Part 2

The days passed away and gave no sign of him until the fifth after my arrival, when a sorry figure rode to the front of my tent. Seated upon a mule that had upon him parts of wagon harness, was the Captain, a woful figure, with rueful countenance. Don Quixote appeared not so disconsolate even after his battle with the knights of the windmill. We would have laughed aloud at his sorry plight had his aspect not been so serious. “For God’s sake, food and drink!” he cried. Being properly refreshed, he told his tale of woe. The train of wagons was proceeding slowly along the weary road, when sharp firing at its front evidenced an attack. Wheeler’s cavalry had crossed the river and was on one of the raids in our rear that made the name of General Joe Wheeler one with which to scare teamsters and worry commanders.

The Captain was a man of proper gallantry, a fitting squire of dames, but, withal, not lacking in judicious discretion. The Confederate troopers certainly would not molest the women, bent upon their righteous mission, but to him captivity meant worse than death. Making hasty excuses, in unceremonious fashion, he jumped from the wagon, pulled a colored teamster off of a mule that he had just cut out of the traces of a wagon, mounted and took quickly to the woods on the side of the mountain. As he plunged deeper into the thicket, he saw in the valley the light of burning wagons, and heard the terrific explosions of ammunition with which many of them were loaded. After days and nights of distress he at last found his way to our camps.

A day or two after, hearing that the female companions of the good captain had reached our lines, I called upon them in the town and heard the rest of the story. Wheeler’s rough riders had treated them with courteous consideration and did not molest their trunks when told that they contained only woman’s apparel. Keel’s baggage and my own was evidently rich booty. The new uniforms were seized with delight, and my precious seven-shooters appropriated with exclamations of joy and admiration. Taking what was wanted, the residue was thrown back on the wagons, that had been run and piled together, and made food for the flames. The train was but partly consumed when our cavalry appeared upon the scene and a sharp fight ensued, with the result that the women were released from their unpleasant situation.

While the beleaguered army in Chattanooga, foregoing, if not forgetting, the pangs of hunger, echoed the language of Thomas in his telegram to Grant, “We will hold this place until we starve,” it was with right good will that it marched out in front of its works on an eventful November morning, being ordered to make a “demonstration” and relieve the pressure on Sherman in his effort to take Tunnel Hill, the right flank of the semi-circular natural defense of the enemy, composed of Missionary Ridge, with its crest from five hundred to eight hundred feet above us, around to Lookout on the left with its proud head over two thousand feet above the town. It was a crescent, with defensive works erected with engineering skill, bristling with guns and reflecting threatening lights as the sun played upon the musket barrels and bayonets in the hands of skilled and brave defenders. It looked like the curve of the cutting edge of a huge scimitar.

[Illustration: MAP OF THE BATTLEFIELD OF CHATTANOOGA SHOWING THE POSITION OF THE CONFEDERATE ARMY AT LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN AND MISSION RIDGE.]

A feeling of amity, almost of fraternization, had existed between the picket lines in front of Wood’s division for many days. In the early morning of that day, being in charge of the left of our picket line, I received a turn-out and salute from the Confederate reserve as I rode the line. But the friendly relation was soon to be rudely disturbed. My pickets, composed of the 19th Ohio and the 9th Kentucky, became the line of skirmishers. Our troops being well out of their works, we advanced with our left resting on Citico Creek, and I believe that from these regiments came the first shots in that glorious advance that resulted in the taking of Orchard Knob, the key of the enemy’s position.

With impatient joy they witnessed the stars and stripes on Lookout’s crest, and heard the guns of Hooker on the enemy’s left. The evidences of the hard fighting by Sherman and the stubborn resistance Bragg’s right was giving him were borne on every wind. The flanking assaults upon the Ridge were not achieving success. There must be another “demonstration” by the center. Grant stands on Orchard Knob, silently smoking the inevitable cigar. He sees the heavy work to the right and left and that the waning day is showing its lengthening shadows. The center must again relieve the pressure. To Thomas goes the order: “Take the rifle-pits at the foot of the ridge. At the six-gun signal from Orchard Knob, advance the lines to the attack.” Baird, Wood, Sheridan and Johnson were quickly in the order named from left to right.

Restlessly they await the signal. It is well on to four o’clock. At last the sharp report of a cannon from the Knob! Another! and another! and in quick succession the six have thundered forth the order for the charge.

To your feet and forward, men of the Cumberland! “Take the rifle-pits at the foot of the ridge,” is the order. How splendidly they respond. Adding emphasis to their loud huzzas is the noise of the light artillery on the plain and the deep roar of the big siege guns in the forts of Chattanooga. The crest of the ridge throws its full weight of metal at the lines of blue. The musketry fire from the pits is full in their faces. But neither shot nor shell can stop the impetuous advance. On and on they go, surmounting every obstacle.

The order is obeyed.

