Chapter III: Part 3

But these were not all of our troubles. Our commissary department began to get hard up and threatened suspension. Now, for the purpose of being understood by the Sons of Veterans and the young people that hear me, suffer me to explain. A _ration_ is an allowance, issued by the commissary department, of the various things on which soldiers are fed, to-wit: hard bread (called hard-tack), bacon (sometimes called sow- belly), fresh beef, beans, rice, coffee, sugar, salt and pepper, and sometimes, under favorable circumstances, soft bread. Now a full ration is ample for three meals, and sometimes a little to spare when _full_. We had not been in a state of siege long (owing to the defective transportation of which I have spoken) before we were put on half rations, that is, one-half of three meals or one and one-half meals a day; and before many days after we were put on quarter rations, that is, three-fourths of one meal a day. Now any of you that have tried to live on less than enough for one meal a day (and are no relation to Dr. Tanner) will realize the situation we were in. While our rations were short and, in fact, fast growing less, the health of the men was materially impaired. The truth is, as a rule, while in camp soldiers eat too much, and exercise too little. The quarter rations were helped out by stealing corn from the famishing mules, which the soldiers parched and ate. The mules and horses that were not sent to the rear died of starvation, so that, at the time the operations began against the position of the enemy, we had not a horse to move a gun. Could we have moved our light batteries on to the Ridge, immediately after the assault, the loss to the enemy would have been much more severe. But while the starvation, the enforced fast that we suffered, may have been beneficial to the health of the men, their morals seemed to decrease in a corresponding ratio. Stealing whatever one could get his hands on to eat became not only prevalent, but popular. The brigade commissaries had to be guarded to keep them from being plundered, while not infrequently the guards proved to be simply cappers for the hungry thieves of the regiments from which they were respectively detailed. Officer's mess- chests were raided; and one could not get up in the night without seeing some adventurous fellow slipping through the rows of tents with a box of hard-tack on his shoulders. Holes were excavated under the floors of the tents, and used as storing places for the plunder obtained by these nocturnal adventures. I now distinctly remember one "Israelite, in whom there was no guile," of company I, that the boys for short called "Jew Jake," that more than kept his mess in hard bread during that time of scarcity. But the sad part of the whole business was that, while the raiders and plunderers had all and more than they needed in the way of bread, the honest ones had comparatively less, as the commissary department distributed with absolute fairness the scanty rations it had to issue. And for once there was no favoritism shown to the officers. An officer could not buy more than was issued for a ration to a private soldier. But I am, as I remember it from this great lapse of time, in no situation to be very hard upon those volunteer commissary sergeants that were so willing to help issue rations, even if they had to go on night duty, for, as I now remember it, Jew Jake was a great friend to the mess of which I was a member. And when the time was that the new white hard- tack looked brighter and better than silver dollars to a people's party man, no questions were asked as to how they were issued.

But the day of our deliverance was fast approaching. Above the village and on the river, inside of our lines, was an old steam sawmill that probably had not turned a wheel since the war began. This was discovered by some one, put in order by some soldier (for we had plenty of soldiers in our ranks that could repair and put in running order, anything from a watch to a locomotive), and, on taking a stroll in that direction one day, I saw a gang of soldiers sawing two-inch planks. These planks were slipped into the river, and landed further down town for further use in the great drama that we were preparing to enact. We had not been penned up long in Chattanooga before the country became aroused at the danger to the Army of the Cumberland. Luckily for us almost everyone saw our danger save General Bragg, and he seemed to have no hostile designs on our army. Truly, it seems to me, General Bragg was the General McClellan of the confederate army, without McClellan's powers of organization and his delight in grand reviews.

