WHAT an ineffably imposing spectacle of military power was presented
to the May sun, shining on the picturesque mountains and lovely valleys
around Chattanooga in the busy days of the Spring of 1864.
Never before, in all his countless millions of journeys around the
globe, had he seen a human force of such tremendous aggressive
power concentrated on such a narrow space. He may have seen larger
armies--though not many--but he had never seen 100,000 such veterans
as those--originally of as fine raw material as ever gathered under a
banner, and trained to war by nearly three years of as arduous schooling
as men ever knew, which sifted out the weaklings, the incompetents, the
feeblewilled by the boisterous winnowing of bitter war.
Thither had been gathered 35,000 of the Army of the Tennessee, who had
"Fort Donelson," "Shiloh," "Corinth," "Chickasaw Bayou," "Big Black,"
"Jackson," and "Vicksburg" in letters of gold on their tattered
regimental banners, and whom Sherman proudly boasted were "the best
soldiers on earth." The courtly, idolized McPherson was their leader,
with such men as John A. Logan, T. E. G. Ransom, Frank P. Blair and P.
J. Osterhaus as lieutenants and subordinates.
There was the Army of the Cumberland, 60,000 strong, from which all
dross had been burned by the fierce fires of Shiloh, Perryville, Stone
River and Chickamauga; and the campaigns across two States. "The noblest
Roman of them all," grand old "Pap" Thomas, was in command, with Howard,
Stanley, Newton, Wood, Palmer, Davis, Joe Hooker, Williams and Geary as
his principal lieutenants.
And thither came--15,000 strong--all of the Army of the Ohio who could
be spared from garrisoning dearly-won Kentucky and East Tennessee. They
were men who had become inured to hunting their enemies down in mountain
fastnesses, and fighting them wherever they could be found. At their
head was Gen. J. M. Schofield, whom the Nation had come to know from his
administration of the troublous State of Missouri. Gens. Hovey, Hascall
and Cox were division commanders.
With what an air of conscious power; of evident mastery of all that
might confront them; of calm, unflinching determination for the
conflict, those men moved and acted. They felt themselves part of
a mighty machine, that had its work before it, and would move with
resistless force to perform the appointed task.
The men fell instinctively into their ranks in the companies. Without an
apparent effort the companies became regiments, the regiments quietly,
but with swift certainty, swung into their places in the brigade, and
the brigades massed up noiselessly into divisions and corps.
And while the 100,000 veterans were drilling, organizing and manuvering
the railroad was straining every one of its iron and steel tendons to
bring in food and ammunition to supply the mighty host, and provide a
store from which it could draw when it went forth upon its great errand.
There were 35,000 horses to be fed, in addition to the 100,000 veterans,
and so the baled hay made heaps that rivalled in size the foothills of
the mountains. The limitless cornfields of Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois
heaped up their golden harvests in other hillocks. Every mountain pass
was filled with interminable droves of slow-footed cattle, bringing
forward "army beef on the hoof." Boxes of ammunition and crackers, and
barrels of pork covered acres, and the railroad brought them in faster
than the hundreds of regimental teams could haul them out.
There is no place in the world where the assembling of such a mighty
host could be seen to such an advantage as at Chattanooga. The mountains
that tower straight up into the clouds around the undulating plain on
which the town stands form a glorious natural amphitheater about an
arena for gigantic dramas.
Naturally, the boys were big-eyed all the time with the sights that
filled the landscape near and far. Wherever they looked they were
astonished, and when in a march they came out on a crest that commanded
a wide view, they could not help halting, to drink all its wonders in.
Even the experienced Si and Shorty were as full of amazement as they,
and watched with fascination the spectacle of mighty preparation and
concentrated power.
One day they got a pass and took the boys over to Lookout Mountain, for
a comprehensive survey of the whole scene. They trudged over the steep,
rough, winding road up the mountainside, and mads their way to Pulpit
Rock, on the "nose" of the mountain, which commands a view that is
hardly equalled in any country. From it they overlooked, as upon a map,
the wide plain around Chattanooga, teeming with soldiers and horses,
and piled-up war material, the towering line of Mission Ridge, the
fort-crowned hills, the endless square miles of white camps.
"'The King sat on the rocky brow
That looks o'er sea-born Salamis,
And ships by thousands lay below,
And men and Nations, all were his,'
murmured Monty Scruggs. "I didn't suppose there was as many soldiers in
all the world before."
"Si," said Shorty, "we thought old Rosecrans had heaped up the measure
when we started out from Nashville for Stone River. But that was only
the beginning for the gang he got together for the Tullyhomy campaign,
and 'taint more than onct to what old Sherman's goin' to begin business
with. I like it. I like to see any man start into a game with a full
hand and a big stack o' chips."
"Well, from the talk that comes down from headquarters," said Si, "he
may need every man. We've never had enough men so far. The rebels have
always had more men than we did, and had the advantage of position.
We only won by main strength and bull-headedness, and Rosecrans's good
management. The rebels are straining every nerve to put up the fight o'
their lives, and they say old Jo Johnston's got nearly as many men over
there at Buzzard Roost as we have, and works that beat them we hustled
Bragg out of around Tullyhomy."
