Who wus it nussed you, day an’ night, when you had de chills an’ fever
in camp round Atlanter? Who wus it stood by yo’ side at de bridge, whar
de giner’l tole you to hol’ wid yo’ kumpny tell dey capture you or kill
you, an’ when de Yankees cum lak bees er swarmin’, an’ shot you outen
de saddle, an’ dey captured you, bleedin’ to def—who pick you up an’
kerry you quick to de Yankee surgun’s tent an’ tied de art’ry dat sabed
yo’ life? An’ who nussed you in de hospital, day an’ night, er stealin’
aigs fur you when hard-tack would er kilt you, an’ young chickens when
bacon meant def? An’ when you got well ernuf ter be keeried to Johnson’s
Islan’, who wus it, ’stid ob gwine on wid Sherman’s army to freedom,
nurver to be er slave enny mo’, gether’d up yo’ things, took de letter
you writ, an’ footed it all de way to Alabama to tell Miss Mary you wus
safe an’ well? An’ when he got dar, an’ seed Miss Mary—Gord bless ’er—er
cryin’ in de door, an’ de chillun cryin’ erroun’ er’, ’kase when dey
seed me bringin’ back yo’ things dey dun gib you up fur dead, lak de
papers sed, an’ when I got up close ernuf ter tell ’er you wus safe an’
well, an’ gib ’er de letter you saunt, an’ tell ’er how I cum jes’ ter
bring yo’ letter an’ things an’ sword an’ pistol home, who wus it but de
statelies’ an’ queenlies’ ’oman in de State—now, thang Gord, one ob de
anguls in heaben—dat wept ober an’ clung to dis ole black han’ dat now
you say am de han’ ob de hog-theef, an’ fit only fur de pen’tenshury; an’
es ’er tears ob gladness drapt on it, she smiled sweetly through it all,
an’ say: ‘Oh, Tom! Tom! Gord will reward you sum day fur this, fur though
you am po’ an’ black an’ a slave, you have acted the whites’ ob de white;
you chose yo’ duty befo’ yo’ own freedom!’
“Dat’s whut she sed, Marse John; yo’ own blessed wife an’ my Mistis’
dat’s in heab’n an’ de grandes’ women dat now libs in dat lan’ ob light!
An’ dar I staid, Marse John, an’ ’tended de place an’ wurked de crap, an’
tuck keer ob Miss Mary an’ de chilluns tell you cum home yo’se’f. Dat’s
de truf, Marse John, es you kno’ it is yo’se’f; and now I’ve tole it all
es you ax me.”
And Tom sat down.
From suppressed laughter in the beginning of Tom’s speech, the entire
court had now dropped into subdued sympathy, and even tears. The old
Judge himself blew his nose vigorously, and looked carefully over his
charges again, while the major came up and whispered in his ear. Finally
he said, quietly, yet subduedly:
“The court is of opinion it has been too hasty in this matter, for, on
reading carefully the second charge submitted by the defendant’s counsel,
the court is convinced it erred in not giving this charge to the jury.
The verdict is, therefore, set aside, and a new trial will be given the
defendant.”
And Tom walked out quietly and solemnly, but a free man yet. But the
case never came to a trial again. Tom was not himself from that day on.
He was sobered, subdued, crushed. He seemed to think “Marse John had
gone back on him.” He quit drinking, fighting, and disputing on things
religious. He even quit telling his experience “endurin’ de wah,” and,
more wonderful still, he actually went to work. All this was too much
for him. As the day approached for the trial he became melancholy,
morbid, and finally took to his bed in earnest. At first they thought
he would get up soon, but he grew rapidly worse; and a week before the
trial, the doctor said that Tom would never “furage” again. The old Judge
was holding court in another county, and had not heard of Tom’s sickness.
He promptly called the case in its order on the docket. Tom’s lawyer read
the physician’s certificate as to Tom’s condition. The old Judge looked
worried—even troubled. Then he glanced around the court—the major was
not there. He took up his pen and wrote quickly across the docket: “Case
nolle prossed; no prosecutor!” and as soon as the court adjourned he went
by Tom’s cabin to see if he wanted anything, and to tell him about the
nol prossing his case. As he neared the cabin he heard the uncanny music
of the negro mourning song, and it startled him as he went in and found
them chanting it around Tom’s bed.
He looked at Tom; he was sober, but dying.
The old Judge went up, sat by the bed, and took Tom tenderly by the
hand. The negro’s face lit up for a moment with its old-time light as he
recognized the old Judge. Then he remembered:
“Will dey try me ergin; will dey convict de old man ergin, Marse John?”
eagerly asked Tom.
