REORGANIZATION WITH 12th GA. BATTALION.
On May 1, 1862, the Oglethorpes were re-organized at Camp Jackson, on
the Carnes Road, near Augusta, Ga., as an artillery company under Capt.
J. V. H. Allen. Three other companies from the 1st Ga. Regiment, and the
"DeKalb Rifles" from Stone Mountain, joined us and the 12th Ga.
Battalion was formed, with Major Henry D. Capers as commander. We
remained at this camp drilling for two months, and our parade ground
became a favorite afternoon resort for the young ladies of Augusta.
A "LITTLE LONG."
Among the fair visitors, who honored us by their presence, were the
Misses Long, two pretty and attractive girls, who were guests at the
Savage Place, near our quarters. Miles Turpin, one of the company wits,
fell a victim to the charms of the younger one, who in physical make-up
was rather petite. When his attack had reached the acute stage, he was
being joked about it one day and gave vent to his feelings in the
following revised version of Goldsmith's familiar lines:
I want but little here below,
But want "that little Long."
Miles was not the only wit in the Company. Every branch in Phil Schley's
family tree must have shed puns as an ordinary tree sheds leaves when
touched by the breath of winter. Lon Fleming was crossing the grounds at
Camp Jackson one day with a chair slung over his left shoulder, when he
was hailed by Phil. "Lon, you are most cheerful man I've seen today."
"Yes," said Lon, "over the left." Lest some of my readers may fail to
see the point, it may be prudent to say that when Phil and I were boys,
"chair" in the piney woods was pronounced "cheer." This was not one of
Phil's best nor, perhaps, one of his worst. It would probably grade
about "strict low middling." Aside from this hereditary punning
propensity, from which my old comrade has reasonably recovered, I am
glad to recall his unfailing good humor and his readiness to meet the
dangers and hardships of the service bravely and without a murmur.
THE 12th GA. BATTALION FLAG.
On July 4th, '62, Miss Pinkie Evans, of Augusta, presented to the
battalion a beautiful silk battle flag made, it was said, from her
mother's wedding robe. Her patriotic address in making the presentation
was responded to by Maj. Capers, who accepted the colors for the
battalion.
As the Oglethorpes were transferred from the battalion in the fall of
1862, we had no opportunity of fighting under their banner save at the
skirmish at Huntsville, Tennessee. It was afterwards bravely borne on
many a bloody battlefield, under Evans and Gordon in Maryland and
Virginia. Seven color-bearers were shot down under its silken folds.
During the second heavy bombardment of Fort Sumter, lasting from Oct. 26
to Dec. 6, 1863, the 12th Ga. Battalion formed a part of its garrison.
On Oct. 31st the flag of the fort was shot down and was replaced by
Serg. Graham, Will Hitt and Bob Swain, of Augusta, then serving with the
12th Ga. Batt. It was shot down again on the same day and its staff so
badly shattered that it could not be hoisted. The same brave men went up
on the parapet, amid the storm of solid shot and shell and raised their
own 12th Ga. flag. When the Confederate line was broken at Cedar Creek,
Serg. Hopps of Crump's company, bore this flag, and disdaining to fly,
he held his ground alone, waving his colors defiantly at the advancing
line of blue until he was killed. Afred Wallen, of the same company, a
beardless boy, but a brave one, saw him fall and running back at the
risk of his own life, tore the flag from its staff and brought it in
safety to his command. It is said these colors were not surrendered at
Appomatox, but were returned to their fair donor unstained save by the
blood of the gallant Baker and King and Stallings and Hopps, who in the
shock of battle had gone down to death under their silken folds.
