HUNDRED DAYS BATTLE
ROCKY FACE RIDGE
When I got back to Dalton, I found the Yankee army advancing; they were
at Rocky Face Ridge. Now, for old Joe's generalship. We have seen him
in camp, now we will see him in action. We are marched to meet the enemy;
we occupy Turner's Gap at Tunnel Hill. Now, come on, Mr. Yank--we are
keen for an engagement. It is like a picnic; the soldiers are ruddy and
fat, and strong; whoop! whoop! hurrah! come on, Mr. Yank. We form line
of battle on top of Rocky Face Ridge, and here we are face to face with
the enemy. Why don't you unbottle your thunderbolts and dash us to
pieces? Ha! here it comes; the boom of cannon and the bursting of a
shell in our midst. Ha! ha! give us another blizzard! Boom! boom!
That's all right, you ain't hurting nothing.
"Hold on, boys," says a sharpshooter, armed with a Whitworth gun, "I'll
stop that racket. Wait until I see her smoke again." Boom, boom! the
keen crack of the Whitworth rings upon the frosty morning air; the
cannoneers are seen to lie down; something is going on. "Yes, yonder is
a fellow being carried off on a litter." Bang! bang! goes the Whitworth,
and the battery is seen to limber to the rear. What next? a yell!
What does this yell mean? A charge right up the hill, and a little
sharp skirmish for a few moments. We can see the Yankee line. They are
resting on their arms. The valley below is full of blue coats, but a
little too far off to do any execution.
Old Joe walks along the line. He happens to see the blue coats in the
valley, in plain view. Company H is ordered to fire on them. We take
deliberate aim and fire a solid volley of minnie balls into their midst.
We see a terrible consplutterment among them, and know that we have
killed and wounded several of Sherman's incendiaries. They seem to get
mad at our audacity, and ten pieces of cannon are brought up, and pointed
right toward us. We see the smoke boil up, and a moment afterwards the
shell is roaring and bursting right among us. Ha! ha! ha! that's funny--
we love the noise of battle. Captain Joe P. Lee orders us to load and
fire at will upon these batteries. Our Enfields crack, keen and sharp;
and ha, ha, ha, look yonder! The Yankees are running away from their
cannon, leaving two pieces to take care of themselves. Yonder goes a
dash of our cavalry. They are charging right up in the midst of the
Yankee line. Three men are far in advance. Look out, boys! What does
that mean? Our cavalry are falling back, and the three men are cut off.
They will be captured, sure. They turn to get back to our lines.
We can see the smoke boil up, and hear the discharge of musketry from the
Yankee lines. One man's horse is seen to blunder and fall, one man reels
in his saddle, and falls a corpse, and the other is seen to surrender.
But, look yonder! the man's horse that blundered and fell is up again;
he mounts his horse in fifty yards of the whole Yankee line, is seen to
lie down on his neck, and is spurring him right on toward the solid line
of blue coats. Look how he rides, and the ranks of the blue coats open.
Hurrah for the brave rebel boy! He has passed and is seen to regain his
regiment. I afterwards learned that that brave Rebel boy was my own
brother, Dave, who at that time was not more than sixteen years old.
The one who was killed was named Grimes, and the one captured was named
Houser, and the regiment was the First Tennessee Cavalry, then commanded
by Colonel J. H. Lewis. You could have heard the cheers from both sides,
it seemed, for miles.
John Branch raised the tune, in which the whole First and Twenty-seventh
Regiments joined in:
"Cheer, boys, cheer, we are marching on to battle!
Cheer, boys, cheer, for our sweethearts and our wives!
Cheer, boys, cheer, we'll nobly do our duty,
And give to the South our hearts, our arms, our lives.
Old Lincoln, with his hireling hosts,
Will never whip the South,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom."
All this is taking place while the Yankees are fully one thousand yards
off. We can see every movement that is made, and we know that Sherman's
incendiaries are already hacked. Sherman himself is a coward, and dares
not try his strength with old Joe. Sherman never fights; all that he
is after is marching to the sea, while the world looks on and wonders:
"What a flank movement!" Yes, Sherman is afraid of minnie balls, and
tries the flank movement. We are ordered to march somewhere.
"FALLING BACK"
Old Joe knows what he is up to. Every night we change our position.
The morrow's sun finds us face to face with the Yankee lines. The troops
are in excellent spirits. Yonder are our "big guns," our cavalry--
Forrest and Wheeler--our sharpshooters, and here is our wagon and supply
train, right in our midst. The private's tread is light--his soul is
happy.
Another flank movement. Tomorrow finds us face to face. Well, you have
come here to fight us; why don't you come on? We are ready; always
ready. Everything is working like clockwork; machinery is all in order.
Come, give us a tilt, and let us try our metal. You say old Joe has got
the brains and you have got the men; you are going to flank us out of the
Southern Confederacy. That's your plan, is it? Well, look out; we are
going to pick off and decimate your men every day. You will be a picked
chicken before you do that.
What? The Yankees are at Resacca, and have captured the bridge across
the Oostanaula river. Well, now, that's business; that has the old ring
in it. Tell it to us again; we're fond of hearing such things.
The Yankees are tearing up the railroad track between the tank and
Resacca. Let's hear it again. The Yankees have opened the attack;
we are going to have a battle; we are ordered to strip for the fight.
(That is, to take off our knapsacks and blankets, and to detail Bev.
White to guard them.) Keep closed up, men. The skirmish line is firing
like popping fire-crackers on a Christmas morning. Every now and then
the boom of a cannon and the screaming of a shell. Ha, ha, ha! that has
the right ring. We will make Sherman's incendiaries tell another tale in
a few moments, when--"Halt! about face." Well, what's the matter now?
Simply a flank movement. All right; we march back, retake our knapsacks
and blankets, and commence to march toward Resacca. Tom Tucker's rooster
crows, and John Branch raises the tune, "Just Twenty Years Ago," and
after we sing that out, he winds up with, "There Was an Ancient
Individual Whose Cognomen Was Uncle Edward," and
"The old woman who kept a peanut stand,
And a big policeman stood by with a big stick in his hand,"
And Arthur Fulghum halloes out, "All right; go ahead! toot, toot, toot!
puff, puff, puff! Tickets, gentlemen, tickets!" and the Maury Grays
raise the yell, "All aboard for Culleoka," while Walker Coleman commences
the song, "I'se gwine to jine the rebel band, fightin' for my home."
Thus we go, marching back to Resacca.
BATTLE OF RESACCA
Well, you want to hear about shooting and banging, now, gentle reader,
don't you? I am sorry I cannot interest you on this subject--see history.
