JONESBORO
THE BATTLE OF JONESBORO
Stewart's corps was at Atlanta, Lee's corps was between Atlanta and
Jonesboro, and Cheatham's corps, then numbering not more than five
thousand men--because the woods and roads were full of straggling
soldiers, who were not in the fight--was face to face with the whole
Yankee army, and he was compelled to flee, fight, or surrender. This
was the position and condition of the grand Army of Tennessee on this
memorable occasion.
If I am not mistaken, General Cleburne was commanding Cheatham's corps at
that time. We expected to be ordered into action every moment, and kept
see-sawing backward and forward, until I did not know which way the
Yankees were, or which way the Rebels. We would form line of battle,
charge bayonets, and would raise a whoop and yell, expecting to be dashed
right against the Yankee lines, and then the order would be given to
retreat. Then we would immediately re-form and be ordered to charge
again a mile off at another place. Then we would march and counter march
backward and forward over the same ground, passing through Jonesboro away
over the hill, and then back through the town, first four forward and
back; your right hand to your left hand lady, swing half round and
balance all. This sort of a movement is called a "feint." A feint is
what is called in poker a "bluff," or what is called in a bully a "brag."
A feint means anything but a fight. If a lady faints she is either
scared or in love, and wants to fall in her lover's arms. If an army
makes a feint movement, it is trying to hide some other movement.
"Hello, Lee, what does Cleburne say the Yankees are doing at Jonesboro?"
"They are fanning themselves."
"Well keep up that feint movement until all the boys faint from sheer
exhaustion."
"Hello, Stewart, do you think you will be able to burn up those ten
locomotives, and destroy those hundred car loads of provisions by day
after tomorrow?"
"Lee, ask Cleburne if he feels feinty? Ask him how a fellow feels when
he feints?"
Cleburne says: "I have feinted, feinted, and feinted, until I can't feint
any longer."
"Well," says Hood, "if you can't feint any longer, you had better flee,
fight, or faint; Balaam gets along mighty slow, but I'll be thar after
awhile."
At one o'clock we were ordered to the attack. We had to pass through
an osage orange hedge that was worse than the enemy's fire. Their
breastworks were before us. We yelled, and charged, and hurrahed,
and said booh! booh! we're coming, coming, look out, don't you see us
coming? Why don't you let us hear the cannon's opening roar? Why don't
you rattle a few old muskets over there at us? Booh! booh! we are
coming. Tag. We have done got to your breastworks. Now, we tagged
first, why don't you tag back? A Yankee seems to be lying on the other
side of the breastworks sunning himself, and raising himself on his elbow,
says, "Fool who with your fatty bread? W-e are too o-l-d a-birds to be
caught with that kind of chaff. We don't want any of that kind of pie.
What you got there wouldn't make a mouthful. Bring on your pudding and
pound-cake, and then we will talk to ye."
General Granberry, who, poor fellow, was killed in the butchery at
Franklin afterwards, goes up to the breastworks, and says, "Look here,
Yank, we're fighting, sure enough."
Meynheer Dutchman comes out; and says, "Ish dot so? Vel I ish peen von
leetle pit hungry dish morning, und I yust gobble you up for mein lunch
pefore tinner dime. Dot ish der kind of mans vot I bees!"
Now, reader, that is a fine description of this memorable battle.
That's it--no more, no less. I was in it all, and saw General Granberry
captured. We did our level best to get up a fight, but it was no go,
any way we could fix it up. I mean no disrespect to General Hood.
He was a noble, brave, and good man, and we loved him for his many
virtues and goodness of heart. I do not propose to criticize his
generalship or ability as a commander. I only write of the impression
and sentiment that were made upon the private's mind at the time, and
as I remember them now. But Atlanta had fallen into the hands of the
Yankees, and they were satisfied for the time.
DEATH OF LIEUTENANT JOHN WHITTAKER
At this place we built small breastworks, but for what purpose I never
knew. The Yankees seemed determined not to fight, no way we could fix
it. Every now and then they would send over a "feeler," to see how we
were getting along. Sometimes these "feelers" would do some damage.
I remember one morning we were away over a hill, and every now and then
here would come one of those lazy-looking "feelers," just bouncing along
as if he were in no hurry, called in military "ricochet." They were
very easy to dodge, if you could see them in time. Well, one morning as
before remarked, Lieutenant John Whittaker, then in command of Company H,
and myself were sitting down eating breakfast out of the same tin plate.
