THE SIEGE OF CHATTANOOGA, THE BATTLE OF LOOKOUT
MOUNTAIN, AND THE STORMING OF
MISSIONARY RIDGE.
The battle of the nineteenth and twentieth of September, 1863, had resulted in disaster instead of victory. The Army of the Cumberland had been forced to retire, to abandon Missionary Ridge, and to fortify a line running through the outskirts of the village of Chattanooga from Cameron Hill, near the river below to the river above.
The victorious rebels came on and took possession of the entire length of Missionary Ridge, fortifying the same with strong parapets of earth, while one hundred pieces of artillery soon found position on the Ridge from right to left.
General Bragg also took possession of Lookout mountain, and planted some very heavy guns near the summit, just above the palisades. I never knew why those guns did not render our position around Chattanooga entirely untenable, unless it was the poor quality of the guns or lack of ammunition. All the execution that I ever heard of those guns doing was to kill a mule that would have died of starvation later on. Those hundred-pounders that were planted on the summit of Lookout were, for some reason, only fired a few times, and not for weeks prior to the time the siege was raised.
Never in the history of the Army of the Cumberland had the spirit of its officers and men been more depressed. The battle of Chickamauga had not only been fought and lost, but we also lost what was more than losing a battle. We had lost confidence in our commander.
And I think when the order came relieving General Rosecrans and placing General Grant in command of the Army of the Cumberland, there were few regrets expressed, even among those that had theretofore given General Rosecrans the title of "Hero of Stone River." But, in my humble judgment, one thing, and one thing only, saved the Army of the Cumberland. If General Rosecrans had shown himself incompetent to command the army at the battle of Chickamauga, the rebel general, Bragg, was possessed of a stupidity that more than overbalanced the incompetency of Rosecrans.
Just for one moment view our situation. Almost surrounded. No railroad communications over which to supply rations or ammunition. No transportation whatever, save one wagon road over Raccoon mountain, and that so exposed in places to the rebel sharpshooters that the teamsters (though in a sense noncombatants) were constantly exposed to the fire of an enemy they could neither see nor reply to. Then the road itself was simply horrible. When not bounding over ledges of rocks that nothing but an army wagon could withstand, they mired in the quicksand holes with which the way abounded, so that at times an empty wagon was more than a load for a six mule team. Then, this only road was constantly exposed to the raids of troops of the rebel mounted infantry. It was of this road a story is told of a teamster that was stuck with a load of ammunition in one of those miry places, and while he was waking the mountain echoes with his black whip and profanity, was overtaken by an "army chaplain," just fresh from some theological seminary of the north, and had not made the acquaintance of the army mule driver. Hearing the terrible profanity of this Jehu stuck fast in the mud, thought this a fitting opportunity to "sow the good seed," and riding up to the disgusted M. D. said, "My friend, do you know that Christ died for sinners?" The M. D., with a glance at the new and dazzling uniform of the chaplain, sang out, "Look a yer stranger, do you think it's any time for conundrums when I'm stuck fast in the mud and the rebels not a quarter of a mile in the rear?" Whether the chaplain thought his "ground was stony," or that the rebels were too near, he abandoned his theological lesson and left the M. D. to his fate.
In this situation of transportation, with no country on which to forage or draw any supplies whatever, with the Tennessee river behind us, with the Cumberland mountains beyond the river, with more than two hundred miles from the nearest reinforcements, what but the stupidity of Bragg saved us from destruction while in that position.
But, instead of striking us while depressed by defeat, he suffered us to select our position, and before ten days had elapsed our line was bristling with forts of no mean dimensions and strength, putting our capture beyond the possibility of being accomplished by assault.
The siege of Chattanooga proper began about the twenty-fifth of September. It was not long after this before a flag of truce was sent to General Bragg's headquarters on Missionary Ridge, asking the privilege of going out to the Chickamauga battlefield to bury our dead. It had been so slightly done that in some instances not enough dirt had been thrown over the sleeping braves to cover their uniforms. This last sad office was tenderly and carefully performed; and in all instances where there was anything to identify the dead soldier, his name, company, and regiment were marked on rude headboards that could be improvised on the spot. But alas! the fact that we, as an army, could not collect our dead after the battle, caused thousands to sleep in nameless graves.
After the war this army of known and unknown dead was carefully removed to the National Cemetery at Orchard Knob, near the base of the ridge, and buried; all the known neatly marked; but how frequently the word unknown occurs in that beautiful home of the dead soldier.
One good result, besides the decent interment of our dead, was the fact that all of our wounded that were not able to be removed to southern prisons were paroled and sent into Chattanooga. One of our men, Arthur Budlong, had lain upon the battlefield until our boys found him and brought him in under the flag of truce. Thus were the severities of war somewhat modified by the humanity of man that not even the unseemly war-cloud could altogether overshadow.
The monotony and dreariness of a siege can be appreciated only by those that have taken part therein. Language fails me to give you anything like an adequate idea of its listless torments. While on the march the scenery is constantly changing. The exercise of marching keeps one healthy, and keeps one's mind employed and the banishment from home and loved ones does not occupy so much of one's thoughts. The skirmishing and fighting, while dreadful in consequences and results, has on the soldier, to a certain extent, an exhilarating effect; and the hours spent thereafter, in the tales of personal adventure and experience, while causing one sometimes to think that the tribe of "Ananias" was not extinct, yet these tales of personal valor and daring helped to cheer and while away many an idle hour; and, as a rule, no one was deceived "by the tales they told us there." But in the siege every day was like all the others; and from the time we fell back on Chattanooga until operations began about the twentieth of November, the sky was cloudless. And while the long Indian summer period of southern Tennessee, so delightful to the citizen in time of peace, to us soldiers (to a certain extent in captivity) it seemed to breed melancholy and homesickness. We did all we could to avert this trouble. We played seven-up until we almost wore the spots off the cards. We smoked and "jawed." We criticised the plans of campaigns and battles. We decided the merits of brigadier and major generals until, could you have heard us, you would have thought we were writers formulating articles for the Century Magazine instead of besieged soldiers trying to drive away enui. Oh, if baseball had been invented then what regimental, brigade and division clubs we could have organized, with hospitals handy to care for the wounded. If we had only known the silly but fascinating game of lawn tennis our sick list would have been shortened.
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."
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."