THE DALTON AND ATLANTA CAMPAIGN.
Our service on the coast ended April 28, 1864. On April 23 orders were
received transferring our regiment to Gen. A. R. Wright's Brigade, Army
of Northern Virginia. Gen. H. W. Mercer in command, had been ordered to
report for duty to Gen. Johnston at Dalton, Ga. As Gordon and Mercer
were both Savannah men and their war service to that date had thrown
them together, they succeeded in inducing the War Department to change
our orders and assign us to Johnston's Army. April 28 we left Savannah,
reaching Dalton at 3 a. m. April 30, and on May 4 were attached to Gen.
W. H. T. Walker's division, three miles east of Dalton. On May 7 Sherman
opened his Atlanta campaign and for one hundred days the rattle of
musketry, the roar of cannon, the shrieking of shells and the zip of
minies, grew very familiar to us, if not very amusing. Our first sight
of the enemy was at Rocky Face Ridge, May 9. Our pickets were driven in
and our trenches shelled, causing some casualties in the regiment, but
none in the Oglethorpes. Lieut. Reddick of Co. B, while reading a
newspaper in rear of the trenches was killed by a Federal sharpshooter.
No assault was made on our position, but at three other points in
Johnston's line efforts were made to carry the trenches, though the
attacks were all repulsed. On the same day Sherman, probably
anticipating such a result, began his flanking plan of campaign by
sending McPherson through Snake Creek Gap to threaten Johnston's line of
communications at Resaca. The Federal superiority in numbers at a ratio
of nearly two to one, enabled Sherman to cover Johnston's entire front
and gave him besides a large force with which to conduct his flanking
operations, a policy he pursued persistently and successfully to the end
of the campaign. As it is not my purpose to give the general features of
this campaign, but simply to record the share borne in it by the 63rd
Ga. regiment, I can, perhaps best subserve that purpose by furnishing
the following condensed extracts from my "War Diary" for that period,
elaborating afterward any special features or incidents that may seem to
merit more extended notice.
May 10. Left trenches 1 a. m., marched to a point 3 miles from Resaca.
(11). Marched to Resaca and returned. (12). Marched to a position one
mile above Calhoun. (13). Quiet. Being unwell, on invitation of Lieut.
Daniel spent the night with Rev. I. S. Hopkins and himself at the house
of his mother in Calhoun.
14. Battle of Resaca. Rejoined command on its way to the front. Walker's
division held in reserve until 12 p. m. Then ordered up to reinforce
Stewart's division. Exposed to heavy artillery fire while crossing
pontoon bridge at Resaca. Heavy fighting in our front. Enemy repulsed.
10 p. m., marched back through Calhoun to Tanner's Ferry.
15. In line of battle. Jackson's brigade charged enemy's line at the
Ferry but were repulsed. 10 p. m., returned to Calhoun.
16. Marched to Tanner's Ferry. Heavy skirmishing between Steven's
brigade and the enemy. Junius T. Steed of the Oglethorpes, wounded.
Slept on our arms.
17. At 1 a. m. aroused and ordered to fall back to Adairsville. Remained
in line of battle until 12 p. m.
18. Fell back four miles below Kingston.
19. Advanced and took position 2 miles from Kingston. Under fire from
sharpshooters and skirmishers H. L. Hill killed and T. F. Burbanks
wounded. 12 or 15 casualties in regiment. Retired to Cass station and
formed line of battle. Johnston's battle order issued.
20. At 1 a. m. crossed the Etowah and fell back to within two miles of
Altoona.
21-22. Quiet. (23). Marched five miles in the direction of Dallas.
24. Aroused at daylight and marched 15 miles, camping near Powder
Springs.
25. At 1 a. m. marched four miles back. At 2 p. m. moved forward a mile
and formed line of battle. After night moved three miles and bivouacked.
26. At 3 a. m. went forward and took position in rear of Stewart's
division. Skirmishing in front all day.
27. Moved to the left near Dallas and then a mile or two to the right.
H. B. Jackson wounded. Oglethorpes and Co. I thrown out as skirmishers.
At 11 p. m. brigade ordered away, leaving us on skirmish line without
support.
28. Skirmishing all day. Capt. Picquet wounded in leg, A. W. McCurdy in
head.
