“He will pay … he will suffer for this. I will not have such men. He is overrated in every extreme. His lack of ability … his lack of obedience … cannot be tolerated.”
The words continued, his mind rattling out curses, his staff following down the steep, rocky trail, the road back to his headquarters.
WAUHATCHIE, TENNESSEE—OCTOBER 28, 1863
The march had been like so many others, a full day on roads made dusty by the footsteps of a column miles long. Geary’s division had moved out from the river crossing at Bridgeport last in line, and already, most of Joe Hooker’s newly arrived army was pushing far ahead, aiming for a rendezvous with the growing Federal presence south of the Tennessee River at Brown’s Ferry.
The route of march took them past low rolling hills and fat mountains, and Bauer was struck by the beauty of the place, the hillsides green and misty, the road sometimes wrapped in every direction by the lush forests that rose up close enough to hide the sunlight. The hills gave way to bowl-shaped valleys, lush and fertile, with only a scattering of meager farms. The civilians here seemed unaware a war was being fought at all, some coming out to watch the soldiers pass with looks that spoke more of curiosity than hostility. Some were more generous to the men in blue than Bauer had ever seen before, farmers and their families offering barrels of cool water pulled up from deep wells, some with milk cows right along the road, pails of rich milk, a luxury these troops had not enjoyed in a long time. Women appeared, mostly wives and daughters of the families who worked the rugged land, a playful flirtatiousness Bauer had seen before. No matter their obvious charms, the blushing smiles and friendly calls, there was still a tinge of fear in the women that made Bauer uncomfortable. Most of the soldiers had seen these kinds of displays in the past, many long marches through lands where the civilians flocked to the roadsides. But these people had likely never seen a column of soldiers, not like this, thousands of men in a steady stream, all those uniforms and so much weaponry. For all their welcoming greetings, Bauer could see hints of intimidation, a fear of the unknown, that Bauer knew might be justified. There were too many stories in this army about abuse and plunder, the worst in the violations of women, a kind of violence the army handled with ruthless punishment.
Bauer was relieved to hear that these Pennsylvanians didn’t carry the blatant hostility toward civilians he had seen in Mississippi. There the slaveholders inspired a wrath from the troops that surprised him, especially when those feelings infected him. All throughout the Vicksburg campaign, the march through the villages and vast plantations, the slaves had emerged from their fields and homesteads, flocking gleefully to the blue-clad troops, the soldiers entertained by salutes and joyful greetings for “Missuh Lincom’s boys.” Many of those slaves had been abandoned by their masters, and so the Negroes abandoned the plantations that had kept them captive. They fell into line, following along behind the soldiers as in a holiday parade. Bauer had marveled at that, curious about the Negroes, so many of the Wisconsin men rarely ever seeing a black man at all. As the Federal column wound its way through the plantations, the outpouring of jubilation from the Negroes had added to the morale of the troops who were whipping the rebels at every turn. The campaign had belonged to Grant, to be sure, the general’s reputation among the politicians now eclipsing every other general in blue. But it was the soldiers who fought the good fight, and who, like Bauer now, carried the pride of an army that had not been defeated. The freed slaves had been a symbol of that, and some of the troops had taken the symbolism a step further, putting the torch to the grand mansions that might still house the white slaveholders. Bauer had been shocked at the viciousness from the men around him, until he had felt it himself. The civilians could be as dangerous as the rebel soldiers, potshots from primitive flintlocks aimed at the passing column, rocks hurled from hidden places. As more slaves sought the sanctuary of the passing army, the tolerance from the soldiers for the grandeur of the plantation homes had turned sour, the response toward any real threat brutal and swift. Bauer had thrown a torch of his own through window glass, had absorbed too much vitriolic spew tossed from behind curtained windows.
But that was Mississippi.
