August 22, 1863 - Mid-Morning
Chattanooga, Tennessee
"Gentlemen, I find our present dispositions quite distressing. The enemy has deceived us. Buckner and his army may be assailed in a matter of days, and we have half our force spread for scores of miles to the southwest."
Yes, though Polk to himself, and guess which one of us was the one who advocated against holing ourselves up in Chattanooga for a month.
General Braxton Bragg had returned from a recuperative leave late last night (recuperative, HA!, thought Polk) at the news of Federal troops directly across the river. Brigade strength at least, surely Divisional level, pessimistic thinking had it that Rosecrans had moved his entire army over there. Anyone with an ounce of sense (which rules out Bragg right there) capped it at Corps level - certainly there was no more than a battery of artillery. From a mile away over the Tennessee River, cannon fire sounded much worse than it really was.
But the strength of the Yankees was a non-issue here - there presence was.
"Sir," said General Hill, Bragg's other wing commander, "if the damnyankees are really across the river with as much force as you say, I must agree that our position is a point of concern. But how possibly can Rosecrans have moved such a force into position in such a short amount of time without our notice? This cannot be a large move, the terrain cannot support a huge army, there is no sustenance. Every mile is rocky, hilly, with few good roads..."
"Which is exactly why Rosecrans will try it. It's the last direction any attack may come from, therefore it's the first. It's just another flanking move, God knows the Yankees have done that often enough recently. Plus, the yankees have always been proficient in transportation. I just can't see them starving any time soon." Bragg even gave a small, grim smile at his last statement.
"But, sir, to what purpose? If he wants to surprise us, try to storm the town, or even land a mile or two to the side, it just failed. We know there are enemy troops there. We can see every possible landing site. It's suicidal. Rosecrans has his faults, sir, but he's not stupid. He's not Burnside."
Polk could see it coming. The more anyone tried to argue with Braxton Bragg, the more tenaciously he held to his position.
"Did you not hear what I just said?" Bragg thundered. "Rosecrans is not aiming to attack us. He wants to by-pass us, reach Buckner in the east, and crush him between his army and Burnside's. For certainly they are not the same person - they are on opposite sides of Buckner's corps. It's a dangerous position, it is."
"Why move there at all?" Hill had at least one more try left in him. "Burnside outnumbers Buckner all by himself. Rosecrans still has to cross the river in order to do anything. Why march hundreds of miles, wasting precious time, time in which Buckner may fall back, when their army can cross anywhere closer!"
"Such as? You did just, I believe, rule out the possibility of a direct assault against our army. Rosecrans is, as you said, not stupid."
The other problem with Bragg was that he actually had some brains. Not as much as me, surely, but still, enough. Enough to ruin this army. March off to Buckner indeed!
Hill's voice grew quieter, but still, colder. "I was referring to the reports of multiple enemy divisions marching towards the crossings opposite Shellmound and Bellefonte."
"There!?? 50 miles downriver!?? General Hill, trying to attack our defenses here at Chattanooga would indeed be quite mad, but, there? It’s suicidal! Forget what I just said about the yankee logistics, it is a march of all those 50 miles over 4 mountains, with no water, almost in a drought, and with our cavalry giving us weeks of notice!”
It is a puzzler, thought Polk. Rosecrans doesn’t really have anywhere good to cross, so we must consider everything. But still, Buckner? No. That’s the one sure thing.
“Buckner is Rosecrans’ target, and so Buckner is the person I need to help” Bragg went on. “We have Cleburne’s division already guarding the fords upriver, he can be sent quickly at need. And I’m recalling all but one brigade of cavalry from screening the Sand Mountain line.” Hill grimaced. Bragg apparently did not notice.
“If we move quickly, we could have easily six, seven thousand troopers to Buckner in just a few days, with 2 divisions within the week.” Bragg stopped, and began to look thoughtful. “But I wonder if we do not have an opportunity to catch Rosecrans on the move. God knows we’ve gone a precious while without a big attack.”
Polk perked up instantly. Anything that could prevent this madness….
