Battle of Lookout Mountain (8 page)

Lieutenant Smith stopped by and listened, and a smile touched his lips. However, when Drake
stopped singing and began to talk again about what wonderful things the Blues were going to do, his smile disappeared.

Later the lieutenant said to Royal, “Carter, what about Drake Bedford? Pretty much of a boaster, isn’t he?”

Royal was embarrassed. “Well, sir, he’s just a new recruit. He’ll calm down after he smells battle smoke a time or two.”

Lieutenant Smith cocked his head. “I like to see men with spirit and confidence,” he said. “Maybe your friend has it. He’s from your hometown, isn’t he?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve known him a long time.”

“Is he a good soldier?”

“Yes, sir, he’s a good shot, strong, can march all day. I’d have to say he’s a real asset to the company.”

“Well, we need men who believe in themselves.”

“At least he’s that, sir.”

The Union army pushed its way toward Chattanooga. General Bragg evacuated the city and moved his forces farther south to wait for the Union troops.

The Northern general misinterpreted this as a retreat and decided to pursue the Confederates. What he should have known was that it was highly dangerous to go charging into an unknown situation.

His Army of the Cumberland formed three wings. Unfortunately, they got separated from each other, and communications broke down. Then General Rosecrans awoke to the fact that this enemy was not fleeing. He realized the dangerous
position in which his army was placed and that he was heavily outnumbered.

Time flew by. Everyone was waiting. How long would the Rebels wait to attack? The longer they waited, the dimmer their chances. Finally, on September 18, Bragg gave the order to strike the following morning.

O
n September 19 the Battle of Chickamauga began. It turned out to be one of the most confusing battles of the war.

In order to attack the Union forces, the Confederates had to cross Chickamauga Creek. They held most of the bridges, so they rushed ahead, and soon three-fourths of General Bragg’s army was west of the stream.

The Union army pushed ahead also. The area was densely wooded, and the Washington Blues stumbled through undergrowth that clawed at their uniforms. It scratched their hands and faces, and by the time their front lines were stretched about six miles through the woods, all the members of Royal’s company were worn out.

All except Drake Bedford. His face was alight with excitement. His eyes gleamed, and he looked every inch a soldier as he edged past the battle line.

“Come back here, Drake!” Royal said roughly.

Drake looked ahead into the growing darkness where the Confederate troops no doubt lay. “I bet we could catch ’em off guard if we charge right now,” he said.

“Well, you go tell General Rosecrans all about it,” Jay Walters said. He plopped down on the ground, his back against a tree, breathing hard. “As for me, I’m willing to wait a spell.”

“Be cold rations tonight, boys,” Royal announced.

Before a battle, the Union troops always stashed three days’ supply of rations in their knapsacks. Sometimes the Confederate spies knew exactly when they were going into battle by this sign.

Now the men scattered and ate, and soon a full moon began to rise like a silver pock-marked disk. Drake got out his fiddle and began to play “Lorena.”

After he had played a few more tunes, Walter Beddows suggested, “How about a hymn or two? I always did love the old hymns.”

“Don’t know any,” Drake said rather shortly.

He did in fact know more than one hymn, but he stubbornly refused to admit it. Since hearing that sermon on the Prodigal Son back in Pineville, he’d had a nagging inside. He could not forget the minister’s eyes locking onto his. Now as he toyed with the fiddle and then played a short Scottish melody, he thought again of the man’s words as he’d passed out the church door—
God is waiting for you…. Don’t pass Him by
.

Drake was troubled by thoughts that he had never had before. In the army it was inevitable that men would talk about death. He himself never alluded to it, but as the familiar sounds of the camp rose about him—a mumbling around other campfires, a cavalry troop passing in the rear, a sharp command from an officer—he suddenly thought,
What if I did die tomorrow in the battle?
Quickly he put the thought away and began to play something cheerful.

Across the campfire from him, Jay Walters talked with Sgt. Ira Pickens, a tall, lean young man with brown eyes and bushy black hair. He was a
friend of Leah’s, having become acquainted with her when she accompanied her father on one of his trips.

“Looks like we’re gonna see some action tomorrow, Jay,” Ira said.