As I have stated before, the authorities superseded General Rosecrans, and put the Army of the Cumberland, and all other forces to be assembled, in command of the "Hero of Vicksburg," "the silent conqueror of rebel armies and strongholds." But that was not all; the government, by the aid of the matchless executive ability of Edwin M. Stanton, President Lincoln's war secretary, withdrew the 20th Corps, commanded by General Joe Hooker, from the Army of the Potomac, transferred them by rail and put them into camp at Bridgeport, on the Tennessee river about fifty miles below Chattanooga, in seven days' time. This was the most rapid movement of troops ever known in the world's history. In the meantime General Sherman with his western veterans was on the long march from the Mississippi, headed for Chattanooga. I remember one night the rumor came by "the grapevine telegraph," "Hooker was at Bridgeport, Ala.," and soon the shout "Hooker has come—Hooker has come—Hooker's at Bridgeport" ran along our lines. Even the never ending seven-up was abandoned, and the men gathered in squads to inquire and discuss our prospectively bettered condition and situation, while the officers hastened to headquarters, anxious to have the rumor confirmed. It was not long before an officer from the 20th Corps was seen in Chattanooga, and then the enthusiasm of the Army of the Cumberland knew no bounds. But Lookout valley was in the possession of the enemy, and it was the purpose of General Grant to lodge General Hooker's Corps in that valley, preparatory to swinging it around the north side of Lookout mountain.

Day after day the sound of the ax and the hammer might have been heard at the steamboat landing in front of the village. It was the building of boats from the material sawed at the mill above. The boats were constructed on the pontoon pattern, not deep, but wide, and if the rebels took notice of the work they would have been justified in believing from appearances, that our intention was to construct a pontoon bridge across the river from Chattanooga. But that was not the intention. One day there came an order from General Hazen, who commanded our brigade, to furnish so many men, picked men, on account of their known bravery and soldierly character. Also, a certain number of officers to be selected for the same qualities. We furnished the requisite number from company B, and so did each company of the regiment, but the name of your unworthy speaker was not on the list of officers. He was not either among those _called_ or _chosen_. Of course, I did not know that our gallant Colonel Pickands considered me worthy for the expedition at hand; but I did know that my saber had been hanging idly in his tent "for low, these many days," and being there duty was not for me until I was again put in possession of the same. So I stayed in camp with Captain Powell of company G and some other officers and men; because, while all were brave enough, all could not be chosen. I think the number selected from our brigade was three hundred, commanded by that prince among fine officers, the late lamented General Hazen.

That night the detail were all gotten ready and down to the landing; and at midnight, when the young moon had hidden its bright crescent behind the Cumberlands, and the fog from the river had wrapped the base of old Lookout in an impenetrable cloud of mist, the "three hundred" embarked silently, and the current of the river bore them down to the point where the work was to be done. They swept along without accident; and not even the sleepless rebel pickets, that lined the left bank of the river, discovered their presence. Just before the sun began to chase away the darkness from the east they halted at Brown's Ferry, the place of their destination. Their boats were hastily shoved ashore and the skirmish line formed, and before the rebels in Lookout valley knew what was going forward, the "three hundred" of our brigade awoke them from their dreams by the crack of their muskets, as they scattered the rebel picket line posted along the river, and before the sun was up Hooker's legions were pouring into the valley and on their way to the north base of Lookout, and by the time the sun had set that day Hooker's skirmish line was in sight of Chattanooga.

This signal success at Brown's Ferry, more remarkable for the boldness of its plan and the daring with which it was executed than anything else, did not cost our brigade the loss of a man, either killed or wounded, but it gave Hooker a foothold in Lookout valley whereby he swept it of rebels and opened up _our cracker line_, as the boys called it, and in a few days we had full supply. From the date of the expedition to Brown's Ferry whatever there was of the siege of Chattanooga was raised.

THE BATTLE OF LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN.

Not many days after the capture of Lookout valley by Hooker the head column of General Sherman's troops came up on the west side of the river and commenced laying a pontoon bridge across, and soon the western boys, all dusty and begrimed by their long march, came filing through our camps. To say they received a hearty welcome from the Army of the Cumberland is drawing it mildly. They were no _paper collar soldiers_. They not only had the bearing of veterans, but victors. They marched out east of town and went into camp near Tunnel hill. Even soldiers often have but little idea of the time it takes to move a great army of men from one position to another. It consumed an entire day for General Sherman's army to pass out to their camp.