OFF TO THE FRONT
Buell was threatening Chattanooga, and Maj. Capers was ordered to report
with his battalion to Gen. McCown at that point. Leaving Augusta July
5th in two special trains, we were detained at Ringgold, Ga., for a day
or two by a collision with a freight train, which resulted in the death
of ten or twelve men and fifteen or twenty horses, and in injuries more
or less serious to a larger number. Reaching Chattanooga July 8, we
remained there ten days and were then transferred by N. & C. R. R. to a
point near Shell Mound, Ala. Picketing here for two weeks in front of
Buell's army we returned to Chattanooga Aug. 1, and on the next day left
for Knoxville with the intention, I suppose, of accompanying Kirby
Smith's army into Kentucky. Two days at Knoxville and we are off for
Clinton. En route a courier brings information that the enemy has
attacked our forces at Tazewell, twenty miles away, and we are ordered
to hurry forward to reinforce Gen. Stevenson at that point. An hour
later another dispatch is received that the attack has been repulsed and
we are sidetracked at Clinton to aid in the capture or dispersion of the
7th Tenn. Federal regiment, then occupying a fortified camp near
Huntsville, Tenn.
COL. HOGELAND AND HIS WAR DIARY.
How strangely human events sometimes shape themselves without apparent
effort to control them. Sitting in my home some weeks ago in the dreamy
haze of an October Sunday afternoon, there chanced to fall under my eye
in the editorial column of a Sunday school paper the statement that Col.
Alexander Hogeland of Louisville, Ky., had visited Nashville, Tenn., in
the interest of the "Curfew Law." Other items in the column caused a
momentary disturbance of my brain cells, then passed away to be recalled
no more. But this one lingered in my memory and would not down, for
thereby hangs the following tale:
The expedition against the Federal force at Huntsville was commanded by
Col. Gracie, of Alabama, and consisted of the 12th Ga. Battalion, a
portion of an Alabama regiment, and a few cavalry. Leaving Clinton at 4
p. m., Aug. 12, we camped near Jacksonboro on the night of the 13th and
on the morning of the 14th started for Huntsville by a rough mountain
path that crossed a spur of the Cumberland range. After a toilsome tramp
we halted at 9 p. m. and after an hour's rest were again on the march.
The path is narrow and the overarching trees shut out every ray of
starlight. Groping along in the dark we follow the tramp of the feet in
front, reaching out occasionally to touch the file just ahead, lest our
ears have deceived us. Our pathway passes on the edge of a precipitous
bluff and my brother in Crump's company loses his footing and topples
over it. The fall fails to disable him, but he loses his hat and in the
darkness is unable to recover it. Hatless he rejoins the command and
the procession moves on. Just before daylight we halt for another rest.
At 5 a. m. we resume the march and in the early morning reach the
vicinity of the Federal camp. Deploying into line of battle we advance
through a belt of woodland and entering a cornfield beyond, our right is
fired upon by the Federal pickets. As we drive them in a scattering fire
is kept up until we come in sight of their camp and near it a rude log
fort built upon the crest of a tall hill, over whose precipitous slope
the forest trees have been felled, making an almost impassable abattis.
While arrangements are being made for an attack upon the fort, Tom Tutt
and the writer, who are both on the color guard, see a thin line four or
five hundred yards to our right, near a church, and whom we take to be
the pickets, who had been resisting our advance. Tom, whose rule is to
shoot at everything in sight, selects his man and fires and the writer
follows suit. We load and fire again. After a few rounds I become
convinced that it is a portion of Capt. Crump's company, which had been
detached and sent to the right and in which I have two brothers. As Tom
raises his gun again I said, "Hold on, Tom, you are shooting at your own
company." He made no reply and continued firing until the order to
advance was given. A deep gully lay partially in our front and as its
passage caused some confusion in the ranks, we halted to reform the
line. Crump's company was hurrying forward to join us and before they
had reached their position in line Col. Gracie gave the command,
"Charge." From underneath the head logs of the fort the Belgian rifles
were barking at us and the heavy balls they carried whistled by us like
young shells. We were waiting for Crump, and Gracie, ignorant of the
cause of the delay, shouted: "What is the matter with the 12th Ga.
