Campfire and battlefield

The condition of affairs in Georgia, as seen by the residents, just before and at the time of Sherman's great march, has been vividly described by the Rev. J. Ryland Kendrick, who was pastor of a church in Charleston when the war broke out, and two years later removed to Madison, Ga. He says:

"In passing from South Carolina to Georgia one could hardly fail to be immediately conscious of breathing a somewhat larger and freer atmosphere. The great mass of the people in the latter State were perhaps no less ardent in their zeal for the Confederate cause than those of the former, but still there was among them more latitude of opinion, and criticisms on the political and military status were not so rigorously repressed. Owing to her greater extent of territory, her less aristocratic civil institutions, and her more composite population, Georgia had long been characterized by a broader spirit of tolerance than South Carolina, and she manifested that spirit during the war. Not a few might be found in almost any community who had no heart in the pending conflict, and little faith in its successful issue. Besides, her governor, Joseph E. Brown, early showed a disposition to do his own thinking, and to take ground which was not always pleasing to the autocratic will of Jefferson Davis. This naturally encouraged freedom of thought and utterance among the people at large.

"At the beginning of 1863 I received a call to the pastorate of the Baptist church in Madison, a village on the Georgia railroad, and made my home there for the remainder of the war. It was an ideal refuge amidst the storm and stress of the time, especially for a man with my peculiar convictions. The village was one of the pleasantest and most attractive in the State, comprising in its population a considerable number of wealthy, educated, and refined families, a large share of which belonged to my church. In the ante-bellum days it had been distinguished as an educational centre for girls, with two flourishing seminaries—one Baptist, the other Methodist. When I went there the war had closed both of them. Just on the line which divides the upper from the lower country, Madison was as remote from the alarms of war as any place in the war-girdled South could well be, and fairly promised to be about the last spot which the invaders would strike. To its various attractions Madison added, for me, one other, which at the time was not generally esteemed an attraction at all, but rather a serious reproach. I refer to its reputation for somewhat lax loyalty to the Confederacy. It was known throughout the State as a town much given to croaking and criticism, with a suspicion of decided disaffection on the part of some of its leading citizens. Foremost among these sullen and recalcitrant Madisonians was Col. Joshua Hill, familiarly known as 'Josh Hill,' confessedly the most prominent man in the community, and about as much at odds with the Confederate Government as one could well be without provoking the stroke of its iron hand. He had been a member of the United States Congress when the secession fury began, and having stuck to his post as long as possible finally retired from it in a regular and honorable way.

"Preaching as I did only on Sunday mornings, I often availed myself of the opportunity to attend, in the after-part of that day, the religious services of the colored people; sometimes preaching to them myself, but more commonly listening to the preachers of their own race. While, as might be expected, there was a sad lack of any real instruction in their pulpit performances, there was superabundance of fervor and not a little of genuine oratorical effectiveness.

"It interested me especially, in these meetings of the colored people, to watch their attitude toward the pending war, in whose issues they had so great a stake, and by which they were placed in an extremely delicate relation to their masters. Their shrewdness was simply amazing. Their policy was one of reserve and silence. They rarely referred to the war in their sermons or prayers, and when they did mention it they used broad terms which meant little and compromised nobody. Of course they could not betray sympathy for the invaders, but they certainly exhibited none for the other side. To any keen observer their silence was significant enough, but nobody cared to evoke their real sentiments. The subtlest sagacity could not have dictated a more prudent line of conduct than that which their instincts chose. Indeed, the conduct of the colored people through the whole war, whose import they vaguely but truly divined, was admirable, and such as to merit the eternal gratitude of the Southern whites. Under the most tempting opportunities, outrages upon women and children were never fewer, petty crimes were not increased, and of insurrectionary movements, so far as I knew, there were absolutely none, while the soil was never tilled with more patient and faithful industry. No doubt their conduct was largely determined by a shrewd comprehension of the situation, as well as by their essential kindliness of nature. They understood that bodies of soldiery were never far away, and that any uprising would be speedily and remorselessly crushed. They knew, too, that it was wiser to wait for the coming of 'Massa Linkum's' legions, whose slow approach could not be concealed from them.

"If the colored people dimly saw that their deliverance was approaching with the advance of the Federal armies, the faith of the whites in the perpetuity of the divine institution lingered long and died hard. It seemed to them impossible that this institution should come to an end. Indeed, there was manifested on the part of some very good and devout people a disposition to hazard their faith in the veracity of God and the Bible on the success of the Southern arms. The Bible, they argued, distinctly sanctioned slavery, and if slavery should be overthrown by the failure of the South the Bible would be fatally discredited.