29. At 4 p. m. relieved from duty on skirmish line and rejoined regiment
on Ellsbury Ridge.
30-June 1. Quiet. (2). Heavy rain. Division moved four miles to the
right in rear of Stevenson, slippery march.
3. Quiet day. At 11 p. m. moved off to the right. Jackson's brigade and
a portion of ours detached in the darkness, lost their way and forced to
lie over till morning.
4. Rejoined division and built breastworks. Oglethorpes and Co. G on
picket. Skirmishing with the enemy. At 12 p. m. relieved by Wheeler's
cavalry and told to "git," as our army had fallen back. Overtook
regiment after five mile tramp over muddiest road I ever saw. Moved 3
miles further and took position in rear of Gist's brigade. (6-7). Quiet.
8. Brigade on picket. 63d Ga. in reserve.
9-11. Quiet, and rain, rain, rain.
12. On picket. Wet time.
13. Brigade on picket. Skirmishing between the lines.
14. Quiet. (15). Brigade on picket. Shelled by Federal batteries.
Lowry's pickets retired leaving our flank exposed. Took position on left
of Cleburne's division. At 11 p. m. moved to the rear of Lowry's
brigade.
16. Shelled by the enemy. Some casualties in regiment.
17. Moved several times. Built breastworks.
18. Six companies from regiment sent out to reinforce skirmishers. Heavy
fighting between the lines all day. Carroll, Casey, Knox, Miller and
Smith wounded. 25 casualties in other companies of the regiment.
Relieved at 8 p. m. Moved 2 1-2 miles towards Marietta.
19. Moved up to the summit of a ridge as a picket reserve. At night
moved down in rear of breastworks and then half mile to the right and
had orders to fortify but slept.
20. Dug trenches on Kennesaw line of defence. Heavy skirmishing and
artillery firing on our right.
21. Remained in the trenches. Skirmishing in our front.
22. Artillery duel between the enemy and our batteries on Kennesaw. Six
companies from our regiment sent out on picket line.
23. Skirmishing on picket line all day. No casualties in Oglethorpes.
Relieved at 8 p. m.
24-25. Artillery firing and skirmishing.
26. W. A. Dabney wounded last night in arm while asleep. Seven companies
and a detail of 47 men from the Oglethorpes sent out from the regiment
on picket line.
27. Battle of Kennesaw began at 8 a. m. and ended at 11:30. Enemy
repulsed all along the line, with heavy loss. Oglethorpes lost
twenty-three in killed, wounded and captured. Loss in regiment 88.
28-July 1. Quiet. (2) At 10 p. m. right wing of the army fell back to a
position 5 miles below Marietta.
3. Federal army lined up in our front.
4. Some indication of a general engagement. Yankees seem disposed to
celebrate the day with their artillery. Co. A with five other companies
from the regiment on picket. Heard some excellent music by the Federal
bands.
5. Army retired to a position near the Chattahoochee.
6. Entrenched and moved to the left.
7. Quiet. (8). Co. A with five others on picket.
9. Retired and crossed river to rejoin brigade.
10. Johnston's entire army crossed the Chattahoochee last night.
11. Having been quite unwell for several days, through advice of Lieut.
Daniel and Dr. Cumming I went to Division Hospital. On the 15th was sent
by Medical Board to Atlanta. On the 17th went to hospital at Oxford, Ga.
I did not rejoin my command again until Aug. 18th. During my absence
Gen. Johnston had been superseded by Gen. Hood as commander of the Army
of Tennessee, the battles of Peach Tree Creek and Atlanta had been
fought, Gen. W. H. T. Walker, our division commander had been killed and
our brigade had been transferred to Pat Cleburne's division. In the
battle of Peach Tree Creek July 20th, our regiment was only partially
engaged and suffered but little loss. Eugene Verdery and Henry Booth of
the Oglethorpes were wounded. The former had volunteered for service on
the skirmish line that day and while driving in the enemy's picket line
received a wound in the head, which caused him to spin around like a
top.
In the battle of Atlanta, July 22, the regiment was in the thick of the
fight and lost more heavily. Of the Oglethorpes, S. M. Guy was killed.
