Battle of Lookout Mountain

by Gilbert L. Morris

  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.

  9

  A Defeated Army

  No 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?”

  Royal dropped his shovelful of dirt and looked up at Rosie, who had appeared at the top of the ditch. Royal’s hands were blistered, and he laid the shovel down and flexed them, grunting with pain. “No, what about him?”

  Rosie had somehow managed to avoid most of the work of building defenses. He turned up, of course, at sick call every day. But now, as he stood looking down at the ditchdiggers, he seemed in good health to Royal.

  “What did he do now?” Royal asked in disgust.

  “Another fight. Some fella made a remark about the way he run off, and Drake just peeled his potato.” Rosie cast his light blue eyes up at the sky in an expression of awe. “He was a great big fella too. Done some prizefighting. Drake cut him down to size all right.”

  Walter Beddows, beside Royal in the ditch, asked, “How did he get in trouble over that?”

  “Major Bates was passing by.” Major Bates was the commander of the Washington Blues and was strict concerning fighting in the ranks. “He hauled Drake up and gave him a dressing down. I reckon he’s gonna pull guard duty for quite a spell to make up for that.”

  “Where is he now?” Royal asked.

  “Last I seen, Sergeant Pickens was takin’ up where the major left off. Ira sure don’t like it when any of his squad gets in trouble.” Rosie wagged his head sadly. “Don’t see why Drake has to be so put out about everything.”

  Royal answered quickly, “I think he’s still ashamed of running away. You know how Drake is—he’s awful proud.”

  “Well, he wasn’t the only one who run off,” Rosie protested. “I seen lots of fellas who got kinda confused about where the front line was in that there fight. Matter of fact, I might of run off myself with just a little more encouragement from them Rebels.”

  “Drake’s just got to face up to it,” Beddows put in. “I guess he never run from anything before, did he, Rosie?”

  “Not Drake Bedford. He always took a lot of pride in bein’ the toughest fella around, and now when he looks like a weakling—why, it just sort of humiliated him.”

  The three men stood talking idly for a time. They were all sick and tired of digging and building fortifications, and saw little sense to it. The two armies lay face-to-face, so close the Yankees could hear the Confederate signals. Rebel tents dotted the hillsides. They could see Rebel signal lights on the summit of Lookout Mountain and up on the knob of Missionary Ridge.

  Royal glanced across to where the Confederates were camped. “We’ll likely have another big fight on our hands. Those Rebels look pretty strong!” he observed.

  At that moment Drake stalked up. His handsome face was flushed, and his lips were drawn tight. Anger, Royal saw, was bottled up inside of him, and it would take only a word to set him off again.

  “Hello, Drake,” he said cheerfully enough. “Come to give us a hand with this blasted ditch?”

  Drake passed him a sullen look and jumped down into the trench. Without a word he picked up a shovel, and soon the dirt was flying.

  Walter Beddows exchanged a glance with Royal and said, “Don’t work so hard, Drake. Leave a little of this here dirt for Royal and me.”

  Drake turned to him and said shortly, “You tend to your diggin’, Walter, and I’ll take care of mine.” He had actually done very little work on the fortifications, but now he was just ill-tempered enough to throw himself into it.

  “Well,” Royal said quickly, “maybe we’ll get to go into town when we get this ditch dug. I asked Sergeant Pickens, and he said we might get a shot at it.”

  This excited some other soldiers, sweating as they went by, but Drake made no response whatsoever.

  Later on Rosie tried to talk with Drake.

  The company was lodged in a large, barnlike abandoned factory, and Drake was lying on his cot, staring up at the ceiling.

  Rosie sat down on his own cot and rubbed his legs. “You know, I got these shootin’ pains in my legs. Maybe I better go see the surgeon again.” Then he stared at his legs with dismay. “Sure hope they don’t have to come off. I heard about a fella once who got
shootin’ pains, and they had to take off one of his legs.”

  Drake turned his head to the side, his mouth pulled down in a frown. “There’s nothing wrong with your legs, Rosie,” he said shortly. He was obviously still seething over the dressing down the major had given him. “And if Ira Pickens says one more word to me, I’m gonna bust him!”

  “No, sir, you don’t want to do that, Drake!” Rosie protested, forgetting his ailments. Alarm was in his voice. “Don’t ever hit nobody that’s over you, not an officer or not even a sergeant.”