The Yankees had got breeches hold on us. They were ten miles in our rear;
had cut off our possibility of a retreat. The wire bridge was in their
hands, and they were on the railroad in our rear; but we were moving,
there was no mistake in that. Our column was firm and strong. There was
no excitement, but we were moving along as if on review. We passed old
Joe and his staff. He has on a light or mole colored hat, with a black
feather in it. He is listening to the firing going on at the front.
One little cheer, and the very ground seems to shake with cheers.
Old Joe smiles as blandly as a modest maid, raises his hat in
acknowledgement, makes a polite bow, and rides toward the firing.
Soon we are thrown into line of battle, in support of Polk's corps.
We belong to Hardee's corps. Now Polk's corps advances to the attack,
and Hardee's corps fifty or seventy-five yards in the rear. A thug, thug,
thug; the balls are decimating our men; we can't fire; Polk's corps is in
front of us; should it give way, then it will be our time. The air is
full of deadly missiles. We can see the two lines meet, and hear the
deadly crash of battle; can see the blaze of smoke and fire. The earth
trembles. Our little corps rush in to carry off our men as they are shot
down, killed and wounded. Lie down! thug, thug! General Hardee passes
along the line. "Steady, boys!" (The old general had on a white cravat;
he had been married to a young wife not more than three weeks). "Go back,
general, go back, go back, go back," is cried all along the line.
He passes through the missiles of death unscathed; stood all through that
storm of bullets indifferent to their proximity (we were lying down,
you know). The enemy is checked; yonder they fly, whipped and driven
from the field. "Attention! By the right flank, file left, march!
Double quick!" and we were double quicking, we knew not whither, but
that always meant fight. We pass over the hill, and through the valley,
and there is old Joe pointing toward the tank with his sword. (He looked
like the pictures you see hung upon the walls). We cross the railroad.
Halloo! here comes a cavalry charge from the Yankee line. Now for it;
we will see how Yankee cavalry fight. We are not supported; what is
the matter? Are we going to be captured? They thunder down upon us.
Their flat-footed dragoons shake and jar the earth. They are all around
us--we are surrounded. "Form square! Platoons, right and left wheel!
Kneel and fire!" There we were in a hollow square. The Yankees had
never seen anything like that before. It was something new. They
charged right upon us. Colonel Field, sitting on his gray mare, right in
the center of the hollow square, gives the command, "Front rank, kneel
and present bayonet against cavalry." The front rank knelt down, placing
the butts of their guns against their knees. "Rear rank, fire at will;
commence firing." Now, all this happened in less time than it has taken
me to write it. They charged right upon us, no doubt expecting to ride
right over us, and trample us to death with the hoofs of their horses.
They tried to spur and whip their horses over us, but the horses had more
sense than that. We were pouring a deadly fire right into their faces,
and soon men and horses were writhing in the death agonies; officers were
yelling at the top of their voices, "Surrender! surrender!" but we were
having too good a thing of it. We were killing them by scores, and they
could not fire at us; if they did they either overshot or missed their
aim. Their ranks soon began to break and get confused, and finally they
were routed, and broke and ran in all directions, as fast as their horses
could carry them.
When we re-formed our regiment and marched back, we found that General
Johnston's army had all passed over the bridge at Resacca. Now, reader,
this was one of our tight places. The First Tennessee Regiment was
always ordered to hold tight places, which we always did. We were about
the last troops that passed over.
Now, gentle reader, that is all I know of the battle of Resacca. We
had repulsed every charge, had crossed the bridge with every wagon, and
cannon, and everything, and had nothing lost or captured. It beat
anything that has ever been recorded in history. I wondered why old Joe
did not attack in their rear. The explanation was that Hood's line was
being enfiladed, his men decimated, and he could not hold his position.
We are still fighting; battles innumerable. The Yankees had thrown
pontoons across the river below Resacca, in hopes to intercept us on the
other side. We were marching on the road; they seemed to be marching
parallel with us. It was fighting, fighting, every day. When we awoke
in the morning, the firing of guns was our reveille, and when the sun
went down it was our "retreat and our lights out." Fighting, fighting,
fighting, all day and all night long. Battles were fought every day,
and in one respect we always had the advantage; they were the attacking
party, and we always had good breastworks thrown up during the night.
Johnston's army was still intact. The soldiers drew their regular
rations of biscuit and bacon, sugar and coffee, whisky and tobacco.
When we went to sleep we felt that old Joe, the faithful old watch dog,
had his eye on the enemy. No one was disposed to straggle and go back to
Company Q. (Company Q was the name for play-outs). They even felt safer
in the regular line than in the rear with Company Q.
Well as stated previously, it was battle, battle, battle, every day,
for one hundred days. The boom of cannon, and the rattle of musketry was
our reveille and retreat, and Sherman knew that it was no child's play.
Today, April 14, 1882, I say, and honestly say, that I sincerely believe
the combined forces of the whole Yankee nation could never have broken
General Joseph E. Johnston's line of battle, beginning at Rocky Face
Ridge, and ending on the banks of the Chattahoochee.
ADAIRSVILLE--OCTAGON HOUSE--THE FIRST TENNESSEE ALWAYS OCCUPIES TIGHT
PLACES
We had stacked our arms and gone into camp, and had started to build
fires to cook supper. I saw our cavalry falling back, I thought, rather
hurriedly. I ran to the road and asked them what was the matter?
They answered, "Matter enough; yonder are the Yankees, are you infantry
fellows going to make a stand here?" I told Colonel Field what had been
told to me, and he hooted at the idea; but balls that had shucks tied to
their tails were passing over, and our regiment was in the rear of the
whole army. I could hardly draw anyone's attention to the fact that the
cavalry had passed us, and that we were on the outpost of the whole army,
when an order came for our regiment to go forward as rapidly as possible
and occupy an octagon house in our immediate front. The Yankees were
about a hundred yards from the house on one side and we about a hundred
yards on the other. The race commenced as to which side would get to
the house first. We reached it, and had barely gotten in, when they were
bursting down the paling of the yard on the opposite side. The house
was a fine brick, octagon in shape, and as perfect a fort as could be
desired. We ran to the windows, upstairs, downstairs and in the cellar.
The Yankees cheered and charged, and our boys got happy. Colonel Field
told us he had orders to hold it until every man was killed, and never
to surrender the house. It was a forlorn hope. We felt we were
"gone fawn skins," sure enough. At every discharge of our guns,
we would hear a Yankee squall. The boys raised a tune--
"I'se gwine to jine the Rebel band,
A fighting for my home"--
as they loaded and shot their guns. Then the tune of--
"Cheer, boys, cheer, we are marching on to battle!
Cheer, boys, cheer, for our sweethearts and our wives!
