LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN.
BATTLE OF CHICKAMAUGA--1863.
I am now attempting to write from this Lookout Mountain, one of the most
picturesque as well as interesting places on the American continent.
Near by and round about here some of the greatest episodes in the
world's history transpired near the close of that eventful year, 1863.
Chickamauga, Lookout Mountain, Missionary Ridge, where the lives of
sixty-five thousand Americans were either destroyed or more or less
wrecked.
A feeling of philosophy and awe prompts me to ask why all this great
sacrifice of human life, misery and suffering?
Was the Great God that made man now looking on this awful scene of
carnage and woe again repenting that He had made wicked, rebellious and
murderous man; or was it a part of His omnipotent plan for man's
inherent folly and wickedness driving him to destroy his fellowman?
Whatever it was it seems to have been accomplished here amid these
towering mountains.
But so it was and I, one insignificant actor in the grand drama, am
still permitted to live and recount some of the thrilling scenes as they
were enacted. It is beyond my power to describe minutely and correctly
all the thrilling sights that I witnessed on this eventful occasion
(Battle of Chickamauga) and I shall refer to those only that concern
myself and my Kentucky comrades, unless incidentally it shall appear
necessary to my story.
I will, therefore, not attempt to note the maneuvering, the marching and
counter-marching, back and forth, up and down the Chickamauga Valley,
in and about Rossville and Crawfish Springs and their vicinity; all of
which, at that time, seemed to me was but the waving of the red flag in
the face of Rosecrans in "_I dare you to come out_" spirit on the part
of Bragg.
Whatever motives, schemes and strategy it contained we all knew, rank
and file, field and staff, that we were on the eve of momentous events.
We all knew that here the question of "Greek meeting Greek" would soon
again be tested and two of the mightiest armies of modern times would be
locked in mortal combat. We had not long to wait for on the morning of
the nineteenth (September, 1863) an occasional boom, boom, away to the
right and front told us of the coming storm that was about to break over
and sweep Chickamauga Valley with a mighty avalanche of thunder and
horror that shook the very earth itself. Slowly but steadily the roar of
artillery increased and by the middle of the afternoon became almost
incessant.
Longstreet's Virginians had come out to show the Western army how to
fight and they were now learning that Rosecrans' Western veterans could
give instructions in the art of war as well as they and that they were
not facing the aliens and wage soldiers that constituted a large part of
the Army of the Potomac. They also found, as the battle progressed, that
the Western army of the South knew as well and were as willing to "stand
up Johnnie" and give and take blow for blow as they. The evening wore on
and occasional reports from the front brought news that the Confederates
were holding their own and a little better.
Meantime the "Orphans" were on the move toward the front and facing the
enemy's moving column on the Chattanooga road, which led to Rossville
and near Glass' Mill, at which place the artillery of Breckinridge's
division, commanded by the gallant Major Graves, engaged the enemies in
one of the fiercest artillery duels it was my pleasure to witness
during the war. I say pleasure advisedly, for it was a magnificent sight
to see from where I was stationed Graves moving among his men and
directing their every action, which was done with an admirable celerity
and precision that was perfectly charming. I must here do Graves the
honor to say that he was the most perfect military man I ever saw. But
this was but the prelude to the play of the morrow; both parties seeming
(after a half hour's engagement) to say we will settle tomorrow. "Sunday
is a better day."
Shifting our position to Lee and Gordon's Mill, further down the
Chickamauga, in the afternoon, we here awaited developments and that
night made a long detour and crossed at Alexander's Bridge, several
miles down the river. Next morning we found ourselves on the extreme
right of the dividing line of the stage of action marked out by the
respective commanders for the grand tragedy that day to be enacted upon
the stage of war. Early, very early the Fourth Kentucky Skirmishers (and
I here glory in the fact) had the honor of firing the first shots in the
opening that day of the greatest battle ever fought on the American
continent, if not the greatest in modern times. This assertion may be
called in question by critics, but if I mistake not there were more men
killed and wounded at Chickamauga than in any other engagement of the
war.
Here the old and somewhat sacrilegious saying of "Hell broke loose in
Georgia" was fully and forcefully emphasized by the almost continuous
thundering of 200 cannons that made the very earth tremble, besides the
constant rattle of musketry and the shouts of more than a hundred
thousand struggling combatants determined on each other's destruction.
Americans all, and all for what? That a God-made inferior race might
occupy the same plane with the superior was the object of one, while
that right was disputed by the other. But I fear I may be digressing
somewhat from the original purpose in these chapters. Still these
thoughts are hard to suppress. Reviewing the incidents of the great
battle and the part played by Kentucky Confederates I return to the
skirmish line of the Fourth Kentucky, which covered the front of the
Orphan Brigade and which was commanded by Col. Joe Nuckols, who was
wounded at the very outset of the engagement and compelled to leave the
field.
