THE BATTLE IN THE CLOUDS.
SOMERS had been greatly mystified by the singular conduct of Tippy, the
scout, and quite as much so by that of De Banyan in connection with the
young man. He remembered to have heard the major say, when they parted,
after the eventful campaign before Richmond, that he had a son; and it
now appeared that he had been in the rebel service, while his father was
actively engaged on the other side.
Before the war Tippy had been the confidential friend and companion of
his father to an extent to which parents seldom admit their sons. He was
an only child, and between them there had been a bond of sympathy, which
nothing but the total breaking up of all social relations could affect.
The father had been compelled to enter the rebel army sorely against his
will, and at the first opportunity had put himself on the right side. In
doing so he had been separated from his family, hoping, however, to meet
his wife and son again in a few months at farthest. He had been
grievously disappointed in this respect, for the sweep of the Union army
had not been so speedy and decided as he had anticipated; and he had
been obliged, by the force of circumstances, to leave the West and go to
the East.
During his absence his wife had died; and the son, inheriting the talent
of his father, had taken service in the rebel ranks, where his ability
as a scout was soon discovered. When he saw his father, he had no will
of his own; whatever the parent was, he was. Like thousands of others
who fought on the side of rebellion, he had no principle in the matter,
and only went with the crowd. He was now happily restored to his devoted
parent, and fully believed that whatever cause his father espoused must
be the right one. The boy’s middle name was Tipton, after a Tennessee
politician, who happened to be in the ascendant at the time of his
birth; and from this was derived the pet appellation by which he was
known among the rebels and partisans.
Somers and Tippy were immediately the best of friends; and during the
day, as they rode along, the young Tennesseean asked a thousand
questions about the North, about the home and the associations of his
companion; and it is quite probable that he profited by the information
imparted in the answers to the questions.
Before night, as De Banyan had promised, our travellers had the pleasure
of reporting to “Fighting Joe,” at Bridgeport, and of receiving a hearty
welcome. They were warmly commended for the work they had done among the
guerillas, who were the pest of the state, the continual annoyance of
the army’s communications, and a nuisance to friend and foe among the
families of the region. The general conversed freely with De Banyan and
Somers, and immediately assigned them to duty in their respective
positions.
“Somers, my dear fellow, I greet you!” exclaimed Captain Barkwood, when
they met.
“Thank you, captain,” replied Somers, warmly grasping the proffered hand
of the engineer.
“You are the only volunteer I have met who was fit to be a regular.”
“Fortunately, I am one,” added Somers, explaining his position.
“I congratulate you. I hear that you have been fighting guerillas.”
“A little.”
“I am sorry you have a taste for those small squabbles.”
“I have not; I only go into them from necessity. But our fight with the
guerillas was a splendid piece of strategy. I will tell you about it.”
Somers told him, and the engineer was satisfied, though he declared that
he was too much of a coward to have any relish for hand-to-hand
encounters.
“Well, Captain Barkwood, how is the general?” asked Somers, when the
relative merits of brain and muscle had been duly discussed.
“The general! He is a diamond among precious stones,” replied Barkwood,
with enthusiasm. “If he gets a chance he will knock the backbone out of
the rebel army in this quarter. By the way, Somers, I remember the
general when he was in Mexico.”
“Were you there?”
“I was.”
“You don’t look old enough.”
“I’m forty. I remember him at Chapultepec.”
“I was there,” added De Banyan; “but I was a private.”
“He fought like a tiger there, as he did everywhere, and went up like a
rocket from second lieutenant to lieutenant colonel. He is what I call a
positive man; he does his own thinking, which, unfortunately for him,
perhaps, in some instances, does not agree with the thinking of others.
He was with Pillow, Rains, and Ripley, who are all rebels now.”
“But the general left the army.”
“Yes, he is an active man; he couldn’t stand the piping times of peace
that followed the Mexican war, and, resigning his commission, went to
California, where he became a farmer. This didn’t agree very well with
his constitution, and when a speck of war appeared in 1861, he hastened
to Washington; not as an adventurer, mind you, but as a man who believed
in the American Union. Somehow the men in authority seemed to have
forgotten about his conduct in Mexico; and it may be that some of his
positive opinions were remembered, and he did not readily procure
service.
“Discouraged, and perhaps disgusted, with his ill success, he made up
his mind to return to his farm on the Pacific. Before his intended
departure he paid his respects to President Lincoln, to whom he made
some comments on the battle of Bull Run, which induced the president to
make him a brigadier. That was the luckiest thing for the general, and
the luckiest thing for the country, that ever came out of an accident.”
“That’s so!” exclaimed De Banyan, with emphasis. “I’ve seen him in a
great many fights; and I say he has no superior in the army.”
“I’m not very fond of comparisons between generals; but I can say I like
him better than any other,” added Somers. “I wish generals were not so
sensitive.”
“Sensitive? My dear Somers, a man can no more be a great general without
being sensitive, than he can be a parson without being pious.”
“That may be; but I think that some of the military operations of the
war have failed because the commanding general in charge of them was not
fairly supported, owing to some of these squabbles about rank.”
