BATTLES IN TENNESSEE
COLUMBIA
"This is my own, my native land."
Once more the Maury Grays are permitted to put their feet upon their
native heath, and to revisit their homes and friends, after having
followed their tattered, and torn, and battle-riddled flag, which they
had borne aloft for four long years, on every march, and in every battle
that had been fought by the Army of Tennessee. We were a mere handful of
devoted braves, who had stood by our colors when sometimes it seemed that
God himself had forsaken us. But, parents, here are your noble and brave
sons; and, ladies, four years ago you gave us this flag, and we promised
you "That we would come back with the flag as victors, or we would come
not at all." We have been true to our promise and our trust. On every
battlefield the flag that you entrusted to our hands has been borne aloft
by brave and heroic men, amid shot and shell, bloody battle, and death.
We have never forsaken our colors. Are we worthy to be called the sons
of old Maury county? Or have we fought in vain? Have our efforts been
appreciated, or have four years of our lives been wasted, while we were
battling for constitutional government, the supremacy of our laws over
centralization, and our rights, as guaranteed to us by the blood of our
forefathers on the battlefields of the Revolution? It is for you to make
up your verdict. If our lives as soldiers have been a _failure_, we can
but bow our heads on our bosoms, and say, "Surely, four years of our
lives have been given for naught, and our efforts to please you have been
in vain."
Yet, the invader's foot is still on our soil, but there beats in our
bosoms the blood of brave and patriotic men, and we will continue to
follow our old and war-worn and battle-riddled flag until it goes down
forever.
The Maury Grays, commanded by Captain A. M. Looney, left Columbia,
four years ago, with 120 men. How many of those 120 original members
are with the company today? Just twelve. Company H has twenty members,
but some of this number had subsequently enlisted. But we twelve will
stick to our colors till she goes down forever, and until five more of
this number fall dead and bleeding on the battlefield.
A FIASCO
When we arrived in sight of Columbia, we found the Yankees still in
possession of the town, fortified and determined to resist our advance.
We send forward a "feeler," and the "feeler" reports back very promptly,
"Yes, the Yankees are there." Well, if that be the case, we'll just make
a flank movement. We turn off the main turnpike at J. E. R. Carpenter's,
and march through the cedars, and cross Duck river at Davis' ferry,
on pontoon bridges, near Lowell's mill. We pass on, and cross Rutherford
creek, near Burick's mill, about three o'clock in the afternoon. We had
marched through fields in the heavy mud, and the men, weary and worn out,
were just dragging themselves along, passing by the old Union Seminary,
and then by Mr. Fred Thompson's, until we came to the Rally Hill turnpike--
it being then nearly dark--we heard some skirmishing, but, exhausted as
we were, we went into bivouac. The Yankees, it seems to me, might have
captured the whole of us. But that is a matter of history. But I desire
to state that no blunder was made by either Generals Cheatham or Stewart,
neither of whom ever failed to come to time. Jeff Davis is alone
responsible for the blunder. About two hours after sun up the next
morning we received the order to "Fall in, fall in, quick, make haste,
hurrah, promptly, men; each rank count two; by the right flank, quick
time, march; keep promptly closed up." Everything indicated an immediate
attack. When we got to the turnpike near Spring Hill, lo! and behold;
wonder of wonders! the whole Yankee army had passed during the night.
The bird had flown. We made a quick and rapid march down the turnpike,
finding Yankee guns and knapsacks, and now and then a broken down
straggler, also two pieces of howitzer cannon, and at least twenty broken
wagons along the road. Everything betokened a rout and a stampede of
the Yankee army. Double quick! Forrest is in the rear. Now for fun.
All that we want to do now is to catch the blue-coated rascals, ha! ha!
We all want to see the surrender, ha! ha! Double quick! A rip, rip, rip;
wheuf; pant, pant, pant. First one man drops out, and then another.
The Yankees are routed and running, and Forrest has crossed Harpeth river
in the rear of Franklin. Hurrah, men! keep closed up; we are going to
capture Schofield. Forrest is in the rear; never mind the straggler and
cannon. Kerflop we come against the breastworks at Franklin.
FRANKLIN
"The death-angel gathers its last harvest."
Kind reader, right here my pen, and courage, and ability fail me.
I shrink from butchery. Would to God I could tear the page from these
memoirs and from my own memory. It is the blackest page in the history
of the war of the Lost Cause. It was the bloodiest battle of modern
times in any war. It was the finishing stroke to the independence of
the Southern Confederacy. I was there. I saw it. My flesh trembles,
and creeps, and crawls when I think of it today. My heart almost ceases
to beat at the horrid recollection. Would to God that I had never
witnessed such a scene!
