General Sherman watching Joe Johnston—Foraging—An Attack—The
Enemy steals away in the Night—The Conquering Battalions have a
brief rest—Encampment on the Big Black River—Scenes there—
Reënforces General Rosecrans—Death of General Sherman’s Son—
Beautiful Letter—The Monument.
GENERAL SHERMAN was in no haste to strike; he could leisurely watch
the foe chafing in the narrow limits of his beleagured ground.
Expeditions were sent out in different directions, the gallant troopers
destroying railroad tracks, bridges, and culverts, and bringing in
supplies from the enemy’s lands and granaries.
July 11th they accidentally found in an old building, carefully packed
away, a large library, and various mementos of friendship. A glance
revealed the owner. A gold-headed cane bore the inscription, “To
Jefferson Davis, from Franklin Pierce.” Precious plunder! The arch
traitor has hidden in the quiet country, and in a place which could
awaken no suspicion, his valuable library, correspondence, and articles
of cherished regard. The excited troopers soon get into the book pile,
and volumes, heaps of letters, and handsome canes, are borne as trophies
(a new kind of forage) to headquarters. Secession is discovered in many
letters, by Northern friends of the treasonable leader, and his right to
that proud distinction freely granted. Added to their capture, hundreds
of cars were taken from the Confederacy.
On the 13th a heavy fog lay along the river-banks, hiding from each
other’s view the opposing armies. Suddenly rebel shouts came through the
gloom, and a desperate sortie from their works is made upon General
Sherman’s defences. He is ready to meet the shock, and after a brief
struggle they stagger back to their intrenchments.
The twilight hour of July 16th brought to a projection of the works
rebel bands of music, insulting our troops with “Bonnie Blue Flag,” “My
Maryland,” “Dixie’s Land,” and other airs perverted to the service of
treason. The next morning’s dawn gave signs of a retreating foe. The
fighting Joe Johnston had stolen away, leaving all over Jackson the
marks of ruin. The day before—July 15th—the President issued a
proclamation for national thanksgiving, on the 6th day of August, for
the recent victories.
General Johnston _was_ fairly _whipped_, and without the awful waste of
life a great battle involves. And now followed other bloodless, and yet
exciting scenes of war. You might have seen squads of cavalrymen
galloping in every direction, in the wake of the retreating foe, and,
with axe and torch, laying in ruins bridges and barns, and whatever
might serve the cause of rebellion. Of our brave chieftain’s successes
to this time, since he dashed forward to Walnut Hills, after the first
occupation of Jackson, “the siege of Vicksburg and last capture of
Jackson, and dispersion of Johnston’s army, entitle General Sherman to
more honor than usually falls to the lot of one man to earn.”
The short period of rest enjoyed by the heroic army was only one of
preparation for a more difficult and grander advance. The London
_Spectator_ said of the bold and splendid campaign: It comprised “a
series of movements which were overlooked at the time, yet upon which
hung the safety of two Federal armies—the extraordinary march of
General Sherman from Vicksburg to Chattanooga.”
The camp of the Fifteenth Army Corps, during this interlude of marching,
lay along the Big Black River, between Jackson and Vicksburg, about
twenty miles from the latter. It was acting as guard to all that region
against any return movements or raids of the enemy. A glance at the map
will show you the exact position.
But there is a history of this and similar encampments which will never
be written. In the sultry air and poisonous vapors of the Big Black,
officers and men resorted to every possible resource for whiling away
the dull hours and cheering the home-sick invalids.
Not unfrequently, in the light of the evening-lamps, the
commander-in-chief has amused and interested by the hour a circle of
officers gathered about him, with the narratives of his early
adventures, presenting, with the vividness of reality, the exciting life
among the Indians of Florida and the gold-seekers of California.
But one day there was an unusual stir around the General’s headquarters;
for visitors worth more to him than all earthly honors or gold were
escorted to his tent, his wife and his son, bearing his own name, had
come from their western home, to meet him once more before his long and
perilous marches over hostile soil. But the hours of domestic converse
and delight flew swiftly by, the farewells were spoken, and the
well-guarded visitors went on their homeward way. There was no safeguard
against disease lurking in those Southern swamps. The gifted and
beautiful boy, unconsciously to all, had been smitten, and a raging
fever soon laid him at the gate of death. He had been adopted by the
Thirteenth Corps as their pet—a compliment both to him and his father,
who was himself the idol of those brave battalions.
How this bereavement affected him and his old veterans, you will know
hereafter.