The rifle-pits are ours and their late defenders our prisoners. How the grey jackets hasten to the rear. We wonder at their haste, but soon understood it when the guns of the ridge, depressed to sweep the pits, seemed to open the gates of hell itself upon us.

We cannot stay. Must we fall back? Perish the thought. No! No! No order given, and yet to every man the impulse. Forward the whole line! To the crest of the ridge and take the guns! Every man forward!

Grape and canister from fifty cannon forbid the advance. Wood, Sheridan, Baird, Johnson, Willich, Hazen, Beatty, Carlin, Turchin, Vanderveer, catching the spirit from the men, shout, “Up, boys! To the top!” and grape and canister, wounds and death are forgotten.

On and on and up and up we go, “while all the world wondered.” Grant turns to Thomas, and, with distress if not anger in his voice, says, “Who ordered those men up the ridge?” Replies our old hero, “I don’t know, I did not.” Says Grant, “Granger, did you?” “No,” says Granger, “they started without orders. When those fellows get started, all hell can’t stop them.”

With hearts in their throats these anxious chieftains watch. The spectators in Chattanooga hold their breath in terrible suspense. It looks a desperate venture, a foolhardy effort. Can they make the top, or will they be driven back to the plain, with columns broken and ranks disordered?

The musketry fire from the intrenched line in grey is murderous. The cannon belch forth incessantly.

“It is as though men fought upon the earth and fiends in the upper air.”

Not a shot from the wedge-shaped lines in blue as they advance with the colors of regiments at the apex of the triangles. Sixty regiments in rivalry for the lead! Colors fall as their bearers sink in death, but other stout arms nerved by brave hearts bear the flag aloft.

Ah! the lines waver! they cannot make it! But repulse means defeat and loss of all we have gained.

Look! again they go forward! Will they reach the crest? See! the answer! A flag! the nation’s flag! Our flag upon the top! Another, and yet another! The crest breaks out in glory! It is the apotheosis of the banner of the free!

The rebel lines are broken! We are into their works! Cheer upon cheer “set the wild echoes flying” from Tunnel Hill to Lookout! They tell of victory! glorious, exultant victory.

Forty pieces of cannon and 7,000 stand of arms with 6,000 prisoners captured give emphasis to the story.

[Illustration: GENERAL GEORGE H. THOMAS AND STAFF AFTER THE BATTLE OF MISSION RIDGE.]

The bars are down for entrance next campaign to Atlanta, gate city of the South.

I went through the starvation siege of Chattanooga, the battles of Orchard Knob and Mission Ridge, and the winter march to relieve Burnside, who was penned up in Knoxville, in very uncomfortable plight, depending upon my brother officers for the clothing to keep me warm, but that which caused me the most distress was the loss, as I naturally supposed, forever, of the twin revolvers that rest now so peacefully before us, reminders of a time of great happenings by the side of which all else in life seems of trifling importance.

SCENE IV.

THE REUNION.

[Illustration: “UPON THE WALL HUNG THE GOOD SWORD, WITH THE DENT IN ITS SCABBARD.”]

Twenty years passed away, with their changes for good and for ill. The great war seemed like a dream, and its events were dim and shadowy. But there remained to me some substantial evidence of its reality. Upon the wall hung the good sword, with the dent in its scabbard telling of the death struggle of the brave black mare, whose name should be on Stone River’s roll of honor. In the corner stood the regimental flag, presented by my comrades when we parted in 1865, the deep scar upon its staff matching the deeper scar upon the manly breast of its bearer “in the brave days of old.” I looked at them and longed for the twin seven-shooters that should keep them company.

[Illustration: “IN THE CORNER STOOD THE REGIMENTAL FLAG PRESENTED BY MY COMRADES WHEN WE PARTED IN 1865. THE DEEP SCAR UPON ITS STAFF MATCHED THE DEEPER SCAR UPON THE MANLY BREAST OF ITS BEARER IN THE BRAVE DAYS OF OLD.”]

Representing my adopted State, Nebraska, in the Senate, I had reached a position that had at least given my name notoriety. It chanced that the Major of an Iowa cavalry regiment saw it in the public prints and was prompted to write me. “Are you,” said he, “the man who commanded the 19th Ohio during the war? If so, I have a pistol that must belong to you, for the fact of its presentation is engraved upon it.” I am quick to respond, and in brief time there came the pistol, as welcome to my hand and heart as an old-time friend.

He wrote me its history. During the days of the period of reconstruction he was on duty in Alabama, and upon the person of a man whom he arrested was found the revolver. The Major took it from him and had held it since, hoping that some time he might meet the owner. Hearty thanks went to him, and I longed all the more for its mate, somewhere existing, but probably never to be recovered by me.

