Tear In Time (2 page)

 
Further up river, leaving the city limits, a raft made from hastily hewn logs
of birch were haphazardly strung together with cord and vine, creating an
unstable, yet functional mode of travel. Dirty and bedraggled, the two aged
trappers floated downstream, extending into the water, long poles made from
pine saplings, skillfully placed to navigate the many bends in the river on the
way to their next destination.

  Inside
the city limits, at the sharpest bend in the river, a small force of Confederates
guarded the main dock and prepared to unload supplies. In the morning sun,
under the direction of the regimental captain, the men formed a human chain
that led from boat to horse-drawn wagons. Hand over hand, they passed the goods
and ammunition from one soldier to the next in sequence, until the final
soldier arranged and stacked the supplies neatly in the back of the wagon. At
this hour of the day, the sun sat lower in the cloudless sky, warming the
temperatures to a comfortable seventy degrees. If it were not for their
thankless duty to task, the soldiers would normally have enjoyed the balmy
climate. As it was, their heavy labor created torrents of salty sweat that
streamed down their faces, and soaked through their cotton shirts and heavy
gray uniforms. When the wagon had been completely filled, the driver snapped
the reins to the team of horses and started off to their encampment, whereupon
the next driver in line took his place for loading.

  Beyond
the dock, a local merchant swept off the elevated wooden walkway in front of
his General Store. A small cloud of dust rose in the air as he briskly cleared
away the caked mud that had collected between the wide spacing of the wooden
boards that ran the length of the street. At the rear entrance, a young man
helped load heavy sacks and other supplies into a waiting wagon to be delivered
to a local resident.

 
Further up the boardwalk, the blacksmith and livery were hard at work,
attending to the needs of the community as well as those of the Confederate
officers that had entrusted their belongings to their care.

  At the
center of the industrious town, off the open green, the one room schoolhouse
bustled with activity and the sound of children’s voices, as they recited
passages pulled from the important authors of the day, such as Twain, Thoreau,
Dickens and Blake, each child’s voice as distinctive as the passage they read.

  Beyond
the main thoroughfare, on the secondary and tertiary roads, tiny houses dotted
the roads leading out of town. Hung on public display, tiny diapers, socks,
shirts, dresses and other freshly washed articles of clothing were draped over
the makeshift clotheslines and pinned in place with wedges of wood, and allowed
to dry in the brilliant sunshine as the matron of the home moved through her
chores of the day.

  This
day began as any other day: monotonous and routine, men, women and children
alike, functioning in their singular importance while contributing to the whole
of their society. Unsuspecting and mostly indifferent to the violent world
beyond their borders, they went about their lives, contented in their own daily
struggles.

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  On the
opposite side of the river, hidden in the dense thicket and underbrush, several
companies of Union sharpshooters lay in wait. Quietly and undetected, they had
moved to the river’s edge, sneaking in under the protection of darkness.
Perfectly concealed, they laid on their stomachs and waited for their signal.
They watched in anxious fascination as the Confederates on the opposite side of
the river worked to unload their delivered supplies. With their rifles aimed at
their targets, they whiled away the time by calculating windage and elevation.
Time seemed to slow as they waited on their signal of death. At two hundred yards
away, they were well aware of their ability to hit their mark. Spread out
shoulder to shoulder, they presented a menacing sight.

  The
wait seemed to go on forever. Shifting their weight from side to side, they
tried to alleviate their discomfort. As their arms and legs fell asleep, they
shook them out, recirculating the blood through their extremities, gaining the
feeling in their hands and feet once again. For an unlucky few, insects
presented more of a distraction than the lack of feeling in their limbs. With
regularity, ants returning to their nest would find their passage blocked by
the hulking mass in blue. Upon investigation, the ants angrily attacked any
bare skin, biting and pinching in a futile attempt to drive away the enemy.
Their feeble assault was met with equal aggression as the soldier swatted and
crushed his irritating attackers.

  Time
was their enemy. Waiting quietly in the underbrush, each soldier pondered his
own fate. Any attempt to push the morbidity from their minds proved fruitless,
as they watched the enemy in their sights, reminding them again of the
possibility of their own forthcoming violent death. Searching for solace, they
turned to their companions, whispering inquiries about families and
future.  In return, they received warm reassurance as the sound of their
comrade’s whisper helped to sooth their deep worry. Having sat through the bite
of cold as they crawled in under darkness, hunger pangs from lack of food, and
the contemplation of death, the Union volunteers of the 79th Pennsylvania were
ready and determined to complete their task.

  Up in
the foothills, away from the edge of the river, the Union artillery waited on
their orders from Gen. James Negley. High on his horse, barrel-chested and
confident, he posed an impressive figure. He sat pensively and observed the
scene below. Lifting his spyglass to his eye, he continued to look for weakness
and opportunity. With an authoritative voice, he redirected cannons down the
line to specific targets as he developed his impromptu battle plan.

  As the
Union soldiers manned their stations of artillery, they looked out over the
valley at the Confederate soldiers drilling in formation in an open field far
on the opposite side of the river. Several cannons were already directed toward
them, but with a quick nod of his head, Gen. Negley ordered additional cannon
support on that location. Feeling somewhat detached from the Confederates’
impending doom, they obeyed their orders and indifferently aimed the deadly
weapons at the center of the field.

 
Standing by their designated cannon, each soldier mentally prepared himself for
the battle. At their elevated position, and protected by the river, they all
felt relatively safe: that is, safer than their comrades below by the river.
They had survived the previous year’s battles, and were well seasoned in their
trade. They knew there would be casualties, but felt relatively sure that with
the element of surprise, the battle would be fairly one-sided. They looked down
at their comrades who had crept up to the river's edge just before dawn. A
sense of sadness and anxiety came over them, knowing they were in harm’s way.
Any retaliation by rebel forces would start with them. Well-hidden in the
thickets, the Confederate soldiers would have a tough time distinguishing the
exact locations of each Union soldier. The Confederates would hear the sound of
the Union rifles and fire in that direction. Most of the boys in blue would be
lucky, and escape the wild and harried volleys of lead. Some would not.

  The
previous day, June 6th, Dr. Jeb Morgan prepared one of the supply wagons as a
makeshift operating table in preparation for the impending battle. As a
commissioned medical officer in the regular Union army, he held the rank of
Captain. Serving in the military for most of his life, he was no stranger to
the horrors that warfare could bring. His battlefield experience was extensive,
having served in the Mexican-American War of 1846-1848, various Indian
campaigns, and now the War Between the States.

  Dr.
Morgan was a short, stout, older man of sixty, with a full head of white hair,
a long, white, flowing beard, and piercing blue eyes. Having dodged Mexican
bullets and fought hand to hand with Indians, he possessed an inner strength
and courage, as well as intelligence, that were uncommon for most,
distinguishing himself for his skill with a firearm as well as a scalpel.
Recognized for his abilities, he had been offered lofty positions at
comfortable hospitals of his choosing, yet rejected the honor, preferring
instead to remain in the field, saving a greater number of lives; much to his
superior’s dismay.

  Far
behind the Union front line, the doctor had searched for a suitable location to
operate. In a protected grove of birch trees, he found a large flat area with
lush green grass. As the principal surgeon for the brigade, it was his job to
ensure a site that was far enough from the action to allow for undistracted
work, yet close enough to the front lines for quick evacuation and treatment.
Ordinarily, Dr. Morgan preferred the protected confines of houses and barns,
commandeered from private citizens at the onset of battle. With the battle for
Chattanooga started from a location far removed from civilization in order to
preserve the element of surprise, the wooded clearing would have to suffice.

  The
previous day, while Gen. Negley prepared his battle plan, Dr. Morgan scoured
the foothills near Signal Mountain on horseback. As he rode up through the
rolling terrain, the trees and vegetation became less dense, allowing him to
catch glimpses of the city. Leveling off, he rode through the forest of white
birch, weaving a path around the denser areas until he found the clearing. 
Immediately, he recognized the qualities of the find. He deduced the small
field would allow for bright light to operate by, and the trees at the
clearing’s edge would provide comfortable shade to the wounded as they
recovered. It wasn’t perfect, but he felt he had worked in worse conditions
while fighting in the west. This would certainly be more tolerable – as long as
the good weather held.

  After
locating the medical encampment, Dr. Morgan quickly summoned a wagon to be used
as an operating gurney and prepared his instruments. With the canopy removed,
he neatly arranged his supplies on the right side, along the length of the
wooden side-bracing. Within arm’s reach, he placed his instruments first; a
basin and canteen of water next; then cotton batting and other bandages last.
At the head of the wagon, he arranged the necessary supplies for the assistant,
such as chloroform, bandages, and morphine in powder form, as well as opium as
an analgesic. With the preparation for surgeries in place, he rejoined the
front lines, offering his assistance where he could, leaving an assistant to
watch over their makeshift hospital in his absence.

  The
following day, June seventh – the day of the battle – Dr. Morgan woke early
after a restful night's sleep under one of the many cannons aimed at the city.
He was offered a tent for accommodation, but declined special privilege,
electing to ‘rough it’ under a cannon instead of putting others out. A selfless
man, he figured the boys that were fighting and dying should at least be
granted the small pleasure of the comfort of a tent. After years of adapting to
the rigors of warfare, he learned to sleep wherever he laid his head.

  The
dawn of the new morning created cool dew that had soaked through the
unprotected parts of his body, mainly his legs and boots, producing mild
discomfort. By 8:30am, his clothing had dried out completely and he focused on
his duties of the day. Filling up on hardtack, a hard, flavorless cracker, and
some water, he administered various remedies to the soldiers that had reported
for sick call while he ate.

  Of the
thirteen men reporting various symptoms, only one was deemed
incapacitated.  Suffering from acute dysentery, he was given a mixture of
quinine and Dover's powder, and sent to the medical encampment for recovery.
Dr. Morgan was a compassionate and sympathetic older man, but tough
nonetheless. His private philosophy was, "If you can walk, you can
fight."

  With
his duties accomplished for the moment, Gen. Negley ordered Dr. Morgan to ‘his
station’ with a reverent nod. No words were exchanged. They both were seasoned
military men who understood each other implicitly. With a respectful salute,
the doctor turned and walked past the soldiers readying themselves at their own
stations. He could now see the woeful anxiety on their faces as he made his way
past, and he flashed them a courteous smile, trying to ease their worry.
Locating his horse, a dark brown Canadian Stallion called Bill, named for an
old friend that had died at the hands of an Indian ambush years before, he
mounted the saddle, adjusted his boots in the stirrups, and with a quick snap
of the reins, turned and rode off toward safety.

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 “
FIRE!
”

  With
his sword lifted to an exalted position above his head, Gen. Negley roared the
order to commence firing. Loud and with great authority, he repeated his simple
command over and over as he rode up the line. Instantly, his men responded and
lit the fuses to their cannons. Like violent demons, the cannons came to life
as they reported with a thunderous roar, shaking the ground under them.