MARCHING INTO THE BATTLE OF CHICKAMAUGA.
ALL of that eventful 19th of September, 1864, the men of Lieut. Bowersox's detachment were keyed up with the knowledge that they were heading straight for a desperate battle, and the main fear with Si, Shorty and the great majority was that they would not reach the field in time to take a hand in the affray. It seemed that never ran a locomotive at such a snail's pace as their engine was compelled to do over the wretched road bed and improvised bridges. The engineer, stimulated by the excitement and the urgent messages at every station, was doing his very best, but his engine was ditched once and narrowly escaped it a hundred times. The only curb to their impatience was the absolute knowledge that an attempt at faster running would result in not getting there in time at all.
At every stopping place news from the front was eagerly sought for and canvassed. It was at all times aggressively meager. All that could be learned was that the whole rebel army was out on the Chickamauga some miles from Chattanooga, and savagely attacking the union army to drive it away and recapture the town.
The news was generally very encouraging. Every attack of the rebels had been repulsed, though our own loss had been heavy. But every man was needed. The rebel lines extended far beyond those of the union army in each direction, and still they had enough for heavy assaulting columns. Everybody in the neighborhood of Chattanooga had been ordered up, leaving only the meagerest possible guards for the trains and communications.
This increased the burning impatience of the boys to get where they could be of service. But it was far into the night when they finally skirted the frowning palisades of Lookout Mountain, and went into bivouac on the banks of Chattanooga Creek. All of the squad wanted guns, and Si and Shorty had been desperately anxious to get them for them.
At the stopping places were squads of guards, men more or less sick, and men on detached duty. Whereever Si or Shorty's sharp search could find a gun not actually in use, or not likely to be, it was pretty sure, by some means or other, either openly or surreptitiously, to be gotten into the hands of one of the squad. In this way, by the time they arrived at Chattanooga, they had nearly half their men armed, and had given them some preliminary instruction in handling their guns. The Indianians needed little so far as loading and firing, for they were all natural marksmen, but to the Englishman and his Irish squad the musket was a thing of mystery and dread.
"An' is that the goon for me?" said one of the Irishmen contemptuously, as Si proudly handed him a trusty Springfield he had found unwatched some where. "That fool thing wid a bore no bigger'n a gimlet hole? Fwhy, out in the ould country, when we go man-hunting, we take a goon wid a mouth like a funnel, that ye can put a hat full av balls inter. To the divil wid such a goon as this."
"Fix your mind on learnin' the kinks o' that gun, Barney," advised Shorty. "One ball from it put in the right place 'll do more than a hat full from your old Irish blunderbuss. A man that gits only one from it won't need nothin' more'n a head stone and his name crossed offen the roster. Git a good squint at him through them sights, jest be low his belt, hold stiddy while you pull the trigger, and his name 'll be mud."
"But fwhere is the powdher to make the ball go?" persisted Barney, looking at the cartridge which Shorty had put in his hand.
"The powder is behind the ball in that paper bag," explained Shorty. "You tear the paper with your teeth this way, and pour the powder into the muzzle."
"Fhat," said Barney contemptuously, surveying the cartridge. "There isn't enough powdher there to throw a ball as far as Oi can a pebble. Fwhy, Oi used to put a whole handful o' powdher in the old blunderbuss. Oi wud do betther to whack a man wid a shillelah. And fwhere is the flint to stroike foire?"
"O, the flintlock's played out, you flannel-mouthed Irishman," said Shorty irritably. "It's as out-of-date as a bow and arrer. This's a percussion-lock; don't you understand? This is a cap. You stick it right on this nipple, an' when the hammer goes down off goes your gun. Don't you see?"
"Well, you can say, maybe, an' maybe you can't But Oi can't. Take your old goon. Oi'll none avit.
"May the divil fly away wid it, an' wid you, too. Oi'd rather have a good shtick. Wid a shtick in me fist Oi'll take care of ony spalpeen fwhat'll stand up in front av me. But wid a fool goon loike that Oi'd be kilt at wance."
While Si and Shorty were still worrying about what to do for arms for the remainder of their men, they heard what seemed to be about a company marching toward them through the darkness.
"I suppose we had better stop here and stack our arms out of the way," they heard the officer say who seemed to be in command. "We've got an all-night's job before us, fixing up that bridge, and getting those wagons across. Stack arms, boys, and leave your belts and traps with them. There's lots of work down there for us."
They could see dimly the men obeying the orders, and going down the bank of the creek, where they started large fires to light them at their work.
"They have got a job ahead of 'em," remarked Shorty, looking in the direction of the fires.
"It'll take 'em all night and a large part o' tomorrow," said Si, significantly, as a thought entered his mind.
"Indeed it will," accorded Shorty, as the same idea occurred to him. "An' they won't need their guns. They're only pioneers, anyway."
"If they do," chimed in Si, "they kin pick up plenty more just as good around somewhere, when daylight comes. That's what pioneers is for."
"Si, you ketch on like a he snappin' turtle," said Shorty joyfully. "We'll jest help ourselves to them guns and cartridge-boxes, and then move our camp over a little ways, and skeet out airly in the mornin' for the front, and we'll be all right. Don't say nothin' to the Lieutenant about it. He'll be all right, and approve of it, but he mustn't know anything of it officially. You git the men up and I'll go over and give the Lieutenant the wink and tell him that we've found a much better bivouac about a mile further on."
While the pioneers were struggling with their task, and the air down by the creek was filled with shouts and commands, Si and Shorty, with some of the others, quietly appropriated enough stands of arms to complete the equipment of their squad.
Shorty took much credit for his honesty and forbearance that he did not touch a single one of the pioneers' belongings but their arms. A little later the squad was in bivouac a mile away.
At the earliest dawn of Sept. 20 they were awake, and after a hasty breakfast moving out the Rossville road for the battlefield. Only an occasional shot from a nervous picket, peering into the deep fog, or angry spatter from a squad of scouting cavalry disturbed the stillness of the beautiful Autumn morning. The bright rays of the level sun were bringing out the rich tints of the maples and dog woods on the mountain-sides in all their gorgeous richness. Nature was smiling so benignantly on every side that it needed the turmoil and rush in the winding roads to remind one that somewhere near men were in bitter contrast with her divine serenity. But the roads were crowded with ammunition and ration wagons pushing out to the front, and with mounted officers and Orderlies making their way as rapidly as possible back and for ward with orders and messages.
Lieut. Bowersox left the road with his detachment and made his way across the fields, over ditches, ravines and creeks, through the thickets and the brush, and at last came out on top of Missionary Ridge at the north side of Rossville Gap.
With eager eyes they scanned the landscape of billowy mountains and hills to the east and south.
A fog obscured all the lowlands, but far out columns of thin smoke rising lazily on the still air showed where 150,000 men were marshaling for bloody conflict.
"That Major I spoke to," said Lieut. Bowersox, as Si and Shorty looked anxiously in his face, "is on the corps staff, and he says the whole infernal Southern Confederacy is out there for blood. They jumped us yesterday like a pack of famished wolves. But Rosecrans had just got his army together in time, though some of the divisions had to march till their tongues were hanging out. All the boys were dead game, though, and they stood the rebels off everywhere in great shape. He hasn't the faintest idea where the 200th Ind. is. The divisions and brigades have been jumped around from one end of the line to the other till he has but little more idea where any regiment is than if it was in the moon. The only way for us is to make our way as fast as we can to the front, where they need every man, and trust to luck to find the regiment. We'll probably not f............