Curse of Atlantis (39 page)

An eerie quiet spread over the neighborhood as the four thugs reloaded. Knowing this was their only hope of survival, Trae crawled to the front door and tried to wrap his fingers around the lower corner. With his hand covered in blood, his fingers slipped off the edge of the door.

“Le, get in the house… stay low,” Trae ordered.

Lena
, scared and crying, lay beside her brother, unable to move.

“
Lena
, get moving
NOW
!” Trae shouted.

“I’m scared,”
Lena
whimpered.

“I’ll block you. Go now… hurry up!” Trae assured confidently.

Nodding reluctantly,
Lena
quickly stood up and pulled the front door open as Trae moved to shield her from the four men nearby. Instantly, a roar of bullets unleashed a swath of destruction across the front of the house, breaking windows and knocking shingles from the siding. As
Lena
began to enter the house, another bullet entered Trae’s lower back, knocking him forward against the door, closing it momentarily across
Lena
’s body. Trae rolled to his side and dropped down onto the deck of the porch once more.

“TRAE!”
Lena
cried out in fear and disbelief.

“
Lena
, get inside. GO,
NOW
!” Trae said his voice now barely audible.

“No, I can help you,”
Lena
replied with determination.

Before Trae could protest,
Lena
reached down and grabbed him by his shirt. She pulled with all her might as Trae pushed with his feet. Suddenly,
Lena
exhaled abruptly and sounded a guttural moan, as a bullet struck her in the chest. Immediately, she slumped to the ground, then rolled over on top of Trae.

With both victims down, the four thugs ran back to the waiting car and sped off. Once again, an eerie quiet swept over the neighborhood as the neighbors, one by one, ventured out into the warzone.

 
Farther south, along
Signal
Mountain
, Dr. Phineas Morgan stood on his wooden deck. Perched high above the valley floor, he stared out toward
northern
Chattanooga
and tried to shut out the images of carnage that had just taken place.
 
From his location a few miles away, he could not see the muzzle flashes, nor did he hear the gunshots; but strangely, he knew exactly where the shots were fired and upon whom they were fired.

Sadly, he
checked his watch:
10:30 a.m.

In a moment of solemn respect, he uttered a few simple words, “Forgive me
Lena
. Your death will save thousands.”

Turning away, he stared out over the city and spoke. “The dominoes of destiny are now tumbling... Godspeed, David.”

T T: Chapter 2

Chattanooga
,
Tennessee
,

June 7, 1862
–
8:30 a.m.

The
Tennessee River
quietly flowed south and west as it made its way past
Missionary Ridge
, toward the city of
Chattanooga
. The April rains were now a month past and the wild and raging torrent that threatened to breach the swollen banks was now a gentle lazy river that quietly meandered its way through the valley. The muddy water that had angrily lapped the river’s banks receded some, leaving heavy, waterlogged brush and debris drying in the morning sunshine. Soft and tranquil, the water trickled past the fallen branches that scraped the surface of the river, catching any unsuspecting object that dared to tempt its grasp.

Flowing placidly south into the city, the river touched the edge of civilization, then abruptly changed course and headed north, past
Signal
Mountain
. Several miles later, changing course once more, it looped around the mountain and continued its previous direction south, carrying with it the tiny bits and fragments of an industrialized city hard at work.

Sitting patiently on an elevated boulder, a young boy hung his makeshift fishing pole over the water in an attempt to catch his breakfast. Looking toward the city, he could see the tall smoke stacks that emitted the evidence of men toiling at work. A light, gentle breeze blew across the valley of high plains grasses, carrying with it the fragrance of fresh cut hay and wildflowers. The breeze brushed past his face, filling his tiny nostrils with the scent of nature, and sending warm contentment throughout his body as the sun shined down upon him. He reveled in his independence as he envisioned other boys suffering through school while he enjoyed his day of truancy.

 
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. They were 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.

 
--- --- --- --- ---

 
On the opposite side of the river, hidden in the dense thicket and underbrush, several companies of Union sharpshooters lay in wait. Quiet and undetected, they had moved to the river’s edge, sneaking in under the protection of darkness. Perfectly concealed, they lay 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, re-circulating 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 his 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. They 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 had 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. He had distinguished 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. He preferred 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. his job was 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.