We were sopping gravy out with some cold corn bread, when Captain
W. C. Flournoy, of the Martin Guards, hallooed out, "Look out, Sam;
look! look!" I just turned my head, and in turning, the cannon ball
knocked my hat off, and striking Lieutenant Whittaker full in the side
of the head, carried away the whole of the skull part, leaving only the
face. His brains fell in the plate from which we were sopping, and
his head fell in my lap, deluging my face and clothes with his blood.
Poor fellow, he never knew what hurt him. His spirit went to its God
that morning. Green Rieves carried the poor boy off on his shoulder, and,
after wrapping him up in a blanket, buried him. His bones are at
Jonesboro today. The cannon ball did not go twenty yards after
accomplishing its work of death. Captain Flournoy laughed at me, and
said, "Sam, that came very near getting you. One-tenth of an inch more
would have cooked your goose." I saw another man try to stop one of
those balls that was just rolling along on the ground. He put his foot
out to stop the ball but the ball did not stop, but, instead, carried the
man's leg off with it. He no doubt today walks on a cork-leg, and is
tax collector of the county in which he lives. I saw a thoughtless boy
trying to catch one in his hands as it bounced along. He caught it,
but the next moment his spirit had gone to meet its God. But, poor John,
we all loved him. He died for his country. His soul is with his God.
He gave his all for the country he loved, and may he rest in peace under
the shade of the tree where he is buried, and may the birds sing their
sweetest songs, the flowers put forth their most beautiful blooms,
while the gentle breezes play about the brave boy's grave. Green Rieves
was the only person at the funeral; no tears of a loving mother or gentle
sister were there. Green interred his body, and there it will remain
till the resurrection. John Whittaker deserves more than a passing
notice. He was noble and brave, and when he was killed, Company H was
without an officer then commanding. Every single officer had been killed,
wounded, or captured. John served as a private soldier the first year
of the war, and at the reorganization at Corinth, Mississippi, he,
W. J. Whitthorne and myself all ran for orderly sergeant of Company H,
and John was elected, and the first vacancy occurring after the death
of Captain Webster, he was commissioned brevet second lieutenant. When
the war broke out, John was clerking for John L. & T. S. Brandon, in
Columbia. He had been in every march, skirmish, and battle that had
been fought during the war. Along the dusty road, on the march, in the
bivouac and on the battlefield, he was the same noble, generous boy;
always, kind, ever gentle, a smile ever lighting up his countenance.
He was one of the most even tempered men I ever knew. I never knew him
to speak an unkind word to anyone, or use a profane or vulgar word in
my life.
One of those ricochet cannon balls struck my old friend, N. B. Shepard.
Shep was one of the bravest and best soldiers who ever shouldered a
musket. It is true, he was but a private soldier, but he was the best
friend I had during the whole war. In intellect he was far ahead of most
of the generals, and would have honored and adorned the name of general
in the C. S. A. He was ever brave and true. He followed our cause to
the end, yet all the time an invalid. Today he is languishing on a bed
of pain and sickness, caused by that ball at Jonesboro. The ball struck
him on his knapsack, knocking him twenty feet, and breaking one or two
ribs and dislocating his shoulder. He was one of God's noblemen, indeed--
none braver, none more generous. God alone controls our destinies,
and surely He who watched over us and took care of us in those dark and
bloody days, will not forsake us now. God alone fits and prepares for us
the things that are in store for us. There is none so wise as to foresee
the future or foretell the end. God sometimes seems afar off, but He
will never leave or forsake anyone who puts his trust in Him. The day
will come when the good as well as evil will all meet on one broad
platform, to be rewarded for the deeds done in the body, when time shall
end, with the gates of eternity closed, and the key fastened to the
girdle of God forever. Pardon me, reader, I have wandered. But when my
mind reverts to those scenes and times, I seem to live in another age and
time and I sometime think that "after us comes the end of the universe."
I am not trying to moralize, I am only trying to write a few scenes and
incidents that came under the observation of a poor old Rebel webfoot
private soldier in those stormy days and times. Histories tell the great
facts, while I only tell of the minor incidents.
