Tear In Time (3 page)

 
Instantly, the fresh and clear morning air became a heavy cloud of smoke that
stung their eyes and seared their nostrils with the foul stench of sulfur, as
the powder quickly burned and discharged through the breech of the
cannon.  The deafening cacophony of cannon and soldier startled the birds
and jarred other wildlife from their morning routine, instinctively sending
them scrambling for cover.

  The
well-trained soldiers began their work. In groups of three, one loaded the
powder and wadding, one loaded the shell or heavy ball, and the third lit the
charge. They were as a machine, working in perfect sequence and timing to
efficiently deliver unto the enemy, their deadly payload.

 
Whistling through the air, the shells and cannonballs picked up particulates of
dust and small flying insects as they arced across the valley toward
Chattanooga, killing anything in their path before reaching their final
destination.

  The
valley below became awake. The loud cannon fire from above signaled the
sharpshooters below to unleash their own deadly volley of destruction. In
reflex, they pulled their triggers and sent the tiny, yet deadly pieces of lead
on their individual paths of doom, as they quickly reloaded their weapons with
practiced speed.

  They
had only a second to think. With a startled jolt, the town and the Confederate
soldiers both stood in place as their minds tried to quickly process the
disbelief of their forthcoming death. Unable to move, they heard the whistle of
air as the projectiles hurled toward them. Those with their backs to the volley
waited and listened as the whistle grew quickly louder, into a thunderous rush
of air. Those facing the volley watched in disbelief as they quickly trained
their eyes on the direction of sound, watching the heavy ball and tiny bullets
disrupt the air in front of them just before impact.

  As
fate and misfortune collided, so did shell and flesh. In the group of drilling
Confederate soldiers, the first volley hit its mark with deadly accuracy. One
unlucky private watched in horror as a shell found its mark in the chest of the
unlucky companion marching in front of him. The shell tore through his uniform,
flesh and ribcage, instantly killing him even before the shell's internal
mechanisms sensed the pressure of impact. With a great explosion, the canister
fragmented into thousands of tiny projectiles, completely disintegrating the
whole of the soldier’s existence. There would be no burial for him, as there
was not a remnant left of his body.

 
Continuing on their way, the fragments of the now exploded shell found their
next victim in the watching soldier. As the hot pieces of metal tore through
his body, it severed his extremities, as well as buried molten metal into his
own chest. Deflected, yet still deadly, the fragments found other victims all
around the location of impact, sending blood, torn limbs and other shredded
body parts into their fellow soldiers. For a lucky few who escaped the initial
impact, the concussion from the shockwave of the explosion ruptured their
eardrums, disorienting them and rendering them useless. As other shells
exploded into and around the stunned, helpless soldiers, the same gory results
affected the devastating loss of the entire company.

  Along
the waterfront, the Confederate soldiers that were unloading supplies met with
the same fate as their drilling comrades. Shells fell around them, exploding
into thousands of fragments and tearing through their bodies, killing the
closest to impact while maiming and impairing others further away from the
epicenter. Cries of agony could be heard as they fell.

  As the
Union sharpshooters unleashed their hail of shot, balls of lead sailed through
the air with an awful shrill, telegraphing their intentions. The bullets found
their mark, tearing through gray cloth, violently ripping through flesh and
bone, and creating large, gaping wounds for germs and disease to enter the body
unrestricted. Collapsing to the ground, many screamed out in agony, clutching
their bleeding wounds in a desperate attempt to relieve the pain as death
quickly overcame them. Others lay in torment as hypovolemic shock quickly
enveloped their bodies from the loss of blood.

  All around
the city, that first barrage of munitions inflicted devastating damage. Not
only was the Confederate encampment targeted: loading docks on the river,
telegraph offices, livery stables and blacksmith shops were also targeted.
Anything that could be used to further the Confederates’ cause was targeted in
the first volley of Union fire.

  Within
seconds of the first discharge from the Union rifles and cannons, another round
quickly sounded, followed by a third and fourth volley. The murderous fire seemed
unrepulsed at first, but slowly, the Confederate soldiers that had not been
wounded, and others that had not been targeted withdrew and regrouped to form a
defensive line at various points around the city.

  With
determined anger, positioned behind a breastwork of wagons and supplies, a band
of Confederates located both sources of gunfire coming from the opposite side
of the river and higher up in the foothills, and unleashed their first of many
volleys of retaliation and repel.

  As
Union soldiers lay on their stomachs and reloaded, they heard the sound of lead
crashing through the branches and thickets above them as the Confederates
searched for their targets by trial and error. With the next round by the Union
sharpshooters, more Confederates lay dead and wounded, but with this volley
came a pinpointing of the Unions’ exact positions. With orders to aim low, the
Confederates returned fire into the lower banks of the river. Cries of pain and
agony testified to the Confederates’ skill, as several Union soldiers now lay
dead and permanently maimed, slowly reducing their effective force. Just as
with the Confederates, the Union soldiers now were on the defensive, and
scrambled for a moment, regrouping into a smaller fighting force.

 
Unbeknownst to the Union command, out beyond the city limits, the Confederates
loaded several cannons. Tucked away in a grove of tall oaks for protection from
the elements, they were easily missed by their opposing force. Quickly, the
three-man teams loaded their cannons and took careful aim at the Union battery.
With the command to fire at will, the Confederates opened up on the Union
forces staged in the foothills of Signal Mountain.

  With
visibility drastically reduced by the repeated cannon fire, the Union forces struggled
to see targets. By the time the Union artillery brigade saw the heavy smoke
from the Confederate volley, it was too late. As the scream of the
fragmentation canisters telegraphed their arrival, the Union soldiers could
only stand and watch in horror as the tiny projectiles grew larger in their
vision, the speed leaving them little else to do but stand and watch their
impending death.

  The
first of the four canisters roared into camp and impacted the ground between
two cannon batteries, immediately exploding into tiny shards of twisted and
molten metal. Instantly, the thousands of fragments traveled from the point of
impact and found the first of their victims in the two Union soldiers that
stood between the two cannons. Within a blink of an eye, their bodies absorbed
most of the fragments, nearly obliterating any proof of their existence. Blood
and bone splattered the two cannons in a characteristically horrific pattern of
death and destruction. As the fragments deflected and ricocheted off objects
human and metallic, their destruction was devastating, in all, killing and
maiming nine Union soldiers.

  A
split second later, two more canisters roared in after the first, these two
impacting the bluff just below the Union's cannoning. Although the projectiles
embedded in the earth and exploded, their destructive intention would not be
denied. The soil heaved and broke apart, sending large amounts of fast-moving
granules of dirt and pebbles toward the Union battery, ripping into flesh,
maiming several Union men hard at work, the force knocking them to the ground
in agonizing pain.

  The
last canister rocketed over the heads of the Union soldiers and hit a birch
tree high up in its trunk, exploding and instantly amputating its upper half
from the lower. The crash of the tree as it hit the ground went unnoticed as
the Union forces turned their destructive force onto the cloud of Confederate
smoke far out beyond Chattanooga.

  With a
wave of his sword, Gen. Negley bellowed the order to silence the cannons at the
far edge of town. Quickly, the teams of three jockeyed their cannons toward the
fading Confederate smoke, calculated the angle of trajectory, and lit their
charges. The repositioned cannons came to life as their muzzles spewed fire,
smoke, and metallic death, the recoil sending them reeling backward against
their restraints. Seconds later, far out beyond the city proper, primary
explosions could be seen as the shells hit their targets, followed by several
secondary explosions, signaling the destruction of enemy ammo caches that had
ignited as a result of the primary detonation.

 
Violently jolted from his lazy stare up river, the young boy sitting on the
elevated boulder fishing for his breakfast nearly fell into the water in reflex
to the loud explosions. He quickly gathered his things and jumped from rock to
rock, desperately fleeing for cover. Still at the bank of the river, he found
two large boulders to hide behind, giving him safe cover during the violent
exchange.

  Closer
to the action, the two bedraggled trappers, upon hearing the deafening
explosions that were killing their countrymen, quickly deduced that their only
safe escape was to continue their poling down river. Any attempt to make land
might expose them as combatants and draw fire from either side. They grabbed
their poles even harder and strained to push the tiny raft faster down river.
Hand over hand, they pushed on the flimsy poles, nearly breaking them as they
rushed to evade harm’s way. Painful blisters formed and quickly broke, leaving
fresh blood along the length of the poles as they continued to push for their
lives.

 
Standing on the left side of the raft, without warning, a single stray bullet
whistled through the air and impacted the back of the first trapper’s head. The
lead ball mushroomed and shattered his skull, propelling bone, brain and blood
down the front of his tattered clothes and into the river. Instantly, he fell
overboard and floated downstream.

  In
shock from witnessing the death of his companion, the remaining trapper cried
out in anguish as he helplessly watched his friend floating away, trailing
behind him a path of red water. Reality snapped him back into focus as another
bullet embedded into one of the logs of the raft, fracturing it and sending
tiny splinters into the water. He looked back at the pelts of beaver and
muskrat he and his now deceased friend had toiled over for the previous two
months. He hesitated for a moment, then grabbed a handful of beaver pelts, his
rifle, and a tiny strongbox of money, then quickly jumped into the water.
Struggling to stay afloat with the weight of the rifle, he kicked his boots
wildly under the water. As his head dipped below the surface, he was about to
let go of the rifle when his feet touched bottom. He pushed off the muddy floor
of the river and popped his head above the water, took a gasp of air and sunk
below the water again. Finding the bottom of the river once more, he launched
his waterlogged body above the surface and gasped for another breath of air. As
he sank back into the water, his head now was above the water line. He had
managed to move close enough to shore to now wade toward land with his handful
of belongings safe.

 
Spotting a large boulder at the river’s edge, he made his way toward it,
keeping his head mostly submerged for cover. At the boulder, he threw his pelts
and strongbox onto higher ground and positioned his rifle for defense. With the
powder wet and useless, he still aimed his weapon, hoping he would not be
called on to bluff.

 
Shaking and scared, the young boy huddled close to the rock, having just
witnessed the drama of the trappers unfold further upriver. At the tender age
of seven, he had never seen a man killed before, and the sight of the old
trapper's violent death shook him to his core. His world had changed in an
instant, the graphic vision imprinted in his memory forever. He openly wept as
he watched the remains of the old man drift slowly downstream past him.

  Union
Corporal Amol Fletcher, part of a three-man team assigned to artillery, had
been standing at his post when the first of the four Confederate shells
exploded. Fighting two cannons away, the blast sent shrapnel through his team,
decapitating one private and missing the other, while he himself took a large
fragment to his lower leg, nearly severing his calf from the bone. Instantly,
he dropped to the ground in agony. As he cried out in pain, he clutched the
dangling flesh, irrationally trying to reattach it to the bone. In his
delirium, his world seemed to slow. No one noticed him as he lay sprawled on
the ground between the cannons. As bullets passed over his head, he heard their
whistle, and for a moment forgot about his injury as a sense of self-preservation
overtook him. He rolled on his belly and began to crawl. Pulling with his arms
and pushing with his uninjured leg, he slowly worked his way through cannon and
soldier, dragging a trail of blood behind him.