menu_book Chapter 10

CHAPTER X. MISSIONARY RIDGE After retreating from Chickamauga, the Yankees attempted to reform their broken lines on Missionary Ridge. We advanced to attack them, but they soon fell back to Chattanooga.

We knew they were in an impregnable position. We had built those breastworks and forts, and knew whereof we spoke. We stopped on Missionary Ridge and gnashed our teeth at Chattanooga. I do not know what our generals thought. I do not know what the authorities at Richmond thought, but I can tell you what the privates

thought. But here we were on Missionary Ridge and Lookout Mountain, looking right down into Chattanooga. We had but to watch and wait. We would starve them out. The Federal Army had accomplished their purpose.

They wanted Chattanooga. They laughed at our triumph and mocked at our victory. They got Chattanooga. Now where are you, Johnny Reb? What are you going to do about it?

You've got the dry grins, aren't you? We've got the key. When the proper time comes, we'll unlock your doors and go in. You are going to starve us out, eh? We are not very hungry at present, and we don't want any more pie.

When we starve out, we'll call on you for rations. But at present we are not starving by a jugful. But if you want any whiskey or tobacco, send over and we'll give you some. We've got all we wanted, and assure you we are satisfied. The above remarks are the supposed colloquy that took place between the two armies.

Bragg, in trying to starve the Yankees out, was starved out himself. Ask any old rebel as to our bill of fare at Missionary Ridge. In all the history of the war, I cannot remember of more privations and hardships than we went through at Missionary Ridge. And when in the very acme of our privations and hunger, when the army was most dissatisfied

and unhappy, we were ordered into line of battle to be reviewed by Honorable Jefferson Davis. And he passed by us with his great retinue of staff officers and play-outs at full gallop. Cheers greeted him with the words, Send us something to eat, Master Jeff!

Give us something to eat, Master Jeff! I'm hungry! I'm hungry! Sergeant Tucker and General Wilder At this place the Yankee outpost was on one side of the Tennessee River and ours on the

other. I was on the detail one Sunday commanded by Sergeant John T. Tucker. When we were approaching we occurred the old guard and the Yankee picket talking back and forth across the river. The new guard immediately resumed the conversation.

We had to hulloo at the top of our voices, the river being about three hundred yards wide at this point, but there was a little island about the middle of the river. A Yankee hullooed out, Oh, Johnny, Johnny, meet me half way in the river on the island! All right, said Sergeant Tucker, who immediately undressed all but his hat in which he carried

the Chattanooga Rebel and some other southern newspapers, and swam across to the island. When he got there the Yankee was there, but the Yankee had waited. I do not know what he and John talked about, but they got very friendly and John invited them to come clear across to our side, which invitation he accepted. I noticed at the time that while John swam the Yankee waited, remarking that he couldn't

The river was but little over waist deep. Well, they came across and we swapped a few lyes, canteens and tobacco, and then the Yankee went back, waiting all the way across the stream. That man was General Wilder, commanding the Federal Cavalry, and at the Battle of Missionary Ridge he threw his whole division of cavalry across the Tennessee River at that point,

thus flanking Bragg's army and opening the battle. He was examining the ford, and the swapping business was but a mere by-play. He played it sharp, and Bragg had to get further. Moccasin Point Mamie's brigade fortified on top of Lookout Mountain.

From this position we could see five states. The Yankees had built a ford across the river on Moccasin Point, and were throwing shells at us continually. I've never seen such accurate shooting in my life. It was upon the principle of shooting a squirrel out of a tree, and they had become so perfect

in their aim that I believe they could have killed a squirrel a mile off. We could have killed a great many artillerymen if we had been allowed to shoot, but no private soldier was ever allowed to shoot a gun on his own hook. If he shot at all it must be by the order of an officer, for if just one cartridge was shot away or lost, the private was charged twenty-five cents for it and had to do extra

duty. I don't think our artillery was ever allowed to fire a single shot under any circumstances. Our rations were cooked up by special detail ten miles in the rear, and were sent to us every three days. And then those three days rations were generally eaten up at one meal, and the private soldier

had to starve the other two days and a half. Never in all my whole life do I remember ever experiencing so much oppression and humiliation. The soldiers were starved and almost naked, and covered all over with lice and camp-itch and filth and dirt. The men looked sick, hollow-eyed and heartbroken, living principally upon parched corn which

had been picked out of the mud and dirt under the feet of officers' horses. We thought of nothing but starvation. The Battle of Missionary Ridge was opened from Moccasin Point while we were on Lookout Mountain, but I knew nothing of the movements or maneuvers of either army and only tell what part I took in the battle.

