked garments. It was amusing to see the little short fellows ford;
they would come along with great bravery until they came to the deep
water, when you could see them holding their heads away back; now and
then one would go all under, and you would see him climbing some fellow
that nature had provided with a longer pair of running-gears; but
finally all crossed in safety, and no sickness followed this enforced
baptism.
We went into camp that afternoon near the river; and the next morning
took up the march in the direction of Ringgold, Ga. Here we found, as a
rule, the people had abandoned their homes and gone south, leaving them
to be pillaged by thoughtless or criminally inclined soldiers. On this
day's march I saw an instance of the propensity of some men to steal
that was about as amusing as it was disgusting. As I was marching at the
head of my company I heard a great clattering, and on looking back I saw
a soldier coming with a great load on his back done up in a piece of
shelter tent, which on a nearer inspection proved to be a set of dishes;
there were tureens, bowls, plates, pitchers, platters, and in fact
everything known to a well regulated set of dishes. The fellow marched
on with great composure amid the derisive shouts of his comrades that he
passed; and probably that night ate his hard-tack off southern china.
That night we went into camp near a branch of the Chickamauga river, and
the next day marched into Ringgold. This village, named in honor of
Major Ringgold, that fell at the battle of Buena Vista, was a town of
about two thousand people at that time, I should think, when at home,
beautifully located at the foot of the White Oak mountains; but very few
of its people remained there, and the town was a very sorry looking
place, though built mostly of brick, and in much better taste than most
of the southern towns that we had seen.
[Illustration:
_SERGEANT MAJOR JOHN S. NIMMONS._
]
Here I saw the first exhibition of the extreme spitefulness of the
southern woman. Our camp was close to quite a fine looking residence,
and seeing a collection of soldiers about there, I thought I would step
over and see what was going on. In the doorway stood a good looking,
decent appearing lady, and another was just inside of the door. The
first one spoke to the crowd of soldiers (that looked as though calico
was worth a dollar a yard), and said, "I suppose yuans all came down
here to rob weuns of our land." Some one denied the accusation, and,
with the most intense bitterness depicted in every feature, she added,
"Weuns are perfectly willin' to give yuans all land 'nough to bury yuans
on, and we reckon yuans will need consid'able befo yuans git out heyer."
I am sorry to say that some of the boys that laughed at the display of
provincialism and spite on the part of the rebel lady, were compelled to
take up with her offer a few days thereafter.
Here we found quite a lively skirmish going on between Wilder's mounted
infantry and some confederate cavalry, out toward Dalton.
We remained here a few days and then moved over to the locality of Lee &
Gordon's mills, and the eighteenth day of September found us encamped on
the Chickamauga river, some sixteen miles south of Chattanooga.
The Chickamauga is a small river that puts into the Tennessee a few
miles above Chattanooga; at most places fordable in low water, but at
some points, owing to the limestone formation, dropping into pools, deep
and cavernous. The Indians named the little stream Chickamauga, and as
they interpret, the word means "dead man's river;" if the name was
intended to be prophetic, how terribly was it fulfilled the nineteenth
and twentieth days of September, 1863.
All day the eighteenth the south bank of the stream was held by the
skirmish line of the enemy; and I remember it was quite a novel and
exciting scene to witness the belching of the smoke and flame from the
muskets of the skirmishers, while now and then the whizzing of the stray
bullet, admonished us that even off duty our position was not one of
absolute safety and repose. All that day "the grapevine telegraph" was
working in fine shape. The camp was alive with rumors that McCook's
Corps had not yet effected the crossing of the mountains; that Bragg had
been reinforced by Longstreet from the army of northern Virginia (this
was true), and it was the purpose of the confederate commander to
destroy the 14th and 21st Corps before a junction could be made with
McCook, and before the Reserve Corps under Granger could come within
reinforcing distance.
The sun had just hid his face behind the rocky sides of the Lookout when
the order was given to "strike tents," and each regiment was quietly but
speedily formed in marching order, and all that night long we marched to
the right, to be nearer McCook when the time should come when the foe,
long followed and hunted, should hunt us in return.
Any one who has not had the experience cannot have any notion of the
absolutely disgusting weariness of a night march in the presence of the
enemy. To march in column, day or night, is much more fatiguing than to
march singly; but on this terrible night, I remember, the dust was shoe
mouth deep, and it came up filling our nostrils with dirt and our souls
with indignation. Happy, then, was he that had some phrases, unknown to
the ordinary soldier, with which he could give vent to his disgust. If
it is true "that hope keeps the heart from breaking," I have often had
the reflection that "there are moments—this was one of them," when the
strong expressions used by the union soldier kept him from desertion.
Then the halting to let a battery of artillery pass or a train of
baggage wagons, while we were standing or being led into the darkness,
in a kind of military blind man's buff, without any of the merry
incidents of that childish game of the long ago.