The twenty-third day of November, 1863, the Army of the Cumberland moved out late in the afternoon, none of us knowing the purpose. We formed in a continuous line of battle with a heavy skirmish line well in the front. At the word of command we all moved in the direction of the ridge.

Before the rebels seemed to be aware of what was intended we had come up to our picket line, and that also advanced with our skirmishers, when the rebel outposts in most places gave way without showing much resistance. But where the rebel line crossed Orchard Knob they had quite respectable rifle pits which they defended with some spirit, causing the 41st O. V. I. some trouble in dislodging them, and thereby we had some few men wounded in our brigade. This line, formerly occupied by the rebel outposts, we at once commenced fortifying by throwing up strong rifle pits of earth and stone. We then advanced our skirmish line well out toward the base of the ridge. One of the prisoners that we captured said: "Weuns thought youns was coming out for a review, we didn't think youns was coming out to fight weuns." We informed the Johnny that General Grant was commanding us, and he was not a review general. That night we bivouacked on the line, working on the rifle pits by details. It might be well enough to here remark that the saber of the subscriber, that had so long hung in the tent of Colonel Pickands, was shortly before this forward movement returned, owing to the fact that the little unpleasantness that had occurred with General Willich had fallen into the condition of "inoxous disuetude," and your humble servant was permitted to carry that then and now totally useless appendage of an officer until the muster-out man relieved him therefrom.

For fear some of you may think my offense was more serious than it was, and that all may know just how severe army discipline was in those times when men for the good of their country submitted to the petty tyranny and whims of their superiors, I have concluded to relate the experience I had of being under arrest. It was one of those beautiful Indian summer days when, under conditions of peace, bare existence is a luxury, I had command of the reserve post in front of Fort Wood. To relieve the tedium of the hour, myself and three non-commissioned officers on duty with me were engaged in the _army orthodox_ game of "seven-up." On looking to the eastward I saw a general officer and his staff approaching as they came over the top of a hill. I immediately turned out the reserve, and when the cavalcade rode up I gave the order "present arms," which was obeyed in good style, but instead of General Willich and his staff riding away with a kind good morning, he said, "Captain, you report mit your Colonel under arrest," and without telling me what the "head and front of my offending" consisted of, I started back to the headquarters of my regiment. I deposited my _cheese knife_ with the Colonel, and he directed me to report to the brigade commander, and he directed me to report to General Willich, whom I found in an old log house. I made known to him my business. After producing a snuffbox as large as an army frying pan, and after filling very well his nasal appendage, commenced in about this style: "Cap'n, you blay cards mit your men. _I blay cards._ I blay cards mit officers, but not mit men. You blay cards mit your men—mit your enlisted men. Your men not have respect mit you. Then when you come mit the battle, you lose control mit your men, you company preaks, the regiment preaks, and the brigade goes to the tyfle. You go mit your quarters, I prefer charges mit you." Here was a splendid Prussian officer that at this late period of the war had not learned the value of the volunteer soldier and that it was perfectly safe to treat him when off duty like any other gentleman of equal merit. This fact was known in our regiment from the start, and the difference between the officer and the enlisted man was never asserted only for the purpose of duty—the good of the service. The charges of the brave Prussian officer were preferred in due time, and, before this movement that I have described, were withdrawn at the instance of General Wm. B. Hazen, and that was the last that was ever heard of the charges of "blaying cards mit your men."

November 24th the mist hung heavy on the summit of Lookout and almost hid the monarch of the Cumberlands from our view. Nothing occurred to break the monotony of the soldier's life until about half past ten o'clock a. m. a heavy firing commenced on the other side of Lookout from us, and rumor (the soldiers telegraph) said "that Hooker was advancing up the west and north sides of the mountain." This did not long lack confirmation, for our fort on Cameron Hill soon commenced shelling the woods that covered the mountain, save a cleared field just below the palisades, in a very spirited manner. This fire was returned by the big rebel guns mounted on the summit of Lookout, just above the palisades, but for some reason seemed entirely ineffective.