“Not while I am Judge of this circuit, Tom—never!” as he gripped Tom’s
hand.
“Thang Gord, Marse John! thang Gord! I knew you—wouldn’t! You see
I—wus—jes’ furagin’! The majuh knowed it—jes’ furagin’.” He was quiet a
little and dozed some. Then he sprang half-way up in bed—a startled look
in his eye:
“Lemme out! lemme out!” he cried. “Don’t you hear it, Marse John? Dat’s
taps—de army ob de Tennessee am sleepin’—de lights mos’ out—I must hustle
an’ git sumpin’ to eat—I mus’ furage—gwine on er long furage—but I’ll
wait—on—you—foreber—in—de—camp—dar, Marse John——.” He broke off suddenly;
a radiant light gleamed in his eyes; “Miss Mary, my mistis; O dar she am,
beckinin’ an’ smilin’ to po’ ole Tom; beckinin’ an’ smilin’, ‘Gord will
reward—you—sum—day!’ Oh, home, home, Marse John!”
Two hours later the old Judge came out of Tom’s cabin, crying like a boy.
Tom had gone on his last “furage.”
Old Casey, the Fifer
By HENRY EWELL HORD
[NOTE.—The Editor of Trotwood’s believes this is one of the
best descriptions of Franklin’s bloody and needless fight ever
written, and a pathetic pen picture never to be forgotten. Its
author is an inmate of the Old Soldiers’ Home, Nashville, and
was one of the bravest soldiers of the Lost Cause. We are told
by an old comrade of the writer that in one of the fiercest
fights of the war, a large shell bursted in a foot of Mr.
Hord’s head, knocking him down and completely destroying his
hearing, killing two men behind him and one at his side. The
historic value of this pathetic story is great. It has been
said and denied that Forrest, with his wonderful foresight,
went to Hood just before he ordered his army to the holocaust
of Franklin and begged him for permission to flank the Yankee
army out, saying he would do it in fifteen minutes, and there
need be no battle. “No,” exclaimed Hood, “no, charge them
out.” Forrest rode off in disgust. In studying the battle of
Franklin for a chapter in the writer’s new novel, “The Bishop
of Cottontown,” we read all the Records of the Rebellion
pertaining to the fight, endeavoring, among other things, to
find some evidence of the truth of this. In Gen. J. D. Cox’
report we found it corroborated, that General saying in the
afternoon he saw evidence of Forrest’s Cavalry preparing to
flank him, and he prepared immediately to evacuate Franklin!
And thus was Forrest’s military genius corroborated by the
other side. But here is the man who carried the despatch,
and the thrilling picture of the brave boys going into that
veritable mouth of hell so gallantly, and of old Fifer leading
them on till his tune ceased beneath a clubbed musket, caused
the writer to lay down the graphic story of this old, maimed
soldier and use his handkerchief. And no more graphic story of
Franklin was ever written.]
The following characteristic letter accompanied the story:
Dear Mr. Moore: I send you the enclosed yarn of Fifer. If you
think it worth publishing in Trotwood you can do so. I am, as
you see, not much of a writer like Ben Hord. I get the facts
all O. K., but, to tell it so somebody will be interested,
that’s the rub. The trouble about writing a war yarn, no two
soldiers see things alike, and some fellow is liable to make
you out a liar before you know it. I once wrote an account of
a drill we had against the 15th Mississippi for a flag offered
by the ladies, of Canton, Miss. I gave, as I thought, and what
some of my old regiment had written, the exact facts. The
colonel of the 15th Mississippi is still living. He answered my
article, and made me out seventeen kinds of liars. I felt left.
Not long after that the last ex-Confederate Reunion was held at
Nashville. One day I was standing in front of the Tulane Hotel
watching the big crowd going by, and a man passed with a metal
badge with “15th Miss.” on it. I stopped him, and asked him if
he remembered that drill, and when he found out I was in the
other regiment, he was delighted. He had a crowd of Mississippi
boys with him, but none of them had been members of the 15th,
so he stood there and gave them an account of the drill, and
corroborated every word I had written, though he had never seen
it. Well, I believe you literary fellows say it is misquoted,
but we privates have another name for it.
Respectfully yours,
HENRY EWELL HORD.
Hermitage, Tenn., Soldiers’ Home.
It was at Gainsville, Ala., we parted with our old Fifer Casey. He had
been with us ever since the regiment was organized at Camp Boone, Tenn.
He had fifed all through the Mexican War and nearly three years of the
Civil War. At first he had lots to tell us about Cerro Gordo, Palo Alto
and Chepultepec, but after we got down to business old Casey gave the
Mexican War and Greasers a rest.