Twenty-eight years elapse after the cavalry raid in the Sequatchie Valley. The Congress is in session and a dreary debate drags its weary length through the hours. My yawning presence in the Senate Chamber would only add emphasis to the dullness there, and I go to the Committee Room, to engage in the usual employment of a Congressman’s spare hours, the dictation of replies to the endless letters, from every direction, on every conceivable subject. There comes a messenger, and this his message: “The compliments of Senator Pugh of Alabama, who requests the pleasure of seeing you in the Marble Room.” I respond quickly to the call, and go to the room of simplicity and beauty that is one of the chief attractions under the great white dome. Near at hand are three men, two of them well known by me, the third a stranger.

[Illustration: GENERAL JOSEPH WHEELER

“The Marshal Ney of the Confederacy.”]

I hasten to greet my colleague, and then shake hands with warmth of greeting with a gentleman I have grown to respect and like. It is General Wheeler, once a dashing cavalry leader of Confederates, he who harried our rear so persistently and pronouncedly; reconstructed into a leader in forensic debate, an authority on parliamentary law, and an all-around legislator, whose trenchant pen was surely as mighty as his vigorous sword. Cuba and the Philippines are the scenes of his later triumphs, and there is no name upon the Army Roll more honored now for patriotic devotion and soldierly ability than that of him who, during the dark days of the civil strife, was the Marshal Ney of the Confederacy.

I am introduced by the courtly Senator Pugh to his esteemed constituent, ex-Confederate Colonel Reeves, of Alabama. I greet him with pleasure, for he bears upon him those evidences that command respect. Both appearance and speech declare the Southerner, and the soft broad accents fall pleasingly upon the ear. He said, “I think, sir, I have something that once belonged to you, and will give it to you with pleasure, for I presume from the inscription upon it you will prize it highly.”

He produces the long-lost revolver and tells its story. He bought it and its companion from one of General Wheeler’s troopers, who said he captured it at the battle of Mission Ridge. I mildly suggest that at Mission Ridge the captures were on the other side. He smiled acquiescence and said he cared little at the time of purchase from whence they came, so that they might be his. He had carried them through the war until a fearful wound had disabled him from further field duty.

After the war he had loaned one to the sheriff of his county and from him it had been captured by some of our troops. I told him of the return of that one to me eight years before. We exchange reminiscences of the great struggle. We compare experiences. Enemies in war, we are in peace friends.

Handling his revolver with easy grace and caressing gesture, he makes it mine again, saying as he passes it to me, with pardonable reluctance, “I tell you, sir, that is a mighty close shooting pistol.” I cordially agree to that sentiment, and we both dwell in thought upon the career of these messengers of death that have fought beneath two flags, giving loyal support to their masters, who have fought each one loyally for his own.

And thus finding each other, after a quarter of a century of separation, they came back to me, to be cherished fondly and I hope never again to be used.

EPILOGUE.

And so my friend, you have the truthful story. It is not one to excite special wonder, but causes, I take it, emotions of pleasure and thankfulness.

As the pistols have come peacefully together, so have north and south united in fraternity and in devotion to one flag and a common country. The war taught mutual respect, and never again can there come between these sections the hatred, based upon mutual misunderstandings, that led to the attempt at dismemberment. The men who did the fighting during those four years of bloody war can have no sympathy with the incendiaries who would array section against section upon any subject. Their motto is bear and forbear. The disposition to fraternize was strong among them even during the strife, and with them now is the brotherhood that is the inevitable incident of unity of national purpose and a patriotic desire for one destiny.

Long ago, while condemning the false teaching that led to the belief that allegiance was to the State, we appreciated how deep abiding was the honest conviction of those who, taught in a different school from us, made untold sacrifice for the cause they espoused.

Forgetting nothing of the past--the cruel blow at nationality, the unhallowed attack upon the flag, with all the sad results of weeping and wounds, of desolation and death--we have forgiven everything.

Full citizenship, with all of honor, of governing power, and controlling rights that the term imports, has been accorded to all who participated or lent aid and comfort to the enemies of the Union.

As the victors and the vanquished have recognized equal courage and even powers of endurance, there has come mutual respect. Through the throes and labor of reconstruction, with the contact of peoples, the interchange of commerce, the common interests of the different parts of the national whole, the dovetailing of States through the construction of the iron highways of trade, and mutual contribution of the capital needed for the development of the new South has come peaceful, contented reconciliation. The years that gather wisdom and experience to all long ago taught the lesson even to those who fought for it, that the cause for which they struggled and suffered was better lost than won.

Hail the epoch of concord! All hail, the era of fraternity!

Let us close the lid of the mahogany box, believing that the pair snugly ensconced within it shall never serve save as polished reminders of other days.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Extraneous quotation mark on page 11 removed.

Corrected typo in illustration caption “battlelield” to “battlefield”.

Normalized punctuation in illustration caption “CHARGE OF GENERAL....”

Positions of illustrations re-arranged to support the main text.