Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home;
’Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark
Our coming, and look brighter when we come.
’Tis sweet to be awaken’d by the lark,
Or lull’d by falling waters; sweet the hum
Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds,
The lisp of children, and their earliest words.”
Was ever picture more divinely drawn? The last line—“the lisp of children and their earliest words”—arouses the tenderest emotions of the soul.
I stopped at the Smith cottage, a well-known landmark, just across from the Methodist Church. I gazed up at the old steeple in respectful silence, and felt glad to stand in its shadow once more. But I am now at the door of the cottage, which was closed. I step along the veranda to an open window. Unobserved, I gaze for some moments on the picture within. To me, at least, “the prettiest and loveliest boy” in all the land, engaged in childish pranks with his colored nurse. I hesitated to break the spell, for it seemed to me that happiness had reached its full fruition. Ernest was a happy little boy in a happy home, for war times, as his aunt, the late Mrs. Henry W. Sample, was devoted to him as she had been devoted to his mother. I never could repay her for all her kindness to me and mine, but I place here in print a sincere tribute to her memory as that of a noble woman, who was altogether unselfish, whose religion was a daily affair, who cultivated a charitable spirit, who reached out her hand to those in trouble, and who went to her grave with the love and respect of the people among whom she had lived seventy-two years.
On the 21st of September, 1864, Forrest’s whole command crossed the Tennessee river. The artillery, wagon train and dismounted men were taken across in boats at Colbert’s Ferry, while the whole mounted force passed the river at Ross’ Ford, a short distance below. The latter is said to have furnished one of the most picturesque scenes of the war. The river at this point is seldom fordable and always dangerous. A careful guide led the long column, marching by twos, along the winding shallows for over two miles, in order to avoid the dangerous places in the bed of the river, which at this point was scarcely a mile wide. There were no casualties, but many men lost their hats and other articles when their horses slipped on the rocks. On the morning of the 22d Florence was all agog to see Forrest and his men, and pretty well filled up with Confederate soldiers, who, like myself, were making friendly or family calls. There were many small reunions of old friends, who never met again, on this seeming holiday in war times. In the early forenoon of a perfect day, Forrest, mounted on King Philip, and riding at the head of his escort, came in from the west, turned into Court street and then into Tennessee street, running east. The streets were lined with men, women and children, whose shouts were ably supplemented by the yells of the visiting soldiers. To have stood on Mitchell’s corner that day, as I did, would mark an event in a life otherwise filled with adventures.
Conditions at Florence had changed somewhat for the worse since my last visit, nearly two years before. The country had been occupied alternately by the Federals and Confederates, and thousands of acres had gone to waste for the want of labor. There was hardly a worse overrun country in the South. Clothing and food were hard to get with any kind of money. Of course, what might be termed Confederate devices were put into practice, and very plain living was the order of the day.
Tarrying to the limit with loved ones whom I might never see again, I left Florence late at night to overtake the command the next day before it reached Athens. As I rode out towards the suburbs, the silence was so pronounced that Florence seemed to be a town of houses without inhabitants. I approached the cemetery—to me a sacred spot—where the waters of the Tennessee, bounding over the rocks of Mussel Shoals, sing an eternal requiem to our dead. The monuments stood like sentinels at the graves of many whom I had known. Out on the hillside was one erected by myself. I paused to ponder. Stillness reigned supreme, for it was midnight’s solemn hour. No voice of man nor chirp of bird was on the air. No painful loneliness disturbed my soul, for silent friends were there. She, a mother for a short month only, about whom I was thinking, having died at the age of nineteen years, escaped the sorrow, trials and experiences of a cruel war. Perhaps it were well.
General Forrest invested the Federal works at Athens, about forty miles from Florence, late in the afternoon of the 23d of September. There was no concerted attack then, but careful dispositions were made for the next morning. An assault meant a dreadful slaughter of our men, as the works were strong, and held by about fourteen hundred well-drilled negro troops, officered by white men. At 7 o’clock the fire of all the artillery was concentrated upon the fort, and the cavalry, dismounted, moved up as if for assault. Forrest ordered his artillery to cease firing, and sent a flag of truce to the Federal commander, demanding a surrender. There was a parley and a refusal. Forrest then adopted his favorite plan of magnifying his own forces and intimidating his adversary. In a personal interview outside the fort, Forrest proposed to the Federal commander that he should take a ride around the lines, and see for himself how well the Confederates were prepared for an assault. The proposition was accepted, but Forrest so manipulated his troops by dismounting and remounting and changing the position of his artillery, that the Federal commander was soon convinced that the Confederates were sufficiently strong to make a successful assault. While the terms of the surrender were being arranged, a reinforcement of white troops arrived from Decatur, and made a determined effort to cut their way through to the fort. This was met by the Seventh Tennessee and other regiments, and a bloody battle was fought before the Federals were captured. To complete the victory, the artillery was brought up to capture two blockhouses, which were held by about one hundred men. In the fight along the railroad, Lieutenant V. F. Ruffin of Company E, a promising young man and a splendid soldier, was killed. He was the only brother of two orphan sisters. Their loss was grievous. Our loss at Athens was five killed and twenty-five wounded. We captured two trains, two locomotives, a large quantity of stores, two pieces of artillery, a number of wagons and ambulances, and three hundred horses. The Federal loss in killed and wounded was considerable, including the death of the Colonel commanding the detachment from the direction of Decatur. Their loss in prisoners was about 1,900.