“Sir, if I may be so bold. I think that an offensive strategy would be wonderful for this army’s morale, and may succeed in taking out a few of Rosecrans’ divisions. If we can strike him while on the march, cutting through the screening force he has here by the river, we can even the odds considerably. But first, in that case….”
“In that case, we would need to determine exactly what we have in front of us.” Hill picked up Polk’s cue instantly. It was odd. Polk did not generally agree with Hill any more than Bragg, but when they did agree, it was commonly on more important issues. “The enemy seems to have most of their troops within a mile or two of our position, just separated by the river. Our troops are encamped within the town itself. We could prepare an attack on them without giving them any advance warning. All we need is scouting of the enemy’s positions.”
Bragg pondered even more. The simple fact that he did not immediately start screaming in both of their faces was extremely promising.
“Let us ride down to the river, Generals, and see what can be seen of Rosecrans’ advance force.”
Stringer’s Ridge – just across the river
“Yeah, that’s showin’ ‘em. Give those traitor bastards a good hit in the….”
“Back to your post, Private.” Sergeant Harrison King was in a foul mood, having not slept for at least two days, and now this sudden lack of discipline amongst the rank and file.
To be expected, perhaps, he thought. The men of John Wilder’s brigade had reason to be proud, perhaps even haughty. An infantry brigade mounted on horses and given repeating rifles, they were the core of Crittenden’s diversion across from Chattanooga. And, they specifically were the closest Union troops to the town.
At the moment, the few men of the 123rd Illinois who were awake were bantering good-naturedly with some artillerymen on the ridge above them. Wilder’s brigade had been busy the last two days: overrunning pickets, capturing wagon trains, and constructing basic fieldworks. However, once no more enemy troops were north of the river in their area, the brigade got a bit of a breather.
The half a battery with the diversionary force was having a field day. Aimed shots were few and far between, with the range to the town of over a mile. Which did not mean that the battery didn’t try. Lilly’s gunners had already started several fires in the town, and rudely awakened several thousand Confederate troops, who were powerless to respond. Confederate artillery, strangely enough, had remained quiet.
“Up, men!” Everyone knew that voice, and most people actually did get up. Colonel Wilder himself had arrived, which surely meant something important was happening.
Important proved to be a relative term. “I want a company from each regiment to form a special detail. We’re going to be cutting boards, making it look to the damned traitors over there like we’re building rafts. You, first Sergeant! Where’s your company commander?”
“Sir, you’re looking at him. Captain Jones and Lieutenant Rowley are both on sick leave.” Not that King minded the authority in itself, but still, a bad time to push it on my shoulders, when we’re out here, practically an independent command.
“Alright, Sergeant. I can read the tone of your voice there. It’s fine. I’ll just use F Company. They surely need the work, the laggards. Anyway….see if you can’t dig a stronger earthwork for the big guns. Otherwise, let your men rest until nightfall.”
“Yes sir. Thank you sir.”
Wilder rode on. Nice idea. As long as we’re here, any deception at all will help. Nice to be reminded every now and again that we do have good people amongst the officer staff.
King formed up H company, with much muttering and complaining. Standard stuff – to complain is to be a soldier. This was quite an easy task. And half his men were already right by the cannons.
In five minutes, the thirty-four men of the company had reached the top of the ridge, to find artillerymen happy for any assistance good hard earth could give.
“The Confederates have finally gotten their act together, and have a few guns actually firing back at us. Hard to find the range, and half their shells don’t go off besides, but still. The third gun already has two men wounded, and I don’t want good old number one to go the same way. You just keep digging, Sergeant.”
“Yes sir, Lieutenant Wagner. We’ll dig until your gun is buried in earth save the barrel, and it recoils further into the ground. You can walk on top of her, sir, and the Confederates will never hit her.”
The two noncoms jibed each other a bit more, then the infantry commenced digging. Wagner commanded the first gun in Lilly’s battery. After a bit of a nasty spot at Stone’s River earlier that year, which King’s regiment had helped him out of, the battery and the regiment had an interesting relationship going.