Ob. Rooks was mortally wounded, M. H. Crowder lost a leg, R. W. Lassiter
an arm, Jim McLaughlin the bridge of his nose, while George Leonhardt,
John Bynum, Clay Foster, Hugh Ogilby, John Quinn and J. O. Wiley were
otherwise wounded. After my return to the company, near East Point, on
the 18th the regiment was sent to the picket line on the 19th and when
relieved on the morning of the 20th, was placed on the reserve line,
where we remained until the 30th. At 2 a. m. that day we were aroused
and ordered to "fall in," but did not move until daylight, when we
shifted position 3 or 4 miles to the left. At 11 p. m. we were again on
the march and after a fatiguing night tramp reached Jonesboro about
daylight on the 31st.
BATTLE OF JONESBORO.
After investing and bombarding Atlanta for a month, Sherman had begun
his flanking tactics again by sending five of his corps to seize the M.
& W. Road at Jonesboro, and Hardee, with his own and Lee's corps, had
been sent down to checkmate the movement. After resting a few hours we
were formed in line of battle across an old field with only Lowry's
brigade on our left. For the only time in my experience as a soldier,
the plan of battle was read to our command. Lee's corps and two
divisions of Hardee's were to attack the enemy in front while Cleburne's
division, to which we belonged, were to advance, then wheel to the right
and attack in flank. Lying for several hours under a hot August sun
awaiting orders to advance, I remember that, being uncertain as to my
fate in the coming fight, and unwilling to allow the letters in my
possession to fall into the enemy's hands, I tore them up, leaving only
one for the identification of my body in case of my death. At 2 p. m. we
were ordered forward. Crossing the open field and advancing through a
piece of woodland, a battery of artillery opened on us but their shot
flew high. Sol Foreman of the Oglethorpes, was struck by a piece of
shell, but there was no other casualty in the company. After advancing
nearly a mile we struck a boggy swamp and on its farthest edge Flint
river. Will Daniel plunged in and turning to me said, "Come on
sergeant." He had gone but a little way when the water reached his arm
pits and sword in hand he swam across. Knowing that my cartridges would
be useless if I followed suit, I ran up the stream and found dry passage
on a log that lay across it. Reaching the crest of the hill beyond, we
halted to reform the line. The horse ridden by Col. Olmstead, our
brigade commander, had mired in the swamp, our regiment was without a
field officer and Will Daniel offered to take command of the brigade in
the final charge, which we all felt to be ahead of us. The hill on which
we stood had been occupied by Federal cavalry and artillery, who had
retired as we approached. The roar of battle giving evidence of a fierce
engagement on our right, came to us over the hills and valleys; Capt.
Dickson of Cleburne's staff, with his horse all afoam, his coat and vest
discarded and the perspiration trickling from his face, was riding from
point to point in the line giving his final orders and the sultry summer
air smelled viciously of powder and lead. At this juncture a courier
from Cleburne dashed up with orders for us to retire. We had gone some
distance beyond the point intended and had become entirely detached from
the line on our right. The attack in the enemy's front had failed to
dislodge them and our two brigades could hardly have accomplished much
against five corps of the enemy. By dusk we had resumed our original
position and our regiment was placed on the picket line. On Sept. 1,
Lee's corps returned to Atlanta and Hardee was left with his two
divisions to face an enemy whose strength was five times his own.
Relieved from picket by a detail of Cheatham's division, we were placed
in the trenches vacated by Lee's corps. At 3 p. m. the enemy massed
heavily in front of Lewis' Ky., and Govans' Ark. brigades and assaulted
in three lines of battle, but were repulsed. They then formed in column
of companies, making ten lines of battle, and renewed the attack. Our
breastworks at this point were inferior and were manned only by a line
in single rank.
With such odds the issue could not long remain in doubt. Govans' line
was broken and a part of his brigade was captured. No assault was made
on the line held by us, though we were subjected to a heavy fire from
their skirmish line. At 10 p. m., Hardee evacuated his position and at
daylight on the 2nd, occupied another, near Lovejoy Station. Sherman
secured a foothold on the M. & W. Road and Hood, compelled to give up
Atlanta, formed a junction with Hardee on the 3rd.
The enemy had again taken position in our front and skirmishing was kept
up until the 8th, when they were recalled by Sherman and the Dalton and
Atlanta campaign was ended.
