PEACH-TREE CREEK.
DURING the night all the rebels evacuated Lookout Mountain, and
retreated upon the main army, posted at the eastward of them. The
storming of the heights was part of the great battle of Chattanooga,
directed by General Grant with the most consummate skill, and carried
out by his subordinates with a zeal and energy which insured a great and
decisive victory. Chattanooga was ours; East Tennessee was purged of the
rebels who had been persecuting the devoted loyalists from the beginning
of the war; and with these events substantially closed the campaign of
1863.
Our limited space compels us to pass over the time from this period to
the July of the next year. Somers and De Banyan still held their
positions on the staff of the general, spending the winter in the
vicinity of Chattanooga. There were a great many letters passed between
the young captain and his friends, and all of them from him were not
directed to Pinchbrook. Between himself and Lilian a most excellent
understanding still subsisted.
In the reorganization of the army, which followed the well-deserved
promotion of Grant to the rank of lieutenant general, “Fighting Joe” was
placed in command of the twentieth corps; and in Sherman’s bloody and
decisive advance to Atlanta, he was one of the central figures in the
picture. He was the idol of his corps, as he had been in the Army of the
Potomac. His men loved and trusted him, and he never disappointed them.
He was always in the thickest of the danger, to support and to cheer
them.
Everything went wrong with the rebels. Johnston, beaten and flanked time
and again, fell back, until Atlanta, the objective point of Sherman, was
reached, where he was superseded by Hood, who was eminently a fighting
man, and was expected to retrieve the failing fortunes of the
Confederacy. On the 20th of July was fought the battle of Peach-Tree
Creek, which was a desperate attempt on the part of the newly-appointed
rebel commander to redeem the disasters of the past. The attack was made
against a weak place in the line, where there was a large gap between
the divisions of Geary and Williams.
Into this gap Hood hurled his compact column; who, inspired with a hope
that their new leader would turn the tide of battle setting so strongly
against the rebels, fought with unwonted desperation. They poured, in
solid masses, through the open space, and fell upon the boys of the
twentieth corps with fiendish valor. For a moment they shook—but
“Fighting Joe” flashed before them like a meteor; his full tones were
heard as buoyant as in the hour of victory, and the soldiers gathered
themselves up under this potent inspiration, and bravely faced the
impetuous foe. From both sides of the gap, into which the rebels had
wedged themselves, deadly volleys of musketry were poured in upon them.
They were mowed down like ripe grain before the scythe. They bit the
dust in hundreds; but the survivors maintained the conflict.
Still the commander of the twentieth corps dashed along the line, and
everywhere restored the breaking column. His voice was a charm on that
day, and more than any other of the war in which he had been engaged,
this was his battle; for, with his voice, his eye, and his commanding
presence, he banished panic, and wrested victory from the arms of
defeat. The assault was triumphantly repelled; and doubtless the rebels
believed that the Fabian policy of Johnston was preferable to the bloody
and bootless desperation of Hood.
The battle was won; and many and earnest were the congratulations
exchanged among officers and soldiers after the bloody affair. De Banyan
and Somers had been particularly active, not only in bearing orders, but
in rallying the troops; and the general personally thanked them for
their devotion: at the same time the aid-de-camp was directed to convey
information of the result to a general whose position might be affected
by it.
Somers rode off, but had gone only a short distance before his friend
dashed up to his side, and pointed out to him a piece of woods on his
route, where a squad of the enemy’s cavalry had been seen, and entreated
him to be exceedingly cautious.
“I’m always cautious, major,” laughed Somers.
“I know you are, my boy; but you might not have known there was any
danger in that quarter.”
“I will avoid the woods, if I can.”
“You can, by going over that low place at the right of the creek,” added
De Banyan. “I have a message to deliver in that direction myself.”
They rode on, and parted a short distance from the creek. Somers
proceeded to his destination, and having accomplished his mission,
started on the return. When he reached the point nearest to the creek,
his attention was attracted by a riderless horse, feeding on the shrubs
that covered the ground. A nearer approach to the animal assured him it
was De Banyan’s horse; and his blood froze with fear as he considered
the meaning of this circumstance. His friend had evidently been shot,
and had fallen from his horse; but perhaps he was not dead, and Somers
proceeded to search for the major.
As he rode forward, almost overcome by the suddenness of the shock which
had fallen upon him, the sharp crack of a rifle roused him from his
meditation, and a bullet whistled uncomfortably near his head. He drew
his revolver, and discovered half a dozen rebels in front of him.
Wheeling his horse on the instant, he attempted to escape in the
opposite direction. This act drew upon him the fire of the party, and
though he was not hit, his horse dropped upon the ground, shot through
the head. As the faithful animal fell, the leg of the rider became
entangled under his body, and he was held fast.
“How are you, Blueback?” said one of the rebels, as they rushed forward
and seized him, disarming him before they released him from his
uncomfortable position.
“How are you, Grayback?” replied Somers, calling his philosophy to his
aid in this trying moment.
“Is yer health good, Yank?”
“First rate, I thank you, Reb,” answered Somers, as he disengaged his
foot from the stirrup beneath the horse. “How’s yours?”
