Part 6

Some have supposed that the battle of Missionary Ridge was fought without any definite plan save to find the enemy and fight him, but this is an error. While the battle of Missionary Ridge was a brilliant success, could General Grant's plan have been carried out Bragg's entire army must have been destroyed or captured. Hooker was ordered to withdraw from the mountain early in the morning of the twenty-fifth, cross Chattanooga creek and move up the valley to Rossville, and thereby substantially turn Bragg's left flank. Sherman was to attack his right flank at Tunnel Hill, while Thomas, in direct command of the Army of the Cumberland, was to hold the center, and fall on his rear the moment he saw any indications that Bragg was withdrawing to support his right or left. But it was never intended that the ridge should be climbed in the face of the enemy, without either of his flanks being turned or shaken. No general ever dreamed of the storming of Missionary Ridge before the charge began. The best plans of battles often fail of execution. When General Hooker struck Chattanooga creek he found a stream he could not ford, and was compelled to bridge in face of the enemy and under a heavy fire. And instead of being able to reach Rossville early in the day, as was expected by Grant, he found himself confronted by the enemy more resolute and determined than had opposed him on the mountain the day before.

Sherman opened the battle on our left with great vigor and determination, and from our position we could see his charging columns; but he found the enemy in a very strong position, naturally, improved by very strong works, and he seemed to make little, if any, progress.

Our line ran through the edge of a small growth of timber. To the front there was a soap-stone plateau of about six hundred yards, before reaching the base of the ridge, where ran a line of the enemy's rifle pits well filled with infantry. Our skirmish line covered the entire front of the brigade, and soon after our position had been taken Colonel Pickands came to the officers of the regiment with the order that "at the firing of six guns from Fort Wood, and the sounding of the _forward_, we must face to the front, and not suffer ourselves to be checked until we put ourselves into the rebel works at the base of the ridge."

No emotion was visible in the soldierly face of our brave colonel, save, perhaps, a little more violent chewing of a large quid of the weed that added rotundity to his bronzed weather-beaten cheek. His further order was that we inform each man in the ranks of what was expected of him. Commanding at the time company B, it was my painful duty to break the news to those that I had known from boyhood, and that I had learned to love as brothers. No one that I communicated the order to, but turned pale.

If the Light Brigade, that Tennyson has immortalized, was ordered "into the jaws of death, into the gates of hell," what was to be our fate when, the moment our line struck the open plateau, one hundred guns would be opened on us from the summit of the ridge; while the infantry, safe in its works at the foot of the ridge, would be in deadly range from the moment we emerged from the little strip of timber that concealed our line. Now there was nothing to do but wait. Now the time hung heavy. Now the soldier's thoughts were filled with home and the loved ones left behind, and what would become of them if he should fall in the terrific charge that he knew would soon have to be made.

It is the dreadful waiting that is more terrible than the shock of battle. When once within the storm of the leaden hail the soldier seems to rise to a higher plane of life; and while his comrades fall around him, the din of battle in his ears, the groans of the wounded and dying, the shouts of defiance of the enemy, and encouragement of his comrades are ringing out on every hand, he feels as much the master of the storm of battle as the eagle of the storm cloud.

But the waiting at last comes to an end. Hooker has found more difficulties in pushing his column to the right of the ridge and in the direction of Rossville, than had been anticipated, and as the sun was slowly sinking toward the crest of Waldron's Ridge the cannon belched forth from Fort Wood.

Every soldier of the 124th was instantly in position, and as the silvery notes of the bugle sounded the _forward_, and breaking the awful silence after the cannon's reverberations had ceased, the 124th, with clutched muskets, rushed forth to the charge of death. As soon as we emerged from the line of timber the rebel guns opened on us, and the whole ridge from right to left blazed like a volcano. The earth trembled and shook as though in the throes of an earthquake, while grape, canister, shell and shrapnel bounded on the stony plain, like peas on the threshing floor. The rebel infantry at the base of the ridge, seeing the impetuosity of the charge, left their works and fled to their main line at the summit. The terrible order had been obeyed. We had put ourselves into the rebel works at the base of the ridge; and, looking back over the way we had come, we saw the solid ranks of infantry moving toward us. The rebel artillery from the top of the ridge opened terrible gaps and lanes in those ranks of blue; but nothing daunted, onward, with steady step, they come, until they mingle with us at the foot of the ridge. The terrible order had been obeyed, and the mercenary soldier would have been content to have remained in the comparative security afforded by the hill. Not so the grand old Army of the Cumberland; not so the grand old 124th. _Without orders_ the charge was at once resumed. The ridge in our front is eight hundred feet above the level of the Tennessee; in some places almost perpendicular, but in our front not so abrupt, but so steep that the ascent was difficult to one without arms and accoutrements. On rushed the gallant army; on rushed the gallant regiment. Every soldier had all the ardor of a Phil. Sheridan. No opportunity to return the galling fire. Comrades falling at every step, but at last the summit is gained. The enemy completely routed. The guns of the rebels turned. Plenty of ammunition found, but no friction primers. The ingenuity of the 124th is equal to the occasion. A boy shouts "_stand back_," fires his musket on the breech of the cannon, and the shell goes screeching toward the ranks of the retreating enemy, adding consternation to panic.