BATTLE OF MISSIONARY RIDGE One morning Theodore Sloan, Hogg Johnson and I were standing picket at the little stream that runs along at the foot of Lookout Mountain. In fact I would be pleased to name our Captain Fulcher and Lieutenant Lansdowne of the Guard on this occasion because we acted as picket for the whole three days' engagement without

being relieved, and haven't been relieved yet. But that battle has gone into history. We heard a Yankee call, Oh, Johnny, Johnny Reb. I started out to meet him as formally when he halued out, Go back, Johnny, go back! We are ordered to fire on you.

What is the matter? Is your army going to advance on us? I don't know. We were ordered to fire. I jumped back into the picket post and a mini-ball ruined the only hat I had.

Another and another followed in quick succession and the dirt flew up in our faces off our little breastworks. One more night the picket line was engaged from one end to the other. If you had only heard it, dear reader, it went like ten thousand woodchoppers and an occasional boom of a cannon would remind you of a tree falling.

We could hear colonels giving commands to their regiments, and we could see very plainly the commotion and hubbub, but what was up we were unable to tell. The picket line kept moving to our right. The second night found us near the tunnel, and right where two railroads cross each other, or rather one runs over the other high enough for the cars to pass under.

We could see all over Chattanooga, and it looked like myriads of bluecoats swarming. Days and Manigault's brigades got into a night attack at the foot of Lookout Mountain. I could see the whole of it. It looked like lightning bugs on a dark night. But about midnight everything quieted down.

Theodore Sloan, Hogg Johnson and myself occupied an old log cabin as Vidette. We had not slept any for two nights and were very drowsy, I assure you. But we knew there was something up, and we had to keep awake. The next morning, nearly day, I think I had dropped off into a pleasant doze, and was dreaming of more pretty things than you ever saw in your life, when Johnson touched me

and whispered, Look, look, there are three Yankees. Must I shoot? I whispered back, Yes.

A bang. A wah! What a shriek. They'd got one, sure. Everything got quiet again, and we heard nothing more for an hour.

Johnson touched me again and whispered, Yonder they come again. Look, look. I could not see them. It was too sleepy for that.

Sloan could not see them either. Johnson pulled down, and another unearthly squall rendered the night air. The streaks of day had begun to glimmer over Missionary Ridge, and I could see in the dim twilight the Yankee guard not fifty yards off. And I—

Boys, let's fire into them and run. We took deliberate aim and fired. At that they raised, I thought, a mighty sickly sort of yell, and charged the house. We ran out, but waited on the outside. We took a second position where the railroads cross each other, but they began shelling

us from the river. When we got on the opposite side of the railroad, and they ceased. I know nothing about the battle, how Grant with one wing went up the river, and Hooker's corps went down Will's Valley, etc. I heard fighting and commanding and musketry all day long, but I was still on Pickett.

Balls were passing over our heads, both coming and going. I could not tell whether I was standing Pickett for Yankees or Rebels. I knew that the Yankee line was between me and the Rebel line, for I could see the battle right over the tunnel. We had been placed on Pickett at the foot of Lookout Mountain, but we were five miles

from that place now. If I had tried to run in, I couldn't. I got separated from Sloan and Johnson somehow, and in fact was waiting either for an advance of the Yankees or to be called in by the captain of the Pickett. I could see the blue coats fairly lining Missionary Ridge in my head.

The Yankees were swarming everywhere. They were passing me all day with their dead and wounded going back to Chattanooga. No one seemed to notice me. They were passing to and fro, cannon, artillery, and everything. I was willing to be taken prisoner, but no one seemed disposed to do it.