  “I don’t care what happens,” Drake said sullenly. He closed his eyes as if that would shut out Rosie’s words.

  Rosie continued to argue for some time but found himself completely ignored. “Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll lie down here myself and rest awhile. A man in my condition needs lots of rest.”

  The next day Rosie and the rest of the squad were working again on the ditch when Sgt. Ira Pickens came by.

  “You fellas keep at it,” he said. “Those Rebels over there may decide to pay us a call.”

  “Aw, they’re as fought out as we are, Sarge,” Walter Beddows said. He tossed a small shovelful of dirt up on the edge of the ditch and grinned. “Why don’t you come down here and help us?”

  Ira Pickens was a veteran by this time, though he was very young. He’d turned into a fine sergeant. “They didn’t make me sergeant to dig ditches,” he remarked. “Just to stay on the backs of you lowly privates. Now you get with it, Walter. Someday you’ll be a sergeant like me.”

  Rosie watched Ira walk along a few steps and glance at Drake, who was leaning against the raw earth of the bank, staring down at his feet.

  “Won’t do no good to study that dirt, Drake,” Ira said. “Start pitching it up here.”

  Rosie suspected that Drake had slept little during the previous night. By now most men would have gotten over a bawling out from an officer, but not Drake Bedford. He glared up at Ira and said abruptly, “Dig all the dirt you want, Pickens. Just don’t be telling me what to do!”

  Ira looked taken aback. His eyes narrowed, and he said, “Get to work, Drake. Don’t give me any of your back talk.”

  Drake laughed harshly. Then he cursed the sergeant and ended up by saying, “You’re not gonna tell me what to do.”

  “How’d you like a little trip to the guardhouse?” Ira inquired. He was a peaceful young man, but he could not ignore this sort of behavior from his men. “Now get to work, Drake, or that’s where you’ll wind up.”

  Drake threw down his shovel and was on the lip of the ditch in one swift movement. To Rosie’s horror, he lashed out and struck the sergeant in the face.

  Pickens was knocked backward, and blood began to flow from his nose.

  Drake stood over him saying, “I’ll do what I please, Pickens.”

  Rosie and Royal bounded up out of the ditch. Each took one of Drake’s arms, and Rosie said, “Now you done it!” He groaned, holding on tightly. “Now, you tell Ira you’re sorry there, and maybe you’ll get out of this.”

  “That’s right, Drake,” Royal agreed.

  Blood from the sergeant’s nose had stained his uniform, and anger was in his eyes. He got to his feet. “Bring him along. We’ll see if a stay in the guardhouse will make him a little bit more easy to live with.”

  But Drake refused to go to the guardhouse, and finally Ira had to summon others from the company to manhandle him.

  Then Lieutenant Smith was called in, and he scowled, saying, “You’re not much of a fighting man when it counts, Bedford. Why didn’t you show a little of this when we were facing the Rebels?”

  Drake looked him straight in the eye and called him a vile name.

  Lieutenant Smith’s face flushed. “Throw him in the guardhouse! Let’s see how a few days on bread and water will satisfy him.”

  Rosie talked to Royal later. “Well, it looks like Drake’s done tore it now,” he said sadly. He shook his head and added mournfully, “He’s gonna hate that place. I spent one day in it once for not saluting an officer, and I was ready to quit a long time before they was. It’s a bad place.”

  “Maybe it’ll teach Drake to be a little bit more polite.”

  Rosie shook his head. “No, I don’t reckon it will. He’s so mule-headed stubborn that I don’t think anything could do that.”

  Lori opened the door and smiled. “Why, Royal,” she said, “come in—I really didn’t expect to see you.”

  Royal had managed to get permission from Lieutenant Smith to spend an afternoon in town. He had carefully shaved and dressed in a clean uniform and found his way to the Jenkins home, a two-story, white frame house on the outskirts of Chattanooga.

  He entered and looked around. “Will it be all right with your parents if I come calling?”

  “Of course it will,” Lori said. “They’re not in right now, but they’ll be back soon.”

  She was wearing a white dress that fitted her neatly, and her auburn hair was done up in a fashion that Royal had never seen before. The sunlight came through the windows just then, striking it, and it gave off red glints. “You look so good, Lori,” he said simply.

