How much there is of life, of the soldier’s life, that cannot be painted on canvas or described in words; it is the inexpressible part—the face, the eye, the swaying of the body, the gesture of the hand, the movement of the head, as the officer, the soldier, feels that his comrades are in deepest peril, and that unless help comes, and comes quickly, all hope is gone. He speaks not a word, but his appearance speaks in thunder tones. Companions, you, and each of you, have seen just such times and such faces. Such was the face, and such the action of that staff officer that afternoon of September 19, 1863; and every soldier, as he saw him, read that face and form as though it were an open book—yes, and read it in all its awful, dreadful meaning—and, reading, realized their full duty. He reaches our line, and is met by our brigade commander, Col. Geo. F. Dick, as anxious to receive the orders as he is to give them. The command comes in quick, sharp words: “The General presents his compliments, and directs that you move your brigade at once to the support of Gen. Beard. Take the road, moving by the flank in ‘double quick’ to the left and into the woods, and go into line on the left of Gen. Beatty’s brigade. I am to direct you. Our men are hard pressed.” The last sentence was all that was said in words as to the condition of our troops, but it told that we had read aright before he had spoken.
Scarce had the order been delivered when the command to “take arms” is heard along the line, and to drivers and cannoneers to mount. It scarcely took the time required to tell it for our brigade to get in motion, moving off the field, the artillery taking the wagon road, the infantry alongside. It was a grand scene as we moved quickly into place, closing up the column and waiting but a moment for the command. The guns are at a right shoulder, and all have grown eager for the order, “Forward.” The bugle sounds the first note of the command. Now look along that column; the men are leaning forward for the start; you see the drivers on the artillery teams tighten the rein in the left hand, and, with the whip in the uplifted right arm, rise in their stirups; and as the last note of the bugle is sounded, the crack of the whips of thirty-six drivers over the backs of as many horses, and the stroke of the spurs, sends that battery of six guns and its caissons rattling and bounding over that road, while the infantry alongside are straining every nerve as they hasten to the relief of the comrades so hard pressed. The spirits of the men grow higher and higher with each moment of the advance. The rattling of the artillery and the hoof beats of the horses add to the excitement of the onward rush, infantry and artillery thus side by side vieing each with the other which shall best do his part. Now, as we come nearer, the storm of the battle seems to grow greater and greater. On and yet on we press, until reaching the designated point, the artillery is turned off to the left on to a ridge, and go into position along its crest, while the lines of the infantry are being formed to the right of the road over which we have just been hurrying. Our lines are scarcely formed, and the command to move forward given, when the lines which are in advance of us are broken by a terrific charge of the enemy, and are driven back in confusion onto our line—friend and foe so intermingled that we cannot fire a shot without inflicting as much injury on our men as upon the enemy.
Our artillery, on the crest of the ridge back of us, have unlimbered and gone into action, and their shell are now flying over our heads into the woods, where the enemy’s lines had been. Confusion seems to have taken possession of our lines, and, to add to it, the lines to our right have been broken and the enemy are sweeping past our flank. The order is given to fall back on line with the artillery. Out of the wood, under the fire of our cannon, the men hasten. Now on the crest of that ridge, without works of any kind to shelter them, our troops are again hastily formed, and none too soon. Down the gentle slope of that ridge, and away to our right and left and front stretches an open field, without tree or shrub to break the force of the balls. In our front, and at the edge of the field, two hundred yards away, runs the road parallel with our lines; beyond the road the heavy timber where the Confederate lines are formed, and well protected in their preparations for their charge. Scarce had our lines been formed when the sharp crack of the rifles along our front, and the whistling of the balls over our heads, give us warning that the advance of the enemy has begun, and in an instant the shots of the skirmishers are drowned by the shout that goes up from the charging column as it starts down in the woods. Our men are ready. The 7th Indiana Battery—six guns—is on the right of my regiment; Battery M, 4th U. S. Artillery, is on our left. The gunners and every man of those two batteries are at their posts of duty, the tightly drawn lines in their faces showing their purpose there to stand for duty or die. Officers pass the familiar command of caution along the line—“Steady, men, steady.” The shout of the charging foe comes rapidly on; now they burst out of the woods and onto the road. As if touched by an electric cord, so quick and so in unison was it, the rifles leap to the shoulder along the ridge where waves the stars and stripes. Now the enemy are in plain view along the road covering our entire front; you can see them, as with cap visors drawn well down over their eyes, the gun at the charge, with short, shrill shout they come, and we see the colors of Longstreet’s corps, flushed with victory, confronting us. Our men recognize the gallantry of their foe, and their pride is touched as well. All this is but the work of an instant, when, just as that long line of gray has crossed the road, quick and sharp rings out along our line the command “Ready,” “Fire!” It seems to come to infantry and artillery at the same instant, and out from the rifles of the men and the mouths of those cannons leap the death-dealing bullet and canister; again and again, with almost lightning rapidity, they pour in their deadly, merciless fire, until along that entire ridge it has become almost one continuous volley. Now that Corps that had known little of defeat begins to waver; their men had fallen thick and fast about them. Again and yet again the volleys are poured into them, and the artillery on our right and left have not ceased their deadly work. No troops can long withstand such fire; their lines waver, another volley and they are broken and now fall back in confusion. The charge was not long in point of time, but was terrible in its results to the foe.
