GENERAL WHEELER’S CAPTURE OF THE COMMANDS
OF GENERALS MCCOOK AND STONEMAN.
On the 27th of July, 1864, General Hood ordered Wheeler’s cavalry
to the rear of Atlanta with a view of beating off a Federal raid
commanded by Generals McCook and Stoneman, having for its purpose
the breaking up of Southern communications, releasing the large army
of Federal prisoners at Andersonville, destroying manufactories,
etc. Before leaving Atlanta General Wheeler divided his cavalry of
about five thousand into two columns, Generals Dibrell and Iverson
going to the left after General Stoneman, and assuming in person
the command of the column to the right sent after General McCook.
Wheeler came up with McCook at Jonesboro, thirty miles below Atlanta,
where his troops were engaged in destroying the railroad tracks. The
Confederates at once charged them. After a short but spirited fight,
they drove them off with some loss in killed, wounded, and prisoners.
McCook retreated toward Newnan, Ga. He was hotly pursued all night
long. At a bridge, just at daylight, we came up with a large picket
of the enemy. We at once charged them and drove them off. The entire
command hastened over the bridge and in a little while came up with
the enemy. A battle ensued in which there was a considerable loss on
both sides.
After a little while the enemy resumed their retreat toward Newnan,
hotly pursued by the Confederates. We here discovered that they had
been looting and burning our wagon trains, which we had not seen
since we left Dalton, and which had been sent south three months
before. McCook, on approaching Newnan, had been fired upon by a
militia command stationed at the depot, which caused him to turn
to the left and take position in a hilly and wooded locality near
the town, awaiting the coming of the Confederates. The Confederates
arrived in a little while, though in a somewhat disordered and
straggling way, after two days and a night of hard and strenuous
riding and fighting. As they came up, without general orders they
went into the battle where the fight was raging hottest. The battle,
I suppose, lasted two hours. At one time the enemy captured the
line of dismounted horses of the Fourth Tennessee Regiment, when
the Regiment wheeled about and recaptured them, killing, wounding,
and taking prisoners. The Regiment lost quite a number here.
Among the killed was James Turner, orderly sergeant of Company A.
J. A. Stewart lost his right arm. Both were good soldiers and most
excellent gentlemen. Fighting took place in several places on the
field. A white flag was displayed, and General McCook and about
fifteen hundred of his men surrendered with a battery of artillery;
also about three hundred of our soldiers who were with the train were
recaptured, among them being a soldier wearing the military coat of
Capt. W. W. Thompson (the only brother of my wife), of the Fourteenth
Tennessee Infantry, who was killed at Chancellorsville, Va. I had
it in a box in our wagons that had been destroyed by the enemy, and
the soldier had put it on with a view of saving it for me, which I
greatly appreciated, for I was anxious to return it to his father
and mother. Besides the fifteen hundred taken as prisoners, some
five hundred of General McCook’s men escaped during the parley. They
were pursued to the river, which they crossed after abandoning most of
their horses. Some of the men threw away their arms and accouterments
to lighten their bodies, it was supposed, for swimming the river.
As we passed through Newnan on our return to the Army of Tennessee,
the hospital on the streets was crowded to overflowing with wounded
soldiers.
Generals Dibrell and Iverson were equally as successful in their
engagement with Stoneman near Milledgeville, Ga., capturing him and
his entire command. McCook and Stoneman, when their commands joined,
were to make a joint attack upon the prison at Andersonville.
After this Wheeler’s Corps was ordered to rendezvous at Covington,
Ga., to the left of Atlanta. He had destroyed the entire cavalry
force of Sherman. He remained at Covington some days recuperating
and having horses shod, when he was ordered upon his second raid into
Middle Tennessee. He moved to the rear of Sherman at Atlanta, and,
going north along the railroad, destroyed miles of track, depots,
and bridges, and capturing some small detachments, with but little
resistance until he reached Dalton. Here the enemy had built a strong
fortress well supplied with cannon, and had a considerable force to
defend the place. A line of battle was formed as if we were going
to charge, and by a feint its strength was developed. It was wisely
concluded that the booty was not worth the cost of capture. However,
we succeeded in destroying a large lot of provisions that had
accumulated there and a large camp of wagons, tents, etc., located in
the suburbs of the town, which were abandoned by the occupants, who,
we supposed, had taken refuge in the fort. Some of these occupants
must have been quartermasters, for an enterprising soldier picked up
a tin box that contained several thousand dollars in greenbacks.