Cheer, boys, cheer, we'll nobly do our duty,
And give to the South our hearts, our arms, our lives."
Our cartridges were almost gone, and Lieutenant Joe Carney, Joe Sewell,
and Billy Carr volunteered to go and bring a box of one thousand
cartridges. They got out of the back window, and through that hail of
iron and lead, made their way back with the box of cartridges. Our
ammunition being renewed, the fight raged on. Captain Joe P. Lee touched
me on the shoulder and said, "Sam, please let me have your gun for one
shot." He raised it to his shoulder and pulled down on a fine-dressed
cavalry officer, and I saw that Yankee tumble. He handed it back to me
to reload. About twelve o'clock, midnight, the Hundred and Fifty-fourth
Tennessee, commanded by Colonel McGevney, came to our relief.
The firing had ceased, and we abandoned the octagon house. Our dead and
wounded--there were thirty of them--were in strange contrast with the
furniture of the house. Fine chairs, sofas, settees, pianos and Brussels
carpeting being made the death-bed of brave and noble boys, all saturated
with blood. Fine lace and damask curtains, all blackened by the smoke
of battle. Fine bureaus and looking-glasses and furniture being riddled
by the rude missiles of war. Beautiful pictures in gilt frames, and a
library of valuable books, all shot and torn by musket and cannon balls.
Such is war.
KENNESAW LINE
The battles of the Kennesaw line were fought for weeks. Cannonading and
musketry firing was one continual thing. It seemed that shooting was the
order of the day, and pickets on both sides kept up a continual firing,
that sounded like ten thousand wood-choppers. Sometimes the wood-
choppers would get lazy or tired and there was a lull. But you could
always tell when the old guard had been relieved, by the accelerated
chops of the wood-choppers.
AM DETAILED TO GO INTO THE ENEMY'S LINES
One day our orderly sergeant informed me that it was my regular time to
go on duty, and to report to Captain Beasley, of the Twenty-seventh.
I reported to the proper place, and we were taken to the headquarters of
General Leonidas Polk. We had to go over into the enemy's lines, and
make such observations as we could, and report back by daylight in the
morning. Our instructions were to leave everything in camp except our
guns and cartridge-boxes. These were to be carried, but, under no
circumstances, to be used, except in case of death itself. We were
instructed to fall in in the rear of our relief guard, which would go out
about sunset; not to attract their attention, but to drop out one or two
at a time; to pass the Yankee picket as best we could, even if we had to
crawl on our bellies to do so; to go over in the Yankee lines, and to
find out all we could, without attracting attention, if possible.
These were our instructions. You may be sure my heart beat like a
muffled drum when I heard our orders.
I felt like making my will. But, like the boy who was passing the
graveyard, I tried to whistle to keep my spirits up. We followed the
relief guard, and one by one stepped off from the rear. I was with two
others, Arnold Zellner and T. C. Dornin. We found ourselves between the
picket lines of the two armies. Fortune seemed to favor us. It was just
getting dusky twilight, and we saw the relief guard of the Yankees just
putting on their picket. They seemed to be very mild, inoffensive
fellows. They kept a looking over toward the Rebel lines, and would
dodge if a twig cracked under their feet. I walked on as if I was just
relieved, and had passed their lines, when I turned back, and says I,
"Captain, what guard is this?" He answered, "Nien bocht, you bet,"
is what I understood him to say. "What regiment are you from?" "Ben
bicht mir ein riefel fab bien." "What regiment is your detail from?"
"Iet du mein got Donnermetter stefel switzer." I had to give it up--
I had run across the detail of a Dutch regiment. I passed on, and came
to the regular line of breastworks, and there was an old Irishman sitting
on a stump grinding coffee. "General McCook's brigade, be jabbers,"
he answered to my inquiry as to what regiment it was. Right in front of
me the line was full of Irish soldiers, and they were cooking supper.
I finally got over their breastworks, and was fearful I would run into
some camp or headquarter guard, and the countersign would be demanded of
me. I did not know what to do in that case--but I thought of the way
that I had gotten in hundreds of times before in our army, when I wanted
to slip the guard, and that was to get a gun, go to some cross street or
conspicuous place, halt the officer, and get the countersign. And while
standing near General Sherman's headquarters, I saw a courier come out
of his tent, get on his horse, and ride toward where I stood. As he
approached, says I, "Halt! who goes there?" "A friend with the
countersign." He advanced, and whispered in my ear the word "United."
He rode on. I had gotten their countersign, and felt I was no longer a
prisoner. I went all over their camp, and saw no demonstration of any
kind. Night had thrown her mantle over the encampment. I could plainly
see the sentinels on their weary vigils along the lines, but there was
none in their rear. I met and talked with a great many soldiers, but
could get no information from them.
About 2 o'clock at night, I saw a body of men approaching where I was.
Something told me that I had better get out of their way, but I did not.
The person in command said, "Say, there! you, sir; say, you, sir!"
Says I, "Are you speaking to me?" "Yes," very curtly and abruptly.
"What regiment do you belong to?" Says I, "One hundred and twenty-
seventh Illinois." "Well, sir, fall in here; I am ordered to take up all
stragglers. Fall in, fall in promptly!" Says I, "I am instructed by
General McCook to remain here and direct a courier to General Williams'
headquarters." He says, "It's a strange place for a courier to come to."
His command marched on. About an hour afterwards--about 3 o'clock--
I heard the assembly sound. I knew then that it was about time for me
to be getting out of the way. Soon their companies were forming, and
they were calling the roll everywhere. Everything had begun to stir.
Artillery men were hitching up their horses. Men were dashing about in
every direction. I saw their army form and move off. I got back into
our lines, and reported to General Polk.
He was killed that very day on the Kennesaw line. General Stephens was
killed the very next day.
Every now and then a dead picket was brought in. Times had begun to look
bilious, indeed. Their cannon seemed to be getting the best of ours in
every fight. The cannons of both armies were belching and bellowing at
each other, and the pickets were going it like wood choppers, in earnest.
We were entrenched behind strong fortifications. Our rations were cooked
and brought to us regularly, and the spirits of the army were in good
condition.
We continued to change position, and build new breastworks every night.
One-third of the army had to keep awake in the trenches, while the other
two-thirds slept. But everything was so systematized, that we did not
feel the fatigue.
PINE MOUNTAIN--DEATH OF GENERAL LEONIDAS POLK
General Leonidas Polk, our old leader, whom we had followed all through
that long war, had gone forward with some of his staff to the top of Pine
Mountain, to reconnoiter, as far as was practicable, the position of the
enemy in our front. While looking at them with his field glass, a solid
shot from the Federal guns struck him on his left breast, passing through
his body and through his heart. I saw him while the infirmary corps
were bringing him off the field. He was as white as a piece of marble,
and a most remarkable thing about him was, that not a drop of blood was
ever seen to come out of the place through which the cannon ball had
passed. My pen and ability is inadequate to the task of doing his memory
justice. Every private soldier loved him. Second to Stonewall Jackson,
his loss was the greatest the South ever sustained. When I saw him there
dead, I felt that I had lost a friend whom I had ever loved and respected,
and that the South had lost one of her best and greatest generals.
