Battle of Lookout Mountain (14 page)

Drake did not answer, but as they tramped along, thoughts flooded his mind. He finally said in his own heart,
I hope she’s right. I sure need to be something different than what I am!

T
he battle that both Confederate and Union armies had waited for developed over three separate days.

On November 23 the first Union attack took place. It was called the Battle of Orchard Knob, and it had merely one purpose: General Grant was determined to learn whether or not the Confederates would retreat if attacked. Orchard Knob was only an outpost line in front of Missionary Ridge. The Federals captured it.

The Battle of Lookout Mountain, which took place on November 24, was to become famous because of its picturesque location and its poetic name, “The Battle Above the Clouds.”

In fact, the battle was not fought at the top of the mountain above the clouds. It was fought in heavy mist on a wooded, rocky slope about five hundred feet below the crest. The rugged terrain and fog hampered both sides, but there was never any serious doubt as to the outcome. The Union forces outnumbered the Confederates at least six to one. The Rebels withdrew after dark to Missionary Ridge, and the next day the Stars and Stripes was planted on top of Lookout Mountain.

Sherman, the Northern general, would have to attack uphill to take Missionary Ridge. Furthermore, the hill was steep, difficult to climb, and defended by
one of the finest divisions in the Confederate army. The Rebels were ready and waiting.

From early morning on the 25th until the middle of the afternoon, the Union troops kept up their assault on Missionary Ridge. The Rebels refused to retreat. In some places the ridge was so steep that the Confederate cannon could not shoot downhill, so they rolled boulders and cannonballs down upon the attackers. After hours of hand-to-hand combat, the Union troops solemnly withdrew. Sherman’s offensive had been turned back.

During all of this action, the Washington Blues were held in reserve. They waited in the center of the line, and their officers paced back and forth nervously.

Sergeant Pickens examined the slope ahead of them with narrowed eyes. “I sure hope we don’t have to go up that hill,” he muttered to himself.

His words, however, reached Royal. He looked up to where the Confederate guns peered down. The muzzles had an evil look to them, and Royal shivered. “It’d be like sticking your head in a cannon to try to go up that hill!”

Ira shook his head. “I don’t think they’ll ask us to make a charge like that. Too many Confederates up there.”

The squad kept looking upward to where General Bragg’s headquarters were in full view. His officers were coming and going constantly.

As they watched, Sergeant Pickens said, “Look— they’re bringin’ in new troops. If we’re gonna go, we better go before they get the place fully manned.”

What the Union officers did not know was that General Bragg had divided his forces. He had sent
some troops into rifle pits at the bottom of the ridge, while the rest were on the crest. He had also given orders that the men in the rifle pits, if attacked, were to fire one volley and then withdraw up the hill. Unfortunately, Bragg failed to tell the officers on top of the ridge of this order.

Suddenly bugles sounded. Drums began to rattle.

“There’s the order to advance,” Ira said. “Let’s go.”

Royal’s mouth was dry, and he found it hard to breathe. It was always so for him when a battle started. But obeying orders, he started forward with the rest of the squad. Up and down the line he saw the Army of the Cumberland moving ahead. He saw also that the servants, the cooks, and the clerks had found guns somewhere and had joined the ranks.

“It looks like the cooks are tired of gettin’ left out,” Rosie said. “They’re aimin’ to make a fight out of it.”

Drake felt nothing. This was strange, for previously he had either felt a great thrill at going into battle or awful fear that shook him badly. Now, however, as he strode forward, he again just felt like a man with a job to do—like a carpenter who had a box to build. There were certain boards to be sawed, certain nails to be driven, certain tasks to be done, and he somehow felt calm, almost as if he were an observer.

The drums continued to rattle, and to each side of him men ran forward over the rough, broken ground.

They all were under the command of General Thomas. This general had been so strict in drilling
his men that the lines were ruler straight. The band played as the banners fluttered. When suddenly they emerged onto the plain at the foot of Missionary Ridge, twenty thousand strong, they must have made a fearsome sight for the Confederates watching from the mountaintop a mile away.