FURTHER MEMORIES OF THE CAMPAIGN.
The following incidents oscillating as they do "from grave to gay," and
marked perhaps as much by comedy as by tragedy, will probably be of more
interest to the reader of these records than the details just ended:
"TWO AND A DOG."
At the date of our transfer from the coast to Johnston's army, our
uniforms were in fairly good condition and bore in almost every case
the insignia of rank held by the wearer. The writer's jacket had on its
sleeves the regulation chevrons of an orderly sergeant, three bars or
stripes with lozenge or diamond above them. The troops who had followed
the fortunes of the Western army from Shiloh to Chickamauga were not so
well clad and had, to a large extent discarded their official insignia.
For this reason they were disposed to guy us as bandbox soldiers.
Passing some of these veterans one day on the march one of them noticed
my chevrons and sang out to his comrades: "Look there, boys. I've often
hearn of "two and a dog" but I'll be blamed if there ain't "three and a
dog." I reckon that's the way they play kyards on the coast." The laugh
that followed convinced me that my lack of familiarity with the
mysteries of the card table was not shared by those who heard the jest.
STRIPES ON THE WRONG SIDE.
While we suffered from deficiencies on other lines in the summer of '64,
there was certainly no lack of rainy weather during that campaign. The
roads over which we tramped were composed largely of a red, adhesive
clay. The writer's physical conformation gave him some right to be
classed with the knock-kneed species of the genus homo, and in marching
over the wet clay hills, the red pigment began at his ankles and by
successive contact, traveled gradually up the inside seams of his grey
trousers until those seams and an inch-wide space on either side were
covered for almost their entire length. Passing one day a division
resting by the roadside, one of them noticed the peculiar condition of
my bifurcated garment, and sang out to me: "Hello, my friend; you've got
the stripe on the wrong side of your pants." I could not deny the soft
impeachment and enjoyed the laugh raised at my expense as much as did my
comrades.
A CLOSE SHAVE.
The battle of Resaca began May 14, '64. Walker's division, to which we
belonged, was held in reserve during the morning and at 12 p. m., as the
fighting grew fiercer, we were ordered up to reinforce Stewart's
division in our front. A pontoon bridge had been laid across the
Oostenaula river and a courier stationed on its bank to hurry the men
across, as the railroad embankment on the other side would protect them
from the fire of a Federal battery, which had secured the exact range of
the road over which we were passing. As we approached the bridge Capt.
Martin, commanding the company next in our front, halted the column a
moment to hear what the courier was saying. As the march was resumed, a
solid shot from the battery struck directly in a file of fours in
Martin's company killing two and wounding a third, not more than ten
feet from where I stood. The time occupied in the halt would have about
sufficed to have covered the intervening distance, and certainly saved
the lives of some of the Oglethorpes and possibly my own. Crossing the
river, Gen. W. H. T. Walker passed us going to the front and as he rode
by, another shot from the battery struck immediately behind him, barely
missing his horse. Glancing around at the dust it had raised and turning
to us with a smile on his face, he said, "Go it boots," and galloped on
to the head of the division. On this, as well as on every other occasion
when under fire, he seemed not only absolutely indifferent to danger,
but really to enjoy its presence. Gen. Cabell, in recalling his
association with Gen. Walker in the '60's, said that battle always
brought to his eyes an unusual glitter and that he thought him the
bravest man he had ever known.
A hero in three wars, severely wounded at Okeechobee, Fla., and at
Molino Del Rey and Chapultpec, Mex., he fell at last gallantly leading
his division at the battle of Atlanta, July 22, '64, and I am sure no
battle soil on God's green earth in all the ages was ever stained by
braver or by nobler blood than William Henry Walker's.
A TWILIGHT PRAYER MEETING.
On May 19, '64, Sherman and Johnston were fronting each other near
Kingston, Ga. In the skirmishing that day the Oglethorpes had suffered
some casualties, among them one that saddened all the company. Hugh
Legare Hill, son of Hon. Joshua Hill, a beardless boy, had been shot
through the head and instantly killed. He had joined us some months
before at Thunderbolt and becoming restive under the inaction of coast
service, had applied for a transfer to Johnston's army. Chafing under
the delay brought on by military red tape in such matters, and anxious
to secure a place on the firing line he had urged the officers to press
the matter as he wanted to reach his new command in time for the opening
of the spring campaign. Before the papers were returned our regiment was
ordered to Dalton and the transfer was abandoned.
