Chapter II: Part 2

When we broke up our camp we pushed straight for Waldron's ridge lying directly in front of us. We found the ascent of this ridge much more difficult than that of the other had been, but finally we reached the top of the mountain. It was very singular to find here a country with all the characteristics of level or table-land—lying more than two thousand feet above the country we had left behind us, or the valley of the river beyond. The next day we resumed the march, and in the afternoon began the descent into the valley of the Tennessee.

The road down the mountain was the worst, by far, that we had encountered. In some places the road lay over ledges of rocks that were four feet directly down; and many wagons were broken, as well as axles of cannons and caissons. I suppose, to this day, there could be found evidences of that fearful descent, in the wreck of government property lying along that mountain road.

The valley of the Tennessee at last reached, we went into camp at Poe's tavern, and remained there some three weeks, spending the most of our time in foraging for our animals, as well as ourselves.

In this locality there is one of the greatest curiosities it was ever my privilege to behold. It consists of a lake or pond on the top of the ridge we last came down. Directly to the west of where we were encamped, the ridge breaks off into palisades, some five hundred feet in height. Hearing of this curious lake from some of the natives, a party of us set out one day to explore it. We were compelled to go up the ridge by the same road we had come down, which took us some distance to the northward of the place where we had been informed the lake was located. At last our efforts were rewarded by finding the place. The lake is almost a circle of about six hundred feet in diameter; on one side the rocks had fallen down on an angle of about forty-five degrees, making it possible to descend into this terrible looking place. Once down to the water's edge one could look up the perpendicular sides of this walled-in lake for three hundred feet. It looks as though at some time the rocks had sunken down into the great cave beneath, and left this basin which filled with water from the springs of the mountains. One of the most curious features of this curious basin is that the water has a rise and fall of fifteen feet, at regular intervals. The water was as clear as "mountain dew," and some of our party, on going in to swim, thought they could dive out of sight; but no effort of a swimmer that could go down eighteen feet, seemed to make any difference with his visibility. The natives looked upon this place with great awe, and gave it the fearful name of "Devil's Washbowl."

We had not been at this camp many days before the mystery of the rising and falling of the water in the bowl was fully explained. About a half mile below our camp was a large spring from which some of our brigade got water; on going there for water one day a soldier found the spring had failed, and so reported. In a few days thereafter another soldier went for water, and found the spring flowing as bountifully as when first discovered. An investigation showed that when the spring ceased to flow, the water in the bowl began to rise, and when the water in the spring began to run, the water in the bowl began to fall. And so it turned out to be an intermitting spring, the philosophy of which every schoolboy that hears me to-night is familiar; and the devil lost the most of his reputation in that locality.

We made quite a long stop at this camp, but at last the order to march came; we went directly down the west bank of the river for about twenty miles, and went into camp for the night; the next morning we marched out to the river, and were informed that we must ford the same.

The Tennessee, where we were required to ford it, was a little less than a mile in width, and in some places quite swift. We were ordered to remove our clothing, but the order was regarded more advisory than imperative; and while some did their clothing up in neat bundles and bore them on their bayonets, others kept theirs on and trusted to the warmth of their bodies to dry them on the other side.

We started in four ranks, the usual marching order; we got on very well until we came to the deep and rapid portion of the river, when some of our short men became very apprehensive, and I remember we had to keep hold of hands to prevent the current from carrying us down the stream; while we had to take our shortest men on our shoulders to keep their heads above water. It is a sight never to be forgotten to see a mile of men in the water. After having gained the east bank in safety we spent the time in watching the others come across, or in drying our water soaked garments. It was amusing to see the little short fellows ford; they would come along with great bravery until they came to the deep water, when you could see them holding their heads away back; now and then one would go all under, and you would see him climbing some fellow that nature had provided with a longer pair of running-gears; but finally all crossed in safety, and no sickness followed this enforced baptism.

We went into camp that afternoon near the river; and the next morning took up the march in the direction of Ringgold, Ga. Here we found, as a rule, the people had abandoned their homes and gone south, leaving them to be pillaged by thoughtless or criminally inclined soldiers. On this day's march I saw an instance of the propensity of some men to steal that was about as amusing as it was disgusting. As I was marching at the head of my company I heard a great clattering, and on looking back I saw a soldier coming with a great load on his back done up in a piece of shelter tent, which on a nearer inspection proved to be a set of dishes; there were tureens, bowls, plates, pitchers, platters, and in fact everything known to a well regulated set of dishes. The fellow marched on with great composure amid the derisive shouts of his comrades that he passed; and probably that night ate his hard-tack off southern china.