"In those trying days some few compensations came to us for the deprivations inflicted by the blockade. For one thing, the tyranny of fashion was greatly abated. Style was little thought of, and fine ladies were made happy by the possession of an English or French calico gown. For another thing, cut off from magazines, reviews, and cheap yellow-covered literature, and with newspapers so curtailed of their ordinary proportions that they were taken in at a coup d'oeil, we were driven back upon old standard books. I suspect that among the stay-at-homes a larger amount of really good, solid reading was done during the war than in the previous decade. Now and then a contraband volume slipped through the blockade, and was eagerly sought after. Somehow, a copy of Buckle's 'History of Civilization' got into my neighborhood, and had a wide circulation. Victor Hugo's 'Les Misérables' appeared among us in a shocking edition, printed, I think, in New Orleans.

"The ever-beginning, never-ending topic of conversation was the war, with its incidents and prospects. We breakfasted, dined, and supped on startling reports of victories or defeats, and vague hints of prodigious things shortly to occur. It is noteworthy that our reports were almost uniformly of victories, frequently qualified by the slow and reluctant admission that, having won a brilliant success, the Confederate forces at last fell back. This trick of disguising defeat came, after a while, to be so well understood, that 'to conquer and fall back' was tossed about as a grim jest.

"As the tide of war surged southward, and at last reached Chattanooga, our village, like nearly all others on railway lines, became a hospital station, and the large academy was appropriated to the sick and wounded.

"After the battle of Chickamauga great trains of cars came lumbering through our town, crowded with Union captives. They were a sad sight to look upon. Standing one day by the track as such a train was slowly passing, the irrepressible prisoners shouted to me, 'Old Rosey will be along here soon!' 'Old Rosey' never came, but 'Uncle Billy' in due time put in an unmistakable appearance, which more than fulfilled what at the moment seemed the prediction of mere reckless bravado.

"During the summer of 1864 our secluded little village was rudely shaken by its first experience in the way of invasion. After steadily pushing back the Confederate columns, Sherman had at last reached Atlanta, and his hosts were in fact only about seventy miles away from us. In certain conditions of the atmosphere we could hear the dull, heavy thunder of his guns. Yet, strangely enough, this proximity of war in its sternest form created no panic among us. In fact, a kind of paralysis now benumbed the sensibilities of the people. The back of the Confederacy had been definitely broken in the preceding summer by the battle of Gettysburg. Nearly all discerning persons were conscious of this, and but for the foreordained and blind obstinacy of Jefferson Davis and his satellites efforts would have been made to save the South from utter wreck. Alexander H. Stephens was understood to entertain very definite ideas as to the hopeless and disastrous course of events under Davis's policy.

"On a hot July morning I was sitting, Southern fashion, with a number of gentlemen before a store just outside of the public square. We were canvassing a strange rumor which had just reached us, to the effect that Yankee soldiers had been seen not far from the town. At that moment a man from the country rode up to our group, and, hearing the topic of conversation, generously offered to 'eat all the Union soldiers within ten miles of Madison.' Scarcely had he uttered these reassuring words when a man in uniform galloped into the square. Now, we said, we shall get trustworthy information, thinking that this was a Confederate scout. In a moment, however, another cavalryman dashed around the corner, and fired a pistol at a fugitive clad in Confederate gray. The truth instantly flashed upon us, and with a cry of 'Yankees!' we all sprang to our feet. Not much alarmed myself, I called to my friends, 'Don't run!' but the most of them, disregarding my advice, took themselves off in remarkably quick time. The strange intruders, coming upon us as suddenly as if they had dropped out of the summer sky, now poured into the square and overflowed all the streets. Boldly standing my ground, I approached the first officer I could make out, and requested permission to go at once to my home on the outskirts of the village. He informed me that I must wait until the arrival of the colonel in command. So it was that for a space of five or ten minutes I may be said to have been a prisoner under the flag of my country. The colonel soon rode up, a stalwart, square-built, kindly-faced Kentuckian—Colonel Adams, as I afterward learned—who promptly granted my request, and directed an officer to see me safe through the crowd of soldiers. At my gate I found two or three soldiers, quietly behaved, and simply asking for food. Gratefully receiving such as we could give them, they departed, leaving us quite unharmed.

