Orchard Knob Hill
Afternoon of November 25, 1863
Ulysses S. Grant stood impassively watching from his command post on Orchard Knob, enjoying an unbroken view of the whole of the unfolding action. He had never seen its like in all his military career. Never before this moment had he known exactly what was happening everywhere on the field of an engagement. People spoke of the fog of war, and many were the times he had not known, sometimes for even hours after the event, the final outcome of a battle he himself directed.
That was not the case here. The clearly visible lines of Union troops marched and then ran to attack their rebel opponents, whom Grant could also clearly see. It was like reviewing a parade, except this was deadly serious and he could also see men fall on both sides. The very air smelled of battle and the sharp aroma of spent gun powder. But for once the clouds of smoke from cannon and musket rapidly cleared off in a stiff breeze.
He ignored the chatter of his subordinates, taking quiet satisfaction in the performance of the Army of the Cumberland as it overran the rifle pits at the base of Missionary Ridge. Some of the rebels made a fight of it, but most either surrendered or fled up the ridge to the safety of their lines at the top. He pulled the cigar from his mouth and spat.
All morning while Sherman fought on Bragg’s right flank, the Confederates appeared to reinforce that flank by pulling out men from their center. For good reason, Grant thought, since that is exactly what he would have done in Bragg’s place. Only a fool would contemplate a charge up a hill like Missionary Ridge. But the rifle pits at the base of the ridge looked lightly manned, and Grant bet seizing them would scare Bragg enough to at least stop him from thinning out his center any further. He might even call some men back, giving Sherman a better chance at breaking the rebel right flank.
Probably Bragg was not such a fool, but he might be. Grant had a low regard for the man. From all the reports from rebel deserters, he was not popular with his own soldiers, who regarded him as an autocrat who wasted his opportunity at Chickamauga by not following up on it. Grant had to agree. After a victory like that, Grant would not have waited to hit the enemy again. President Lincoln described General Rosecrans, the man Grant replaced, as acting like a duck hit over the head after that battle. God alone knew what might have happened had Bragg pressed his advantage vigorously.
Grant glanced back at the action at the base of Missionary Ridge, where he expected to see his men entrenching. To his shock, he found no such thing. His troops had not stopped. Ragged lines of men in blue were, in fact, scaling the damn hillside.
Were they insane? He watched in spellbound disbelief for a moment, and then whirled to General Thomas standing a few feet from him. Under his direction Thomas commanded the Army of the Cumberland. What had this fool done?
“General Thomas,” Grant said through gritted teeth and pointing to Missionary Ridge, “who ordered those troops to climb that ridge?”
Thomas slowly turned to Grant, seeming to find it difficult to tear his eyes away from the action before him. The expression on his face told Grant instantly that Thomas had no more idea what was happening than he did.
“I do not know, General,” said Thomas. “I certainly did not.”
Grant glowered at the rest of the officers surrounding him. “Does anybody have any idea who sent those men up that ridge?” His voice was level but fierce.
They stared at one another in quiet panic shaking their heads, looking hopeful that someone would step forward to take the blame and divert Grant’s anger.
“No one here has any idea how or why this is happening?” pressed Grant. “I am speaking to the officer corps of the Army of the Cumberland, am I not? Are you telling me these men are climbing that ridge of their own accord, and their officers are letting them do it? Their orders were to take the rifle pits at the base and hold that position, were they not?”
Thomas’s face hardened, and glancing back at Missionary Ridge he said, “General Grant, I cannot account for this. As I told you earlier, I did not favor sending our men even as far as the base of the ridge. Under no circumstances would I have ever ordered them to attempt an assault on the top of the ridge. It is suicide.”
Grant took a deep breath and folded his arms across his chest, turning back to face what he was sure was a major debacle in the making.
“We better hope to God Bragg lacks sufficient men and brains to mount a counter attack when he throws this army back, because we have no reserve to stop him if he breaks our center as he did at Chickamauga.”
He paused, watching clusters of dark blue uniforms continue their struggle up the slopes of Missionary Ridge. “Because if that happens,” he muttered under his breath and clamping down on his cigar, “somebody is going to pay for this.”