But on this day of which I now write, we can see in plain view more than
a thousand Yankee battle-flags waving on top the red earthworks, not
more than four hundred yards off. Every private soldier there knew that
General Hood's army was scattered all the way from Jonesboro to Atlanta,
a distance of twenty-five miles, without any order, discipline, or spirit
to do anything. We could hear General Stewart, away back yonder in
Atlanta, still blowing up arsenals, and smashing things generally,
while Stephen D. Lee was somewhere between Lovejoy Station and Macon,
scattering. And here was but a demoralized remnant of Cheatham's corps
facing the whole Yankee army. I have ever thought that Sherman was a
poor general, not to have captured Hood and his whole army at that time.
But it matters not what I thought, as I am not trying to tell the ifs and
ands, but only of what I saw. In a word, we had everything against us.
The soldiers distrusted everything. They were broken down with their
long days' hard marching--were almost dead with hunger and fatigue.
Every one was taking his own course, and wishing and praying to be
captured. Hard and senseless marching, with little sleep, half rations,
and lice, had made their lives a misery. Each one prayed that all this
foolishness might end one way or the other. It was too much for human
endurance. Every private soldier knew that such things as this could not
last. They were willing to ring down the curtain, put out the footlights
and go home. There was no hope in the future for them.
THEN COMES THE FARCE
From this time forward until the close of the war, everything was a farce
as to generalship. The tragedy had been played, the glory of war had
departed. We all loved Hood; he was such a clever fellow, and a good man.
Well, Yank, why don't you come on and take us? We are ready to play
quits now. We have not anything to let you have, you know; but you can
parole us, you know; and we'll go home and be good boys, you know;--
good Union boys, you know; and we'll be sorry for the war, you know;
and we wouldn't have the negroes in any way, shape, form, or fashion,
you know; and the American continent has no north, no south, no east,
no west--boohoo, boohoo, boohoo.
Tut, tut, Johnny; all that sounds tolerable nice, but then you might
want some favor from Uncle Sam, and the teat is too full of milk at the
present time for us to turn loose. It's a sugar teat, Johnny, and just
begins to taste sweet; and, besides, Johnny, once or twice you have put
us to a little trouble; we haven't forgot that; and we've got you down
now--our foot is on your neck, and you must feel our boot heel. We want
to stamp you a little--"that's what's the matter with Hannah." And,
Johnny, you've fought us hard. You are a brave boy; you are proud and
aristocratic, Johnny, and we are going to crush your cursed pride and
spirit. And now, Johnny, come here; I've something to whisper in your
ear. Hold your ear close down here, so that no one can hear: "We want
big fat offices when the war is over. Some of us want to be presidents,
some governors, some go to congress, and be big ministers to 'Urup,' and
all those kind of things, Johnny, you know. Just go back to your camp,
Johnny, chase round, put on a bold front, flourish your trumpets, blow
your horns. And, Johnny, we don't want to be hard on you, and we'll tell
you what we'll do for you. Away back in your territory, between Columbia
and Nashville, is the most beautiful country, and the most fertile,
and we have lots of rations up there, too. Now, you just go up there,
Johnny, and stay until we want you. We ain't done with you yet, my boy--
O, no, Johnny. And, another thing, Johnny; you will find there between
Mt. Pleasant and Columbia, the most beautiful country that the sun of
heaven ever shone upon; and half way between the two places is St. John's
Church. Its tower is all covered over with a beautiful vine of ivy; and,
Johnny, you know that in olden times it was the custom to entwine a
wreath of ivy around the brows of victorious generals. We have no doubt
that many of your brave generals will express a wish, when they pass by,
to be buried beneath the ivy vine that shades so gracefully and
beautifully the wall of this grand old church. And, Johnny, you will
find a land of beauty and plenty, and when you get there, just put on as
much style as you like; just pretend, for our sake, you know, that you
are a bully boy with a glass eye, and that you are the victorious army
that has returned to free an oppressed people. We will allow you this,
Johnny, so that we will be the greater when we want you, Johnny. And now,
Johnny, we did not want to tell you what we are going to say to you now,
but will, so that you'll feel bad. Sherman wants to 'march to the sea,
while the world looks on and wonders.' He wants to desolate the land
and burn up your towns, to show what a coward he is, and how dastardly,
and one of our boys wants to write a piece of poetry about it. But that
ain't all, Johnny. You know that you fellows have got a great deal of
cotton at Augusta, Savannah, Charleston, Mobile, and other places,
and cotton is worth two dollars a pound in gold, and as Christmas is
coming, we want to go down there for some of that cotton to make a
Christmas gift to old Abe and old Clo, don't you see? O, no, Johnny,
we don't want to end the war just yet awhile. The sugar is mighty sweet
in the teat, and we want to suck a while longer. Why, sir, we want to
rob and then burn every house in Georgia and South Carolina. We will get
millions of dollars by robbery alone, don't you see?"