I cannot describe it. It beggars description. I will not attempt to
describe it. I could not. The death-angel was there to gather its last
harvest. It was the grand coronation of death. Would that I could turn
the page. But I feel, though I did so, that page would still be there,
teeming with its scenes of horror and blood. I can only tell of what I
saw.
Our regiment was resting in the gap of a range of hills in plain view of
the city of Franklin. We could see the battle-flags of the enemy waving
in the breeze. Our army had been depleted of its strength by a forced
march from Spring Hill, and stragglers lined the road. Our artillery had
not yet come up, and could not be brought into action. Our cavalry was
across Harpeth river, and our army was but in poor condition to make an
assault. While resting on this hillside, I saw a courier dash up to our
commanding general, B. F. Cheatham, and the word, "Attention!" was given.
I knew then that we would soon be in action. Forward, march. We passed
over the hill and through a little skirt of woods.
The enemy were fortified right across the Franklin pike, in the suburbs
of the town. Right here in these woods a detail of skirmishers was
called for. Our regiment was detailed. We deployed as skirmishers,
firing as we advanced on the left of the turnpike road. If I had not
been a skirmisher on that day, I would not have been writing this today,
in the year of our Lord 1882.
It was four o'clock on that dark and dismal December day when the line of
battle was formed, and those devoted heroes were ordered forward, to
"Strike for their altars and their fires,
For the green graves of their sires,
For God and their native land."
As they marched on down through an open field toward the rampart of blood
and death, the Federal batteries began to open and mow down and gather
into the garner of death, as brave, and good, and pure spirits as the
world ever saw. The twilight of evening had begun to gather as a
precursor of the coming blackness of midnight darkness that was to
envelop a scene so sickening and horrible that it is impossible for me to
describe it. "Forward, men," is repeated all along the line. A sheet of
fire was poured into our very faces, and for a moment we halted as if in
despair, as the terrible avalanche of shot and shell laid low those brave
and gallant heroes, whose bleeding wounds attested that the struggle
would be desperate. Forward, men! The air loaded with death-dealing
missiles. Never on this earth did men fight against such terrible odds.
It seemed that the very elements of heaven and earth were in one mighty
uproar. Forward, men! And the blood spurts in a perfect jet from the
dead and wounded. The earth is red with blood. It runs in streams,
making little rivulets as it flows. Occasionally there was a little lull
in the storm of battle, as the men were loading their guns, and for a few
moments it seemed as if night tried to cover the scene with her mantle.
The death-angel shrieks and laughs and old Father Time is busy with his
sickle, as he gathers in the last harvest of death, crying, More, more,
more! while his rapacious maw is glutted with the slain.
But the skirmish line being deployed out, extending a little wider than
the battle did--passing through a thicket of small locusts, where Brown,
orderly sergeant of Company B, was killed--we advanced on toward the
breastworks, on and on. I had made up my mind to die--felt glorious.
We pressed forward until I heard the terrific roar of battle open on our
right. Cleburne's division was charging their works. I passed on until
I got to their works, and got over on their (the Yankees') side. But in
fifty yards of where I was the scene was lit up by fires that seemed like
hell itself. It appeared to be but one line of streaming fire. Our
troops were upon one side of the breastworks, and the Federals on the
other. I ran up on the line of works, where our men were engaged.
Dead soldiers filled the entrenchments. The firing was kept up until
after midnight, and gradually died out. We passed the night where we
were. But when the morrow's sun began to light up the eastern sky with
its rosy hues, and we looked over the battlefield, O, my God! what did we
see! It was a grand holocaust of death. Death had held high carnival
there that night. The dead were piled the one on the other all over
the ground. I never was so horrified and appalled in my life. Horses,
like men, had died game on the gory breastworks. General Adams' horse
had his fore feet on one side of the works and his hind feet on the other,
dead. The general seems to have been caught so that he was held to the
horse's back, sitting almost as if living, riddled, and mangled, and torn
with balls. General Cleburne's mare had her fore feet on top of the
works, dead in that position. General Cleburne's body was pierced with
forty-nine bullets, through and through. General Strahl's horse lay by
the roadside and the general by his side, both dead, and all his staff.
General Gist, a noble and brave cavalier from South Carolina, was lying
with his sword reaching across the breastworks still grasped in his hand.