Battalion?" Just then a lone cavalryman passed the line on foot and with
drawn sabre made his way towards the fort with the evident intention of
capturing the whole business himself. Crump's company came up at a
"double quick" and the whole line moved forward with a yell. Sergeant
Harwell, our color-bearer, had never been under fire and the boys,
uncertain as to his grit, had asked Tom Tutt, who did not know what fear
meant, to take the colors when the charge began. Tom made the effort to
seize them, but Harwell, a tall, gaunt man, and brother of two honored
Methodist preachers, declined to give them up and bore them forward
bravely. As we advanced the fire from the fort suddenly ceased and we
thought they were waiting to see the whites of our eyes. Reaching the
steep ascent we climbed up over logs and brush until the fort was
gained. Lieut. Joe Taliaferro, of Augusta, was the first to enter, and
with his sword cut down the floating flag. The fort was empty--not a
Yankee to be seen. Under cover of the thick forest growth in their rear
they had hid to other haunts, under the idea, perhaps, that
"He who fights and runs away,
Will live to fight another day."
Their camp, located just below the fort gave ample evidence of their
hasty exit. Our attack was something of a "surprise party" and their
unfinished morning meal was boiling, baking and frying on the camp
fires. We were unexpected and uninvited guests and yet our reception was
warm, although unfriendly. Our all-night tramp enabled us to do full
justice to the breakfast they had prepared, as well as the sugar cured
hams and other supplies their commissary had kindly left for our use. We
appropriated an ample outfit of blankets, canteens, haversacks, etc.,
and burned what we could not carry away.
The skirmish on our side, and probably on theirs was almost bloodless.
W. W. Bussey, of the Oglethorpes, and Garyhan, of Crump's company, were
slightly wounded. I recall no other casualty except the killing of a
nice horse ridden by Col. Gracie.
And now what has all this to do with the item I read in a Sunday school
paper? Simply this: Among the assets and effects secured that day by the
writer from the officer's tent and administered upon without "Letter's
Testamentary" was a pocket diary belonging to Capt. Alexander Hogeland,
of the 10th Indiana Regt. On reading the paragraph referred to, the
coincidence in names suggested the possibility that Col. Alexander
Hogeland, of Louisville, Ky., "Father of the Curfew," might have been
Capt. Alexander Hogeland, of the 10th Ind. Regt., whose property had
been in my possession for thirty-seven years. To test the matter, I
wrote Col. Hogeland and from his reply the following extract is taken:
"Your deeply interesting favor of the 4th inst received and for the
information it contains accept my hearty thanks. I am the identical
person referred to in your letter. Was first lieutenant Co. D, 10th
Indiana Regiment in the West Virginia campaign and afterwards Captain of
Co. G. In May, '62, was made lieutenant-colonel of 7th East Tennessee
Regiment, commanded by Col. Wm. Cliff, and stationed at Huntsville,
Tenn., in August, '62. We lost everything on the occasion you refer to
and this is the first information I have received as to the whereabouts
of my effects. I am very glad to avail myself of your proffer to return
my diary and enclose herewith necessary postage." Col. Hogeland's diary
was duly returned to him and in acknowledging its receipt he took
occasion to thank me for looking him up after all these years and
assured me that he would endeavor to return that kindness by visiting
Augusta in the early future and giving the citizens of this goodly city
the benefit of the "Curfew Law." It will furnish additional evidence of
the truthfulness of the opening statement in this sketch if the capture
of a war diary nearly forty years ago, should result in the adoption of
a "Curfew" ordinance in Augusta.
In illustration of the adage that "Every dog has his day," it may not be
amiss to say that Col. Hogeland's escapade from Fort Cliff at the
instance of four companies of the old First Georgia Regiment, was only
partial compensation for the 100-mile run made by those self-same
companies from Laurel Hill, Va., in '61, with Capt. Hogeland's regiment
as one of the exciting causes.
JACKSBORO.
On our return from Huntsville, Joe Derry and J. W. Lindsay, of the
Oglethorpes, unable to keep pace with the command, straggled and were
captured by "bush-whackers." Joe was exchanged a few days, later,
Lindsay preferring to remain a prisoner. After a short stay at Clinton
we moved up to Jacksboro and remained there until Oct. 9th, guarding
Bragg's line of communications. Our service at this place was
uneventful. Buell's army had retreated into Kentucky and there was
nothing to disturb our "otium cum dignitate" save a moderate amount of
picket duty and the one subject ever uppermost in the soldier's
mind--"rations." The following incidents of our stay at this camp
furnish some illustrations of this fact:
THE PARSON AND THE GRAVY.