“I reckon so.” Jay was flanked on the other side by Walter Beddows. The two stuck close together, and usually Royal was not far off.

Ira looked over to where the new recruits were whispering among themselves, and he grinned. “Reckon those fellows are anxious to see the elephant”—the term the soldiers used when referring to seeing action. “Me, I’m not so anxious,” he said. “From what I hear, there’s about as many of them as there is of us. And when them Southern fellas get stirred up, they’re just like a swarm of hornets, and they never know when to quit.”

“I hope we give a good account of ourselves,” Jay said. “It’s been a long war, and we seen lots of fellas go down.”

“I reckon there’ll be some more of us go down tomorrow,” Beddows said.

He made the comment without a sign of fear, but his remark touched Drake. He turned to Rosie and said very quietly, “Those fellas are always talking about gettin’ killed. I wish they wouldn’t do that.”

“It could happen.”

Then Drake grinned at him. “Course,
you
talk about dying all the time. Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve talked about your funeral and what sermon you wanted—and look at you! Why, you’re strong as any man in the company.”

“Aw, that’s just the way it seems. I’m not a well man,” Rosie lamented. He glanced at Drake. “You’re not really worried, are you?”

“Me?” Drake shook his head sternly. “No, I’m not. But it seems like they are.”

The fire crackled and sent sparks rising high toward the dark sky. Rosie watched them and then murmured, “Maybe they seen enough to know there’s something to be scared of.” He put his knapsack down for a pillow. “Probably won’t sleep a wink tonight. My insomnia is giving me trouble again.”

Then he promptly went to sleep, leaving Drake to stare into the fire and think of the coming battle.

The next day began, it appeared to Drake, as one solid, unbroken crash of thunder. At early dawn he woke up with a start to the roar of guns. Officers were screaming at the troops to form lines, and Lieutenant Smith’s face was almost purple as he raged up and down.

Scrambling to his feet, Drake saw small flashes winking across the way.
Like the eyes of demons
, he thought. This, he knew, was Confederate fire, and his hands grew sweaty as he checked his weapon.

“Form up! Form line of battle!” Lieutenant Smith yelled, and the sergeants moved around, getting their squads into position.

There was a moment of tense waiting, and then Jay Walters yelled, “There they come! There they come!”

Drake looked across the broken field. He caught fleeting glimpses of men darting from tree to tree and dropping to the ground to reload.

This was not what he had expected. From the battle pictures he had seen, he expected lines of men in neat ranks to come across the field. Instead, the Confederates were screaming like demons,
weaving and dodging, and it was almost impossible to get a bead on them.

Drake threw up his rifle and fired wildly, knowing that he would miss. His hands trembled as he pulled the muzzle upright and began to reload. He had no sooner reloaded than the man beside him gave a cry and fell, clutching his leg. Blood stained the ground.

At once Royal Carter was there, tying a tourniquet around the leg and saying, “You’ll be all right, soldier. We won’t leave you!” Then he jumped up and looked down the line. “You’re shooting high! You’re shooting uphill! Aim low—for their legs.”

Bullets and minié balls hummed through the air, one of them so close to Drake’s ear that it sounded like an angry bee. He flinched involuntarily. Then he leveled his musket and tried to catch a clear target, but black gun smoke cast a dense fog over the battlefield, making it almost impossible to see. Blindly he pulled the trigger, reloaded, fired. He was like a man building a box, who stubbornly performed the routine actions necessary. He rammed powder into the musket, thrust the wad in on top, then the bullet, then another wad, then the percussion cap, and then he would level the rifle and fire.

“Charge! Charge!” The call went up and down the line. “Get ready for the charge!”

Rosie was beside Drake, his lips black with powder from the cartridges. “Pretty hard work, ain’t it, Drake? Put your bayonet on. Didn’t you hear the lieutenant? We’re going to have a bayonet charge.”

Drake gaped at him as if he hadn’t understood, then he nodded. With fumbling hands he attached his bayonet and waited.

“Charge! Charge!”