His soldiers always loved and honored him. They called him "Bishop Polk."
"Bishop Polk" was ever a favorite with the army, and when any position
was to be held, and it was known that "Bishop Polk" was there, we knew
and felt that "all was well."
GOLGOTHA CHURCH--GENERAL LUCIUS E. POLK WOUNDED
On this Kennesaw line, near Golgotha Church, one evening about 4 o'clock,
our Confederate line of battle and the Yankee line came in close
proximity. If I mistake not, it was a dark, drizzly, rainy evening.
The cannon balls were ripping and tearing through the bushes. The two
lines were in plain view of each other. General Pat Cleburne was at this
time commanding Hardee's corps, and General Lucius E. Polk was in command
of Cleburne's division. General John C. Brown's division was supporting
Cleburne's division, or, rather, "in echelon." Every few moments,
a raking fire from the Yankee lines would be poured into our lines,
tearing limbs off the trees, and throwing rocks and dirt in every
direction; but I never saw a soldier quail, or even dodge. We had
confidence in old Joe, and were ready to march right into the midst of
battle at a moment's notice. While in this position, a bomb, loaded
with shrapnel and grapeshot, came ripping and tearing through our ranks,
wounding General Lucius E. Polk, and killing some of his staff. And,
right here, I deem it not inappropriate to make a few remarks as to the
character and appearance of so brave and gallant an officer. At this
time he was about twenty-five years old, with long black hair, that
curled, a gentle and attractive black eye that seemed to sparkle with
love rather than chivalry, and were it not for a young moustache and
goatee that he usually wore, he would have passed for a beautiful girl.
In his manner he was as simple and guileless as a child, and generous
almost to a fault. Enlisting in the First Arkansas Regiment as a private
soldier, and serving for twelve months as orderly sergeant; at the
reorganization he was elected colonel of the regiment, and afterwards,
on account of merit and ability, was commissioned brigadier-general;
distinguishing himself for conspicuous bravery and gallantry on every
battlefield, and being "scalped" by a minnie ball at Richmond, Kentucky--
which scar marks its furrow on top of his head today. In every battle
he was engaged in, he led his men to victory, or held the enemy at bay,
while the surge of battle seemed against us; he always seemed the
successful general, who would snatch victory out of the very jaws of
defeat. In every battle, Polk's brigade, of Cleburne's division,
distinguished itself, almost making the name of Cleburne as the Stonewall
of the West. Polk was to Cleburne what Murat or the old guard was to
Napoleon. And, at the battle of Chickamauga, when it seemed that the
Southern army had nearly lost the battle, General Lucius E. Polk's
brigade made the most gallant charge of the war, turning the tide of
affairs, and routing the Yankee army. General Polk himself led the
charge in person, and was the first man on top of the Yankee breastworks
(_vide_ General D. H. Hill's report of the battle of Chickamauga),
and in every attack he had the advance guard, and in every retreat,
the rear guard of the army. Why? Because General Lucius E. Polk and
his brave soldiers _never_ faltered, and with him as leader, the general
commanding the army knew that "all was well."
Well, this evening of which I now write, the litter corps ran up and
placed him on a litter, and were bringing him back through Company H,
of our regiment, when one of the men was wounded, and I am not sure but
another one was killed, and they let him fall to the ground. At that
time, the Yankees seemed to know that they had killed or wounded a
general, and tore loose their batteries upon this point. The dirt and
rocks were flying in every direction, when Captain Joe P. Lee, Jim
Brandon and myself, ran forward, grabbed up the litter, brought General
Polk off the crest of the hill, and assisted in carrying him to the
headquarters of General Cleburne. When we got to General Cleburne,
he came forward and asked General Polk if he was badly wounded, and
General Polk remarked, laughingly: "Well, I think I will be able to get a
furlough now." This is a fact. General Polk's leg had been shot almost
entirely off. I remember the foot part being twisted clear around,
and lying by his side, while the blood was running through the litter in
a perfect stream. I remember, also, that General Cleburne dashed a tear
from his eye with his hand, and saying, "Poor fellow," at once galloped
to the front, and ordered an immediate advance of our lines. Cleburne's
division was soon engaged. Night coming on, prevented a general
engagement, but we drove the Yankee line two miles.
"DEAD ANGLE"
The First and Twenty-seventh Tennessee Regiments will ever remember the
battle of "Dead Angle," which was fought June 27th, on the Kennesaw line,
near Marietta, Georgia. It was one of the hottest and longest days of
the year, and one of the most desperate and determinedly resisted battles
fought during the whole war. Our regiment was stationed on an angle,
a little spur of the mountain, or rather promontory of a range of hills,
extending far out beyond the main line of battle, and was subject to the
enfilading fire of forty pieces of artillery of the Federal batteries.
It seemed fun for the guns of the whole Yankee army to play upon this
point. We would work hard every night to strengthen our breastworks,
and the very next day they would be torn down smooth with the ground
by solid shots and shells from the guns of the enemy. Even the little
trees and bushes which had been left for shade, were cut down as so much
stubble. For more than a week this constant firing had been kept up
against this salient point. In the meantime, the skirmishing in the
valley below resembled the sounds made by ten thousand wood-choppers.
Well, on the fatal morning of June 27th, the sun rose clear and cloudless,
the heavens seemed made of brass, and the earth of iron, and as the sun
began to mount toward the zenith, everything became quiet, and no sound
was heard save a peckerwood on a neighboring tree, tapping on its old
trunk, trying to find a worm for his dinner. We all knew it was but the
dead calm that precedes the storm. On the distant hills we could plainly
see officers dashing about hither and thither, and the Stars and Stripes
moving to and fro, and we knew the Federals were making preparations for
the mighty contest. We could hear but the rumbling sound of heavy guns,
and the distant tread of a marching army, as a faint roar of the coming
storm, which was soon to break the ominous silence with the sound of
conflict, such as was scarcely ever before heard on this earth. It
seemed that the archangel of Death stood and looked on with outstretched
wings, while all the earth was silent, when all at once a hundred guns
from the Federal line opened upon us, and for more than an hour they
poured their solid and chain shot, grape and shrapnel right upon this
salient point, defended by our regiment alone, when, all of a sudden,
our pickets jumped into our works and reported the Yankees advancing,
and almost at the same time a solid line of blue coats came up the hill.