From here we moved to the right, and, entering East Tennessee, we
crossed the railroad at Strawberry Plains, sixteen miles above
Knoxville. Here a cavalry force coming up from Knoxville attacked
our rear; but upon turning on them, they were put to flight and were
pursued to the outskirts of the city, killing and wounding some,
capturing prisoners and horses, with the loss of a few of our men
in killed and wounded.
After this Wheeler moved over into Sequatchie Valley, where the
Fourth Tennessee was detached and sent to Tracy City with a view
of capturing a force that was said to be occupying an unfinished
fort. Upon reaching the place, Lieut. Col. Paul Anderson made his
disposition for capture by detailing Lieut. W. H. Phillips, of
Company F, with ten men to charge down the road leading to the fort
in order to attract their attention, when Colonel Anderson would
come up from the rear, where the fort was said to be unfinished and
open, and capture it. Before reaching his position, Colonel Anderson
discovered that the opening had been closed and that there were as
many of the enemy on the inside of the log structure as he had on
the outside. He at once dispatched a message to Lieutenant Phillips
countermanding the order; but before it was delivered Phillips,
growing impatient, charged as directed. The courier reached there in
time to see Phillips upon the ground in front of the fort shooting
at the portholes, and saw him scramble to his feet and stagger across
the road into the timber where his comrades had sought protection.
He had been terribly wounded in the breast and shoulder, showing
evidence of paralysis from the wounds. A conveyance was impressed
with a view of taking him and others who had been wounded with us;
but after traveling a mile or two, Phillips was suffering so that
he asked to be left at a house to die. His friends thought that he
certainly could live but a little while. For six months after this
he was reported in company reports as killed in action in Tennessee.
To the surprise of every one, and just before the surrender, Phillips
came marching into camp, very thin and feeble, but alive. He said
that after he had been at the house a few days the Federals found
him there; and when he was able to be moved, they carried him to the
fort and had every attention paid to him, saying he was too brave a
man to die from neglect. Phillips remained at the fort for some time.
When he had convalesced sufficiently, a proposition was made to him
that if he wanted to go home to his family he could do so if he would
take the oath. This he declined to do, and asked to be sent north
as a prisoner. He was sent to Johnson’s Island Prison. Being a very
much disabled prisoner, he was sent on exchange to Richmond in March,
1865, reaching the camp of his regiment a few days before the battle
of Bentonville. He died a few years ago a highly respected citizen,
but never recovered from his severe wounds and suffered the remainder
of his life.
The Fourth Tennessee Cavalry left Tracy City for Lebanon with a
view of overtaking General Wheeler. A great many of our soldiers
were permitted to go by their homes to remount themselves, pick up
absentees, and obtain recruits if possible. I availed myself of this
opportunity, thinking it was the last chance I would have to visit my
family, residing in Gallatin, Tenn., whom I had not seen for nearly
three years. An account of this individual raid I made upon Gallatin
I here insert under the head
BEHIND THE LINES.
I tell this incident, not so much to interest the present generation,
who have lived so close to it and have heard for themselves from
the enactors in the War between the States many and probably more
hazardous undertakings than here related, but that the future
generation may know the state of affairs that existed in this country
about the homes of those soldiers who were driven from them and
sought to see their families again after a forced exile of years.
Soon after starting from Atlanta on General Wheeler’s second raid
into Middle Tennessee, in 1864, I resolved to go into Gallatin, my
home and native place, and see my family, from whom I had been absent
for more than two years. I knew that Gallatin had been occupied
by the Federal forces a long time, and that the commandants of
the place, Payne and then Scarret, had been placed there for their
well-known disposition to lord it over a helpless and noncombatant
population. Many outrageous crimes had been committed by them, and
scores of Confederate soldiers had been brutally murdered for no
other reason than that they sought to see their dear ones again.
