THE BOYS OF CHATTANOOGA
BY
CLYDE R. HEDGES
COPYRIGHTED BY CLYDE R. HEDGES
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED BY THE AUTHOR
A SMASHWORDS EDITION
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO THE MEN
BOTH REBEL AND UNION WHO FOUGHT
AT CHICKAMAUGA AND CHATTANOOGA.
SMASHWORDS EDITION, LICENSE NOTES
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ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY GATEWAY PUBLISHING
PROLOGUE
WOLFEBORO, NEW HAMPSHIRE
NOVEMBER 18, 1903
The dinning room of the Wolfeboro Inn was crowded with guests. At the far bay window overlooking the lake a lone diner sat reading his morning paper. A younger man approached and stood in front of his table.
"Mr. Lincoln," the younger man said.
Robert Todd Lincoln, eldest and sole surviving son of the sixteenth president of the United States looked from his paper. "Yes."
"Jonathan Fielding, Washington Post," the younger man said as he extended out his hand.
Lincoln looked at him warily. Seldom did he speak with reporters.
"Mr. Fielding with the Post," Lincoln repeated quietly.
"Yes, sir, I saw you reading in the lobby last night and thought it was you. I wanted to pay my respects."
"You write stories for the Times don't you?" Lincoln asked as he took Fielding's hand. "And I've read you in Harpers haven't I?"
"Yes, sir, I also wanted to thank you for your gracious letters."
"Thank you for your excellent stories, Mr. Fielding. Won’t you have a seat?"
Fielding sat in the chair opposite Lincoln. Behind him and across the bay the hills glittered with color. In a week, two at most, the leaves would start to fall and the winter snows begin.
"So what are you working on now, Mr. Fielding?" Lincoln asked.
"To be honest, Mr. Lincoln, I’m researching a book on the war."
"And you wanted a few quotes from the president’s son?" Lincoln asked.
"No, sir, I simply wished to pay my respects. Your reputation is that you rarely speak with reporters, especially about the war."
Lincoln nodded agreement. "Too many times, Mr. Fielding, I’ve been misquoted, and there have been a great many distortions about my Father and the war?"
"Could you give me an example, sir?"
For a moment, Lincoln considered not answering, but Fielding was an accomplished writer, one he admired.
"Revisionists now view the South as the noble defender of states rights instead of slavery as it actually was. That’s a distortion I find particularly galling."
"Yes, I can understand that, sir. But rest at ease, I’m concerning myself with the military aspects of the war."
"Someone should, Mr. Fielding. There have been a great many inaccuracies about that too."
"Could you explain, sir?"
Lincoln shrugged and sipped his coffee. "Last year, the Richmond Examiner published an editorial stating that Father was going to ask for a truce after Fredericksburg, that only intervention from Secretary Stanton kept him from doing so."
"Couldn’t that be true, sir? Fredericksburg was a terrible defeat, probably the worst of the war," Fielding pointed out.
"Certainly it was, and it was also Father’s worst night. John Hay, his secretary, told me that Father couldn’t sleep. The best he or Stanton could do was get him to lie on his couch.
"Then a new casualty report would arrive and he’d be up pacing the floor wondering if Burnside was preparing to retreat or if Lee was planning to strike toward Washington. But Father had no intentions of asking for a truce. Never for a single instant did his faith in the Union waver."
"It must have been a terrible night, sir. Was Fredericksburg the battle that concerned him most?"
For the first time, since Fielding joined him, Lincoln smiled. "It’s strange you should ask that question, Mr. Fielding. There was one battle that gave Father no end of concern, and it was fought this time of year."
Hastily, Fielding searched his mind for a battle fought in the fall. "Antietam, you must mean Antietam, sir."
Lincoln dismissed Feeling’s ignorance with a gesture. "Oh no, Mr. Fielding, Antietam was fought in September of ‘62, and certainly there’s no debating its importance and it being the bloodiest single day of the war, but I’m talking about Chattanooga, the battle that opened the passes to Georgia."
Fielding sat stunned. He’d been researching the war for the past six months and not one historian mentioned the battle for Chattanooga as being crucially important. A loss there would not have shattered the Union cause nor gained a Confederate triumph. "Chattanooga, Mr. Lincoln? Certainly there were more important battles than Chattanooga."
Lincoln shook his head. "I’m neither a military expert nor a historian, Mr. Fielding. You asked me which battle troubled Father the most and I told you - Chattanooga."
"But why, sir?"
Lincoln smiled ruefully and shook his head. "Ah, the distortions and revisions that occur after the fact, Mr. Fielding. Today, people have forgotten that Chattanooga was the only time during the war the Rebels besieged a Union Army. For over a month, General Rosecrans and the Army of the Cumberland starved in Chattanooga, and Rosecrans came perilously close to surrendering.
"It wasn’t until Father promoted General Grant to command the Western Theater, and after Grant replaced Rosecrans with General Thomas the situation began to improve, and that improvement came not a moment too soon."
"But that’s not the battle, sir, that’s the siege," Fielding commented.
"True, Mr. Fielding, but you weren’t in Washington trying to decide a course of action while forty thousand of your soldiers starved.
"It was a situation rife for disaster. General Bragg and his Confederate Army of Tennessee had assumed the heights surrounding Chattanooga. Hardly any supplies were getting in or out of the city while General Rosecrans was completely baffled as to what action to take."
"Still, sir, that’s not the battle."
"It’s a large part of it, Mr. Fielding. Father had to make choices, none of which were easy. His best general was Grant, but much of the public and Congress distrusted him because of his rumored drinking problem.
"If father promoted Grant, and Grant replaced Rosecrans, there would be tremendous criticism. If he didn’t and Rosecrans surrendered the Army of the Cumberland, there would be a tremendous disaster.
"To top it all, Father didn’t really want Grant in Chattanooga. He wanted him in the East facing Lee, but first he had to save the Army of the Cumberland."
"But the battle, sir. Why did it disturb him so much?"
Lincoln frowned, remembering the long month of the Chattanooga siege. "Because the Confederate Army of Tennessee held all the trump cards, Mr. Fielding.