At last the morning of the nineteenth of September, 1863, dawned on
thousands of that grand old army for the last time. Inexperienced as we
of the 124th O. V. I. were at this time, we knew that we should soon be
struggling in the shock and carnage of battle. That the time for our
first baptism of blood and fire was fast approaching. The blare of the
bugles on every hand told that the work of preparation for that struggle
that was to be one that was to save the army from annihilation, was soon
to begin.
We pulled out of the old road that leads from Lee & Gordon's mills on
the Chickamauga, to Chattanooga, and halted and made coffee and were
soon partaking of "the soldier's banquet," not a very elaborate bill of
fare, but relished by those tired and dusty soldiers, notwithstanding
the preparations for battle going on around us.
I remember a little colloquy that took place between our colonel and
General Palmer that morning, while we were breakfasting that illustrates
how lightly soldiers can talk about going into battle, no matter how
they may feel. Our colonel said, "general, there's going to be a dance
down there this morning, is there not?" "Yes," replied the general, "and
in less than an hour your regiment will get an invitation to attend it."
[Illustration:
_COLOR-BEARER SERGEANT LLOYD A. MARSH._
]
The country where the battle was fought was largely woods, now and then
broken by what in southern parlance is called a "deadening," which
simply means that the timber has been killed by girdling, and the ground
subjected to the mode of cultivation of slave times in the South. Some
portions of the country are quite level, and then breaking into bluffs,
as one leaves the river and approaches the foothills of the mountains.
Fisher Ames said, "nobody sees a battle," and it is literally true.
While Ames had reference to the great battles of the East that were
invariably fought on open plains, how certain the statement is when
thick woods and hills intervene along the battle line, which in this
case, extended for more than seven miles from right to left.
Soon the bugle sounded the "assembly" and our brigade commanded by the
late lamented General H. B. Hazen, filed out into the Chattanooga road.
We had not moved more than half a mile to the left, and down the road,
when we came to an old partially cleared field and deadening, halted,
marched into this field and formed into "double column at half
distance," which every soldier knows is the last position before the
line of battle is formed. Soon one regiment after another took its place
in the line, and all was ready for the advance into the woods in our
front where we knew from the skirmishing that had been going on all the
morning, that the enemy's line of battle was extending itself, with the
evident intention of getting between our left and Chattanooga. As I have
before said, this battle was the first time our regiment had been under
fire, though the other regiments of which our brigade was composed had
done good service at Perryville and Stone river.
I suppose there are plenty of men, that can get ready, and go into a
battle without fear or wavering, but for my part, my recollection of
that momentous event, is somewhat like another's, who describes his
condition on a certain occasion as, "whether in the body, I cannot tell,
or whether out of the body, I cannot tell; God knoweth."
But the order to move forward came at last and we moved into the pine
and oak woods in our front. We had moved but a few yards into the woods,
when the enemy opened fire and two of my men were wounded at the first
discharge. I was then in command of company B 124th O. V. I., composed
of my schoolmates and scholars, the most of them farmers' sons that knew
the use of the rifle; and but very few but that had a larger share of
_courage_ than their commanding officer.
I was ordered to deploy my company, as skirmishers to cover the
regiment, and moved to the front. This movement was executed under fire
and not in very good style. The regimental bugle still sounded the
_forward_, until my skirmish line was within three hundred feet of the
confederate line of battle. My line now attracted the attention of the
enemy, and drew his fire exclusively. A six gun battery was run up to
the line, and in less time than I can now tell it, my farmer boys had
shot down every horse and not one of the gunners could approach a gun.
At this time I saw the first man of our regiment killed, Corporal
Atkins. He was a tall, finely formed man, a farmer and school-teacher by
occupation; an abolitionist, he hated slavery, and consequently the
slaveholders' rebellion; and many a time around the mirthful campfire
had he been the object of the friendly raillery of his comrades, by
reason of his fiery sentiments of hatred of that giant wrong; and
sometimes it was hinted in his hearing, "the best fighters are not as a
rule, the best talkers." I can see him now as he stands at my right
behind the sheltering trunk of a large pine loading and firing, in that
storm of bullets, as calmly as though not at death's carnival. I see the
blood flowing from his left shoulder, I say, "William, you are badly
wounded; go to the rear." Putting his hand up to his wounded shoulder,
and extending his left arm says, "see captain, I am not much hurt, I
want to give them another." He draws another cartridge from his box,
springs his rammer, runs the cartridge half down—a bullet from the enemy
pierces that brave heart, and I see him fall on his face—dead. So
perished one of those brave sons that fought _for a great principle_,
which was the soul of the union army. By the fortunes of the field, we
were compelled to leave him there "unknelled, uncoffined and unknown,"
buried, if at all, by the careless enemy. But if there is a future where
the deeds of the brave and true are rewarded, William Atkins will be one
of the brightest stars in the galaxy of immortal life. But I must hasten
with my story or I weary you, as that day wearied us.
The skirmish line alone of our regiment was engaged. The line of battle
could not fire for fear of injury to our line, while our line was so far
advanced that the enemy's fire enfiladed us; trees, the ordinary cover
of skirmishers, were no protection whatever. Our colonel ordered us to
lie down and our main line opened fire over us, and it was difficult to
tell from which we suffered most, the fire of the enemy, or the bad
marksmanship of the line in the rear. Finally, those of us that had not
been killed and wounded, fell back on the line of battle and fought with
that line, and thus the day wore away.