I was afraid to look at them, and I was afraid to hide, for fear someone's attention would be attracted toward me. I wished I could make myself invisible. I think I was invisible. I felt that way anyhow.

I felt like the boy who wanted to go to the wedding, but had no shoes. Pasta Bianca never had such feelings as I had that live-long day. Say, Captain, say, if my task be done. And yet the sweeping waves rolled on and answered neither yay nor nay. About two or three o'clock a column of Yankees advancing to the attack swept right over where

I was standing. I was trying to stand aside to get out of their way, but the more I tried to get out of their way the more in their way I got. I was carried forward, I know not whither. We soon arrived at the foot of the ridge at our old breastworks.

I recognized Robert Brank's old corn-stock house in Alft Horsley's fort, an old log house called Fort Horsley. I was in front of the enemy's line and was afraid to run up the ridge and afraid to surrender. They were ordered to charge up the hill. There was no firing from the rebel lines in our immediate front.

They kept climbing and pulling and scratching until I was in touching distance of the old rebel breastworks right on the very apex of Missionary Ridge. I made one jump and I heard Captain Turner, who had the very four Napoleon guns we had captured at Perryville, Halu out, Number four, solid, and then a roar. The next order was limber to the rear.

The Yankees were cutting and slashing and the Cannoneers were running in every direction. I saw Day's brigade throw down their guns and break like quarter horses. Bragg was trying to rally them. I heard him say, Here is your commander! And the soldiers Halued back, Here is your mule!

The whole army was routed. I ran on down the ridge and there was our regiment, the 1st Tennessee, with their guns stacked and drawing rations as if nothing was going on. Says I, Colonel Field, what's the matter? The whole army is routed and running.

Hadn't you better be getting away from here? The Yankees are not a hundred yards from here. Turner's battery is surrendered. Day's brigade is thrown down their arms. And look, Yonder, that's the Stars and Stripes!

He remarked very coolly. You seem to be demoralized. We've whipped them here. We've captured two thousand prisoners in five stands of colors. Just at this time General Bragg and staff rode up.

Bragg had joined the church at Shelbyville, but he had backslid at Missionary Ridge. He was cursing like a sailor. Says he, What's this? Ah ha! Have you stacked your arms for a surrender?

No sir, says Field. Take arms! Shoulder arms! By the right flank! File right!

March! Just as cool and deliberate as if on dress parade. Bragg looked scared. He had put spurs to his horse and was running like a scared dog before Colonel Field even had a chance to answer him.

Every word of this is a fact. We at once became the rear guard of the whole army. Authors Note I remember of General Maney meeting Gary. I do not know who Gary was, but Maney and Gary seem to be very glad to see each other.

Every time I think of that retreat I think of Gary. I felt sorry for General Bragg. The army was routed, and Bragg looked so scared. Poor fellow, he looked so hacked and whipped and mortified and chagrined at defeat. And all along the line, when Bragg would pass, the soldiers would raise the yell, Here is

your mule! For Bragg he's hell on retreat! Bragg was a good disciplinarian, and if he had cultivated the love and respect of his troops by feeding and clothing them better than they were, the result would have been different.

More depends on a good general than the lives of many privates. The private loses his life. The general his country. Goodbye Tom Webb As soon as the order was given to march, we saw poor Tom Webb lying on the battlefield,

shot through the head, his blood and brain smearing his face and clothes, and he still alive. He was as brave and noble a man as our Heavenly Father and his infinite wisdom ever made. Everybody loved him. He was the universal favorite of the company and regiment, was brave and generous, and

ever anxious to take some other man's place when there was any skirmishing or fighting to be done. We did not wish to leave the poor fellow in that condition, and A.S. Horsley, John T. Tucker, Tennessee Thompson and myself got a litter and carried him on our shoulders through that live long day back to Chickamauga Station.

The next morning Dr. J.E. Dixon of Deshers Brigade passed by and told us that it would be useless for us to carry him any further, and that it was utterly impossible for him ever to recover. The Yankees were then advancing and firing upon us. What could we do?