Then abruptly six rapid cannon blasts split the air—the signal to advance—and Drake moved forward with the great blue line.

Artillery began to thunder from both sides. Atop the ridge, the Confederates opened up and were answered by the Union guns below. Drake’s ears were smitten by the immense roar as with a heavy blow.

He saw that the Rebel artillery was knocking huge holes in the blue line of which he was a part. He saw some men falter. One fell to the ground, not wounded but terrified. Drake glanced at him with compassion as the boy covered his head with his hands.

Ira Pickens prodded the soldier to his feet, but the young man was petrified. The sergeant left him and went on. He looked over at Drake. “You all right, Drake?” he called.

“Sure,” Drake answered. His eyes were now on the rifle pits ahead.

Suddenly minié balls were whistling and zipping past his ears. He felt his hat shift and knew that a bullet had passed through it. In front of him a man went down, his face torn by a shell fragment. For Drake, now was the time for fear to surely come, but it did not. He walked on.

Then he heard Pickens shout, “They’re running, boys! Let’s take those rifle pits!”

Drake ran forward, aware that Royal was on his right and Rosie on his left.

“Watch out for them Rebels!” Rosie yelled. “They ain’t give up yet.”

“Watch yourself, Rosie!” Drake called back, and then they rushed at the barricade behind which the Confederates had hidden themselves.

“They’re going up the hill!” Ira Pickens yelled.

Lieutenant Smith had been running up and down the blue line. His orders were to take the rifle pits, and he saw that his men, though suffering losses, had now achieved that objective.

But then something happened to the Army of the Cumberland. These troops had been looked down on during most of the war. They had no big victories to point to and had been tormented by other Yankee soldiers. But now they had a slight taste of victory.
They had taken the rifle pits!

And suddenly that seemed not enough. There were shouts all up and down the line, and Lieutenant Smith was astonished to see his men rushing toward the mountain, yelling and screaming.

“Come back, you fools!” he shouted, but he might as well have been hollering at the trees for all the notice his men took.

Drake lunged forward too. “Come on,” he said, “let’s take that hill!”

“Wait a minute!” Rosie gasped, but when he saw men charging wildly upward, he grunted. “Well, I guess with my ailments, I might as well take a chance.” He stumbled over the rough ground and soon was fighting the brambles and the saplings with the others.

Back at Grant’s command post, the general wheeled furiously on General Thomas. “Thomas,” he barked, “who ordered those men up the ridge?”

“I don’t know,” Thomas said. “I didn’t.”

Grant turned on General Granger. “Did you order them up, Granger?”

“No,” said Granger, “they started without orders.” Then with quiet satisfaction he said, “When those men get started, all the devils in the pit won’t stop them.”

General Grant turned his field glasses toward the mountain. He was watching a battle gone out of control—a general’s nightmare!

He had never once considered a major assault by Thomas’s troops. The attacking force was weaker than the Confederate force! Moreover, they were attacking Bragg’s line at what he supposed was its strongest point. This unplanned attack could lead to total disaster.

Grant considered calling the men back, but then an officer heard him mutter, “It’s all right—if it turns out all right.” He added, “If not, somebody will suffer for this.”

Neither Drake nor any of the other men scrambling up the side of Missionary Ridge could know what Grant was thinking. All they knew was that they were getting heavy fire from above.

Then something happened that was in their favor. The Confederates in the rifle pits left after firing their first volley. Those were their orders. But to the men on the ridge, it looked as if they were retreating. This sent panic into the troops at the top of the hill.

Also, the Rebels quickly discovered that they could not aim their cannon low enough to fire down the sheer mountainside. And the Union troops kept on crawling upward, only pausing from time to time to reload.

Bullets clipped the small trees that Drake used to haul himself along. A branch cut by a ball fell to the ground in front of him. But some sort of battle madness was upon him now. He had run before, but he would not run this time!

As he climbed, he remembered Lori’s words:
You’ll be a better soldier from now on
. There was some grim satisfaction to that, he thought, although he did not have time to think of it long.