That night we went into camp near a branch of the Chickamauga river, and the next day marched into Ringgold. This village, named in honor of Major Ringgold, that fell at the battle of Buena Vista, was a town of about two thousand people at that time, I should think, when at home, beautifully located at the foot of the White Oak mountains; but very few of its people remained there, and the town was a very sorry looking place, though built mostly of brick, and in much better taste than most of the southern towns that we had seen.

_SERGEANT MAJOR JOHN S. NIMMONS._
]

Here I saw the first exhibition of the extreme spitefulness of the southern woman. Our camp was close to quite a fine looking residence, and seeing a collection of soldiers about there, I thought I would step over and see what was going on. In the doorway stood a good looking, decent appearing lady, and another was just inside of the door. The first one spoke to the crowd of soldiers (that looked as though calico was worth a dollar a yard), and said, "I suppose yuans all came down here to rob weuns of our land." Some one denied the accusation, and, with the most intense bitterness depicted in every feature, she added, "Weuns are perfectly willin' to give yuans all land 'nough to bury yuans on, and we reckon yuans will need consid'able befo yuans git out heyer." I am sorry to say that some of the boys that laughed at the display of provincialism and spite on the part of the rebel lady, were compelled to take up with her offer a few days thereafter.

Here we found quite a lively skirmish going on between Wilder's mounted infantry and some confederate cavalry, out toward Dalton.

We remained here a few days and then moved over to the locality of Lee & Gordon's mills, and the eighteenth day of September found us encamped on the Chickamauga river, some sixteen miles south of Chattanooga.

The Chickamauga is a small river that puts into the Tennessee a few miles above Chattanooga; at most places fordable in low water, but at some points, owing to the limestone formation, dropping into pools, deep and cavernous. The Indians named the little stream Chickamauga, and as they interpret, the word means "dead man's river;" if the name was intended to be prophetic, how terribly was it fulfilled the nineteenth and twentieth days of September, 1863.

All day the eighteenth the south bank of the stream was held by the skirmish line of the enemy; and I remember it was quite a novel and exciting scene to witness the belching of the smoke and flame from the muskets of the skirmishers, while now and then the whizzing of the stray bullet, admonished us that even off duty our position was not one of absolute safety and repose. All that day "the grapevine telegraph" was working in fine shape. The camp was alive with rumors that McCook's Corps had not yet effected the crossing of the mountains; that Bragg had been reinforced by Longstreet from the army of northern Virginia (this was true), and it was the purpose of the confederate commander to destroy the 14th and 21st Corps before a junction could be made with McCook, and before the Reserve Corps under Granger could come within reinforcing distance.

The sun had just hid his face behind the rocky sides of the Lookout when the order was given to "strike tents," and each regiment was quietly but speedily formed in marching order, and all that night long we marched to the right, to be nearer McCook when the time should come when the foe, long followed and hunted, should hunt us in return.

Any one who has not had the experience cannot have any notion of the absolutely disgusting weariness of a night march in the presence of the enemy. To march in column, day or night, is much more fatiguing than to march singly; but on this terrible night, I remember, the dust was shoe mouth deep, and it came up filling our nostrils with dirt and our souls with indignation. Happy, then, was he that had some phrases, unknown to the ordinary soldier, with which he could give vent to his disgust. If it is true "that hope keeps the heart from breaking," I have often had the reflection that "there are moments—this was one of them," when the strong expressions used by the union soldier kept him from desertion. Then the halting to let a battery of artillery pass or a train of baggage wagons, while we were standing or being led into the darkness, in a kind of military blind man's buff, without any of the merry incidents of that childish game of the long ago.

At last the morning of the nineteenth of September, 1863, dawned on thousands of that grand old army for the last time. Inexperienced as we of the 124th O. V. I. were at this time, we knew that we should soon be struggling in the shock and carnage of battle. That the time for our first baptism of blood and fire was fast approaching. The blare of the bugles on every hand told that the work of preparation for that struggle that was to be one that was to save the army from annihilation, was soon to begin.

We pulled out of the old road that leads from Lee & Gordon's mills on the Chickamauga, to Chattanooga, and halted and made coffee and were soon partaking of "the soldier's banquet," not a very elaborate bill of fare, but relished by those tired and dusty soldiers, notwithstanding the preparations for battle going on around us.

I remember a little colloquy that took place between our colonel and General Palmer that morning, while we were breakfasting that illustrates how lightly soldiers can talk about going into battle, no matter how they may feel. Our colonel said, "general, there's going to be a dance down there this morning, is there not?" "Yes," replied the general, "and in less than an hour your regiment will get an invitation to attend it."

