THE CAPTURE.
Where the fight was the fiercest at Stone’s River, Captain Keel, of
ours, in gallant leadership of his company, was shot in the elbow of
his right arm. Surgical skill had prevented amputation and obtained
exsection, resulting in a cartilaginous elbow and sorely crippled hand.
Thus maimed, he came to me at Nashville and declared his intention of
reporting for duty. Condemning his judgment, but admiring his pluck, I
said, “All right, Captain, we will take the first train for the front.”
We reached Stevenson, Alabama, the end of our ride over rough and
worn pieces of iron, dignified by the name of railroad. From there a
mountain wagon road formed the connection with the army at Chattanooga.
Its course could be traced by the fragments of broken wagons, abandoned
stores, and by the carcasses of the poor mules, strangled in the mud of
it. Trains laden with ammunition, food and forage started daily from
Stevenson. The time of their arrival, at the end of the pontoon bridge
across from Chattanooga was an unknown quantity. It was at least two
and more frequently four days.
My anxiety to reach the regiment was intense. Upon inquiry I heard of a
bridle path leading over the mountain and along the bank of the river.
By starting early and riding hard, one might get through in a day, but
it was the path of danger. The guns of the Confederates commanded this
road, and some of our men had been killed, others wounded and captured,
who tried it. I determined to make the effort. The Colonel commanding
the post, in response to my earnest appeal, loaned me two horses and an
orderly, and we started at the first peep of day.
Keel, too greatly disabled to ride a horse, was to go by the wagon
road, taking the baggage of both. He evinced no reluctance when he
found that as companions in the same wagon he was to have two estimable
women of the Christian Commission, who, with supplies for the sick and
wounded, were bound to Chattanooga upon their heaven inspired mission.
Realizing that my route was hazardous, I put on my oldest uniform,
stripped myself of all valuables, packing them carefully in the trunk
that contained all of my earthly possessions. Determined that my
beloved pistols should not fall into the hands of the enemy, I lodged
them securely in my trunk, taking in their stead a pair of common
holster revolvers.
The orderly and I rode through without mishap, receiving no shot and
seeing but few of the enemy. Arrived at regimental headquarters, I
found all well, and received a welcome home that thrilled me. I waited,
somewhat impatiently, for the disabled Captain to arrive with the
baggage so greatly needed.
The days passed away and gave no sign of him until the fifth after my
arrival, when a sorry figure rode to the front of my tent. Seated upon
a mule that had upon him parts of wagon harness, was the Captain, a
woful figure, with rueful countenance. Don Quixote appeared not so
disconsolate even after his battle with the knights of the windmill. We
would have laughed aloud at his sorry plight had his aspect not been
so serious. “For God’s sake, food and drink!” he cried. Being properly
refreshed, he told his tale of woe. The train of wagons was proceeding
slowly along the weary road, when sharp firing at its front evidenced
an attack. Wheeler’s cavalry had crossed the river and was on one of
the raids in our rear that made the name of General Joe Wheeler one
with which to scare teamsters and worry commanders.
The Captain was a man of proper gallantry, a fitting squire of dames,
but, withal, not lacking in judicious discretion. The Confederate
troopers certainly would not molest the women, bent upon their
righteous mission, but to him captivity meant worse than death. Making
hasty excuses, in unceremonious fashion, he jumped from the wagon,
pulled a colored teamster off of a mule that he had just cut out of the
traces of a wagon, mounted and took quickly to the woods on the side
of the mountain. As he plunged deeper into the thicket, he saw in the
valley the light of burning wagons, and heard the terrific explosions
of ammunition with which many of them were loaded. After days and
nights of distress he at last found his way to our camps.
A day or two after, hearing that the female companions of the good
captain had reached our lines, I called upon them in the town and heard
the rest of the story. Wheeler’s rough riders had treated them with
courteous consideration and did not molest their trunks when told that
they contained only woman’s apparel. Keel’s baggage and my own was
evidently rich booty. The new uniforms were seized with delight, and
my precious seven-shooters appropriated with exclamations of joy and
admiration. Taking what was wanted, the residue was thrown back on the
wagons, that had been run and piled together, and made food for the
flames. The train was but partly consumed when our cavalry appeared
upon the scene and a sharp fight ensued, with the result that the women
were released from their unpleasant situation.
While the beleaguered army in Chattanooga, foregoing, if not
forgetting, the pangs of hunger, echoed the language of Thomas in his
telegram to Grant, “We will hold this place until we starve,” it was
with right good will that it marched out in front of its works on an
eventful November morning, being ordered to make a “demonstration” and
relieve the pressure on Sherman in his effort to take Tunnel Hill,
the right flank of the semi-circular natural defense of the enemy,
composed of Missionary Ridge, with its crest from five hundred to eight
hundred feet above us, around to Lookout on the left with its proud
head over two thousand feet above the town. It was a crescent, with
defensive works erected with engineering skill, bristling with guns and
reflecting threatening lights as the sun played upon the musket barrels
and bayonets in the hands of skilled and brave defenders. It looked
like the curve of the cutting edge of a huge scimitar.
