upon the enemy a loss almost equal to our strength when we began the
campaign. Our loss had been about nine thousand, which had been filled
by the return of the wounded and furloughed men, so that General Hood
received an army fully as strong as it was at Dalton. We were as
ready to fight as ever although certainly disappointed at the loss of
Johnston. We felt that no other general could do what he had done.
Soon after the war ended Johnston was going from Memphis to St. Louis.
General Sherman and his staff were on their way to New Orleans. When
Sherman learned that his former adversary was on board a certain boat
he took passage for St. Louis on the same vessel. After supper he asked
Johnston if he had any objection to going over with him the retreat
from Dalton. Johnston said he had not. So Sherman spread his maps on
the cabin table and, surrounded by a throng of listeners, they began.
Sherman would ask about his line at a certain place, and Johnston
would explain how his move was made. Sherman would point to his map
and say: “How in the world did you get away from me here?” They talked
all night. Johnston needed no map. He had been in the very thick of
battle for seventy-four days; the map of campaign was burned into
his brain, and he knew every foot of the ground. His retreat was a
wonder to Sherman and to the world. Yet this great military genius was
thrown out on the eve of his final and greatest assault upon Sherman.
An assault which would have saved Atlanta to the Confederacy. Hood and
Davis tactics prevailed after that and the splendid, unconquered army
was swept off the earth into the grave.
Hood questioned the morale of his army, but as for that, our poor
little Company G went into line under Hood as true as it ever had under
Johnston. We fought for the cause, not the general. Jim Hensley, a boy
who had been wounded severely, returned to the company. His physician
had not reported him for duty, but had given him merely a pass to his
command. I was in the field hospital when the order to forward was
given. Hensley came to me saying: “Here, my dear old friend, is a
little silver watch I wish to give you, for I shall be killed today.”
I told him he had not been reported for duty; that he was still far
from well, and begged him not to go into battle, especially as he
had a presentiment that he should be killed. He turned his soulful
eyes upon me. “Will, do you think I am afraid because I know I am
going to be killed?” Putting his hand on his breast he continued, “I
have no fear of death. I am a Christian, and I know I shall be safe
in heaven.” With tears we parted. He joined his brave comrades, Jim
Murphy, John Baird and George Thomas on the left of Company G, after
the line was in motion. They were moving against strong entrenchments
heavily defended by abatis. These four boys saw they could crawl under
the abatis without being seen and get close to the breastworks. After
they started, the command was given to oblique to the left, but in the
roar of the musketry the boys failed to hear it and went on alone.
There were about a hundred Yankees on the breastworks watching our line
which was advancing upon their rear. The four boys crawled close in,
prepared, and opened up. At the first fire down came four Yankees. They
were taken by surprise, not knowing there were any men at their front.
The boys kept at their game until the Yankees ran. Then went forward
to take possession of the works. Then they found themselves alone
and two hundred of the enemy entrenched behind a second line! It was
death anyway, so they ran forward firing on the troops with terrible
accuracy. One man had a bead on Thomas when Murphy shot the fellow. One
hinged for Murphy when Thomas bayoneted him. So they had it—hand to
hand. Poor Hensley was killed, Murphy terribly wounded, Baird wounded,
but Thomas would not surrender. He bayoneted them until they took his
gun, then he kicked and bit until they finally killed him there. Four
men had killed twenty-five Yankees, but only one of the four lived to
tell the tale. To question the morale of such men is farcical. The
battle on our left raged all day, and we were defeated. Our colonel
lost his foot. One third of our regiment was gone. Great numbers were
killed and wounded but the troops were as loyal and fought as bravely
as any army on earth. This was Hood’s second defeat. In two battles, he
had lost ten thousand men—more than we had lost in the whole campaign,
in seventy-four days’ battles and skirmishes. It would not take long
with such tactics to wipe out the rebel army.
July 29th we marched back to Atlanta. August 31st we marched to
Jonesboro and on September 1st we moved to the right, threw up
temporary works and Hardee’s corps fought the Battle of Jonesboro.