_COLOR-BEARER SERGEANT LLOYD A. MARSH._
]

The country where the battle was fought was largely woods, now and then broken by what in southern parlance is called a "deadening," which simply means that the timber has been killed by girdling, and the ground subjected to the mode of cultivation of slave times in the South. Some portions of the country are quite level, and then breaking into bluffs, as one leaves the river and approaches the foothills of the mountains. Fisher Ames said, "nobody sees a battle," and it is literally true. While Ames had reference to the great battles of the East that were invariably fought on open plains, how certain the statement is when thick woods and hills intervene along the battle line, which in this case, extended for more than seven miles from right to left.

Soon the bugle sounded the "assembly" and our brigade commanded by the late lamented General H. B. Hazen, filed out into the Chattanooga road. We had not moved more than half a mile to the left, and down the road, when we came to an old partially cleared field and deadening, halted, marched into this field and formed into "double column at half distance," which every soldier knows is the last position before the line of battle is formed. Soon one regiment after another took its place in the line, and all was ready for the advance into the woods in our front where we knew from the skirmishing that had been going on all the morning, that the enemy's line of battle was extending itself, with the evident intention of getting between our left and Chattanooga. As I have before said, this battle was the first time our regiment had been under fire, though the other regiments of which our brigade was composed had done good service at Perryville and Stone river.

I suppose there are plenty of men, that can get ready, and go into a battle without fear or wavering, but for my part, my recollection of that momentous event, is somewhat like another's, who describes his condition on a certain occasion as, "whether in the body, I cannot tell, or whether out of the body, I cannot tell; God knoweth."

But the order to move forward came at last and we moved into the pine and oak woods in our front. We had moved but a few yards into the woods, when the enemy opened fire and two of my men were wounded at the first discharge. I was then in command of company B 124th O. V. I., composed of my schoolmates and scholars, the most of them farmers' sons that knew the use of the rifle; and but very few but that had a larger share of _courage_ than their commanding officer.

I was ordered to deploy my company, as skirmishers to cover the regiment, and moved to the front. This movement was executed under fire and not in very good style. The regimental bugle still sounded the _forward_, until my skirmish line was within three hundred feet of the confederate line of battle. My line now attracted the attention of the enemy, and drew his fire exclusively. A six gun battery was run up to the line, and in less time than I can now tell it, my farmer boys had shot down every horse and not one of the gunners could approach a gun.

At this time I saw the first man of our regiment killed, Corporal Atkins. He was a tall, finely formed man, a farmer and school-teacher by occupation; an abolitionist, he hated slavery, and consequently the slaveholders' rebellion; and many a time around the mirthful campfire had he been the object of the friendly raillery of his comrades, by reason of his fiery sentiments of hatred of that giant wrong; and sometimes it was hinted in his hearing, "the best fighters are not as a rule, the best talkers." I can see him now as he stands at my right behind the sheltering trunk of a large pine loading and firing, in that storm of bullets, as calmly as though not at death's carnival. I see the blood flowing from his left shoulder, I say, "William, you are badly wounded; go to the rear." Putting his hand up to his wounded shoulder, and extending his left arm says, "see captain, I am not much hurt, I want to give them another." He draws another cartridge from his box, springs his rammer, runs the cartridge half down—a bullet from the enemy pierces that brave heart, and I see him fall on his face—dead. So perished one of those brave sons that fought _for a great principle_, which was the soul of the union army. By the fortunes of the field, we were compelled to leave him there "unknelled, uncoffined and unknown," buried, if at all, by the careless enemy. But if there is a future where the deeds of the brave and true are rewarded, William Atkins will be one of the brightest stars in the galaxy of immortal life. But I must hasten with my story or I weary you, as that day wearied us.

The skirmish line alone of our regiment was engaged. The line of battle could not fire for fear of injury to our line, while our line was so far advanced that the enemy's fire enfiladed us; trees, the ordinary cover of skirmishers, were no protection whatever. Our colonel ordered us to lie down and our main line opened fire over us, and it was difficult to tell from which we suffered most, the fire of the enemy, or the bad marksmanship of the line in the rear. Finally, those of us that had not been killed and wounded, fell back on the line of battle and fought with that line, and thus the day wore away.

_CORPORAL WILLIAM ATKINS._

_The first man of the 124th O. V. I. killed. "See Captain, I am not
much hurt, I want to give them another." Page 58._
]

In the afternoon, sometime, the order was sent around to be saving of our ammunition as no more could be had at present, and if the confederates charged we must rely upon the bayonet.