September 22d, General Grant telegraphed him from Vicksburg to send
forward immediately a division to reënforce General Rosecrans, who had
been defeated by General Bragg at Chickamauga, and was obliged to
retreat to Chattanooga, unpursued by his successful enemy. General
Rosecrans commanded the Army of the Cumberland, and was now holding the
great central stronghold in the vast battle-field between Vicksburg and
Charleston. At 4 o’clock of the same day the telegram was read by
General Sherman, who is always a minute man. General Osterhaus’ division
was on the road to Vicksburg, and the following day “it was streaming
toward Memphis.” A day later, and the commander-in-chief received orders
to follow with the entire corps. The tents disappeared like dew before
the morning sun, and the proud host were following the columns of
Osterhaus toward Memphis. Two divisions were transported by water. But
the low tide and scarcity of food made their progress slow. The leader
was impatient of delay, for he longed to try the metal of his corps
against that of General Bragg. He is no fancy commander; but an
incarnation of nervous energy, with no display of tinsel in his attire,
helping with his own hands to bring in fence-rails to feed the fires,
then turning teamster to wagons hauling wood from the interior to the
boats.
During the first days of October, while General Osterhaus is in front of
Corinth, his boats lie before Memphis.
And amid the absorbing duties of a grand campaign, look into the
General’s tent, and you shall see the warrior for a moment lost in the
grieving father, and will feel that the scene is, indeed, “a touching
episode of the war.” The letter, addressed to the Thirteenth Infantry,
and by its officers ordered to be printed for distribution among the
soldiers of the regiment, cannot but touch a tender chord in every
heart. Stricken father, noble patriot, the hero of uncounted battles;
let the nation pause in its admiration of his gallant deeds, to weep
with the mourner over the young life that no “bugle note” will awaken.
“GAYOSO HOUSE, MEMPHIS, TENN., _Oct. 4, Midnight_.
“Capt. C. C. SMITH, _Commanding Battalion Thirteenth Regulars_:
“MY DEAR FRIEND: I cannot sleep to-night till I record an
expression of the deep feelings of my heart to you, and to the
officers and soldiers of the battalion, for their kind behavior
to my poor child. I realize that you all feel for my family the
attachment of kindred; and I assure you all of full reciprocity.
Consistent with a sense of duty to my profession and office, I
could not leave my post, and sent for my family to come to me in
that fatal climate, and in that sickly period of the year, and
behold the result! The child that bore my name, and in whose
future I reposed with more confidence than I did in my own plans
of life, now floats a mere corpse, seeking a grave in a distant
land, with a weeping mother, brother, and sisters clustered
about him. But, for myself I can ask no sympathy. On, on, I must
go to meet a soldier’s fate, or see my country rise superior to
all factions, till its flag is adored and respected by ourselves
and all the powers of the earth.
“But my poor Willy was, or thought he was, a sergeant of the
Thirteenth. I have seen his eye brighten and his heart beat as
he beheld the battalion under arms, and asked me if they were
not real soldiers. Child as he was, he had the enthusiasm, the
pure love of truth, honor, and love of country, which should
animate all soldiers. God only knows why he should die thus
young. He is dead, but will not be forgotten till those who knew
him in life have followed him to that same mysterious end.
“Please convey to the battalion my heartfelt thanks, and assure
each and all that if, in after years, they call on me or mine,
and mention that they were of the Thirteenth Regulars, when poor
Willy was a sergeant, they will have a key to the affections of
my family that will open all it has—that we will share with
them our last blanket, our last crust.
“Your friend, W. T. SHERMAN, _Maj.-Gen._”
The noble Thirteenth did not stop in their expressions of sympathy with
words. The chieftain went to his war-path, while the sculptor’s chisel
was busy on the marble, until it formed a lasting memorial of manly
affection cherished by the troops for father and son. Wrote one who saw
it in Cincinnati before it was removed to the “silent city:”
“At Rule’s marble works we observed recently a beautiful monument to the
memory of Major-General Sherman’s son, who died over a year since, in
Memphis, while returning home with his mother from the Black River,
where they had been visiting the General, and where, unfortunately, the
boy contracted a fever. The monument was made by order of the Thirteenth
Regiment of Regular United States Infantry, of which General Sherman was
Colonel four years since, and of which his namesake-son, the deceased
child, was, by general consent, considered a sergeant, having been
elected to that position by the members of the regiment, who were very
proud of him. The monument is about two feet square at the base, and six
feet high. Above the rough ground base is the marble base, an
eight-sided, finely-polished and ornamented block. Upon four of the
faces are inscriptions, and upon the other four, between them, the
American shield, with its Stripes and Stars. Surmounting the base is a
full-sized tenor drum, with straps and sticks complete, and crossed
above this two flags of the Union—all in beautiful white marble. The
inscriptions are as follows:
“‘In Thy Tabernacles I shall dwell forever. I shall be protected under
the cover of Thy wing. Psalms l. 1.’
“‘Our Little Sergeant Willie—from the First Battalion, Thirteenth
United States Infantry.’
“‘William Tecumseh Sherman, son of William T. and Ellen E. Sherman. Born
in San Francisco, California, June 8, 1854; died in Memphis, Tennessee,
October 3, 1863.’
“‘In his spirit there was no guile.’
“‘Blessed are they undefiled in the way, who walk in the way of the
Lord. Psalms cxviii.’”