Half an hour passed. King stopped to wipe his brow, then glanced over to see Wagner sighting the gun. He looked towards Chattanooga. The smoke from the last round had cleared, and the town was quite a sight. Parts still gleamed, whitewashed buildings, soldier’s barracks, light industry, some rail lines, a big park green. Other buildings had gone up in smoke, or were burning now, fires raging uncontrolled. Luckily, no wind fanned the flames.
Behind the town rose mountains of such majesty that King had to stop. There was Lookout Mountain, thousands of feet high, dominating everything. Green trees even at the top were blurred by fog, even with the bright sun shining. In a week or two, if everything went according to plan, the Army of the Cumberland should have a whole corps moving up to that mountain from the west, essentially behind the town. Further back, and to the left, longer ridges reached far back down into Georgia. Bragg’s escape route. Dark forests were broken by occasional farms. Even from this distance, they did not look well-tended, and certainly not on flat ground. He looked back down towards the river. Fast-running, deep enough though not a pinch on what the Tennessee looked like farther downriver. Rocky. Everything rocky. Rocks lined the shore, seemingly everywhere save right at the town proper. There King could see charred wood, the remains of the port that had been the first target of Wagner’s gun.
And just beyond that, on the first street near the river, a flag moved. Or rather, several flags moved. King squinted, trying to see. There was red, white, and blue on one of the flags, and good as Rosecrans may be, he hadn’t taken the city yet. That had to be a Confederate entourage. A big one, seeing the size of the blur.
“Hey, Wagner! You have a damn-sight better sight than I do. What do you make of that huge bunch of rebels riding around right by the river? You know, just three buildings to the right of that charred warehouse.”
Wagner got out his telescope and took a look. He started jumping around wildly. “That looks like at least a corps flag, maybe even full army. That’s gotta be some big-wig General riding around, Polk, maybe even old Bragg himself.” He looked again. “Sweet Jesus! Maybe even both of them. That’s a lot of aides for just one General!”
“Do you think you have any chance of hitting ‘em?” Half the men in both his company and the battery had stopped to listen.
“Range…maybe a mile. They really are right next to the river! With height….light wind….some luck. We’ve got a shot at it. Whaddaya think, boys?” he asked, turning to the artillerymen. They cheered.
“Alright then! Solid shot, quick as you can! Let’s sight this gun!” Wagner labored a long time over it, stopped a moment, then looked again. “It’s got a chance. That many men, it’s gotta hit something! Maybe I aimed it long, so if it misses it still hits another rebel building. Oh well. Clear!” A pregnant pause. “FIRE!”
The gun boomed. The recoil took it back only a foot – the bracing worked, at least. King tried to follow the path of the metal ball, but the distance was too great and the shell, great as it was, was too small. Wagner got out his spyglass again, turned it towards the town.
“Damn! Too short. Not by much, either. Sprayed a huge bunch of dirt into the air. But no blood. Scared ‘em though. That’ll teach those rebs to ride through our sights!” The men cheered, but King’s was perfunctory. Wagner didn’t look too happy either.
Polk had caught the cannon flash from across the river, estimated the trajectory, and came so close to swearing that it was actually quite impressive. Life in the clergy did something, after all.
The shot was short. Dirt splayed everywhere. Horses reared. Several aides were knocked off their mounts, and everyone left upright was quite dazed. Until someone saw Bragg.
He had been in the front of the group, and as his horse bucked him he tried to steady the reins. He slipped, and his hand got caught in the reins. The horse lost control, and fell over, crushing its rider beneath it.
“General Bragg!” “Get a medic, someone!” “The General’s down!” Cries came fast and furious.
Polk caught his breath, looked, then immediately relaxed. Yes, that was an injury, but no one got killed crushed beneath a horse. But Bragg did not get up. A litter arrived and Bragg was still out cold. Polk worried again. Virtually no one got killed by being crushed beneath a horse. But Bragg was always sick with something or another. Weak. If it could happen to anyone……it would happen to Bragg. Of course.
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I welcome any and all comments, stylistic or content-based.