He was lying there dead. All dead! They sleep in the graveyard yonder
at Ashwood, almost in sight of my home, where I am writing today.
They sleep the sleep of the brave. We love and cherish their memory.
They sleep beneath the ivy-mantled walls of St. John's church, where they
expressed a wish to be buried. The private soldier sleeps where he fell,
piled in one mighty heap. Four thousand five hundred privates! all
lying side by side in death! Thirteen generals were killed and wounded.
Four thousand five hundred men slain, all piled and heaped together at
one place. I cannot tell the number of others killed and wounded.
God alone knows that. We'll all find out on the morning of the final
resurrection.
Kind friends, I have attempted in my poor and feeble way to tell you of
this (I can hardly call it) battle. It should be called by some other
name. But, like all other battles, it, too, has gone into history.
I leave it with you. I do not know who was to blame. It lives in the
memory of the poor old Rebel soldier who went through that trying and
terrible ordeal. We shed a tear for the dead. They are buried and
forgotten. We meet no more on earth. But up yonder, beyond the sunset
and the night, away beyond the clouds and tempest, away beyond the stars
that ever twinkle and shine in the blue vault above us, away yonder by
the great white throne, and by the river of life, where the Almighty
and Eternal God sits, surrounded by the angels and archangels and the
redeemed of earth, we will meet again and see those noble and brave
spirits who gave up their lives for their country's cause that night
at Franklin, Tennessee. A life given for one's country is never lost.
It blooms again beyond the grave in a land of beauty and of love.
Hanging around the throne of sapphire and gold, a rich garland awaits the
coming of him who died for his country, and when the horologe of time has
struck its last note upon his dying brow, Justice hands the record of
life to Mercy, and Mercy pleads with Jesus, and God, for his sake,
receives him in his eternal home beyond the skies at last and forever.
NASHVILLE
A few more scenes, my dear friends, and we close these memoirs. We march
toward the city of Nashville. We camp the first night at Brentwood.
The next day we can see the fine old building of solid granite, looming
up on Capitol Hill--the capitol of Tennessee. We can see the Stars and
Stripes flying from the dome. Our pulse leaps with pride when we see the
grand old architecture. We can hear the bugle call, and the playing of
the bands of the different regiments in the Federal lines. Now and then
a shell is thrown into our midst from Fort Negley, but no attack or
demonstrations on either side. We bivouac on the cold and hard-frozen
ground, and when we walk about, the echo of our footsteps sound like the
echo of a tombstone. The earth is crusted with snow, and the wind from
the northwest is piercing our very bones. We can see our ragged soldiers,
with sunken cheeks and famine-glistening eyes. Where were our generals?
Alas! there were none. Not one single general out of Cheatham's division
was left--not one. General B. F. Cheatham himself was the only surviving
general of his old division. Nearly all our captains and colonels were
gone. Companies mingled with companies, regiments with regiments,
and brigades with brigades. A few raw-boned horses stood shivering under
the ice-covered trees, nibbling the short, scanty grass. Being in range
of the Federal guns from Fort Negley, we were not allowed to have fires
at night, and our thin and ragged blankets were but poor protection
against the cold, raw blasts of December weather--the coldest ever known.
The cold stars seem to twinkle with unusual brilliancy, and the pale moon
seems to be but one vast heap of frozen snow, which glimmers in the cold
gray sky, and the air gets colder by its coming; our breath, forming
in little rays, seems to make a thousand little coruscations that
scintillate in the cold frosty air. I can tell you nothing of what was
going on among the generals. But there we were, and that is all that
I can tell you. One morning about daylight our army began to move.
Our division was then on the extreme right wing, and then we were
transferred to the left wing. The battle had begun. We were continually
moving to our left. We would build little temporary breastworks, then
we would be moved to another place. Our lines kept on widening out, and
stretching further and further apart, until it was not more than a
skeleton of a skirmish line from one end to the other. We started at a
run. We cared for nothing. Not more than a thousand yards off, we could
see the Yankee cavalry, artillery, and infantry, marching apparently
still further to our left. We could see regiments advancing at
double-quick across the fields, while, with our army, everything seemed
confused. The private soldier could not see into things. It seemed to
be somewhat like a flock of wild geese when they have lost their leader.
We were willing to go anywhere, or to follow anyone who would lead us.
