Chapter 7

Some of the mounted Infantry unit at the crossroads came riding hell bent for leather into our camp in the early morning of a bright and promising day. I found that my heart was beating faster than it should have for that time of morning before I even had any chance to get my arms and legs warmed up.

The excited bugle boy was blurting out the details of what sounded like a wonderful rumor to the Negro troops gathered around the sweating horses.

"They came at us like devils in the mist of morning. We couldn't see a thing but those bullets and minie balls were flying all around us like bees on the warpath. Then, they ran out of ammunition and all they could do was whoop and holler and fade back into the mist because they feared our wrath."

I was well informed from the perspective of my future existence that the Johnny Rebs were in dire need of logistical support and that they relied on the railroad links for their re-supply. The surrounding Union forces around Chattanooga were cutting those links and forcing them to retreat further into their Rebel homeland giving the armies of the North access to the riches and strategic influence of the Georgia plantations and cities of commercial power like Atlanta. They were determined not to give up the fight for Chattanooga and were making their best effort to present a last stand against the superior Union forces.

The horses in our camp were nervous and we made a special effort to calm them down because we needed them to carry us and our equipment to the line of departure on our side of the river before we moved into Rebel territory with every last man available for the battle.

We only saw light resistance at first and it was beginning to look like we could make it all the way to Chattanooga without much difficulty. Suddenly, our position became tenuous because the crafty Confederate officers had flanked our spearhead and it looked like we might all wind up in a southern prison for the remainder of the war.

The word was passed down the line that we were to move at double time to the rear but in an orderly fashion. Of course, it was a retreat but it was explained as merely "repositioning" the line so we could gain leverage against their defensive forces. No mention was made of the fact that at this point the Rebel forces outnumbered us almost two to one on this side of the river and that the General had probably mistakenly underestimated the Confederate sense of making a last stand to save their homeland from being split in two.

Our unit was pulled over to the side of the road and dispersed in the trees taking time to find low ground and cover in case we were attacked. A long column of our artillery pulled back across the river in a big hurry because if the bridge were to be destroyed they would be lost to us forever.

The sporadic fire that was continually putting us on the alert accelerated into a crescendo of firepower and I wondered which unit was catching hell and if we were winning or losing. I knew in general terms that the Union Army suffered high casualties and a series of setbacks but that eventually Chattanooga was taken and the Rebels had to retreat further south to prevent being captured.

I witnessed a long line of Rebel prisoners of war being speedily moved to the rear according to the standard processing rules. They seemed in good spirits but I knew that the camps they were being sent to were hellholes of the worst sort and that most of them would be victims of starvation or disease in an atmosphere of ill treatment that was the mirror image of the prisoner of war camps on the other side. It was one of the most shameful aspects of the American Civil War ranking almost as terrible as the lack of proper medical services for the soldiers wounded in combat but still in the land of the living.

It was a saving grace that we remained in hiding in the woods because a troop of southern cavalry came galloping down the road heading toward the bridge like they were being chased by a horde of devils. The few Union soldiers fighting a delaying action on the road were easily brushed aside and our officer was undecided to commit us to the fray because he was uncertain how many other Rebel fighters were headed in our direction. After a short time, it became abundantly clear that the cavalry unit was the only one thrusting into the fast retreating Union lines and we were now cut off from our main forces with a sizable rebel unit between us and our commanders.

The Captain addressed us in a low voice.

"Men, we are cut off now from our base and we have two options. The first is to surrender but my information is that our treatment in the rebel prison is far worse than falling in battle. The other option is to hit the horse soldiers from the rear and get through them back to our units."

I was astonished to hear an officer who was reputed to be a graduate of the Army Academy in West Point asking his men for their opinion on the best option to take in the face of the enemy. I knew that without a doubt the only chance we had to survive was to hit the Confederates hard and get through them before they knew what hit them. Their lack of response showed me that they were just as astonished as I and I threw in my two cents and suggested we follow the Captain's lead because he was best suited to know the proper course of action. I saw him throw me a glance filled with gratitude because the decision was made to follow the Captain and try to get back to our own lines no matter how costly it was and how many would suffer the ultimate sacrifice on a merciless battlefield with little chance of getting proper medical care if unfortunately wounded.