PALMETTO
"Hark from the tomb that doleful sound,
My ears attend the cry."
General J. B. Hood established his headquarters at Palmetto, Georgia,
and here is where we were visited by his honor, the Honorable Jefferson
Davis, President of the Confederate States of America, and the Right
Honorable Robert Toombs, secretary of state under the said Davis.
Now, kind reader, don't ask me to write history. I know nothing of
history. See the histories for grand movements and military maneuvers.
I can only tell of what I saw and how I felt. I can remember now General
Robert Toombs' and Hon. Jeff Davis' speeches. I remember how funny
Toombs' speech was. He kept us all laughing, by telling us how quick we
were going to whip the Yankees, and how they would skedaddle back across
the Ohio river like a dog with a tin oyster can tied to his tail.
Captain Joe P. Lee and I laughed until our sides hurt us. I can remember
today how I felt. I felt that Davis and Toombs had come there to bring
us glad tidings of great joy, and to proclaim to us that the ratification
of a treaty of peace had been declared between the Confederate States of
America and the United States. I remember how good and happy I felt when
these two leading statesmen told of when grim visaged war would smooth
her wrinkled front, and when the dark clouds that had so long lowered
o'er our own loved South would be in the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
I do not know how others felt, but I can say never before or since did I
feel so grand. (I came very near saying gloomy and peculiar). I felt
that I and every other soldier who had stood the storms of battle for
nearly four long years, were now about to be discharged from hard marches,
and scant rations, and ragged clothes, and standing guard, etc. In fact,
the black cloud of war had indeed drifted away, and the beautiful stars
that gemmed the blue ether above, smiling, said, "Peace, peace, peace."
I felt bully, I tell you. I remember what I thought--that the emblem of
our cause was the Palmetto and the Texas Star, and the town of Palmetto,
were symbolical of our ultimate triumph, and that we had unconsciously,
nay, I should say, prophetically, fallen upon Palmetto as the most
appropriate place to declare peace between the two sections. I was sure
Jeff Davis and Bob Toombs had come there for the purpose of receiving the
capitulation of and to make terms with our conquered foes. I knew that
in every battle we had fought, except Missionary Ridge, we had whipped
the Yankees, and I knew that we had no cavalry, and but little artillery,
and only two corps of infantry at Missionary Ridge, and from the way Jeff
and Bob talked, it was enough to make us old private soldiers feel that
swelling of the heart we ne'er should feel again. I remember that other
high dignitaries and big bugs, then the controlling spirits of the
government at Richmond, visited us, and most all of these high
dignitaries shook hands with the boys. It was all hands round, swing the
corner, and balance your partner. I shook hands with Hon. Jeff Davis,
and he said howdy, captain; I shook hands with Toombs, and he said howdy,
major; and every big bug that I shook hands with put another star on my
collar and chicken guts on my sleeve. My pen is inadequate to describe
the ecstasy and patriotic feeling that permeated every vein and fiber of
my animated being. It was Paradise regained. All the long struggles we
had followed the Palmetto flag through victory and defeat, through storms
and rains, and snows and tempest, along the dusty roads, and on the weary
marches, we had been true to our country, our cause, and our people;
and there was a conscious pride within us that when we would return to
our homes, we would go back as conquerors, and that we would receive the
plaudits of our people--well done, good and faithful servants; you have
been true and faithful even to the end.
JEFF DAVIS MAKES A SPEECH
"Sinner come view the ground
Where you shall shortly lie."
