which was the celebrated Washington Artillery of New Orleans, many
hundreds of prisoners, and a great amount of small arms.
The storming of Missionary Ridge is the most remarkable military success
that can be found recorded on the pages of history, of either ancient or
modern warfare. General Grant, who was an eyewitness of the battle, says
in his official report, "the troops rushed forward, drove the enemy from
the rifle pits at the base of the ridge like bees from a hive, stopped
but a moment until the whole was in line, and commenced the ascent of
the mountain from right to left, almost simultaneously, following
closely the retreating enemy _without further orders_. They encountered
a fearful volley of grape and canister from one hundred pieces of
artillery and musketry from still well-filled pits on the summit of the
ridge. Not a waiver, however, was seen in all that line of brave men.
Their progress was steadily onward until the summit was in their
possession. I can account for this only on the theory that the enemy's
surprise at the audacity of such a charge caused confusion, and
purposeless aiming of their pieces."
The rebel general, Bragg, in his official report, says: "No satisfactory
excuse can possibly be given for the shameful conduct of our troops in
allowing the line to be frustrated. The position was one that ought to
have been held by a line of skirmishers _against any assaulting column_.
Those who reached the ridge did so in a condition of exhaustion from the
great physical exertion in climbing, which rendered them powerless, and
the slightest effort would have destroyed them."
Napoleon's veterans charged the muzzle of whole parks of Russian
artillery at Borodino, but they had solid columns and the force of great
numbers, and no obstacles to overcome in making that world-renowned
charge.
The Light Brigade charged the Russian redoubt at Balaklava, only to be
swept away by the concentrated fire of the Russian batteries; but they
had the impetuosity of a cavalry movement to drive them on _en masse_,
while the storming of Missionary Ridge was the individual heroism of
each and every man in that grand Army of the Cumberland, and is only
explained by the _rebel general_ substantially calling his brave men
cowards, who fought at Shiloh, Stone river, and had so recently been
victorious on the dread field of Chickamauga.
The great battle of Missionary Ridge was won by the _individual moral
force of the volunteer union soldier_, never known before to the history
of warfare.
That evening the moon rose over the summit of Tunnel hill, and shone
smilingly along the bare and desolate side of Missionary Ridge, as
though the soil was not wet with the blood of brothers. There, lying
close to the rebel parapet, was the young and brave captain, James H.
Frost, of Company I, his calm face bathed by the soft moonlight and
looking as peaceful as though an angel guarded his slumbers.
Further down the bloody track of the 124th lay twenty-two of its braves,
"sleeping the sleep that knows not breaking."
"The tempest may roar,
And the loud cannon rattle,
They hear not, they heed not,
They're free from all pain.
They sleep their last sleep,
They have fought their last battle,
No sound can awake them to glory again."
More than twenty-seven years have passed since that heroic struggle on
the steep mountain side of Missionary Ridge. The blue and the gray sleep
side by side in the National Cemetery at its base. Chattanooga, then a
small war-battered village, has grown, by northern capital and northern
industry, to be an important iron manufacturing city. The Tennessee runs
its bright and winding way around the proud Lookout, but no rebel yell
pollutes the air, and no rebel rag defies the national authority, but
all is peace and order, industry and law. And so we bid farewell to the
contemplation of one of those great sacrifices that "saved us a nation."
THE EAST TENNESSEE CAMPAIGN, AND THE MARCH
FROM CHATTANOOGA TO KNOXVILLE.
Hooker's victorious legions had descended from Lookout. The battle of
Missionary Ridge had been fought and won. General Geary's division of
the 20th Corps had followed the beaten and disheartened Bragg to
Ringgold, and there attacking the enemy in his entrenched position on
the White Oak mountains, had suffered a repulse in which the gallant 7th
and 8th Ohio lost severely. It was there that the idols of the 7th,
Colonels Crane and Creighton, fell. But our portion of the army advanced
no further south at that time, and the 20th Corps went into winter
quarters. But no such needed rest and recuperation, after the long time
of siege and starvation at Chattanooga, seemed to fall to the lot of the
4th Corps of the Army of the Cumberland.