On the left of where we broke the line the enemy still held out against the heroic charge of the gallant Willich. Instantly a line of the 124th is formed, the left half-wheel executed, and the rebels, finding their flank attacked, crumble and finally flee in dismay. A battery of artillery is descried in the front, being moved to the rear. Instantly and without orders a few men form a skirmish line and advance, and in a few seconds every horse is shot down. The guns proved to be a part of the celebrated Loomis battery, taken by the rebels at Stone river.

But the red sun had gone down behind the ridge of the Cumberlands. The stars and stripes float proudly from the entire length of Missionary Ridge, where but a few hours before the flag of the traitor floated in defiance of law and right. Then went up such a shout from that mountain- top, as was only heard, "when the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy."

The share of the trophies of the 124th was seven cannon captured, among which was the celebrated Washington Artillery of New Orleans, many hundreds of prisoners, and a great amount of small arms.

The storming of Missionary Ridge is the most remarkable military success that can be found recorded on the pages of history, of either ancient or modern warfare. General Grant, who was an eyewitness of the battle, says in his official report, "the troops rushed forward, drove the enemy from the rifle pits at the base of the ridge like bees from a hive, stopped but a moment until the whole was in line, and commenced the ascent of the mountain from right to left, almost simultaneously, following closely the retreating enemy _without further orders_. They encountered a fearful volley of grape and canister from one hundred pieces of artillery and musketry from still well-filled pits on the summit of the ridge. Not a waiver, however, was seen in all that line of brave men. Their progress was steadily onward until the summit was in their possession. I can account for this only on the theory that the enemy's surprise at the audacity of such a charge caused confusion, and purposeless aiming of their pieces."

The rebel general, Bragg, in his official report, says: "No satisfactory excuse can possibly be given for the shameful conduct of our troops in allowing the line to be frustrated. The position was one that ought to have been held by a line of skirmishers _against any assaulting column_. Those who reached the ridge did so in a condition of exhaustion from the great physical exertion in climbing, which rendered them powerless, and the slightest effort would have destroyed them."

Napoleon's veterans charged the muzzle of whole parks of Russian artillery at Borodino, but they had solid columns and the force of great numbers, and no obstacles to overcome in making that world-renowned charge.

The Light Brigade charged the Russian redoubt at Balaklava, only to be swept away by the concentrated fire of the Russian batteries; but they had the impetuosity of a cavalry movement to drive them on _en masse_, while the storming of Missionary Ridge was the individual heroism of each and every man in that grand Army of the Cumberland, and is only explained by the _rebel general_ substantially calling his brave men cowards, who fought at Shiloh, Stone river, and had so recently been victorious on the dread field of Chickamauga.

The great battle of Missionary Ridge was won by the _individual moral force of the volunteer union soldier_, never known before to the history of warfare.

That evening the moon rose over the summit of Tunnel hill, and shone smilingly along the bare and desolate side of Missionary Ridge, as though the soil was not wet with the blood of brothers. There, lying close to the rebel parapet, was the young and brave captain, James H. Frost, of Company I, his calm face bathed by the soft moonlight and looking as peaceful as though an angel guarded his slumbers.

Further down the bloody track of the 124th lay twenty-two of its braves, "sleeping the sleep that knows not breaking."

"The tempest may roar, And the loud cannon rattle, They hear not, they heed not, They're free from all pain. They sleep their last sleep, They have fought their last battle, No sound can awake them to glory again."

More than twenty-seven years have passed since that heroic struggle on the steep mountain side of Missionary Ridge. The blue and the gray sleep side by side in the National Cemetery at its base. Chattanooga, then a small war-battered village, has grown, by northern capital and northern industry, to be an important iron manufacturing city. The Tennessee runs its bright and winding way around the proud Lookout, but no rebel yell pollutes the air, and no rebel rag defies the national authority, but all is peace and order, industry and law. And so we bid farewell to the contemplation of one of those great sacrifices that "saved us a nation."

THE EAST TENNESSEE CAMPAIGN, AND THE MARCH FROM CHATTANOOGA TO KNOXVILLE.