He was a tall, slim old fellow, carried himself as if steel ramrods were
his regular diet, scorned to ride in an ambulance or wagon on a march,
kept at the head of the regiment all the time, and went into all battles
playing his liveliest tunes.
At Shiloh, in the charge that broke up the “Hornet Nest,” old Casey was
playing “Cheer, Boys, Cheer,” and the whole regiment singing it as they
closed in with the Yanks.
At the tale end of many a long day’s march, when everybody was footsore
and weary, thinking and wishing for camp, marching any kind of old way,
Casey would notice it, and strike up “The Girl I Left Behind Me” or “The
Stump-Tail Dog.” The boys would forget about their weariness, close up,
catch the step, and before we had gone an hundred feet, without a word
from any officer, we would be sailing along like we were “passing in
review.”
Casey had a musical chum that belonged to the 9th Arkansas, of our
brigade, who was just the opposite of Casey—short and stout built. The
top of his head would scarcely reach old Casey’s shoulder. When those two
got together with a canteen of whisky there would be little sleeping in
that regiment that night. We used to call it “The Girl I Left Behind Me,”
with variations, “Long Girl” and “Short Girl.”
Casey always refused to be mounted, saying he did not enlist in a cavalry
regiment and did not propose to be killed by some fool horse. He did not
condescend to ask for any papers, but coolly walked over and joined the
9th Arkansas, with his old chum.
Our only regret about being mounted was leaving the other regiments of
our brigade—Buford Brigade, Loring Division. We had been together a long
time, and many battles and long marches had formed many warm friendships.
General Buford had drilled us till we were one of the best drilled and
most soldierly-looking brigades in the C. S. A., and always gave a good
account of ourselves in battle. The regiments were the 35th and 27th
Alabama, 9th Arkansas and 12th Louisiana, nearly all young men, and as
good soldiers as ever marched. After we left, Colonel Scott, of the
12th Louisiana, was ranking officer, and commanded the brigade. General
Buford accepted an offer from General Forrest, and followed us to North
Mississippi, where we joined General Forrest. The 3d, 7th, 8th and 12th
Kentucky were brigaded, and Col. A. P. Thompson commanded. He was killed
a short time after at Paducah, Ky., and General Lyon succeeded him. Lyon
and Bell’s brigades formed the Buford Division.
We followed the “Wizard of the Saddle” till the surrender, and were
engaged in every fight and raid in which he was.
On the campaign to Nashville in front of General Hood, I was detailed to
act as courier for General Buford. The day of the battle of Franklin,
Tenn., General Buford had the right wing of our army. There was nothing
but General Wilson’s cavalry in front of us. We drove the Yankees back
across Harpeth River, and at a crossing five miles above Franklin they
dismounted and prepared to make a desperate resistance to our crossing.
They formed their line on the north bank close to the edge, and across
the river was an old field which we would be forced to cross to reach
the ford. They could rake us fore and aft before we could get to the
river. As soon as General Buford saw the situation, he dismounted two
of Lyon’s regiments back of the field a half mile from the river, and
with four guns of battery double-quicked them across the field up to the
river. They then opened a rapid fire on the Yankee line across the river.
The two lines made a dense smoke which hung like a fog over the river.
Under cover of the smoke, General Buford with the balance of the command
crossed, mounted, the smoke completely screening their movement, and the
Yankees never fired on them while crossing. The boys had orders to cease
firing after we got down the bank, which they did. The Yankees thinking
they had gained a victory because the fire stopped, cheered lustily, and
almost ceased firing. While they were still cheering, a long line of
stern-faced men cleared the bank and fell onto them with carbine, pistol
and saber.
I thought I would be smart, and got right behind General Buford, going up
the bank at a place that I did not think a goat could climb. The General
weighed 320 pounds, and rode a big, old horse. I did not think a ball
could find me behind such good works. A moment after, when I saw old
“Waggoner” and the General hanging right over me, I thought I had been
a little too smart, but old “Waggoner” did not slip. He got his front
feet on the top and sprang as lightly as a cat right into the Yankee
line. One of them thought he had found a loose horse and grabbed him by
the bit, but turned him loose with an awful howl. We actually surprised
the Yankees as much as if we had ambuscaded them from a stone wall, got
the first fire, which at such close range counts up. The boys who did
the firing on the south bank, and the battery, mounted and came over
and joined. The Yankees were of the very best brand—tall Westerners,
could ride and shoot with the best. They put up a good fight, but we got
away with them and scattered them. There was nothing between us and the
Nashville and Franklin pike then.