Poor Legare! The spring campaign had not yet drifted into summer before
his bright young life, that knew no other season, but its spring, had
found its sad and sudden ending on the firing line, a place for which he
longed so ardently and met so bravely.
In the evening of that day we occupied a line near Cass Station, a line
chosen by Johnston for a general and decisive engagement with Sherman's
army. The Fabian policy, that had marked the campaign from its opening,
was to be ended. The gage of battle was thrown down and Atlanta's fate
was to be settled before another sunset. Every arrangement for the
coming conflict was made and the men ready and anxious for the fray were
resting on their arms. At the twilight hour two members of the
Oglethorpes left their places in the ranks and retired to a quiet spot
in the forest not far away to talk with God. No church spire raised its
lofty summit heavenward. Under the open sky in one of "God's first
temples," as dusk was deepening into night, they kneeled together and
each in turn, in tones of earnest supplication, asked for God's
protecting care upon themselves and on their comrades in the coming
battle and for His blessing on the flag for which they fought and
prayed. And when their prayers were ended, they pledged each other that
if it was the fate of either one to fall, the other would act a
brother's part and give such aid and comfort as he could.
Returning to their places in the line, they wrapped their worn, grey
blankets around them and lay down under the starlight to pass in calm
and quiet sleep, the night before the battle. I have attended many
larger prayer meetings since that day; I have heard many petitions to a
Throne of Grace, clothed in more cultured phrase, and yet but few that
seemed more earnest or filled with simpler trust in God.
Under the urgent protest of Hood and Polk, Joe Johnston's plans were
changed and the promised battle beside the Etowah was never fought. I
know not what the issue would have been, personal or national. I know
that if the hundred and fifty thousand men marshalled upon that field on
that May day had met in deadly strife, the shadows would have fallen on
many a Northern and many a Southern home. And yet somehow I can but feel
that if that evening's bloody promise had been fulfilled and in the
gathering twilight at its close our company roll was called to mark the
living and the dead, my friend and comrade, Steed, and I, whose humble
prayers had broken the silence of the evening air to reach no other
ears but ours and God's, would in His kindly providence have answered,
"Here."
TOM HOWARD'S SQUIRREL BEAD.
On May 28, '64, we were on skirmish line near Dallas, Ga. The remainder
of the brigade had left the trenches in our rear to reinforce some other
point in the line and the pickets were holding the fort alone. A Federal
sharpshooter had secured a concealed position at short range and was
picking off the men in a way highly satisfactory to himself, perhaps,
but decidedly unpleasant to us. We had been on duty all the night before
and worn out from loss of sleep. I sat down with my back to a tree as a
protection from careless bullets and fell asleep. Will Daniel, in a
similar position and for like reasons, was dozing at the next tree
twenty feet away. A courier came down the line and waking me asked for
the officer in command. I pointed to Will and as the courier laid his
hand on Will's shoulder to wake him, a ball crashed through his knee,
causing him to scream with pain. A little while before Louis Picquet had
received the wound that cost him his leg, and a little later McCurdy of
our company, fell with a ball through his head.
Tom Howard had been watching the progress of events and they seemed to
him entirely too one-sided. Gripping his rifle more tightly and with the
peculiar flash that came to his eyes when excited, he said, "Boys if I
can get a squirrel bead on that fellow I can stop his racket." Slipping
from tree to tree until he located the picket by the smoke of his gun,
he drew his squirrel bead and fired. This time the yell of pain came
from the other side, and Tom, with his eyes dancing and his face all
aglow, turned to us and said, "Boys, I got him. I heard him holler."
Tom's bead had stopped the racket.
"WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS OVER."
Tom was one of the "characters" in the company. Brave and generous, full
of life and humor and always ready for duty, he would sometimes grow a
little homesick. One day, Ab Mitchell, sitting on the edge of the
trenches, began to sing, "When this cruel war is over." So far as I
know, Ab had never taken first prize at a singing school, but as Tom
listened, the plaintive melody of the air and the undertone of sadness
in the verses carried him back to his old home in Oglethorpe. Every
feature of the old plantation life rose vividly before him. He heard the
"watch dog's honest bark bay deep-mouthed welcome" as he drew near home.
