Chapter 8: More From Before -- Atlanta

Amos and I were given leave to accompany Caleb’s body on the mortuary train to Chattanooga. There a Union cemetery was organized, under the guard of the Union garrison, mostly colored troops. We marked the grave by burying a yard of red canvas under the first few inches of dirt so that, if the cemetery register was somehow changed or lost, we’d be able to locate Caleb more easily. Amos took some notes on the directions of certain notable landmarks as another safeguard, something he’d learned as an artilleryman.

We rode back on a supply train, on a flatcar carrying thirty-two-pounder smooth bore cannons. We each went in search of our units when we got back to the lines north of Atlanta.

My white-hot anger when I first learned of my brother’s death had definitely cooled. In fact, it was all I could do to get on the train back to Atlanta, rather than walking north until I got back to our farm in Ohio.

Amos seemed to know what I was going through. He was five years older than me and had more of an appreciation of the deaths of loved ones. Our two-year-old brother had died from fever in ‘fifty-five and our mother died in childbirth in ‘fifty-six. I remembered both, but through the memories of a nine- and ten-year-old boy.

“I think that’s why Pa sent me off to Uncle Sammie,” Amos told me. “I took Ma’s death really bad. Uncle Sammie ... I don’t know what he did, but he kept me so busy that I’d drop into my cot at night and be asleep before I knew it. I never forgot about Ma, but after a while it was like I came to accept that all life ended in death.” He chuckled. “I think that’s what Uncle Sammie kept telling me, in different ways, with the stories of how the spirit ancestors put the Onodowa’ga on the hills by the big lake.”

He put his hand on my shoulder and looked into my eyes. “I know it’s bad now, Judah, but you can’t run from it, because it’s inside you. No matter where you’d go, even home, the sorrow would be there. My advice is to get back with your platoon and back in harness. Don’t let yourself sit around fretting. Do the best scouting you’ve ever done. Don’t get careless, get better.”

He shook his head and looked off in the distance. “The sad fact is, it’s the kind of thing you gotta go through to make you smarter about life.” He broke into tears. “God knows I loved that boy.”

Sergeant Lange seemed to have a similar plan in mind.

“Seneca, we’re sending out four two-man teams and we need to decide how to go about it. We’re meeting in a room over at the Regiment HQ after supper. Be there by six.”

We met in the cellar. It was damp, but it was cooler than on the upper floors. There was only one bench to sit on. Sergeant Lange brought a kitchen chair down. I sat on the steps with Leprechaun and two of the other scouts, Fran Booth and Dicey Blackstock. The other four were Tamp Mulligan, Art Granger, Odie Carmichael, and Dutch Kronenberg. In looking over the group in the lamplight, I’d say Sergeant Lange had picked the platoon’s best men. I felt honored to be with them.

“Here’s the deal,” Lange said, from where he’d sat himself backward on the chair. “We think there are two of those Whitworth rifles out there. In fact we’re pretty sure of it. Even more, we’re pretty sure the Rebs want us to know that, for some reason, as three mornings in a row we’ve had artillery crews attacked at almost the same minute but at widely separated places. I’m talking about five or more miles apart, within minutes of one another, three mornings running.”

“An’ I’m thinkin’ it’s a trap, ‘tis, Sergeant,” Leprechaun said.

“They want us to come after ‘em,” Fran Booth agreed, in his English immigrant accent...

“An’ they got the range on us, ‘cept for Seneca,” Dicey Blackstock noted.

“Lambs to the slaughter,” Dutch Kronenberg suggested.

Lange said, “We’ve received word that the Rebs have put a hundred dollar reward on getting your rifle back, Seneca. Two hundred dollars if your head is with it.”

I said, “I go away for a few days, and you boys have let the whole war go to hell.”

“You’re right,” Lange said. “No more leaves for you.”

Fran said, “Do they expect us to come shooting, or do they think we’ll try to steal their rifles, like Seneca did?”

I said, “Like Dicey said, except for my Whitworth, they’ve got the range, so a sharpshooter battle seems a bit one-sided for us to play along. More likely they expect us to come hunting.”

We sat in silence for long seconds. Finally, Sergeant Lange asked, “Any ideas?”

Odie Carmichael said, “So we could get two hundred bucks for Seneca and his gun?” That brought the smiles and chuckles Odie had hoped to earn.

I said, “What we need is for them to be sitting in a cellar trying to figure out what we’re up to.”

“What do you mean, Seneca?” Lange asked.

“Let’s do something unusual.”

“Like what?”

I thought about our usual practices, then said, “We usually work alone, or with a spotter, but we always work on our own. What if we all worked together, or a group of us, say all on one flank, then move somewhere else that afternoon or the next day? Do that a few times.

“Or we could withdraw altogether for a day or two. Or all withdraw, with only the Whitworth shooting.”

“And the rest of us do what?” Odie demanded.

“Well, my brass needs polishing,” I said.

Odie picked up a pebble from the floor and tossed it at me.

