BY S. H. M. BYERS, CAPTAIN, U. S. V.
I t was the eve of the battle of Chattanooga . Ihad lately returned to the Army of the Tennes-see, after a very short furlough, from my home inthe "West. How well I remember it—ten days offurlough out of four years of war! It was the onlytime in the whole four years that I slept in a bed.We had helped to capture Vicksburg after a hun-dred days’ siege, and felt entitled to a rest. Myregiment, the 5th Iowa, had already marched 2000miles in two years. But Rosecrans was in straits,Sherman was called for, and we made the forcedmarch of four hundred miles from Memphis toChattanooga without a murmur.
Our camp was a concealed one in which nofires or lights were permitted — no noises allowed.In the darkness of the previous night, the commandhad left bright fires burning in a wood, and hadsecretly marched to this hidden position. Closebeside it, the broad and rapid waters of the Ten-nessee rolled off into the darkness. On the oppo-site bank, numbers of rebel pickets kept guard,ignorant of our presence. Behind these picketswere the high hills known as Missionary Ridge,thoroughly intrenched and defended by a largerebel army, just fresh from victory. In a littlecreek close by lay secreted 116 pontoons. Whatwere they there for? The silence, the secrecy,the mystery of the scene, convinced us that therewas work ahead— and that -we had to do it.
Before sundown two great soldiers had quietlybeen inspecting the little camp and the banks ofthe river. They were Grant and Sherman . Otherofficers, strangers to us, had come and looked atthe pontoons in the creek, and a great wagon-loadof boat-oars had been quietly placed beside them.We were at supper when the order came to rowover the river and assault at midnight. I laiddown my knife and fork, and stopped eating. Astrange sensation came over me. Certainly I hadbeen in dangerous places before. The regimenthad a record for gallantry. The names of fivebattles were already inscribed upon its ban-ners. Within two years from enlistment, half themen in the regiment had been killed, wounded,or disabled. We already had our third colonel.Numerous of our line officers had been promotedto higher posts. My own red sash had been givenme under the guns of Vicksburg . Yes, we hadseen fighting, but I had always been a believer inpresentiments, and, somehow, something told methat I was doomed — that some calamity was instore for me.
The critical situation and the vast consequencesdependent on success or failure were known to usall as we lay in the shadows that evening, waitingthe order to move over the dark river and assaultthe heights of Missionary Ridge.
Midnight came—but we still lay quiet; 2 o’clock,and we heard some gentle splashing in the waternear us, and the noise of muffled oars. Every manseized his rifle. “Quiet, boys — fall in quietly,”said the captains. Spades were handed to many
of us — we did not ask what for, we knew too well.Quietly the pontoon-boats had been slipped out ofthe little creek to our left, and into the river, andquietly wo stepped down the bank, two by two,into the rude craft. “ Be prompt as you can, boys,there’s room for thirty in a boat,” said a tall manwho stood on the bank near us, in the darkness.Pew of us had ever before heard the voice of our be-loved commander. Sherman ’s kind words, his per-sonal presence, his attention to every detail of thedangerous adventure, waked confidence in everyone. He was with us, and sharing the danger.
In a quarter of an hour a thousand of us wereout in the middle of the river, afloat in the dark-ness. Would they fire on us from the oppositeshore? — was our constant thought. Those werestrange feelings, we soldiers had, out in the mid-dle of the river that night. We were not awarethat a boat-load of our comrades in blue had crossedfarther up the stream, just at midnight, and hadcaptured the rebel pickets on the bank without fir-ing a shot. We met a boat in the water, full ofmen — the captured pickets being rowed over toour side of the river. It was a fine ruse that hadbeen played on them. The boys, crossing above,had got in behind them, and then, calling out the“relief,” deceived and captured all but one.
In half an hour we were up the opposite bankand creeping along through the thickets — a spadein one hand and a rifle in the other. What mighthappen any moment, we knew not. Where wasthe picket that had escaped? Why was not thewhole rebel camp alanned and upon us ? Hay-light came; but it found us two thousand strong,intrenched with rifle-pits a mile in length. Whata sight for Bragg! Hand about, we worked anddigged like heavers. An old Quaker came down toexpostulate with us for ruining his farm by suchdigging. The scene was ludicrous, and the boysgave a derisive little cheer for “ Broad-brim.”The noise drew upon us the shells from a hiddenbattery, and cost us two wounded men. It verynearly cost our friend his life, as an explodingshell left a hole within a yard of him, twice asbroad as his big hat.
Still we dug on at our rifle-pits. Other regimentswere ferried across. By noon the jiontoon -bridgowas down behind us, and soon the whole armycorps was over.
All the afternoon we manoeuvred and foughtfor position, chasing the enemy off one high liill-spur only to find him better intrenched behindanother. These were the outlying hills betweenMissionary Ridge proper and the banks of tho river.The real position was across fields and hollows, andfarther up on the mountain. Sullenly and slowlythe enemy gave way, preparing in his high position,for the battle of the morrow.
That night my regiment stood picket in the woodat the front. All night long we could hoar thorebel field-batteries taking position on MissionaryRidge. For a hundred hours we had scarcely slept.
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