"In November an important ministerial service called me to southwestern Georgia, and, as all seemed quiet about Atlanta, I hesitatingly ventured, accompanied by my wife, upon the journey. Starting homeward after a few days, we reached Forsyth, and paused there on the edge of the desert. For a desert it was that stretched for some sixty miles between us and Madison, a terra incognita, over which no adventurous explorer had passed since Sherman's legions had blotted out all knowledge of it. Only wild rumors filled the air. At last a friend took the serious risk of letting us have his carriage, with a pair of mules and a negro driver, for the perilous journey. Having crossed the Ocmulgee, we at once struck the track of Sherman's army, his right, under Howard, having kept near the river. In that day's ride we met on the road but one human being—a negro on horseback. A white woman rushed frantically from her little cabin to inquire if any more Yankees were coming, a question which I ventured to answer with a very confident negative. Rather late in the afternoon, as we were passing a pleasant farm-house, a gentleman came out to our carriage and with a very solemn voice and manner warned us against going any further. He had just been informed that ten thousand Yankee soldiers were at somebody's mills, not far away, and he declared that we were driving straight into their ranks. This staggered me for a moment. But a little reflection convinced me of the violent improbability of the rumor, and a little further reflection determined me to go on. From that moment to the evening hour when we drew up before a planter's house to spend the night, we saw not a human being, scarcely a living thing. Indeed, the wide, dead silence was the most marked sign that we were in the path over which a few days before a great army had passed. The road here and there was considerably cut up, showing that heavy wagons had recently gone over it. Fences were frequently down or missing, and two or three heaps of blackened ruins, surmounted by solitary chimneys, denoted that the torch had done some destructive work. The next day, in passing through Monticello, I saw the charred remains of the county jail, but the signs of conflagration were surprisingly few.

"The family with whom we spent the night had had the strange experience of being for a while in the midst of an encamped army. The soldiers, they informed us, had swarmed about them like bees, but had behaved as well as soldiers commonly do. The planter's horses and cattle had been freely appropriated, and as much of his corn and vegetables as were needed; but there was no complaint of violence or rudeness, and an ample supply of the necessaries of life was left for his household. Indeed, from my observations in this trip across the line of Sherman's march, that march, so far from having been signalized by wanton destruction, was decidedly merciful. No doubt bummers and camp followers committed many atrocities, but the progress of the army proper was attended by no unusual incidents of severity. The year had been one of exceptional bounty, and there was no want in Sherman's rear. Such was the plenty that I believe he might have retraced his steps and subsisted his army on the country.

"On reaching Madison we found the place substantially intact. Not a house had been destroyed, not a citizen harmed or insulted. The greatest sufferers from the invasion were the turkeys and chickens. The country was thickly strewn with the feathers of these slaughtered innocents. When I expressed to a friend some doubt as to Sherman's ability to reach the sea, he replied, 'If you had been here and seen the sort of men composing his cohorts, you would not question that they could go wherever they had a mind to.'

"Our life between the time of Sherman's march and Lee's surrender, with the scenes and incidents that attended and followed that surrender, was as strange and abnormal as a bad dream. We had, indeed, an abundance of the necessary articles of food and clothing. I have hardly ever lived in more physical comfort than during the last year of the war. The few fowls that had escaped the voracious appetites of the invaders soon provided a fresh supply of chickens and eggs. Coffee at twenty-five dollars a pound (Confederate money), and sugar at not much less cost, were attainable, and I managed to keep a fair supply of them for my little family. But though our physical conditions were tolerable, life was subject to a painful strain of uncertainty and anxiety, relieved only by the conviction that the war, of which all were weary and sick unto death, was nearly over. When the end came, confusion was confounded in a jumble so bewildering as scarcely to be credited with reality. The town streets and country roads were full of negroes, wandering about idle and aimless, going they knew not whither—a pitiful spectacle of enfranchised slaves dazed by their recent boon of liberty. Presently Union soldiers were everywhere. A German colonel, lately a New York broker, moved among us in the spick-and-span bravery of his uniform, the sovereign arbiter of our destinies. The world had rarely presented such a topsy-turvy condition of things, half tragical, half comical.

"As soon as matters had sufficiently quieted down to warrant it, I resolved on a visit to my Northern friends, toward whom my heart yearned. My point of departure was Atlanta, still a desolation of falling walls, blackened chimneys, and almost undistinguishable streets. How queer it was to be again in the great world! How splendid Nashville, Louisville, and Cincinnati appeared, with their brilliant gaslights, crowded thoroughfares, showy shop windows, and fashionably dressed people! Evidently war here, whatever it had meant of sorrow and deprivation, had not been war as we had known it in the beleaguered, invaded, blockaded South. This prosperity was all but incredible when contrasted with Southern poverty, distress, and desolation."¹

¹ Atlantic Monthly for October, 1889.

When Hood found that he could not lure Sherman away from Atlanta, or make him loose his hold upon that prize of his long campaign, he turned toward Nashville, under orders from Richmond, hoping to destroy the army that Thomas was organizing. He was hindered by heavy rains, and it was late in November when he arrived at Duck River, about forty miles south of the city. Here he found a force, under Gen. John M. Schofield, which was easily flanked by crossing the river, whereupon Schofield fell back to Franklin, on Harpeth River, eighteen miles from Nashville, intrenched a line south and west of the town, with both flanks resting on bends of the river, and got his artillery and trains across the stream, placing the guns where they could play upon any attacking force. Schofield had about twenty-five thousand men, and Hood over forty thousand. In the afternoon of November 30 the attack was made. Schofield's rear guard, consisting of Wagner's brigade, instead of falling back to the main body, as ordered, so as to permit the fire of the whole line to be poured into the advancing enemy, attempted to withstand the Confederate onset. Of course it was quickly swept back, and as the men rushed in confusion into the lines they were closely followed by the enemy, who captured a portion of the intrenchments. From a part of the line thus seized they were driven in turn, but they clung tenaciously to the remainder, and Schofield established a new line a few rods in the rear.