A continuous diet of salt bacon had made the boys ravenous for fresh
meat and as war has no tendency to strengthen respect for property
rights where a soldier's appetite is involved, they were not, as a rule,
very scrupulous as to the methods adopted to procure a supply. The means
most in use at the date referred to were known in camp parlance as "flip
ups." As no encyclopedia of my acquaintance describes this mechanical
contrivance and its specifications have never encumbered the records of
the patent office, it may not be amiss to say that it consisted of a
bent sapling, a slip noose with a trigger attachment and a bait of corn.
The unsuspecting porker, tempted by the bait, sprang the trigger and the
sapling freed from its confinement, sought to resume its normal
position, while the shote caught in the noose and partially suspended in
the air gave noisy notice that the game was up.
On one occasion the catch, by right of discovery or otherwise, fell to a
mess, of which Parson H----, a minister of the Presbyterian persuasion,
was a member. When dinner was served that day a dish of smoking pork
chops was passed to the Parson, but he declined with the remark that his
conscience did not allow him to eat stolen meat. As the meal progressed
the fragrant odor from the dish struck his olfactories with increasingly
tempting force and he finally passed up his tin plate and said: "I'll
take a little of the gravy if you please." He had made a brave fight for
principle and his final compromise was probably due to the fact that
Paul's vow, "If meat make my brother to offend I will eat no flesh while
the world standth," failed to include gravy in its inhibition. He may
have been further influenced by the reflection that his refusal to
indulge could not possibly restore the porker to life again. As Jim
Wilson said,
"'Twas Greece (grease), but living Greece no more."
This incident recalls the fact that Jim and the writer had on this
subject the same scruples as the Parson, and in order to place ourselves
on the line of strongest resistance we entered into an agreement with
each other binding ourselves to total abstinence from all meat of
questionable origin until mutually released from the obligation. The
compact was religiously observed until Hood's campaign in Tennessee in
the winter of '64. Transportation was scarce and rations were scarcer.
On one occasion two ears of corn were issued to each soldier. Some wag
in the company, probably Elmore Dunbar, seeing that horse rations were
being furnished sang out, "come and get your fodder." On another
occasion beef was issued but no bread. We had neither lard to fry nor
salt to season, but our digestive apparatus was not then fastidious as
to condiments. It was unimportant whether it was taken "cum grano salis"
or without, so the void was filled.
A fire was built of dried limbs from a brush pile and the beef placed in
a shallow frying pan to stew, Frank Stone being the chef de cuisine. The
mess sat around with anxious faces and whetted appetites. Finally one of
them, in shifting his position, struck the end of a limb on which the
pan was resting and dumped the whole business into the dirt and ashes.
The catastrophe placed us rather than the beef in a stew and we went to
bed supperless.
Under such conditions it is, perhaps, but natural that the case should
be re-opened, a new trial granted and a verdict rendered to follow
Paul's other injunction, "Whatsoever is set before you, eat, asking no
questions for conscience sake."
I can not recall positively that either of us ever indulged even as to
gravy, but I think I can say that neither of us was particepts criminis
in the act of impressment. If guilty, we were only accessories after the
fact.
"THEM MOLASSES."
During our stay at Jacksboro the farmers in that section were making
sorghum syrup, which most of them called "them molasses." Near one of
our picket posts lived a Baptist minister named Lindsay, from whose
better half we purchased vegetables and other edibles. On one occasion I
was unable to make exact change and left owing her 12 1-2 cents in
Confederate money. Two weeks later I was on picket again and paid her
the balance due. She was so much surprised that a soldier should have
the moral sense to recognize and meet such an obligation that she formed
a very exalted estimate of my honesty and when I afterwards went to buy
some of "them molasses" she requested her husband to take it from a
barrel she had reserved for her own use "for," he said "she likes 'em
powerful thick." I had occasion to regret her kindness, for it was so
thick that it was with difficulty that I could get it either into or out
of my canteen, and in view of her partiality I did not have the heart
to suggest that a thinner grade would be preferred. She was a kind and
motherly soul, and yet some of the soldiers would steal from her. To
prevent or minimize their depredations she cooped a noisy rooster
underneath her bedroom as a sort of watch dog to notify her of any
midnight foragers. A few mornings afterwards she awoke to find, aside
from other losses, that her feathered sentinel had been caught asleep
upon his post by some soldier, who was chicken-mouthed, if he was not
chicken-hearted.
