Battle of Lookout Mountain

by Gilbert L. Morris

  Lucy has changed a lot. It seems like she’s growing up real quick. She had on some kind of a rose-colored dress with embroidery all over it, and she’d fixed her hair some new way that I never saw before. Sure did look pretty.

  When we got to the party, it was real nice. They had some musicians there, and it was kind of a dance and a birthday party combined. Everybody asked about you, and I could tell that they wished you were here. So do I! Lucy said to tell you “Hello.” We didn’t get back until real late, but we sure had a good time.

  Well, keep on doing the best you can for Tom. I’m praying that he’ll get his mind straight over this thing. We sure appreciate all you folks have done for us. Give Esther a big kiss for me.

  By the way, Lucy’s dress wasn’t as pretty as the one you wore at our last birthday party—and Lucy’s not as pretty as you are, either!

  With warm regards,

  Jeff Majors

  Leah exclaimed angrily when she read that Jeff had gone with Lucy to a party, but then she read the last few lines over and over, her cheeks glowing.

  She was startled when a voice said, “Get another letter, Leah?”

  Leah turned around to see Ezra passing by. “Why, yes—it’s from Jeff.”

  “He all right?”

  “Yes, the army’s not fighting right now.”

  “I guess he’s wondering about Tom.” Ezra looked solemn. “I wish Tom could see his brother and his pa. Maybe they could talk some sense into him.”

  “That doesn’t sound very likely,” Leah said.

  “What else did Jeff say?”

  “He said that … well … he said I was prettier than Lucy Driscoll.”

  Ezra grinned at her. “I could’ve told you that.”

  “You don’t know Lucy Driscoll.”

  “Sure don’t—but you’re prettier than she is.”

  It was the most extravagant compliment Ezra had ever paid Leah, and she laughed aloud. “You’re getting to be quite a ladies’ man—tossing those compliments around. Next thing, you’ll be writing poetry.”

  “I don’t reckon I’ll do that,” Ezra said ruefully. After they’d talked awhile longer, he said, “I guess you pretty much favor Jeff.”

  Leah looked up quickly and studied his face. “We been best friends for a long time, Ezra. We grew up together.”

  This seemed to trouble him, but he said, “It’s nice having a best friend.” He got up and walked away.

  Leah knew that Ezra fancied himself to be more or less in love with her. She liked him very much but wished that he didn’t feel this way.

  “I’ll have to find a girl for him,” she said. “He’s such a nice boy.” She thought for a minute. Alice Simpson—I’ll make sure that Alice sits next to him when we go to church Sunday. She’s pretty, and she’s got more sense than most girls. She’d be about right for Ezra.

  Tom Majors grew more despondent as Sarah’s sickness continued. His appetite dropped off, and he was more silent than ever. Any attempts to bring him out of it were met with a rebuff, and he found himself sitting in his room for long periods, thinking of the past.

  Something happened during this time that surprised him, however.

  The Bible was not a new book to Tom, for he had been brought up in a Christian home, and he’d become a Christian at an early age. But since his wounding at Gettysburg, he’d become so bitter he had practically shut the door on the Bible and on church. He even refused to go to services with the Carters.

  But one Sunday night after everyone else had gone to bed, he picked up the Bible that was lying on the dresser in his room. It was an old black Bible, worn limp. Inside the front cover was written “Daniel Carter. Born 1827. A gift from his father, Randolph Carter.”

  The yellow gleam of the lamp illuminated the page, and something about it caught Tom’s attention. He had already undressed and was ready to lie down but was not sleepy. Propping his legs up on the bed and stuffing a pillow behind his back, he began turning the pages. He was interested to see small, handwritten dates by various verses. Sometimes the date had “Answered” printed beside it, sometimes not. Finally Tom figured out that the marked verses indicated God’s promises. These, evidently, Dan Carter had claimed, and when an answer to prayer came, he had carefully dated it.