With darkness settling through the green around them, the footsore troops were ordered into camps in a wooded plain near Wauhatchie, a nondescript village nestled in the valley that was flanked now by Raccoon Mountain to the west, and the enormous mass of Lookout Mountain to the east. To the east, closer to the base of the larger mountain, a wide creek flowed northward, flanked by a rail line that extended north and south, Bauer surprised to hear that the state of Georgia was only a few miles below them. As the soldiers pitched their small tents, the people accepted their presence with the same odd gratitude that Bauer had seen all through this part of Tennessee. The faces were smiling, the waves friendly, several older men of the village seeking out the commanders, offering information on the rebels. Whether or not any of that was useful or accurate, Bauer only knew that these people, who seemed so isolated from the rest of the Confederacy, were genuinely happy that the Federal troops had chosen their town for their camp.
The tents had been pitched, the officers gathering close to their superiors, orders passed for what they were expected to do tomorrow. One farmer in particular had spread alarm that an enormous mass of rebels was camped close by, not much more than a mile away, on the far side of Lookout Creek. As the daylight faded away in the deep trough between the two great hills, some of the men held tightly to their muskets, fearing that the rumors were accurate, that the enemy might be slipping toward them through the deep woods. The others, like Bauer, knew that a fight in the darkness was rare, and so the fires blazed high.
The fires rose all through the various regiments, no shortage of firewood anywhere around them. Bauer sat cross-legged, chewed on a greasy slab of dried bacon. He had copied the others, piercing the meat with a stick, holding it over the fire, the pop and sizzle of the fat spreading a marvelous odor. Bauer struggled to chew through the tough meat, the usual routine, caught a glimpse of the man beside him producing a small silver flask, a quick sip of what Bauer assumed to be a beverage more potent than spring water. But the man wasn’t discreet enough for the men around him, who had no doubt watched that exercise before. Across from Bauer, through the fire, another man said, “Hey, Zane. At it again? You still not gonna share? Pretty dang rude, if you ask me.”
There was a playfulness to the talk, and Bauer looked at Zane, saw the flask slip away quickly into a pocket.
“Ain’t got enough even for me. Ain’t even got my lips wet. Mind yourself.”
On Bauer’s other side, a man nudged Bauer’s shoulder.
“He’s never without that dang whiskey. Won’t never tell us where he gets it. Hey, Zane, you been shinin’ some general’s boots?”
The man didn’t respond, made a show of gnawing on a piece of meat.
The man across from Bauer said, “I bet he’s got a whiskey still somewhere’s back there. You must be rich. You have your pappy bring you your own wagon? That’s it, ain’t it? Makes his own brew. I’ll find out, sooner or later.”
The others joined in, good-natured chatter aimed at the man Bauer studied now, who seemed uneasy, self-conscious as he pretended to struggle with the bacon.
He looked back at Bauer, said, “Hey, Regular Army. You mind yourself. I ain’t seen you offer nothing to none of us.”
Bauer knew he was the outsider, a natural target for taunts and teases. It had been that way through his first weeks in the 17th Wisconsin, the Irishmen only accepting this German after Bauer showed them he could fight. He was curious about these Easterners, saw little difference between their ways and anything he had gone through before. He only knew of Gettysburg from what little the Wisconsin officers had passed along, had a curiosity about that, wondered if what these men had done in Pennsylvania was any different from what Bauer had been through at Shiloh the year before. But there was no talk about that, and Bauer knew enough of veterans
not to ask. If they wanted to tell their stories, they would.
“I’m not messing with you, Zane. Don’t drink much of nothing stronger than water. Maybe coffee, when we can get it.”
The talk seemed to slow, the subject exhausted, and Bauer realized most of the dozen men were staring at him, something he couldn’t quite get used to. To one side, a man said, “You think being a regular soldier makes you better’n us?”
It was the kind of question Bauer dreaded, and expected. “Not a bit. But I’m betting that every one of you wishes you were back home right now. Families, children, all that?”
There was a low hum of comments, heads nodding. The man kept his stare on Bauer, an edge of hostility.
“Ain’t you? You some kind of outcast? You escape from prison or something?”
Bauer knew the man was picking a fight, aiming his wrath at the only target presenting itself: the man who wasn’t one of them.
“My family’s dead. I got no children. No kin. Got a good friend in the regulars. We been through a lot together. Shiloh, Corinth, Vicksburg. That’s all. I never thought it’d be like this, but I like soldiering. Don’t want to do anything else.”