About four o'clock in the afternoon, we heard the commands of officers in our rear, and turning in that direction, we saw the blue of our lines over the old field coming to our relief. It was General Johnson's division of McCook's Corps. They are formed in column by regimental front, at a distance of about two hundred yards between regiments. The first regiment at double-quick rushes through and past our broken and decimated ranks, not stopping until they come close to the confederate line; then halting abruptly, deliver a well directed volley in the face of the enemy, fall and reload, while the next regiment rushes over them only to repeat what those had done who had gone before. It would be almost idle to add that the confederates were compelled to fall back though composed of the flower of the army of northern Virginia. No men no matter how brave, could stand outside of works the deadly impetuosity of such a charge.

I had seen many noble looking men before; I have seen many since, but have never seen any such men in appearance, as composed that charging column that relieved us that dismal afternoon at Chickamauga. Had every division of the Army of the Cumberland been handled and fought as General Johnson's division was that afternoon, the historian would write Chickamauga a victory, instead of a defeat.

After this charge, in which General Johnson drove Longstreet's line back to and across the river nearly a mile and a half from where we had engaged him, we had time to look after our wounded men. I received permission to go out to the place where we had fought on the skirmish line. Seeing that all the wounded men were carefully removed to the rear, I hastened back to join my company. If I was filled with terror on going into the battle, I was doubly so now. To be lost from one's command in time of action is hard to explain, and a situation for which, among soldiers, there is ever exercised very little charity. I inquired of some wounded men the direction my regiment had taken, and hurrying on, fear lending wings to speed, I halted near a log cabin in a small opening where a six gun battery stood, and to the guns of which the men were attaching long ropes known as prolongs. I soon came upon my company and regiment lying flat on the ground, and evidently waiting orders. I took my position in the company, thankful that the regiment had not been engaged in my absence. In our immediate front all was still. The ground ascended in a gentle elevation, thickly covered with brush but here and there a tree. All at once there arose one of those terrible yells that only a mass of rebels could produce, and on looking to the front, I saw coming down the hill a solid mass of confederate infantry; their stars and bars flaunting gaily, as the color-bearers came dancing on. All at once the right of our line began falling back without firing a shot, until all had commenced retiring to the right of our company. I was chagrined at what seemed an ignoble retreat, leaving the battery I had passed to certain capture. The rebels had began firing, but seemed to fire far above us, as the leaves and small branches of the trees fell thickly about us. As they came nearer, their marksmanship seemed to improve, and several of my men were wounded, among the number was Lieutenant Charles M. Stedman, who, though badly wounded in the shoulder, refused to leave the company until the battle was over. He afterward laid his young life on the altar of his country at the battle of New Hope Church, May 27th, 1864. He was one of the very few _absolutely_ brave men, I ever knew. I turned to watch the advancing rebel hosts and to see what would become of the battery when their six guns opened one after another in rapid succession, and I saw lanes and alleys open in the solid ranks of confederate gray. This was repeated as rapidly as the guns could be worked and never an over-charged thundercloud seemed to strike more rapidly, than that grand old United States battery poured its double-shotted canisters at half distance into the now panic-stricken and flying rebel horde.

A lone battery with no infantry support on its left, with the infantry support on its right, for, to me, some unaccountable reason, retreating without firing a shot, fighting and repelling an entire brigade of confederate infantry. I never saw it repeated. I never heard of its being repeated in all of my experience in the war, thereafter. I don't know what battery it was, I never could find out with any certainty, but better work was never done by any of those brave men that worship their brazen guns more than did ever heathen devotee the molten image he calls his God.

I saw Colonel Beebe of General Hazen's staff after this eventful day, and he informed me that his duties called him over this portion of the field, and it was with difficulty he rode his horse among the dead.

Not thicker do lie the ripened sheaves in the harvest field, where nature has been most generous, than did the confederate dead on that lone hillside.

That night we marched to a new position and went into bivouac in line of battle. The night was cold and frosty, and as we were not permitted to have much fire and had left our knapsacks behind, we suffered from the cold; but "tired nature's sweet restorer" overcame all difficulties, and we lay down and slept among the dead as sweetly as though we had been bidden "good-night" in our own northern homes.

Thus ended the nineteenth day of September, 1863, and something of what I recollect of the campaign of Chattanooga and the first day's battle of Chickamauga.