  Lori flushed at his compliment. “Why, thank you, Royal. Come into the kitchen. I was making a batch of cookies.”

  Royal followed her and sat on a high stool, watching as she worked. When she asked about Drake, he sighed. “It’s not good news, Lori. He got into a fight with a sergeant and got put in the guardhouse.”

  “What was the fight about?”

  Royal did not want to tell the entire story and said simply, “Oh, you know Drake. He’s just hotheaded.”

  “Will he have to stay there long?”

  Shifting uncomfortably on the stool, Royal ran his hand through his crisp blond hair. “Not too long, I hope. Sergeant Pickens is a good man. He’s the one that Drake had the fight with. The sergeant went to the lieutenant and said it wasn’t all Drake’s fault. I expect maybe he’ll be getting out in maybe a week.”

  “I hate to hear that happened,” Lori said. She cut perfect circles in the cookie dough with a tin can while she kept Royal talking about the battle and what he had been doing. Then she popped a pan of cookies into the oven and took off her apron. “Now, I’ll fix some coffee—or would you rather have tea?”

  “Coffee’s fine,” Royal said. “When will the cookies be done?”

  Lori looked very pretty as she stood there laughing at him. “In ten minutes or so. You’re always interested in sweets, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am.” Suddenly Royal took her hand. It still had flour on it. “I always did like sweet things.”

  Again Lori blushed but quickly laughed again. “You soldiers are all alike!” she exclaimed. “Always telling lies to young ladies.”

  “And I bet you’ve heard a lot of ’em, with all the soldiers in town.”

  Lori did not answer, but she drew her hand back. “You behave yourself.” She made coffee and, when the cookies were done, laughed to see how greedily he gobbled them up.

  “Don’t strangle yourself!” she admonished. “You can have all you want.”

  “Can I have some to take back to camp?”

  “Yes, you can, and be sure you take some to Drake.”

  “I’ll do that!” Royal promised.

  They talked for more than an hour, and then Lori’s parents came in. Micah Jenkins was a tall man of forty-five. Her mother was younger. They both welcomed Royal.

  “Can you stay for supper, Private?” Mrs. Jenkins asked.

  “Well, I think I can. I’ll have to get back before midnight, though.”

  Mr. Jenkins chuckled. “We don’t usually eat until midnight, soldier, but we’ll fill you up and get you back in plenty of time.”

  Royal thought the evening was wonderful. Mrs. Jenkins was an excellent cook, and her daughter was almost as good. When they finally sat down, the table was piled high with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, and onions. When that was gone, Royal applied himself to the
cherry pie that Lori had made for him.

  Pushing his chair back, he said with satisfaction, “I wish you’d sign on as our company cook, Mrs. Jenkins. We don’t get cookin’ like this.”

  “I don’t expect any army food is like this,” Mr. Jenkins agreed.

  Then Lori’s father leaned back in his chair and encouraged Royal to talk about himself. Soon the Jenkinses knew a great deal about the Carter family back in Kentucky.

  When it was time to go, Royal shook Mr. Jenkins’s hand and said fervently, “I sure appreciate your hospitality, sir.”

  “Come back any time you can, Royal.” Mr. Jenkins put his arm around his wife, saying, “We can always find a meal for a good soldier, can’t we, Tillie?”

  “We sure can—and next time bring some of your friends with you.”

  The two disappeared then, leaving the young people alone.

  “This has been great for me,” Royal said. “You have wonderful parents, Lori.”

  “They liked you too. I could tell.”

  The air was cool on the porch, but they stood talking for ten minutes. Finally Royal said, “Well, I’ve got to go now, Lori.”

  She held out her hand, and he took it. “It’s been so good to see you. Come back as often as you can.”

  All the way back to camp, Royal’s heart was high. Then he endured some teasing from the rest of the squad—until he passed out the cookies and the remains of the cherry pie.

  After a week, Drake was released from the guardhouse. When he came into the barracks, Royal could see that imprisonment had not improved his temper. But all the squad greeted him warmly, and Rosie said, “Glad you’re back, Drake. Wasn’t too bad, was it?”

  Drake sat down on his bunk and glared at the rest of the squad.

  He probably feels humiliated, Royal thought— perhaps even wants to apologize to Pickens, but that would mean backing down.

  Drake said, “What’s been going on around here since I been in the pokey?”