  Thumbing through the Bible, Tom was amazed at how many answers were noted. He read for a long time, examining the verses and studying the dates. Evidently Mr. Carter had begun this practice as a young man.

  Resting the Bible on his lap, Tom closed his eyes. He had always admired Dan Carter. No one in Pineville was more honest or devoted. Thinking back, he remembered how many kind words Dan Carter had had for him.

  Why, when I was just a kid, knee high to a duck, he thought, Mr. Carter always took me fishing with him when Pa couldn’t go. He taught me how to ride a horse. He was always ready to pay attention to a small boy. I guess he’s one of the best men I ever met.

  The lamp flickered, casting long shadows over the wall. The window was open, and a brisk breeze blew in, making the yellow flame dance. Silence filled the house except for the occasional groaning of timbers and the sighing of the wind—low, almost like a moan—as Tom continued to read in Dan Carter’s Bible.

  He came to the story of Joseph. Tom had always loved this story, and he realized that he had not read it in years.

  He read about Joseph’s being his father’s favorite. He read about how his brothers hated him and threw him into a pit. Then they sold him into slavery, and he went off to a strange land.

  Still, God was with him. Tom read more slowly as the story developed. Joseph found favor, first with his owner, then later with the jailer in the prison where he was thrown unjustly.

  Tom paused and said aloud, “Pretty bad for a young boy to be thrown into a pit. Then sold into slavery. Then chucked into jail for something he didn’t do.”

  He thought about that and began to read again. He traced the story of how Joseph was able to interpret the king’s dream and become second in the land of Egypt. And of how, in the closing chapters of the book of Genesis, God used Joseph to rescue his family.

  Tom’s eyes grew misty. It was a moving story, and he threw his arm across his eyes.

  Suddenly a strange feeling coursed through him. Here I am, he thought, crying about losing a foot, when so many fellows are dead. Joseph here went through big problems too, but he never gave up on God!

  He tried to read again, but somehow he was terribly disturbed. He closed the Bible, turned off the lamp, lay back, and tried to sleep. In the darkness, thoughts kept coming at him. Finally, he sat up. He put his head in his hands and, for the first time since he had been wounded, began to pray.

  “O God,” he said—and his voice broke—”I’ve been acting like the world’s awfulest baby. So many good men are dead, and here I am, crying like a whipped puppy because I had a little setback. God, I’ve been wrong about all this, and I’ve doubted You—and I’m sorry!”

  The next morning, Sarah was sitting up in bed when Tom came to her door. Something in his face startled her. “Why, Tom! What is it?” she asked. “You look—strange.”

  He sat on the cane chair beside the bed and put down his crutches. “Sarah,” he said abruptly, “I want to tell you something, but first I want to do something.”

  “What is it, Tom? What do you want to do?”

  “This!”

  To her amazement, he leaned forward and kissed her.

  “Why—Tom!” she gasped.

  “I’ve come to tell you that I love you, Sarah,” he said. “I guess I nearly always have. I’ve told you enough times, but I wanted to tell you again.”

  Sarah reached out to him, and he took her small hand in his.

  “I’ve been wrong, acting the way I have,” he said.

  “What’s come over you, Tom?”

  “I think it’s the Lord. I was reading your father’s Bible last night.” His face grew stern. “I’ve been acting like a spoiled kid, and God took me to task fo
r that. But it’s all right—He’s forgiven me. And now I want to ask you to forgive me for acting like such a baby.”

  “Why, of course, Tom. You don’t have to ask that.”

  His eyes lit up. “That’s what I wanted to hear,” he said happily. “Now we’re going back to where we were before. I remember what you told me in Gettysburg.”

  Sarah’s smile disappeared. “That—that may not come, Tom,” she said finally, her voice strained.

  “You mean you don’t love me anymore?”

  “No, no, I don’t mean that. It’s just that …” Sarah struggled for words. Then she touched her face. “You know what smallpox can do. I may be terribly scarred when this is over.”