"Well, let's have it as soon as possible," said Shorty. "I'm anxious to
see if we can't make another Mission Ridge over there at Buzzard Roost,
and run them fellers clean back to the Gulf of Mexico. But, great
Jehosephat, won't there be a Spring freshet when all them men and horses
and cattle break camp and start out over the country."
"Goodness, what kin I do to keep from gitting lost in all that crowd?"
wailed Pete Skidmore, and the others looked as if his fears also struck
their hearts.
"Just stick closs to the 200th Injianny and to me, and you won't git
lost, Pete," said Shorty. "The 200th Injianny's your home, and all real
nice boys stay around home."
They made a little fire on the broad, flat surface of Pulpit Rock,
boiled some coffee, and ate their dinner there, that they might watch
the wonderful panorama without interruption. As the afternoon,
advanced, they saw an unusual commotion in the camps, and the sound of
enthusiastic cheering floated faintly up to their lofty perch.
"I'll bet a big red apple orders to move has come," said Si. "Le's git
back to camp as quick as possible."
They hurried down the mountain-side, and turned sharply to the right
into the road to Rossville Gap.
"Yes, the orders to move has come," said Shorty. "See them big fires,
and the boys burnin' up things."
In every camp the cheering men were making bonfires of the furnishings
of their Winter camps. Chairs, benches, tables, checker-boards,
cupboards, what-nots, etc., which had cost them considerable pains to
procure, and upon which they had lavished no little mechanical skill,
and sometimes artistic ornamentation, were ruthlessly thrown to feed the
joyful fires which blazed in each camp which had been lucky enough to
receive orders. The bands were playing, to emphasize and give utterance
to the rejoicings of the men.
Shorty took little Pete by the hand to assist him in keeping up with
the rapid pace Si and he set up to get back to their own camp, and
participate in its demonstrations.
"Of course, our rijimint's goin' too--goin' to have the advance," Si
said to Shorty, more than anything else to quiet a little disturbing
fear that would creep in. "They wouldn't leave it behind to guard one o'
these mud-piles they call forts, would they?"
"They never have yit," answered Shorty, hopefully. "They say old Sherman
is as smart as they make 'em. He knows a good rijimint when he sees it,
and he's certain to want the 200th Injianny in the very foremost place.
Hustle along, boys."
As they neared their camp they were delighted to find it in a similar
uproar to the others, with the men cheering, the brigade band playing,
and the men throwing everything they could find on the brightly blazing
bonfires. Ordinarily, such a long march as they had made to the top of
the Lookout Mountain and back again would have been very tiresome, but
in the enthusiasm of the occasion they forgot their fatigue--almost
forgot their hunger.
"The orders are," the Orderly-Sergeant explained to Si, as they were
cooking supper, "that we're to move out tomorrow morning in light
marching order, three days' rations, 80 rounds of cartridges, only
blankets, no tents, but one wagon to a regiment, and one mule to a
company to carry ammunition and rations. O, we're stripped down to the
skin for a fight, I tell you. It's to be business from the first jump,
and we'll be right in it. We're to have the advance, and clear away
the rebel cavalry and pickets, to open up the road for the rest of the
division. You'll find your rations and ammunition in front of my tent.
Draw 'em and get everything ready, and go to sleep as soon as possible,
for we'll skin out of here at the first peep of day. There's a whole
passel of sassy rebel cavalry out in front, that's been entirely too
familiar and free, and we want to get a good whack at them before they
know what's up."
And the busy Orderly passed on to superintend other preparations in the
company.
After drawing and dividing the rations and cartridges. Si gave the boys
the necessary instruction about having their things ready so that
they could get them in the dark the next morning, and ordered them to
disregard the bonfires and mirth-making, and lie down to get all the
sleep they could, in preparation for the hard work of the next day.
Then, like the rest of the experienced men, who saw that the campaign
was at length really on, and this would be the last opportunity for an
indefinite while to write, he sat down to write short letters to his
mother and to Annabel.
Influenced by the example, Shorty thought he ought to write to Maria.
He had received a second letter from her the day that he had gone out to
the mill, and its words had filled his soul with a gladness that passed
speech. The dispassionate reader would not have seen anything in it
to justify this. He would have found it very commonplace, and full
of errors of spelling and of grammar. But Shorty saw none of these.
Shakspere could have written nothing so divinely perfect to him. He had
not replied to it sooner, because he had been industriously thinking of
fitting things to say in reply. Now he must answer at once, or postpone
it indefinitely, and that meant so much longer in hearing again from
her. He got out his stationery, his gold pen, his wooden inkstand,
secured a piece of a cracker box for a desk, and seated himself far
from Si as possible among the men who were writing by the light of the
pitch-pine in the bonfires. Then he pulled from his breast the silk
bandana, and carefully developed from its folds the pocket-book and
Maria's last letter, which he spread out and re-read several times.