Sunday morning, September 20th, dawned cold and cheerless on the waiting armies. The line had been reformed in the following order:

The 14th Corps occupied the extreme left, then came our corps, the 21st, with McCook on the right and the Reserve Corps not yet up. All felt that this Sabbath day would decide the fate of the army, as well as determine the result of the campaign, for good or ill, to the cause of the Union. Early in the morning we were ordered to construct such works along our line as the material at hand would admit of, for at that time in the war we had not learned the value of the pick and shovel. It is wonderful what men can do when in extremity, or when their own safety or that of the cause for which they battle, requires the exercise of ingenuity or industry. Soon old logs, fence rails and everything else that could stop a bullet, were being brought to the line. And by eight o'clock a line of works was constructed that, while not any defense against artillery, furnished quite a sufficient protection against small arms. My company was again ordered out as skirmishers into the woods in front of the brigade. We had not been on the line more than an hour when the rebels advanced their line of skirmishers, and the firing began.

My orders were to keep the line well out, and to retire only on the line of battle when the enemy advanced in force. It was soon evident to all that the rebels designed to force the fighting for we could see his charging lines rapidly advancing. We then fell back to our line of log and rail works, and in doing so had to run the gauntlet of the fire of excitable men of our line that could not be controlled.

Once over the works, and in position in the line, we had not long to wait for the onset. The eagerness of the enemy in following the skirmishers soon brought them into rifle range. Our Colonel Payne had been very severely wounded early the day before, and the command of the regiment devolved upon Major James B. Hampson, who afterwards gave his life to his country at Dallas, Ga. With the coolness and bearing of an old veteran he ordered our regiment to hold its fire until the rebels were within close range of our works, then, all at once, we arose and poured a well-aimed volley into their ranks. The 41st O. V. I., directly in our rear and forming a second line, then gave them a volley and their charge was ended. Three times that morning the enemy charged our position, only to be beaten back in disorder and confusion.

About this time occurred that terrible mistake in the battle that caused the panic and rout of a portion of McCook's Corps, and which carried our commanding general out of the fight and back to Chattanooga, leaving General Thomas to fight the battle alone. It was here that General Thomas received the title of the "Rock of Chickamauga;" and it was from this field that General Rosecrans was retired—never to be heard from again during the war.

About eleven o'clock a. m. the confederates commenced a most determined onset on the 14th Corps at our left. It soon became evident that the enemy was gaining ground, as the firing came nearer and nearer, and the left kept falling back until the cannon shot from the enemy cut the limbs from the trees above us, and we expected every moment to hear the order "change front to rear." The corps to our left had fallen back to nearly at right angles with our line, and we could plainly see the wounded men being borne back or slowly straggling to the rear. There are times in the life of almost anyone when the circumstances with which he is surrounded are burned into his memory as though graven with a pen of fire. So on this occasion, although the enemy had been badly beaten in our front, we saw our line of battle momentarily crumbling away on our left. Visions of Libby, Salisbury and Andersonville came before us, and it did seem as though our fate was destruction or captivity. While intensely watching the progress of the battle on our left, all at once we saw the front of a column of men coming on the double-quick out of the woods in our rear. They advance nearly up to our position, they halt, and face to the left. We saw an officer on a white horse ride up to a color bearer. He takes the standard out of his hand, and with the grand old stars and stripes in one hand, his sword in the other, he gallops to the front; the ranks of blue follow fast their intrepid leader. Then was battle on in all the grandeur of its pomp and circumstance. No one single musket could be heard, but as some vast storm that comes sweeping on from the northwest with a roar that is appallingly sublime, mingled the volleys of the contending hosts, while the salvos of the artillery cause the earth to tremble as in the throes of an earthquake. Our line swings back, like a gate on its hinges, to its former position. But where is that glorious spirit that led that gallant charge that has saved us from capture and our army from certain defeat? An orderly is seen leading back the white horse "that carried his master into the fray," but no rider is there. "Wounded, but not mortally" is the word that is passed from lip to lip. And that brave Polish officer, General Turchin, still lives to receive the thanks and honors of his adopted countrymen. This was the same officer that rebelled against the old world tyranny and, in 1848, with Sigel, Willich, Schurz, Austerhause and many others, fought for liberty in the fatherland until fighting was hopeless; and for the liberty they could never win in their country came to ours; but, strange to say, not one of them ever drew his sword in the cause of the slaveholder's rebellion. Very many of them, as some one has truly said, "wrote their naturalization papers in their blood."