Along the entire line to our right and left we can hear the battle raging with increased fury. We are now on the defensive; and all can judge that the lull in our front is only the stillness that forbodes the more terrible storm that is to come. A few logs and rails are hastily gathered together to form a slight breastwork. Soon the scattering shots that began to fall about us gave us warning that our foe was again moving on us. Again we are ready, now laying behind our hastily-prepared works. Again we hear the shout as on they come with more determination than before; but with even greater courage do our men determine to hold their lines. The artillery is double shotted with canister. Again the command, “Fire!” and hotter, fiercer than before the battle rages along our front. Shout is answered with shout, shot by shots tenfold, until again our assailants break before our fire and are again forced back. But why repeat further the story of that Saturday afternoon. Again and again were those charges repeated along our line, only to be hurled back—broken and shattered. It did seem as though our men were more than human. The artillerymen worked as never before. Their guns—double shotted—had scarce delivered their charges, and before the gun could complete its recoil, was caught by strong arms, made doubly strong in that fever heat of battle; was again in position, again double shotted, and again fired into the face of the foe. The arms bared, the veins standing out in great strong lines, the hat or cap gone from the head, the eye starting almost from the socket, the teeth set, the face beaded with perspiration, balls falling all about them, those men of the 7th Indiana Battery and Battery M seemed to be supernaturally endowed with strength. Their comrades of the infantry vied with them in acts of heroism, and daring, and endurance. They shouted defiance at the foe with every shot; with face and hands begrimed in the smoke and dust and heat of the battle; with comrades falling about them, the survivors thought only of vengeance. All the horses on two of the guns of the 7th Indiana Battery are shot down; another charge is beginning; those two guns might be lost; they must be gotten back. Quick as thought a company of infantry spring to the guns, one hand holding the rifle, the other on the cannon, and with the shot falling thick and fast in and about them, drag the guns over the brow of the ridge and down into the woods, just in the rear of our lines, and hasten back again to take their places in line, ready to meet the on-coming charge. An artilleryman is shot down; a man from the infantry takes his place and obeys orders as best he can. When the charge begins our men are lying down. Now, in the midst of it, so great has become the excitement, so intense the anxiety, all fear and prudence vanishes, and the men leap to their feet, and fire and load, and fire and load, in the wildest frenzy of desperation. They have lost all ideas of danger, or the strength of the assailants. It was this absolute desperation of our men that held our lines. A soldier or officer is wounded; unless the wound was mortal or caused the fracture of a limb, they had the wound tied or bandaged as best they could, some tearing up their blouses for bandages, and again took their places in the lines beside their more fortunate comrades. Each man feels the terrible weight of responsibility that rests on him personally for the results that shall be achieved that day. It is this thought, this decision, this purpose and grand courage that comes only to the American Citizen Soldier, who voluntarily and with unselfish patriotism stands in defense of principle and country, that makes such soldiers as those who fought in our ranks that day. On through the afternoon until nightfall did that furious storm beat against and rage about us.
Near night, Gen. J. J. Reynolds, who commanded that portion of the line immediately on our left, informed us that the lines to our right and left had been broken, and directed that we should fall back to the range of hills in our rear; and so, reluctantly, our men fell back after an afternoon in which they had helped to hold at bay the flower of the “Army of Northern Virginia” and of the Confederacy; and though suffering terribly in loss of men, our portion of the line had not lost a flag nor a gun.