Chattanooga, Tennessee
"Gentlemen, I find our present dispositions quite distressing. The enemy has deceived us. Buckner and his army may be assailed in a matter of days, and we have half our force spread for scores of miles to the southwest."
Yes, though Polk to himself, and guess which one of us was the one who advocated against holing ourselves up in Chattanooga for a month.
General Braxton Bragg had returned from a recuperative leave late last night (recuperative, HA!, thought Polk) at the news of Federal troops directly across the river. Brigade strength at least, surely Divisional level, pessimistic thinking had it that Rosecrans had moved his entire army over there. Anyone with an ounce of sense (which rules out Bragg right there) capped it at Corps level - certainly there was no more than a battery of artillery. From a mile away over the Tennessee River, cannon fire sounded much worse than it really was.
But the strength of the Yankees was a non-issue here - there presence was.
"Sir," said General Hill, Bragg's other wing commander, "if the damnyankees are really across the river with as much force as you say, I must agree that our position is a point of concern. But how possibly can Rosecrans have moved such a force into position in such a short amount of time without our notice? This cannot be a large move, the terrain cannot support a huge army, there is no sustenance. Every mile is rocky, hilly, with few good roads..."
"Which is exactly why Rosecrans will try it. It's the last direction any attack may come from, therefore it's the first. It's just another flanking move, God knows the Yankees have done that often enough recently. Plus, the yankees have always been proficient in transportation. I just can't see them starving any time soon." Bragg even gave a small, grim smile at his last statement.
"But, sir, to what purpose? If he wants to surprise us, try to storm the town, or even land a mile or two to the side, it just failed. We know there are enemy troops there. We can see every possible landing site. It's suicidal. Rosecrans has his faults, sir, but he's not stupid. He's not Burnside."
Polk could see it coming. The more anyone tried to argue with Braxton Bragg, the more tenaciously he held to his position.
"Did you not hear what I just said?" Bragg thundered. "Rosecrans is not aiming to attack us. He wants to by-pass us, reach Buckner in the east, and crush him between his army and Burnside's. For certainly they are not the same person - they are on opposite sides of Buckner's corps. It's a dangerous position, it is."
"Why move there at all?" Hill had at least one more try left in him. "Burnside outnumbers Buckner all by himself. Rosecrans still has to cross the river in order to do anything. Why march hundreds of miles, wasting precious time, time in which Buckner may fall back, when their army can cross anywhere closer!"
"Such as? You did just, I believe, rule out the possibility of a direct assault against our army. Rosecrans is, as you said, not stupid."
The other problem with Bragg was that he actually had some brains. Not as much as me, surely, but still, enough. Enough to ruin this army. March off to Buckner indeed!
Hill's voice grew quieter, but still, colder. "I was referring to the reports of multiple enemy divisions marching towards the crossings opposite Shellmound and Bellefonte."
"There!?? 50 miles downriver!?? General Hill, trying to attack our defenses here at Chattanooga would indeed be quite mad, but, there? It’s suicidal! Forget what I just said about the yankee logistics, it is a march of all those 50 miles over 4 mountains, with no water, almost in a drought, and with our cavalry giving us weeks of notice!”
It is a puzzler, thought Polk. Rosecrans doesn’t really have anywhere good to cross, so we must consider everything. But still, Buckner? No. That’s the one sure thing.
“Buckner is Rosecrans’ target, and so Buckner is the person I need to help” Bragg went on. “We have Cleburne’s division already guarding the fords upriver, he can be sent quickly at need. And I’m recalling all but one brigade of cavalry from screening the Sand Mountain line.” Hill grimaced. Bragg apparently did not notice.
“If we move quickly, we could have easily six, seven thousand troopers to Buckner in just a few days, with 2 divisions within the week.” Bragg stopped, and began to look thoughtful. “But I wonder if we do not have an opportunity to catch Rosecrans on the move. God knows we’ve gone a precious while without a big attack.”
Polk perked up instantly. Anything that could prevent this madness….