As Colonel White had been ordered to tear up portions of the railroad toward Decatur, I found it impracticable to join him. Falling in with Captain John Overton, of Rucker’s staff, we rode along our lines to view the situation. As Forrest was having an interview with the Federals, we concluded it would be perfectly safe for us to accept an invitation to breakfast at a nearby house. We had not more than dispatched that breakfast when firing was heard down the railroad. Overton mounted and rode rapidly to the position where part of our brigade was engaged. There he had his fine blooded mare killed under him. Thirty-two years after that he walked into the station at Tullahoma carrying what he said was a box of rattlesnakes. Oh, horrors! thought I. As he evidently did not fully recognize me, and only knew I was someone whom he had seen before, I said to him: “Captain, don’t you remember something about a good breakfast you and I had together down in Athens when we were younger men than we are now?” Brightening up, he replied: “Yes, but don’t you remember about my losing my fine mare that morning?” John Overton’s immediate or prospective wealth never puffed him up, or made any difference with him in his intercourse with all classes of men in the army. He had none of the graces of horseback riding, and moved about the camp much after the manner of some plain farmer, when looking after the crop of crabgrass or considering the advisability of planting his potatoes in the dark of the moon. He was “a chip off the old block”—his grand old father, whom we sometimes saw in camp.
Four miles north of Athens, a blockhouse, with thirty-two men was surrendered. We bivouacked for the night, thinking that we had made a fine beginning. Eleven miles from Athens, there was a strong fort, which protected what was known as Sulphur Branch trestle, a structure three hundred feet long and seventy-two feet high. In order to destroy this, it was necessary to capture the fort and two large blockhouses. On the morning of the 25th of September, the Confederate artillery was concentrated on the fort, in which were several rude cabins covered with oak boards. At the same time, Forrest ordered a heavy force to advance on foot against the position. There was severe fighting for only a little while, as our artillery quickly scattered the lighter timbers and roofs of the cabins in every direction, and killed many of the garrison. The Federals ceased firing, but did not display the white flag. Their commander had already been killed, and there seemed to be great consternation in the fort. They surrendered as soon as a demand was made on them. This surrender included the two blockhouses. I saw no more horrid spectacle during the war than the one which the interior of that fort presented. If a cyclone had struck the place, the damage could hardly have been much worse. Here, again, the spoils were great, including three hundred cavalry horses and their equipments, a large number of wagons and ambulances, two pieces of artillery, all kinds of army stores, with nearly a thousand prisoners. Forrest was compelled now to send south a second installment of prisoners and captured property under a strong guard, the first having been sent from Athens. Sulphur Branch trestle being demolished, we moved towards Pulaski. The lame and disabled horses were now replaced by captured ones, and all the dismounted men, who had been crowded to the limit to keep up on the march, were furnished with horses. Some of our men were engaged in tearing up railroad track, while others were driving the enemy back towards Pulaski. Within six miles of the town we had heavy fighting, and again within three miles. At the former place, I saw the dead body of Stratton Jones, another schoolboy of mine, and the eldest son of Judge Henry C. Jones of Florence, now, perhaps, the oldest citizen of his city, and one of less than half a dozen of the surviving members of the Confederate Congress.
At the Brown farm, still nearer to Pulaski, we captured a corral containing about 2,000 negroes, who were being supported by the Federal commissary. They were a dirty and ragged lot, who were content to grasp at the mere shadow of freedom. Forrest ordered them to remove their filthy belongings from the miserable hovels, and set about two hundred of the latter on fire. Here was the richest depot of supplies I had seen since the capture of Holly Springs by Van Dorn. A bountiful supply of sugar and coffee was distributed to the men. Our horses were put in fine condition here by many hours of rest and good feed. Our loss for the day was about 100 in killed and wounded. That of the Federals was very much greater.
The Federals, under General Rousseau, took lodgment within their works, which were very strong. Having made a spirited demonstration on the enemy’s front, Forrest, after nightfall, leaving numerous campfires burning, just as Washington did the night before the battle of Princeton, drew off and took the road to Fayetteville. Having bivouacked a few miles out, we started at daylight for a ride of forty miles, which put us several miles east of that town. The country was fearfully rough and rocky, but the men and horses held up well. Some time during the following day, September 29th, we reached the village of Mulberry. It was pleasant to see a large school in session and the boys and girls climbing upon the fence to see the soldiers. It was more like peace than war. But here was a pause, for Forrest concluded that it was impracticable to reach the Nashville & Chattanooga Railroad, because of the concentration of thousands of Federals along that line, for it was all-important to them to protect Sherman’s communication with his base of supplies. The plan now was that Buford should take 1,500 men, including Rucker’s brigade, under Kelley, and the artillery and wagons, march to Huntsville, capture the place, if possible, but, by all means, to push his trains towards some available crossing on the Tennessee river, while Forrest was to take the rest of the command, swing around by Lewisburg, strike the railroad above Columbia, do all the damage possible, and hurry on to Florence.