“That’s true; but there’s a great difference between being sensitive,
and failing to obey orders, in spirit as well as to the letter.
‘Fighting Joe’ never did and never will allow his sensitiveness to
endanger for one moment the success of our arms,” said the engineer,
warmly. “He would fight under a corporal rather than lose the day, any
time.”
“I know that,” answered Somers; “but I can’t help feeling that if some
generals had been less sensitive, our general would have been in command
of a large army to-day.”
“A positive man speaks what he thinks; and I doubt not ‘Fighting Joe’
has often offended his superiors by his candid criticisms. This may have
affected his position, but it cannot rob him of the glory of the past.
Whatever he does, and wherever he goes, I’m with him to the end,” added
the engineer.
“So am I,” said De Banyan.
“There will be something done in this department very soon,” continued
Barkwood. “The heavy storms have rendered the roads almost impassable;
and the provisions for the army in Chattanooga have to be conveyed in
wagons about fifty miles. The first move will be to open the river and
the railroad between this point and Chattanooga.”
The engineer was correct in his supposition, for a few days later
General Hazen’s brigade descended the Tennessee in pontoon boats,
intended for the erection of a bridge over the river at Brown’s Ferry,
running the rebel batteries in the night, and reaching their destination
in safety. The Confederate force under General Bragg was posted on the
south side of the river, holding the heights known as Raccoon Mountain,
Lookout Mountain, and Missionary Ridge. Batteries had been planted on
these heights, which swept the river and the valleys; and the operation
of dislodging the enemy from their strongholds was a difficult and
dangerous one.
A pontoon bridge nine hundred feet in length was built on the river at
Brown’s Ferry in five hours, a force having been first sent over the
river, and a position captured and fortified to protect the operation.
The eleventh and twelfth corps then moved out from Bridgeport, and
completed the communication between that place and the pontoon bridge,
thus effecting a junction with the army in Chattanooga. A steamboat,
built by a company of engineers, and another captured from the enemy,
conveyed provision, one above and the other below the pontoon bridge, to
the beleaguered town. This vital question being settled, the place was
fortified so that it could be held by a small force; and the main army
then commenced the work of relieving East Tennessee from the presence of
the rebels, which was fully accomplished in spite of the active movement
of the enemy to prevent it.
Our volume is not a history, and we do not purpose to narrate in detail
the movements of the three armies, which had been united under General
Grant. The rebels were whipped in every direction, foiled and defeated
in all their plans, and the Union army continued on its march to
Atlanta. “Fighting Joe” bore an important part in these operations, and
was conspicuous at Lookout Mountain, Resaca, and before Atlanta. He was
skilful and brave, energetic and devoted in this campaign, as he had
been before. He was faithful to his duty, until, on the death of General
McPherson, he was compelled to ask to be relieved. With this summary of
the events at the seat of war in the South, we return to Captain Somers.
The general’s command, having opened the communication with Chattanooga,
marched up Lookout Valley. “Fighting Joe” was there for a purpose. The
rugged steeps of the mountain bristled with rebel cannon, and his army
was exposed to a sharp fire as it moved on its way. The general was in
the midst of it, and assured the troops that the fire could not harm
them. His conduct had the most inspiring effect upon the men.
When the head of the column approached the vicinity of the railroad
bridge, near Wauhatchie, the rebel infantry opened upon it, being posted
in a dense forest, where their number could not be determined. A brigade
was thrown out to flank the position, upon which the enemy precipitately
fled over the creek, burning the bridge behind them. The column moved
on, and halted for the night in the valley.
At midnight General Geary’s division was savagely attacked, and
presently the gloom of the valley was lighted up by the flame of battle;
cannon and musketry blazed from the summits of the mountain, but the men
fought with the most determined zeal. The general was in his saddle, and
his staff were hurled away like arrows from a bow, to strengthen the
weak parts of the line. A brigade was despatched to the assistance of
Geary, who was hard pressed; but the attack was promptly repelled.
Somers was then sent off with an order to the second brigade to storm
the heights and carry them; and he was directed to accompany the force
and report progress to the general. The hill was very steep and rugged,
and in many places the rocks presented the appearance of palisades. It
was covered with wood and underbrush, and it would not have been an easy
thing to climb it with a guide in broad daylight; but the general had
sent these intrepid fellows to scale its jagged steeps in the middle of
the night. It was cloudy, and the moon shed an uncertain light on the
scene.
To Somers there was a savor of home in the enterprise, for the
thirty-third Massachusetts was one of the two regiments which formed the
advance in this perilous movement; the other was the seventy-third Ohio,
both numbering only four hundred men. On dashed the intrepid soldiers,
climbing up the dangerous steeps, as though all of them had been
mountaineers—on, till they penetrated the clouds, while the gloom was
lighted up by the glare of the sheets of flame from two thousand rebel
muskets. There in the clouds, at midnight, was fought and won this
remarkable battle. The crests of the hills were carried at the point of
the bayonet, and the gallant thirty-third left one third of its number
killed and wounded on the ground; but the victory was complete, and
Captain Somers hastened to report the result to the general.
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