“Sir, if I may be so bold. I think that an offensive strategy would be wonderful for this army’s morale, and may succeed in taking out a few of Rosecrans’ divisions. If we can strike him while on the march, cutting through the screening force he has here by the river, we can even the odds considerably. But first, in that case….”
“In that case, we would need to determine exactly what we have in front of us.” Hill picked up Polk’s cue instantly. It was odd. Polk did not generally agree with Hill any more than Bragg, but when they did agree, it was commonly on more important issues. “The enemy seems to have most of their troops within a mile or two of our position, just separated by the river. Our troops are encamped within the town itself. We could prepare an attack on them without giving them any advance warning. All we need is scouting of the enemy’s positions.”
Bragg pondered even more. The simple fact that he did not immediately start screaming in both of their faces was extremely promising.
“Let us ride down to the river, Generals, and see what can be seen of Rosecrans’ advance force.”
Stringer’s Ridge – just across the river
“Yeah, that’s showin’ ‘em. Give those traitor bastards a good hit in the….”
“Back to your post, Private.” Sergeant Harrison King was in a foul mood, having not slept for at least two days, and now this sudden lack of discipline amongst the rank and file.
To be expected, perhaps, he thought. The men of John Wilder’s brigade had reason to be proud, perhaps even haughty. An infantry brigade mounted on horses and given repeating rifles, they were the core of Crittenden’s diversion across from Chattanooga. And, they specifically were the closest Union troops to the town.
At the moment, the few men of the 123rd Illinois who were awake were bantering good-naturedly with some artillerymen on the ridge above them. Wilder’s brigade had been busy the last two days: overrunning pickets, capturing wagon trains, and constructing basic fieldworks. However, once no more enemy troops were north of the river in their area, the brigade got a bit of a breather.
The half a battery with the diversionary force was having a field day. Aimed shots were few and far between, with the range to the town of over a mile. Which did not mean that the battery didn’t try. Lilly’s gunners had already started several fires in the town, and rudely awakened several thousand Confederate troops, who were powerless to respond. Confederate artillery, strangely enough, had remained quiet.
“Up, men!” Everyone knew that voice, and most people actually did get up. Colonel Wilder himself had arrived, which surely meant something important was happening.
Important proved to be a relative term. “I want a company from each regiment to form a special detail. We’re going to be cutting boards, making it look to the damned traitors over there like we’re building rafts. You, first Sergeant! Where’s your company commander?”
“Sir, you’re looking at him. Captain Jones and Lieutenant Rowley are both on sick leave.” Not that King minded the authority in itself, but still, a bad time to push it on my shoulders, when we’re out here, practically an independent command.
“Alright, Sergeant. I can read the tone of your voice there. It’s fine. I’ll just use F Company. They surely need the work, the laggards. Anyway….see if you can’t dig a stronger earthwork for the big guns. Otherwise, let your men rest until nightfall.”
“Yes sir. Thank you sir.”
Wilder rode on. Nice idea. As long as we’re here, any deception at all will help. Nice to be reminded every now and again that we do have good people amongst the officer staff.
King formed up H company, with much muttering and complaining. Standard stuff – to complain is to be a soldier. This was quite an easy task. And half his men were already right by the cannons.
In five minutes, the thirty-four men of the company had reached the top of the ridge, to find artillerymen happy for any assistance good hard earth could give.
“The Confederates have finally gotten their act together, and have a few guns actually firing back at us. Hard to find the range, and half their shells don’t go off besides, but still. The third gun already has two men wounded, and I don’t want good old number one to go the same way. You just keep digging, Sergeant.”
“Yes sir, Lieutenant Wagner. We’ll dig until your gun is buried in earth save the barrel, and it recoils further into the ground. You can walk on top of her, sir, and the Confederates will never hit her.”
The two noncoms jibed each other a bit more, then the infantry commenced digging. Wagner commanded the first gun in Lilly’s battery. After a bit of a nasty spot at Stone’s River earlier that year, which King’s regiment had helped him out of, the battery and the regiment had an interesting relationship going.
