The March to Chattanooga

On September 26, 1863 the 61^st, along with other detachments from the 11^th and 12^th Corps, left Virginia and the Army of the Potomac  to reinforce the besieged Army of the Cumberland at Chattanooga, Tennesse.  Reaching Bridgeport, Alabama on October 1^st, the 61^st remained there until October 27 when the relief force began the approximately 25 mile march to Chattanooga.  A.T. Sechand  accompanied the 82^nd OVI which was in the same brigade as the 61^st.  He described the march to Chattanooga in the following excerpt from a letter published in the Delaware Gazette on November 27, 1863.

 

Headquarters 82^nd Ohio Vols.

Lookout Valley, Tenn., Nov. 12^th, 1863

 

Editor Gazette: On the morning of the 27^th of October, the 11^th Corps followed by Geary’s Division of the 12^th, commenced its march up the left bank of the Tennessee, towards Chattanooga.  Thus was inaugurated as the sequel has proved, one of the boldest, most successful and important movements of the war.  The brave army of the Cumberland was starving.  New communications must be opened for it, or within five days time it must be brought to the painful necessity of a disastrous retreat.  Upon the veterans of the Potomac devolved the vast responsibility of seizing by one bold, sudden stroke the mountain bulwarks that range along the south bank of the Tennessee river, of making that beautiful stream a highway for Union navigation and of rendering Chattanooga the “Eagle’s nest” – the impregnable strong hold of freedom.

The first day’s march was accomplished without special incident and we encamped at night among the mountain defiles, resting our weary limbs beside a swift little stream denominated “Running Water.”  Next morning we had slung knapsacks and were again pursuing our march before old Sol had bestowed his morning kiss upon the grey, craggy brow of the Lookout Mountain.  Signs of the desolation of war began to present themselves in deserted homes, burned railroad bridges and weedy untilled fields.  From straggling citizens we learned that a small rebel force had picketed the road the night before and had leisurely retired before the advance guard, yet there were no emphatic signs of resistance until about ten o’clock A.M., when we began to hear the ominous thunder of artillery far in advance.  Some incredulous ones said it was accidental thumping on a drum but more practiced and veteran ears detected its real meaning as easily as the schooled hunter interprets the distant rumbling made by a galloping herd of bisons.  The rebels were shelling our passing columns from Point Lookout.  This towering mountain spur is the abrupt termination of the Lookout range, and it lifts its rocky crest 2400 feet above sea level, directly in front of, and only four miles distant from Chattanooga.  Near the top it is permeated by a huge stratum of rock, 50 feet in thickness, the faces of which are perpendicular, thus rendering a direct assault next to impossible.  Upon the very pinnacle of this crag the rebels have managed to plant a battery of light guns.

 

View of Lookout Mountain (Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, Civil War Photographs, LC-DIG-ppmsca-32826).

The road along which we were compelled to pass led us under fire of this battery for about one mile.  There was no chance of replying, and our nerve and grit was fairly tested by the merciless nuggets of iron that came shrieking down upon us like howling demons.  We marched at quick time, and most of the men kept their places well though the jagged pieces of exploded shells tore up the ground and rattled among the trees, houses and fences like iron hail.  But why should the heroes of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville shrink at this?  Had they not faced a hundred times worse, on dozens of immortal fields?  Rapidly but firmly moved the column almost entirely unshaken, though now and then a blood-be-spattered artillery horse or a ragged indentation in the soil pointed out the danger they were passing.

Very few casualties occurred in passing this rebel blockade.  Emerging from the thick woods that skirted the road into the open fields we saw standing upon the summits of a series of heights on our right, groups of darkly clad men, whom we knew to be soldiers, but were they rebels.  No for there in the clear air of evening, was the glorious old flag of the Union waving us welcome.  Then came such volleys of shouts as made the welkin ring and the mountains echo.  Shouts such as came, come only from the throats of freeman.  Then the bands struck up “Hail Columbia” and other airs that must have brought sad reminiscences to many a rebel heart.  The army of the Potomac had greeted the army of the Cumberland.

There are episodes in the life of a soldier which are worth a century’s enjoyment of luxurious pleasure.  Such was the one I have just described.