The darkest chapter in our War between the States could be written
under this head. I was fully posted then of the hazard of such an
undertaking; but I wanted to see my wife and little boy (who was
but a few weeks old when I left there), and I fully determined in my
own mind to risk it, as I felt convinced that this would be the last
opportunity.
When the command reached the Sequatchie Valley, General Wheeler sent
the Regiment down to Tracy City to take an unfinished fort that was
in course of erection and to be occupied by a garrison. Fearing that
we would not return in time to make my anticipated trip home, I went
to Lieut. Col. Anderson, my warm-hearted and true friend, and told
him how disappointed I was, disclosing to him my well-digested plan
to go into Gallatin at night, stay concealed in the house all day,
and return the next night, making myself unknown to any I should meet
along the way. I reminded him that it might be possible to obtain
valuable information for the army. The Colonel did not think my plan
feasible, remarking in his nasal way: “Guild, you are certain to
be killed or captured.” I told him that I had resolved to make the
attempt and believed I could successfully accomplish it. He finally
concluded to let me go.
Capt. Marcellus Grissim, Knot Harris, Billy Bell, and Clay Smith,
Colonel Smith’s colored servant, went with me. These men all lived on
this side of the Cumberland River and some distance from Gallatin,
and I was the only one intending to go that far. We at once set out
for Crossville, on the mountain, and then to Cookeville. Soon after
leaving the Regiment we found ourselves in the country infested with
the bushwhacking band of Tinker Dave Beatty, the notorious Federal
jayhawker, a terror to Southern sympathizers in that part of the
State, whose whole object was to kill, not to capture. On several
occasions as we passed along the citizens would tell us in terrified
whispers that he and some of his band had but a moment before
preceded us, and death was certain if we fell into his hands, as they
took no prisoners. To avoid such results, we concluded to lay by in
the daytime at some secluded place and travel at night. Some very
amusing things occurred during our night riding. A good many Federal
soldiers belonging to Colonel Stokes’s regiment were furloughed and
at home. If we chanced to meet any of these upon the road, and we
sometimes would as we passed houses, we told them we were Federal
soldiers and had been sent to notify them to return at once to their
post at Carthage, Tenn., as it was rumored that Wheeler was coming
across the mountain.
These things delayed the little squad of ours in reaching their
destination. Captain Grissim’s home was in Smith County, near Rome.
Before reaching there I had promised him to stay all night to rest up
before I started alone for Gallatin. When I stated that we had been
delayed so that I was anxious to start at once in order to get back
and meet the command as it passed Lebanon, he still insisted, but I
declined. Leaving my horse and Clay, the servant, with him, I started
on foot to Gallatin. It was then near sundown. My first object was to
get a boatman to paddle me across the river. I found much difficulty
in this. I had on all my army equipment--gray uniform, two army
pistols around me, and haversack in which I carried all my papers
as adjutant of the Regiment. But over these I had on a long linen
duster, which somewhat concealed them from view. I had determined, if
I was captured, to have no evidence upon me as a spy or to disguise
the fact that I was a Confederate soldier, though the old duster
would easily conceal me, and I posed as a Federal soldier when asking
information. I had walked some distance down the road when I overtook
a man driving an ox wagon going in the same direction. I asked him
if he knew where I could get some one to put me across the river. He
replied that he did not, and wanted to know who I was and where I
was going. I told him that I was one of Colonel Stokes’s men and had
been absent on furlough at my home in the mountains; and that, having
heard that the rebels were marching that way, I was hurrying to get
to my command across the river. I noticed him eying me closely, and
after a few words more he said to me: “Come, get up on the tongue
of the cart. I don’t believe you are telling the truth; I have seen
you somewhere before. You are no Yankee, but a Confederate soldier.