Hood's orders to his corps and division commanders were that they were to drive the National army into Harpeth River, while Forrest's cavalry was to cross the river above, sweep down upon the trains, and destroy or capture whatever remnant should have succeeded in crossing the stream. General Schofield did not believe that the attack upon so strong a position would be made in front; he looked for a flank movement, and accordingly, when the battle took place, he was on the north side of the river making arrangements for an adequate means of crossing in case of such movement. But he gave Hood credit for more generalship than he ever possessed. Hood never seemed to have a conception of any method of conducting a battle except by driving his men straight up against the guns and intrenchments of the enemy. In this instance, although he possessed an abundance of artillery, only two batteries were with him. Schofield's line was about a mile and a half long, running through the suburbs of the little town which lay in the bend of the river. The town was approached by three roads, from the southeast, south, and southwest, and along these converging roads Hood pushed the twenty-two thousand men that he brought into the fight. The immediate commander on the field of the National forces was Gen. Jacob D. Cox, who showed himself a masterly tactician and inspiring leader. The works were well planned and very strong, and as the reckless Hood pushed his doomed men up against them they were swept down by front-fire and cross-fire, musketry and artillery, in ghastly heaps along the whole line. When the advanced line was driven back and the centre temporarily broken, the exultant Confederates imagined they were to have everything their own way; and as their divisions came in on converging lines they were crowded together in great masses, through which the fire of the artillery from right and left, as well as the musketry, played with terrible effect. Two companies of one Kentucky regiment were armed with repeating rifles, and their fire alone was equal to that of five hundred ordinary infantrymen. A participant describing the scene at this time says: "From Stiles's and Casement's brigades a blaze of fire leaped from the breastworks and played so incessantly that it appeared to those who saw it as if it had formed a solid plane upon which a man might walk;" and a Confederate staff officer describes it as "a continuous living fringe of flame." Lieutenant Speed, of the Twelfth Kentucky Regiment, says: "The artillery in the line played incessantly, hurling double charges of grape over the field. From Casement and Stiles to the left there was an unabated roar of musketry, which now was continued with intensified fury along Reilly's line up to the pike, and swelled with terrific grandeur along the front all the way to Carter's Creek pike. Along Reilly's line it was a desperate hand-to-hand conflict. Sometimes it seemed that the masses of the assailants would overwhelm all opposition. The struggle was across and over the breastworks. The standards of both armies were upon them at the same time. Muskets flashed in men's faces. Officers fought with the men, musket in hand. The Confederates were at a disadvantage on account of the ditch outside the works, which they could not cross under the blinding storm of lead. Bewildered and confused, they, who had a moment before shouted the cry of victory, could now only receive death and destruction in the most appalling form. In this immediate front the Confederate loss was heavier than at any other point. Here Cleburne fell, almost up to the works; also Granberry and Quarles. The ditch outside the works was filled with killed and wounded men. Confederate officers who witnessed their removal next morning have stated that in places they were piled five deep." The Confederates made in rapid succession so many charges against the new line of works where they had broken the first line, that witnesses differed as to their number. Some counted fourteen, and none counted fewer than ten. But all were in vain. In this action the National troops expended a hundred wagon loads of ammunition, and as the smoke did not rise readily it seemed as if the darkness of night were coming on prematurely. No doubt this circumstance contributed largely to the terrible losses of the Confederates. Forrest's cavalry, which was expected to cross the river and capture Schofield's trains, did not accomplish anything. The reason given for its inaction was lack of ammunition. In this brief and bloody encounter Hood lost more than one-third of his men engaged. His killed numbered one thousand seven hundred and fifty. The number of his wounded can only be computed, but it is not probable that they were fewer than seven thousand. Major Sanders, of the Confederate army, estimates the loss in two of the brigades at sixty-five per cent. These losses included Major-Gen. Patrick R. Cleburne and Brig.-Gens. John Adams, Oscar F. Strahl, S. R. Gist, and H. B. Granberry, all killed; also six general officers wounded and one captured; and more than thirty colonels and lieutenant-colonels were killed or wounded. Schofield lost two thousand five hundred men, and his army took seven hundred prisoners and thirty-three stands of colors. At midnight Schofield crossed the river and retreated to Nashville. Hood followed him, and there confronted the whole of Thomas's army. Schofield has been criticised for thus retreating after his victory; but if he had remained at Franklin the conditions for a battle the next day would have been materially changed. Hood brought up all his artillery in the night, intending to open upon the works in the morning, and it is not probable that Forrest's vigorous cavalry would have remained inactive another day.