Hooker's victorious legions had descended from Lookout. The battle of Missionary Ridge had been fought and won. General Geary's division of the 20th Corps had followed the beaten and disheartened Bragg to Ringgold, and there attacking the enemy in his entrenched position on the White Oak mountains, had suffered a repulse in which the gallant 7th and 8th Ohio lost severely. It was there that the idols of the 7th, Colonels Crane and Creighton, fell. But our portion of the army advanced no further south at that time, and the 20th Corps went into winter quarters. But no such needed rest and recuperation, after the long time of siege and starvation at Chattanooga, seemed to fall to the lot of the 4th Corps of the Army of the Cumberland.

The twenty-sixth day of November, 1863, the day after the battle of Missionary Ridge, we spent in gathering up our beloved dead from off the mountainside where they had charged so gallantly the day before. We brought each regiment's sleeping braves and composed them in long lines, each company's by itself. I wish those that love war, that are filled with martial ardor, that are hoping that some complication will involve us in a war with Great Britain, could have walked with me along those lines of noble dead. There lay in peaceful slumber all ages, all sizes and forms of men, from the heavy, tall and bearded man of fifty to the smooth-faced lad of fifteen.

O, could we feel the breaking hearts of wife, mother, father, sister, brother, and affianced, when the shouting was over, when the headlines of the _great victory_ had become familiar, when the congratulatory orders and proclamations had been issued and read, and the cold, sad news had been conveyed to each home that claimed a loved one lost in that great victory—then, and only then, could we know and feel the real horrors of war. Then, I am sure, all those that love war and delight in the clash of arms would lift their voices for peace—lasting peace. We soldiers were not the real sufferers—they were the sad, loving hearts at home. But then, as now, duty was not to the dead, but to the living. Their manly forms wrapped in their martial cloaks (the soldier's coarse blanket) were tenderly buried on that beautiful elevation known as Orchard Knob, which was the beginning of that National Cemetery where all the wealth that a grateful nation and a loving people could lavish has made it, in walks, drives, fountains, lawns, marbles, shrubbery and flowers, one of the most beautiful places on earth. Here the name and rank of each soldier is registered, when known, but alas, there are thousands there that fill unknown and nameless graves.

But the news of the siege of Knoxville had come to us from the hundreds of miles to the northward. Longstreet's Corps of the army of northern Virginia had been detached from Bragg's army before the battle of Missionary Ridge; Bragg, relying upon the strength of the natural fortifications that he held, considered that it was only a question of time when the battered remnants of Rosecrans' army, that had been withdrawn from the lost field of Chickamauga, must succumb to want and hunger; and the corps commanded by Longstreet, and some other forces of the enemy in the north and east parts of Tennessee, could soon render the situation of Burnside at Knoxville as helpless as ours at Chattanooga. But the fortunes of war, like all other things, change with time. Rosecrans had been suspended and Hooker had been sent by Scranton to the Tennessee in so short a space of time that the feat was the comment and wonder of the watching world. Grant and Sherman had met.

The greatest living tactician and the most consummate handler of men, were in counsel. Then, as I have stated, Bragg was beaten and driven away, and Sherman marched to relieve Burnside. He was given entire command, and within two days after the smoke of the battle of Missionary Ridge had cleared away from the hilltops and mountains around about Chattanooga, Sherman's army was on the march up the Tennessee river for Knoxville, keeping on the east side of the valley.

The first day our brigade only marched two miles, having to wait for the other brigades and divisions to get out of the way.

We crossed the Chickamauga river a short distance above Chattanooga on a pontoon bridge that had been put down by some brigade of General Sherman's army. The next obstruction that we encountered was a river that comes in from the east, the name of which has slipped my memory. This had to be crossed by the aid of a small river steamboat that had the capacity of taking over not much more than a company at a trip, and we became very impatient waiting this tedious process of transfer. It was a stern-wheel wheezy affair, and I remember the boys rechristened it "The River Snail," and we put in our time making jokes at the expense of the boat and crew, that acted as though the service they rendered was a matter of force, and that they worked neither for love of country nor compensation. At last we were safely across the river, and the old stern-wheeler, years agone, marks some sand bar on the Tennessee or some of its beautiful tributaries. Shortly after this steamboat ride of almost one hundred feet we went into camp; the night was clear and cold, and not being very well supplied with blankets, we had difficulty in getting much sleep from Old Mr. Morpheus, the god that the ancients supposed had charge of that soothing business.

November 29th we passed through the village of Georgetown, and here we saw the stars and stripes first displayed by any citizens of the south. The women came out and waived handkerchiefs and almost anything else they could get hold of, while the "Old Blind Mice"[3] made the air vocal with shouts and cheers for the first people that seemed to love the old flag that we had seen since we left Louisville, Ky. These poor people had had their homes desolated, had been robbed of what few stores they had by the rebel army, and, having the name of being union people, they had been common plunder for every rebel trooper whose rough ride had taken him into their village. No wonder they cheered and threw the old flags they had kept during all those dark years of murder, pillage and rapine to the breeze, when they saw "Uncle Billy" marching northward with his army that would drive the hated rebel from their own beautiful valley.

