Chapter 12: More From Before – John Bell Hood

We had just reached the return point in that morning’s twenty-mile hike and had settled to rest when we heard the faint sounds of artillery back in the direction of Dalton. We had marched west, with a mild wind in our faces, so the sound was being blown the other direction and reached us somewhat faintly. It may have been going on for some time, but had been lost to our footfalls and singing. There was no way to know.

Benjamin Franklin Smith said, “Somebody’s up early.”

Jordie Tipton observed, “That don’t sound good.”

I said, “Put your feet up, catch your breath for another ten minutes, then we’ll head back. It’s two hours and more, so ten minutes here won’t likely matter there, but it does matter here. And before we leave, let’s dump the rocks.”

We’d headed out at six, figuring to get back in time for lunch. It was mid-October, the thirteenth, and it was just coming on sunrise when we hit the road with sixty pounds of rocks on our backs; we’d increased the load that week. Even so, we’d reached the turnaround just before a quarter past eight. I calculated we’d done nearly four-and-a-half miles per hour of march.

Soon enough we were jogging back toward Dalton. No more singing. I’d occasionally call cadence to keep us organized. I called a three-minute rest every half hour. We didn’t hear any more artillery fire, nor other sounds of battle.

At nine-oh-five, as we approached the grade down to East Chickamauga Creek, fives miles west of Dalton, I called a halt and said, “Before we cross the creek, let’s go up on the bluff and take a look.”

We left the road on its north side, then angled northeast up the hill. There was little climbing to do from the west side, where we were, since we hadn’t dropped down into the creek valley yet. It was a gentle, wooded slope with farm fields and pastures behind us. The top leveled off for about fifty yards, then dropped sharply toward the creek. It was above the place where we’d set up our rifle range, using that bluff as the backdrop to our targets.

On our bellies, all twenty seven of us elbowed through the undergrowth. I said to Jordie, who was on my left, “Watch your silhouette, pass it on,” reminding everyone not to move quickly or raise high enough to be noticed from below.

And it was a good thing we were cautious.

The creek bottom was awash with Confederate troops. In the distance, it seemed almost certain that Dalton was surrounded. It looked as if the entirety of Hood’s forces had descended on the town. There must have been at least ten thousand Rebs while the Union garrison in Dalton was only a thousand troops, including the six hundred men of the Forty-Fourth U.S. Colored Infantry. Well, minus us, of course.

There was no sound of fighting and the Rebs along the creek seemed to have no sense of urgency and were setting up bivouacs, even this early in the day.

I was carrying my Spencer; I hadn’t brought my spyglass nor my Whitworth. Both were hidden on top a beam in the barn we used as our camp. I cringed at the thought of losing that rifle.

Jordie whispered, “What we gonna do?”

I said, “When I shout ‘Charge’ jump up and follow me down the hill.”

He turned and gave me a look like he wanted nothing more than to be somewhere else.

I said, “Or, we could hide.”

Then his look seemed to suggest I needed to get my block knocked off.

I said, “Pass this along: we’re withdrawing to have a talk.”

We backed away from the edge of the bluff and back into the thicker groves of loblollies and magnolias, some live oak and other hardwoods, many of which were were loosing their leaves as autumn advanced. I stopped in a clear area in a loblolly grove and waited for everyone to gather.

I said, “Hood is likely moving north toward Chattanooga, or east toward the railroad, or both. I suggest we move southwest for ten miles, then regroup. We’ll move single file and take turns hiding our trail. Whoever’s in lead, pick the woodlots if you can.”

Digger said, “You should keep the lead, Seneca. You’ve an eye for it.”

Jordie, Micah Josephs, Ammon Williams, and a few others voiced their agreement.

Digger asked, “Anybody think that’s a bad idea?”

Ben said, “Him be leadin’ all the time makin’ him uppity.”

With downcast eyes I said, “Bein’ real sorry, Massa Ben.”

“Tha’s better,” he said.

I looked around at the calm faces of men who likely had faced much worse. I said, “Let me get out ahead about twenty yards, then keep about five yards between you. Keep the noise down, but we won’t try for hushed movement unless we see someone. Watch for my hand signals. We need to move away from here quickly. Unless something comes up, we’ll move about five miles before we take a break.”

But something did come up.

As we approached the road we’d been on, which we now planned to cross, there was the sound of shouted orders from where the wagon track came up through a cut between two banks as it climbed up from the creek. We moved back into the trees.

“Keep moving, you turd-eating monkeys, step it up there.”

Coming up the hill, single file, were negro troopers, in lockstep, their right hands on the shoulder of the man in front of them. Some were wearing their flannel underwear, many were naked, all were barefoot. None of them had shoes, caps, nor any part of a uniform.

The Reb soldiers on escort duty were liberal in heaping both verbal and physical abuse on the colored infantrymen. One colored soldier, reacting to a vicious jab to his ribs with a rifle butt, lost his grip on the man in front and he stumbled out of line and dropped to his knees, grasping his side.

The Reb who’d prodded him said,”Sorry, nigger, this is your only escape,” and he ran his bayonet into the colored trooper’s side. The black trooper screamed and fell onto his back. The Reb stabbed him twice more, at which point the colored infantryman became deathly quiet.