“I cal’late you are better ter keep than yer are to kill.”
“That’s a sensible idea on your part.”
“May be it is. What yer got in your pockets, Yank?”
“Not much; the pay-master hasn’t been round lately.”
“Let’s see.”
“You rebs don’t take greenbacks—do you?” asked Somers, as he pulled out
his pocket-book.
“I bet we do—take anything we can get.”
“Well, you won’t get much out of me. There’s my pocket-book; it’s rather
flat; an elephant stepped on it the other day.”
There was about ten dollars in legal tender currency and fractional
bills in the pocket-book, which the rebels thankfully accepted.
“What else yer got?” demanded the spokesman of the squad.
“What else do you want? When I meet a friend in distress, I like to do
the handsome thing by him.”
“I reckon we’re in distress, and we’ll take anything yer got to give.
Got the time of day about yer?”
Somers gave up his silver watch.
“That’s everything I have about me of any value,” he added, hoping these
sacrifices would satisfy the rapacity of his captors.
“Dunno, Yank; let’s see,” added the rebel, with a grin. “Turn out yer
pockets.”
Somers took from the breast pocket of his coat the Testament which his
mother had given him, and which had been his constant companion in all
his campaigns. It contained several pictures of the loved ones at home,
including, of course, one of Lilian Ashford.
“You don’t want this?” said he, as he pulled the Testament, wrapped up
in oiled silk, from his pocket, and unrolled it before them.
“I cal’late you Yanks don’t hev no use for this book,” replied the
spokesman, as he took the cherished gift.
“Won’t you leave me that?” asked Somers. “My mother gave it to me, and
it contains the photographs of my friends at home.”
“Not if I knows it, Yank,” replied the man, coarsely. “This is a warm
day—ain’t it, Yank?”
“Rather warm.”
“May be that coat’s too hot for yer?”
“I think I can endure it very well.”
“I’m feered it will make yer sick if yer wear it any longer. Jest take
it off, Yank. It was made for a better man ’n you be.”
Somers complied, simply because resistance was vain.
“What number of boots do you wear, Yank?” continued the rebel, glancing
at his prisoner’s feet.
“Well, I generally wear two of them,” replied Somers, facetiously.
“I reckon yer won’t wear so many as that much longer. Don’t yer think
them boots would fit me?”
“I’m afraid they are too small for you,” said Somers, disgusted with the
conduct of his captors.
“I reckon they’ll jest fit me.”
“Come, Turkin, quit now. I’ll be dog-on’d ef we don’t git captered
ourselves, ef you keep on parlatin’ with the carri’n any longer. Fotch
him along, and we’ll measure the boots bime-by.”
As this was eminently prudent advice under the circumstances, Turkin
decided to follow it. One of the party took the saddle and bridle from
the dead animal, while another caught De Banyan’s horse. The unfortunate
event took place within fifty rods of the line of the twentieth corps,
and near the spot where the recent battle had raged fiercest. The ground
was directly in front of the army, and it was an unparalleled piece of
impudence for the rebels to come so near on such an expedition. With the
exception of the piece of woods, the ground was open, though Somers was
captured behind a ridge, which hid the marauders from the view of the
sentinels.
“Now, Yank, we’ll march,” said Turkin, who, though he wore no badge of
his rank, appeared to be the sergeant or corporal commanding the squad.
“Be you ready?”
“Well, no, I’m not ready; but as you fellows have such an insinuating
way with you, I suppose I shall have to go,” replied Somers, glancing in
the direction of the Union line.
“You guessed about right that time, Yank. ’Tain’t no use to look over
yender. If yer don’t walk right along, jest like a Christian, I’d jest
as lief shoot yer as not.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, Reb; I’m with you. But I’m not much used to
walking without boots, of late years, and if you take my boots I may
make hard work of it.”
“No, yer won’t; if yer do, I’ll save yer the trouble of walking any
further.”
“No trouble at all,” added Somers, who, in spite of his apparently easy
bearing, was in momentary fear of being shot by the ruffians in charge
of him.
“What’s yer name?” demanded Turkin, abruptly, as they moved towards the
wood, beyond which flowed Peach-tree Creek.
“Thomas Somers.”
“What d’yer b’long ter?”
“To the army.”
“See here, Yank; I asked yer a civ’l question; if yer don’t give me a
civ’l answer, dog scotch me if I don’t give yer pineapple soup for
supper.”
By pineapple soup Somers understood him to mean a minie ball, deducing
this conclusion from the resemblance of this messenger of death to the
fruit mentioned. The rebel seemed suddenly to have changed his humor,
and the captive found that it was not safe to give indirect answers; so
he told who and what he was in full, without any equivocation.
“Can you tell me what became of the owner of that horse?” said Somers,
pointing to the animal, led by one of the rebels; but he did not venture
to put the question to Turkin.
“May be I can; but may be I won’t,” replied the man, in surly tones.
“Was he killed?”
“If he was, he was; if he wasn’t, he wasn’t.”
Somers could obtain no information on this subject and he feared the
worst.
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