[Illustration: MAP OF THE BATTLEFIELD OF CHATTANOOGA SHOWING THE
POSITION OF THE CONFEDERATE ARMY AT LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN AND MISSION RIDGE.]
A feeling of amity, almost of fraternization, had existed between the
picket lines in front of Wood’s division for many days. In the early
morning of that day, being in charge of the left of our picket line,
I received a turn-out and salute from the Confederate reserve as
I rode the line. But the friendly relation was soon to be rudely
disturbed. My pickets, composed of the 19th Ohio and the 9th Kentucky,
became the line of skirmishers. Our troops being well out of their
works, we advanced with our left resting on Citico Creek, and I believe
that from these regiments came the first shots in that glorious advance
that resulted in the taking of Orchard Knob, the key of the enemy’s
position.
With impatient joy they witnessed the stars and stripes on Lookout’s
crest, and heard the guns of Hooker on the enemy’s left. The evidences
of the hard fighting by Sherman and the stubborn resistance Bragg’s
right was giving him were borne on every wind. The flanking assaults
upon the Ridge were not achieving success. There must be another
“demonstration” by the center. Grant stands on Orchard Knob, silently
smoking the inevitable cigar. He sees the heavy work to the right and
left and that the waning day is showing its lengthening shadows. The
center must again relieve the pressure. To Thomas goes the order: “Take
the rifle-pits at the foot of the ridge. At the six-gun signal from
Orchard Knob, advance the lines to the attack.” Baird, Wood, Sheridan
and Johnson were quickly in the order named from left to right.
Restlessly they await the signal. It is well on to four o’clock. At
last the sharp report of a cannon from the Knob! Another! and another!
and in quick succession the six have thundered forth the order for the
charge.
To your feet and forward, men of the Cumberland! “Take the rifle-pits
at the foot of the ridge,” is the order. How splendidly they respond.
Adding emphasis to their loud huzzas is the noise of the light
artillery on the plain and the deep roar of the big siege guns in the
forts of Chattanooga. The crest of the ridge throws its full weight of
metal at the lines of blue. The musketry fire from the pits is full in
their faces. But neither shot nor shell can stop the impetuous advance.
On and on they go, surmounting every obstacle.
The order is obeyed.
The rifle-pits are ours and their late defenders our prisoners. How the
grey jackets hasten to the rear. We wonder at their haste, but soon
understood it when the guns of the ridge, depressed to sweep the pits,
seemed to open the gates of hell itself upon us.
We cannot stay. Must we fall back? Perish the thought. No! No! No
order given, and yet to every man the impulse. Forward the whole line!
To the crest of the ridge and take the guns! Every man forward!
Grape and canister from fifty cannon forbid the advance. Wood,
Sheridan, Baird, Johnson, Willich, Hazen, Beatty, Carlin, Turchin,
Vanderveer, catching the spirit from the men, shout, “Up, boys! To the
top!” and grape and canister, wounds and death are forgotten.
On and on and up and up we go, “while all the world wondered.” Grant
turns to Thomas, and, with distress if not anger in his voice, says,
“Who ordered those men up the ridge?” Replies our old hero, “I don’t
know, I did not.” Says Grant, “Granger, did you?” “No,” says Granger,
“they started without orders. When those fellows get started, all
hell can’t stop them.”
With hearts in their throats these anxious chieftains watch. The
spectators in Chattanooga hold their breath in terrible suspense. It
looks a desperate venture, a foolhardy effort. Can they make the top,
or will they be driven back to the plain, with columns broken and ranks
disordered?
The musketry fire from the intrenched line in grey is murderous. The
cannon belch forth incessantly.
“It is as though men fought upon the earth and fiends in the upper air.”
Not a shot from the wedge-shaped lines in blue as they advance with the
colors of regiments at the apex of the triangles. Sixty regiments in
rivalry for the lead! Colors fall as their bearers sink in death, but
other stout arms nerved by brave hearts bear the flag aloft.
Ah! the lines waver! they cannot make it! But repulse means defeat and
loss of all we have gained.
Look! again they go forward! Will they reach the crest? See! the
answer! A flag! the nation’s flag! Our flag upon the top! Another, and
yet another! The crest breaks out in glory! It is the apotheosis of the
banner of the free!
The rebel lines are broken! We are into their works! Cheer upon cheer
“set the wild echoes flying” from Tunnel Hill to Lookout! They tell of
victory! glorious, exultant victory.
Forty pieces of cannon and 7,000 stand of arms with 6,000 prisoners
captured give emphasis to the story.
[Illustration: GENERAL GEORGE H. THOMAS AND STAFF AFTER THE BATTLE OF
MISSION RIDGE.]
The bars are down for entrance next campaign to Atlanta, gate city of
the South.
I went through the starvation siege of Chattanooga, the battles of
Orchard Knob and Mission Ridge, and the winter march to relieve
Burnside, who was penned up in Knoxville, in very uncomfortable plight,
depending upon my brother officers for the clothing to keep me warm,
but that which caused me the most distress was the loss, as I naturally
supposed, forever, of the twin revolvers that rest now so peacefully
before us, reminders of a time of great happenings by the side of which
all else in life seems of trifling importance.