We were anxious to flee, fight, or fortify. I have never seen an army
so confused and demoralized. The whole thing seemed to be tottering and
trembling. When, _Halt! Front! Right dress!_ and Adjutant McKinney reads
us the following order:
"SOLDIERS:--The commanding general takes pleasure in announcing to his
troops that victory and success are now within their grasp; and the
commanding general feels proud and gratified that in every attack and
assault the enemy have been repulsed; and the commanding general will
further say to his noble and gallant troops, 'Be of good cheer--all is
well.'
"GENERAL JOHN B. HOOD,
"General Commanding.
"KINLOCK FALCONER,
"Acting Adjutant-General."
I remember how this order was received. Every soldier said, "O, shucks;
that is all shenanigan," for we knew that we had never met the enemy or
fired a gun outside of a little skirmishing. And I will further state
that that battle order, announcing success and victory, was the cause of
a greater demoralization than if our troops had been actually engaged in
battle. They at once mistrusted General Hood's judgment as a commander.
And every private soldier in the whole army knew the situation of
affairs. I remember when passing by Hood, how feeble and decrepit he
looked, with an arm in a sling, and a crutch in the other hand, and
trying to guide and control his horse. And, reader, I was not a
Christian then, and am but little better today; but, as God sees my heart
tonight, I prayed in my heart that day for General Hood. Poor fellow,
I loved him, not as a General, but as a good man. I knew when that army
order was read, that General Hood had been deceived, and that the poor
fellow was only trying to encourage his men. Every impulse of his nature
was but to do good, and to serve his country as best he could. Ah!
reader, some day all will be well.
We continued marching toward our left, our battle-line getting thinner
and thinner. We could see the Federals advancing, their blue coats and
banners flying, and could see their movements and hear them giving their
commands. Our regiment was ordered to double quick to the extreme left
wing of the army, and we had to pass up a steep hill, and the dead grass
was wet and as slick as glass, and it was with the greatest difficulty
that we could get up the steep hill side. When we got to the top, we,
as skirmishers, were ordered to deploy still further to the left.
Billy Carr and J. E. Jones, two as brave soldiers as ever breathed the
breath of life--in fact, it was given up that they were the bravest and
most daring men in the Army of Tennessee--and myself, were on the very
extreme left wing of our army. While we were deployed as skirmishers,
I heard, "Surrender, surrender," and on looking around us, I saw that
we were right in the midst of a Yankee line of battle. They were lying
down in the bushes, and we were not looking for them so close to us. We
immediately threw down our guns and surrendered. J. E. Jones was killed
at the first discharge of their guns, when another Yankee raised up and
took deliberate aim at Billy Carr, and fired, the ball striking him below
the eye and passing through his head. As soon as I could, I picked up my
gun, and as the Yankee turned I sent a minnie ball crushing through his
head, and broke and run. But I am certain that I killed the Yankee who
killed Billy Carr, but it was too late to save the poor boy's life.
As I started to run, a fallen dogwood tree tripped me up, and I fell over
the log. It was all that saved me. The log was riddled with balls,
and thousands, it seemed to me, passed over it. As I got up to run again,
I was shot through the middle finger of the very hand that is now penning
these lines, and the thigh. But I had just killed a Yankee, and was
determined to get away from there as soon as I could. How I did get back
I hardly know, for I was wounded and surrounded by Yankees. One rushed
forward, and placing the muzzle of his gun in two feet of me, discharged
it, but it missed its aim, when I ran at him, grabbed him by the collar,
and brought him off a prisoner. Captain Joe P. Lee and Colonel
H. R. Field remember this, as would Lieutenant-Colonel John L. House,
were he alive; and all the balance of Company H, who were there at the
time. I had eight bullet holes in my coat, and two in my hand, beside
the one in my thigh and finger. It was a hail storm of bullets. The
above is true in every particular, and is but one incident of the war,
which happened to hundreds of others. But, alas! all our valor and
victories were in vain, when God and the whole world were against us.
Billy Carr was one of the bravest and best men I ever knew. He never
knew what fear was, and in consequence of his reckless bravery, had been
badly wounded at Perryville, Murfreesboro, Chickamauga, the octagon house,
Dead Angle, and the 22nd of July at Atlanta. In every battle he was
wounded, and finally, in the very last battle of the war, surrendered up
his life for his country's cause. No father and mother of such a brave
and gallant boy, should ever sorrow or regret having born to them such a
son. He was the flower and chivalry of his company. He was as good as
he was brave. His bones rest yonder on the Overton hills today, while I
have no doubt in my own mind that his spirit is with the Redeemer of the
hosts of heaven. He was my friend. Poor boy, farewell!