The writer was the subject at this particular time and place of the most
ridiculous and practical joke of his entire war experience, but which
(thanks to the Bill of Rights) he is not here compelled to relate. This
was the beginning of that chapter in the history of the Orphan Brigade,
which took the lives and blood of so many noble Kentuckians to write. In
the first and desperate onset, led by the noble and intrepid Helm, whose
name is a household word with almost all Kentuckians, fell here,
together with Graves, Hewitt, Dedman, Daniel, Madeira and other officers
of the line, and many splendid men of the Second and Ninth Regiments,
who paid with their lives tribute to Mars and added to Kentucky's old
traditional glory and renown.
Three regiments on the right, Fourth, Sixth and Forty-First Alabama,
swept everything before them--the enemy being in the open field. But the
Second and Ninth encountered the enemies' breastworks and were repulsed
with terrible slaughter. Here was where the officers just mentioned fell
in one of the most desperate struggles of the day. Here "Pap Thomas'"
veterans took advantage of their works and exacted deep and merciless
toll. More than once during the day was this position assailed by other
bodies of Confederates with similar results. About the middle of the
afternoon the assembling of Cheatham's and Walker's division in
conjunction with Breckinridge warned us that the fatal moment had
arrived and the hour of desperation was at hand.
The old veteran needs no one to tell him when a crisis is approaching,
he instinctively and otherwise comprehends the meaning of these
movements and nerves himself for the desperate work before him. His
countenance would convince the stoic of what his mind contained, in
modern parlance he "understands the game." When the signal gun was fired
we knew its meaning, so also did the enemy. Then three lines in solid
phalanx, desperate and determined men, moved forward on the Federal
stronghold to be met by a withering and blighting fire from the enemy
behind their works. But so furious and desperate was the onslaught that
Thomas' veterans, who had withstood all previous attempts to dislodge
them, could no longer face the line of gleaming bayonets of the
Confederates as they leaped over the breastworks the Federals had so
successfully defended up to that hour.
Some surrendered, others made their escape and still others met their
doom--many, not hearing the shouts of the victorious Confederates as
they rushed over and among them.
This was the culmination of the struggle. Similar movements with similar
results were taking place simultaneously all along the line, closing the
most stupendous struggle of the war. But at this particular point and at
Snodgrass Hill, where the Fifth Kentucky contributed additional and
unsurpassed glory to Kentucky's part in the great battle, were the keys
to Rosecrans' position, and here the fighting was the hardest and the
losses heaviest.
In the first charge in the morning where the right of the brigade was so
successful, we captured a section of the enemy's artillery. The writer
seized the trunnion of one of the guns and with assistance turned it on
them while the other was turned by others of our men; but we could find
no ammunition to fire them and were deprived of the anticipated glory of
firing on the enemy as they fled from the field. I wish here, and in my
feeble way, to lift my hat to do honor to the gallantry of the captain
commanding that battery (who I learned was from Indiana) as doing the
most daring and chivalrous act I ever saw performed by an enemy during
my entire war experience. Both his lieutenants and a number of his men
having been killed before he abandoned his guns, which were in a battery
just on the West side of the Chickamauga road and in the face of us
Confederates, who had reached the East side of the road, he dashed into
the road and past us, lifting his hat and waving us a salute that would
have put to shame a Chesterfield or a Prince Rupert. The act was almost
paralyzing and not a man of the fifty or more who fired at him point
blank touched him or his horse. If there is such a thing as a charmed
life, this captain must have possessed it on that occasion. If living I
would gladly travel miles to shake his hand.
Our next move was to unite our separated line which we did by retiring
later on to the point from where we started.
During the occasional lulls in the musketry firing the artillery from
left to right and especially on the left about Snodgrass Hill, was
thundering defiance and sending death into each other's ranks that
seemingly made old earth shake from center to circumference, set the
birds to flight, caused reptiles, lizzards and all manner of wild
animals to flee from the wrath of murderous man, among which was a
cotton-tail deer that was seen by some of the men running in a
bewildered and dazed manner in the rear of the contending lines, not
knowing which way to flee or what it all meant.
The enemy routed, the conflict ceased--about dark--with the Orphans
(those left) on the West side of the Chickamauga road, some of the men
playfully astride the enemy's guns--several in number--that had been
abandoned at this point, others prostrate on the ground resting and
recounting incidents of the day, ALL glad enough that it was over.
Here General Buckner rode up, he having come over from the left where
his artillery and division of infantry had done such splendid work and
who was greeted with a cheer from the surviving Orphans that must have
done his soul good and which he acknowledged with a smile, lifting his
hat gracefully in acknowledgment of the greeting.
What next! We all expected that we would follow immediately without an
hour's delay on the heels of the retreating and discomfited Federals and
overtake and completely route and possibly capture them before they
could get settled behind their fortifications around Chattanooga. But
here the fatal mistake of Beauregard at Shiloh (and for which Bragg
censured him) was duplicated by Bragg himself.
Back to the field among the boys where we spent the night among the dead
and wounded; and awaiting orders from Bragg, who was spending his time
in sending congratulations to President Davis while Rosecrans was busy
preparing to receive and entertain him from his fortifications around
Chattanooga.