"Fronting Chattanooga is a huge ridge that Bragg had manned with his army and artillery. Every general who saw it; thought it was unassailable. To charge it would be suicide, but its flanks were almost as formidable.
"On the right was Lookout Mountain, which was steep and heavily forested with a Confederate division on its top. To its left, the ridge ran all the way to the Tennessee River, and no one was sure of the terrain and there were no accurate maps to guide them."
"There weren’t too many good choices, were there?" Fielding admitted.
"There never are in war, Mr. Fielding, but Grant was a general who made the best of what he had. After taking command of the Western Theater, he went immediately to Chattanooga and began to reorganize his armies.
"Within four days, he opened a new supply line, but still he had to wait for reinforcements.
"Finally, in late November he was ready to strike and he sent General Hooker against Lookout Mountain and General Sherman against Bragg’s other flank.
"Neither was able to get their men into position to attack, so the first day it fell upon Thomas’s men to take the forward line of Confederate defenses.
"Then on the second day Hooker took Lookout Mountain, but Sherman made no headway against Bragg’s right flank.
"That stalemate continued into the third day until Grant ordered The Army of the Cumberland to take the Confederate rifle pit at the base of the ridge.
"He hoped Bragg might weaken his flanks to strengthen his center and then Sherman could break through."
"Did he succeed?"
Lincoln smiled broadly. "Beyond his wildest expectations, Mr. Fielding. Once the Army of the Cumberland took the base pit they went on and stormed the ridge itself and routed Bragg’s army. The battle was a total and unqualified success."
"But you said that Missionary Ridge was unassailable."
"That’s true, and it was, but The Army of the Cumberland took it just the same."
"What changed Grant’s mind. Why did he decide to make the charge?"
Lincoln almost laughed. "He didn’t change his mind. Without orders from Grant or Thomas or any other officer the men left the pit where they were comparatively safe and charged up the ridge.
"They did so of their own volition. Their charge wasn’t any part of Grant’s plan."
Fielding sat stunned. He’d never heard any of this before.
"But why did they attack the ridge without orders?"
Lincoln shrugged. "No one knows. There have been a hundred different explanations and there are probably twice as many valid reasons.
"All anyone can say is that the men of the Army of the Cumberland took one of the most strongly defended positions of the war without orders from any officer, not even Grant."
"What did Grant say?"
"He was pleased, naturally, but somewhat abashed. It was the only battle he lost control of, yet the Army of the Cumberland gave him a great victory."
"Did he ever explain why he thought the men charged?" Fielding asked.
"Not officially, but I did overhear him discuss the battle with General Meade at City Point.
"He said there was a flag bearer who galvanized the army into action. That once he started up the ridge, the men followed him. Who he was or why he left the pit has been lost to history."
"Wow," Fielding murmured lowly.
"Wow, indeed, Mr. Fielding. If that flag bearer hadn't charged the battle might well have been lost and Atlanta never taken.
"If that had proven the case, then Father would have never been reelected, and the war would have most likely ended in a truce and separation of the states."
"I wish I could meet that flag bearer, Mr. Lincoln," Fielding said after a moment’s consideration.
"I wish he were sitting with us at this moment. I’d like to hear him explain why he left the trench and why the army followed him."
"I would too, Mr. Fielding. There must have been a very good reason why they charged, but I doubt if anyone will ever learn why."
CHAPTER 1
CHATTANOOGA, TENNESSEE
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 20, 1863
In the late afternoon sun we watched as they ran past us. There was no order to them, no military ranks, no company or battalion formations.
The Army of the Cumberland was running from the Rebs like frightened boys from a schoolyard fight, and it was all so unexpected.
The week before they had marched out of Chattanooga, the proudest of all the Union Armies. The Cumberland had never been defeated, its battle flags never taken in defeat, and its men were the proud victors of Murfreesboro and the Tennessee campaign. Now they were little more than cowardly dogs.
I looked at Billy, the one person in the world I might call a friend. His eyes shifted nervously while sweat beaded across his forehead and ran down his face.
He glanced at me and faked a smile. He always panicked. Even if it was a little tussle with the boys, he wanted to be the peacemaker, the one who never fought. I winked to reassure him and glanced at our squad leader, Matt. He wasn't scared like Billy, just grim faced and silent.
In late June, the three of us enlisted when Father Abraham made another call for volunteers. The previous two years, Billy and I had sat in Evansville High School while the battles raged, and that was hard for me to take. I wanted this war. It was going to be my adventure, my chance to prove just how tough I really was.
Billy wasn't so sure, and it surprised the hell out of me when he asked to tag-along. Our only problem was convincing his parents.
"Don't you worry, Mom, Pop," I told them that afternoon. "Billy will be safe with me."
For over an hour, we'd been sitting in their living room, talking about enlisting, but try as I might, they wouldn't give Billy consent.
"Clarence, I know you've been patient, but can't you wait a while longer? The papers say that Vicksburg is about to surrender, and if General Rosecrans drives Bragg out of Tennessee, the Rebs might give up. Couldn't you wait until the end of summer?" Mom Briscoll asked.
I hated to turn her down. She and Pop took me in when the Old Man grew feathers and flew the coop. I owed her a lot and knew it, but I was aiming to fight.
"Mom," I began again, "I'm big. I could have snuck off to St. Louis and lied about my age and enlisted, but I waited and finished school just like you asked.
"I even worked through June to help Pop with the rush, but I'm not putting it off any longer. Abe's made his call, and I'm going to answer it, but don’t you worry about Billy. I’ll be there to take care of him."
I think my promise was what convinced Billy. He turned from me to Mom and then Pop. "I guess Clarence is right, Mom," he said with his shy, quiet voice. "It's my duty to go."
Mom frowned and patted the side of her light brown hair while tears clouded her eyes. She was still a pretty woman with just a sprinkle of gray in her hair and hardly a line on her face.
She looked up to Pop who stood behind her, staring at the floor. The week before, he'd offered to pay the six hundred dollars to hire substitutes for the both of us.