Commonplace and formal as the letter was, there was an intangible
something in it that made him feel a little nearer the writer than ever
before. Therefor, he began his reply:
Dere Miss Maria Klegg:
"I talk mi pen in hand to inform you that our walkin'-papers has at last
come, and we start termorrer mornin' for Buzzard Roost to settle jest
whose to rool that roost. Our ideas and Mister Jo Johnston's differ
on that subjeck. When we git through with him hele no more, though he
probably won't be so purty as he is now."
[Illustration: LITTLE PETE'S AWFUL REBELS. 149]
He stopped to rest after this prodigious literary effort, and wipe the
beaded sweat from his brow. He saw little Pete Skidmore looking at him
with troubled face.
"What're you doin' up, Pete? Lay down and go to sleep."
"Say, Corpril, the Orderly said we wuz goin' to fight a whole passel of
rebel cavalry, didn't he?"
"Um-hum!" assented Shorty, cudgeling his brain as to what he should next
write.
"Them's them awful kind o' rebels, ain't they--the John Morgan
kind--that ride big horses that snort fire, and they have long swords,
with which they chop men's heads off?"
"A lot o' yellin', gallopin' riff-raff," said Shorty, with the usual
contempt of an infantryman for cavalry. "Ain't worth the fodder their
bosses eat."
"Ain't they terribler than any other kind o' rebels?" asked Pete,
anxiously.
"Naah," said Shorty, sharply. "Go to sleep, Pete, and don't bother me
with no more questions. I'm writin' a letter." He proceeded with his
literary effort:
"I was gladder than I kin tell you to git yore letter. You
do write the best letters of any woman in the whole world."
He looked up, and there was little Pete's face before him.
"What do you do when one o' them wild rebels comes cavorting and
tearing toward you, on a big hoss, with a long sword, and yelling like a
catamount?" he asked.
"Paste him with a bullet and settle him," said Shorty testily, for he
wanted to go on with his letter.
"But s'pose he comes on you when your gun ain't loaded, and his sword
is, or you've missed him, as I did that hog?"
"Put on your bayonet and prod his hoss in the breast, and then give him
18 inches o' cold steel. That'll settle him. Go and lay down, Pete, I
tell you. Don't disturb me. Don't you see I'm writing?"
Shorty went on with his letter.
"How I wish you wood rite offener. Ide like to get a letter from you
every--"
"Say, Corpril," broke in little Pete, "they say that them rebel cavalry
kin reach much further with their swords when they're up on a hoss
than you kin with your gun and bayonit, especially when you're a
little feller like me, and they're quicker'n wildcats, and there's just
millions of 'em, and--"
"Who says?" said Shorty savagely. "You little open-mouthed squab, are
you lettin' them lyin', gassin, galoots back there fill you up with
roorbacks about them triflin', howlin', gallopin', rebel cavalry? Go
back there, and tell 'em that if I ketch another man breathin' a word
to you about the rebel cavalry I'll come and mash his head as flat as
a pancake. Don't you be scared about rebel cavalry. You're in much more
danger o' bein' struck by lightnin' than of bein' hit by a rebel
on hossback. Go off and go to sleep, now, and don't ask me no more
questions."
"Can't I ask you just one?" pleaded Pete.
"Yes, just one."
"If we form a holler square agin cavalry will I be in the holler, or up
on the banks?"
For the first time in his life, Shorty restrained the merciless jeer
that would come to his lips at any exhibition of weakness by those
around him. The thought of Maria softened him and made him more
sympathetic. He had promised her to be a second father to little Pete.
He saw that the poor boy was being frightened as he had never been
before by the malicious fun of the veterans in pouring into his ears
stories of the awful character of the rebel cavalry. Shorty sucked
the ink off his pen, put his hand soothingly on Pete, and said in a
paternally comforting way:
"My boy, don't let them blowhards back there stuff you with sich
nonsense about the rebel cavalry. They won't git near enough you to
hit you with a sword half a mile long. They're like yaller dogs--their
bark's the wust thing about 'em. I'll look out for you. You'll stay
right by me, all the time, and you won't git hurt. You go back there to
my blankits and crawl into 'em and go to sleep. I'll be there as soon's
I finish this letter, Forgit all about the rebel cavalry, and go to
sleep. Ter-morrer you'll see every mother's son o' them rebels breakin'
their hoss' necks to git out o' range o' our Springfields."
Then Shorty finished his letter:
"Ime doin' my best to be a second father to little Pete.
Heze as good a little soul as ever lived, but when I talk
another boy to raise it'll be sumwhair else than in the
army.
"Yores, till deth."
Just then the silver-voiced bugles in hundreds of camps on
mountain-sides, in glens, in the valleys, and on the plains began
ringing out sweetly mournful "Taps," and the echoes reverberated from
the towering palisades of Lookout to the rocky cliffs of the Pigeon
Mountains.
It was the last general "Taps" that mighty army would hear for 100 days
of stormy battling.
The cheering ceased, the bonfires burned out. Shorty put his letter in
an envelope, directed it, and added it to the heap at the Chaplain's
tent.
Then he went back and arranged his things so that he could lay his hands
unfailingly on them in the darkness of the morning, straightened little
Pete out so that he would lie easier, and crawled in beside him.