The writer having learned that we would likely spend the day on the
field resting--"_resting_" (I toss my head in derision of the thought),
obtained permission to visit and inspect the field of battle, and in
company with one or two comrades started early next morning from the
extreme right, where we opened the battle, and traversed the entire
length of the field, a distance of seven miles or more. This was the
first time such an enviable opportunity had ever presented itself and I
seized it gladly, notwithstanding the many horrible and ghastly sights I
knew I would see. On every hand, in every direction, were evidences of
the desperate conflict of the preceding day. The forest trees splintered
and torn by the plunging shot and shell from the cannon's deadly throat,
dismantled caissons and artillery wheels, dead horses, guns, cartridge
boxes, bayonets and almost every kind of war paraphernalia imaginable
were strewn promiscuously over the field. Trees and saplings, not larger
than a man's body to a height of six or eight feet, contained from a
dozen to as high as sixty rifle balls. But worst of all with upturned
faces and glaring eyes, torn and mangled bodies of not less than four
thousand dead men on the field and at the hospitals. At the latter,
especially at the Snodgrass place, there were acres covered with wounded
and many dead. Here I witnessed the most appalling sight my eyes ever
beheld, a description from which I shudder and shrink at this distant
day, and which is too terrible for delicate and sensitive natures to
ponder; and which involuntarily reminds me of Sherman's saying again.
The citizens of today will doubtless wonder how any man could escape
such a rain of shot and shell, but by the old soldier it is readily
understood. While ninety per cent of these shots were being fired the
men were lying flat on their faces and were overshooting each other when
suddenly one or the other would spring to his feet and with a bound and
a yell rush at a double-quick upon their foe, giving him time to fire
one or at most two rounds when his ranks would be broken and compelled
to retire.
After seeing these appalling sights I retraced my steps and reached the
starting point about twilight to find that my command had been ordered
forward toward Chattanooga and the vicinity of Missionary Ridge, which
we reached next day to find Rosecrans occupying his fortifications and
redoubts ready to receive and entertain us. We were formed in line of
battle at or near the foot of Missionary Ridge and expected when the
formation was completed to be hurled against the forts and redoubts to
certain and inevitable destruction.
Many expressions of evil and forebodings of disaster were indulged in
and anathemas were hurled at the commander without stint for holding us
back for this, the hour of our doom. Many farewells were being
exchanged, mingled with jeers and sarcasm, all knowing and understanding
fully the gravity of the situation. It was an hour of intense, of
dreadful suspense, which could only be felt and not described.
But thanks to an allwise and merciful Providence which at the last
moment withheld the hand and changed the mind that commanded. But for
this change of mind he who writes this story would doubtless now be
"sleeping the sleep that knows no waking on fame's eternal camping
ground." When we were ordered to retire to Missionary Ridge many were
the longdrawn sighs of relief that we had escaped from this threatened
and, as we felt, certain doom.
THE WRITER'S VISIT TO CHICKAMAUGA--IN MAY, 1912.
I have visited scenes of the great conflict twice, traversed the very
ground from the point where we formed line of battle and moved to the
charge against "Pap" Thomas' veterans and am still unsatisfied. Not that
the points of greatest interest have been lost to memory, but because
memory will not be satisfied. I can see in my mind the anxious look in
the faces of those brave Kentucky boys, as they stepped into line and
touched elbows in obedience to the commands "dress to the right; dress
to the left; steady, steady, men; quick step, forward, march!"
Tell me I shall ever forget these commands or this hour! Never, while
"memory lasts and reason holds sway."
From this very starting point I traced the ground over which we moved
(in 1863) taking the monument erected to the memory of General Helm as a
guide and allowing for the space of the two regiments to occupy the
right, coursing Westward, the exact direction we moved, crossing the
LaFayette road at or near the very point where the two pieces of
artillery were captured and previously referred to. The tablet here
tells me who my gallant captain of Indiana (Bridges) was and recites the
facts of the capture correctly. There, too, is the open field through
which the broken regiments of infantry were fleeing that I was so
anxious to assist with shots from their own battery.
Here I must criticise a little at the risk of censure. I will do so by
quoting from memory, not literally, from Gen. Breckinridge's official
report saying, "That a strong supporting line at this moment, thrown on
Thomas' flank and rear, would have resulted in dislodging and
overthrowing Thomas early in the day." This was plain to line and field
officer alike. The opportunity was presented but not availed of; why, I
know not.
The tablets here with their historic record briefly stamped in metal are
substantially correct. My version of the battle previously stated to the
guides while going out (I. P. Thoeford, an old Confederate) and S. P.
Black were so nearly identical that these men threw up their hands in
amazement when I read from the tablet. It was no trouble to convince
them that I had been there and knew something about the battle and the
positions of the troops on that part of the line. Here stands nearby the
Glenn House, some old log houses. Not far away is the Kentucky monument,
a fitting memorial to Kentuckians of both sides crowned with the Goddess
of Love and Peace. Northeast is the monument to that gallant, lovable
character, Ben Hardin Helm--my hand trembles as I write his name, for I
really believe he was one of the kindest-hearted and best men I ever
knew. Near this spot was where so many of the Second and Ninth fell,
some of whose names are already mentioned in this chapter on
Chickamauga. I could write much, very much, more of this very
interesting and historic field, but will not trespass further on your
time and space.