Everybody complained of Thomas's slowness, and he was in imminent danger of being superseded; but he would not assume the offensive till he felt that his army was prepared to make sure work. When all was ready, he still had to delay because of bad weather; but on the 15th of December (one day after Sherman reached the sea) the long-meditated blow was given. Thomas's army advanced against Hood's, striking it simultaneously in front and on the left flank. The weight of the attack fell upon the flank, which was completely crushed, and a part of the intrenchments with their guns fell into the hands of the National forces. In the night Hood retreated a mile or two, to another line on the hills, made some new dispositions, and awaited attack. He was seriously embarrassed by the absence of a large part of Forrest's cavalry, which should have been protecting his flanks. In the afternoon of the 16th, Thomas, having sent Wilson's cavalry around the enemy's left flank, attacked with his whole force. He made no headway against Hood's right, but again he crushed the left flank, and followed up the advantage so promptly and vigorously that all organization in the Confederate army was lost, and what was left of it fled in wild confusion toward Franklin, pursued by Wilson's cavalry. Thomas captured all their artillery and took forty-five hundred prisoners. The number of their killed and wounded was never reported. His own loss was about three thousand. Brig.-Gen. Sylvester G. Hill was among the killed.

CHAPTER XLII.

MINOR EVENTS OF THE FOURTH YEAR.

DESPERATE CONDITION OF THE CONFEDERACY—THE EXPORTATION OF COTTON, TOBACCO, AND SUGAR PROHIBITED—THE THREATENED SECESSION OF NORTH CAROLINA FROM THE CONFEDERACY—SWEEPING CONSCRIPTION ACTS—FORCES UNDER GENERAL BUTLER ATTEMPT TO CAPTURE RICHMOND—NUMEROUS MINOR ENGAGEMENTS IN THE SHENANDOAH VALLEY—BATTLE BETWEEN CAVALRY FORCES AT TREVILIAN STATION—PLYMOUTH, N. C., CAPTURED BY THE CONFEDERATES—BLACK FLAG RAISED AND NEGRO PRISONERS SHOT—THE DESTRUCTION OF THE RAM "ALBEMARLE" BY A FORCE UNDER LIEUTENANT CUSHING—DEFEAT OF FEDERAL FORCE AT OLUSTEE—ENGAGEMENTS AT DANDRIDGE AND FAIR GARDENS, TENN.—OPERATIONS IN LOUISIANA AND MISSISSIPPI.

With the dawn of the fourth year of the war the statesmen and journalists of the Confederacy showed by their utterances that they knew how desperate were its straits, and how much its prospects had waned since the victories of the first and second years. The Richmond Whig said: "The utmost nerve, the firmest front, the most undaunted courage, will be required during the coming twelve months from all who are charged with the management of affairs in our country, or whose position gives them any influence in forming or guiding public sentiment." The Wilmington (N. C.) Journal said: "Moral courage, the power to resist the approaches of despondency, and the faculty of communicating this power to others, will need greatly to be called into exercise; for we have reached that point in our revolution—which is inevitably reached in all revolutions—when gloom and depression take the place of hope and enthusiasm, when despair is fatal, and despondency is even more to be dreaded than defeat. Whether a crisis be upon us or not, there can be in the mind of no one, who looks at the map of Georgia and considers her geographical relations to the rest of the Confederacy, a single doubt that much of our future is involved in the result of the next spring campaign in upper Georgia." The Confederate Congress passed, in secret session, a bill to prohibit exportation of cotton, tobacco, naval stores, molasses, sugar, or rice, and one to prohibit importation of luxuries into the Confederacy, both of which bills were promptly signed by Mr. Davis. At Huntsville, Ala., a meeting of citizens was held, at which resolutions were passed deprecating the action of the South, and calling upon the Government to convene the legislature, that it might call a convention to provide some mode for the restoration of peace and the rights and liberties of the people. The legislature of Georgia, in March, adopted resolutions, declaring that the Confederate Government ought, after every success of the Confederate arms, to make to the United States Government an official offer to treat for peace. The Richmond Examiner said: "People and army, one soul and one body, feel alike, in their inmost hearts, that when the clash comes it will be a struggle for life or death. So far we feel sure of the issue. All else is mystery and uncertainty. Where the first blow will fall, when the two armies of Northern Virginia meet each other face to face, how Grant will try to hold his own against the master-spirit of Lee, we cannot yet surmise; but it is clear to the experienced eye that the approaching campaign will bring into action two new elements not known heretofore in military history, which may not unlikely decide the fate of the gigantic crusade. The enemy will array against us his new iron-clads by sea and his colored troops by land." In the western districts of North Carolina the execution of the Confederate conscription law created great excitement, and several public meetings were held to consider the action of separating from the Confederacy and returning to the Union. The Raleigh Standard declared boldly, that, if the measures proposed by the Confederate Government were carried out, the people of North Carolina would take their affairs into their own hands and proceed, in convention assembled, to vindicate their liberties and privileges.