About two o'clock p. m. our brigade was relieved from the line where we had fought in the morning, and held in reserve, ready to be taken to any point on the line where our services might be most needed. The enemy, by the mistake that I have referred to before, had driven a portion of McCook's Corps from the field and entirely out of the battle, and had extended its left so far to the rear as to cut us off from a large spring that had furnished us with water the day before. From the time of this calamity in the morning we had no water, and the air was thick with the sulphurous smoke that created an intense thirst. The men were clamoring and insisting that someone should go for water. There was one member of our company, George Benton, that by his kindness of heart, and implicit and cheerful obedience to orders, had won the respect and confidence of his officers and the hearts of his fellow soldiers. In speech, modest and kindly, yet in the battle he had shown himself as brave as the bravest. George came to me loaded down with canteens, and asked permission to go to the rear and try to find water. I, with some emphasis, refused. The men at that set up a clamor, and insisted that they were suffering for want of water. I explained the hazardous nature of the enterprise. I assured them from the firing that our right was well turned, and that anyone going back, alone and unattended, was liable to be killed, wounded, or _captured_, which all dreaded more than death or wounds by reason of the inhuman treatment our soldiers received while in rebel prisons. I said to George, "I am afraid you will never come back." With a smile of determination lighting up that noble young face, he replied, "I will come back, captain, or I will be a dead Benton." I was not quite strong enough for the emergency. I made a mistake. That mistake cost George Benton his life. He never returned. Whether he fell by a stray bullet, in those deep woods and thickets, or whether he was captured and murdered in prison, I know not. The records of Salisbury and Andersonville were searched, after the war, but on none could the name of George Benton be found. After we had fallen back on Chattanooga letters came from his father and sisters, inquiring concerning the fate of son and brother. No one can know with what bitterness I reproached myself for allowing myself to be persuaded against my better judgment; and learning by that sad lesson—no member of company B was ever again reported "missing in action." I saw the father and sisters when we came back from the war, and told them what I had already written them before of the way George was lost; but "hope, like an anchor to the soul, sure and steadfast," would not suffer them to give up their dear boy as lost. They hoped that some day, like a lost mariner, he would come from perhaps captivity and sickness, to gladden their hearts and relieve the suspense that was crushing their lives. But twenty-seven autumns have returned since that brave boy was lost to sight in the smoke that covered that dread field of Chickamauga, but no tidings ever came of that one, who was gladly willing to risk his life to alleviate the sufferings of his comrades, and was permitted to do so by the weakness of his commanding officer.

At about four o'clock p. m. our attention was drawn to the heavy firing on our extreme right, and we conjectured that our Reserve Corps was being brought into action. It proved to be true. General Granger came up and with his corps that had known but little, if anything, of the disasters of the day, charged the enemy with the force and effect of victors.

But it seemed it was not the purpose of General Thomas to contend for the field of battle, and to General Granger's Corps was assigned the duty of covering the retreat of the balance of the army.

It was Wellington (whom his comrades loved to call the "Iron Duke") that said at the battle of Waterloo, "would that sundown or Blücher had come." And never did sundown hang his somber curtain over a more grateful body of men than those that remained of the Army of the Cumberland. Just as the sun began to cast the long shadows to the eastward our brigade was retired to the west for about half a mile, still in order of battle; but any one could discern that a general retreat was to be commenced as soon as the friendly darkness should cover us from the view of the enemy. While in this position we heard cheers from what seemed to be a great body of men, and the rumor was at once out that General Burnside had reinforced us from Knoxville. We answered the cheers as heartily as our tired bodies and depressed spirits would permit, and the sky was ablaze with the rockets that shot up from the direction from which we had heard the cheering. Mendenhall's battery of Rodman guns was at that time just in our front. He ordered his men to load with canister, and then I heard him remark "that is the last round of ammunition this battery has."

Some one out toward the skirmish line heard the order "Ninth Louisiana, forward, double-quick, march," and pretty effectually dispelled the delusion that the cheering and rocket party were our friends under General Burnside. It was now quite dark, and tired, depressed and supperless, we commenced the march that meant that the battlefield, with all its treasures of our dead heroes, was to be abandoned to the tender mercies of an enemy that looked upon us as invaders and destroyers of their rights and liberties. It was, indeed, a sad hour. Two days before we had gone into this conflict with full ranks and high hopes of victory. Now we were "silently stealing away" under cover of the darkness, like dastardly assassins, when, in fact, we were there in the holy cause of liberty for all men, and for the union of the states as against rebellion and treason. We were leaving our beloved dead, uncomposed, unburied, with nothing to mark the spot where they fell, with no place of sepulture, with no requiem, save the soughing of the south wind through the banners of the majestic pines, or the nightly songs of the sweet voiced southern mocking bird.

"We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,
But we left them alone in their glory."

We drew away into the defiles of the hills, and the glad sound of the splashing of the horses' hoofs in the little streams that trickled from the hillsides, then the scraping of the tin cups could be heard (the efforts of the boys to get a drink of the muddy hoof-trodden water); but straining it through the teeth, no nectar quaffed by the fabled gods of old ever tasted so refreshing as did that grand beverage of nature to those battle-stained soldiers that night.