A lot of money for a small town blacksmith, but running from a fight wasn't Clarence Rutledge's way. In another few minutes, they relented, and Billy and I left for the enlistment station.
Matt was a different story. He'd taken a minnie ball at Murfreesboro and was recuperating in a Louisville hospital when his first enlistment ended.
I guess he was like me. He couldn't leave a fight unfinished, and he answered when Abe said more men were needed. I continued staring at him. He shook his head and frowned at me.
"This is bad, Clarence. If the Rebels push hard, we’ll be defending Chattanooga before the night is over," he said real seriously.
A thrill of excitement surged through me. "Do you really think so, Matt?"
"Look at them, Clarence," he said while gesturing toward the mob running past us.
"The Rebs have the Army of the Cumberland on the run, and if they're smart, they'll keep pushing until we're backed against the river. Then there won’t be any retreat."
Even as we talked two soldiers struggled past us dragging a third. Behind them the stream of wagons and wounded continued.
"Some men limped and others wore bandages on their shoulders or arms while the worst were strapped to horses. What none of us could understand was how Bragg had beaten General Rosecrans.
Ten days before, we’d occupied Chattanooga without firing a shot. Bragg and his army retreated to Georgia, and after resting and refitting Rosecrans followed.
The Rebs were as good as licked, and I was sick with dread that I’d never get to fight because the 89th was left behind to garrison Chattanooga.
I fought and argued with Captain Jenkins when we got our orders. I begged him to transfer Billy and me to a fighting outfit, but he wouldn't do it, and the morning the Cumberland marched for Georgia, we unloaded our first train.
Useful work it might have been, but I didn't like it. Then, on the 19th, things started heating up.
We'd just finished our work detail and after lunch, Billy, Matt, and I walked down to the freight yard to look at the train that arrived an hour before.
"Hardtack or cartridges?" I asked Matt as we looked at the loaded boxcars.
Like Billy, he was a little bit of a guy, not over five-eight, but quick and wiry, a tough customer if you got on his wrong side.
"Probably that and everything else Rosecrans needs. So don't worry about what it is. We're going to unload it no matter what."
Billy stood between us, his head equal to Matt's, but six inches below mine. "Looks like work."
"Sure does," Matt answered. He was starting to say something else when a low rumble rolled through the gap on the ridge.
"What's that?" Billy asked as he turned toward the sound.
A cool breeze brushed my face, and I felt a chill. "Sounds like thunder," I said. "Maybe a storm's brewing."
Another boom roared through the gap, only this time warehouse windows rattled. Matt looked at us, his face concerned and thoughtful. "That's not thunder; that's cannon fire."
"Matt," I snorted. "How can that be cannon? Everyone knows Bragg's retreated to Georgia."
Another blast, louder, more deafening, and Matt shook his head. "Sounds like everyone knows but Bragg."
Within minutes the whine and pop of thousands of muskets were added to the cannon. What was happening, none of us could say, we just knew that it was one hell of a fight that grew more violent with every passing minute.
The battle would eventually be called Chickamauga, the bloodiest two days of the war. But that afternoon all we could do was sit and listen. It wasn’t until night stretched its dark fingers across the valley that the fighting stopped.
With the night, our hopes rose. We had learned the Rebs had hit General Rosecrans somewhere near the Georgia border about eight miles south of Chattanooga.
But old Rosey’s defensive line was holding. As long as it did, he had the upper hand. Unfortunately, Bragg was holding a few aces of his own.
Early the next morning, just as I was biting into a piece of hard tack, the Rebs struck with a deafening barrage.
I almost dropped my roll and spilled half my coffee. A few seconds later, Rosecrans answered with his own cannon.
The fighting had resumed, and the second day proved more violent than the first.
Over the night, both generals had reorganized their armies, and in minutes hundreds of men began to die along the banks of a muddy little creek called Chickamauga.
The blasting cannon and musket fire made no difference to Colonel Gibson.
After breakfast, we assembled and marched to the depot and started unloading the train.
While we worked, Matt kept us posted on what was happening. By mid-morning, the news grew grim.
"I guess things are pretty tight," he told us.
The whole company had gathered around him to hear the latest word from headquarters.
"A messenger just arrived ordering Colonel Gibson to dig a defensive line fronting the gap in the ridge. We’re to start as soon as we unload the train."
"Does that mean we'll fight?" Billy asked Matt.
"It might, Billy. The colonel says that Bragg is attacking everywhere, probing for a weak spot on the line."
It sounded as if Bragg was doing a lot more than probing.
The cannon fire was loud, one thundering barrage after another while thousands of muskets cracked and popped in the background.
It was a bad fight, and we were all concerned, and as soon as we emptied the last car, we marched to the gap and began to dig our line.
We didn’t start a minute too soon. I’d just broken the topsoil when a young lieutenant galloped over the ridge heading for Chattanooga like a jockey for the finish line.
All of us stopped and watched as he raced down the road. In a few more minutes we saw Captain Jenkins riding from town. After we formed up, he explained the situation.
"Men, the Rebels have broken General Rosecrans’s defenses. Right now, he's falling back on Chattanooga. We have to get this trench deepened and barricaded to cover his retreat."
"What happened, Jenk?" Matt shouted from the ranks.
He and Captain Jenkins had been good friends in Evansville, so Matt got away with a few improprieties.
"I don't know, Matt. At this time, I don't think anyone does, but I'm going to have forty rounds of ammunition issued to every man. You non-commissioned officers see that the men keep their cartridges dry. We may be fighting before the sun sets."
There was a buzz in our ranks and then Jenk dismissed us.
In ten minutes, I was loading my rifle, but the Rebs never showed, just the leg cases as Father Abraham was apt to say.
Like the lieutenant’s horse, they were sweaty and dirty with their faces blackened by gunpowder and mud.
For a couple of hours, I stood in the trench watching them run. I couldn't understand why they weren’t fighting.
Beyond the mountains, we still heard cannon fire. It was for sure that some units were mixing it up with the Rebs. Why everyone wasn't, I couldn't figure and then Matt poked my side.
"Look," he said real seriously.