When I got back to where I could see our lines, it was one scene of
confusion and rout. Finney's Florida brigade had broken before a mere
skirmish line, and soon the whole army had caught the infection, had
broken, and were running in every direction. Such a scene I never saw.
The army was panic-stricken. The woods everywhere were full of running
soldiers. Our officers were crying, "Halt! halt!" and trying to rally
and re-form their broken ranks. The Federals would dash their cavalry
in amongst us, and even their cannon joined in the charge. One piece of
Yankee artillery galloped past me, right on the road, unlimbered their
gun, fired a few shots, and galloped ahead again.
Hood's whole army was routed and in full retreat. Nearly every man in
the entire army had thrown away his gun and accouterments. More than ten
thousand had stopped and allowed themselves to be captured, while many,
dreading the horrors of a Northern prison, kept on, and I saw many, yea,
even thousands, broken down from sheer exhaustion, with despair and pity
written on their features. Wagon trains, cannon, artillery, cavalry,
and infantry were all blended in inextricable confusion. Broken down
and jaded horses and mules refused to pull, and the badly-scared drivers
looked like their eyes would pop out of their heads from fright. Wagon
wheels, interlocking each other, soon clogged the road, and wagons,
horses and provisions were left indiscriminately. The officers soon
became effected with the demoralization of their troops, and rode on in
dogged indifference. General Frank Cheatham and General Loring tried to
form a line at Brentwood, but the line they formed was like trying to
stop the current of Duck river with a fish net. I believe the army
would have rallied, had there been any colors to rally to. And as the
straggling army moves on down the road, every now and then we can hear
the sullen roar of the Federal artillery booming in the distance.
I saw a wagon and team abandoned, and I unhitched one of the horses and
rode on horseback to Franklin, where a surgeon tied up my broken finger,
and bandaged up my bleeding thigh. My boot was full of blood, and my
clothing saturated with it. I was at General Hood's headquarters.
He was much agitated and affected, pulling his hair with his one hand
(he had but one), and crying like his heart would break. I pitied him,
poor fellow. I asked him for a wounded furlough, and he gave it to me.
I never saw him afterward. I always loved and honored him, and will ever
revere and cherish his memory. He gave his life in the service of his
country, and I know today he wears a garland of glory beyond the grave,
where Justice says "well done," and Mercy has erased all his errors and
faults.
I only write of the under _strata_ of history; in other words, the
_privates' history_--as I saw things then, and remember them now.
The winter of 1864-5 was the coldest that had been known for many years.
The ground was frozen and rough, and our soldiers were poorly clad,
while many, yes, very many, were entirely barefooted. Our wagon trains
had either gone on, we knew not whither, or had been left behind.
Everything and nature, too, seemed to be working against us. Even the
keen, cutting air that whistled through our tattered clothes and over
our poorly covered heads, seemed to lash us in its fury. The floods of
waters that had overflowed their banks, seemed to laugh at our calamity,
and to mock us in our misfortunes.
All along the route were weary and footsore soldiers. The citizens
seemed to shrink and hide from us as we approached them. And, to cap the
climax, Tennessee river was overflowing its banks, and several Federal
gunboats were anchored just below Mussel Shoals, firing at us while
crossing.
The once proud Army of Tennessee had degenerated to a mob. We were
pinched by hunger and cold. The rains, and sleet, and snow never ceased
falling from the winter sky, while the winds pierced the old, ragged,
grayback Rebel soldier to his very marrow. The clothing of many were
hanging around them in shreds of rags and tatters, while an old slouched
hat covered their frozen ears. Some were on old, raw-boned horses,
without saddles.
Hon. Jefferson Davis perhaps made blunders and mistakes, but I honestly
believe that he ever did what he thought best for the good of his
country. And there never lived on this earth from the days of Hampden to
George Washington, a purer patriot or a nobler man than Jefferson Davis;
and, like Marius, grand even in ruins.
Hood was a good man, a kind man, a philanthropic man, but he is both
harmless and defenseless now. He was a poor general in the capacity
of commander-in-chief. Had he been mentally qualified, his physical
condition would have disqualified him. His legs and one of his arms had
been shot off in the defense of his country. As a soldier, he was brave,
good, noble, and gallant, and fought with the ferociousness of the
wounded tiger, and with the everlasting grit of the bull-dog; but as a
general he was a failure in every particular.
Our country is gone, our cause is lost. "_Actum est de Republica_."