General Buford made a report to General Forrest, and told him if he were
backed up by Infantry he would swing on around and grab the Nashville
pike, and that would force the Yankees out of their breastworks at
Franklin. I was selected to carry that dispatch.
To my anxious inquiry where I would find General Forrest, “Damn if I
know,” said old Abe. “About Franklin, I guess,” was all I could get.
The fight at Franklin was just commencing then. I recrossed the river. I
had the choice of two routes. The one up the river was shorter, but as
far as I could see it lay across soft fields that would force me to ride
slowly or kill my horse. The other was a good, hard road that, from the
course it ran, I knew must lead into the pike on which General Hood’s
army was advancing, a few miles south of Franklin. I chose the latter.
I reached the pike just as Hood’s artillery was going to the front under
whip and spur.
There is nothing more thrilling than to see a well-equipped battery
going to the front. As far as I could see up and down the pike they were
rushing forward, six horses to each gun, and on the Jump. Cannoneers
sitting braced in their places, stripped to the waist, yelling and
laughing at everything, as if it were the most joyous thing in the
world—fighting. The guns followed each other so close, and were going
at such a rapid gait, that I had to watch my chance and slip across the
pike. Across the pike, and marching in the field parallel with the pike,
was the head of General Stewart’s Corps, just passing, the General riding
in front. I knew him by sight, and I thought he might be able to give
me some information as to the whereabouts of General Forrest. I slipped
across the pike, jumped a wall and saluted General Stewart. The General
returned my salute as politely as if I were General Hood. I told him who
I was, and asked him if he knew anything about General Forrest.
He said no, he had not been to the front yet, and did not know what they
were doing.
I had turned, and was riding with him. He then inquired of me what the
cavalry were doing. I told him about the fight at the river, and added
that if we could get the infantry there would be no serious fight at
Franklin. He seemed to be greatly interested.
Just then a staff officer came flying down the pike, jumped the wall in
front of General Stewart, saluted, and said: “General Hood’s compliments;
you will please move your command forward at double-quick.”
While he was talking to General Stewart, I was sizing him up. He was
a young, handsome, dashing looking fellow, finely mounted, and a good
rider, but he looked as proud and haughty as if he commanded the whole
army. I hesitated some little time before I could muster courage to
address such a magnificent creature. Poor couriers did not always get
courteous treatment.
I think General Stewart noticed my slowness, for he turned to the staff
officer, and said: “Here is a young man very anxious to find General
Forrest. Can you inform him?” The fellow never even looked at me, but
whirled his horse around and said, “Follow me!” He took the wall, into
the pike.
There was something about that “follow me” and manner that got my back
up. He had hardly got his horse straightened out down the pike before I
was alongside of him. If my thoughts had been spoken there, they would
have been something like: “D— you, I have always been used to riding
beside better men than you are.”
We passed the guns as if they were standing still. Never a word or look
did that fellow give me. He kept on till I thought he was surely going
to charge the town. After I had about given him up as crazy, he suddenly
pulled up, and I, not expecting it, shot on by, but stopped in almost a
bound and rode back. Pointing to the right of the pike, he said: “I saw
General Forrest up there a few moments ago, and guess he is there yet.”
I looked in the direction he pointed, but could make out nothing for the
smoke. The lines seemed to be close together and engaged in a fearful
conflict. This was my first and lasting sight of the fearful fight
at Franklin. I turned toward the staff officer to get more definite
directions, and found he had disappeared. I never saw him any more. I
left the pike and rode in the direction he had pointed. The ground was
strewn with dead and wounded men. I had to ride slowly. I worked my way
along in the rear of the Confederate lines a long ways to the right, but
could not find General Forrest. Then I concluded I was too close in. I
knew he had no command there. I did not think he would go up so close to
the firing line if he were only looking on, so rode further off and then
turned towards the pike again.
I had almost reached the pike when I heard someone swearing at a fearful
rate. I could not see very far for the smoke and gloom.
I thought, “If that is not the General, it’s his twin brother, for nobody
could swear that way but he.”
It proved to be the old boy himself. By that time our lines were giving
way, and men were going to the rear in squads. The General was trying to
rally them. He had worked himself into a terrible rage, had his saber
drawn, and I expected to see him use it on some of them, and they would
probably have shot the stuffing out of him. They did not know him, and
seemed to resent his interference. Their own officers rallied them and
charged those impregnable breastworks nine times, they say.
I rode up to General Forrest, stuck my dispatch under his nose and told
him it was very important. He glared at me a moment like he could not
make up his mind whether to cut my head off or shoot me. Finally he
called, “Major!”