Hood’s and Stewart’s corps were at Atlanta, twenty miles away, and we
were entirely unsupported. We fought all day against seven corps of
Yankees. We were surrounded and fought in front and in the rear. Fought
as General Cleburne always fought. The Yankees charged our company
seven lines deep, but our thin line held firm until some of the boys
happened to discover a line of Infantry charging in the rear. Then they
began to waver. Our Lieutenant Commander Clay jumped on top of the
breastworks, waved his gun, (the sixteen-shooter which the officers of
our company carried instead of sabres,) and called to his men to stand
their ground. He was on the breastworks but a few minutes when he fell,
pierced through by one of the thousand bullets fired at him. As he fell
he saw for the first time why his men wavered. He ordered a hasty
retreat to the right, and although dreadfully wounded successfully
threw the line of battle to the rear. He fell in my arms and I got him
to an ambulance and sent him to a hospital. In Macon we had only one
commissioned officer left, John R. Loftin.
We would have been eaten up entirely, but for the coming of
night, which gave Hardee a chance to unite his corps and throw
up intrenchments. He displayed fine generalship throughout this
engagement. Hardee had been offered the command of the army in
Tennessee before Hood took it but had replied: “General Johnston is
the only man able to command this army, and I will not have it.” Here
was another terrible defeat for the new leader. Our loss at Jonesboro
was about 2,500 men. The Yanks put our captured men on the train and
sent them back over the old route. The fort at Dalton was garrisoned by
negro troops. A great number of these negroes were at the station when
the prisoners arrived. They insulted our men, and tried to take them
from the train, yelling, “No quarter, if we get you on the field.” If
white troops had not come to protect them there would have been serious
trouble.
Our corps camped on the Macon road. It was a dark night and was
raining heavily. By the flashes of lightning we saw the train of army
ambulances coming out of Atlanta, and we heard female voices singing
Dixie and other Southern songs. These were brave women, non-combatants,
driven from their homes by the infamous order of Sherman. They had no
shelter, no provision and only the clothes they wore. Some bore nursing
babes and one woman gave birth to a Dixie boy in the wagon train. Yet
these glorious women would not show anguish or cry out to please the
demon general. They shouted for Dixie and sang on their dreary ride.
They went further South out of range of the beast of a general. He
burned Atlanta and made war on women and children for the rest of the
way on his infamous “march to the sea.” As long as he had Johnston to
fight he had no time for his diabolical deeds.
September 12th we marched to Palmetto and camped there, and President
Davis came to review his thrice defeated army. Beforehand a general
order was read, that no cheers should be given on this review.
Never-the-less, when Davis reached the center of the troops every man
on the field joined in one mighty volume of sound, “Hurrah for General
Johnston.” They knew it would be impossible to court martial the entire
army.
October 1st we crossed the Chattahoochee river at Moore Bridge. October
9th we crossed the Talacatacline river and went up the railroad as far
as Dalton held by the negroes who had promised “no quarter” to our
boys. General Cheatham detailed our brigade to guard the wagon train
through a different route about four miles from Dalton, while he took
Granberry’s Brigade and our Texas troops to attack the fort. As we
fought side by side in so many hard battles the Texas men asked that
the Arkansas regiment (not on the ground) should have the honor of
charging the fort, and this General Cheatham promised. He surrounded
the fort and demanded its surrender. This was refused. While the
artillery made ready the Texans passed the word down the line as though
it came from General Cheatham, “Kill every damn one of them,” which
would have been carrying out their own threat of “no quarter.” However,
they saved their necks by five minutes, for when the white officers
saw they were overwhelmingly surrounded they gave up. The prisoners
were put to work at tearing up the railroad track. One of the negroes
protested against the work as he was a sergeant. When he had paid the
penalty for disobeying orders the rest tore up the road readily and
rapidly. That evening the Texas command moved over to us. We heard
them yelling and singing but we did not know what had happened. They
were guarding the negro prisoners, and were calling to us, “Here are
your ‘no quarter’ negroes, come and kill them!” The poor negroes,
with eyes popped out nearly two inches, begged, prayed, and made all
sorts of promises for the future. They soon moved on out of sight and
the general turned them over to the engineering corps, where they did
splendid service. This was better than killing them.