Billy and I turned to where he pointed. There, right in the middle of the running men galloped a group of twenty or thirty officers, and in the middle of all those stars and eagles and oak leaves was General Rosecrans himself.
I couldn’t believe the change in him. The week before, he'd sat proud in his saddle as he led his army out of Chattanooga for Georgia. But that afternoon, he slumped forward downcast and dejected, barely holding his reins.
"Is he wounded?" I asked Matt.
"He’s worse than wounded, Clarence. He's humiliated."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Did you notice the other generals with Rosecrans?" Matt asked.
"No," I didn't.
"I recognized General Crittendon and McCook. They're two of his corps commanders. The third is General Thomas. That must be him and his corps fighting the Rebs."
"Are those the cannon we hear?" Billy asked.
"I guess so, Billy. No one really knows."
"How can one corps fight all of Bragg’s army?" I asked Matt.
"I can't say, Clarence, but we’d have our backs to the river right now if it wasn’t for Thomas and his men, and I’m not too much for swimming this time of year."
I turned from Matt and Billy and looked as the officers rode among the men retreating to the city. Littered along the road were overturned ambulances and caissons with dead horses still in harness.
In Chattanooga conditions were worse. Soldiers milled the streets while hundreds of others lay along the south bank of the Tennessee drinking.
Everything was confusion and chaos. It was for sure we couldn’t defend the city as disorganized as we were, and for some reason I thought of Old Abe safe and sound in Washington.
We’d answered his call and now we were caught up in a sweet mess. I wondered what he was going to do now, just how he was going to handle this crisis.
CHAPTER 2
WASHINGTON DC
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 1863
The tall gaunt man stood in front of the map and stared as a shorter, stout man traced the route the Army of the Cumberland had retreated upon. When he reached Chattanooga, he shook his fist and then pounded the wall.
"Now, he's cabled this that Crittendon and McCook let him down, that they caved into the Rebels, but I noticed from Mr. Dana's report that he was riding between them when they reached Chattanooga.
"They might have let him down, but he ran just as fast as both." The stouter man's face remained flushed and angry; the taller one’s sad and upset.
"How did Rosecrans cover his retreat? What happened? Why did he cave in so suddenly?"
For two days President Lincoln had been asking the same questions, and still Secretary Stanton couldn’t furnish him answers though they were connected by telegraph to Chattanooga.
Stanton frowned and shrugged. "I still can’t say, Mr. President. I only have the scantiest of details.
"Mr. Dana says that remnants of the army banded together and covered Rosecrans’s retreat. He says that it’s still too early to tell."
"Thomas is Rosecrans’s III Corps commander. Right, Stanton?"
"Yes, Mr. President."
"Though Rosecrans doesn’t admit it, it sounds as if the Virginian saved him."
"Yes, it appears so, Mr. President."
Abraham Lincoln, sixteenth president of the United States, glanced again at the map of Tennessee and then moved to a map of northern Virginia where General Halleck stood.
As he did with Stanton, Lincoln towered over Halleck. Stanton joined them and for several minutes the three men silently studied the map and the dispositions of General Meade’s huge Army of the Potomac.
Fronting Meade and preventing him from marching to Richmond was the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia commanded by General Robert E. Lee.
"Are you sure, General Halleck?" Lincoln asked.
"General Meade says that he can spare the two corps," Halleck replied.
Lincoln stared uncertainly at the map of Virginia and then at the map of Tennessee.
"We have to send Rosecrans reinforcements, Mr. President, and Meade’s army is the only place to get them," Stanton quietly said.
All night the three men had remained at the War Department, planning on how best to aid Rosecrans in Tennessee.
Finally, an hour before, they had reached the decision to take two corps from Meade’s Army and send them to Rosecrans.
Still, Lincoln was wary Meade couldn’t adequately defend Washington.
After Gettysburg last July, General Meade had missed a tremendous opportunity to annihilate Lee’s army.
For two days he had trapped the retreating Rebels against the Potomac. If he had attacked, Lincoln was sure Lee would have been forced to surrender.
The war for all practical purposes would have ended. Now, Lincoln and Stanton were taking two corps from Meade, and Lincoln wondered if the general would grow uncertain with his smaller army and retreat if Lee moved north again?
But he had no other choice. Something had to be done for Rosecrans.
"Has Rosecrans secured the heights surrounding Chattanooga? Can he supply his army?" Lincoln asked Stanton and Halleck.
"Sir, we’ve ordered him to do so. He should be able to withstand anything Bragg might throw at him," Halleck assured him.
"And General Meade has said that he can defend Washington without the XI and XII Corps?"
"Yes, sir," Stanton answered.
For another moment, Lincoln stood and frowned as he studied the maps. Finally, he spoke.
"Very well, Stanton, Halleck, but keep me advised of the corps movements. Let me know when they start for Tennessee and when the last train arrives."
"Yes, sir, I will," Stanton answered. "Within two weeks, we should have both corps in Tennessee."
Taking his tall top hat, Lincoln nodded to the two men and left the conference room and walked across the main floor of the War Department.
Different clerks and soldiers stood, and absent-mindedly he nodded to them. This morning he was preoccupied with the Army of the Cumberland.
He couldn’t understand why Rosecrans had caved in so quickly. Only days before, the general and his men had been on the verge of a great victory.
The road to Atlanta lay before them, now the proud Army of the Cumberland was bottled up in Chattanooga and Lincoln already understood how dangerous the situation was.
Rosecrans had to maintain his supply routes. Chattanooga was completely surrounded by mountains with only a single road and rail line leading to the warehouses in Bridgeport.
If Rosecrans surrendered those heights, then his supply routes would be closed and even the entire Army of Potomac couldn't save him.
Lincoln stood quietly at the top of the War Department stairs and surveyed Pennsylvania Avenue.
Along it, civilians hustled back and forth tending to their lives while a newly formed regiment marched down the cobble stone street, heading south to join Meade’s army.
He was taking away two corps and another regiment was arriving to help fill their gap.
As he watched them, Lincoln began to wonder who the soldiers were, and from which state they had been mustered, and most of all, how many would not survive the week.
Lincoln sighed and rubbed his forehead as he followed the regiment's progress.