Of the route we marched that night I never had the least information; but when the sun arose over the mountains of North Carolina, the twenty- first day of September, it looked down upon the old army in order of battle on the summit of Missionary Ridge. All day we kept this position, but the confederates wanted no more fighting on this occasion, and, you can believe me, _they had my entire sympathies_.

Some have said that both armies retreated from the field of battle, and had our army stayed on the field the night of the twentieth, no confederate army would have confronted it on the morning of the twenty- first. But this story, though I am told it has gone into history, I never believed to be true. In the first place, the confederate general, Bragg, had, when the campaign commenced, an army nearly equal in numbers to our own, with no rear to take care of and guard. Secondly, after he crossed the mountains he was reinforced by General Longstreet's Corps from the army of northern Virginia. And, thirdly, he had at his command (but not called into the battle to any extent) a large force of Georgia state militia.

Then again, the second day of the battle McCook's Corps was largely cut to pieces and destroyed for fighting business. The 14th and 21st Corps were badly cut up in the two days fighting, and at the close of the second day almost destitute of ammunition. And finally, there was the movement of men before sundown to inform that _we_ were abandoning the field. So it never seemed credible that the confederates were retreating the night of the twentieth as well as ourselves.

The night of the twenty-first we fell back and entrenched a position just outside of the then small village of Chattanooga. The victorious confederates occupied the whole extent of Missionary Ridge, and soon appeared in force on the summit of Lookout.

So I have given you, in great weakness and imperfection, some of my recollections of the memorable campaign of Chattanooga and the battle of Chickamauga. I have read no book or history giving an account of the campaign and battle. Being simply an officer in the line my chances for observation were very limited, and very many of my conclusions are, _without doubt, inaccurate_. The plans of a battle, always an interesting feature of history, I have, as a matter of course, been compelled to omit.

_PRIVATE GEORGE BENTON._

"_I will come back or I will be a dead Benton._" _Page 69._
]

But if this unworthy effort has revived patriotic memories in the minds of those of you who can remember the war, or revived the recollections of my old comrades in arms, or given some faint idea to those that have come after us of what was attempted and suffered by those that strove "to keep our flag in the sky" in all those dark years, I have been amply rewarded for the attempt.

Chickamauga was in one sense a battle lost; but by it we won the campaign, and from the ground beyond the mountains and beyond the river that we had crossed, the invincible Sherman led his victorious legions into and through the very vitals of the confederacy.

It was one of those grand struggles between brave men that has marked the progress of liberty and right in all ages; that has cemented us firmly in the bonds of UNITY and FRATERNITY and made us in arms invincible as against the world.[2]

Footnote 2:

First delivered before the River Styx Literary Society, March 12th,
1887.

THE SIEGE OF CHATTANOOGA, THE BATTLE OF LOOKOUT
MOUNTAIN, AND THE STORMING OF
MISSIONARY RIDGE.

The battle of the nineteenth and twentieth of September, 1863, had resulted in disaster instead of victory. The Army of the Cumberland had been forced to retire, to abandon Missionary Ridge, and to fortify a line running through the outskirts of the village of Chattanooga from Cameron Hill, near the river below to the river above.

The victorious rebels came on and took possession of the entire length of Missionary Ridge, fortifying the same with strong parapets of earth, while one hundred pieces of artillery soon found position on the Ridge from right to left.

General Bragg also took possession of Lookout mountain, and planted some very heavy guns near the summit, just above the palisades. I never knew why those guns did not render our position around Chattanooga entirely untenable, unless it was the poor quality of the guns or lack of ammunition. All the execution that I ever heard of those guns doing was to kill a mule that would have died of starvation later on. Those hundred-pounders that were planted on the summit of Lookout were, for some reason, only fired a few times, and not for weeks prior to the time the siege was raised.

Never in the history of the Army of the Cumberland had the spirit of its officers and men been more depressed. The battle of Chickamauga had not only been fought and lost, but we also lost what was more than losing a battle. We had lost confidence in our commander.

And I think when the order came relieving General Rosecrans and placing General Grant in command of the Army of the Cumberland, there were few regrets expressed, even among those that had theretofore given General Rosecrans the title of "Hero of Stone River." But, in my humble judgment, one thing, and one thing only, saved the Army of the Cumberland. If General Rosecrans had shown himself incompetent to command the army at the battle of Chickamauga, the rebel general, Bragg, was possessed of a stupidity that more than overbalanced the incompetency of Rosecrans.