Out of the smoke rode the major and took the dispatch and read it to the
General. I don’t recollect now whether it was Major Strange or Anderson.
Both were nice men to do business with. Before he got through reading the
report all signs of anger and passion had disappeared from the General’s
face. It was always my private opinion that most of it was “put on,”
though I did not tell him so for various reasons.
“Bully for old Abe,” says General Forrest, after hearing the report.
“Major, tell him to hold what he’s got, and I will be with him as soon as
I see General Hood and get the infantry.”
He went off on the jump. We were standing then on the side of the pike.
The major was dismounted, stooping down writing on his knee, and I was
holding his horse.
Out of the gloom and smoke came the sound of drum and fife. I looked back
down the pike and saw a long line of bayonets coming at a double-quick
with “trailing arms.” They were not yelling, their line as straight as
a string, and perfect time. Though they were leaving a broad trail of
dead behind, they kept the ranks closed up. From the stern, set face and
fierce light of battle in their eyes, I could see they meant business. In
front of them was our old fifer, Casey, and his Arkansas chum, playing
“The Girl I Left Behind Me.” They had two kettle-drums and a bass. They
passed within ten feet of me.
I yelled at old Casey as he recognized me, and nodded as he flashed
past. I knew then that was our old infantry brigade. I saw General Scott
further down the line. It enthused me so to see our comrades going in
so gallantly that I yelled to beat the band. My horse thought hell had
broken loose somewhere and wanted to go, too. The Yankees were sending a
perfect storm of shot and shell down the pike. Two lines of breastworks,
two solid sheets of flame above them, the batteries looked like the whole
top of the hill was ablaze, but into that hell our old boys charged, over
the first line like a flash, and a race with the Yankees for the second
line. I watched old Casey. All the musicians were killed or wounded
before they reached the second line, but Casey, above the roar of the
guns and the bursting of shells, still marched, playing on, and I could
hear that old fife screaming “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” At last, for
one short moment, I saw old Casey’s tall, slim form mount the second line
of Yankee works, and then “The Girl I Left Behind Me” came to a sudden
end. His music suddenly ceased. A Yankee knocked him over the head with a
gun. Casey was captured and sent to prison. I have never seen him since,
but the last I heard of him he was living in Cadiz, Ky.
I was called back to my own business by a gentle tap on my knee and heard
the major say, with a very superior smile: “You seem to be a little
excited.”
“Don’t get that way often, Major,” I replied, “that’s our old infantry
brigade. Look how they go in.”
He looked across my horse, and I could see his face light up. “By God,
those are gallant fellows,” he says.
“Yes, old Abe trained them,” was my answer.
The major gave me the dispatch, and I was obliged to leave at once.
Hood would not give Forrest the infantry nor allow him to flank and
follow up our victory.
Twice in twenty-four hours had Forrest let the bars down to the Yankee
rear, and Hood would not take advantage of it. Things were changing every
moment, and I had to make several trips between Buford and Forrest, just
how many I don’t remember. I was riding long after the fight was over.
* * * * *
_The education which is worth while is the one we learn in making a
living._
The Candle
Some people work and wait, and smile and steal, and cringe and plan; make
shifty cuts and cheat, lay up whole tons of revenue and rot and work
their lives out—just to see how big a funeral they may have.
—JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.
In the Strawberry Country
BY JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE
Castleberry, Ala., April 28, 1906.
This is the center of the strawberry industry of Alabama. As your car
passes through the pine lands, stretching along the lower half of
the State, you catch a whiff, now and then, from a passing car-load
of the queen of fruits. It extends practically from the thriving
town of Greenville to Flomaton. It is a delightful odor—these
strawberries—mingled with that of the pine, and the perfume of some wild
flower gifted beyond its kind. It is a pretty sight to step off at this
little pine-bowered village, which, a few years ago, was virgin pine
lands, and see some five hundred berry pickers in one field of a hundred
acres or more. The pickers are nearly all negroes, and about half of
them women and children, and they make wages while the season lasts that
should easily keep them the rest of the year.
That is, it would keep anybody but a negro—who never keeps.
At two cents a quart they earn from two to four and one-half dollars per
day. They could earn more and save it all if they would work Saturday
afternoons.
But a negro, like a mule, has some peculiar ideas engrafted into the
network of his being, garnered from a long line of holiday-taking
ancestors. “Like produces like or the likeness of an ancestor” is the
unchanging rule of the physical world; and it must not be forgotten that
for many thousands of years the negro took nothing but holidays and
whatever else he found lying around that was good to eat.