Personal Recollections of Chickamauga / A Paper Read before the Ohio Commandery of the Military Order of the Loyal Legion of the United States

by James R. Carnahan

To-night I propose to give, not a detail of the orders that were issued, nor to give minutely the various movements made, but only to give you the impressions, pictures, if you will, that were made on my mind, and as thoroughly engraven on the tablets of my memory as if written thereon with an engraver’s pen, of that battle that took the Army of the Cumberland into Chattanooga, and though by most considered a defeat and disaster, was in fact the battle that made it possible for us to occupy Chattanooga and hold it.

Leaving Murfreesboro in June, 1863, we had marched to McMinville, Tenn., and had there spent the summer as one of the out-posts of Gen. W. S. Rosecrans’ army, while the remainder of his army advanced toward Chattanooga. Leaving McMinville when the time had fully come for the final advance, we marched to join the remainder of the army at Bridgeport. When we reached Bridgeport, however, we found the army had crossed the Tennessee River and was pushing on toward Chattanooga, and followed on. Our first view of Chattanooga was had as our division, Van Cleve’s, of Crittenden’s Corps—the 21st—passed around the point of Lookout Mountain, where it touches the Tennessee River down below the town opposite Moccasin Point. There seemed nothing specially inviting to us in the little old town off to our left; in fact, the invitation came to us to go in another direction. Obeying the order we there received, we hastened away up the valley toward Rossville, and on toward Ringgold, in pursuit of Bragg, who was at the time reported to be retreating before Rosecrans’ army. On we pushed, joining the remainder of our corps and the cavalry at Ringgold. It was a delightful march; the roads were smooth, the weather was perfect, the enemy kept out of our way, and, in fact, we felt as though now there would be no more serious fighting. Had we not driven the Confederate army out of Kentucky, had whipped it at Stone River, and driven it all the way down from Murfreesboro, and out of their stronghold—Chattanooga—and were yet in pursuit? Certainly the war would soon be over. So the men thought and talked. When we reached Ringgold, we found, for some reason not clearly defined in words, that we would not advance any further in that particular direction. In fact, it was deemed advisable that our corps should advance (?) over the same route by which we had come, back up into Lookout Mountain valley. Two weeks in that pleasant early autumn of 1863 we spent somewhat after the manner described in the old song, we

“Marched up the hill, and then marched down again.”

We made a reconnoissance now here, now there, each time becoming more and more convinced that Gen. Bragg was in no very great hurry to get away, and speedily end the war; in fact, we became fully persuaded that he preferred to remain in our immediate front; nay, more, we were fast making the discovery that the enemy was for some reason becoming more and more aggressive. The reconnoissance that was made by the Third Brigade of Van Cleve’s Division on Sunday, September 13th, beyond Lee & Gordon’s mills, developed the fact that the enemy’s lines were stronger than ever before, and that all our efforts to dislodge him were in vain. That the Confederates were receiving reinforcements could not be longer doubted, and that a battle was imminent was now apparent to all; just where or when, whether our army would make the attack or be attacked, were the unsolved questions of the problem. Each day, as it came and passed, seemed to bring to all a more certain conviction that the conflict, when or wheresoever it should come, would be a most terrible one. In this uncertainty, and with certain feverish restlessness that is always engendered in anticipation of a battle, the 21st Corps lay about Crawfish Springs and Lee & Gordon’s mills. Extra ammunition had been issued to the troops as a precaution against any emergency that might arise. Each company officer had received orders to keep his men in camp; the horses of the artillery stood harnessed; everything seemed to be in readiness, come what might. Such was the condition of affairs with our portion of the army on Friday, the 18th of September, 1863. The forenoon of that day had been spent in general talk, both among officers and among men, on the now all-absorbing question as to the probabilities of a battle. Our brigade, the Third, commanded by Col. Geo. F. Dick, of the 86th Indiana, lay near Crawfish Springs. We had just finished our noon-day meal and pipes were lighted, and we were preparing to spend the hours of the afternoon as best we might, when we caught the sound of a distant artillery shot off toward Ringgold. This proved to be the first shot of what was so soon to be the battle of Chickamauga. The shots grew in number, and more and more distinct. It required but little time for each officer and soldier to take in the situation and realize the condition of affairs. We knew from the sounds that were borne to us that the army of Gen. Bragg had ceased to retreat and to act on the defensive, and was now advancing upon our army. This action was proof that the enemy had been largely reinforced, and now felt itself not only able to meet us in battle, but confident in its ability to defeat and put us to rout, and to recover all they had lost.

Not much time was given for thought or talk before our brigade was ordered to “fall in,” and we were moved out down to the left, and past Lee & Gordon’s mills, to the relief of our hard-pressed cavalry, now falling back onto our main army. How urgent the need of assistance to our cavalry we soon learned as we saw them coming in wounded and broken, riderless horses, ambulances filled with wounded and dying—all coming together told how fierce the onslaught that had been made on them, and they who were yet unwounded were contesting, with all the bravery and stubbornness that men could, every part of the distance that lay between us and the enemy. Our lines were formed, and we moved forward, checking the enemy’s advance for the day. Our skirmish line and pickets were strengthened, and our brigade remained on duty through the night, and listened to the ominous sounds that came to us through the darkness, the distant rumbling of artillery wheels, the sound now and then of axes, all telling us of the preparations that were being made, and the perfecting of plans for the terrible contest of the morrow.