I discharged my gun, and happening to look up, there was the beautiful
flag of the Stars and Stripes flaunting right in my face, and I heard
John Branch, of the Rock City Guards, commanded by Captain W. D. Kelly,
who were next Company H, say, "Look at that Yankee flag; shoot that
fellow; snatch that flag out of his hand!" My pen is unable to describe
the scene of carnage and death that ensued in the next two hours.
Column after column of Federal soldiers were crowded upon that line,
and by referring to the history of the war you will find they were massed
in column forty columns deep; in fact, the whole force of the Yankee army
was hurled against this point, but no sooner would a regiment mount our
works than they were shot down or surrendered, and soon we had every
"gopher hole" full of Yankee prisoners. Yet still the Yankees came.
It seemed impossible to check the onslaught, but every man was true
to his trust, and seemed to think that at that moment the whole
responsibility of the Confederate government was rested upon his
shoulders. Talk about other battles, victories, shouts, cheers, and
triumphs, but in comparison with this day's fight, all others dwarf
into insignificance. The sun beaming down on our uncovered heads, the
thermometer being one hundred and ten degrees in the shade, and a solid
line of blazing fire right from the muzzles of the Yankee guns being
poured right into our very faces, singeing our hair and clothes, the hot
blood of our dead and wounded spurting on us, the blinding smoke and
stifling atmosphere filling our eyes and mouths, and the awful concussion
causing the blood to gush out of our noses and ears, and above all,
the roar of battle, made it a perfect pandemonium. Afterward I heard a
soldier express himself by saying that he thought "Hell had broke loose
in Georgia, sure enough."
I have heard men say that if they ever killed a Yankee during the war
they were not aware of it. I am satisfied that on this memorable day,
every man in our regiment killed from one score to four score, yea,
five score men. I mean from twenty to one hundred each. All that was
necessary was to load and shoot. In fact, I will ever think that the
reason they did not capture our works was the impossibility of their
living men passing over the bodies of their dead. The ground was piled
up with one solid mass of dead and wounded Yankees. I learned afterwards
from the burying squad that in some places they were piled up like cord
wood, twelve deep.
After they were time and time again beaten back, they at last were
enabled to fortify a line under the crest of the hill, only thirty yards
from us, and they immediately commenced to excavate the earth with the
purpose of blowing up our line.
We remained here three days after the battle. In the meantime the woods
had taken fire, and during the nights and days of all that time continued
to burn, and at all times, every hour of day and night, you could hear
the shrieks and screams of the poor fellows who were left on the field,
and a stench, so sickening as to nauseate the whole of both armies,
arose from the decaying bodies of the dead left lying on the field.
On the third morning the Yankees raised a white flag, asked an armistice
to bury their dead, not for any respect either army had for the dead,
but to get rid of the sickening stench. I get sick now when I happen to
think about it. Long and deep trenches were dug, and hooks made from
bayonets crooked for the purpose, and all the dead were dragged and
thrown pell mell into these trenches. Nothing was allowed to be taken
off the dead, and finely dressed officers, with gold watch chains
dangling over their vests, were thrown into the ditches. During the
whole day both armies were hard at work, burying the Federal dead.
Every member of the First and Twenty-seventh Tennessee Regiments deserves
a wreath of imperishable fame, and a warm place in the hearts of their
countrymen, for their gallant and heroic valor at the battle of Dead
Angle. No man distinguished himself above another. All did their duty,
and the glory of one is but the glory and just tribute of the others.
After we had abandoned the line, and on coming to a little stream of
water, I undressed for the purpose of bathing, and after undressing
found my arm all battered and bruised and bloodshot from my wrist to my
shoulder, and as sore as a blister. I had shot one hundred and twenty
times that day. My gun became so hot that frequently the powder would
flash before I could ram home the ball, and I had frequently to exchange
my gun for that of a dead comrade.
Colonel H. R. Field was loading and shooting the same as any private in
the ranks when he fell off the skid from which he was shooting right
over my shoulder, shot through the head. I laid him down in the trench,
and he said, "Well, they have got me at last, but I have killed fifteen
of them; time about is fair play, I reckon." But Colonel Field was
not killed--only wounded, and one side paralyzed. Captain Joe P. Lee,
Captain Mack Campbell, Lieutenant T. H. Maney, and other officers of the
regiment, threw rocks and beat them in their faces with sticks. The
Yankees did the same. The rocks came in upon us like a perfect hail
storm, and the Yankees seemed very obstinate, and in no hurry to get away
from our front, and we had to keep up the firing and shooting them down
in self-defense. They seemed to walk up and take death as coolly as if
they were automatic or wooden men, and our boys did not shoot for the fun
of the thing. It was, verily, a life and death grapple, and the least
flicker on our part, would have been sure death to all. We could not be
reinforced on account of our position, and we had to stand up to the rack,
fodder or no fodder. When the Yankees fell back, and the firing ceased,
I never saw so many broken down and exhausted men in my life. I was as
sick as a horse, and as wet with blood and sweat as I could be, and many
of our men were vomiting with excessive fatigue, over-exhaustion, and
sunstroke; our tongues were parched and cracked for water, and our faces
blackened with powder and smoke, and our dead and wounded were piled
indiscriminately in the trenches. There was not a single man in the
company who was not wounded, or had holes shot through his hat and
clothing. Captain Beasley was killed, and nearly all his company killed
and wounded. The Rock City Guards were almost piled in heaps and so was
our company. Captain Joe P. Lee was badly wounded. Poor Walter Hood and
Jim Brandon were lying there among us, while their spirits were in heaven;
also, William A. Hughes, my old mess-mate and friend, who had clerked
with me for S. F. & J. M. Mayes, and who had slept with me for lo! these
many years, and a boy who loved me more than any other person on earth
has ever done. I had just discharged the contents of my gun into the
bosoms of two men, one right behind the other, killing them both, and was
re-loading, when a Yankee rushed upon me, having me at a disadvantage,
and said, "You have killed my two brothers, and now I've got you."
Everything I had ever done rushed through my mind. I heard the roar,
and felt the flash of fire, and saw my more than friend, William
A. Hughes, grab the muzzle of the gun, receiving the whole contents in
his hand and arm, and mortally wounding him. Reader, he died for me.
In saving my life, he lost his own. When the infirmary corps carried him
off, all mutilated and bleeding he told them to give me "Florence Fleming"
(that was the name of his gun, which he had put on it in silver letters),
and to give me his blanket and clothing. He gave his life for me,
and everything that he had. It was the last time that I ever saw him,
but I know that away up yonder, beyond the clouds, blackness, tempest
and night, and away above the blue vault of heaven, where the stars keep
their ceaseless vigils, away up yonder in the golden city of the New
Jerusalem, where God and Jesus Christ, our Savior, ever reign, we will
sometime meet at the marriage supper of the Son of God, who gave His life
for the redemption of the whole world.