Footnote 3:

The pet name of the 124th.

December 6th found us in the valley of the Little Tennessee river, a beautiful stream of water, clear as cut glass. This valley is one of the most wealthy sections of east Tennessee. It may be rivaled by the Sweetwater valley, perhaps. The inhabitants of these valleys being rich before the war, and slaveholders, showed nothing but rebel proclivities. We marched through what had been once a beautiful village, called Marysville. It must have had at one time some two thousand population, but it was sadly out of repair. There had been a cavalry fight in its streets, and there was not a whole light of glass remaining on the street that we marched through, and the houses showed plainly the marks of the carbine and cannon shot.

It was at about this point that General Sherman issued his famous order, to wit: "That any company, regiment or brigade, that struck the enemy, should open the battle without regard to the position of the balance of the army, and without awaiting further orders." This was conclusive proof we were approaching Knoxville, and must be within the vicinity of Longstreet's army, and we expected to hear the battle open every minute. But the rebel general was, without doubt, well versed in the literature of the nursery, and well remembered "that he who fights and runs away, may live to fight another day. While he who is in battle slain, can never rise to fight again." General Longstreet, hearing of the near approach of Sherman's army, attacked Fort Saunders, was dreadfully repulsed and then abandoned the siege of Knoxville, without one of Sherman's army having the chance to unload a musket at the boasting veterans of the army of northern Virginia.

Monday, December 7th, we marched within two miles of Knoxville and went into camp, having marched from Chattanooga in ten days, over two hundred miles the way we came, having carried our rations in our haversacks, and eighty rounds of cartridges to the man, never having a wagon after we left Chattanooga. Here we met the 103d O. V. I. The major of the 103d was a brother of our Lieutenant Colonel Pickands, and we were well acquainted with many of the boys of that regiment. The greetings that followed were not only cordial and heartfelt, but enthusiastic, and the shouts that went forth when the boys found that Burnside's army had been reinforced by the army that marched fresh from one of the most important victories of the war more than two hundred miles to relieve them, awoke the echoes among the hills of the north.

We were tired and foot-sore and (to be candid about it), even at this late day, I remember that we much preferred being cheered to fighting Longstreet. Those gallant fellows offered us everything they had in the world save something to eat and drink, which they had not.

After a night of rest only known to tired, foot-sore soldiers, "free from war's alarms," Lieutenant Stedman and myself procured passes and went into the city of Knoxville. This was the largest city we had seen since we left Nashville, and had a very neat and healthy appearance, considering that it had been at times the headquarters for both rebel and union armies. This city is situated at the confluence of the French Broad river, that rises in the Blue Ridge mountains of North Carolina, and the Holston, that comes down from the Cumberland mountains of northeast Tennessee and Virginia, forming the Tennessee river that flows past the city in a deep rapid current. The Tennessee river at Knoxville is one of those glorious streams that the lover of nature never views without interest, and usually with delight.

Knoxville, with its beautiful streets, its bright and bounding river, its mountains on the west and north, just near enough to be romantic, with a naturally rich valley flanking it on all sides, must ever remain one of the nicest, and one of the most delightful, towns in the world. I have not been there since the war, but I am told by those that have, that, with its unbounded wealth of iron, coal and marble, as well as its splendid agricultural resources, added a climate that is neither tropical nor northern, but the happy mean between the two, its growth has been great and substantial. I suppose a member of the Blind Mice, finding himself in the Knoxville of to-day, would hardly know it from what he remembers of the Knoxville he marched to relieve in the early winter of 1863-64.

This was the home of the celebrated Parson Brownlow, and I well remember that on going down the main street of the city this day that we first visited Knoxville, of seeing his brave and beautiful daughter, Kate, standing under the flag, bowing and smiling to the union soldiers as they raised their caps to her; all in very great contrast to her demeanor when the rebels held the city and she kept that same flag floating in defiance of the rebel crew that surrounded her on every hand.

We promised her that the rebel foot should never again press the streets of Knoxville save in captivity; a promise that we kept and proved true, but how much _our valor_ contributed to that result we will see further on.

This same Parson Brownlow had two sons in the union army, James and John, commanding at that time east Tennessee regiments.

We went down to the north end of the town and found a barber shop in full blast, and concluded that we would indulge in the benefits conferred by the tonsorial artist; so taking the chair without inquiry as to terms, had our locks put in shape, and our faces made more presentable; but when the time for the settlement came we found the artist only charged fifty cents for hair cutting and thirty cents for shaving, which caused us some surprise.