The leading captain reached the Virginia turnpike and raised his sword and signaled south. Company by company, the soldiers marched to the middle of the intersection and then pivoted sharply to head for the Potomac Bridge.
When the final soldier passed from sight, Lincoln started for the White House, still thinking about Rosecrans.
Though Rosecrans was a West Point graduate with an admirable record, Stanton had never cared for him.
The general in question had a disturbing habit of complaining about a lack of supplies and equipment, and then using those same complaints as an excuse to not take the field.
Once, Rosecrans went so far as to accuse Stanton of purposely ignoring and under supplying his army after the War Department had sent every musket and cannon he'd requisitioned.
Still, Rosecrans had been successful. Before Chickamauga, he had been one of the Union's best generals. Though he was slow to attack, once he did, he won.
And this summer his Tennessee campaign had been a masterpiece of strategy and tactics. In little more than a month he flanked Bragg across Tennessee and out of Chattanooga without fighting a major engagement and with little loss of life.
"What could have happened at Chickamauga, Lincoln wondered. How had Bragg inflicted such a terrible defeat?
The president frowned and thought of the forty thousand men comprising the Army of the Cumberland.
If what he thought was true, then those men were in grave danger and help wasn’t readily available.
At that moment, the nearest Union Army was in Knoxville, only a hundred miles from Chattanooga, but that army posed another serious problem for Ambrose Burnside commanded it.
It was Burnside who stole two nights march on Bobby Lee only to bog down at the Rappahannock while waiting for pontoon bridges to be brought forward.
With his delay he snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. Lee marched his ragamuffins north and securely entrenched himself in the heights outside Fredericksburg while Burnside hesitated at the river.
Then, when the bridges were at last constructed, Burnside crossed and promptly ordered seven frontal assaults all of which failed disastrously, but not from lack of valor.
Each time the men formed up and marched forward toward certain death. Never did they waver; never did they turn back, while their damage to Lee's army was minimal at best.
Fredericksburg had been a disastrous defeat, and now Lincoln wondered if he should trust that same general to march to Rosecrans's aid?
The next nearest force was Grant’s Army of the Tennessee still encamped at Vicksburg. But two weeks before, Stanton had ordered Grant to dispatch General Sherman and four divisions to Rosecrans and from what they'd gathered Sherman had already departed Vicksburg.
Also, Halleck had seriously reduced Grant's force by sending Ord’s corps to New Orleans.
If he ordered Grant to lead the remainder of his army to Chattanooga, the Mississippi Valley would be open for reoccupation by the Confederates.
He couldn’t allow that. Halleck and Stanton had been correct. Their only choice was to send the XI and XII Corps from the Army of the Potomac.
Coupled with the divisions that Grant had sent, Rosecrans should be able to get back on the road to Atlanta, but Lincoln knew that he had to be quick.
The winter snows would soon be falling in the Georgia mountains and troop movements would be practically impossible once they started.
Lincoln stopped on the grassy common between the White House and War Department and closed his eyes.
Dana had cabled him that thirty percent of Rosecrans’s army had fallen at Chickamauga. The papers in Richmond were saying that Bragg had lost even more men.
When, Lincoln wondered, will the bloodshed end; when will it ever end?
With the great victories at Gettysburg and Vicksburg last July, he had hoped the end of the war was in sight. Now he had an army trapped against the Tennessee River and was rushing reinforcements to it.
As he continued across the common, Lincoln again considered ordering Burnside to Chattanooga. Burnside was only seventy-five miles from Rosecrans, but once he left Knoxville, Rebel reprisals would begin again. That he refused to risk. Since the beginning of the war, he had promised the loyal citizens of Tennessee he would free them when possible, and now he had, and he couldn't abandon them again.
Lincoln reached the White House and opened the front doors and walked unannounced to his upstairs office.
Outside, a line of office seekers waited along with several congressmen and two officers.
They all stood when they saw him, including Nicolay, his only secretary while John Hay was on military assignment in Florida.
"Good morning, Mr. President," Nicolay said.
"Good morning, John. I won’t be seeing anyone for a moment. I’ll let you know when I’m ready for my first interview."
"Yes, sir. Should I have breakfast sent up, or a cup of tea?"
Lincoln shook his head. "No, John, I can’t eat."
He closed the door behind him and collapsed into his chair. He already believed that the answer to Chattanooga was Grant.
Something about the tone of Rosecrans’s cables, his obvious reluctance to state how Bragg had broken his defenses indicated that much. Rosecrans was severely shaken, and he wondered if the general would ever recover himself?
He stood again and started to pace between his desk and the window, his hands clasped behind his back, his head bowed.
Stanton didn't know it yet, but if Rosecrans didn't retake the initiative, if he didn't attempt to rouse himself and save his army, then Old Mars was going to make a little trip.
It was time Stanton personally assess the Union's most successful general. Unbelievably, neither he nor Stanton had ever met Grant.
Unlike so many other generals, Grant shunned Washington. Only his chief of staff, General Rawlins, had met with him and Stanton after Vicksburg surrendered.
So now he intended to send Stanton to Grant. He had to know as much about the general as possible, especially about his rumored drinking problem.
Only weeks before, Grant had injured his leg while reviewing troops in New Orleans, and immediately rumors surfaced that Grant was drinking, and he had heard and read the rumors, and as usual Senator Swineburne and Representative Sanders called to protest Grant holding such an exalted command. And the complaints and attacks hadn’t ended with them.
The Chicago Times, the largest paper in Illinois, Lincoln and Grant’s home state, hotly disputed Grant’s ability to command, warning in editorial after editorial that the general’s drinking would eventually catch up with him and that thousands of men would die when it did.
Of course the Times Lincoln dismissed as rhetoric. The paper had been against him when he ran for the house, the senate, even the Presidency. For some reason home grown boys were not popular with that august journal.
He leaned against the window casement and drummed his fingers thinking of the ever-silent Grant.
Though by far his most successful general, Grant was also his most puzzling. Never did he receive letters from Grant boasting of his accomplishments, and never did Grant tender advice about the war outside his own theatre of command, and not once had he asked for more than Stanton supplied him.