For several nights they made attacks upon our lines, but in every attempt,
they were driven back with great slaughter. They would ignite the tape
of bomb shells, and throw them over in our lines, but, if the shell did
not immediately explode, they were thrown back. They had a little shell
called _hand grenade_, but they would either stop short of us, or go
over our heads, and were harmless. General Joseph E. Johnston sent us a
couple of _chevaux-de-frise_. When they came, a detail of three men had
to roll them over the works. Those three men were heroes. Their names
were Edmund Brandon, T. C. Dornin, and Arnold Zellner. Although it was
a solemn occasion, every one of us was convulsed with laughter at the
ridiculous appearance and actions of the detail. Every one of them made
their wills and said their prayers truthfully and honestly, before they
undertook the task. I laugh now every time I think of the ridiculous
appearance of the detail, but to them it was no laughing matter. I
will say that they were men who feared not, nor faltered in their duty.
They were men, and today deserve the thanks of the people of the South.
That night about midnight, an alarm was given that the Yankees were
advancing. They would only have to run about twenty yards before they
would be in our works. We were ordered to "shoot." Every man was
hallooing at the top of his voice, "Shoot, shoot, tee, shoot, shootee."
On the alarm, both the Confederate and Federal lines opened, with both
small arms and artillery, and it seemed that the very heavens and earth
were in a grand conflagration, as they will be at the final judgment,
after the resurrection. I have since learned that this was a false alarm,
and that no attack had been meditated.
Previous to the day of attack, the soldiers had cut down all the trees in
our immediate front, throwing the tops down hill and sharpening the limbs
of the same, thus making, as we thought, an impenetrable abattis of vines
and limbs locked together; but nothing stopped or could stop the advance
of the Yankee line, but the hot shot and cold steel that we poured into
their faces from under our head-logs.
One of the most shameful and cowardly acts of Yankee treachery was
committed there that I ever remember to have seen. A wounded Yankee was
lying right outside of our works, and begging most piteously for water,
when a member of the railroad company (his name was Hog Johnson, and
the very man who stood videt with Theodore Sloan and I at the battle of
Missionary Ridge, and who killed the three Yankees, one night, from Fort
Horsley), got a canteen of water, and gave the dying Yankee a drink,
and as he started back, he was killed dead in his tracks by a treacherous
Yankee hid behind a tree. It matters not, for somewhere in God's Holy
Word, which cannot lie, He says that "He that giveth a cup of cold water
in my name, shall not lose his reward." And I have no doubt, reader,
in my own mind, that the poor fellow is reaping his reward in Emanuel's
land with the good and just. In every instance where we tried to assist
their wounded, our men were killed or wounded. A poor wounded and dying
boy, not more than sixteen years of age, asked permission to crawl over
our works, and when he had crawled to the top, and just as Blair Webster
and I reached up to help the poor fellow, he, the Yankee, was killed by
his own men. In fact, I have ever thought that is why the slaughter was
so great in our front, that nearly, if not as many, Yankees were killed
by their own men as by us. The brave ones, who tried to storm and carry
our works, were simply between two fires. It is a singular fanaticism,
and curious fact, that enters the mind of a soldier, that it is a grand
and glorious death to die on a victorious battlefield. One morning the
Sixth and Ninth Regiments came to our assistance--not to relieve us--
but only to assist us, and every member of our regiment--First and
Twenty-seventh--got as mad as a "wet hen." They felt almost insulted,
and I believe we would soon have been in a free fight, had they not been
ordered back. As soon as they came up every one of us began to say,
"Go back! go back! we can hold this place, and by the eternal God we
are not going to leave it." General Johnston came there to look at the
position, and told us that a transverse line was about one hundred yards
in our rear, and should they come on us too heavy to fall back to that
line, when almost every one of us said, "You go back and look at other
lines, this place is safe, and can never be taken." And then when they
had dug a tunnel under us to blow us up, we laughed, yea, even rejoiced,
at the fact of soon being blown sky high. Yet, not a single man was
willing to leave his post. When old Joe sent us the two _chevaux-de-
frise_, and kept on sending us water, and rations, and whisky, and
tobacco, and word to hold our line, we would invariably send word back to
rest easy, and that all is well at Dead Angle. I have ever thought that
is one reason why General Johnston fell back from this Kennesaw line,
and I will say today, in 1882, that while we appreciated his sympathies
and kindness toward us, yet we did not think hard of old Joe for having
so little confidence in us at that time. A perfect hail of minnie
balls was being continually poured into our head-logs the whole time we
remained here. The Yankees would hold up small looking-glasses, so that
our strength and breastworks could be seen in the reflection in the glass;
and they also had small mirrors on the butts of their guns, so arranged
that they could hight up the barrels of their guns by looking through
these glasses, while they themselves would not be exposed to our fire,
and they kept up this continual firing day and night, whether they could
see us or not. Sometimes a glancing shot from our head-logs would wound
some one.
But I cannot describe it as I would wish. I would be pleased to mention
the name of every soldier, not only of Company H alone, but every man in
the First and Twenty-seventh Tennessee Consolidated Regiments on this
occasion, but I cannot now remember their names, and will not mention
any one in particular, fearing to do injustice to some whom I might
inadvertently omit. Every man and every company did their duty. Company
G, commanded by Captain Mack Campbell, stood side by side with us on this
occasion, as they ever had during the whole war. But soldiers of the
First and Twenty-seventh Regiments, it is with a feeling of pride and
satisfaction to me, today, that I was associated with so many noble and
brave men, and who were subsequently complimented by Jeff Davis, then
President of the Confederate States of America, in person, who said,
"That every member of our regiment was fit to be a captain"--his very
words. I mention Captain W. C. Flournoy, of Company K, the Martin Guards;
Captain Ledbetter, of the Rutherford Rifles; Captains Kelly and Steele,
of the Rock City Guards, and Captain Adkisson, of the Williamson Grays,
and Captain Fulcher, and other names of brave and heroic men, some of
whom live today, but many have crossed the dark river and are "resting
under the shade of the trees" on the other shore, waiting and watching
for us, who are left to do justice to their memory and our cause, and
when we old Rebels have accomplished God's purpose on earth, we, too,
will be called to give an account of our battles, struggles, and triumphs.