I looked at the scouts, ready to try to restrain them, but they made no moves. Digger whispered to me, “They’re ex-slaves, they’ve seen it a hundred times before.”

Below us, another Reb guard yelled, “Close up that gap, you black sonsabitches.”

We watched five groups of thirty colored Union infantrymen go past, each under the guard of four armed Reb infantrymen, two of whom carried double-barreled shotguns, plus one Reb cavalryman on horseback, with a revolver, a saber, and a carbine slung across his back.

After those five groups passed, there was a break in the movement, so we crossed the road to the woodlot on the other side and continued southwest cross-country.

We’d gone about a half mile when we heard gunshots that sounded like they came from near the road we’d just crossed.

I turned back to the group and gave them the sign for double time: two fist pumps followed by two more. Then I began jogging. Whatever trouble there’d been back at the road, there was a good chance it would draw a swarm of Rebs. I wanted to put some distance between us and that commotion.

It wasn’t but a couple minutes later that there was a crashing through the woods and the uneven cadence of hoof beats.

I stretched my arm to the side and moved it down and up several times, meaning “Take cover.”

I watched a few seconds as everyone got down behind logs, trees, and rocks, scattering leaves and other forest detritus over their uniforms, then extending their rifles toward the noise, checking percussion caps, and then becoming very still. I followed suit.

A few seconds later a horse appeared, about fifty yards off, moving awkwardly through the trees and brush. On its back was a black trooper in his red flannel under clothes.

I called to the trooper nearest me, Davy Maltry. “Davy, stand up and wave him over. We need to get rid of that horse.”

Davy, a short man of twenty-two years, stood up and began waving his arms to get the trooper’s attention. The man spotted Davy, but seemed unable to get the horse to turn our way. The matter was resolved when the horse ran under a low branch and the colored trooper was swept from the saddle. The trooper fell on his butt and the horse, appearing even more frightened, dashed off willy-nilly through the woodlot, making considerable noise in the process.

I said, “Davy, go get him and get him back here. Hurry. Watch your tracks.” I stood to provide cover and act as a rally point.

When he reached the stunned trooper, Davy helped him to his feet, then started dragging him by the arm toward our position, stopping to kick leaves over their trace. He must have been explaining things because, soon enough, the trooper was keeping pace with Davy, and helping obscure their tracks. But the trooper was running funny and it looked like he had a load in his britches.

When they got back to our position, the trooper said to me, “Damnation. I am so --”

I cut him off, “We need to get you hidden, soldier, and right now. Over by that rock, lay flat between the rock and the tree. Davy stay there next to him. I’ll throw some leaves on both of you.”

I scooped up handfuls of leaves and pine needle, then scattered them on top the two men. I said, “Davy, tell him what we’re up to and keep him still. Run ‘im through if you have to.” Everyone but the new man would know I didn’t mean it.

I finished with them and got back into place just in time, as three Reb cavalrymen appeared, following the horse’s tracks. They were cussing and cursing the trooper who’d stolen the horse and the cavalryman’s percussion Army Colt. They passed within thirty yards of us, but never cast a glance our direction.

I kept us in place ten more minutes, then I got up and onto one knee and I said, “Huddle up, fellas.”

When everyone gathered around I said to the escaped trooper, “Welcome to the Scout Platoon of Company A. We’ll want to hear from you after a while, but right now, we need to plan.”

I continued. “Once those Rebs find the empty horse, they’ll backtrack looking for our friend, here. The question is, which way will they think he ran?”

Doc Fraser asked the trooper, “Which way were you planning to head?”

“South, then east, toward Atlanta and Sherman’s army.”

I asked, “What about on foot? Same plan?”

He was nodding. “There’s Rebs everywhere else.”

I shrugged. “Makes sense, so we can’t go that way.”

Babe Branigan said, “Least likely direction would be back the way we come, but that don’t look like a good idea to me.” There were murmurs in agreement. Branigan was thirty years old, lean, and with a face marked by small-pox scars.

I said, “What I’m concerned about is if there’ll be more escapees. Should we remain nearby to help them?”

The new trooper said, “The last of the colored boys will be gone in another half hour.”

Digger said, “As far as our friend here ... Say, what is your name?”

“I’m Sergeant Bill Odette from Company B, Second Platoon.”

“Welcome Sergeant,” Digger said. Then he looked at us. “What I was getting at is that the Rebs will expect Bill here to run. But the opposite of running is not a direction, it’s simply not running.”

“Hideout here?” I asked. “Have you some other purpose in mind?”

“Just to rest and let the dust settle. Have a cold camp, necessary talking only. Maybe back up on the bluff, but over here, not back where we were.”

I wasn’t sure. “They’re high spots. Armies like high spots.”

“Hood’s not gonna stay in Dalton,” Doc said, “except to tear up the tracks an’ loot our stores. Hood wants Chattanooga back. That’s where he’s headed.”