We kept up the march towards Huntsville till after nightfall, as it was necessary to make a bold feint, at least, against the position commanded by General Gordon Granger. I noticed Buford, who was a notaably large man, making his way that night on a very fine mule. He was one type of ye jolly Kentuckian, popular with his men, and perfectly reliable in a fight. Our fifteen hundred men were so placed about the town as to make as big a show of force as possible. Before this could be done, it was so dark that a lantern was procured from some citizen, so that the usual flag of truce and demand for surrender could be sent in. There was the expected refusal, and a consequent delay till morning. In the meantime, our trains were moving rapidly towards Florence. After daylight, the best possible demonstration without too much exposure of our men was made, and was succeeded by another demand and another refusal to surrender. As General Granger expected to be attacked by the whole of Forrest’s command, as had been intimated to him under the last flag of truce, he ordered women and children to be removed from the city, so as to avoid a bombardment by all of Forrest’s artillery. There was great commotion and distress among the non-combatants, who had no means of finding out that they were really in no danger. The Federal artillery was sending an occasional shot, perhaps for the purpose of getting the range of our lines. One of these went straight down the pike leading west, along which a few people were moving. I saw two ladies and a boy abandon their carriage and advance rapidly through the open field in which I was standing, leaving the colored driver to get out of harm’s way by rapid driving. Riding forward, I noticed that they were greatly excited and badly frightened. The party turned out to be old friends of mine, the wife of Professor Mayhew and son and Miss Sue Murphy, who became, after the war, the plaintiff in an historical lawsuit against the government for damage and loss of property at Decatur, in which she sustained her plea, I directed them how to get to the rear, and around to where their carriage had probably gone. When the command drew off and took the road to Athens, I came upon this same party, who informed me that their trunks had been ransacked and their horses taken by some of our own men. I soon found the horses, and fastened the outrage upon men whom I knew. I lost no time in reporting the matter to Colonel Kelley, who ordered the horses to be turned over to a friend of the ladies.
It was found, when we reached Athens, that the fort, which had been surrendered to us only a few days before, was held by the Federals. There was some exchange of shots, and we had one man wounded. He caught in his mouth an ounce ball which had passed through the fleshy part of his jaw. He kept it as a nice little souvenir of a painful incident. Our part of Forrest’s command reached Florence on the 3d of October, and General Buford set about the task of getting to the south side of the river. The rains had been heavy in the mountains. The river was already high for the season, and still rising. There were only three ferryboats with which to do all the work in hand. Reports came in that overwhelming numbers of the enemy were on the move to encompass the capture or defeat of Forrest, who arrived on the 5th of October. I knew that the situation would be critical, if they pressed us before we accomplished the passage of the river, but I concluded to remain in Florence till the Seventh Regiment came in, when I could join my own company. It came in on the 7th, closely followed by the enemy. The Seventh, Second and Sixteenth Regiments stoutly resisted the advance of the Federals at Martin’s factory, on Cypress creek, just west of town. This was a strong position from which to resist a front attack, but a Federal brigade, crossing three miles above, came near taking us in reverse and capturing the three regiments. Our command had an exciting experience from there to old Newport, where Forrest, in person, was trying to get as many men and horses as possible across to an island thickly set with timber and cane. From the shore to the island was fully two hundred feet. The horses were made to swim this place. In the absence of Lieutenant-Colonel Taylor, who was wounded and sick, the regiment was commanded by Captain H. C. McCutchen of Company H, who received orders from Forrest to save his men, if possible, in any practicable way. The Federals were then right on us in great numbers, and still another column was reported to be advancing east from Waterloo. We did not know but that we were practically in the clutches of the enemy. The anxiety of the men had reached a high pitch. There was a determination to ride out of the situation at almost any risk. I was glad that I knew the country well enough to guide the six companies present to safety, if immediate danger could be passed. I moved right off from the river, through woods and fields, with the command following at a lively gait. My purpose was to cross the Florence and Waterloo road before the two columns of the enemy could form a junction, in which case we should have to cut our way out or surrender. I knew that body of men would ride through or over any ordinary resistance in our front. When we crossed the Colbert’s Ferry road, I felt that one danger was passed, but not the main one. Sometimes we took advantage of country roads leading our way, but our course was north, regardless of roads. Our horses were smoking when we reached the desired highway, and we felt relieved when we saw the way clear. We halted to take a survey of the situation, and to perfect plans for getting into West Tennessee. It was decided to be best for the regiment to disperse, and the commander of each company to lead his men out of danger by whatever means he should think proper to adopt. Company D and Company E had gone into the service together, and it was natural that they should stand by each other in trouble. When these two companies got over into the hills of Wayne County, we hired a guerrilla guide, whom his followers called “Captain” Miller, to show us a place on the river where we could cross. His remuneration was a thousand dollars in Confederate money, which was likely more money of any kind than he had ever seen in one lump. The people along the route cheerfully furnished us with supplies. I remember, we went down Trace creek and across the headwaters of Buffalo, and reached the river at the mouth of Morgan’s creek, in Decatur County. Here was a booming river about a half mile wide, and no means of transportation but a large “dugout” some eighteen or twenty feet in length. We had grown about reckless enough now to try the impracticable and test the impossible. Three men with their horses and trappings were to make the first trip, two to bring back the boat, then three more men with their horses, to go with the two who had brought the boat back, and so on till all had crossed. Everybody worked. Two men took their places at the oars, while I sat in the stern, where I was to hold each horse by the bridle as he was pushed from the bank, which was four or five feet sheer down to the water. Little Black was the first to make the plunge. He made one futile effort to touch bottom, and sank up to his ears. I pulled him up by the reins, and slipped my right hand up close to the bits, so as to keep his nose above the water. He floated up on one side and became perfectly quiet. I soon had the noses of the other two close up to the boat. The men at the oars pulled for dear life against the booming tide, the swellings of which we could feel under the boat. Our object was to make an old ferry landing several hundred yards below. We had no fear for the horses now, for they were behaving admirably. Though the men at the oars exerted themselves to the limit, we missed the landing, and were carried some distance below it. When we did pull into shallow water, I turned the horses loose. My own horse was the first to mount a steep, slippery bank, where he shook himself, and, looking back, gave me a friendly nicker. The first trip was a success, and the men took on fresh courage. The work began at sunrise, and ended with darkness. It added greatly to our critical situation that the Federal gunboats were liable to pass up or down at any moment.