[Illustration:
_CORPORAL WILLIAM ATKINS._
_The first man of the 124th O. V. I. killed. "See Captain, I am not
much hurt, I want to give them another." Page 58._
]
In the afternoon, sometime, the order was sent around to be saving of
our ammunition as no more could be had at present, and if the
confederates charged we must rely upon the bayonet.
About four o'clock in the afternoon, we heard the commands of officers
in our rear, and turning in that direction, we saw the blue of our lines
over the old field coming to our relief. It was General Johnson's
division of McCook's Corps. They are formed in column by regimental
front, at a distance of about two hundred yards between regiments. The
first regiment at double-quick rushes through and past our broken and
decimated ranks, not stopping until they come close to the confederate
line; then halting abruptly, deliver a well directed volley in the face
of the enemy, fall and reload, while the next regiment rushes over them
only to repeat what those had done who had gone before. It would be
almost idle to add that the confederates were compelled to fall back
though composed of the flower of the army of northern Virginia. No men
no matter how brave, could stand outside of works the deadly impetuosity
of such a charge.
I had seen many noble looking men before; I have seen many since, but
have never seen any such men in appearance, as composed that charging
column that relieved us that dismal afternoon at Chickamauga. Had every
division of the Army of the Cumberland been handled and fought as
General Johnson's division was that afternoon, the historian would write
Chickamauga a victory, instead of a defeat.
After this charge, in which General Johnson drove Longstreet's line back
to and across the river nearly a mile and a half from where we had
engaged him, we had time to look after our wounded men. I received
permission to go out to the place where we had fought on the skirmish
line. Seeing that all the wounded men were carefully removed to the
rear, I hastened back to join my company. If I was filled with terror on
going into the battle, I was doubly so now. To be lost from one's
command in time of action is hard to explain, and a situation for which,
among soldiers, there is ever exercised very little charity. I inquired
of some wounded men the direction my regiment had taken, and hurrying
on, fear lending wings to speed, I halted near a log cabin in a small
opening where a six gun battery stood, and to the guns of which the men
were attaching long ropes known as prolongs. I soon came upon my company
and regiment lying flat on the ground, and evidently waiting orders. I
took my position in the company, thankful that the regiment had not been
engaged in my absence. In our immediate front all was still. The ground
ascended in a gentle elevation, thickly covered with brush but here and
there a tree. All at once there arose one of those terrible yells that
only a mass of rebels could produce, and on looking to the front, I saw
coming down the hill a solid mass of confederate infantry; their stars
and bars flaunting gaily, as the color-bearers came dancing on. All at
once the right of our line began falling back without firing a shot,
until all had commenced retiring to the right of our company. I was
chagrined at what seemed an ignoble retreat, leaving the battery I had
passed to certain capture. The rebels had began firing, but seemed to
fire far above us, as the leaves and small branches of the trees fell
thickly about us. As they came nearer, their marksmanship seemed to
improve, and several of my men were wounded, among the number was
Lieutenant Charles M. Stedman, who, though badly wounded in the
shoulder, refused to leave the company until the battle was over. He
afterward laid his young life on the altar of his country at the battle
of New Hope Church, May 27th, 1864. He was one of the very few
_absolutely_ brave men, I ever knew. I turned to watch the advancing
rebel hosts and to see what would become of the battery when their six
guns opened one after another in rapid succession, and I saw lanes and
alleys open in the solid ranks of confederate gray. This was repeated as
rapidly as the guns could be worked and never an over-charged
thundercloud seemed to strike more rapidly, than that grand old United
States battery poured its double-shotted canisters at half distance into
the now panic-stricken and flying rebel horde.
A lone battery with no infantry support on its left, with the infantry
support on its right, for, to me, some unaccountable reason, retreating
without firing a shot, fighting and repelling an entire brigade of
confederate infantry. I never saw it repeated. I never heard of its
being repeated in all of my experience in the war, thereafter. I don't
know what battery it was, I never could find out with any certainty, but
better work was never done by any of those brave men that worship their
brazen guns more than did ever heathen devotee the molten image he calls
his God.
I saw Colonel Beebe of General Hazen's staff after this eventful day,
and he informed me that his duties called him over this portion of the
field, and it was with difficulty he rode his horse among the dead.
Not thicker do lie the ripened sheaves in the harvest field, where
nature has been most generous, than did the confederate dead on that
lone hillside.
That night we marched to a new position and went into bivouac in line of
battle. The night was cold and frosty, and as we were not permitted to
have much fire and had left our knapsacks behind, we suffered from the
cold; but "tired nature's sweet restorer" overcame all difficulties, and
we lay down and slept among the dead as sweetly as though we had been
bidden "good-night" in our own northern homes.
Thus ended the nineteenth day of September, 1863, and something of what
I recollect of the campaign of Chattanooga and the first day's battle of
Chickamauga.