Just for one moment view our situation. Almost surrounded. No railroad communications over which to supply rations or ammunition. No transportation whatever, save one wagon road over Raccoon mountain, and that so exposed in places to the rebel sharpshooters that the teamsters (though in a sense noncombatants) were constantly exposed to the fire of an enemy they could neither see nor reply to. Then the road itself was simply horrible. When not bounding over ledges of rocks that nothing but an army wagon could withstand, they mired in the quicksand holes with which the way abounded, so that at times an empty wagon was more than a load for a six mule team. Then, this only road was constantly exposed to the raids of troops of the rebel mounted infantry. It was of this road a story is told of a teamster that was stuck with a load of ammunition in one of those miry places, and while he was waking the mountain echoes with his black whip and profanity, was overtaken by an "army chaplain," just fresh from some theological seminary of the north, and had not made the acquaintance of the army mule driver. Hearing the terrible profanity of this Jehu stuck fast in the mud, thought this a fitting opportunity to "sow the good seed," and riding up to the disgusted M. D. said, "My friend, do you know that Christ died for sinners?" The M. D., with a glance at the new and dazzling uniform of the chaplain, sang out, "Look a yer stranger, do you think it's any time for conundrums when I'm stuck fast in the mud and the rebels not a quarter of a mile in the rear?" Whether the chaplain thought his "ground was stony," or that the rebels were too near, he abandoned his theological lesson and left the M. D. to his fate.

In this situation of transportation, with no country on which to forage or draw any supplies whatever, with the Tennessee river behind us, with the Cumberland mountains beyond the river, with more than two hundred miles from the nearest reinforcements, what but the stupidity of Bragg saved us from destruction while in that position.

But, instead of striking us while depressed by defeat, he suffered us to select our position, and before ten days had elapsed our line was bristling with forts of no mean dimensions and strength, putting our capture beyond the possibility of being accomplished by assault.

The siege of Chattanooga proper began about the twenty-fifth of September. It was not long after this before a flag of truce was sent to General Bragg's headquarters on Missionary Ridge, asking the privilege of going out to the Chickamauga battlefield to bury our dead. It had been so slightly done that in some instances not enough dirt had been thrown over the sleeping braves to cover their uniforms. This last sad office was tenderly and carefully performed; and in all instances where there was anything to identify the dead soldier, his name, company, and regiment were marked on rude headboards that could be improvised on the spot. But alas! the fact that we, as an army, could not collect our dead after the battle, caused thousands to sleep in nameless graves.

After the war this army of known and unknown dead was carefully removed to the National Cemetery at Orchard Knob, near the base of the ridge, and buried; all the _known_ neatly marked; but how frequently the word _unknown_ occurs in that beautiful home of the dead soldier.

One good result, besides the decent interment of our dead, was the fact that all of our wounded that were not able to be removed to southern prisons were paroled and sent into Chattanooga. One of our men, Arthur Budlong, had lain upon the battlefield until our boys found him and brought him in under the flag of truce. Thus were the severities of war somewhat modified by the humanity of man that not even the unseemly war- cloud could altogether overshadow.

The monotony and dreariness of a siege can be appreciated only by those that have taken part therein. Language fails me to give you anything like an adequate idea of its listless torments. While on the march the scenery is constantly changing. The exercise of marching keeps one healthy, and keeps one's mind employed and the banishment from home and loved ones does not occupy so much of one's thoughts. The skirmishing and fighting, while dreadful in consequences and results, has on the soldier, to a certain extent, an exhilarating effect; and the hours spent thereafter, in the tales of personal adventure and experience, while causing one sometimes to think that the tribe of "Ananias" was not extinct, yet these tales of personal valor and daring helped to cheer and while away many an idle hour; and, as a rule, no one was deceived "by the tales they told us there." But in the siege every day was like all the others; and from the time we fell back on Chattanooga until operations began about the twentieth of November, the sky was cloudless. And while the long Indian summer period of southern Tennessee, so delightful to the citizen in time of peace, to us soldiers (to a certain extent in captivity) it seemed to breed melancholy and homesickness. We did all we could to avert this trouble. We played seven-up until we almost wore the spots off the cards. We smoked and "jawed." We criticised the plans of campaigns and battles. We decided the merits of brigadier and major generals until, could you have heard us, you would have thought we were writers formulating articles for the Century Magazine instead of besieged soldiers trying to drive away enui. Oh, if baseball had been invented then what regimental, brigade and division clubs we could have organized, with hospitals handy to care for the wounded. If we had only known the silly but fascinating game of lawn tennis our sick list would have been shortened.