Digger said, “And Sherman will be on his heels, or at least General Thomas and the Army of the Cumberland will be.” Like the Fourteenth Ohio, the Forty-fourth Colored Infantry was a unit of the Army of the Cumberland. Thomas’s corps, including my old unit, had moved out of Atlanta just a few days after I had been reassigned. General Sherman had given General Thomas the job of destroying Hood’s army while he (Sherman) and the majority of his command set off toward Savannah.

I turned to look over my shoulder at the woods to the east. I couldn’t see much, as they seemed dense with considerable undergrowth. That was a good thing, as far as I was concerned.

I said, “Then let’s climb up the back of the bluff and we’ll hide out there ‘till we can figure out what’s what. Listen now, here’s what’s important. We know there are Rebs looking for a trail an’ there’s likely to be more Rebs lookin’. Let’s not give ‘em a trail to follow. Remember the basics: Lift your feet, don’t shuffle. Release snags, don’t pull at ‘em. Push brush and branches aside, don’t break ‘em. I’ll clear our back trail, Buck, you help me.” Buck Pinchon was a short man with an eye for detail. “Jordie, you lead out. Doc, got your compass?”

“Here in my pocket, Seneca.”

“Good. Then keep Jordie pointed southeast ‘till we get to the start of the hill back a’ the bluff, then change to northeast.”

Doc said, “Southeast to hill, then northeast.”

“Jordie, you got the trail rules in mind?”

“No straight lines more than five steps. Stoop under some low branches. Avoid clingy vines. Avoid mud--”

I interrupted his recital. “Good, Jordie. Just keep the rest in mind.” I’d picked Jordie to lead off because he had good instincts for scouting.

“Okay, fellas, anybody need to take a dump?” There was no response. “Then police your hide, piss on it if you need to. Remember, don’t pee in one spot and make a puddle; scatter your piss.

“Sergeant Odette, hold your foot up against my shoe sole.” I sat down and extended my leg toward him. He did the same, pressing his foot against the sole of my brogan. “What do you think?”

“That should work. But what about you? These here feet a’ mine been bare most a’ my life.”

“I’m carrying some moccasins, but if you can keep barefoot until we bivouac, that would be good.” I knew that his step would be more cautious and leave less of an imprint without shoes.

“I’ll be fine, ‘ceptin’ if we come onto sharp rocks.”

“Sharp rocks ain’t likely around here.” Then, to the others, “Any of you got any extra uniform pieces that the Sergeant might have?” Odette was on the tall side.

Benjamin Franklin Smith said, “He can have my blouse; I got a blanket in my pack if I need it.”

“Thanks, Ben.”

Odette said, “Yes, it’s much appreciated, scout.” Smith beamed at being addressed as a scout. I saw smiles on a couple other faces, too.

Tallboy Kosinski said, “I got a blanket the sarge can use over his legs, tonight.”

“And thanks for that thoughtfulness, scout,” Odette said. I saw a sly smile cross Kosinski’s lips, though he was looking down, fumbling with his pack.

I noticed Ernst Andover, another tall man, loosening the belt on his uniform trousers.

“That’s enough for now, fellas. Ernst, keep your trousers. Men, make no mistake, today, all of you became scouts. Now let’s see you live up to the name.” I’d shown them most of the basics, but I’d figured another month or six weeks of training, mostly in practicing, but General Hood had figured different.

“Davy, you stay behind the sergeant, help him to move soft.” Soft was my term for leaving as little sign of your passage as possible. “Digger, how ‘bout you take the spot in front of the sergeant, keep him from getting slapped by branches.”

“Got it, Corporal,” Digger said, grinning at me. I think he wanted Odette to know I had a non-commissioned rank.

“Good, then. Scouts, let’s police this area, then line up on Jordie.”

I told Buck I’d deal with the ground, he could watch the brush and trees. And so we headed out, a long line of silent soldiers wearing muffled gear and moving cautiously but steadily through the woods. I picked up a handful of pine needles to use as a brush.

As we crossed the trail of the Reb’s horses, I was pleased to see that no one had stepped on a hoof print, leaving them sharp, not betraying our passage.

Considering two dozen men had passed by, we were doing very well. There was an inevitable scent trail that a hound could follow. Even absent a hound, a skilled human tracker would have little difficulty. As it was, with two men erasing that trail, in the time allowed it would have been impractical, if not impossible, to return every dead leaf to its exposed side, lift every blade of grass that had been stepped on, return every pebble to the hole from which it had been turned, re-twine every clinging vine. But we could hide the trail from your everyday infantryman or cavalry trooper.

Within an hour we were gathered in a circle some hundred feet inside the woods at the top of the bluff. It was barely one o’clock.

I’d had a look, along with Doc, Jordie, and Buck, checking the creek valley and the road toward Dalton. There had seemed to be fewer Reb troops. I reported this to the platoon.

“Looks like they’re moving on. You boys see it any different?” I asked the three who’d been up there with me.

Buck said, “Those that are there look like they settin’ up bivouac. But nothin’ fancy. Likely move on come mornin’.” Jordie and Doc nodded.

I said, “We’ll have a cold camp and a quiet camp. Necessary conversation only. Let’s keep thirty feet between our sleep hides. Count off one to four.”