The twenty-sixth day of November, 1863, the day after the battle of
Missionary Ridge, we spent in gathering up our beloved dead from off the
mountainside where they had charged so gallantly the day before. We
brought each regiment's sleeping braves and composed them in long lines,
each company's by itself. I wish those that love war, that are filled
with martial ardor, that are hoping that some complication will involve
us in a war with Great Britain, could have walked with me along those
lines of noble dead. There lay in peaceful slumber all ages, all sizes
and forms of men, from the heavy, tall and bearded man of fifty to the
smooth-faced lad of fifteen.
O, could we feel the breaking hearts of wife, mother, father, sister,
brother, and affianced, when the shouting was over, when the headlines
of the _great victory_ had become familiar, when the congratulatory
orders and proclamations had been issued and read, and the cold, sad
news had been conveyed to each home that claimed a loved one lost in
that great victory—then, and only then, could we know and feel the real
horrors of war. Then, I am sure, all those that love war and delight in
the clash of arms would lift their voices for peace—lasting peace. We
soldiers were not the real sufferers—they were the sad, loving hearts at
home. But then, as now, duty was not to the dead, but to the living.
Their manly forms wrapped in their martial cloaks (the soldier's coarse
blanket) were tenderly buried on that beautiful elevation known as
Orchard Knob, which was the beginning of that National Cemetery where
all the wealth that a grateful nation and a loving people could lavish
has made it, in walks, drives, fountains, lawns, marbles, shrubbery and
flowers, one of the most beautiful places on earth. Here the name and
rank of each soldier is registered, when known, but alas, there are
thousands there that fill unknown and nameless graves.
But the news of the siege of Knoxville had come to us from the hundreds
of miles to the northward. Longstreet's Corps of the army of northern
Virginia had been detached from Bragg's army before the battle of
Missionary Ridge; Bragg, relying upon the strength of the natural
fortifications that he held, considered that it was only a question of
time when the battered remnants of Rosecrans' army, that had been
withdrawn from the lost field of Chickamauga, must succumb to want and
hunger; and the corps commanded by Longstreet, and some other forces of
the enemy in the north and east parts of Tennessee, could soon render
the situation of Burnside at Knoxville as helpless as ours at
Chattanooga. But the fortunes of war, like all other things, change with
time. Rosecrans had been suspended and Hooker had been sent by Scranton
to the Tennessee in so short a space of time that the feat was the
comment and wonder of the watching world. Grant and Sherman had met.
The greatest living tactician and the most consummate handler of men,
were in counsel. Then, as I have stated, Bragg was beaten and driven
away, and Sherman marched to relieve Burnside. He was given entire
command, and within two days after the smoke of the battle of Missionary
Ridge had cleared away from the hilltops and mountains around about
Chattanooga, Sherman's army was on the march up the Tennessee river for
Knoxville, keeping on the east side of the valley.
The first day our brigade only marched two miles, having to wait for the
other brigades and divisions to get out of the way.
We crossed the Chickamauga river a short distance above Chattanooga on a
pontoon bridge that had been put down by some brigade of General
Sherman's army. The next obstruction that we encountered was a river
that comes in from the east, the name of which has slipped my memory.
This had to be crossed by the aid of a small river steamboat that had
the capacity of taking over not much more than a company at a trip, and
we became very impatient waiting this tedious process of transfer. It
was a stern-wheel wheezy affair, and I remember the boys rechristened it
"The River Snail," and we put in our time making jokes at the expense of
the boat and crew, that acted as though the service they rendered was a
matter of force, and that they worked neither for love of country nor
compensation. At last we were safely across the river, and the old
stern-wheeler, years agone, marks some sand bar on the Tennessee or some
of its beautiful tributaries. Shortly after this steamboat ride of
almost one hundred feet we went into camp; the night was clear and cold,
and not being very well supplied with blankets, we had difficulty in
getting much sleep from Old Mr. Morpheus, the god that the ancients
supposed had charge of that soothing business.