Reader mine, I fear that I have wearied you with too long a description
of the battle of "Dead Angle," if so, please pardon me, as this is
but a sample of the others which will now follow each other in rapid
succession. And, furthermore, in stating the above facts, the half has
not been told, but it will give you a faint idea of the hard battles and
privations and hardships of the soldiers in that stormy epoch--who died,
grandly, gloriously, nobly; dyeing the soil of old mother earth, and
enriching the same with their crimson life's blood, while doing what?
Only trying to protect their homes and families, their property, their
constitution and their laws, that had been guaranteed to them as a
heritage forever by their forefathers. They died for the faith that
each state was a separate sovereign government, as laid down by the
Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of our fathers.
BATTLE OF NEW HOPE CHURCH
We were on a forced march along a dusty road. I never in my whole life
saw more dust. The dust fairly popped under our feet, like tramping in
a snow-drift, and our eyes, and noses, and mouths, were filled with the
dust that arose from our footsteps, and to make matters worse, the boys
all tried to kick up a "bigger dust." Cavalry and artillery could not be
seen at ten paces, being perfectly enveloped in dust. It was a perfect
fog of dust. We were marching along, it then being nearly dark, when we
heard the hoarse boom of a cannon in our rear. It sounded as if it had
a bad attack of croup. It went, "Croup, croup, croup." The order was
given to "about face, double quick, march." We double quicked back to
the old church on the road side, when the First Tennessee Cavalry,
commanded by Colonel Lewis, and the Ninth Battalion, commanded by Major
James H. Akin, passed us, and charged the advance of the Federal forces.
We were supporting the cavalry. We heard them open. Deadly missiles
were flying in every direction. The peculiar thud of spent balls and
balls with shucks tied to their tails were passing over our heads.
We were expecting that the cavalry would soon break, and that we would be
ordered into action. But the news came from the front, that the cavalry
were not only holding their position, but were driving the enemy.
The earth jarred and trembled; the fire fiend seemed unchained; wounded
men were coming from the front. I asked the litter corps, "Who have you
there?" And one answered, "Captain Asa G. Freeman." I asked if he was
dangerously wounded, and he simply said, "Shot through both thighs,"
and passed on. About this time we heard the whoops and cheers of the
cavalry, and knew that the Yankees were whipped and falling back.
We marched forward and occupied the place held by the cavalry. The trees
looked as if they had been cut down for new ground, being mutilated and
shivered by musket and cannon balls. Horses were writhing in their death
agony, and the sickening odor of battle filled the air. Well, well,
those who go to battle may expect to die. An halo ever surrounds the
soldier's life, because he is ever willing to die for his country.
BATTLE OF DALLAS--BRECKINRIDGE CHARGES THE HEIGHTS
We are ordered to march to Dallas.
Reader, somehow the name and character of General John C. Breckinridge
charms me. That morning he looked grand and glorious. His infantry,
artillery, and cavalry were drawn up in line of battle in our immediate
front. He passed along the line, and stopping about the center of the
column, said, "Soldiers, we have been selected to go forward and capture
yon heights. Do you think we can take them? I will lead the attack."
The men whooped, and the cry, "We can, we can," was heard from one end of
the line to the other. Then, "Forward, guide center, march!" were words
re-repeated by colonels and captains. They debouched through the woods,
and passed out of sight in a little ravine, when we saw them emerge in an
open field and advance right upon the Federal breastworks. It was the
grandest spectacle I ever witnessed. We could see the smoke and dust
of battle, and hear the shout of the charge, and the roar and rattle of
cannon and musketry. But Breckinridge's division continued to press
forward, without wavering or hesitating. We can see the line of dead
and wounded along the track over which he passed, and finally we see our
battle flag planted upon the Federal breastworks. I cannot describe the
scene. If you, reader, are an old soldier, you can appreciate my failure
to give a pen picture of battle. But Breckinridge could not long hold
his position. Why we were not ordered forward to follow up his success,
I do not know; but remember, reader, I am not writing history. I try
only to describe events as I witnessed them.
We marched back to the old church on the roadside, called New Hope church,
and fortified, occupying the battlefield of the day before. The stench
and sickening odor of dead men and horses were terrible. We had to
breathe the putrid atmosphere.
The next day, Colonel W. M. Voorhies' Forty-eighth Tennessee Regiment
took position on our right. Now, here were all the Maury county boys got
together at New Hope church. I ate dinner with Captain Joe Love, and
Frank Frierson filled my haversack with hardtack and bacon.
BATTLE OF ZION CHURCH, JULY 4TH, 1864
The 4th day of July, twelve months before, Pemberton had surrendered
twenty-five thousand soldiers, two hundred pieces of artillery, and other
munitions of war in proportion, at Vicksburg. The Yankees wanted to
celebrate the day. They thought it was their lucky day; but old Joe
thought he had as much right to celebrate the Sabbath day of American
Independence as the Yankees had, and we celebrated it. About dawn,
continued boom of cannon reverberated over the hills as if firing a
Fourth of July salute. I was standing on top of our works, leveling them
off with a spade. A sharpshooter fired at me, but the ball missed me
and shot William A. Graham through the heart. He was as noble and brave
a soldier as ever drew the breath of life, and lacked but a few votes
of being elected captain of Company H, at the reorganization. He was
smoking his pipe when he was shot. We started to carry him to the rear,
but he remarked, "Boys, it is useless; please lay me down and let me die."
I have never in my life seen any one meet death more philosophically.
He was dead in a moment. General A. J. Vaughan, commanding General
Preston Smith's brigade, had his foot shot off by a cannon ball a few
minutes afterwards.
It seemed that both Confederate and Federal armies were celebrating the
Fourth of July. I cannot now remember a more severe artillery duel.
Two hundred cannon were roaring and belching like blue blazes. It was
but a battle of cannonade all day long. It seemed as though the
Confederate and Federal cannons were talking to each other. Sometimes a
ball passing over would seem to be mad, then again some would seem to be
laughing, some would be mild, some sad, some gay, some sorrowful, some
rollicking and jolly; and then again some would scream like the ghosts of
the dead. In fact, they gave forth every kind of sound that you could
imagine. It reminded one of when two storms meet in mid-ocean--the
mountain billows of waters coming from two directions, lash against the
vessel's side, while the elements are filled with roaring, thundering and
lightning. You could almost feel the earth roll and rock like a drunken
man, or a ship, when she rides the billows in an awful storm. It seemed
that the earth was frequently moved from its foundations, and you could
hear it grate as it moved. But all through that storm of battle, every
soldier stood firm, for we knew that old Joe was at the helm.