That day as the wagons were in skirmish line ready for attack we heard
firing in front of our advance column. Everything stopped and we made
ready for action. Advancing, we discovered the cause of the tumult. A
squad of scouts, whose captain was a man with long red hair, had given
a great deal of trouble to the Yankees in that vicinity. Because he
was an Independent Scout he had been outlawed and a price was placed
upon his head. He and his outlaws were desperate fellows and accepted
“no quarter” clause. This squad was on our road and as it happened,
met a squad of twenty-two Yankee scouts coming down the same road. The
red-headed captain and his five men charged the superior squad, wounded
six and killed four. The rest of the Yankees fled in haste. We were
close upon them, so Red Head could not kill the wounded. He and his men
took to the mountains and we never saw them again.
We passed through Cedar Town and Cave Spring, and camped on Coosa
river. We passed through Center and camped on Terrapin Creek. We
crossed Chuckluck mountains and camped at Jacksonville. We crossed
Coosa at Gordon and camped on Sand mountain. We camped on Black Morgan
river.
On October 27th we marched seven miles and camped in line around
Decatur. It was a rainy night, so dark we could not see our file
leader. If there were any roads we could not see them. It was
impossible to finish the line of battle. The army had lost its way. I
was standing beside the other boys holding to a small sapling when a
new line came up, moving as best they could in a hog path, each man
guessing at the way and calling to the man in front. A log about knee
high lay across the path and I saw three different soldiers strike that
log and fall over it into the muddy slash. Each time the man’s gun went
splashing ahead striking the fellow in front. There was cussin’ all
along the line. Finally we ran out on the log and warned others who
came along, turning them safely around that point. On October 28th we
went further in, completed the line and fought the Battle of Decatur.
The night after the battle it turned so cold we nearly froze to death,
but we did not mind marching over frozen ground.
October 30th we marched thirty miles and passed Courtland, Alabama.
On the 31st we marched twelve miles and camped at Tuscumbia. November
13th we crossed the Tennessee on a pontoon bridge at Florence. November
14th we built breastworks. On the 22nd we marched thirty-two miles and
crossed the state line into Tennessee. On the 23rd we passed Warrenton,
the 25th through Henryville, and the 26th through Mount Pleasant. We
camped on General Pillow’s place. He had a grand old Southern home.
A fine brick mansion, surrounded by beautiful groves with splendid
driveways. He had his own church, a comfortable and pretty brick
building. These cultured people of the best blood of the South lived in
this ideal spot and educated their children by teachers who lived in
the home. Two members of this family, Ed Pillow and J. D. Pillow, live
in Helena, where they still keep up the family customs and traditions.
November 27th we marched nineteen miles and camped near Columbia. The
enemy under Schofield had retreated from Mount Pleasant to Columbia
and had entrenched in a formidable position. We went around them and
crossing the Duck river on pontoon and rail bridges, we double-quicked
to Spring Hill and engaged the enemy with Cleburne’s Division. Our
regiment was one of the first in action, after the cavalry had
skirmished with them. Night overtook us and we could not see to
fight. Forrest wished to attack them, even in the night, but was not
permitted. As their force was much superior to ours, it would have been
useless. Hood did not think they would retreat, but at daylight, when
he began to complete his line, surrounding them, he discovered that
they had flown to Franklin! With muffled cannon, silently and swiftly,
Schofield had fled through the night.
Company G lost some good men at Spring Hill. We established a hospital
there, with Dr. Brickie and Dr. Gray in charge to care for the wounded.
We brought the ordnance from Columbia and followed the enemy.
The Yankees had been reinforced and had entrenched at Franklin, behind
the works they had built some months before. In front of their works
was an open field with not a tree or ravine for a mile and a half. Just
before the breastworks was an open ditch six feet wide and three feet
deep. At the end of the ditch next to the breastworks, were placed
poles sharpened spear-shape. Their main works were six feet at the
base. The cannon-breast portion was cut down so that the guns, resting
on oak logs, were on a level with our bodies. Behind the whole was a
thicket of locust trees, as close together as they could possibly grow.
After the battle these trees were found to have been cut off level with
the breastworks by Confederate balls.
[Illustration: BEN ADLER.]