Fran said, “I like Seneca’s idea. Let’s bamboozle ‘em. Maybe something will come up in the confusion that would allow us to collect another Whitworth.” Fran Booth and Leprechaun were the platoon’s corporals.

“Or two,” Odie said.

Tamp Mulligan said, “A bunch of us could raid the pastures where they keep their cavalry horses.”

“You mean shoot the horses?” It sounded like Odie didn’t care for the idea.

Tamp said, “We shoot the horses when they’re moving artillery, Odie.”

Fran said, “Blimey, Odie, we’re trying to save our boys’ lives. No one prefers shooting horses.”

“No,” Dutch said. “We’d rather be killing human beings.”

“It’s war,” Lange said.

“All’s fair in love and war,” Art Granger recited, quietly.

In the end, we decided the platoon would scatter about the various units headed for action simply to observe the enemy sharpshooters without responding to them, or shooting anywhere else, for two days.

After supper on the second day, Sergeant Lange called the platoon, now numbering twenty-four, together. He had them sit closely around him in a semi-circle of three rows, his back to the fire so he could see their faces.

“You’re not to leave camp tonight. There’s an operation on for tomorrow. Reveille for the camp is four-thirty. We’ll be on our way before then, so I’ll be kicking you out of your bedrolls at three forty-five. You’ll have time for one cup of coffee, which I’ll have over at my fire. Breakfast will be boiled eggs and beef jerky that you can eat as you hike out.”

“Where we goin’?” one of the new boys asked.

“You’ll learn that in the morning. But we’ll want to be in place so we can catch the Rebs as they move out. We’re going after their cavalry tomorrow, see if we can catch them saddling up, surprise General Wheeler’s subalterns.”

“All two dozen of us?” Odie asked, his voice skeptical. “Against their ten thousand cavalry?”

“Everybody but Seneca,” Sergeant Lange said, then he looked at me. “Tomorrow you hunt command officers. See me afterwards.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

Lange looked at Odie. “At best they’ll be one regiment. That’s only about eight hundred men, so you can quit your worryin’. Most of their cavalry is with Joe Wheeler up in north Georgia, trying to cut our supply line. But we won’t be hangin’ around tomorrow for a cup of tea. We hit ‘em an’ git.”

Then he addressed the group. “Four aimed shots each at four selected cavalrymen, with usual priorities to rank. All shots within twenty seconds of my first shot. No duplicate targets; each man will work out his targeting bounds with the man on each side of ‘im so we’re not wasting shots. We’ll space ourselves over a front of one hundred twenty yards, two hundred fifty yards out from the targets.

“After hitting your four targets -- saving a minimum of three loaded cartridges for our immediate escape -- every second man will make a covert advance forward, hopefully under cover of our powder smoke, for ten yards, while the others will move to our rear for twenty yards before we all exit the field covertly, likely to our right flank, depending on where we end up; we’ll establish that when we set up. We’ll also pick a rally point when we get there and can see what looks likely. If you get separated, work your way back on your own as best you can.”

Odie piped up, “And if you’re caught and tortured, tell ‘em it was all Seneca’s idea.”

“Shut your yap, Carmichael. This ain’t the time, boy,” the Sergeant growled. “Okay, men. Tomorrow we’ll take a two-day kit, in case you have to go to ground, but their cavalry should have bigger concerns than us. Any questions?”

As Sergeant Lange had explained to me afterwards, our early departure was necessary because we had a long way to go: well south of Atlanta. In an unusual development, the initial part of our advance was to be on a special train. We would be on a flatcar that was to be pushed in front of a locomotive around the west side of Atlanta, then that car would be released on a long downgrade that would carry us nearly four more miles, in relative silence, to a point southwest of Atlanta, where the tracks intersected the Atlanta-Newnan Pike near the town of Fairburn. From there, we’d move on foot north-northeast, parallel to the Pike until we reached the Reb’s cavalry camp about two miles northeast of Fairburn. We had it figured to arrive at the cavalry camp just before sunrise -- and probably about a half hour before the cavalry regiment, and the rest of Hood’s army, figured out that Sherman was moving in force against Jonesborough. Jonesborough was south of Atlanta and straddled the last railroad junction that provided an open supply line between Hood’s army, under siege in Atlanta, and the rest of the Confederacy.

But I was assigned an additional mission.

After a long coast, accompanied only by the sound of steel-on-steel and the subdued clickety-clack of the rail joints, we braked the car and dismounted after crossing the Pike. Then, to clear the main line for the coming advance, we pushed our flatcar onto a siding just past of the road crossing and headed into the woodlots between farms along the Pike.

I was carrying both my Spencer and the Whitworth as I had two mission assignments. While the rest of the platoon would be setting up near whatever horse picket lines or pasturage the Reb regiment was using, I was going further, to the camp itself, and try to find a vantage over the headquarters area. I would participate in the initial attack from that location with my Spencer, then quietly withdraw to a further distance more proper for use of the Whitworth. Leprechaun would accompany me to my position for two purposes. First, two shooters would make it look more like I was part of the larger group attack. Second, Leprechaun would take my Spencer and leave me a LeMat and some binoculars.