In the early morning of the 19th we were relieved from duty, and were sent back toward Lee & Gordon’s mills, into an open field, there to prepare our breakfasts and get such sleep and rest as we could, until such time as our services would be demanded. The sun had scarcely appeared when a shot was heard over on the right of our line; in a short time another, as if one army or the other were feeling its way. Soon another shot, which brought an answering shot; then came the opening artillery duel that seemed to shake the very earth. From this, shots came from all along our lines, showing that the enemy had got well into position along our entire front during the night. Now the firing increases on our right, and between the artillery shots we catch the sound of musketry; stronger and stronger the contest grows, and nearer, too, for now comes one continuous roar of artillery from the right, and volley after volley of musketry tells that the two armies have come together in the first charges of the battle. The contest gathers in strength, starting down from the right, on it comes to the lines in our front, and on past us toward the left, until at length it becomes one commingled roar of artillery and rattle of musketry from right to left. We see none of the lines engaged, but it must be that the Union army is holding its position against the furious charges that are being made upon it. A lull for a few moments comes in the contest, and you hear only scattering shots along the line; but looking off to our front, through an opening in the trees, could be seen, crossing the ridge, the marching columns of the enemy as they moved toward our left, preparatory to the terrible work of that Saturday afternoon. Again the sound of the contest begins to gather and grow in strength. It comes on like the blasts of the tornado, sounding louder and louder, growing stronger and stronger until it comes in a great rush and roar of sound, before which those who hear and are not of it stand in awe and look each the other in the face, but dare not speak. Over on the right it again breaks forth, and with renewed strength rolls on down the lines, growing fiercer and fiercer, and louder and louder, as additional forces are brought into the contest, until it reaches the extreme left, when backward it would sweep again to the right, only again to go rolling, and jarring, and crashing in its fury as backward and forward it swept. It was as when the ocean is lashed to fury by the tempest, when great rolling waves come chasing one the other in their mighty rage, until they strike with a roar upon the mighty cliffs of stone, only to be broken and driven back upon other incoming waves as strong, or stronger, than they had been, so came to our ears the sound of that mighty tempest of war—volley after volley of musketry rolling in waves of dreadful sound, one upon the other, to which was added the deep sounding crash of the artillery, like mighty thunder peals through the roar of the tempest, making the ground under your feet tremble as it came and went, each wave more terrible than the former.

It was evident to those of us who listened that the enemy was making desperate efforts to overwhelm and break our lines.

Through that forenoon—and oh, how long it seemed—we waited outside the contest, and heard that mighty, that terrible tornado of war as it raged in our front and all about us, and saw the constantly moving columns of the enemy’s infantry, with flying flags, and saw battery after battery as they moved before us like a great panorama unfolding in the opening to which I have referred. We had been sent back, as I have said, to rest after a night on duty, but rest there was none. The guns were stacked in line, and the battery attached to our brigade stood just in the rear of us, with horses hitched to guns and caissons, ready to move any instant. Now and then a stray shot or shell would fly over us, and strike in the ground or burst in the air, to our rear.

Our men grow restless, that restlessness that comes to men in that most trying of all times in the life of a soldier, when he hears the battle raging with all the might of the furies about him, when he can now and then catch the sound of the distant shouts that tell that the charge is being made, and can hear above the shouts the rattling, tearing, shrieking sound of the volleys of musketry, and the shot and shell and canister of the artillery that tells too well that the charge is met, and that great gaps are being made in the lines; that men and comrades are being maimed, and wounded, and killed. In such moments as these, when you see and hear, but are not a part of the battle, men grow pale and lose their firmness, their nerve; then it is they realize that war is terrible. They are hungry, but they cannot eat; they are tired but they cannot sit down; they lay prone upon the ground, but that is worse than standing, and they rise again; you speak to them, and they answer you as one who is half asleep; they laugh, but it is a laugh that has no joy in it. The infantrymen stay close to their muskets; the artillerymen, drivers, and gunners stand close to their posts of duty in a terrible, fearful state of nervous unrest. These men whom you thus see on that fearful September afternoon are not lacking in all true soldierly qualities; their bravery had been tested on other fields—at Donelson, at Shiloh, at Perryville, and at Stone River they met the enemy in the hottest of the battle with all the bravery and firmness of the Roman, and now when the time shall come for them to be ordered to the aid of their comrades, they will not be found wanting. Thus hour after hour has passed for us in this fearful state of anxiety and suspense. No tidings from the front; we only know that the battle is fearful, is terrible.

Noonday has passed, when suddenly from out the woods to our front and left onto the open field, dashes an officer, his horse urged to its greatest speed toward our command. The men see him coming, and in an instant they are aroused to the greatest interest. “There comes orders” are the words that pass from lip to lip along that line. Without commands the lines are formed behind the gun stacks; the cannoneers stand by their guns; the drivers stand with hand on rein and foot in stirrup, ready to mount. How quick, how great the change at the prospect of freedom from the suspense of the day. The eye lights up, the arm again grows strong, and the nerves are again growing steady; every head is bent forward to catch, if possible, the first news from the front, and to hear the orders that are to be given. All now are roused: there is to be no more suspense; it is to be action from now and on until the battle shall close. Nearer and nearer comes the rider; now you catch his features, and can see the fearful earnestness that is written in every line of the face. He bends forward as he rides, in such haste he is. The horse he rides seems to have caught the spirit of the rider, and horse and rider tell to the experienced soldier that there is to be work for us; that the urgency is great, and that the peril is imminent.