Rosie held up a large blue bottle and scowled. “I’m about out of Dr. Zokor’s Famous Kidney Medicine,” he said. “Have to get some on the way.”
Drake actually was glad to hear of Rosie’s enlistment. He would’ve missed his friend a great deal. He slapped the gangly boy on the back. “We’ll show ’em how to soldier, won’t we?”
“To tell the truth, I don’t expect to live long enough to get to the battlefield. But in case I do kick the bucket, I want you to bury me proper, wherever we are.”
Drake merely laughed. He went back and began sorting through his clothes. “We’ll be too busy burying Rebs for me to bury you,” he said. The idea of putting on a uniform thrilled him. He looked around the room. “We’ll have to get rid of most of our stuff,” he said. “Uncle Sam is going to feed and clothe us for the next few months.”
Rosie, however, was looking down at his supply of medicines. “I hope they got good doctors in this here regiment. My condition needs good medical care.”
7
Home to Tennessee
On September 4, the Union army crossed the Tennessee River toward Chattanooga. Their plan was to get behind the Confederates, cut off their supplies, and bottle them up in the city. The Southerners then would be forced either to fight their way out, surrender, or starve.
The sun had gone down by the time campfires were lit, and soon the cooks were busy roasting beef for the army’s evening meal. Royal stood looking about the company, pleased with the showing the Washington Blues had made.
Jay Walters came by. “Well, Professor, when do you think we’ll catch up with the Rebels?”
“Don’t call me that—at least not until we’re back home.”
“Aw, sorry about that, Royal.”
At that moment they were joined by Walter Beddows, also a member of A Company from Pineville. The three of them had fished together, had hunted together, and now had fought together in earlier battles.
Royal looked at them fondly. “You know,” he said quietly, “it’s good to have you fellows here. Good to have men you know on each side of you when the fighting starts.”
“You’re right about that,” Jay said. He was tall, very thin, and had light brown eyes and reddish-brown hair. He glanced over to where Rosie and Drake sat beside the fire, watching the cooks prepare supper. “Now there are five of us in the company from Pineville.”
“That Rosie, though,” Jay said. “He’s always taking medicine. I didn’t know a man could have so many ailments!”
Royal grinned, looking at the lanky Rosie, who was spreading his hands as he told some tall tale to the soldiers who had gathered about him. “He sure is a talker, but I think he’s as healthy as a horse. I think he’s a hypochondriac.”
Jay Walters stared at him. “Is that anything like an Episcopalian?”
“No, you ignoramus!” Beddows exclaimed. “That means a fellow who always thinks he’s sick.”
“Well,” Jay said, “that’s Rosie all right. Still, he’s a good soldier. But Drake, I don’t know about him.”
Silence fell over the small group. Royal figured they were all thinking the same thing. Drake, as far as the physical part of soldiering was concerned, had proved to be an outstanding new recruit. He was strong, an excellent shot with a musket, and his eyesight was keen enough to make him a valuable asset. On the other hand, he was not as popular as Rosie, for he was constantly boasting about what would happen to the Rebels when the Union army caught up with them.
“I wish he’d soften up on his bragging a little bit, for a fact,” Walter Beddows mused. “He’s not doing himself any favors with the rest of the company.”
Royal knew that this was true. He had not said anything to Drake yet, but he was sure that Bedford was in for trouble.
Soon the call for mess came, and the troops gathered around with their plates and tin cups. Royal took his helping of roast beef and bread and coffee, then sat down with the other members of the squad.
The cooks had done a good job, and Rosie had urged one to overload his plate. Now he sat down with a small mountain of beef.
“That’s a lot of beef for a sick man, Rosie!” Walter Beddows teased.
“Well, you know, Walter,” Rosie said, nodding wisely, “every meal I eat, it’s like the fellow that was about to be hanged. You know when they hang fellows, they give ’em anything they want for their last meal.” He picked up a huge forkful of meat, chewed on it, and swallowed with a shudder. “Way I figure it, with a man in my condition, every meal might be his last.”
Murmurs went around the campfire, and smiles were hidden behind hands. The squad was well aware of Rosie’s peculiarities.
Drake ate with a healthy appetite and, putting his plate down, went for another cup of coffee. When he came back, he sat down and looked around him. “Feel sorry for those Rebels,” he said with a grin. “They’ll never know what hit ’em after the Washington Blues get through with ’em.”
Royal felt it was time to put some sort of brake on this recruit. “Drake,” he said, “I think you’ve got the wrong idea about those Confederates.”
“How’s that?” Drake challenged.
“Well, you seem to think all we have to do is say, ‘Boo,’ and they’ll turn around and head for Richmond.”
Drake leaned back on an elbow and sipped his coffee. He had an air of supreme confidence. “After Gettysburg, I reckon we proved who’s got the best army.”
“I’m not sure of that at all,” Royal said. “I talked to Tom Majors. He doesn’t like to talk about the war, but he told us about how his outfit went across that field right into enemy fire. Well, those Southern fellows are fighting for their homes. They’re not going to turn around and run just because we show up at Chattanooga.”
“Aw, Royal,” Drake scoffed, “don’t be an old woman.”
Later, when Drake Bedford and Rosie were alone, Rosie said, “You know, Drake, we’re newcomers to this here army business. Might be best if we didn’t brag so much.”
Drake stared with dissatisfaction at Rosie. “I know they think I’m a braggart, but I’ll show ’em when the time comes. So will you, Rosie. We been out on enough hunts together—coons and deer—we know how to hit a target.”
Rosie’s homely face was unsmiling. “Yeah,” he said, “but coon and deer—they don’t shoot back.”
However, Drake paid no attention to him.
The next night he got out his fiddle and began to play. Fiddling was his chief contribution to the march. All soldiers loved music, and the Washington Blues were no exception. Drake could play anything well, it seemed, and often joined in the singing himself.
He began to sing a song called “Come in Out of the Draft.”
The draft—or “conscription,” as it was called— was practiced in both South and North. Volunteers often did not fill the gaps, so men had to be forced to enlist in the army. It was possible to hire a substitute to go in your place, or sometimes simply getting married got a man off the hook. In any case, the “conscripts” were looked down on by the rest of the soldiers.
The song went:
As it was rather warm,
I thought the other day
I’d find some cooler place
the summer months to stay.
I had not long been gone
when a paper to me came,
And in the list of conscripts
I chanced to see my name.
I showed it to my friends,
and they all laughed,
They said, “How are you, Conscript?
Come in out of the draft.
I tried to get a wife,
I tried to get a “Sub,”
But what I next shall do,
now, really, is the “rub.”
My money’s almost gone,
and I am nearly daft;
Will someone tell me what to do
to get out of the draft?
I’ve asked friends all around,
but at me they all laughed<
br />
And said, “How are you, Conscript?
Come in out of the draft.
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.
8
Battle Fury
On 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, clutc
hing 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.
Battle of Lookout Mountain Page 6