I remember that Hon. Jeff Davis visited the army at this place, and our
regiment, the First Tennessee, serenaded him. After playing several airs,
he came out of General Hood's marquee, and spoke substantially as follows,
as near as I can remember:
"SOLDIERS OF THE FIRST TENNESSEE REGIMENT:--I should have said captains,
for every man among you is fit to be a captain. I have heard of your
acts of bravery on every battlefield during the whole war, and
'captains,' so far as my wishes are concerned, I today make every man
of you a captain, and I say honestly today, were I a private soldier,
I would have no higher ambition on earth than to belong to the First
Tennessee Regiment. You have been loyal and brave; your ranks have never
yet, in the whole history of the war, been broken, even though the army
was routed; yet, my brave soldiers, Tennesseans all, you have ever
remained in your places in the ranks of the regiment, ever subject to the
command of your gallant Colonel Field in every battle, march, skirmish,
in an advance or a retreat. There are on the books of the war department
at Richmond, the names of a quarter of a million deserters, yet, you,
my brave soldiers, captains all, have remained true and steadfast.
I have heard that some have been dissatisfied with the removal of General
Joe E. Johnston and the appointment of General Hood; but, my brave and
gallant heroes, I say, I have done what I thought best for your good.
Soon we commence our march to Kentucky and Tennessee. Be of good cheer,
for within a short while your faces will be turned homeward, and your
feet will press Tennessee soil, and you will tread your native heath,
amid the blue-grass regions and pastures green of your native homes.
We will flank General Sherman out of Atlanta, tear up the railroad and
cut off his supplies, and make Atlanta a perfect Moscow of defeat to
the Federal army. Situated as he is in an enemy's country, with his
communications all cut off, and our army in the rear, he will be
powerless, and being fully posted and cognizant of our position, and of
the Federal army, this movement will be the _ultima thule_, the grand
crowning stroke for our independence, and the conclusion of the war."
ARMISTICE IN NAME ONLY
About this time the Yankees sent us a flag of truce, asking an armistice
to move every citizen of Atlanta south of their lines. It was granted.
They wanted to live in fine houses awhile, and then rob and burn them,
and issued orders for all the citizens of Atlanta to immediately abandon
the city. They wanted Atlanta for themselves, you see.
For weeks and months the roads were filled with loaded wagons of old and
decrepit people, who had been hunted and hounded from their homes with a
relentless cruelty worse, yea, much worse, than ever blackened the pages
of barbaric or savage history. I remember assisting in unloading our
wagons that General Hood, poor fellow, had kindly sent in to bring out
the citizens of Atlanta to a little place called Rough-and-Ready about
half way between Palmetto and Atlanta. Every day I would look on at the
suffering of delicate ladies, old men, and mothers with little children
clinging to them, crying, "O, mamma, mamma," and old women, and tottering
old men, whose gray hairs should have protected them from the savage acts
of Yankee hate and Puritan barbarity; and I wondered how on earth our
generals, including those who had resigned--that is where the shoe
pinches--could quietly look on at this dark, black, and damning insult
to our people, and not use at least one effort to rescue them from such
terrible and unmitigated cruelty, barbarity, and outrage. General
Hood remonstrated with Sherman against the insult, stating that it
"transcended in studied and ingenious cruelty, all acts ever before
brought to my attention in the dark history of war."
In the great crisis of the war, Hardee, Kirby Smith, Breckinridge,
and many brigadiers, resigned, thus throwing all the responsibility upon
poor Hood.
[Author's note: In the Southern army the question was, who ranked?
Not who was the best general, or colonel, or captain--but "who ranked?"
The article of rank finally got down to corporals; and rank finally
bursted the government.]
I desire to state that they left the army on account of rank. O, this
thing of rank!
Many other generals resigned, and left us privates in the lurch. But the
gallant Cheatham, Cleburne, Granberry, Gist, Strahl, Adams, John C. Brown,
William B. Bate, Stewart, Lowery, and others, stuck to us to the last.
The sinews of war were strained to their utmost tension.
A SCOUT
At this place I was detailed as a regular scout, which position I
continued to hold during our stay at Palmetto. It was a good thing.
It beat camp guard all hollow. I had answered "hear" at roll-call ten
thousand times in these nearly four years. But I had sorter got used
to the darn thing.
Now, reader, I will give you a few chapters on the kind of fun I had for
awhile. Our instructions were simply to try and find out all we could
about the Yankees, and report all movements.