As a description of this battle of Franklin, November 30, 1864, I
insert an extract from the Park Marshall address delivered forty-eight
years afterward:
“I was born at Franklin, and as a small boy I visited this battle field
when the smoke had scarcely disappeared, and the impression of that
morning is still in my memory. Without exaggeration I may say that the
severest battle of modern history was fought on these plains. In the
forefront of that battle there were not over 20,000 Union troops, not
over 15,000 Confederates, yet the killed on one side was greater in two
or three hours than occurred on any one day on one side in any other
battle of the Civil War, except Antietam.
“All the generals objected to the charge. Forrest, the best cavalry
leader in the South, begged Hood to change his murderous plan,
saying, ‘I know every hog-path in this county, and I can show you a
route which will give us a chance.’
“The lesser generals entered their protest along with the great
generals. Men of world-wide fame, and privates too, had their opinion,
but not the right to speak.
“To send soldiers against such a position was suicidal. Every man in
the South available for service was in the field. When these men were
killed the Confederacy was destroyed. Oh, for a Johnston before the
fatal word was given! Against every protest Hood ordered the advance.
What were Cleburne’s last words to his noble warrior boys?
“Boys, we are ordered to charge the works. I don’t think we can take
them, but we can try. Forward!”
“In thirty minutes this glorious patriot’s blood was flowing upon
the ground. The advance was made without a halt, but men were mowed
down as wheat before the reaper. They marched to the breastworks and
scaled the walls, but they were bayoneted on top of the works and fell
over on the enemy. Seven dead generals were brought and laid on this
porch—Cleburne, Granberry, Strahl, Gist, Carter and Adams. Adams fell,
leaving his dead horse on the very crest of the breastworks. Cleburne’s
horse fell also crossing the works. This is one of the most heroic
pictures of the war.”
Sixty per cent of our army was killed and wounded. The enemy retreated
to Nashville after the best day’s work (for them) they had ever done.
Our company had but one officer left. We were consolidated with Company
B and the two together scarcely made a full company. The whole regiment
was consolidated into six companies, instead of ten.
The enemy’s loss was slight compared with ours. The bravest of the
blood of the South was poured out for nothing. Who was right, Johnston
or Hood?
We followed Schofield to Nashville and invested that post, but we were
outnumbered, as he had been re-inforced from every quarter. He broke
our line and captured about half of our regiment. My friend, Bob Bond
was captured; Logan too, and many others.
We retreated in quick time. Near Spring Hill a squad of about fifty
cavalrymen made a dash through our line, as we had stacked arms and
were preparing to camp for the night, and went far to the rear. Coming
along the pike, never dreaming of danger, were four soldiers, bearing
a wounded man on a litter. The Yankee squad shot the doctor’s horse,
wounding the doctor and killed one of the four soldiers. As the poor
fellow fell, the wounded man rolled out on the pike. The front line,
recovered from its surprise, grabbed the guns, surrounded the Yankees,
captured them and made things lively for them for awhile.
We crossed the river at Columbia on two pontoon bridges, one for
Forrest’s cavalry, being about two hundred yards below us, down the
river. It was almost dark, but skirmishing was still going on, when
Forrest’s pontoon broke loose, leaving him, his staff and about two
hundred of his cavalry.
Our ordnance was crossing on our bridge, and all was over except two
wagons. Our regiment was waiting on the bank. General Cheatham and
his staff were at the top of the bank. General Forrest rode up to our
bridge and was about to cut off the three wagons of ordnance when the
driver whipped up his horses to join the other wagons. Forrest took
his pistol and threatened to kill him if he attempted to go on the
bridge ahead of the cavalry. The driver was quite plucky. He said his
orders were to follow the ordnance train; if General Forrest did not
like it he must go to higher officers. Forrest was furious. He spurred
his horse and went to General Cheatham, swearing he would cross that
bridge ahead of the ordnance. General Cheatham was perfectly calm,
and explained that he wished to get the wagons over before night, and
into camp, so he could lay his hands on his ordnance. Forrest was not
pacified. He drew his pistol and threatened to shoot Cheatham, who rode
to him at once, saying, “Shoot; I am not afraid of any man in the
Confederacy.”
[Illustration: W. T. BARNES.
Now living at Marianna, Arkansas.]