Forrest did not accomplish the chief object of the Middle Tennessee raid, as heretofore stated, which was the destruction of portions of the Nashville & Chattanooga Railroad, which connected Sherman’s army, at Atlanta, with its base of supplies. He said afterward that he killed and captured, upon an average, one man for every man he had in the fights. He tore up about one hundred miles of railroad, destroyed ten blockhouses, captured more supplies than his men could carry off and 800 horses, gathered up more than a thousand recruits, and marched five hundred miles in twenty-three days. He lost about three hundred men in killed and wounded.
That a little fun can be mixed up with the horrors of war was illustrated on this trip somewhere over in the hills of Wayne. James E. Wood’s little chestnut sorrel, the horse which had been tendered by his owner to Captain Tate, as related in the account of the fight at Ripley, and from which that gallant officer was shot, struck the frog of one foot against a stone and was rendered unserviceable. Austin Statler and Tom Joyner set about the task of helping their fellow-soldier to a remount. This was difficult to do in a country which had been stripped of all the good stock. The only animal available appeared to be a three-year-old, standing in an enclosure near an humble cottage. Statler, in his blandest manner, explained the situation to the mistress of the cottage, and alluded in earnest words to the fine points of the lame horse, which needed only a few days’ rest to restore him to his former condition of usefulness. No, no; the old lady couldn’t see it in the light in which it had been so earnestly presented. There were seven stout daughters standing by ready to assist their mother, who averred that the animal was “Sal’s colt,” and he couldn’t have it upon any terms whatever. Statler persisted until high words resulted, and the soldiers advanced towards “Sal’s colt.” Thoroughly aroused, and reinforced by her mother and sisters, Sal herself, a buxom lassie, now came to the rescue, cleared the fence at a bound, and sat astride of the bridleless colt. Victory now seemed to perch upon the banner of the females, but the soldiers, who had no idea of seeing their comrade hotfoot it along the roads of Wayne, moved to the assault, determined to capture the colt, but anxious to inflict no bruises upon their adversaries, who fought like wildcats. The contest was fast and furious, but in a class entirely by itself. There were blood and hair in evidence, but no mortal casualties. There were pinching and twisting, wrenching and wringing, clutching and hugging, yes, hugging, till the female side had mostly lost its wind and Sal, grasping the mane of the colt with the grip of despair, while she planted her heels in its sides, was gently lifted from her position by the gallant trio. “It was all over but the shouting.” The bit was forced and the girth was buckled. “Sal’s colt” had changed its politics and been mustered into the service of the Confederacy. The old lady intimated that “men folks” were at hand and ready to avenge all her wrongs. Statler, as a precautionary measure, rode out in the direction indicated by her and saw three armed citizens approaching. With cocked gun and ready pistol he commanded them, with assumed bravado, to lead the way to the cottage, while he assured them that he, too, had “a whole gang in reach.” Tableau vivant: An elderly man “breathing out threatening and slaughter” and declaring that he would have satisfaction before the sun went down; two lusty young men with guns and in the poise of interested spectators; six bouncing young girls well distributed in the ensemble and joining in a chorus of abuse; an elderly woman standing in the kitchen door and wiping the sweat from her neck and ears with her checked apron, beaten but not conquered; Sal perched upon the top rail of the front fence in the attitude of a show girl about to dance a hornpipe, and gazing at three vanishing cavaliers just then turning a corner and making time to overtake the command; lastly, the abandoned warhorse, which had heard the guns at Tishomingo, stripped of his trappings and “turned out to grass,” was standing meekly by and looking as if he might be thinking he had no friends at all.
CHAPTER XI.
HOOD’S EXPEDITION—THE WILSON RAID TO SELMA.
We had not more than gotten the last three men with their horses and accoutrements across the Tennessee river, as related in the preceding chapter, than two gunboats and two transports came puffing along. It was easy to conjecture what would have happened to five men and three horses, if our little craft with its burden had been met in midstream by the gunboats. And yet we had been taking the risk of being sunk or captured all that day. We rode leisurely to Bolivar and the men dispersed to their homes for a much needed rest.