His answer seemed to disarm the man, and beside him, the one he knew as Caldwell said, “Leave him be, Irwin. I know what he’s saying, I guess.” The man looked at Bauer, heavy, tired eyes, a scruff of a beard. “My little girl passed on a few months ago. A fever took her. Four years old. I ain’t been home since before it happened. Can’t say I’m itching to go back. But my wife … well, a man ain’t worth much if he’s not there for his woman. She wants more babies. Reckon that’s my job to help out. Army lets me go, I’m gone. Nobody waiting for you a’tall?”
Bauer shook his head, stared into the fire. “No wife. Nobody.”
Zane said, “Why they call you Dutchman?”
“My family’s German. Came over here before I was born. Picked Milwaukee ’cause there was a lot of Germans there.”
“Shiloh, huh? You a hero then?”
The words came from the angry man, Irwin. Bauer hesitated, realized he had no reason to hide anything from these men.
“Never been so scared in my life. Rebs come up out of the woods like they were demons. I ran until I gave out. Bunch of us. Took some good officers to gather us back up. It turned out okay. But I’m no hero.”
The response seemed to surprise them all, Irwin pointing a knife Bauer’s way.
“You do that to my squad, I’ll cut you open. No room for cowards in this army. The regulars know you’re a coward?”
Caldwell said, “You can shut that up. I seen you at Gettysburg. Crawled behind a damn rock and waited for the storm to pass. And a bunch of us was right there with you. I seen Dutchman shoot, watched him kill a rebel back there day before yesterday. I’ll pay heed to you when I see you do the same.”
Irwin seemed to deflate, aiming his scowl more to the fire than to Bauer. “Hmph. I killed plenty of rebs. Seen the elephant plenty of times.”
There was a murmur of laughter, Bauer not in on the joke. Caldwell looked at him, said, “There’s no heroes at this fire. But we made the fight. General Geary won’t tolerate timid. We took our share of musket fire at Chancellorsville, too. Some of these boys were at Cedar Mountain.”
The names were familiar but Bauer knew very little of those fights. He stared into the fire, chewing on the last piece of bacon, and after a silent moment, said, “I guess we’ve all seen rebs. Probably more to come.”
There was a mumble of agreement, and Bauer stretched his arms upward, felt a wave of sleepiness. There was a sudden chatter of insects, far out beyond the camps, and Bauer froze, his ears straining to hear, knew it wasn’t insects at all. Around him, the men seemed to come awake, sharp glances toward the woods, the road beyond. Voices started now:
“Muskets!”
“Rebs!”
“Hush up! Where they at?”
Their muskets were stacked close by, and already the men were moving, crawling toward them. The drums came now, the long roll, the alarm. Bauer saw the lieutenant running up, bent low.
“Rebels! They’re coming!”
There was panic in the man, too much panic, but the musket fire was increasing, still far away, a chattering storm, no sign of the muzzle blasts. The sergeant was there now, handing out muskets from the stack, calling out, “Check your cartridge boxes! Fall into formation!”
The lieutenant was running in a manic scamper among his platoon, called out, “Load muskets! Prepare to receive the enemy!”
The bugles were sounding, a harsh hum of activity all through the wooded camps. Bauer held his musket, went through the routine, energized by the cold in his chest, the feeling he knew too well. He completed the task, placed the percussion cap on the nipple at the musket’s breech, the musket now a weapon. His eyes stayed on the trees, darkness broken by the reflected firelight, nothing else to see.
The men began to move, following the officers, swords pointed, other units gathering, the lines forming, facing the sounds of the fight. The order came to halt, the road out to one side, the musket fire coming that way, far to the north. Bauer stood nervously, thought, Night? Darkness? Nobody can fight in the dark. He glanced down the line of men, another line forming up behind, knew to kneel, still nothing to see.
Out on the road, Bauer saw a horseman coming fast from the direction of the fight, an officer riding hard into woods behind them. Beside Bauer, the sergeant said, “He’s going to Geary. We’ll know pretty quick what’s happening.”
To one side, the lieutenant called out, “Be prepared to advance! Make ready to receive the enemy!”
The two orders were a contradiction, and Bauer closed his eyes, thought, Too young. Bet he’s never done this before. These men are veterans, don’t need that kind of panic, not from an officer.