Such behavior was unusual for most of Lincoln's generals. He only wished Grant's past were less clouded.
Rescued from obscurity when the war started, Grant received a command and then began to fight better than any officer in the service until he ran into problems at Shiloh.
There, his advance guard had been surprised and his army suffered a terrible mauling until the second day when they drove the Rebels back to Corinth, but the damage had been done.
More Americans died at Shiloh than in all the battles previously fought on the North American Continent combined.
He remembered too well the carnage, the loss of life, and how Congress and the papers had howled for Grant’s dismissal, claiming that he was carousing with his staff before the Rebel attack. Through it all Grant remained silent, not bothering to issue a single denial. And Shiloh wasn’t the last time.
He had heard rumors Grant went on a binge during the Vicksburg siege, and still there were no denials, just reports in the papers and complaints in Congress.
General Rawlins had met with him and Stanton after Vicksburg, and Grant’s chief of staff assured them the general abstained.
He believed Rawlins, but Grant would make matters much easier if he stepped forward to his own defense. Now once again he remained mute about his accident in New Orleans while the Times reviled him with every edition.
Because of those rumors and accusations, he had to be particularly careful about Grant.
He had never been securely entrenched with the American people or Congress, and at that moment, it looked doubtful that the later would support him if he sent the general to Chattanooga.
Hopefully, Grant wouldn’t be needed, but Lincoln had his doubts, very strong doubts.
He knew that as long as the Army of the Cumberland held Chattanooga they were a thorn in the Rebels' vitals, but Atlanta was the real prize, the queen city of the South.
He estimated that after leaving Chattanooga, five to six months of hard fighting would be required to reach Atlanta.
He also estimated that if the queen city didn't capitulate before next November, he would not be returned to office. Then his successor would most likely make peace despite the sacrifices of so many men and their families.
But for the moment he must wait and hope that Rosecrans would rouse himself.
Promoting Grant or sending him to Chattanooga might prove too risky, for if the general sipped a single whiskey, or suffered another surprise attack, or failed to whip Bragg; then he would no longer be able to sustain him or his administration.
Before the war, he had stated that a house divided against itself could not stand, but promoting Grant might be building a house of cards that would topple with his first drink.
Still, he might not have any choice. It all depended upon Rosecrans.
Unclasping his hands, Lincoln walked to his office door. "John, I’ll see my first applicant," he said to Nicolay. Another day at the office had begun.
CHAPTER 3
VICKSBURG, MISSISSIPPI
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1863
Brigadier John Rawlins, General Grant’s friend and chief of staff walked down the main hall of the Lum Mansion, the finest home in Vicksburg, Mississippi. Rawlins reached the last door and knocked quietly.
"Come in Rawlins," a strained voice called from within.
Rawlins opened the door and entered. Across the nearly barren room stood a huge canopied bed surrounded by white, lacy curtains and covered with fitted cotton sheets. Lying on the bed, fully clothed in his wool uniform was General Ulysses S. Grant, Commander of the United States Army of the Tennessee.
"What is it, Rawlins?" Grant asked.
Rawlins looked at Grant and worried anew. Though Grant's expression remained impassive, the pallor of his skin and bags under his eyes manifested pain.
"A cable from Washington, General," Rawlins said.
"Read it to me, John," Grant whispered again. The effort of speaking made him grimace.
Since his accident, four different doctors had examined Grant’s leg. None had detected any broken bones, not the slightest crack, yet his leg remained swollen from ankle to hip with the slightest movement bringing instant pain.
"The Cable is marked For General Grant's Eyes Only, " Rawlins explained.
Exasperated, Grant waved his hand and winced again. "John, you're the very next person I'll discuss the contents with. So please read it and save us both time and effort."
Rawlins nodded and opened the envelope and removed the message.
General Grant, As I advised you in my last cable, forward Sherman and his four divisions to General Rosecrans in Chattanooga. We are expecting intense resistance when Rosecrans invades Georgia. Our spies inform us that General Longstreet and his corps have left Lee and are en route to reinforce Bragg. What other assistance you can furnish will be greatly appreciated by President Lincoln and Secretary Stanton. It is essential that we hold Chattanooga and from it invade Georgia.
General Halleck commanding
"When did Halleck send this message?" Grant gasped when Rawlins finished.
"September 14th," Rawlins answered. "It took ten days to get through."
"So there’s no telling what’s happening in Chattanooga, and Washington has no idea that I dispatched Sherman yesterday."
"I wish we had a line through to Washington," Rawlins said.
"No sense in wishing that, John. As soon as we repair it, Rebel guerrillas tear it down."
"Yes, they do," Rawlins agreed.
Grant didn't speak for a minute. Instead, he thought intently about Halleck’s cable. While he thought, he began to flex his fingers and hands, loosening them, preparing to use them. Dressing this morning had been especially arduous.
For a few brief seconds he'd forgotten his leg and moved without preparing himself. The pain had been excruciating, worse than anything he'd felt in his entire life, and he'd collapsed back onto his bed.
"Ten days for this message to get through?" Grant asked.
"Yes, General," Rawlins answered.
"That's too long. Something must be happening in Tennessee, and if Pete Longstreet is bolstering Bragg, then they're going to make real trouble for Rosecrans. We have to speed up the messages between Washington and us.
"Yes, General," Rawlins answered again.
"Cairo has a direct line to Washington, doesn’t it?"
"Yes, sir," Rawlins answered.
Grant thought for a moment. "Dispatch Wilson to Cairo. Order him to man a message center there. As soon as he gets a message from Washington, have him forward it to Vicksburg immediately. Use riders, commander a steamboat if necessary, and send it directly here, nonstop. I have to know what is happening in Tennessee."
"Yes, sir," Rawlins answered.
As he talked, Grant began to bend and rotate his arms while flexing his shoulders and breathing deeply. His arms felt weak and watery, but the deeper breathing invigorated him.
Rawlins stood above him; sweat beading across his forehead, while outside a deep voice ordered a company to march upon the Vicksburg Commons. Grant smiled as he listened to the commands.