My name is Walton. Tell me what you are after.” He spoke so frankly
that I concluded at once that he would do to confide in. I got on
the cart, told him who I was, and that I wanted to go to Gallatin
that night and return the next; that I had left my horse and servant
with Captain Grissim, and when I returned we would go over and meet
General Wheeler’s command as it passed Lebanon. He knew Captain
Grissim, but said: “If you go to Gallatin, you will certainly be
killed. The meanest kind of an officer is in command there, and he
kills every Confederate soldier he captures. Besides, I learned that
they are greatly stirred up, are impressing the citizens to work
in strengthening the fort, and have drawn in their picket posts
close up to the town.” This was a worse state of affairs than I had
anticipated; still I replied that I would attempt it. At this he
said: “If you will go, get up and ride; I live about one mile down
the road. Go by the house and get your supper, and I will put you
across the river.” It was dark when we reached the house, and his
wife had prepared supper. After supper I started; and after getting
across the river, he gave me directions how to reach the Gallatin and
Hartsville Turnpike, about four miles distant.
Unfortunately, after reaching the Sumner County side I remembered the
house of a man whom I knew well as a most enthusiastic Southern man
and in full sympathy with the Confederate cause when I left there. So
I went to see him. He did not seem to know me; and when I told him my
name, he still seemed not to recognize me. It was too apparent that
two years of Yankee rule had wrought a change, cooling his Southern
ardor; and I left him, congratulating myself that I had not told
him where I was going. I fully resolved that I would make no more
experiments in this direction.
I was now pretty well posted, so I continued my course toward the
pike. A short distance from the pike I passed the house of another
citizen whom I knew well, Mr. Carey. He was standing at his front
gate, and I easily recognized him in the starlight and the candle
reflection from his house, which stood near by. I passed, not
intending to stop with a “Howdy-do,” when he remarked: “You seem
to be traveling at a late hour and all alone.” “Yes,” I replied. “I
am anxious to get to my command at Gallatin.” He spoke up quickly,
remarking: “If you had been here a few minutes ago, you would have
met up with scouts that stopped here, fed their horses, and got
something to eat.” I asked him what direction they went, and he
replied: “To Gallatin from Carthage.” He then set out and without any
questions from me told me the same condition of things that my friend
Walton had told me, except that he added that all the roads out of
Gallatin were being scouted, as they were anticipating an attack then
from Wheeler. About this time he stopped and remarked: “Listen! I can
hear the horses’ feet upon the pike traveling toward Gallatin.” This
was a very probable occurrence; but I could not hear them, though I
seized the opportunity to start in that direction, saying: “I can
probably overtake a straggling cavalryman, and I will get to ride.”
I congratulated myself again, but with more satisfaction for sharpness
than I did in the former interview, and with the fuller determination
that this would end my interviewing of citizens and would risk all
on the information I had. I am satisfied, however, that if I had
confided my case to Mr. Carey he would have assisted me to the utmost
extent.
I then began my travel down the pike toward Gallatin, about fourteen
miles distant, stopping to listen occasionally. At Bledsoe’s Creek,
six miles from the town, I stopped on the hill near the toll-gate
to listen, and thought I heard the sound of horses’ hoofs on the
turnpike. After waiting awhile, I moved across the bridge and, to
avoid meeting any one, got over the fence with a view of traveling
parallel with the pike until I came to a lane that led from the
pike to Cairo, my intention being when I struck the lane to travel
along it back to the pike again. When I reached the lane, I sat on
the fence, and to save me I could not remember which end to take.
I remember to this day my sitting there and trying to reason it out.
I do not think I was asleep; but I was so exhausted from six weeks’
riding day and night that I became bewildered and chose the wrong end
of the lane. When consciousness returned, I found myself near Cairo,
more than a mile off of my route. I immediately turned and retraced
my steps to the turnpike. When I reached it, the same bewilderment
again overtook me. I stood there for some time debating with myself
the way to Gallatin, and at length set out again, supposing I was
right until I found myself approaching the point at Bledsoe’s Bridge
which I had left more than an hour before.
I knew every foot of ground in the neighborhood, and had traveled
these roads hundreds of times. My grandfather Blackmore’s farm was
contiguous to them, and the people in the neighborhood were friends
whom I knew and had visited. I had gone at least four miles out of my
way; and looking toward the east, I could discover evidences of day
breaking. I knew it would be death to be caught in that vicinity in
daylight, and, tired, worn-out, and footsore, I struck a trot toward
Gallatin with all the vim and strength I could command, determined
not again to leave the beaten track. At Mr. Barry’s I took the old
Cairo Road to Gallatin. At the Chambers farm I left it and, passing
Mr. Calgy’s place, passed on to my father’s farm and house, south
of Gallatin, on the Lebanon road and about half a mile from the
courthouse at Gallatin. The Hartsville Pike that I traveled down
approached Gallatin from the east.