The musket fire stopped now, Bauer, the others straining to hear more. He saw Captain Gimber step out front, as though seeking a closer look, the man staring out with his hands on his hips. There were more horses, from behind them, and Bauer turned with the others, was surprised to see General Geary, a flock of aides, officers stepping out of line to gather closer. Geary halted the horse, stared out down the road, no sounds, and Bauer could see a hard scowl on the man’s face, a shake of his head.
The lieutenant kept his place, said aloud, “Come to attention!”
The order was mostly obeyed, others focused more on Geary. Bauer stood, planted the musket by his side, watched the cluster of officers, Gimber walking out to the road, joining the group. Geary looked out toward the men, spoke out loud enough for them to hear.
“You boys did fine. Made ready in good order. Can’t say the same for some of the others. There was a skirmish out on the Ferry Road. A handful of rebs tried to do … well, whatever rebs do. The Twenty-ninth is posted a half mile out there as pickets, and all I know is that Colonel Rickards came hightailing it down here to tell me all hell was breaking loose. Then, before he could give me the report, all hell turned into nothing at all. For all I know, they were shooting at ghosts. There’s some old coot lives near these woods, says there’s several hundred rebels on the far side of the creek, up thataway. We’ve also heard that half of Longstreet’s corps is breathing down our necks from the base of the big mountain. Not sure if any of that is true. But there’s too many Nellies in this bunch. You’re all too damn itchy, and as dark as it is now, I don’t want any mistakes. Officers, have the men keep close to their muskets, but keep them tight in hand. No firing at anything unless you hear the order. Nobody wanders off, nobody empties his musket, until things calm down.”
Bauer looked down again, felt the strength of Geary’s order, thought, Guess I like this man a little better today. Nothing wrong with holding on to a loaded musket, when you’re in a reb’s backyard.
Geary looked upward, seemed to examine the black sky, and Bauer did the same, saw the soft glow of thin clouds drifting past a half-moon. Geary said aloud, “If there’s any rebels out and
about, they’ll probably stay to themselves. The whole Eleventh Corps marched through here today, heading north.”
A voice called out, and Geary turned that way, saw men pointing toward the peak of Lookout Mountain. Bauer could see what they saw, flickers of light along the crest, high above them. Gimber moved toward his men, said aloud, “Just rebel signal lights. Get used to it. They’re all over the top of that mountain, but no worries for us. They’re just jabbering back and forth, showing off how scared they are.”
Bauer felt a chill, more nerves than the cold air, didn’t care for the thought of rebels looking straight down on him.
Geary said, “Stay close to your fires if you want. But I’d get some sleep if I were you. That’s it. Captain, see to your men. Calm them down. There’s no damn ghosts out here. Anybody wounded by mistake, it’s your responsibility.”
Geary nudged the horse, his aides following, was gone quickly, moving along to the next camp, the next regiment, camped farther out in the trees.
The lieutenant was there now, still agitated, moving through his men.
“Back to camp! Pay heed to the general’s instructions!”
The men spread out to their own fires, kept their muskets in hand, and Bauer found his place, sat, welcomed the warmth, cradled the musket across his legs. The chatter began again, the men more nervous, Bauer and the rest of them glancing up often to the lights from the rebel camps.
He felt sleep coming, the fire dancing through blurred vision, soaked up a last blanket of warmth. He started to stand up, looked toward his tent, and far out in the trees, a musket fired. Bauer turned that way, nothing to see, felt a stab of annoyance. The words came from Irwin, to one side.
“Some jackass …”
More muskets fired now, all from the same place, the muzzle blasts flickering far out in the woods. Around the other fires, men were standing up again, all staring out, the light from the fires blinding, blocking their vision. The musket fire increased now, spreading out to one side, toward the great mountain, and Bauer felt the cold stirring in his chest, his fingers curling hard around the musket. Farther away, men were shouting, the camps of the other units, nearer the village, men close to the railroad. To one side, Captain Gimber appeared, stopped, staring out toward the musket fire, then pulled his sword, held it high, shouted out, “Up, to formation! Bugler, blow formation! Prepare to receive the enemy!”