Just as I was congratulating myself that I would have a few days for recuperation, several carbuncles developed on my body as a result of poor food and exposure. This affliction virtually placed me on furlough from the middle of October till the middle of January. In the meantime, Forrest’s Cavalry had assembled at Corinth and gone on an expedition to the Tennessee river, which finally culminated in the movement with Hood to Nashville. Others have written graphic accounts of how Forrest with a force of three thousand men, cavalry and artillery, boldly attacked transports and gunboats and concluded his operations in that quarter by the total destruction of an immense depot of supplies at Johnsonville. He said himself that he captured and destroyed in two or three days four gunboats, fourteen transports, twenty barges, twenty-six pieces of artillery which, with stores destroyed, amounted to a money value of over six million dollars. He captured 150 prisoners, while his own loss was two killed and nine wounded. Altogether this was one of the most remarkable campaigns of the whole war, and I have always somewhat regretted that I could not participate in its operations. As for the expedition to Nashville which followed, I have always considered myself fortunate in having missed it. The history of it is a pitiful story and well worth reading, particularly by those who did not hear it from the lips of hundreds of brave men who gave vivid accounts of personal experiences. I began to hear these pitiful accounts early in January from soldiers returning to their homes in an utter state of demoralization. I began to consider whether or not I could recover my health and join Company E ere there was a collapse of the Confederacy. However, as the men of our regiment had been permitted to go to their homes for a few days, there was time for consideration.
When I reported for duty at Verona, Miss., late in January, 1865, Colonel Richardson was in command of Rucker’s Brigade, the ranks of which were filling up surprisingly well, considering the heavy blow we had received in the disastrous repulse of our army in front of Nashville. Most of our men had spent some time at home and came in with new clothes and fresh horses. The rations were good but we had no tents. We constructed rude shelters with whatever timber was at hand, principally fence rails, and over this spread our rubber cloths. Then a good layer of corn stalks was placed for a floor and on this our army blankets. With a roaring log fire in front, we were measurably comfortable. We really had little to do for some time. It was in this camp that it got to the ears of Colonel Richardson that A. S. Coleman, our sutler, who kept a variety of articles in store, was dealing out to the boys a poor article of Confederate whisky. Richardson determined to confiscate the sutler’s whole stock of goods, and sent an officer to seize them. The members of Company E went to the rescue and, it being dark, succeeded, while Coleman was parleying with the officer, in “purloining” all the goods on hand, which they carried out through the back of the tent and kept concealed till the trouble blew over. Coleman was soon doing business at the old stand.
In February, 1865, Forrest was raised to the rank of Lieutenant-General and given the command of about ten thousand cavalry widely dispersed in Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana. Joe Johnston had superseded Hood and had transferred the remnant of our army further east to place it in the path of Sherman who was marching north from Savannah through South Carolina. So far as our part of the country was concerned, it seemed to me then that the Federals would have had little trouble in sending in a large force and taking possession. With Forrest it was a case of gathering up the fragments, but man never went about anything more earnestly. His work had a telling effect. By a complete reorganization of the cavalry, the troops from each State were thrown into brigades and divisions of their own. This may have added somewhat to the morale of the command, but I do not know that it improved the fighting qualities of the men to any great extent. Certainly there was no better fighting body of men than Rucker’s Old Brigade, composed of Tennesseeans and Mississippians. By the new arrangement, the Tennessee Division was commanded by W. H. Jackson. His two brigade commanders were A. W. Campbell and T. H. Bell. This division now had fat horses, good clothes and good rations. But every man there knew that our quasi holiday would be of short duration. Though the Confederacy seemed tottering to its fall, Jackson’s Division was ready for a campaign. It did not have long to wait. Twelve thousand cavalry were assembled in North Alabama under General James H. Wilson, one of the most capable and enterprising commanders in the Federal army. Accompanied by an immense supply train and a commensurate amount of artillery, this best equipped of all Federal commands set out about the 22nd of March for Selma, Ala., which was a depot for Confederate stores and the location of large factories of arms and ammunition. Being provided with a pontoon train it had little trouble in crossing the swollen streams. It moved rapidly in a southeasterly direction. It was the task of Forrest to move east from Columbus, Miss., fall upon Wilson’s right flank, defeat such detachments as he could cope with, destroy his trains, if possible, and finally beat him to Selma. Forrest’s plans involved the possibility of throwing his whole force against that of Wilson in some favorable position east of Tuskaloosa and to risk the consequences of the greatest cavalry battle ever fought on the continent. How near we subordinates were to witnessing a great event impending and yet how ignorant we were of it! Unforeseen difficulties lay in Forrest’s path while he was apparently making super-human efforts to concentrate his forces for a great battle in which his enemy would number fully two to one. It is painful even to conjecture what the consequences of such a battle might have been. But I anticipate. Prior to the movement towards Selma I had been detailed for duty with the provost guard of Campbell’s Brigade, which was agreeable to me because of the fact that I had not entirely recovered my health, and would have more privileges on the road, though no less responsible service. Our chief duty was to move in the rear and to prevent straggling. It turned out on this expedition to be a position of great danger.