November 29th we passed through the village of Georgetown, and here we
saw the stars and stripes first displayed by any citizens of the south.
The women came out and waived handkerchiefs and almost anything else
they could get hold of, while the "Old Blind Mice"[3] made the air vocal
with shouts and cheers for the first people that seemed to love the old
flag that we had seen since we left Louisville, Ky. These poor people
had had their homes desolated, had been robbed of what few stores they
had by the rebel army, and, having the name of being union people, they
had been common plunder for every rebel trooper whose rough ride had
taken him into their village. No wonder they cheered and threw the old
flags they had kept during all those dark years of murder, pillage and
rapine to the breeze, when they saw "Uncle Billy" marching northward
with his army that would drive the hated rebel from their own beautiful
valley.
Footnote 3:
The pet name of the 124th.
December 6th found us in the valley of the Little Tennessee river, a
beautiful stream of water, clear as cut glass. This valley is one of the
most wealthy sections of east Tennessee. It may be rivaled by the
Sweetwater valley, perhaps. The inhabitants of these valleys being rich
before the war, and slaveholders, showed nothing but rebel proclivities.
We marched through what had been once a beautiful village, called
Marysville. It must have had at one time some two thousand population,
but it was sadly out of repair. There had been a cavalry fight in its
streets, and there was not a whole light of glass remaining on the
street that we marched through, and the houses showed plainly the marks
of the carbine and cannon shot.
It was at about this point that General Sherman issued his famous order,
to wit: "That any company, regiment or brigade, that struck the enemy,
should open the battle without regard to the position of the balance of
the army, and without awaiting further orders." This was conclusive
proof we were approaching Knoxville, and must be within the vicinity of
Longstreet's army, and we expected to hear the battle open every minute.
But the rebel general was, without doubt, well versed in the literature
of the nursery, and well remembered "that he who fights and runs away,
may live to fight another day. While he who is in battle slain, can
never rise to fight again." General Longstreet, hearing of the near
approach of Sherman's army, attacked Fort Saunders, was dreadfully
repulsed and then abandoned the siege of Knoxville, without one of
Sherman's army having the chance to unload a musket at the boasting
veterans of the army of northern Virginia.
Monday, December 7th, we marched within two miles of Knoxville and went
into camp, having marched from Chattanooga in ten days, over two hundred
miles the way we came, having carried our rations in our haversacks, and
eighty rounds of cartridges to the man, never having a wagon after we
left Chattanooga. Here we met the 103d O. V. I. The major of the 103d
was a brother of our Lieutenant Colonel Pickands, and we were well
acquainted with many of the boys of that regiment. The greetings that
followed were not only cordial and heartfelt, but enthusiastic, and the
shouts that went forth when the boys found that Burnside's army had been
reinforced by the army that marched fresh from one of the most important
victories of the war more than two hundred miles to relieve them, awoke
the echoes among the hills of the north.
We were tired and foot-sore and (to be candid about it), even at this
late day, I remember that we much preferred being cheered to fighting
Longstreet. Those gallant fellows offered us everything they had in the
world save something to eat and drink, which they had not.
After a night of rest only known to tired, foot-sore soldiers, "free
from war's alarms," Lieutenant Stedman and myself procured passes and
went into the city of Knoxville. This was the largest city we had seen
since we left Nashville, and had a very neat and healthy appearance,
considering that it had been at times the headquarters for both rebel
and union armies. This city is situated at the confluence of the French
Broad river, that rises in the Blue Ridge mountains of North Carolina,
and the Holston, that comes down from the Cumberland mountains of
northeast Tennessee and Virginia, forming the Tennessee river that flows
past the city in a deep rapid current. The Tennessee river at Knoxville
is one of those glorious streams that the lover of nature never views
without interest, and usually with delight.