As I got into the field near the house day was evidently breaking in
the east. I looked toward town and saw a camp fire on Fitzgerald’s
Hill, which adjoins the corporation line, and saw soldiers standing
around. I knew then that this was the picket base, and that the
vidette stand would be near the front gate of the yard that stood
upon the next eminence in the road from the picket. The house
stood on the opposite side of the road from the direction I was
approaching. Thus the whole situation was before me. Concluding that
there might be a foot race before the fight was over, I thought that
I had better lighten myself for such an event, should it occur. As
I have said, I had been carrying two large army pistols in my belt,
and they had become burdensome, rubbing the skin on my side and hips
till it seemed as if they were pieces of raw beef. So I concluded to
conceal one of them in the fence corner and get it when I returned.
I did not intend to disarm myself, and I retained one army pistol
and a smaller one that I had in my haversack, a Smith & Wesson. A
difficulty was the last thing I could wish for, but I wanted to be
prepared for any forced defense.
I then proceeded down the fence toward the house, expecting to pass
through the hedge of burdock along the pike and on to the opposite
side from the house, where I remembered there was an opening covered
by rails. On reaching it, I looked up and down the pike and saw the
pickets about one hundred yards off, standing at the upper gate of
my father’s yard fence and looking south, with their backs toward
me. All seemed right at the guard post; and then, lifting myself
quietly over the rails, I slipped across the road to the garden fence
between the guard and vidette stand and, climbing over, fell into the
garden. Another lightning process suggested itself to me--to pull off
the heavy cavalry boots that I had swapped for with one of General
McCook’s cavalry soldiers at Newnan, Ga., a few weeks before. They
had skinned my feet till I could hardly hobble along. So, going into
the summer house, I sat down on a bench and shed them, and never saw
them again. I proceeded to the yard and, going around the house, saw
a light burning in my mother’s room and felt then (which was a fact)
that she was up with an invalid sister. I pulled up the back steps
to a gallery in the rear, and, going to my mother’s room and making
a smothered knock at the door, heard some one say: “Who is that?”
In a low tone of voice I whispered my name, when I heard my sister
exclaim: “Lord, ma, it is Brother George!” The door was opened, and
I quietly entered. I could not, if I wanted to, tell what happened
then. It was a sudden and unanticipated apparition. Both my mother
and sister looked dazed and could not believe for a moment what they
saw. If I had fallen from the skies, they could not have been more
surprised. After some explanations and conversation, I asked for my
wife and baby, and was told that they were on a visit to Nashville.
I shall not undertake to describe the deep disappointment that
this news created. I remember to have exclaimed in tones of deep
despair: “Is it possible, after all, that I will not be permitted
to see them?” After a little while my mother said to me: “My son,
do you know the risk you are running? The soldiers are at the gate,
and every day they are through the yard, and they frequently come
into the house. There is not a negro about the place who would not
take pleasure in informing them that you are here. The soldiers in
town are expecting an attack. They are strengthening the fort in
anticipation of this, and are impressing everybody that comes about
town to work on the fortifications. Besides, if they capture you,
they will kill you and burn up the house.” I said: “Yes, I understand
all this and know what risk I am running. But if you do as I suggest,
I do not think any harm will come of it. I have come to stay but
to-day, and will return to the army as soon as it is night again. Let
me go upstairs to the room looking toward town. I am so tired that
as soon as I strike the bed I will go to sleep, when you can lock
the door; and if any of you want to see me, you can slip in during
the day, and there is no reason that any one’s attention should be
directed to the room if you are vigilant and discreet. Let no one
know the fact that I am here but those of the immediate family, for
I did not come for or expect to see any one else. As soon as it gets
quiet after nightfall, I will come downstairs and, after telling you
all good-by, will start back to the army.”
I had to pass a long and open porch before reaching this room.
Daylight was then evident. Looking toward the front gate, the pickets
were plainly to be seen, and to shelter myself from their view I
got down on my hands and knees and crawled to the door of the room.
Without divesting myself of clothing, I fell across the bed, and in
a few minutes was fast asleep. If any one came into the room before
twelve o’clock in the day, I did not know it. About this hour I heard
some one in the room, and, looking up, I discovered that it was my
wife. She had left Nashville the evening before, and had come in her
buggy as far as Hendersonville, where she stayed all night with an
acquaintance, and then went on to her father’s house in Gallatin.
Her father, Dr. George Thompson, who had been out to see me, had
told her that I was at my father’s, and without getting out of the
buggy she had driven on out. She said, further, that she had heard in
Nashville the morning before that Wheeler was on a raid into Middle
Tennessee, and that she had started at once that she might be where I
could communicate with her if possible. I then asked to see my little
boy, when she answered, “No,” saying that my mother and herself had
concluded that it might reveal the fact to others that I was in the
house; that the child was a great pet with the soldiers that came
around the house; and that he was constantly telling them that his
father had a gun too, and a pistol and sword, and that he was coming
home soon and would cut their heads off and shoot them too. I asked
if she could not devise some way for me to see him, when she said
that she would contrive to get him out on the porch under a side
window of the room, which she did, and I had the pleasure in this
way of seeing him. At night when I left he was asleep in his bed, and
before leaving I gave the little fellow a hug and kissed him farewell.
During the day members of the family would slip in and see me for
a few minutes, one at a time. I saw only five people to speak to
during my day’s visit. My father was at Nashville practicing law. He
had to do something to meet the necessities of a large and helpless
family. The large farm was in ruins, the stock was all taken, and
the servants had gone to the Yankees. My father had been arrested by
Andrew Johnson, who was military Governor of Tennessee, as a civil
prisoner and sent to Fort Mackinac, Mich. After an incarceration
of nearly a year, he was exchanged for Judge Ritter, of Kentucky.
Gen. John H. Morgan had arrested Ritter for the purpose of making
the exchange.
About four o’clock in the evening I was dozing upon the bed when
I heard loud talking. Glancing out of the window, I saw Federal
soldiers running through the yard in every direction in an excited
way. I at once concluded that they had been informed that I was in
the house, and that they were making their arrangements to kill or
capture me. I concluded at once to meet it as best I could. I hobbled
to a chair and, placing it in the room opposite the door, drew my
army pistol, clicked the cylinder around to see that all was right,
and, holding it under my coat so that it could not be seen, I awaited
the issue. I remained in this state of suspense ten or fifteen
minutes, I suppose, when my wife tiptoed into the room to inform me
that a citizen of Wilson County had come into Gallatin that day, that
the guard was after him to put him to work on the fortifications,
that he had evaded them and had run through the large yard full of
shrubbery to make his escape, and that everything was now quiet. I
do not know that I was ever more relieved by a piece of information.
The five individuals mentioned above continued to slip in and see
me until I left. They were much distressed that I could not take
clothing with me, which, of course, I sadly needed. However, they
managed to get me a soft pair of shoes to take the place of the army
boots that I had abandoned. I do not think I am exaggerating at all
when I say that if a corps of army surgeons had made an examination
of my person they would have unanimously reported that I would not
be able to move in ten days. Between nine and ten o’clock, all being
quiet, I got up and adjusted my clothing, haversack, and pistol,
and, taking my shoes in my hand, quietly walked down to my mother’s
room, where I was to meet them before leaving. I quietly unbolted
the door and walked in. I shall never forget that scene. It remains
in my memory yet as a “death watch.” All were weeping with smothered
sobbing. There was no occasion to remain longer now, so I immediately
commenced bidding them farewell. The last to meet me was my old
mother, who as she arose from the old family rocker and threw her
arms about my neck said in these never-to-be-forgotten words: “O,
my son! Do you not think your little army is already crushed and
overwhelmed? I sit here day after day thinking and praying for you
all and listening to the running of train after train of soldiers
from the North, and feel that you cannot withstand such numbers.” I
replied: “It is a gloomy outlook, indeed; but my duty as I feel it is
to return to my comrades, to share whatever fate may befall them.”
At that I stepped out into the dark and began my sad tramp again.
Somehow I felt stronger and better in getting out in the open air
once more. I concluded that I would go around the pickets this time
on their front. I stopped at a convenient stump and put on my shoes
for the first time. They were exactly what I needed; they were loose
upon my feet and gave me no annoyance. After traveling around, I
remembered my other pistol, and went toward the place I had hid it.
Upon reaching there, I searched and searched, but could not find it.
After passing through a cornfield and at a point where the lands of
my father and Mrs. Calgy joined, I noticed the tall weeds growing in
the corners of the fence. It was a first-rate hiding place, and was
inviting to rest, which I so much needed. The place was about half
a mile from my father’s house, where I concluded to avail myself
of a night’s rest and a day also before proceeding. I argued, too,
that if I should be captured out there, there would not be such dire
results--in other words, they would not interfere with the family. So
I crept into the high weeds, and in a few moments was fast asleep.
When I awoke it was late in the day--a calm, crisp September day
in 1864. I could hear the Federal forage wagons lumbering along the
pike, and the Federals actually came into the field, which was a
very large one, and gathered corn. I quietly lay in the weeds and
ate the lunch my folks had placed in my haversack, partaking pretty
freely of a bottle of blackberry wine, and then smoked my pipe. I
recollect while lying there to have heard the thunder of Wheeler’s
guns away across the Cumberland. When night came on I went back and
had no difficulty in finding my pistol. I felt much refreshed after
my night and day’s rest, but was absolutely perishing with thirst for
water. The bottle of wine had produced it, I suppose. I remembered
a wet-weather branch on Mrs. Calgy’s farm about a mile distant,
and I broke for it. It lay just along the way I was to travel. Upon
reaching it, I found a pool of muddy water. Kneeling down, I filled
my stomach with the vile stuff; but it did not slake my thirst a
particle, and smelled and tasted of a hog wallow strong enough to
kill one. I filled my empty wine bottle full, and hurried on to the
old spring on the Chambers farm, where my father was reared and
educated by his uncle, Colonel Conn, who lived another mile distant,
but still along my course of travel. Occasionally I would take a sip
from the bottle and wash out my mouth, which seemed to do some good;
and when I reached the spring, I filled my stomach full of the sweet
beverage, which at once did me great good. I had never before come so
near perishing for water, and I know now what it means to thirst.
Upon reaching the Hartsville Pike, I determined not to leave
it till I reached Anthony’s store, where I was to go on to the
Cumberland River, determining that if I met Federal scouts I would
conceal myself until the squad passed; and then if I chanced to
meet a straggler I would unhorse him and, mounting his horse, go at
breakneck speed till I reached the point on the river where my good
friend Mr. Walton was to come for me at a given signal. Fortunately,
I met no one and proceeded on foot till I reached the vicinity of
the river a little after daylight.
I found some difficulty in locating the exact place. Looking about,
I recognized the house of a lady and gentleman whom I knew well.
Having reached the time and place when I could throw off my disguise,
I went over to Mr. McMurtry’s house. He and his wife were glad to
see me. They had a good breakfast prepared, which I partook of very
liberally, telling Mr. McMurtry that Mr. Walton had promised to
meet me at the river on giving the usual signal. McMurtry seemed to
understand this “grapevine” way of doing, and went with me, giving
the customary signal himself. A few minutes later Walton came over
in his canoe. About the first words he spoke were to tell me that
Captain Grissim had been killed by a scout of Federal soldiers from
Carthage on the night I had promised to stay with him and rest before
going to Gallatin, that Grissim and two young recruits who were to
go to the army with him had all been killed in their mother’s yard
and in her presence, and that if I had consented to stay that night
I certainly would have been killed with them. He stated further that
later in the day, and after the scouts had left the neighborhood,
he had gone up there and was told where he could find my horse and
the servant, who were hiding out; that he had brought them down and
concealed them; that the country, he understood, was still full of
scouting Federal soldiers; and that I must go up to his house and
remain quietly till night, when he would go with me to get my horse.
Passing over the river, I did as he suggested. At night I mounted my
horse and proceeded toward Lebanon, where I expected to meet some
of our command. Before leaving I thanked Mr. Walton for his great
kindness; and having nothing to give, I reached in my haversack and,
taking out the beautiful little Smith & Wesson pistol, I gave it
to him to give to his wife with my thanks for her goodness and her
ever-to-be-remembered kindness to a stranger under difficulties.
I expected to close the details of this lengthy incident here, though
I do not know how I could have said less; but I feel that I should
tell one more hazard I encountered before reaching a point of safety,
and it is as follows:
More than a year ago an elderly lady came into my office and asked
if I was Mr. Guild. I replied that I was. Then she said: “I am the
woman you met when you called at my house, three miles from Lebanon,
on the Big Spring Road, in the fall of 1864, to inquire if there
were any Yankees at Lebanon. It has been more than forty-five years
ago. I moved to Texas soon after the war, and this is my first visit
to Tennessee since I left. I have heard from you occasionally since
through Tennesseeans I chanced to meet from time to time, and I
have frequently thought that if I ever returned to Tennessee I would
look you up. You remember the circumstances, don’t you?” I replied
that I could never forget them. She then proceeded to tell in her
own way that she saw me down on the road that night, and that I was
seeking information. Three Confederate soldiers of Colonel Starnes’s
regiment were sitting in the hall with me at the time. They had
been visiting their homes in the Rome neighborhood, and were there
when Captain Grissim and his young brother and nephew were killed
by Colonel Stokes’s soldiers from Carthage, and were in search of
their regiment. The Federal scouts, whom they were dodging in trying
to escape, were patrolling that section. “Yes,” I said, “I remember
to have seen them when they ran through the hallway into the back
yard.” “Yes,” she said, “when you dismounted and started up the walk
to the house, they seized their guns to get ready to shoot you, when
I jumped up and said: ‘Don’t shoot! It may be some acquaintance, and
I will go down and meet him to find out his business.’ At that they
rushed out of the house. When we met, you told me that your name was
Guild, that you were a Confederate soldier, and had been to Gallatin
for a few days to see your family, and that you were returning to
the army again. You then asked what the condition of things was at
Lebanon, and if there were Confederate or Federal soldiers about the
place. You said that you had come in with Captain Grissim, and that
upon returning to the neighborhood of Rome you learned of the killing
and had yourself been looking out for Federal scouts. In reply to
your question I said that I did not know, had not been there myself
or seen any one who had for the last day or so, and that everybody
was afraid to go.” Thanking her for the information, I returned to
my horse and mounted, proceeding toward Lebanon. She remained at my
office an hour, I suppose, in interesting conversation. She told me
her name, but, I am sorry to say, it has escaped my memory. I saw
her no more, and suppose that she returned to Texas after her visit.
On approaching Lebanon, a deathlike stillness prevailed. I could
see neither individuals nor lights about the streets or houses. The
numerous white houses glistened in the moonlight like a whitened
cemetery. I remembered where Mrs. Dolly Anderson McGregor lived.
She was the wife of Capt. Andrew McGregor and a sister of Lieutenant
Colonel Anderson, of the Fourth Tennessee Cavalry. She readily
informed me that a Georgia command of cavalry had passed down the
street toward Nashville about sundown. I concluded that they would
stop at the creek about a mile away to water or feed their horses
or probably to camp for the night. I hurried in that direction to
overtake them. As I approached Seawell Hill, near the residence of
Judge Abe Caruthers (now deceased), I came upon a picket. I went
forward and told them who I was, and found out that the Georgia
battalion had gone into camp for the night. I told them I was so
tired that I would lie down at the post and sleep till daylight,
when I would go forward and meet the major of their battalion, whom
I knew. I took advantage of the opportunity offered to review the
very successful campaign I had just finished; and, to be brief, I
wisely concluded that the army was the safest refuge in time of civil
war, and that if the war were to last a thousand years I would not
undertake a campaign “behind the lines” again. There were too many
unanticipated difficulties and hairbreadth escapes along the way.
The day that I spent at home was one of untold agonies to my family,
such as is hardly possible for human nature to endure. I could not
and would not impose it upon them again.