As the war progressed, and the Confederate armies were depleted by the casualties of battle and the illness attendant upon the hardships of the camp, the conscription became more sweeping, and at last it was made to embrace every man in the Confederacy between eighteen and forty-five years of age. This almost emptied the colleges, until some of them reduced the age of admission to sixteen years, when they were rapidly filled up again. But even these boys were held subject to military call in case of necessity, and in some of the battles of the last year cadets of the Virginia Military Institute took part, and many of them were killed. Another noticeable effect was the diminution in the number of small and detached military operations, because the waning resources of the Confederacy were concentrated more and more in its principal armies.

On the first day of the year a detachment of seventy-five men, commanded by Major Henry A. Cole, being on the scout near Harper's Ferry, suddenly encountered, near Rectortown, a portion of General Rosser's Confederate command, and a stubborn fight ensued. The result was that fifty-seven of Cole's men were either killed or captured, and the remainder made their escape. Two days later a Confederate force, under Gen. Sam Jones, suddenly attacked an Illinois regiment, commanded by Major Beers, near Jonesville, and after a desperate fight compelled them to surrender.

On the 6th of February, an expedition, organized by General Butler for the purpose of dashing into Richmond and releasing the prisoners there, marched from Yorktown by way of New-Kent Court House. They failed in their purpose to surprise the enemy at Bottom's Bridge, where they were to cross the Chickahominy, because, as a Richmond newspaper said, "a Yankee deserter gave information in Richmond of the intended movement." The Confederates had felled a great number of trees across the roads and made it impossible for the cavalry to pass. There was great consternation in Richmond, however, and in the evening of the 7th the bells were rung, and men rushed through the streets crying, "To arms, to arms! the Yankees are coming." The home guard was called out, and the women and children ran about seeking places of safety.

Early in May, General Crook, with about seven thousand men, moving from the mouth of New River through Raleigh Court House and Princeton toward Newbern, met a Confederate force, under Albert G. Jenkins, on Cloyd's Mountain, on the 9th. In the engagement that ensued, the Confederates were defeated and General Jenkins was killed. The next day a cavalry force under General Averell was met at Crockett's Cove by one under General Morgan, and was defeated. General Crook, after the battle of Cloyd's Mountain, destroyed the bridge over New River and a considerable section of the Virginia and Tennessee railroad.

On the 15th of May, General Sigel's force in the Shenandoah Valley being in the northern outskirts of the town of Newmarket, General Breckenridge moved up from the south to attack him. The town is divided by a ravine running at right angles to the Shenandoah, and in the beginning the contest was mainly an artillery battle, both sides firing over the town. Then General Breckenridge's cavalry, with one or two batteries, made a detour to the right, and obtained a position on a hill where they could enfilade the left of Sigel's line, and drove back his cavalry on that wing. At the same time Breckenridge advanced his infantry and pushed back Sigel's whole line about half a mile. Later in the day, repeating the same tactics, he pushed Sigel back a mile farther, but did not accomplish this without severe fighting. One notable incident was the capture of an unsupported battery on the right of Sigel's line, which had been playing with terrible effect upon Breckenridge's left. One regiment of veterans and the cadets of the Military Institute were sent to capture it, which they did at terrible cost. Of the five hundred and fifty men in the regiment, two hundred and forty-one were either killed or wounded, nearly all of them falling in the last three hundred yards before they reached the battery. Of the two hundred and twenty-five boys from the Institute, fifty-four were killed or wounded. When night fell, Sigel crossed the river and burned the bridge behind him. General Imboden, who commanded Breckenridge's cavalry in this action, says: "If Sigel had beaten Breckenridge, General Lee could not have spared the men to check his progress (as he did that of Hunter, a month later) without exposing Richmond to immediate and almost inevitable capture. The necessities of General Lee were such that on the day after the battle he ordered Breckenridge to join him near Richmond with the brigades of Echols and Wharton."