KINGSTON
Here General Johnston issued his first battle order, that thus far he
had gone and intended to go no further. His line of battle was formed;
his skirmish line was engaged; the artillery was booming from the Rebel
lines. Both sides were now face to face. There were no earthworks on
either side. It was to be an open field and a fair fight, when--"Fall
back!" What's the matter? I do not know how we got the news, but here
is what is told us--and so it was, every position we ever took. When we
fell back the news would be, "Hood's line is being enfiladed, and they
are decimating his men, and he can't hold his position." But we fell
back and took a position at
CASSVILLE
Our line of battle was formed at Cassville. I never saw our troops
happier or more certain of success. A sort of grand halo illumined every
soldier's face. You could see self-confidence in the features of every
private soldier. We were confident of victory and success. It was like
going to a frolic or a wedding. Joy was welling up in every heart.
We were going to whip and rout the Yankees. It seemed to be anything
else than a fight. The soldiers were jubilant. Gladness was depicted on
every countenance. I honestly believe that had a battle been fought at
this place, every soldier would have distinguished himself. I believe
a sort of fanaticism had entered their souls, that whoever was killed
would at once be carried to the seventh heaven. I am sure of one thing,
that every soldier had faith enough in old Joe to have charged Sherman's
whole army. When "Halt!" "Retreat!" What is the matter? General Hood
says they are enfilading his line, and are decimating his men, and he
can't hold his position.
The same old story repeats itself. Old Joe's army is ever face to face
with Sherman's incendiaries. We have faith in old Joe's ability to meet
Sherman whenever he dares to attack. The soldiers draw their regular
rations. Every time a blue coat comes in sight, there is a dead Yankee
to bury. Sherman is getting cautious, his army hacked. Thus we continue
to fall back for four months, day by day, for one hundred and ten days,
fighting every day and night.
ON THE BANKS OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE
Our army had crossed the Chattahoochee. The Federal army was on the
other side; our pickets on the south side, the Yankees on the north side.
By a tacit agreement, as had ever been the custom, there was no firing
across the stream. That was considered the boundary. It mattered not
how large or small the stream, pickets rarely fired at each other.
We would stand on each bank, and laugh and talk and brag across the
stream.
One day, while standing on the banks of the Chattahoochee, a Yankee
called out:
"Johnny, O, Johnny, O, Johnny Reb."
Johnny answered, "What do you want?"
"You are whipped, aren't you?"
"No. The man who says that is a liar, a scoundrel, and a coward."
"Well, anyhow, Joe Johnston is relieved of the command."
"What?"
"General Joseph E. Johnston is relieved."
"What is that you say?"
"General Joseph E. Johnston is relieved, and Hood appointed in his place."
"You are a liar, and if you will come out and show yourself I will shoot
you down in your tracks, you lying Yankee galloot."
"That's more than I will stand. If the others will hands off, I will
fight a duel with you. Now, show your manhood."
Well, reader, every word of this is true, as is everything in this book.
Both men loaded their guns and stepped out to their plates. They were
both to load and fire at will, until one or both were killed. They took
their positions without either trying to get the advantage of the other.
Then some one gave the command to "Fire at will; commence firing."
They fired seven shots each; at the seventh shot, poor Johnny Reb fell a
corpse, pierced through the heart.
REMOVAL OF GENERAL JOSEPH E. JOHNSTON
Such was the fact. General Joseph E. Johnston had been removed and
General J. B. Hood appointed to take command. Generals Hardee and
Kirby Smith, two old veterans, who had been identified with the Army of
Tennessee from the beginning, resigned. We had received the intelligence
from the Yankees.
The relief guard confirmed the report.
All the way from Rocky Face Ridge to Atlanta was a battle of a hundred
days, yet Hood's line was all the time enfiladed and his men decimated,
and he could not hold his position. Old Joe Johnston had taken command
of the Army of Tennessee when it was crushed and broken, at a time when
no other man on earth could have united it. He found it in rags and
tatters, hungry and heart-broken, the morale of the men gone, their
manhood vanished to the winds, their pride a thing of the past. Through
his instrumentality and skillful manipulation, all these had been
restored. We had been under his command nearly twelve months. He was
more popular with his troops day by day. We had made a long and arduous
campaign, lasting four months; there was not a single day in that four
months that did not find us engaged in battle with the enemy. History
does not record a single instance of where one of his lines was ever
broken--not a single rout. He had not lost a single piece of artillery;
he had dealt the enemy heavy blows; he was whipping them day by day,
yet keeping his own men intact; his men were in as good spirits and as
sure of victory at the end of four months as they were at the beginning;
instead of the army being depleted, it had grown in strength. 'Tis true,
he had fallen back, but it was to give his enemy the heavier blows.
He brought all the powers of his army into play; ever on the defensive,
'tis true, yet ever striking his enemy in his most vulnerable part.
His face was always to the foe. They could make no movement in which
they were not anticipated. Such a man was Joseph E. Johnston, and such
his record. Farewell, old fellow! We privates loved you because you
made us love ourselves. Hardee, our old corps commander, whom we had
followed for nearly four years, and whom we had loved and respected from
the beginning, has left us. Kirby Smith has resigned and gone home.
The spirit of our good and honored Leonidas Polk is in heaven, and his
body lies yonder on the Kennesaw line. General Breckinridge and other
generals resigned. I lay down my pen; I can write no more; my heart is
too full. Reader, this is the saddest chapter I ever wrote.
But now, after twenty years, I can see where General Joseph E. Johnston
made many blunders in not attacking Sherman's line at some point.
He was better on the defensive than the aggressive, and hence, _bis
peccare in bello non licet_.
GENERAL HOOD TAKES COMMAND
It came like a flash of lightning, staggering and blinding every one.
It was like applying a lighted match to an immense magazine. It was like
the successful gambler, flushed with continual winnings, who staked his
all and lost. It was like the end of the Southern Confederacy. Things
that were, were not. It was the end. The soldier of the relief guard
who brought us the news while picketing on the banks of the Chattahoochee,
remarked, by way of imparting gently the information--
"Boys, we've fought all the war for nothing. There is nothing for us in
store now."
"What's the matter now?"
"General Joe Johnston is relieved, Generals Hardee and Kirby Smith has
resigned, and General Hood is appointed to take command of the Army of
Tennessee."
"My God! is that so?"
"It is certainly a fact."
"Then I'll never fire another gun. Any news or letters that you
wish carried home? I've quit, and am going home. Please tender my
resignation to Jeff Davis as a private soldier in the C. S. Army."
Five men of that picket--there were just five--as rapidly as they could,
took off their cartridge-boxes, after throwing down their guns, and
then their canteens and haversacks, taking out of their pockets their
gun-wipers, wrench and gun-stoppers, and saying they would have no more
use for "them things." They marched off, and it was the last we ever saw
of them. In ten minutes they were across the river, and no doubt had
taken the oath of allegiance to the United States government. Such was
the sentiment of the Army of Tennessee at that time.