We passed through Columbus, Miss., and took the road to Tuskaloosa. We moved all day and much of the night over muddy roads, miry swamps and rugged hills. Our great commander had the details all in his mind, but we had only a vague idea that we would have to fight at almost any turn in the road. This was an army of veterans, who had been tried in the fire. Jackson’s Division was a long way from home, but was ready for a last desperate struggle in a strange land. It looked like a forlorn hope, for Lee was falling back upon Appomattox and Johnston was in a death struggle with Sherman. But the defeat of Wilson’s cavalry would mean its destruction and the capture of his trains. Such a victory here might change the face of things within a few hours, as we had no idea that any one of our armies would so soon surrender. Anyhow, the men were there to obey orders and to do their whole duty. We were at Sipsey river and the column was moving slowly through its slashy bottom. A weird looking place where the foliage of the heavy timber largely shut out the light of day. A rumor came down the line that two soldiers, at the instance of a drum-head court-martial, had been shot to death for desertion. As the provost guard closed up the column it passed the dead men lying one on each side of the road with their heads against trees. Their hats had been placed over their faces, but labels written in large letters told the story: Shot for Desertion. It was said at the time that this was intended as a deterrent to desertion. It may have had the effect intended. It would be passing over it most kindly to state that the affair caused a profound sensation. It would be nearer the truth to say that, with the rank and file, it met with pronounced condemnation. Only one other writer has touched upon this incident, and he was not on the ground as I was. Therefore, he could not speak personally concerning what might be called the popular verdict of the soldiers. He does say, in substance, that the execution was extremely unfortunate, though coming within the province of military law, in that the declaration of the victims that the older was above the military age and the younger was under it turned out to be true in every particular. It was a matter of common talk that the men were Kentuckians, who had nothing on their persons by which they could be identified, and that there was no proof adduced to show that they belonged to our cavalry. They were possibly deserters from some arm of the Confederate service, but the prevailing sentiment, which is a force to be reckoned with in a volunteer army, was that a drum-head court-martial, instituted on the march and when the command was practically in the presence of the enemy, could not exercise that calm consideration and quiet deliberation required in a case where human life was involved. While, as a general proposition, it were well not to tear open old wounds, yet it were also well to state exact facts in history, in order that the mistakes of the past may enable those who come after us to avoid errors in the future. The power of all Confederate courts-martial was flitting fast, and the bloody hand, under all the circumstances in this case, might well have been stayed. Everybody was glad to change the scene and the subject of thought, for death has no attractive form. Tuskaloosa was a fine old Southern town, with palatial homes, wide streets, shaded by three rows of water oaks, well kept yards, extensive flower gardens, and a large complement of pretty women. The gates were open and the city was ours for the asking. They had never seen a Southern army, and more than that, they had never imagined the like of Forrest’s cavalry as, brimful of fight, it moved along their lovely streets. Alas! all this, within three days, was to be in the grasp of men who did not hesitate to apply the torch even to the State University.
As we entered the extensive piney woods section east of Tuskaloosa, we were critically near the right flank of the enemy, pushing on towards Selma. Croxton’s Federal Brigade had been detached to destroy the Confederate supplies at Tuskaloosa and burn the university. It so happened that this brigade dropped into the road between the rear of Jackson’s Cavalry and the front of his artillery and wagon train. If the Federals had continued to move west, they inevitably would have captured the trains. They turned east to follow the cavalry, and Jackson being apprised of this made the proper disposition to fall upon them in camp in the early morning. In the meantime, Croxton had changed his mind and had turned again to march, as luck would have it, by another road to Tuskaloosa, without knowing that he had our trains so nearly within his grasp. As it was, Jackson ran on his rear company in camp and captured men, horses, and ambulances. Croxton fled north with his command, crossed the Warrior forty miles above, turned south and reached Tuskaloosa, where he carried out his orders. This was the 3rd day of April, and he was now so far separated from his chief that he did not join him at Macon, Ga., till the 20th of May. When Jackson turned to pursue Croxton, unfortunately another detachment under one of the Fighting McCooks, took possession of the bridge over the Cahawba, where Forrest, with his escort, had already crossed, and where we were expected to cross. They boldly came to the west side and put themselves across our path at the village of Scottsville. That night the woods seemed to be full of them. Some of our men, getting out to do the usual little “buttermilk foraging” met some Yanks at a farm house where Johnny Reb thought he had the exclusive privilege. There was a tacit consent to a truce while they shared such good things as the farmer had to contribute. The next morning, April 2nd, Bell’s Brigade of Jackson’s Division collided with a part of McCook’s men and rapidly pushed them back to Centerville. They completely blocked our way by burning the bridge over the Cahawba. It was now impossible for Jackson to join Forrest on the road from Montevallo to Selma, where with Roddy’s Cavalry and Crossland’s small brigade of Kentuckians, he and escort were fighting to the death to hold Wilson in check till the Confederate divisions could be concentrated and hurled against those of the Federals in one grand conflict. The Federals, having intercepted certain dispatches of Forrest and Jackson, knew just how to subvert their plans. Wilson, seeing that there was now no chance for Jackson to fall upon his rear, according to the original plan of Forrest, pushed his forces with all his energy in the direction of Selma. Forrest, being reinforced by some militia and two hundred picked men of Armstrong’s Brigade of Chalmers’ Division, on the first day of April, did some of the fiercest fighting of the war, much of it hand to hand. At Bogler’s creek near Plantersville, it was at close quarters with two thousand against nine thousand, but the Confederates had the advantage of position. The Federal advance was a regiment of veteran cavalry who charged with drawn sabers. The Confederates received them at first with rifles and closed in with six-shooters, most of the men having two each. The Confederates being forced back by a flank movement, there was a bloody running fight for several miles. From the desperate character of the fighting here, it might be inferred that the great contest, planned to take place along these lines, would have been terrific, if Forrest, Jackson, Chalmers and Roddy could have joined their forces.
If all the forces named had been concentrated, as Forrest had intended, somewhere between Montevallo and Selma, Ala., would have been fought the cavalry battle of the ages. Who is not glad the whole plan miscarried?