Knoxville, with its beautiful streets, its bright and bounding river,
its mountains on the west and north, just near enough to be romantic,
with a naturally rich valley flanking it on all sides, must ever remain
one of the nicest, and one of the most delightful, towns in the world. I
have not been there since the war, but I am told by those that have,
that, with its unbounded wealth of iron, coal and marble, as well as its
splendid agricultural resources, added a climate that is neither
tropical nor northern, but the happy mean between the two, its growth
has been great and substantial. I suppose a member of the Blind Mice,
finding himself in the Knoxville of to-day, would hardly know it from
what he remembers of the Knoxville he marched to relieve in the early
winter of 1863-64.
This was the home of the celebrated Parson Brownlow, and I well remember
that on going down the main street of the city this day that we first
visited Knoxville, of seeing his brave and beautiful daughter, Kate,
standing under the flag, bowing and smiling to the union soldiers as
they raised their caps to her; all in very great contrast to her
demeanor when the rebels held the city and she kept that same flag
floating in defiance of the rebel crew that surrounded her on every
hand.
We promised her that the rebel foot should never again press the streets
of Knoxville save in captivity; a promise that we kept and proved true,
but how much _our valor_ contributed to that result we will see further
on.
This same Parson Brownlow had two sons in the union army, James and
John, commanding at that time east Tennessee regiments.
We went down to the north end of the town and found a barber shop in
full blast, and concluded that we would indulge in the benefits
conferred by the tonsorial artist; so taking the chair without inquiry
as to terms, had our locks put in shape, and our faces made more
presentable; but when the time for the settlement came we found the
artist only charged fifty cents for hair cutting and thirty cents for
shaving, which caused us some surprise.
We next concluded to visit Fort Saunders, that General Longstreet had
made up his mind to take a few mornings before we arrived in that
vicinity. Of course we did not see the battle, and all I can give you is
what we saw after several days had passed. I am not certain, but I
should say that Fort Saunders stood northwesterly of the city, and a
full mile out from the same. I do not know whether the fort was built by
General Burnside or not, but I think it was built by him after he was
sent to that department, as the moats and parapets seemed new. There
must have been timber standing on the easterly and northerly sides at no
very great time before, as the ground was covered with stumps, and they
seemed new and strong, as though the timber had been recently cut.
General Burnside's men, expecting the assault (as Fort Saunders seemed
to be the key to General Burnside's position), had contrived a very
ingenious way of defense. They procured a large quantity of telegraph
wire, and stretched it from one stump to another about knee high,
winding it around each stump a few times to make it secure. This they
did with seemingly very great industry, for nearly all the approaches to
the fort were a perfect network of wire. They also loaded a large number
of shell with fuzes cut at about five seconds, and had them placed handy
when the time came for the assault. This I have from one of the
defenders of the fort.
Just as the dawn was breaking in the east General Longstreet's
assaulting column drove in the pickets, and, with that yell that once
heard is never forgotten, came dashing on toward the fort; but when they
reached the wire they did some ground and lofty tumbling, mostly ground,
and the fort opened a most terrible fire of musketry, shot and shell.
But nothing daunted, though their formation was badly broken up, they
came on and soon filled the ditches around the fort. Then the shells
were lighted and thrown over the parapets into the ditches, making
fearful havoc as they exploded among the swarming rebels. I suppose a
more determined and bloody charge was never made during the war. The
rebels even climbed up the embrasures of the fort, and the cannoneers
cut them down with axes.
But the short range shells and the heroic resistance made by the
defenders of the fort were too much for the unquestioned heroism of the
assailants, and what remained of them straggled back, as best they
could, to the main body of Longstreet's army.
I will not attempt to give a description of the scene in the ditches and
around the fort. It beggars all the horrors that language can describe.