We could not carry him any further, and we could not bury him, for he was still alive. To leave him where he was, we thought best. We took hold of his hand, bent over him, and pressed our lips to his, all four of us. We kissed him good-bye, and left him to the tender mercies of the advancing foe in whose hands he would be in a few moments.

No doubt they laughed and jeered at the dying rebel. No matter not what they did, for poor Tom Webb's spirit, before the sun went down, was with God and the holy angels. He had given his all to his country. Oh, how we missed him!

It seemed that the very spirit and life of Company H had died with the death of good, noble, and brave Tom Webb. I thank God that I am no infidel, and I feel and believe that I will again see Tom Webb, the sure and certain reader, as you are now reading these lines. I will meet him up yonder.

I know I will. The Rear Guard When we had marched about a mile back in the rear of the battlefield, we were ordered to halt so that all stragglers might pass us, as we were detailed as the rear guard. While resting on the roadside, we saw a day's brigade pass us.

They were gunless, cartridge boxless, knapsackless, canteenless, and all other military accoutrements less, and swordless, and officer less. And they all seemed to have the possum grins, like Bragg looked. And as they passed our regiment, you never heard such fun made of a parcel of soldiers in your life.

Every fellow was yelling at the top of his voice, Yeller Hammer, Alabama! Flicker, flicker, flicker! Yeller Hammer, Alabama! Flicker, flicker, flicker! I felt sorry for the Yeller Hammer Alabamans.

They looked so hacked, and answered back never a word. When they had passed, two pieces of artillery passed us. They were the only two pieces not captured at Missionary Ridge, and they were ordered to immediately precede us in bringing up the rear. The whole rear guard was placed under the command of the noble, generous, handsome, and

brave General Gist of South Carolina. I loved General Gist, and when I mentioned his name, tears gathered in my eyes. I think he was the handsomest man I ever knew. Our army was a long time crossing the railroad bridge across Chickamauga River. Maney's brigade of Cheatham's division and General L.E. Polk's brigade of Claiborne's

division formed a sort of line of battle, and had to wait until the stragglers had all passed. I remember looking at them, and as they passed I could read the character of every soldier. Some were mad, others cowed, and many were laughing. Some were cursing Bragg, some the Yankees, and some were rejoicing at the defeat.

I cannot describe it. It was the first defeat our army had ever suffered, but the prevailing sentiment was anathemas and denunciations hurled against Jeff Davis for ordering Long Street's corps to Knoxville and sending off Generals Wheelers and Forests cavalry, while every private soldier in the whole army knew that the enemy was concentrating at Chattanooga.

When we arrived at Chickamauga station, our brigade and General L.E. Polk's brigade of Claiborne's division were left to set fire to the town and burn up and destroy all those immense piles of army stores and provisions which had been accumulated there to starve the Yankees out of Chattanooga. Great piles of corn and sacks and bacon and crackers and molasses and sugar and coffee

and rice and potatoes and onions and peas and flour by the hundreds of barrels, all now to be given to the flames, while for months the rebel soldiers had been stinted and starved for the want of those same provisions. It was enough to make the bravest and most patriotic soul that ever fired a gun in defense of any cause on earth think of rebelling against the authorities as they were then.

Every private soldier knew these stores were there and for the want of them we lost our cause. Reader, I ask you who you think was to blame. Most of our army had already passed through hungry and disheartened, and here were all these stores that had to be destroyed.

Before setting fire to the town, every soldier in Maney's and Polk's brigades loaded himself down with rations. It was a laughable-looking rear guard of a routed and retreating army. Every one of us had cut open the end of a corn sack, emptied out the corn, and filled it with hard-tack.

And besides, every one of us had a side of bacon hung to our bayonets on our guns. Our canteens and clothes and faces and hair were all gummed up with molasses. Such is the picture of our rear guard. Now reader, if you were ever on the rear guard of a routed and retreating army, you know how tedious it is.