When the Confederates were crowded into Selma the next day, their lines were so attenuated that the Federals, with overwhelming numbers, assailed the works and carried them, though with very heavy loss. Night was coming on as the contest ended and the streets were filled with Federals and Confederates in the greatest possible confusion. This enabled Forrest and Armstrong, with hundreds of their men, to find an opening through which they rode out and escaped in the darkness. In doing this, Forrest cut down his thirtieth man in the war, which closed his fighting career.
I had more than ordinary anxiety in regard to the fighting in front of Selma, as I had a brother with Armstrong and a brother-in-law with Roddy. The former escaped with Armstrong, but the latter, Wiley Hawkins of Florence, a mere youth, the last of four brothers to die during the war, was killed at Bogler’s creek.
With Forrest’s Cavalry the war was over. His command had fired its last gun at Selma. At Marion, Greensboro, Eutaw, and finally at Sumterville, where Jackson’s Division had its last camp, we found the very best type of Southern people. They had really seen very little of the war, though sorrow had been brought to many a home by the casualties of battle. Here was a lovely country in which a war-worn soldier could sit down to commune with nature, where she was never more beautifully and bountifully manifested in birds, flowers and fertile fields. It was so restful to the soul to know that we were done with guns and bloody work. The present was the present, the future was the future. We were taking care of the present. We would take care of the future when we got to it. Whipped or not, we had loved ones at home and were going to them; whipped or not, we felt assured that we had done our duty to our prostrate country, which never had more than the shadow of a chance for the success of a separate existence; whipped or not, we could face those who had urged us to go to the war, and say that we had fought it to a finish. It perhaps seems strange to many that there was no weeping or wailing, at least about where I was, because of the defeat of Southern hopes. I account for this upon the hypothesis that both officers and privates had been, for nearly two years, contemplating not only the possibility but the probability of defeat, and were therefore mentally prepared for almost anything which fate should decree. Certainly, the consensus of opinion was, that many mistakes had been made by the civil and military authorities during the four years of war, but there was no intense spirit of criticism. Whether a Confederate soldier thought that everything possible had been done, with the limited resources at hand, or not, he was very apt to be of the opinion that some means should have been brought into play to stop the war long before it was. I am of the opinion that the diligent student of history has come to the same conclusion. Why so many held on so tenaciously to a cause that had grown so desperate, I have tried to show on other pages. Duty and honor are the chief elements in a long story, though this statement of the case can hardly be so well appreciated by the present generation as by the active participants in the war.
The following excerpt is taken from Destruction and Reconstruction, by Lieutenant-General Dick Taylor, the only son of the last Whig president, and a man whose mental acumen was of the sharper kind, and whose varied learning would have graced any court: “Upon what foundations the civil authorities of the Confederacy rested their hopes of success, after the campaign of 1864 fully opened, I am unable to say; but their commanders in the field, whose rank and position enabled them to estimate the situation, fought simply to afford statesmanship an opportunity to mitigate the sorrows of inevitable defeat.”
This comports well with what I heard Confederate States Senator James Phelan of Mississippi, say, more than forty years ago, to the effect that the politicians at Richmond consumed most of their time in discussing abstruse questions of constitutional law and other subjects that might well have been deferred till the armies in the field could settle the question of independence. I took it that he thought there was little use for a constitution in a time of revolution or rebellion, but the chief concern should have been the perfecting of such measures as would strengthen our armies and achieve victories. It was well known that there were jealousies and dissensions among the officers of our armies from the beginning to the close of the war. What was at first war gossip became of record as soon after the surrender as some of these were able to contribute to our current literature. Posterity will be asking why some of the serious accusations made were not, at the proper time, brought to the notice of a court-martial.
When the future historian comes to make up the sum total of the causes which led to the downfall of the Confederacy, he will have only a written record to draw from, and will possibly be perplexed in his endeavor to pronounce an honest judgment in regard to men who, though differing so widely in opinion, were believed to be brave and patriotic.
CHAPTER XII.
CONCLUSION.
When I was a boy in Anson County, North Carolina, where I was born “with a full suit of hair” about the time “the stars fell,” I had two brothers living in Sumter County, Alabama, which was said to be six hundred miles away. That seemed to me then to be about as much as six thousand miles seem now. It was an inscrutable order of Providence that, after having lived in four other States, attended two colleges, become the father of a family, and served four years in a great civil war, I should lay down my arms in that same Sumter County.
The details of surrender were all arranged without the appearance of a Federal officer in our camp, the same being conducted in the most punctilious manner and without any effort to humiliate. We were pleased to learn that the same terms upon which Lee and Johnston had surrendered would be accorded to us. The officers retained their arms and horses and the men their horses. Blank paroles were furnished by the Federals. Those of Company E were filled out in my handwriting.
The noble address of General Forrest, urging his men to become as good citizens in peace as they had been soldiers in war, was pronounced entirely appropriate and a model in sentiment and expression.
The ceremony of tearing up the flag, fashioned from the bridal dress of an Aberdeen lady, was gone through with and small bits of it distributed among the soldiers and officers of the Seventh Tennessee Regiment. I did not think then that this was exactly the thing to do and have regretted the proceeding since, particularly because of the liberality of the Federal government in restoring the captured flags of the Southern States. Ours was a regular confederate flag and made of such material that it could have been preserved indefinitely.