He slaked his thirst from the "old oaken bucket that hung in the well."
He heard the lowing cows and saw the playful gambol of his blooded stock
cantering across the barn yard. He saw the blooming cotton fields and
heard the rustling of the waving corn. But last and best of all, he felt
the pressure of tiny arms about his neck, the touch of loving lips upon
his own and then his dream was over. With tears in the heart if not in
his eye, he thought of the life that lay before him; of the weary
months or years that would come and go before these old familiar scenes
would gladden his eyes again, and he could stand it no longer. Rising
suddenly he seized his old rifle and turning to the singer, he said, "Ab
Mitchell, if you sing another line of that song, I'll blow your blamed
head off." And the concert ended without an encore.
"JIM, TOUCH OFF NO. 1."
During this campaign, Major Bledsoe of Missouri, commanded a battalion
of artillery in Cleburne's division. A veteran of two wars, combining in
his personality both the Southern and Western types, tall and gaunt,
with no trace of Beau Brummellism in his physical or mental make-up, he
was as stubborn a fighter as the struggle produced on either side, and
yet away from the battlefield he was as gentle and as genial as a woman.
So accurate were his gunners and so effective their fire, that it was
said that no Federal battery had ever planted itself in range of his
guns, when they were once unlimbered.
As he sat by his battery one day in May, '64, reading a newspaper, a
stranger approached him and said, "Major, where are the Yankees?"
Raising his eyes from the paper a moment he turned to one of his gunners
and said: "Jim, touch off No. 1," and resumed his reading. "Jim" pulled
the lanyard, there was a puff of smoke, the earth trembled from the
concussion and the six-pound messenger sped on its mission of death. As
it reached its mark, which had been hidden by the undergrowth in front,
the "blue coats" were seen scattering in every direction. The stranger
was answered.
As I may have no further occasion to refer to Major Bledsoe in these
records, an incident or two occurring some months later may not be amiss
in this connection. On October 29, '64, near Courtland, Ala., on our
trip to Nashville, a grey fox crossed our line of march, passing between
two of the regiments. The Major was riding by and spurring his horse to
full speed, he gave chase, trying at every step to disengage his pistol
from the holster for a shot at the animal. I think he failed to secure
the "brush." The Reynard tribe must have been numerous in that section,
for on reaching our camping place that evening, we found Pat Cleburne
and his entire staff chasing another fox through an old field.
After the retreat from Nashville our division was ordered to North
Carolina and in the transfer the trip from Selma to Montgomery, Ala.,
was made by steamer. The boat was old and slow, and the voyage
monotonous. To enliven it, the boys, for lack of better game, would try
their marksmanship on every buzzard that in silent dignity sat perched
on the tall dead pines that lined the river bank. Major Bledsoe was with
us, and constituting himself a "lookout" for the game, he entered into
the sport with all the zest and ardor of a boy. He was probably no blood
kin to "Jim Bludsoe" of Prairie Belle fame, but under similar
conditions I believe that like "Jim" he would, regardless of his own
fate, have
"Held her nozzle to the bank,
Till the last galoot was ashore."
ANOTHER STAMPEDE.
Mention has been made of a panic that occurred on a night march near
Green Brier river, Va., in '61. A similar stampede occurred on the night
of May 25, '64, near Powder Springs, Ga. We were in reserve and were
shifting position to the right. The night was dark and none of us knew
the object of the movement or our destination. Tramping along quietly
under a moonless sky over a country road darkly shaded by a heavy forest
growth, a sudden rumbling was heard, increasing in volume as it
approached and then the column in front dimly seen in the starlight,
swayed to the right and there was a unanimous movement to get out of the
way and to get quickly. One man, thoroughly demoralized, broke through
the woods at full speed in the darkness, ran into a tree, that stood in
his pathway, and dislocated his knee cap. Most of the men thought the
enemy's cavalry were charging down the road upon them and they took to
the woods and did not stand upon the order of their going. The rumbling
was caused by the hurried tramp of feet as the men left the road. It was
simply a causeless stampede and no one knew how it began. It was said
that a deer ran across the road in front of the column, but I can not
vouch for the correctness of this explanation.