The Confederates on the crest began to run. This was something the Army of Tennessee had never done in two and a half years of hard fighting. But the morale of the men was shaken by the wave of blue troops that swarmed upward in spite of all the Rebel firepower.

Shouts of triumph rang through the Union ranks, and Drake felt his heart beating hard. “We’ve got ’em!” he yelled.

But one group of Confederates was perched along the edge of a ravine in a V-shaped defensive position. And through this ravine Sgt. Ira Pickens rushed with his squad. Immediately the Rebels above began pouring a terrible fire down upon them. Seeing his men begin to drop, Pickens shouted, “Take cover! They got us pinned down!”

Along with the others, Drake threw himself behind a boulder. His blood beat in his ears as he pounded powder and ball into his musket.

For some fifteen minutes the battle raged in that little area. Pickens saw that his men were being cut
to pieces. He stood and yelled, “We’ve got to get around that—” And he fell backward, struck by a minié ball.

In an instant Drake was by his side. “Are you all right, Sarge?”

“They got me in the side.” Ira looked at him, his eyes wild. “Drake—you got to lead the men out of here. See … grove of oak trees? Take ’em through there … get out of … this place.”

Drake saw that Ira was losing consciousness. He ripped open the sergeant’s uniform, quickly formed a bandage of his handkerchief, and managed to fasten it over the wound. Then he shouted, “Hey, the sarge has been hit!”

From behind the rocks the squad looked toward him. Several men seemed to be wounded. At least three members appeared to be dead.

The fire from above increased, but Drake did not stop to think. He picked up the limp form of Sergeant Pickens and threw him over his shoulder. He thanked God for strength, hardly realizing that he had done so.

Bullets began to rain around him, but he yelled, “This way! Follow me!” He seemed to have been given supernatural strength, for he carried his musket in his right hand and held onto the semiconscious sergeant with his left. As he crossed the opening of the V-shaped valley, bullets kicked up branches and dust at his feet. Miraculously, he was not hit.

“Come on,” he yelled again and plunged ahead. “This way!”

“Follow Bedford!” Royal shouted and leaped up from his hiding place.

The rest of the squad followed, dodging and ducking across the open space, until all were in the shelter of the trees.

Lieutenant Smith approached from the other direction. He had apparently seen the men being shot to pieces. Leaning over the wounded Pickens, he asked, “How are you, Sergeant?”

Ira opened his eyes and said more strongly than Drake would have thought he could, “I’m all right— got a little scratch, but we’re out of there.” He turned his eyes to Bedford and tried to grin. “If I had a medal to give, I’d give it to you, Drake. You sure saved our bacon that time!”

Lieutenant Smith turned to Drake. “I’ll take care of the medal. You did a good job, Bedford. I’ll see that the colonel hears about it.” He glanced about him then. “We’ve got to take the rest of this hill. Rosie, you stay with the sergeant—get him back to the lines where that wound can be treated. The rest of you, come on. Bedford, you’re acting sergeant.”

Drake gaped at him in disbelief. “Not me, Lieutenant. Any one of these fellas—”

“The rest of these fellas didn’t carry their sergeant out under fire and lead the rest of the squad. And don’t worry—you probably won’t be a sergeant any longer than it takes to fight this battle.”

Drake found that amusing. “Well, all right—on that condition.” He looked at the other men. “You fellas ready to go?”

Royal said, “Sure, Drake, you lead the way.”

Drake exchanged a long glance with Royal Carter. He remembered their personal battle and how he had put this man on the ground. And now here was Royal, supporting him. He said, “You
ought to be doing this, Royal, but let’s go up together.”

The two of them led the way.

Behind them, Rosie said to Walter Beddows, “That Drake Bedford, he’s all kinds of a feller.”

“He sure is,” Beddows answered. “I thought he was a dead man when he came charging out of there with the sergeant on his shoulders. He ought to get a medal for that for sure—or at least maybe be made corporal.”

“Me, I’d rather have some of my kidney medicine. I think I’m beginning to get complications.”

G
eneral Grant sent a telegram to Washington: