<h2 id="id00363" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER X</h2>
<h5 id="id00364">MISSIONARY RIDGE</h5>
<p id="id00365" style="margin-top: 2em">After retreating from Chickamauga, the Yankees attempted to re-form 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.</p>
<p id="id00366">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, arn'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 jug full; but if you
want any whisky or tobacco, send over and we'll give you some. We've
got all we wanted, and assure you we are satisfied."</p>
<p id="id00367">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.</p>
<p id="id00368">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. When he passed by us, with his great retinue
of staff officers and play-outs at full gallop, cheers greeted them,
with the words, "Send us something to eat, Massa Jeff. Give us something
to eat, Massa Jeff. I'm hungry! I'm hungry!"</p>
<h4 id="id00369" style="margin-top: 2em">SERGEANT TUCKER AND GENERAL WILDER</h4>
<p id="id00370">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 heard the old guard
and the Yankee picket talking back and forth across the river. The new
guard immediately resumed the conversation. We had to halloo 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 hallooed out, "O, 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 waded. I do not know
what he and John talked about, but they got very friendly, and John
invited him to come clear across to our side, which invitation he
accepted. I noticed at the time that while John swam, the Yankee waded,
remarking that he couldn't swim. The river was but little over waist
deep. Well, they came across and we swapped a few lies, canteens and
tobacco, and then the Yankee went back, wading 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.</p>
<h4 id="id00371" style="margin-top: 2em">MOCCASIN POINT</h4>
<p id="id00372">Maney's brigade fortified on top of Lookout Mountain. From this position
we could see five states. The Yankees had built a fort across the river,
on Moccasin Point, and were throwing shells at us continually. I have
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 artillery men 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 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, and I don't think our artillery
was ever allowed to fire a single shot under any circumstances. Our
rations were cooked up by a 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 of
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 heart-broken,
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.</p>
<p id="id00373">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.</p>
<h4 id="id00374" style="margin-top: 2em">BATTLE OF MISSIONARY RIDGE</h4>
<p id="id00375">One morning Theodore Sloan, Hog 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 Lansdown,
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, "O,
Johnny, Johnny Reb!" I started out to meet him as formerly, when he
hallooed 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 are ordered to fire." I jumped back into the picket post,
and a minnie 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. Before 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 wood-choppers, and an occasional boom of a cannon would remind
you of a tree falling. We could hear colonels giving commands to their
regiments, and 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 blue coats swarming.</p>
<p id="id00376">Day's and Mannigault'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, Hog 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 waugh" went a shriek. He had 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; was too sleepy for that. Sloan could not see them, either.
Johnson pulled down, and another unearthly squall rended 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.
Said 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.</p>
<p id="id00377">I know nothing about the battle; how Grant, with one wing, went up the
river, and Hooker's corps went down Wills valley, etc. I heard fighting
and commanding and musketry all day long, but I was still on picket.
Balls were passing over our heads, both coming and going. I could not
tell whether I was standing picket 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 picket 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 had got separated from Sloan and
Johnson somehow; in fact, was waiting either for an advance of the
Yankees, or to be called in by the captain of the picket. 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 some
one'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.
Cassabianca never had such feelings as I had that livelong day.</p>
<p id="id00378"> Say, captain, say, if yet my task be done?<br/>
And yet the sweeping waves rolled on,<br/>
And answered neither yea nor nay.<br/></p>
<p id="id00379">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 knew not whither.
We soon arrived at the foot of the ridge, at our old breastworks.
I recognized Robert Brank's old corn stalk house, and Alf 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,
halloo 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
hallooed back, "here is your mule."</p>
<p id="id00380">The whole army was routed. I ran on down the ridge, and there was our
regiment, the First 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 has surrendered, Day's brigade has thrown down their
arms; and look yonder, that is the Stars and Stripes." He remarked very
coolly, "You seem to be demoralized. We've whipped them here. We've
captured two thousand prisoners and five stands of colors."</p>
<p id="id00381">Just at this time General Bragg and staff rode up. Bragg had joined the
church at Shelbyville, but he had back-slid 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 had a
chance to answer him. Every word of this is a fact. We at once became
the rear guard of the whole army.</p>
<p id="id00382">[ Author's Note: I remember of General Maney meeting Gary. I do not
know who Gary was, but Maney and Gary seemed to be very glad to see each
other. Every time I think of that retreat I think of Gary. ]</p>
<p id="id00383">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;" "Bully for Bragg,
he's h—l on retreat."</p>
<p id="id00384">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.</p>
<h4 id="id00385" style="margin-top: 2em">GOOD-BYE, TOM WEBB</h4>
<p id="id00386">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 brains smearing his
face and clothes, and he still alive. He was as brave and noble a man as
our Heavenly Father, in His infinite wisdom, ever made. Everybody loved
him. He was a 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 livelong night back to Chickamauga Station.
The next morning Dr. J. E. Dixon, of Deshler's 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. It mattered 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. O, 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.</p>
<p id="id00387">I thank God that I am no infidel, and I feel and believe that I will
again see Tom Webb. Just as sure and certain, reader, as you are now
reading these lines, I will meet him up yonder—I know I will.</p>
<h4 id="id00388" style="margin-top: 2em">THE REAR GUARD</h4>
<p id="id00389">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 road side we saw Day's
brigade pass us. They were gunless, cartridge-boxless, knapsackless,
canteenless, and all other military accoutermentsless, and swordless,
and officerless, 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, "Yaller-hammer, Alabama, flicker, flicker, flicker,
yaller-hammer, Alabama, flicker, flicker, flicker." I felt sorry for
the yellow-hammer Alabamians, 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 mention his name tears gather in my eyes. I think he was the
handsomest man I ever knew.</p>
<p id="id00390">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 Cleburne'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 Longstreet's corps to Knoxville, and sending off
Generals Wheeler's and Forrest's cavalry, while every private soldier in
the whole army knew that the enemy was concentrating at Chattanooga.</p>
<h4 id="id00391" style="margin-top: 2em">CHICKAMAUGA STATION</h4>
<p id="id00392">When we arrived at Chickamauga Station, our brigade and General Lucius
E. Polk's brigade, of Cleburne's division, were left to set fire to the
town and to 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 in 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 these 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 then
were. Every private soldier knew these stores were there, and for the
want of them we lost our cause.</p>
<p id="id00393">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 livelong day, until nearly dark, and then the Yankees began to crowd
us. We can see their line forming, and know we have to fight.</p>
<h4 id="id00394" style="margin-top: 2em">THE BATTLE OF CAT CREEK</h4>
<p id="id00395">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
Maney'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, siz, siz.
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 Maney badly
wounded and being carried to the rear, and there is Moon, of Fulcher's
battalion, killed dead in his tracks. We can't much longer hold our
position. A minnie ball 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. Unlimber, horses and caisson to the rear.
No. 1 shrapnel, load, fire—boom, boom; load, ablouyat—boom, boom.
I saw Sam Seay 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. Our
muskets roll and rattle, making music like the kettle and bass drum
combined. They are checked; we see them fall back to the woods, and
night 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. Fires had been kindled every few yards on the other side,
and we soon got warmed up again.</p>
<h4 id="id00396" style="margin-top: 2em">RINGGOLD GAP</h4>
<p id="id00397">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 Breckinridge'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 Cleburne and staff
rode by me, and I heard one of his staff remark, "General, here is a
ditch, or gully, that will make a natural breastwork." All I heard
General Cleburne say was, "Er, eh, eh!" I saw General Lucius E. Polk's
brigade form on the crest of the hill.</p>
<p id="id00398">I went 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. Cleburne had had the doggondest fight of the war. The ground
was piled with dead Yankees; they were piled in heaps. The scene looked
unlike any battlefield I ever saw. From the foot to the top of the hill
was covered with their slain, all lying on their faces. It had the
appearance of the roof of a house shingled with dead Yankees. They were
flushed with victory and success, and had determined to push forward and
capture the whole of the Rebel army, and set up their triumphant standard
at Atlanta—then exit Southern 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. Cleburne's division
gained a name at Ringgold Gap, in which they not only slew the victorious
army, but captured five thousand prisoners besides. That brilliant
victory of Cleburne'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.</p>
<p id="id00399">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.</p>
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