"Something is very wrong in Tennessee, John," Grant said after a moment.
"Why do you think so, sir?"
"Halleck and Stanton wouldn’t be asking for troops if there wasn’t and this telegram is ten days old. A battle could have been fought and lost already and Sherman is at least two months from reaching Rosecrans.
"He has to repair that railroad as he marches. The last we heard Rosecrans had taken Chattanooga. We don’t know what’s happened since. If he needs help, it’s going to be several months before Sherman can give it to him."
The giant bed creaked and groaned as Grant punched his hands above his chest, rotating and flexing them while manipulating his chest and abdomen.
Rawlins stepped back and studied Grant who was concentrating on his exercises. Outside in the heat, a second sergeant began to bark sharp commands while several hundred feet drummed the Vicksburg parade grounds.
Grant flexed his left leg, tensing first the calf muscle and foot, moving up and back and to the left and right. He worked his body methodically, preparing it for a painful exit from the frilly bed.
Rawlins wondered how Halleck could possibly expect Grant to take the field when he couldn’t walk without assistance. How Grant dressed himself, he still puzzled over.
Almost everything about Ulysses Grant was a puzzle. His small stature and unassuming personality made it difficult for people to believe that Grant was the officer who had moved so vigorously against Paducah and then went on to conqueror Forts Donelson and Henry and to receive the surrender of fifteen thousand Rebels and their equipment.
Those had been glorious victories; the first major victories of the war, and Grant had become a national hero until his even greater victory at Shiloh.
****
Shiloh - he damn well remembered Shiloh.
Grant had called for a staff meeting at breakfast that morning and there were almost thirty officers in attendance, sitting beneath the field canopy drinking coffee while waiting to eat.
Then suddenly the snap and crack of picket fire sounded in the distance. None of the officers paid attention. He didn’t either.
The army had been advancing against light resistance for the past three days, and picket fire wasn’t unusual, but after the first half dozen shots, Grant stopped talking and signaled the seated officers to be quiet.
They all looked at him puzzled. Like the others, he thought there was nothing to be alarmed about, but in a moment, Grant stood and looked around the table.
"Gentlemen, return to your units," he ordered them.
Within twenty minutes he and Grant were on a steamer heading upstream, and as the boat fought the river’s current, the battle grew more intense.
Hundreds of cannon could be heard along with thousands of muskets, and through it all Grant remained on the main deck listening while wondering what was happening.
Thirty minutes later, they reached Bluffs Landing where the main army was encamped. Already hundreds of soldiers were crowded along the riverfront, hiding from the terrible onslaught that General Johnston had hurled against them. Grant paid the cowering soldiers little attention. Instead, he called for his horse and rode directly to the front lines.
All around him the fighting was desperate, yet Grant manifested no fear, no shock. Calmly, he went from division to division and met with his commanders and bolstered their confidence while suggesting tactics and ordering them to hang on until help arrived. The lone exception had been Sherman.
They met briefly on a salient almost completely surrounded by Rebels and with bullets flying so thick and fast that they sounded like hornets.
"What do you think, Sherman?" Grant calmly asked.
"We’re holding our own, but we’re running low on ammunition."
"I’ve already ordered it sent forward," Grant replied as if they were watching a Sunday afternoon parade.
"We’ll make good use of it," Sherman assured him. Grant nodded and rode on to another section of the field to do what he could. There was no doubt in his mind that any other Union general would have withdrawn, maybe surrendered, but not Grant. The small man lying on the frilly canopied bed in front of Rawlins fought, and he fought brilliantly.
The problem, and Rawlins knew only too well the problem, was Grant’s drinking.
Ten years before, Grant’s commanding officer forced him to resign his commission when he became intoxicated at a post party.
After his resignation, he drifted from job to job until Jesse Grant took pity upon his eldest son and employed him as a sales clerk in his leather goods store in Galena, Illinois.
There, Rawlins met him and understood within a few minutes that Grant was no ordinary man.
Though a half starving seed salesman, he followed the political issues with a keen, alert mind, and when he did speak, his thoughts were clearly and soundly enunciated.
And now, this quiet unassuming man had proven his critics wrong. Rosecrans's defeat left Grant the only undefeated General in the United States Army, but one with a soiled reputation.
* * * *
Grant made a final effort with his arms, bending and flexing them above and across his chest before straightening and dropping them to his side. A film of perspiration spread across his forehead, but he appeared refreshed.
"There are blessings, though, John," Grant said.
"What are they, sir?"
"Braxton Bragg is commanding the Rebel army in Tennessee. I served with him before the war, and he's a highly intelligent officer, but the most contentious, bickering man I've ever known.
"Even more important, he's too timid to make a bold move after a major battle. He’ll lie back and wait for Rosecrans to attack. While he's waiting, he'll make problems for himself and his army. It's in his nature."
"What about General Sherman, sir? From what Secretary Stanton states, Washington doesn't know that you've already dispatched him to Rosecrans."
Grant smiled at the mention of his best friend's name.
"Have Wilson cable from Cairo that Sherman is en route to Chattanooga, and that he left on the 22nd. Then send messengers to Sherman informing him of Halleck’s message. Tell him to redouble his efforts, but not to forget the railroad. Repairing it is almost as important as reinforcing Rosecrans."
Slowly, gingerly, Grant sat up on his bed, renewing his pain.
"Help me to my chair, John." he gasped after he swung his legs over the edge to the floor.
"Then spread maps of Mississippi, Tennessee, Alabama, and Georgia on the planning table. Then get those cables off, and arrange for a staff meeting to commence this evening at six."
Gingerly, Rawlins sat beside Grant and helped him stand. Once upright, they limped together across the room. Rawlins worried anew at how light Grant felt.
Three days before, while dining at the officers' mess, Grant had attempted to munch a slice of buttered toast. The effort proved too much.
In mid bite, he stopped chewing and spat the bread upon his plate beside the single boiled egg and cup of black coffee he'd ordered. Then he motioned for Rawlins to help him back to his room.
"My leg hurts too badly to sit at the table and chew food," he explained when he and Rawlins were alone. "I'll take only boiled soft food and my meals here until I'm better."