A night of pinching cold with but little sleep illy fitted us for the duty that was to be ours after the Sabbath morning’s sun should rise. With the morning and our hastily prepared breakfast came the question, everything then being so still, “Will there be fighting to-day? This is Sunday.” If there had been a faint hope that the army would rest on its arms that bright Sabbath morning, it was of short life, for soon the order came for an advance; and when it came there were no laggards found. Soldiers never obeyed more promptly, nor with more ready spirit than was that order obeyed. We had learned during the evening and night from various sources that the battle of Saturday had gone hard with some portions of our lines where the enemy had massed his troops most heavily, and our men joined in the desire to retrieve all that had been lost. We moved out in line of battle with our skirmishers advanced, passing over a portion of the field that had been so hotly contested the day before. Soon the shots of the skirmishers warn us that work is before us; nor is it long until the skirmishers have pushed to their furtherest limit, and the line of battle joins them. The command for the charge is given, and, with a shout that might have come from ever-victorious troops, we dash upon their lines. Stubborn is the resistance, but impetuous and determined is the charge, comrade cheering comrade on—on with a fury that cannot be withstood; the air filled with leaden hail; men falling about us on every side; but on and on they push until at last the enemy’s lines are broken, and we follow in hot pursuit, driving them back until they reach a line of reinforcements. Again the battle rages; now with redoubled lines they charge upon us, and the very earth shakes under our feet from the terrible discharge that comes from artillery massed in our front. Shells are shrieking in the air and bursting over our heads; great limbs are torn from the trees and fall with the broken shells about us. Soon our lines are weighed down with the terrible onslaught, and we are driven back over the same ground over which we had just come. Again our lines are rallied, and reformed, and strengthened; and again we charge to recover the lost ground. Four times that Sunday forenoon did our lines sweep down over that ground, and as many times were we driven back, until the ground was almost covered with friend and foe—the blue and the gray lying side by side, wounded, dying, and dead. Coming to us even in the heat and excitement of the battle, it was a terrible and sickening sight to see that battle field that day. As often as our lines were broken and driven back, so often did they rally and renew the attack, until again broken and forced back, turning and firing into the face of the foe as they went, until some soldier or officer would stop, and, with a brave and determined purpose, swear that there he would stand or die, as he turned his face once more to the enemy; and from that stand, so desperately and fearlessly made, calling on his comrades to “fall in,” our lines would, almost as if by magic, be built out to right and left. Those coming back would of their own volition halt and face about, and those who had passed beyond would, as soon as they found the line was reforming, hasten to rejoin it. But words would fail to tell of the many acts of heroism displayed on that field that day. How men fought singly from behind trees, in groops of from two to a dozen, desperately fighting, hoping against hope. The very desperation and fury with which these scattered few would fight—checking the enemy, detaining him, and giving us time to reform our broken lines—surpassed the stories of Napoleon’s old guard. Flanked by the enemy, our lines would change front under the murderous fire of a foe greatly superior in numbers, and again confront him in the new direction. From hastily constructed breastworks we fought now on this side, now on that. No man was there who did not realize that we were greatly outnumbered; yet no one thought of ultimate defeat. Chickamauga was a battle where officers and men were all and each alike—heroes of the noblest type. If never before, on that battle field of Chickamauga, men of the North and men of the South, Union and Confederate, learned that no imaginary lines separating North from South, or marking the boundary of States, make any difference in the spirit of courage, bravery, and daring of the American soldier, once he believes he is fighting for a principle, be that principle right or wrong. If one is more impetuous, the other will endure longer; if one is proud of his section, the other loves his whole country more. The two, united as they should be and will be, combine the elements and qualities of an army on whose banners might be emblazoned the one word “Invincible.”
On and on through all the morning and late into the afternoon had the battle raged, now advancing, now retreating, so evenly did the honors rest, that now both armies seemed willing to rest on their arms. Gradually the firing began to die away, and soon almost ceased on our portion of the line. Late in the afternoon we commenced a movement by the flank, but so confused had we become in our bearings that we did not realize that it was to be anything more than a mere change of position for a renewal of the conflict, when after a short while we found ourselves out of the noise and din of the battle field on the road filled with our troops, and marching with them down past Rossville toward Chattanooga. Then it was that we learned that Chickamauga was, not a defeat, but what seemed at the time a great disaster to the Union Army. And such it really was in point of munitions of war that were lost, and the great numbers of Union soldiers that fell wounded or dead. But a defeat it was not; and had the battle been fought at Chattanooga instead of Chickamauga, Chattanooga would have been lost to us, and disaster overwhelming and crushing would have been the fate of the Army of the Cumberland. Had we halted at Chattanooga instead of marching out to Chickamauga, even though McCook had been with us, we might have had Vicksburg reversed.
I do not believe there was a man who remained in the front fighting on the Sunday of Chickamauga who thought of defeat, so little do they who are in the line know of the actual state of affairs in active army life.
We bivouacked around Rossville on Sunday night, and as we gathered in groops about our camp-fires that night, we talked of the scenes of the day or mourned the loss of the comrades who had fallen, and all discussed the probabilities of the morrow on another field, confident of ultimate success. The morning found our portion of the army moving back toward Chattanooga, our campanies and regiments intact, except for the actual losses of the battle field. Through the afternoon of that day we listened to the distant rumble and roar of the guns of the 14th Army Corps, sounding like the last mutterings of a great storm that had spent its strength, and was drawing to a close from shere exhaustion. As proof of the fact that Chickamauga was not a defeat, we have the fact that Gen. Geo. H. Thomas, one of the grandest heroes and noblest men developed by the war, was able with a single corps to hold the entire army of Bragg at bay until our lines were established in and about Chattanooga. Nor was Bragg’s army able to follow up the advantage gained at Chickamauga. He had been able only to check our further advance, but not to drive us back from Chattanooga. The bravery of our men at Chickamauga was fully equaled by their patience and endurance of the siege of Chattanooga—a siege for two long months that were full of all that goes to make the soldier’s life something to be dreaded, except for a noble and holy cause.