Far behind the Union front line, the doctor had searched for a suitable location to operate. In a protected grove of birch trees, he found a large flat area with lush green grass. As the principal surgeon for the brigade. his job was to ensure a site that was far enough from the action to allow for undistracted work, yet close enough to the front lines for quick evacuation and treatment. Ordinarily, Dr. Morgan preferred the protected confines of houses and barns, commandeered from private citizens at the onset of battle. With the battle for Chattanooga started from a location far removed from civilization in order to preserve the element of surprise, the wooded clearing would have to suffice.
The previous day, while Gen. Negley prepared his battle plan, Dr. Morgan scoured the foothills near Signal Mountain on horseback. As he rode up through the rolling terrain, the trees and vegetation became less dense, allowing him to catch glimpses of the city. Leveling off, he rode through the forest of white birch, weaving a path around the denser areas until he found the clearing. Immediately, he recognized the qualities of the find. He deduced the small field would provide bright light by which to operate, and the trees at the clearing’s edge would provide comfortable shade to the wounded as they recovered. It wasn’t perfect, but he felt he had worked in worse conditions while fighting in the west. This would certainly be more tolerable – as long as the good weather held.
After locating the medical encampment, Dr. Morgan quickly summoned a wagon to be used as an operating gurney and prepared his instruments. With the canopy removed, he neatly arranged his supplies on the right side, along the length of the wooden side-bracing. Within arm’s reach, he placed his instruments first; a basin and canteen of water next; then cotton batting and other bandages last. At the head of the wagon, he arranged the necessary supplies for the assistant, such as chloroform, bandages, and morphine in powder form, as well as opium as an analgesic. With the preparation for surgeries in place, he rejoined the front lines, offering his assistance where he could, leaving an assistant to watch over their makeshift hospital in his absence.
The following day, June 7th – the day of the battle – Dr. Morgan woke early after a restful night's sleep under one of the many cannons aimed at the city. He was offered a tent for accommodation, but declined special privilege, electing to “rough it” under a cannon instead of putting others out. A selfless man, he figured the boys that were fighting and dying should at least be granted the small pleasure of the comfort of a tent. After years of adapting to the rigors of warfare, he learned to sleep wherever he laid his head.
The dawn of the new morning created cool dew that had soaked through the unprotected parts of his body, mainly his legs and boots, producing mild discomfort. By 8:30 a.m., his clothing had dried out completely and he focused on his duties of the day. Filling up on hardtack, a hard, flavorless cracker, and some water, he administered various remedies to the soldiers that had reported for sick call while he ate.
Of the thirteen men reporting various symptoms, only one was deemed incapacitated. Suffering from acute dysentery, he was given a mixture of quinine and Dover's powder, and sent to the medical encampment for recovery. Dr. Morgan was a compassionate and sympathetic older man, but tough nonetheless. His private philosophy was, "If you can walk, you can fight."
With his duties accomplished for the moment, Gen. Negley ordered Dr. Morgan to “his station” with a reverent nod. No words were exchanged. They both were seasoned military men who understood each other implicitly. With a respectful salute, the doctor turned and walked past the soldiers readying themselves at their own stations. He could now see the woeful anxiety on their faces as he made his way past. He flashed them a courteous smile, trying to ease their worries. Locating his horse, a dark brown Canadian Stallion called Bill, named for an old friend that had died at the hands of an Indian ambush years before, .he mounted the saddle, adjusted his boots in the stirrups; then, with a quick snap of the reins, turned, and rode off toward safety.
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“FIRE!”
With his sword lifted to an exalted position above his head, Gen. Negley roared the order to commence firing. Loud and with great authority, he repeated his simple command over and over as he rode up the line. Instantly, his men responded and lit the fuses to their cannons. Like violent demons, the cannons came to life as they reported with a thunderous roar, shaking the ground under them.
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 deliver efficiently 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 process quickly, 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 un-repulsed 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. They 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 entered 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 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. He had 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 Fletc
her, 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. As hypovolemic shock began to develop from the loss of blood, the pain from his gaping wound became less noticeable. He moved faster and with more determination. Suddenly, a soldier lay in his path, face down. Corporal Fletcher grabbed his shoulder to roll him over as he felt the sting of hot lead graze his forearm and impact the back of the soldier’s head. Instantly, the soldier’s skull exploded, covering Corporal Fletcher's face with blood, bits of brain and bone. He jerked away in reflex and cried out in fear, only to feel the mind-numbing pain of his own injury. As fear enveloped him further, he quickly crawled around the deceased soldier and continued on his path.
Up ahead, several yards away, Corporal Fletcher spotted a boulder for protection. Fear and anxiety coursed through his veins as he struggled to stay alive. Desperately, deliberately, he stretched his hands out in front of him, clawing at anything he could use to further his escape. As he crawled, the elevation dropped off slightly, allowing him more protection from the bullets passing above. With grass and mud embedded in his fingernails, he reached the larger boulder and pulled himself around it to safety. Lying on his stomach, he rolled over and sat up against the smooth granite rock. He heard the sound of bullets ricocheting off the boulder and deflecting into the trees around him as he instinctively ducked from the sound. With his adrenaline pumping, he reached down to his grass- and dirt-stained shirt and ripped off a strip from its bottom edge. Taking the strip in both hands, he lifted the hanging flesh and secured it to the bone with the cloth, tying a loose knot to hold his calf in place as the pain caused him to scream in reflex.
Curse of Atlantis Page 28