Half an hour passed. King stopped to wipe his brow, then glanced over to see Wagner sighting the gun. He looked towards Chattanooga. The smoke from the last round had cleared, and the town was quite a sight. Parts still gleamed, whitewashed buildings, soldier’s barracks, light industry, some rail lines, a big park green. Other buildings had gone up in smoke, or were burning now, fires raging uncontrolled. Luckily, no wind fanned the flames.
Behind the town rose mountains of such majesty that King had to stop. There was Lookout Mountain, thousands of feet high, dominating everything. Green trees even at the top were blurred by fog, even with the bright sun shining. In a week or two, if everything went according to plan, the Army of the Cumberland should have a whole corps moving up to that mountain from the west, essentially behind the town. Further back, and to the left, longer ridges reached far back down into Georgia. Bragg’s escape route. Dark forests were broken by occasional farms. Even from this distance, they did not look well-tended, and certainly not on flat ground. He looked back down towards the river. Fast-running, deep enough though not a pinch on what the Tennessee looked like farther downriver. Rocky. Everything rocky. Rocks lined the shore, seemingly everywhere save right at the town proper. There King could see charred wood, the remains of the port that had been the first target of Wagner’s gun.
And just beyond that, on the first street near the river, a flag moved. Or rather, several flags moved. King squinted, trying to see. There was red, white, and blue on one of the flags, and good as Rosecrans may be, he hadn’t taken the city yet. That had to be a Confederate entourage. A big one, seeing the size of the blur.
“Hey, Wagner! You have a damn-sight better sight than I do. What do you make of that huge bunch of rebels riding around right by the river? You know, just three buildings to the right of that charred warehouse.”
Wagner got out his telescope and took a look. He started jumping around wildly. “That looks like at least a corps flag, maybe even full army. That’s gotta be some big-wig General riding around, Polk, maybe even old Bragg himself.” He looked again. “Sweet Jesus! Maybe even both of them. That’s a lot of aides for just one General!”
“Do you think you have any chance of hitting ‘em?” Half the men in both his company and the battery had stopped to listen.
“Range…maybe a mile. They really are right next to the river! With height….light wind….some luck. We’ve got a shot at it. Whaddaya think, boys?” he asked, turning to the artillerymen. They cheered.
“Alright then! Solid shot, quick as you can! Let’s sight this gun!” Wagner labored a long time over it, stopped a moment, then looked again. “It’s got a chance. That many men, it’s gotta hit something! Maybe I aimed it long, so if it misses it still hits another rebel building. Oh well. Clear!” A pregnant pause. “FIRE!”
The gun boomed. The recoil took it back only a foot – the bracing worked, at least. King tried to follow the path of the metal ball, but the distance was too great and the shell, great as it was, was too small. Wagner got out his spyglass again, turned it towards the town.
“Damn! Too short. Not by much, either. Sprayed a huge bunch of dirt into the air. But no blood. Scared ‘em though. That’ll teach those rebs to ride through our sights!” The men cheered, but King’s was perfunctory. Wagner didn’t look too happy either.
Polk had caught the cannon flash from across the river, estimated the trajectory, and came so close to swearing that it was actually quite impressive. Life in the clergy did something, after all.
The shot was short. Dirt splayed everywhere. Horses reared. Several aides were knocked off their mounts, and everyone left upright was quite dazed. Until someone saw Bragg.
He had been in the front of the group, and as his horse bucked him he tried to steady the reins. He slipped, and his hand got caught in the reins. The horse lost control, and fell over, crushing its rider beneath it.
“General Bragg!” “Get a medic, someone!” “The General’s down!” Cries came fast and furious.
Polk caught his breath, looked, then immediately relaxed. Yes, that was an injury, but no one got killed crushed beneath a horse. But Bragg did not get up. A litter arrived and Bragg was still out cold. Polk worried again. Virtually no one got killed by being crushed beneath a horse. But Bragg was always sick with something or another. Weak. If it could happen to anyone……it would happen to Bragg. Of course.
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I welcome any and all comments, stylistic or content-based.