Early in June General Sheridan was sent out with the cavalry of the Army of the Potomac, about eight thousand strong, to strike the Virginia Central Railroad near Charlotteville, where it was expected he would meet the force under General Hunter moving through the Shenandoah Valley. He intended to break the main line at Trevilian Station, and the Lynchburg branch at Charlotteville. He encountered the enemy's cavalry near Trevilian Station on the morning of the 11th. Sending Custer's brigade to the left, and Torbert with the remainder of his division to the right, Sheridan moved directly forward with his main body. The enemy was found dismounted in the edge of the forest, his line stretching across the road. Sheridan's men also dismounted, and promptly attacked. Sharp fighting ensued, in the course of which the enemy was driven back two miles with a heavy loss. Williston's battery was then brought up, and with great skill sent its shells into the mass of fleeing Confederates, whose retreat was turned into a wild rout. A portion of the defeated force, retreating toward Louisa Court House, was struck by Custer's brigade, which defeated them, and captured about three hundred and fifty men. But a little later Fitz Lee's Confederate cavalry came up in the rear of Custer, and captured his wagon-train and headquarters baggage. One of his guns also was captured, but was recaptured in a charge that he led in person. Custer and his whole command came so near being captured when the enemy closed around them, that, when his color-bearer was killed, he tore the flag from the staff and hid it in his bosom. That night the remainder of the enemy retired toward Gordonsville. The next day Sheridan's men destroyed about five miles of the railroad. In the afternoon Torbert advanced toward Gordonsville, and found the Confederates in position across the railroad, facing east. Here they attacked them again, chiefly on their left wing, and again bringing forward Williston's battery, punished them severely, but not so as to drive them from their position before dark. In these actions Sheridan lost about six hundred men. The Confederate loss is not fully known, but it was probably larger. Sheridan now learned that Hunter would not conclude to meet him, and that he was likely instead to encounter Ewell's corps. He therefore turned back, and recrossed the North Anna.

Plymouth, N. C., had been held for some months by a garrison of sixteen hundred men, under General Wessells, when it was attacked on April 17, 1864, by the Confederate General Hoke, with about five thousand men. Skirmishing and artillery firing began early in the morning, and very soon the National camps were riddled by shot from the guns. The skirmishers retired within their works, and the Confederates pressed up to these in heavy masses, and were shot down in great numbers. One of the forts, which stood some distance in front of the general line of fortifications, was supplied with hand grenades, and these were used with great effect. But at last this work was captured. The next day the attack was renewed, and a most gallant defence was made. General Hoke, who had been promised a promotion in case of his capturing the place, was determined to do it at whatever cost. Three times he demanded its surrender, and three times he was refused, when he said: "I will fill your citadel full of iron; I will compel your surrender if I have to fight to the last man." It is doubtful, however, if he would have succeeded but for the assistance of the ram Albemarle, which came down the river and got into the rear of the National position. Lieutenant Blakeslee, of the Sixteenth Connecticut Regiment, says: "There was a force of five or six thousand in line about six hundred yards in front of our works. At this hour a rocket was sent up as the signal for the attack, and a more furious charge we never witnessed. Instantly over our heads came a peal of thunder from the ram. Up rose a curling wreath of smoke—the batteries had opened, and quickly flashed fierce forks of flame—loud and earth-shaking roars in quick succession. Lines of men came forth from the woods—the battle had begun. We on the skirmish line fell back and entered Coneby redoubt, properly barred the gates and manned the works. The enemy, with yells, charged on the works in heavy column, jumped into the ditch, climbed the parapet, and for fifteen murderous minutes were shot down like mown grass. The conflict was bloody, short, and decisive. The enemy were in such numbers that we had to yield. The gate had been crushed down by a rebel shot, and the enemy poured in, to the number of five or six hundred, with thousands on the outside. Great confusion then ensued; guns were spiked, musket barrels bent, and all sorts of mischief practised by the Union soldiers, while the enemy were swearing at a terrible rate because we would not take off equipments and inform them if the guns could be turned on the town, and in trying to reorganize their troops, who were badly mixed, to take the next work. We were prisoners, and as we marched out of the fort, we could see at what a fearful cost it was to them. Of the eighty-two men in this fort, but one was wounded." The Confederates then worked their way from one redoubt to another, each of which was obstinately defended, but finally captured, until all were taken, and Plymouth was theirs. Lieutenant Blakeslee says: "The rebels raised the black flag against the negroes found in uniform, and mercilessly shot them down. The shooting in cold blood of three or four hundred negroes and two companies of North Carolina troops, who had joined our army, and even murdering peaceable citizens, were scenes of which the Confederates make no mention, except the hanging of one person, but of which many of us were eye-witnesses." The loss of the garrison in the fighting was fifteen killed and about one hundred wounded. The Confederate loss is not exactly known, but it appears to have been well nigh two thousand.

When the iron-clad ram Albemarle came down the Roanoke to assist General Hoke in the capture of Plymouth, she not only bombarded the garrison, but attacked the National flotilla there and destroyed or scattered it. She wrecked the Southfield by ramming, and when the wooden gunboat Miami gallantly stood up to the work and fired its broadsides against her iron walls, the shot simply rebounded or rolled off, and one of these returning shots struck and killed Lieut. C. W. Flusser who was in command of the Miami.