How many of those present ever heard a vigorous cannonading in a mountainous country? Of course, nearly all the old soldiers present to- day have. The mountain ridges were so situated around Chattanooga that a single discharge of a cannon would be repeated by the echo five and six times, the second and third nearly as loud as the first discharge.

You can therefore imagine the grandeur of an artillery duel in these mountains. General Grant ordered a battery down near Chattanooga creek, that runs between the town and the base of the mountain, which did effective work in shelling the woods all day, and must have been most terribly annoying to the rebels. It was not long before we could tell by the firing coming nearer that Hooker's veterans from the east were driving the rebels before them, and soon the lines of blue smoke could be seen rising above the trees. All eyes were now centered on Lookout, and in a short time we could see the rebels had fallen back to the open field below the palisades, in which at that time stood a farm house.

Presently we could see the lines of blue coming from out the woods into the open field, and from their direction and extension they must have reached from the base of the mountain to the palisades. The fighting seemed heaviest on the east side of the open field; but nothing could withstand the force of the constant charge that Hooker was making, and when the sun went down the rebel line was driven back well along the east side of the mountain and nearly opposite the west end of Missionary Ridge. The skirmish lines kept up a constant fire until after midnight, marking their positions by the continuous blaze of the musketry. Two lines of musketry running up the steep sides of a mountain in plain view, and constantly belching forth their tongues of flame, is a sight most inspiring, and seen only once in a lifetime.

That night the rebels abandoned Lookout, and the next morning we greeted the grand old stars and stripes floating proudly from the summit of that mountain peak, in place of the traitorous emblem that we had been compelled to gaze upon, in disgust, for so many long sad weeks.

THE BATTLE OF MISSIONARY RIDGE.

We fought the battle of Missionary Ridge with the great victory of the battle of Lookout mountain as an inspiration, and the flag the gallant Hooker planted there waiving above us.

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.

We next concluded to visit Fort Saunders, that General Longstreet had made up his mind to take a few mornings before we arrived in that vicinity. Of course we did not see the battle, and all I can give you is what we saw after several days had passed. I am not certain, but I should say that Fort Saunders stood northwesterly of the city, and a full mile out from the same. I do not know whether the fort was built by General Burnside or not, but I think it was built by him after he was sent to that department, as the moats and parapets seemed new. There must have been timber standing on the easterly and northerly sides at no very great time before, as the ground was covered with stumps, and they seemed new and strong, as though the timber had been recently cut. General Burnside's men, expecting the assault (as Fort Saunders seemed to be the key to General Burnside's position), had contrived a very ingenious way of defense. They procured a large quantity of telegraph wire, and stretched it from one stump to another about knee high, winding it around each stump a few times to make it secure. This they did with seemingly very great industry, for nearly all the approaches to the fort were a perfect network of wire. They also loaded a large number of shell with fuzes cut at about five seconds, and had them placed handy when the time came for the assault. This I have from one of the defenders of the fort.

Just as the dawn was breaking in the east General Longstreet's assaulting column drove in the pickets, and, with that yell that once heard is never forgotten, came dashing on toward the fort; but when they reached the wire they did some ground and lofty tumbling, mostly ground, and the fort opened a most terrible fire of musketry, shot and shell. But nothing daunted, though their formation was badly broken up, they came on and soon filled the ditches around the fort. Then the shells were lighted and thrown over the parapets into the ditches, making fearful havoc as they exploded among the swarming rebels. I suppose a more determined and bloody charge was never made during the war. The rebels even climbed up the embrasures of the fort, and the cannoneers cut them down with axes.

But the short range shells and the heroic resistance made by the defenders of the fort were too much for the unquestioned heroism of the assailants, and what remained of them straggled back, as best they could, to the main body of Longstreet's army.