The infantry with loaded guns, closed in around them, prepared to
defend Cheatham. The cavalrymen, who had not heard what was said,
came up the hill to see what was going on. Forrest’s adjutant plunged
between the two generals and pulled Forrest down toward the bridge.
By that time the wagons were over. So General Forrest and his troops
crossed the bridge without further parley. It might have been a
terrible tragedy. If either general had been killed, we would have had
war right there.
Next day Forrest sent an apology to Cheatham, at least so it was
reported. The affair was witnessed by our company, but it was kept
quiet as we had troubles enough without fighting each other. Forrest
was a great officer and a fine cavalry leader, but he was tyrannical
and hot-headed.
December 20th we marched all day on the pike to Pulaski in a cold
rain—a rain that froze on the trees. We had to sleep on the wet ground.
Many men were barefooted and marched over the pike with bleeding feet.
We were called the “straggling squad” because we had to march more
slowly than the others, and we were between the infantry and the rear
cavalry, commanded by Forrest. In his mind a straggler deserved death.
When he came up to a poor little squad he struck one, a Lieutenant,
who was in charge of the barefoot squad, over the head with his sword
and ordered him to go on and keep up with his command. He would listen
to no excuse, as if these barefooted men, braving sleet and snow with
bleeding feet, were not doing their duty as loyally as any man in the
army.
These incidents are a part of the unwritten history; merely a few
things that I know to be facts in our army life with Company G.
We established a hospital at Pulaski to care for our sick and wounded,
and left it in charge of Dr. Brickie. I went to the Colonel of our
regiment and told him I feared Dr. Brickie would detail me to be his
druggist; that I wanted a pass so I could go on ahead and meet the
command beyond the town. He gave it to me and I had gotten about half a
mile beyond Pulaski, when I heard a horse galloping behind me. It was
the Division Surgeon, Dr. L., who stopped me, saying, “Are you Bill
Bevens of Company G, First Arkansas.”
“I am.”
“I detailed you to report to Dr. Brickie, corps surgeon in charge of
Corps Hospital at Pulaski.”
“I won’t do it.”
“If you don’t, I will have you court-martialed.”
“All right, but I won’t go.”
After he rode away I thought more soberly. I had been in the army four
years and had never been arrested. Perhaps I had better go. I went
back, but I gave it to Dr. Brickie. I told him there were a hundred
druggists in that army; why didn’t he get some other one? He answered
that he had selected me because he knew I would not drink his whiskey
nor give it away to “bums,” but keep it for the sick. I told him I
would give away every spoonful of it. I told him it was all right
for him to be captured. He would be paroled. But I should be sent to
Johnson’s Island to freeze.
He said he would arrange that. He knew all the assistant surgeons and
told them when we were captured they must address me as “Doctor.” He
ordered Dr. Gray to take charge of Ward 4, but to call it my ward.
So the army went without me and I felt sad indeed. I had not been
separated from my comrades before. But “It is not what you want that
makes you fat, but what you have.”
Forrest’s cavalry was the last to leave. High officers would call on
Dr. Brickie, cough and say they were ill, hoping he would give them a
drink. He was a positive man and all men looked alike to him. The reply
was always, “Not a darned drop; it is for the sick and wounded.” The
cavalry surgeons would beg for some, but to no purpose, for they got
the same answer.
The infantry had been gone four days. Some of our patients had been
taken to the homes of the good Southern women, some had gone with the
cavalry, on horseback and in wagons. There was a big decrease in our
hospital. About three o’clock in the afternoon Dr. Brickie told me I
could go and gave me a pass. He added, “Here are ten plugs of tobacco;
you can hire some of the cavalry fellows to let you ride, and you may
keep up with them.”
I left him with a glad heart, but I did not know what I was up against.
A lone web-foot to keep up with Forrest’s Cavalry! I was certainly
used to hardships, but that was more than I could do, to save my life.
I went over the muddy road until my wind was almost gone, and I had
to rest. One of our boys belonging to Hardee’s Guards, came along and
spying me, rode up to where I was saying, “Bill, is that you? You have
too much baggage. Give me some of it, and I will deliver it to your
regiment wagons when I get back to the army.”
I unloaded, rested for an hour and struck out again. The cavalry was
ahead of me. I moved faster, for a Yankee rear does sometimes hurry a
fellow.