Colonel Bischoff’s and Captain Bostick’s plan was that I would not withdraw back to our lines with the others, but remain to harass the enemy in this area until our lines caught up to me, hopefully by the end of the day’s action. Sherman was throwing nearly his entire command against Jonesborough. The taking of that rail junction would cut Atlanta off and leave Hood stranded. He’d either have to overcome a superior force, surrender, or skedaddle. The smart money was on skedaddle.

I knew I could hide out for days, if necessary, but I wasn’t at all sure I could “harass the enemy” and manage to hide from him at the same time.

The big problem, of course, was the smoke created by the explosion of the black powder every time a gun was fired. It created a large gray cloud rising above you which as much as shouted, “Here I am, hiding in these trees, shooting at you,” and the Whitworth’s powder load was not shy in that department. The only real course of action, if one were in range of enemy guns, was to move quickly away from the smoke cloud after firing, except that quick movement made one easier to spot. It would be an interesting challenge.

I had debated bringing my bow and arrows rather than the Whitworth, but I was surprised to learn that General Thomas wanted some of those hexagonal bullets to be found in some Reb officers’ bodies. I should have realized an operation this complicated would have had our headquarters behind it. The use of the special train should have been evidence enough. As a consequence, I was carrying the Whitworth and the Spencer.

As we closed on our objective, it was all but inevitable that we caught the notice of at least one Reb picket. However, Dicey Blackstock, who was our advance scout, made short and silent work of him. Likely the Reb wouldn’t be missed until breakfast, by which time larger matters should be drawing his fellow Rebs’ attention. Having passed the advance pickets, the remainder of our approach was in the usually deserted tract between the outer pickets and the Reb perimeter guards, but we still moved in the shadows of the woodlots and cover of ditches and cornrows, with but the minimum of noise, most of which sounded like errant breezes in the brush.

We arrived in good order at the western perimeter of the cavalry pasturage. Sergeant Lange quickly evaluated the immediate ground to the west.

Once he’d determined the firing line position, I helped the Sergeant, along with Leprechaun and Fran Booth, to set the men facing the immense pasture, mostly devoid of grass, but crowded with rows of horses tied to picket ropes and the busy attendants distributing hay. We checked to make sure that adjoining sharpshooters had established the boundaries of their fields of fire so two men would not pick the same target. Then Sergeant Lange shook my hand, told me to watch my back, and that he’d see me either at supper or breakfast. “Leave your hex sign and skedaddle,” he said. “Remember, there’s a price on your head.”

Leprechaun and I cautiously walked off toward the motley collection of tents and sleeping shelters a quarter mile further on.

The Reb cavalry regiment was occupying a farmstead in a shallow valley cut by a small stream. The rising hillsides on the margins were mostly left in second- or third-growth open forest cover or, on the gentler slopes, given to what had been tilled and cultivated fields. The horses occupied all the open fields now, in the valley and on the hillsides, mostly tied to long picket ropes, held in place by tall posts. Between the picket lines were walk spaces, which the horses faced, spaces wide enough that saddles, feed sacks, and other equipment could be stacked, secure from the horses’ reach.

The horse pickets abruptly gave way to the troopers’ camp, covering five or six acres, and then to the farmstead, itself, with its barn, sheds, corn crib, grain bin, and well pump.

It was not unexpected to find the busiest location, this early morning, was the farmhouse at the head of the valley, which almost certainly served as regimental headquarters. That house was on the rocky slope opposite us, near a spring-house that likely covered the creek’s source. Most popular with the daybreak foot traffic was the outhouse, a structure that appeared to have had more recent, though less finished, additions. Leprechaun and I looked at one another with the dawning realization that even the highest-ranked officers had to answer the call of nature. It was something to keep in mind.

We were in a woodlot near the top of the hill, one hundred seventy yards across from the farmhouse and the cluster of wall tents that lay mostly below it on the hillside. The forest floor had been scoured of anything that could be used as firewood, but both of us carried cordage that could be looped around the barrel of our rifles and secured to a tree, thus supplying a gun rest at any desired height. In this instance, I found a woody bush with stems substantial enough to support the Spencer, but not thick enough to attract a firewood-gatherer. In fact, from the smell of the chimney smoke moving our direction on the soft breeze, they were burning coal in the farmhouse cookstove. Leprechaun had found a low-cut stump about twenty feet to my right and took a prone position behind it. I sat behind my shrub, knees raised and supporting my left elbow, which held the Spencer’s stock. We were closer than the rest of the platoon had set up to their target. Our view was from the side of the house at a slight angle giving us an aspect of the rear of the house. In the yard, a man was filling a bucket at the pump and another was seated on one of a stack of sacked grain, smoking a pipe.