One dark, rainy evening, while out as a scout, and, after traveling
all day, I was returning from the Yankee outposts at Atlanta, and had
captured a Yankee prisoner, who I then had under my charge, and whom I
afterwards carried and delivered to General Hood. He was a considerable
muggins, and a great coward, in fact, a Yankee deserter. I soon found
out that there was no harm in him, as he was tired of war anyhow, and was
anxious to go to prison. We went into an old log cabin near the road
until the rain would be over. I was standing in the cabin door looking
at the rain drops fall off the house and make little bubbles in the drip,
and listening to the pattering on the clapboard roof, when happening to
look up, not fifty yards off, I discovered a regiment of Yankee cavalry
approaching. I knew it would be utterly impossible for me to get away
unseen, and I did not know what to do. The Yankee prisoner was scared
almost to death. I said, "Look, look!" I turned in the room, and found
the planks of the floor were loose. I raised two of them, and Yank and I
slipped through. I replaced the planks, and could peep out beneath the
sill of the house, and see the legs of the horses. They passed on and
did not come to the old house. They were at least a half hour in
passing. At last the main regiment had all passed, and I saw the rear
guard about to pass, when I heard the captain say, "Go and look in that
old house." Three fellows detached themselves from the command and came
dashing up to the old house. I thought, "Gone up, sure," as I was afraid
the Yankee prisoner would make his presence known. When the three men
came up, they pushed open the door and looked around, and one fellow said
"Booh!" They then rode off. But that "Booh!" I was sure I was caught,
but I was not.
"WHAT IS THIS REBEL DOING HERE?"
I would go up to the Yankee outpost, and if some popinjay of a tacky
officer didn't come along, we would have a good time. One morning I was
sitting down to eat a good breakfast with the Yankee outpost. They were
cavalry, and they were mighty clever and pleasant fellows. I looked down
the road toward Atlanta, and not fifty yards from the outpost, I saw a
body of infantry approaching. I don't know why I didn't run. I ought
to have done so, but didn't. I stayed there until this body of infantry
came up. They had come to relieve the cavalry. It was a detail of negro
soldiers, headed by the meanest looking white man as their captain,
I ever saw.
In very abrupt words he told the cavalry that he had come to take their
place, and they were ordered to report back to their command. Happening
to catch sight of me, he asked, "What is this Rebel doing here?" One of
the men spoke up and tried to say something in my favor, but the more he
said the more the captain of the blacks would get mad. He started toward
me two or three times. He was starting, I could see by the flush of
his face, to take hold of me, anyhow. The cavalrymen tried to protest,
and said a few cuss words. The captain of the blacks looks back very
mad at the cavalry. Here was my opportunity, now or never. Uncle negro
looked on, not seeming to care for the cavalry, captain, or for me.
I took up my gun very gently and cocked it. I had the gentleman.
I had made up my mind if he advanced one step further, that he was a dead
man. When he turned to look again, it was a look of surprise. His face
was as red as a scalded beet, but in a moment was as white as a sheet.
He was afraid to turn his head to give a command. The cavalry motioned
their hands at me, as much as to say, "Run, Johnny, run." The captain of
the blacks fell upon his face, and I broke and ran like a quarter-horse.
I never saw or heard any more of the captain of the blacks or his guard
afterward.
"LOOK OUT, BOYS."
One night, five of us scouts, I thought all strangers to me, put up at an
old gentleman's house. I took him for a Catholic priest. His head was
shaved and he had on a loose gown like a lady's dress, and a large cord
and tassel tied around his waist, from which dangled a large bunch of
keys. He treated us very kindly and hospitably, so far as words and
politeness went, but we had to eat our own rations and sleep on our own
blankets.
At bedtime, he invited us to sleep in a shed in front of his double log
cabin. We all went in, lay down, and slept. A little while before day,
the old priest came in and woke us up, and said he thought he saw in the
moonlight a detachment of cavalry coming down the road from toward the
Rebel lines. One of our party jumped up and said there was a company of
cavalry coming that way, and then all four broke toward the old priest's
room. I jumped up, put on one boot, and holding the other in my hand,
I stepped out in the yard, with my hat and coat off--both being left in
the room. A Yankee captain stepped up to me and said, "Are you No. 200?"