After helping Grant to his bedroom, Rawlins ordered another breakfast sent to the mansion. Then he left and walked directly to the message center and dispatched a rider to St. Louis where Julia Grant was staying with her parents.
Like the general public, Mrs. Grant had been misinformed about the severity of her husband's injury.
The general hadn't wanted her to worry, but Rawlins knew that it was time she joined him. If anyone could get him to eat, it was Julia.
Rawlins lowered Grant into his customary chair at the head of the planning table, and then retrieved the maps he had requested.
While Grant arranged them in the order that he wished, Rawlins brought him a pitcher of water, two glasses, and a decanter of cigars.
Grant automatically took a cigar from the tin and lit it. He exhaled a cloud of smoke and looked at the map of eastern Tennessee while Rawlins stood beside him like an indulgent older brother.
"A quick question, General?"
"Yes, John?" Grant said, looking up from his maps.
"Last month, you turned down command of the Army of the Potomac. If Rosecrans gets into trouble and the president offers you command of the Cumberland, will you refuse it too?"
"Probably not, John. You and I both know that the war will be won in the West. If the president wants me in Chattanooga, I’ll go and hopefully do a good job."
"If you succeed, the president will most likely offer you command of the Potomac again. Will you take it?"
Grant shook his head. "No, I don’t want command of the Potomac. They get more headlines in the East, but the Potomac is far too close to Washington to suit me - too much politics, too many meddling dignitaries and distractions along with those Eastern reporters.
"Meade has as many enemies to his back as his front. I'd find it much more difficult to concentrate if I were commanding the Potomac."
"What are you going to do now, sir?" Rawlins asked.
"No sense in being unprepared, John. I’ll study and learn as much about Chattanooga, Tennessee as I can and send my own scouts and see what they can learn. We have to be prepared to move at a moment’s notice."
Grant turned from Rawlins and began to study the large map of Tennessee and northern Georgia spread upon his planning table. With his right index finger, he traced the twists and bends of the Tennessee River until it reached the Union supply depot at Bridgeport, Alabama.
The proximity of rations and ammunition was good, but the terrain absolutely atrocious. Still concentrating on the map, Grant began to speak.
"Chattanooga is the key to ending this war, John. As long as Rosecrans holds it, we control the Rebel rail lines running east to west. But it isn’t easily defended.
"If Rosecrans is still in Chattanooga, then he has to supply his army, and this mountain, controls the situation."
Rawlins looked over Grant's shoulder at the contour circles labeled, "Lookout Mt."
"If Bragg occupies this mountain, he’ll control the rail line leading to Bridgeport and our supply depot. Rosecrans can survive without river traffic, but if the railroad is closed his army will starve."
"What do you propose, General?" Rawlins asked.
"I can’t propose anything until I know what is going on. Obviously, we can't pull out of the Mississippi Valley. Everything we won at Vicksburg, and control of Missouri and Arkansas would be lost within a month. Sherman is marching, and that’s all I can do for now. I need to go to Chattanooga and see what’s happening."
"But you can't travel with that injured leg, sir."
"I might have to find a way, John."
Grant swept his hand across the maps spread on his planning table. "Study these maps carefully, and you’ll see that if Rosecrans loses Chattanooga, Bragg will most likely capture our supply depots in Bridgeport and Nashville and then march clear across Tennessee and Kentucky.
"Within a month we could be back to where we were before I took Paducah - actually, in worse shape and with a population that’s tiring of the war."
Grant began to puff heavily on his cigar. "If Bragg has beaten Rosecrans, then the situation is quite serious, John. Too many losses, and Congress may force the President to ask for a truce.
"All of that depends upon Rosecrans and his army. Hurry, now, John. Get Wilson up to Cairo. I have to know what's happening in Tennessee."
CHAPTER 4
CHATTANOOGA, TENNESSEE
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 1863
All I can say is that we were damn lucky Braxton Bragg was commanding the Confederate Army of Tennessee. Years later we learned that the night of Chickamauga every one of his corps and division commanders begged him to follow Rosecrans to Chattanooga and retake the city. Bragg refused, saying that his army was spent, that he had suffered severe casualties.
"What the hell does he fight battles for?" General Forrest, probably the best cavalry commander on either side, complained to his own staff. "We got the Yankees on the run. We have to keep up the scare."
Within a month Forrest and Bragg would have a falling out and almost come to blows. Forrest would leave Chattanooga after warning Bragg that they had better not cross paths in the future, but that night he followed orders like everyone else.
The reason Bragg hesitated was George Thomas. When the right side of Rosecrans’s line caved in, "Pap," as his men called him, managed to assemble disbanded units with his own corps and fight the Rebels single handedly.
It was the most heroic defense of the war. Until dark they held Bragg’s army back, and then under the cover of a pitch-black sky they retreated to Rossville and spent the night.
The next morning, exhausted as they were, they force marched to Chattanooga where conditions had improved from a gigantic catastrophe to one hell of a mess.
Hundreds of men huddled near the river despondent and dejected waiting for some direction from their superiors. Even more hid under houses and river wharves.
A few officers had organized portions of their units and joined us on the defensive line, but it was a thin line, a damn thin line, with most of the army remaining in town.
Then, after Thomas’s corps marched through the gap, Rosecrans ordered us off Missionary Ridge and back to the defensive works that Bragg abandoned when he left Chattanooga. Why he ordered us off the heights we couldn’t understand.
It seemed logical to make a stand there, but the trench we manned was good and deep with abatements and other fortifications, so we reasoned that Rosecrans knew what he was doing.
Besides, General Wood’s brigade occupied Lookout Mountain, which controlled the river and a large portion of the valley.
As soon as we took our positions, we began to deepen and widen the trench. While we did officers struggled to reassemble the milling troops and send them to help. Then at mid-afternoon the first of the wounded were loaded onto a train and transported to Bridgeport.
The wounded - the wounded were everywhere. All over the city, on every sidewalk and porch they lay suffering. Many moaned and some cried while hundreds of others had fainted from pain or loss of blood.