RATIONS.
Rations as one of the sinews of war, deserve something more than
incidental mention in these memories and as no more favorable
opportunity may occur, it may be as well to give them more extended
notice in connection with the incident just related.
Confederate rations during the early years of the war were as I
recollect them, not only fair in quality but ample in quantity. As
evidence of this fact I remember that the boys were sometimes so
indifferent when rations hour arrived that it was difficult to induce
them to draw their allowance promptly. Charles Catlin was our company
commissary and I can hear now his clear, sharp tones as they rang out on
the frosty evening air among the Virginia mountains in '61, "Come up and
get your beef. Are you going to keep a man standing out here in the cold
all night?"
As the war progressed the resources of the Confederacy, limited to its
own production by the cordon of hostile gunboats that girded its ports,
became more and more heavily taxed and its larder grew leaner and
leaner. But little wheat was raised in the Gulf States and few beeves
except in Texas. We were reduced largely to meal and bacon rations, and
the supply of these sometimes recalled the instructions in regard to
loading a squirrel rifle given by its owner to a friend to whom he had
loaned it: "Put in very little powder, if any." Cooking squads were
detailed from each company and once a day the wagons would drive up and
issue three small corn pones to each man. Some of the boys, whose hunger
was chronic, would begin on theirs and never stop until the last pone
had been eaten.
Bob Winter belonged to this class and eight or ten hours after his daily
rations had disappeared Dick Morris would draw a pone or half a pone
from his haversack and say, "Bob, here's some bread if you want it," and
Bob would reply, "Dick, I don't want to take it if you need it," and
Dick would answer, "Bob, I've told you a thousand times that I wouldn't
give you anything that I wanted," and Bob would succumb and so would the
bread.
When our changes of base were rapid the squads would cook up two or
three days' rations and in hot weather the bread would mould and when
broken open the fungus growth looked very much like cobweb. Some of the
pones had also the appearance of slow convalescence from chill and
fever. Under such conditions it could hardly be considered very
palatable except upon the idea of a rustic friend of mine, who, in
commending the virtues of India Cholagogue, was asked as to its
palatability. "O," said he, "it's very palatable, but the meanest stuff
to take you ever saw."
Most of the boys had left well-to-do homes to enter the service and
while they bore privation and hunger without a murmur, there would
sometimes come into their hard lives a craving for the good things they
had left behind. Gathered about the camp-fire, cold and tired and
hungry, they would discuss the dish that each liked best and their lips
would grow tremulous as they thought of the day when hope would become
realization. Joe Derry, I remember, could never be weaned away from the
memory of his mother's nice mince pies and black-berry jam. I can see
his eyes dance now as he magnified their merits. Bob Winter's ultimate
thule in the gastronomic line was sliced potato pie, while Jim Thomas
would never tire of singing the praises of 'possum baked with potatoes.
Louis Picquet said to him one day, "Jim, if I ever get home again I am
going to have one dinner of 'possum and 'taters if it kills me." But it
was left to the epicurean taste of John Henry Casey to reach the acme of
these unsatisfied longings when, recognizing the value of quantity as
well as quality he declared that nothing less would satisfy him than "a
chicken pie big enough to trot a horse and buggy around on."
But for extending this ration sketch to an irrational length I might
have said something of the May Pop leaves that we cooked for "greens" in
North Georgia, of the half hardened corn transformed into meal by means
of an improvised grater prepared by driving nails through the side of a
tin canteen, of the pork issued to us in Tennessee with the hair still
on it, of the hog skins that we ate at Inka, Miss., and of many other
such things, but they would probably fail to interest the reader as they
did the actors in those far off days.