You don't move more than ten feet at furthest before you have to halt, and then ten feet again a few minutes afterwards, and so on all day long. You haven't time to sit down a moment before you are ordered to move on again. And the Yankees dash up every now and then and fire a volley into your rear. Now that is the way we were marched that live-long day until nearly dark, and then the Yankees

began to crowd us. We can see their line forming, and know we have to fight. The Battle of Cat Creek. About dark a small body of cavalry dashed in ahead of us and captured and carried off one piece of artillery and Colonel John F. House, General Manie's Assistant Adjutant

General. We will have to form line of battle and drive them back. Well, we quickly form line of battle, and the Yankees are seen to emerge from the woods about two hundred yards from us. We promptly shell off those sides of bacon and sacks of hard-tack that we had worried

and tugged with all day long. Bang! Bang! Sss! Sss!

We are ordered to load and fire promptly and to hold our position. Yonder they come, a whole division. Our regiment is the only regiment in the action. They are crowding us. Our poor little handful of men are being killed and wounded by scores.

There is General George Manie badly wounded and being carried to the rear, and there is of Fulcher's battalion killed dead in his tracks. We can't much longer hold our position. A miniball passes through my Bible in my side pocket. All at once we are ordered to open ranks.

Here comes one piece of artillery from a Mississippi battery, bouncing ten feet high over brush and logs and bending down little trees and saplings under whip and spur. The horses are champing the bits and are muddied from head to foot. Now quick, quick! Look!

The Yankees have discovered the battery and are preparing to charge it. When limber horses encase on to the rear, No. 1 shrapnel load, fire, boom, boom, load, aboyat, boom, boom. I saw Sam C.A. fall badly wounded and carried to the rear. I stopped firing to look at Sergeant Doyle, how he handled his gun.

At every discharge it would bounce and turn its muzzle completely to the rear, when those old artillery soldiers would return it to its place. And it seemed they fired a shot almost every ten seconds. Fire, men! Their muskets roll and rattle, making music like the Ketelin bass drum combined.

They are checked. We see them fall back to the woods, and Knight throws her mantle over the scene. We fell back now and had to strip and wade Chickamauga River. It was up to our armpits and was as cold as charity. We had to carry our clothes across on the points of our bayonets.

The ice had been kindled every few yards on the other side, and we soon got warmed up again. Ringgold Gap I had got as far as Ringgold Gap when I had unconsciously fallen asleep by a fire, it being the fourth night that I had not slept a wink.

Before I got to this fire, however, a gentleman whom I never saw in my life, because it was totally dark at the time, handed me a letter from the old folks at home, and a good suit of clothes. He belonged to Colonel Breckenridge's cavalry, and if he ever sees these lines I wish to say to him, God bless you, old boy.

I had lost every blanket and vestige of clothing except those I had on at Missionary Ridge. I laid down by the fire and went to sleep, but how long I had slept I knew not when I felt a rough hand grab me and give me a shake, and the fellow said, Are you going to sleep here and let the Yankees cut your throat? I opened my eyes and asked, Who are you?

He politely and pleasantly yet profanely told me that he was General Walker. The poor fellow was killed the 22nd of July at Atlanta, and that I had better get further. He passed on and waked others. Just then General Claiborne and his staff rode by me, and I heard one of his staff remark, General, here is a ditch or gully that will make a natural breast work.

All I heard General Claiborne say was, Er, eh, eh. I saw General Lucius E. Polk's brigade form on the crest of the hill. I went down a little further and laid down again and went to sleep. How long I had lain there and what was passing over me I know nothing about, but when I awoke here is what I saw.

I saw a long line of blue coats marching down the railroad track. The first thought I had was, Well, I'm gone up now, sure. But on second sight I discovered that they were prisoners. They were in the service of the Confederacy. But their dead were so piled in their path at Ringgold Gap that they could not pass them.

The Spartans gained a name at Thermopylae, in which Leonidas and the whole Spartan army were slain while defending the pass. Claiborne's division gained a name at Ringgold Gap, in which they not only slew the victorious army, but captured 5,000 prisoners besides. The brilliant victory of Claiborne's made him not only the best general of the Army

of Tennessee and covered his men with glory and honor of heroes, but checked the advance of Grant's whole army. We did not budge an inch further for many a long day, but we went into winter quarters right here at Ringgold Gap, Tunnel Hill and Dalton.