When we visited the fort of course all the dead and wounded had been
removed; but when we came to walk along the bottom of the moats that
surrounded the fort, the evidences of the sanguinary conflict still
remained. Here lay a tongue, there, an ear, and beyond, a jaw bone. I
saw a hand lying opposite one of the embrasures of the fort that was cut
off as smoothly as though severed with one blow from an ax; but though
we rejoiced in a defense that saved General Burnside's army, we were
glad to leave this scene of horror and return to camp where the Mice
were resting their weary limbs after the terrible march that we had
endured.
December 29th, 1863, we moved our camp to the north into a fine piece of
woods, and remained there until the year 1863 had gone. What a year of
marchings, battles, and sorrow. How many of those that left Camp
Cleveland with us—just one year before—now "sleep the sleep that knows
not breaking." What a change in our regiment. Our ranks have been
thinned, but our effectiveness has been increased. We have been tried in
all the sad experiences of war. Patriotism brought to our ranks very
many never calculated, either physically or mentally, to make soldiers.
Their intentions were high and noble, and they failed by no fault of
theirs; their final discharge was a mercy to them, and a blessing to us.
Many came home and abandoned army service forever. Many enlisted in
other regiments, for shorter terms and less arduous duties; but, as a
rule, _all did all they could_ to maintain the integrity of the Union.
January 1st, 1864, opened the most eventful year of the war. Each army
had come to its full strength and vigor. "The summer soldier and the
sunshine patriot" had long since retired, and we had a man as commander
in chief of all the armies that had the correct notion of the way of
putting down the rebellion. A man that realized that the theory of
conquering rebel territory while the rebel armies remained intact was
worse than useless. That if armies are to be destroyed, the quicker it
can be accomplished, the more precious lives saved. Great and decisive
battles, with all their untold horrors, are angels of mercy compared to
the small battle, the skirmish, where a few are lost and nothing
accomplished.
But I find myself digressing, by the thoughts that come crowding up, as
I contemplate the _value_(?) of our east Tennessee campaign of 1864.
January 14th we struck tents, and crossing the river marched twenty-two
miles to a position known as Strawberry Plains. I never knew why they
called it by that name unless it was because it had no appearance of
ever having grown any strawberries, or because the foothills of the
Clinch mountains were too rough and irregular to be called plains. I
guess the fellow that furnished the name had never been away from home.
On this march we saw the gallows where four citizens of east Tennessee
were executed. The gallows stood hard by the side of the railroad track.
These men were executed for a very heinous crime. It may be briefly
stated: They loved their country and their country's flag too well to
swear allegiance to the southern confederacy, and so they were put to
death.
The next day we marched to Dandridge, a small village situated on the
French Broad river, and camped in a beautiful pine woods.
Here we had orders from Colonel Pickands to fix up winter quarters, as
we would probably stay _right here_ until the spring campaign opened,
and the pine poles were just the material from which to construct winter
quarters of the most commodious kind. For the benefit of the Sons of
Veterans I will describe the process. You must remember at this time we
were soldiers, and soldiers of the Uncle Billy pattern and kind. If we
had any shelter, save the starry heavens, we had to carry that shelter
on our backs, as well as our camp equipage. Now, at this time, you must
also remember that our regiment was divided into messes, and that by the
process of _natural selection_ four men would come together and call
each other Pard. What there was that kept these messes together I never
knew. I said they came together by _natural selection_ for the reason
that when we find anything that we cannot explain we call it _natural_
and let it go. These messes of _four_ would sing, quarrel, fight, make-
up and divide all they had with each other inside of twenty minutes.
Each member of each mess would swear that there were not three as good
foragers in the regiment as his three messmates. Somehow or other, a
good forager was always held up as a patron saint in the 124th Regiment.
Chaplain Hubbard, of the 103d O. V. I., was the "bright and morning
star" in this business of all the members of the army of occupation of
east Tennessee. I call it the army of occupation because, before I am
done, you will see that is all we did. Well, to resume, each one of
these four messmates would carry one piece, at least, of shelter tent.
Sometimes more could be found, but usually, where more were found, _some
others had less_. This _more_ or _less_ business was a common thing in
the army.