The twin seven-shooters

The recital will start fairly on Christmas day of the year 1862, near Nashville, in the camps of the Army of the Cumberland, then commanded by General Rosecrans.

The festive holiday time had increased the usually present disease, until home-sickness was the all-pervading complaint. As the picket peered through the gloomy air under the dull, wintry sky, he saw, in his mind’s eye, the dear ones at home, gathered about the yule-log. The sentry’s thoughts were far away, as he challenged the approaching guard, that brought relief, but gave none save in name, and received the sharp replies, so different from the words of good cheer properly incident to the time. The men gathered about the camp fires during the evening hours with abortive attempts at merriment, soon to be given up, and then to talk in whispers of friends and family and home. The bugle calls, holding out the promise that balmy sleep might bring forgetfulness, were welcomed; although tattoo seemed a wail, and lights-out a sob.

The restless quiet of a great military camp comes at last. A nest of sleeping souls, it heaves with sound. The sentinels look like stalking ghosts.

After midnight the dreaming sleepers are disturbed by the clank of the sabre of the orderly, seeking the headquarters of regiments to deliver an important order. Be quick! Light the candle stuck in the bayonet shank at the head of the ground bed where lies the regimental commander.

Ah! Here is a Christmas gift with a vengeance! Read!

“You will place your command in readiness to march at daylight. Move very light—three days’ rations in haversacks and two days’ in wagons. Forty rounds of ammunition on each man, with all the reserve ammunition in wagons. Take no tents and no baggage.”

A battle order! Up and be stirring, for there is much to be done before daylight. Sleepers are aroused, their dreams of home and its festivities rudely disturbed, tents are struck and rolled, and, with the baggage and surplus stores packed into wagons to be sent within the earth-works of Nashville.

Reveille finds the Army of the Cumberland, nearly fifty thousand strong, on the march to attack the Confederates under Bragg at Murfreesborough, thirty miles away. No holiday march this, I assure you. The enemy is alert. He harasses our front with artillery, attacks our flanks with infantry and harries our rear with cavalry. The elements seem in league with him, for snow, sleet and rain make heavy roads, at which men swear and in which wagons and artillery flounder and stall.

Four days of skirmishing and hard marching, with four nights of unrest and chilly misery bring us to our objective—the enemy. He has selected his battle ground on the bank of Stone’s River, a swift stream, in places fordable.

The night of December 30th we slept, or essayed to sleep, upon our arms, without fires. Never can I forget the dispirited and woe-begone look of the men as, rising from the frozen ground, they shook themselves at daylight. The hoar-frost covered them, giving to the uniforms of blue a new color, resembling somewhat the grey of the foe. Is there fighting quality in this line of shivering men? Can the battle fire be kindled in these chilled frames? A cold breakfast from the haversacks, a tin cup of coffee to each man, a warming drill in the manual of arms and their appearance is changed for the better.

The order comes! We are to cross Stone’s River at the lower ford and lead the attack upon the enemy’s right. Rosecrans will strike with his left.

An inspection of the guns, a distribution of ammunition, filling both cartridge boxes and haversacks, some words of encouragement and cheer from the youthful commander, and we move to the river bank, to find our crossing, by wading the cold stream, unopposed by the enemy. We form in line of battle upon the other side and are about to advance to the attack, when the sound of cannon, heard but faintly from our right a short time ago, becomes louder and more loud. A terrific battle is raging there and the movement of sound means our men are being driven. We are halted. There is stir and excitement among the division staff. We are ordered to recross the river and hasten to the support of the right wing.

Bragg, actuated by the same motive as Rosecrans, conceiving the same plan, had attacked our right, but his fresh and sheltered troops struck their blow at an earlier hour. They doubled our line back upon itself. They took our straight bar of iron and bent it into a horse-shoe. Our right flank had become our rear.

Defeat seemed imminent. On our hurried way, the 19th Ohio, leading Crittenden’s Division, met horses, teams and men in confusion most confounded. Rousseau, of Kentucky, riding bare-headed, cries to me, “What troops are these?” and to my answer says, with tearful entreaty in his voice, “For God’s sake! get quickly to the cedars on our right and stop this rout.” We hasten on. Rosecrans, pale with anguish of the thought that Garesche, bosom friend and Chief of Staff, had just been killed by his side, but determined of purpose and confident in bearing, says, “Men! you can save the day. Will you do it?” “Aye! Aye! sir; if mortal men can, we will!”

We pass from the march by the flank into line under the direction of the Commanding General himself, my regiment forming the right of the front line.

The grey coats, flushed with success that is so near victory, came gaily on. We wait until they are within easy range. It is a weary waiting and hard to endure. Our men are falling rapidly under the fire of the advancing foe. My favorite mare drops dead with a ball through her gentle heart. Adjutant Brewer, always alert and devoted replaces her with his good grey. Rising from the ground, with no great bodily harm, although I had been pitched headlong, I exclaim: “But, Adjutant, my glasses are broken into many bits and I see dimly.” “Never mind; I will see for you,” he quickly responds. And so he did. Gallant fellow! Brave heart! He gave his young life to his country and his parting benediction to me afterwards, in a desperate mêlée and fearful charge.