Up and down the line, the Washington Blues lunged forward. Drake’s legs felt numb. It took a force of will for him to move. He could not understand what was happening to him. Then he saw he was falling behind, and he tried to hurry. Rosie was already thirty yards ahead, yelling and screaming. He saw Royal turn and look back at him, and somehow this made him angry.

What’s the matter with me?
he thought wildly.
Come on, Bedford. Let’s go!

Stumbling forward into the smoke, Drake saw members of his company go down. Some dropped without a sound. Others screamed and clutched at their faces, at their throats, at their stomachs.

And then suddenly out of the smoke appeared a huge man holding a bayonet before him. He was Confederate, but his uniform was simply butternut pants and checkered shirt and a slouch hat. He had thick blond whiskers, and his lips were drawn back, exposing yellowish teeth. He was screeching at the top of his voice—but all that Drake focused on was the razor-edged bayonet.

He had no time to throw up his own weapon, for the enemy was on him. He saw the bayonet plunge toward him, and he suddenly lost all ability to move. Then, abruptly, the Confederate, with a look of surprise on his face, pitched forward, hit the ground, and lay still at Drake’s feet. His musket tumbled away.

“Come on, Drake! Let’s go! You all right?” Royal grabbed his arm. “We’ve got them on the run!”

Drake whispered, “All right, all right. I’m coming.” Gripping his weapon, he stumbled ahead.

Royal moved away, encouraging other members of the squad. The Confederates were falling back,
and there was a wild cry of victory from Company A as they charged.

And then, unexpectedly, there was a surprise attack from the right side. Some Confederates had apparently hidden in a grove of trees, and now they stormed out, tearing through the Blues with a terrible barrage.

Drake stared at the falling men. He heard the Confederates screaming, and the bores of their muskets seemed as large as the mouths of cannons. Something touched his side. He looked down to see that a bullet had neatly slit his uniform.

Suddenly Drake knew that there was no hope. Bullets were ripping the air beside him; it would be suicide to stay. Without thought, he dropped his musket, whirled, and began to run. His one desire was to get away from that terrible fire before he, too, was killed.

He heard a voice crying, “Drake! Drake, don’t run!” He ignored it, however, and ran even faster.

Other men were approaching in thin ranks— their support troops. They asked, “What is it? What’s going on?” but Drake did not answer. Blind fear took hold of him, and he ran and ran and ran.

N
o one ever knew the exact roll call of heroes at the Battle of Chickamauga. It was a fierce battle with great courage shown by both Confederate and Union soldiers. The dead and wounded lay across the fields, and both sides suffered dreadfully.

One man became famous as a result of this battle. Before he was ten years old, Johnny Clem had run away from his home in Ohio to be a drummer boy. But at Chickamauga, he armed himself with a sawed-off musket and shot and wounded a Confederate officer.

After the war he was appointed a second lieutenant. When he retired at the age of sixty-five, he was a major general. Johnny Clem was the last man active in the armed forces who had actually fought in the Civil War.

When the battle was over, the Union army began its retreat back toward Chattanooga.

The Southern general, Bragg, spoke with a Confederate soldier who had been captured and then escaped. The soldier, who had seen the Federals for himself, said to the general, “They’re retreatin’, General.”

But Bragg would not accept the man’s story. “Do you know what a retreat looks like?” he asked.

The soldier stared back at him and replied, “I ought to, General—I been with you during the whole campaign!”

Bragg decided not to continue the fight. His army was completely worn down. When the count was in, it would reveal that Confederate casualties had been greater than those suffered by the North. The Confederates lost 18,000 men—killed or wounded or captured—while the Federals lost approximately 16,000.

General Bragg had also lost a third of his artillery forces. When someone pressed him to pursue the fleeing Union troops, he protested that he couldn’t because his wagon trains did not have sufficient horses and his artillery was almost completely bereft of the animals that pulled them.

By September 22, the entire Federal army was safely inside its Chattanooga defenses, and General Rosecrans put his men to shoring up the fortifications.

General Bragg moved the Southern troops up to the outskirts of Chattanooga and decided to starve Rosecrans into submission.

“We’ve got him where we want him!” he said confidently. “His destruction is only a matter of time.”

“Hey, Professor, did you hear about Drake?”