In the autumn, Lieut. William B. Cushing, of the United States navy, who had performed many gallant exploits, and whose brother was killed beside his gun at Gettysburg, formed a plan for the destruction of the Albemarle. He obtained the sanction of his superior officer for the experiment, which Cushing himself considered so hazardous that he asked leave to make a visit to his home before carrying it out. On his return he fitted up an open launch about thirty feet long with a small engine, a twelve-pound howitzer in the bow, and a boom fourteen feet long swinging at the bow by a hinge. This boom carried a torpedo at the end, so arranged that it could be lowered into the water, pushed under a vessel, and then detached from the boom before being exploded. With fifteen picked men in this little craft, in the night of October 27th, Cushing steamed off in the darkness and found the ram at her mooring at Plymouth. When he drew near he was discovered and sharply challenged, whereupon he ordered on all steam and steered straight for the ram. He was fired upon, but in the darkness the shot failed of its mark. Then a large fire was lighted on the bank, and this revealed to him the fact that the Albemarle was protected by a circle or boom of logs. Without hesitation, he drew back about a hundred yards, and then under full headway drove straight at them, trusting to make his launch slip over them into the enclosed space where the ram lay. In this he was successful. By this time the crew of the ram were thoroughly alarmed, and as Cushing stood on the bow with the exploding line in his hand he could hear every word of command on the ram, and his clothing was perforated with bullets. He now ordered the boom to be lowered until the motion of the launch pushed the torpedo under the ram's overhang. Then he pulled the detaching line, and, after waiting a little for the torpedo to rise in the water and rest under the hull, he pulled the exploding line. The result to the ram was that a hole was torn in her hull which caused her to keel over and sink. At the same instant a discharge of grape shot from one of her guns tore the launch to pieces, and a large part of the mass of water that was lifted by the torpedo came down upon her little crew. Cushing commanded his men to save themselves, and throwing off his sword, revolver, shoes, and coat, jumped into the water and swam for the opposite shore. Making his way through swamps, and finding a skiff, Lieutenant Cushing at last, almost exhausted, reached the National fleet. One of his crew also escaped, two were drowned, and the remainder were captured. The Albemarle was of no further use.

During the early days of the year a constant fire was kept up upon Charleston, and sometimes as many as twenty shells, loaded with Greek fire, were thrown into the city in a day. The Charleston Courier said: "The damage being done is extraordinarily small in comparison with the number of shot and weight of metal fired. The whizzing of shells overhead has become a matter of so little interest as to excite scarcely any attention from passers-by."

In Savannah, April 17th, there was a riot of women who marched through the streets in procession, demanding bread or blood, many of them carrying arms. They seized food wherever they could find it. After a time soldiers were called out, and the leaders of the riot were arrested and put into jail.

Early in February, Gen. Truman Seymour, by order of General Gillmore, left Hilton Head with five thousand five hundred men for Jacksonville, Fla., accompanied by five gunboats under Admiral Dahlgren. The object of the expedition was to penetrate the country west of Jacksonville for the purpose of making an outlet for cotton and lumber, cutting off one source of the enemy's supplies, obtaining recruits for black regiments, and taking measures to protect any citizens who might be disposed to bring the State back into the Union. It was unfortunate that the immediate commander of the expedition, General Seymour, did not altogether believe in its objects. Marching inland, he dispersed some small detachments of Confederate soldiers and captured some guns. He then pushed forward for Suwanee River to destroy the bridges and the railroad, and prevent communication between East and West Florida. Meanwhile the Confederate general, Joseph Finegan, had been collecting troops to oppose the expedition, concentrating them at Lake City, and got together a force about equal to Seymour's. On the 20th of February Seymour moved out from his camp on St. Mary's River to engage the enemy, who threw forward some troops to meet him. They met near Olustee, and a battle ensued, which was fought on level ground largely covered with open pine forests. Seymour massed his artillery in the centre, and opened from it a fierce fire which was very effective. He then endeavored to push forth his infantry on both flanks, and at the same time the whole Confederate line was advanced. The Seventh New Hampshire and Eighth United States colored regiment, being subjected to a very severe fire, gave way. The fire of the Confederates was then concentrated largely on the artillery, and so many men and horses fell in the short time that five of the guns had to be abandoned. The Confederate reserves were then brought up to a point where they could put in a cross-fire on the National right, and at the same time the whole Confederate line was advanced again. The National line now slowly gave way, and at length was in full retreat; but there was no pursuit. The Confederate loss was nine hundred and forty men; the National loss was one thousand eight hundred and sixty-one.