At last the order to fire! From every musket leaps a missile of death. The Confederate line wavers! Strong young teeth tear the cartridges. We load and fire with energy. The grey line breaks! A charge is ordered by Rosecrans in person. They run! How inspiring! What exhilaration! With wild yells we rush on. We regain much of the ground lost in the early morning and hold it fast and firm.

Again the nightfall, the last of the eventful year. What horrid din, of cannon and of watchful picket’s gun, to disturb and harass the weary unharmed, who seek to sleep. How cold and miserable the wounded in blue and grey who groan and moan between the lines, where succor cannot come.

Morn at last! The new year has come. Both armies are so torn and shattered that the re-forming of lines and watchful rest is a necessity. The day passes in care for the wounded and hasty burial of the dead.

Another night, and again the morning. Who will strike the blow? Rosecrans, tenacious of purpose, returns to his original plan. Again our division fords Stone’s River in front of the enemy’s right. The shortened line of each regiment tells the story of the slaughter of the 31st. We wait patiently the order to strike.

The hours pass. Few in number, our division is a tempting bait to Bragg. General Breckenridge, with a column of many lines, advances upon us. With precision of movement they march across the open fields. The sight fascinates us! Splendid spectacle! They break the charm by opening fire and charging upon us with the shrill yell of the South. With a crash the lines meet, to mingle a moment and break apart. Our reserve becomes our front line. We fight for minutes that seem hours, with bayonet and clubbed musket, with deep cursing and loud yells, with hot rage and bold defiance, that rarest of happenings in battle comes to us—a hand to hand fight between lines of infantry upon an open field. We are overwhelmed by numbers and flanked by the greater force. Thrice has our color bearer been felled to earth, and of all the color guard not one is unhurt.

But the regimental flag does not touch the ground. Gallant Phil Reefy, Lieutenant of Company F, strong and stalwart, bears it aloft. Sullenly we retreat to the river bank, fighting as we retire. We reach the stream.

What is that deafening roar? It is as though heaven and earth had come together. Fifty-two guns, massed by Mendenhall, Chief of Artillery, commanding the position we had just left, have opened with grape and canister at short range upon the but now exultant foe. What dreadful slaughter! Masses of men fall writhing as the missiles hurtle through the air. They turn and flee, for mortal men cannot withstand such storm.

We pursue until darkness comes, capturing prisoners, guns and stores, and Reefy, proudly exultant, plants the flag of the 19th Ohio upon two cannon captured in the tempestuous pursuit.

No battle of the war shows the dash, pluck, bravery and endurance of the American soldier better than Stone’s River. The attack, so spirited and bold, upon the right wing, under McCook, in the gray dawn of that winter morning, that forced it back until the exultant enemy was not only on our flank but in our rear! The speedy taking of new positions by the troops of the left wing, under Crittenden; their gallant and successful charge in the cedars that regained much of the ground so ruinously lost!

The sturdy and immovable stand of the center, under Thomas, that resisted assaults most impetuous and broke the charging columns into disorganized fragments, as waves are broken on a rock-bound coast! The dash of the Southerners in attack, the steadiness of the Northerners in resistance, the impulsive ardor of the one, the deliberate repose of the other; both so characteristic! The bold front, the confident daring, the personal exposure, the actual leadership, and the unconquerable spirit of Rosecrans, that “plucked victory from defeat and glory from disaster!”

All this, any of this, was worth the sacrifice of life itself to see.

It stands in history as a bright page. The dreadful figures of loss tell the story of how terribly sanguinary were the engagements when Americans fought each other. Of 44,000 Federals, 12,000, and of 38,000 Confederates, 10,000 were killed and wounded—over twenty-five per cent. Recall the fact that at Waterloo, Wellington lost less than twelve, and at Marengo and Austerlitz, Napoleon lost less than fifteen per cent.

At daylight the next morning, after the battle, my line was formed. Shorn was it of half its length, for forty per cent. had fallen. Three officers were killed and three wounded. Company B, with more of its own dead to bury than there were unhurt survivors to do them honor. Ah! the familiar faces gone from us. We who were left looked upon each other with feelings unknown before. We felt a kinship stronger than brotherhood, as though we were parts of one body.

We heard read, with infinite satisfaction, of the glory of our achievements, the congratulations of the General and the thanks of President Lincoln. We shook hands with each other that we had been specially mentioned in the reports, and took satisfactory delight that the commander of the 79th Indiana had officially reported that the good behavior of his command might be attributed to the splendid conduct of the 19th Ohio, and to the effect of our example.

We were heroes all, and were proudly conscious of the fact.