  “I thought all this time you been telling me, Sarah,” he said quietly, “that you loved me even though I lost my foot.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “But you think my love’s not as strong as yours? That I wouldn’t love you if you had a scar? That’s not fair, Sarah. My faith’s been pretty weak, but all the time I’ve known that I love you.”

  Sarah’s face glowed. She said, “That’s sweet of you, Tom, but we’ll have to wait and see how bad it will be.”

  “I don’t care how bad it is. We’re going to believe God. We’re going to take whatever He gives us. I want you to hurry up and get well.”

  There was excitement in his voice, and she could see it in his eyes. It was so good to see him excited about something after the past terrible weeks. “I’ll do the best I can, Tom, but—”

  He touched her cheek. “You just hurry up and get well,” he said, “because as soon as you do, I’m gonna have a surprise for you.”

  “What is it?”

  He laughed quietly. “It wouldn’t be a surprise if you knew, would it? You just get ready. You get well, and I’ll take care of the surprise!”

  12

  Lori and Drake

  Anyone interested in the behavior of spoiled children might read the history of the Union and Confederate generals following the Battle of Chickamauga.

  General Rosecrans, the Federal general, threw a temper tantrum. He removed some of his officers who had been in the battle, and those he could not remove he demoted. What he did not realize was that President Lincoln was furious with him for not winning the battle.

  The Southern general, Bragg, spent a great deal of time trying to find officers to blame, and he removed most of them. He made one serious mistake, however—he relocated the largest part of General Nathan Bedford Forrest’s cavalry.

  General Forrest marched into Bragg’s tent and called him a scoundrel and a coward. Everyone within half a mile heard Forrest say, “You may as well not issue any more orders to me, for I will not obey them. If you ever again try to interfere with me or cross my path, it will be at the peril of your life!”

  General Bragg had a hot temper himself, but he well knew that General Forrest had killed more of the enemy personally than any other general on either side. He said no more to General Forrest.

  The two armies lay face-to-face, neither able to move.

  The Federals had to get their supplies from Nashville. Part of the trip was by wagon train over a steep, winding trail scarcely more than a footpath. Then the wagons had to cross into town over a pontoon bridge. The trip took from eight to twenty days—and under the heavy rains that followed the Battle of Chickamauga, the mules had to struggle through belly-deep mud.

  The siege wore on. It became more and more difficult to feed the animals. Half-starved, the mules chewed on trees, fences, wagons, and anything else they could reach. More than ten thousand of them died.

  Food in Chattanooga grew so scarce that men stole corn from the horses. They hunted for it on the ground where the animals had been fed. By mid-October, soldiers were assailing their officers with cries of “Crackers!” The men were now eager to see the usually despised hardtack.

  A newspaperman—George Shanks, of the New York Herald—wrote, “I have often seen hundreds of soldiers following behind the wagon trains which had just arrived, picking out of the mud the crumbs of bread, coffee, rice, and so forth, which were wasted from the boxes and stacks by the rattling of the wagons over the stones.”

  But the townspeople suffered most of all. While the army made some effort to feed its men, the non-combatants had no one to feed them. Many had their houses torn down to provide fuel for campfires. Most of the civilians eventually fled from the city.

  Some of this was on Drake’s mind as he got to his feet and walked away from his squad. The situation had been worse for him than for the others. They were suffering only the misery of poor food and bad weather—he was suffering even more from the torment of guilt.

  After running away in battle, he knew the rest of the company looked on him as a coward. Even more difficult was the fact that he knew he was one. As the weeks wore on, his self-disgust had festered until he now little resembled the cheerful, happy-go-lucky young man who had joined the army.

  Drake walked along, drawing his thin coat around him to cut off the cold breeze. His thoughts went again to Lori Jenkins. She must despise me, he thought bitterly. What girl wouldn’t despise a fellow that would run away? And she’s right.

  Looking overhead, he saw dark clouds gathering and thought that snow was in them. This depressed him also, for he hated cold weather. He longed to be back in Pineville, to be out of the army, but he knew he couldn’t turn the clock back. For more than an hour he walked his solitary way, berating himself.

  Early the next morning, however, Drake was approached by Ira Pickens. “Bedford, I don’t know why, but you’re gonna get a pass to go into town. You better go take it before the lieutenant changes his mind.”

  With surprise in his eyes, Bedford stared at the sergeant. “They run out of real soldiers to give passes to?” He turned away.

  “Wait a minute.” Pickens followed him.

  Ira was a good sergeant. Drake knew that. Now it looked as if Pickens was going to try once more to set him straight.

  “Look, Drake,” he said, “you made a mistake. Well, we all make them. You think you’re the only man that ever ran away when he heard a shot fired? I was at Bull Run, and I don’t mind telling you I ran like a rabbit! All of us did, but most of us managed to swallow that and get on with the war….”

  Sergeant Pickens continued to speak earnestly to Drake, but soon apparently realized that his words were having little effect. “Well,” he concluded, “go take your leave—but you’re making a mistake, living in the past.”

  Drake did not thank Pickens, but he was glad for the unexpected leave. He cleaned up, shaved, and polished his boots. He caught a ride toward town with a supply wagon pulled by two skinny mules and soon found himself in front of the Jenkins house.

  The wind was whipping out of the east, and he shivered as he dropped from the wagon.

  The driver accepted his “Thanks for the ride” with a nod of his head and went on.

  Drake crossed the yard and mounted the steps, but when he stood before the door he hesitated. The shame that was in him ran deep. He had the impulse to run, to leave without knocking. Having to face Lori while knowing his cowardice was painfully hard for him, but he pulled his shoulders back, set his jaw, and knocked.

  When the door opened, Mrs. Jenkins exclaimed, “Why, Drake, come in the house!” She opened the door wide. “Let me have your hat. I’ll go tell Lori you’re here.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Jenkins.”

  “You go on in the parlor now, and I’ll fix some tea. That’s always good on a chilly day like this.”

  “That would go mighty good, ma’am.” Drake walked into the front room and stood staring at the family pictures on the wall. One of them he found particularly attractive. It was a picture of Lori when she was no more than five or six. She had on a frilly white dress with a full skirt, and her hair was fixed in curls that hung down her back. She wore a curious smile. He had told her when he first saw that picture, “You seem to have been planning
some outrage.”

  She had replied, “I didn’t want to have my picture taken, and Ma made me smile when I didn’t want to.”

  Now, studying the photograph, he saw that even at that early age, Lori had traces of the beauty that was hers today.

  He looked at the other pictures. The Jenkins family could trace its history far back. Drake wished he had had a steady family, but his mother died when he was young, and his father was a drinking man. Drake had been raised in a haphazard fashion, living in many places. Lately he had wondered what sort of a man he might be if he had been reared differently.

  “Why, Drake, how nice to see you!”

  He turned when he heard Lori’s voice. She was wearing a dark blue dress that came to the top of her shoes, and a white sweater, and she looked very pretty.

  “How long can you stay?”

  “I’ve got an all-day pass.”

  “Oh, that’s fine. Then we can have supper.”

  “It seems like I always come for supper,” Drake said. “I wish I could take you out to a restaurant, but I’m broke. We haven’t gotten paid in weeks. I guess Washington’s forgotten about us.”

  “Oh, I can cook better than any old restaurant cook,” Lori said. “But come sit down now and tell me what all you’ve been doing.”

  They sat on the horsehair sofa, and from time to time Drake added wood to the fireplace. The fire made a cheerful crackling noise, and when he poked it, sparks spiraled up the chimney. “Always liked a fire,” he murmured, going back to sit beside her. He stared into the red and yellow tongues of flame that leaped and consumed the wood. “I used to want it to snow and be cold, just so we could build a fire—and then I hated the cold after it came.”

  Lori laughed quietly. “I’m the same say. I love to see it snow, but then I want it to be gone the next day.”