In our camp it was “pretty well, I thank you; how do you do yourself?” Billy Yank, Johnny Reb, or anybody else—a pleasant abandon in regard to environments and no thought of prolonging the war beyond the Mississippi or helping Maximilian to a throne in Mexico. We were going home. The direct road to Bolivar, Tenn., over two hundred miles in length, was uppermost in our minds. At Macon, Miss., we drew our last rations, which were bountiful, as there was now no need of economy, and we had a long road before us. The men were entirely without official restraint, but those of Company E preserved their organization till we reached Saulsbury, Tenn., where we gave the first friendly salute to Federal soldiers, and the men went their several ways. I was riding the last few miles with three of my former pupils. That dear good fellow and gallant little soldier, James E. Wood, the man who rode “Sal’s Colt,” but has been more recently a well known editor and a distinguished member of the Arkansas senate, turned off at Middleburg and left George Bright, now of Danville, Ky., and Billy Myrick, long since dead, with me to face the folks at home.
The transition from soldier to citizen was easy. By a dive into my ancient wardrobe, I secured several articles of wearing apparel, among them a Prince Albert coat. I was not exactly a la mode, or whatever the French say, but with a new blockade hat I felt “mighty fine,” and doubtless looked as innocent of war as the Goddess of Peace. “Whatsoever cometh to your hands to do, do it with all your might.” I acted upon that. I opened a summer session of the Bolivar Male Academy in the railway station on the 31st of May, 1865. The Academy building had been defaced by the Federal army to such an extent that it was untenable, and we had no cars running for more than three months. So much changed had conditions become that of the sixty-six pupils in school in May, 1861, only four, James J. Neely, Jr., George B. Peters, Jr., James Fentress, Jr., and Charles A. Miller, returned to greet me. Seventeen of the sixty-six entered the army, fourteen as members of Company E and three as members of other commands. Four of the fourteen were killed on the field and all of the others served till the close of the war. Eleven of the seventeen are dead and six are living.
The station was a pleasant place for a summer session and boys were so anxious for instruction that I was soon teaching seven hours a day. They wanted Latin and Greek and mathematics, and we went at them with a will. The roots of the verbs and the rules of syntax had only lain dormant in my own mind during the four years and were easily recalled. The work became so much a part of my life, and the homelike feeling of the schoolroom returned so readily, that an assurance of my forty-odd years of like employment would have come as a pleasing announcement. But so it is, the forty years and more have come and gone, and I am still walking among my fellows, hardly knowing how to put on the ways of an old man, but in good humor with all the world. I have concluded to conclude this book with the following conclusions:
1. That it is an everlasting pity the war was not averted because of the great mortality of good citizens on both sides, the backset given to the morals of the whole country, the sectional feeling engendered and likely to endure for a season, and the loss of wealth and prestige by the Southern people.
2. That the victors in a civil war pay dearly for their success in the demoralization of the people at large by having so numerous an element supported by the government; in the rascally transactions connected with army contracts; and in the enlargement of that class of pestiferous statesmen (?) who have been aptly described as being “invisible in war and invincible in peace.”
3. That the most peaceful of Southern men can be readily converted into the most warlike soldiers when convinced that they have a proper grievance; can march further on starvation rations and in all kinds of weather, and will take less note of disparity of numbers in battle than will any other soldiers on earth.
4. That the South, in the war period, was essentially a country of horseback riders, and her young men furnished the material out of which was formed, when properly handled, regiments of cavalry that were practically invincible, even when confronting an adversary of twice or thrice their own strength.
5. That Forrest’s men demonstrated the fact that Southern cavalrymen, fighting on foot, can meet, with good chances of victory, a superior number of veteran infantry in the open field.
6. That in cavalry operations, the most essential thing is a bold and clashing leader, who will strike furiously before the enemy has time to consider what is coming, and with every available man in action.
7. That Nathan Bedford Forrest, by his deeds in war, became an exemplar of horseback fighting, whose shining qualities might well become the measure of other deeds on other fields when war is flagrant.
8. That there is not an instance recorded where so large a body of defeated soldiers returned so contentedly to their former pursuits, “beating their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks;” yes, thousands of them going into the fields to plough and plant with the same horses they rode in battle.
9. That the unpreparedness of both sides at the beginning of the war emphasizes the necessity for a thorough preparedness of our united country for any emergency, that is to say, that while Uncle Sam needs not to be strutting around “with a chip on his shoulder,” and his hat cocked up on the side of his head, he should be able to say to “the other fellow” that he is rich in men and munitions, and, moreover, has the finest navy that floats.
10. That having taken an humble part in a great war in which I ofttimes looked upon the pale faces of the dead and heard the groans of the wounded, having now had fifty years, from its beginning, to reflect upon its calamities, I am firmly of the opinion that all enlightened nations will finally come to arbitration in the settlement of international questions.
11. That no true picture of war can be drawn, either in words or on canvas, because of the elements so numerous and so complex to be considered. And even if this were possible, it would be a representation of a horrifying spectacle.
12. That the victorious shouts of men in battle bring small remuneration and poor consolation to the bereaved widows and orphans of their dead comrades at home.
13. That Gen. Grant, after a wonderful experience in the bloody work of war, knew himself thoroughly well when he uttered the memorable words:
“LET US HAVE PEACE.”