I will not attempt to give a description of the scene in the ditches and around the fort. It beggars all the horrors that language can describe. When we visited the fort of course all the dead and wounded had been removed; but when we came to walk along the bottom of the moats that surrounded the fort, the evidences of the sanguinary conflict still remained. Here lay a tongue, there, an ear, and beyond, a jaw bone. I saw a hand lying opposite one of the embrasures of the fort that was cut off as smoothly as though severed with one blow from an ax; but though we rejoiced in a defense that saved General Burnside's army, we were glad to leave this scene of horror and return to camp where the Mice were resting their weary limbs after the terrible march that we had endured.

December 29th, 1863, we moved our camp to the north into a fine piece of woods, and remained there until the year 1863 had gone. What a year of marchings, battles, and sorrow. How many of those that left Camp Cleveland with us—just one year before—now "sleep the sleep that knows not breaking." What a change in our regiment. Our ranks have been thinned, but our effectiveness has been increased. We have been tried in all the sad experiences of war. Patriotism brought to our ranks very many never calculated, either physically or mentally, to make soldiers. Their intentions were high and noble, and they failed by no fault of theirs; their final discharge was a mercy to them, and a blessing to us. Many came home and abandoned army service forever. Many enlisted in other regiments, for shorter terms and less arduous duties; but, as a rule, _all did all they could_ to maintain the integrity of the Union.

January 1st, 1864, opened the most eventful year of the war. Each army had come to its full strength and vigor. "The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot" had long since retired, and we had a man as commander in chief of all the armies that had the correct notion of the way of putting down the rebellion. A man that realized that the theory of conquering rebel territory while the rebel armies remained intact was worse than useless. That if armies are to be destroyed, the quicker it can be accomplished, the more precious lives saved. Great and decisive battles, with all their untold horrors, are angels of mercy compared to the small battle, the skirmish, where a few are lost and nothing accomplished.

But I find myself digressing, by the thoughts that come crowding up, as I contemplate the _value_(?) of our east Tennessee campaign of 1864.

January 14th we struck tents, and crossing the river marched twenty-two miles to a position known as Strawberry Plains. I never knew why they called it by that name unless it was because it had no appearance of ever having grown any strawberries, or because the foothills of the Clinch mountains were too rough and irregular to be called plains. I guess the fellow that furnished the name had never been away from home.

On this march we saw the gallows where four citizens of east Tennessee were executed. The gallows stood hard by the side of the railroad track. These men were executed for a very heinous crime. It may be briefly stated: They loved their country and their country's flag too well to swear allegiance to the southern confederacy, and so they were put to death.

The next day we marched to Dandridge, a small village situated on the French Broad river, and camped in a beautiful pine woods.

Here we had orders from Colonel Pickands to fix up winter quarters, as we would probably stay _right here_ until the spring campaign opened, and the pine poles were just the material from which to construct winter quarters of the most commodious kind. For the benefit of the Sons of Veterans I will describe the process. You must remember at this time we were soldiers, and soldiers of the Uncle Billy pattern and kind. If we had any shelter, save the starry heavens, we had to carry that shelter on our backs, as well as our camp equipage. Now, at this time, you must also remember that our regiment was divided into messes, and that by the process of _natural selection_ four men would come together and call each other Pard. What there was that kept these messes together I never knew. I said they came together by _natural selection_ for the reason that when we find anything that we cannot explain we call it _natural_ and let it go. These messes of _four_ would sing, quarrel, fight, make- up and divide all they had with each other inside of twenty minutes. Each member of each mess would swear that there were not three as good foragers in the regiment as his three messmates. Somehow or other, a good forager was always held up as a patron saint in the 124th Regiment. Chaplain Hubbard, of the 103d O. V. I., was the "bright and morning star" in this business of all the members of the army of occupation of east Tennessee. I call it the army of occupation because, before I am done, you will see that is all we did. Well, to resume, each one of these four messmates would carry one piece, at least, of shelter tent. Sometimes more could be found, but usually, where more were found, _some others had less_. This _more_ or _less_ business was a common thing in the army.