I answered very huskily, "No, sir, I am not." He then went on in the
house, and on looking at the fence, I saw there was at least two hundred
Yankee cavalry right at me. I did not know what to do. My hat, coat,
gun, cartridge-box, and knapsack were all in the room. I was afraid to
stay there, and I was afraid to give the alarm. I soon saw almost every
one of the Yankees dismount, and then I determined to give the alarm and
run. I hallooed out as loud as I could, "Look out, boys," and broke and
run. I had to jump over a garden picket fence, and as I lit on the other
side, bang! bang! bang! was fired right after me. They stayed there but
a short time, and I went back and got my gun and other accouterments.
AM CAPTURED
When I left the old priest's house, it was then good day--nearly sun up--
and I had started back toward our lines, and had walked on about half a
mile, not thinking of danger, when four Yankees jumped out in the middle
of the road and said, "Halt, there! O, yes, we've got you at last."
I was in for it. What could I do? Their guns were cocked and leveled
at me, and if I started to run, I would be shot, so I surrendered. In
a very short time the regiment of Yankee cavalry came up, and the first
greeting I had was, "Hello, you ain't No. 200, are you?" I was taken
prisoner. They, I thought, seemed to be very gleeful about it, and I had
to march right back by the old priest's house, and they carried me to the
headquarters of General Stephen Williams. As soon as he saw me, he said,
"Who have you there--a prisoner, or a deserter?" They said a prisoner.
From what command? No one answered. Finally he asked me what command
I belonged to. I told him the Confederate States army. Then, said he,
"What is your name?" Said I, "General, if that would be any information,
I would have no hesitancy in giving it. But I claim your protection as a
prisoner of war. I am a private soldier in the Confederate States army,
and I don't feel authorized to answer any question you may ask." He
looked at me with a kind of quizical look, and said, "That is the way
with you Rebels. I have never yet seen one of you, but thought what
little information he might possess to be of value to the Union forces."
Then one of the men spoke up and said, "I think he is a spy or a scout,
and does not belong to the regular army." He then gave me a close look,
and said, "Ah, ah, a guerrilla," and ordered me to be taken to the
provost marshal's office. They carried me to a large, fine house,
upstairs, and I was politely requested to take a seat. I sat there some
moments, when a dandy-looking clerk of a fellow came up with a book in
his hand, and said, "The name." I appeared not to understand, and he
said, "The name." I still looked at him, and he said, "The name."
I did not know what he meant by "The name." Finally, he closed the book
with a slam and started off, and said I, "Did you want to find out my
name?" He said, "I asked you three times." I said, "When? If you ever
asked me my name, I have never heard it." But he was too mad to listen
to anything else. I was carried to another room in the same building,
and locked up. I remained there until about dark, when a man brought me
a tolerably good supper, and then left me alone to my own meditations.
I could hear the sentinels at all times of the night calling out the
hours. I did not sleep a wink, nor even lay down. I had made up my
mind to escape, if there was any possible chance. About three o'clock
everything got perfectly still. I went to the window, and it had a heavy
bolt across it, and I could not open it. I thought I would try the door,
but I knew that a guard was stationed in the hall, for I could see a dim
light glimmer through the key-hole. I took my knife and unscrewed the
catch in which the lock was fastened, and soon found out that I could
open the door; but then there was the guard, standing at the main
entrance down stairs. I peeped down, and he was quietly walking to and
fro on his beat, every time looking to the hall. I made up my mind by
his measured tread as to how often he would pass the door, and one time,
after he had just passed, I came out in the hall, and started to run down
the steps. About midway down the steps, one of them cracked very loud,
but I ran on down in the lower hall and ran into a room, the door of
which was open. The sentinel came back to the entrance of the hall,
and listened a few minutes, and then moved on again. I went to the
window and raised the sash, but the blind was fastened with a kind of
patent catch. I gave one or two hard pushes, and felt it move. After
that I made one big lunge, and it flew wide open, but it made a noise
that woke up every sentinel. I jumped out in the yard, and gained the
street, and, on looking back, I heard the alarm given, and lights began
to glimmer everywhere, but, seeing no one directly after me, I made
tracks toward Peachtree creek, and went on until I came to the old
battlefield of July 22nd, and made my way back to our lines.