I do not know how it may have been with others, but to the writer the
expectation of meeting an unseen enemy in the dark, with no means of
ascertaining his numbers or location, was never a pleasant sensation. It
would have modified the feeling, perhaps, if I had borne in mind always
the advice of a Confederate general to his men to "remember that the
other side is as badly scared as you are."
A SUMMER DAY ON THE FIRING LINE.
It was a day in June, but neither a perfect nor a rare June day. For two
weeks and more it had rained almost continuously. Every day or two Jabe
Poyner, the weather prophet of the company, had said, "Well boys, this
is the clearing up shower." And still it rained and rained and rained
until Poyner's reputation on this line had gone where the woodbine
twineth. In the early morning of the 18th there was another of Jabe's
clearing up showers and at its close the boys were lying on the wet
ground, a hundred yards in rear of the breastworks, awaiting orders.
They had amused themselves for a time by shooting pebbles at each other,
when Bill Byrd's foot was struck and he said, "Boys, don't shoot so
hard--that one hurt." Looking down at his foot, he found that another
partner had entered the game as it had been hit by a minnie ball from
the skirmish line.
The firing had begun at daylight and was growing heavier. At 8 a. m. six
companies of the regiment were ordered to the front to reinforce our
skirmish line, which was being pressed back. "Over the breastworks,
Oglethorpes," sang out Lieut. Daniel, and we went over with a yell.
Advancing and deploying under fire, we reached a position within 250
yards of the Federal line and having no rifle pits, we availed ourselves
of such protection as the larger forest trees afforded. Selecting a post
oak, I had been there only a little while when the man on my right,
belonging to another company, was shot down. The woods were very thick
in my front and not relishing the idea of being killed with such limited
opportunity of returning the favor, I shifted my position to the leeward
side of a red oak, twenty or thirty feet to the left where the woods
were more open and a Federal rifle pit in front was only partially
hidden from my view. The diameter of the tree about covered my own and
there for twelve hours, in a drizzling rain, I cultivated the
acquaintance of that oak more earnestly perhaps than I had ever fostered
a personal friendship. For that day at least it was "my own familiar
friend in whom I trusted," and if on bidding it adieu, I had met the
owner, my prayer to him would have been,
Woodman spare that tree,
Mar not its noble shape,
Today it sheltered me
From "minnie" and from "grape."
All day long leaden messengers were knocking at the door of my
improvised breastwork in search of my long and lank anatomy. It was
barked and scarred and torn from the root to twenty feet above my head.
Twice the bark was knocked into my eyes and once a ball striking at the
foot of the tree filled them with dirt. On one of these occasions I must
have flinched a little as George Harrison, who was cultivating friendly
relations with the next tree on my right, turned anxiously and asked if
I was shot.
The Federal line as a rule stuck rather closely to their pits and not
feeling authorized to waste my ammunition I fired only when there was a
blue target in sight. Some of the boys, less careful of their cartridges
expended 80 or 90 rounds during the day. John Carroll, ten feet to my
left, kept firing when I could see no game, and I said to him, "John,
what are you shooting at?" "Well," he said, "they are down that way."
Before the day was ended some of them "down that way" had shot him
through the thigh, and the poor fellow died of the wound.
In addition to the incessant infantry fire, which made small lead mines
of the friendly oaks, the Federal artillery, not wishing to be lacking
in social attentions, complimented us at short intervals with volleys of
grape. These came over us like the whir of a covey of overgrown
partridges, but fortunately flew high, causing more nervousness than
execution.
Ninety thousand rounds of ammunition were fired on Hardee's line alone
that day and our friends on the other side expended probably an equal or
larger number. There was no intermission for lunch. Our rations were
nearly half a mile away and the Northern exposure of the route towards
them somehow dulled our appetites. There are several incidents that come
back very vividly today from that twelve hours' fright in the woods.
A SQUIRREL HUNT UNDER DIFFICULTIES.
One of these incidents furnished an exhibition of coolness under fire
and indifference to danger that had no parallel in all my term of
service. About midday I heard several shots fired a short distance in my
rear. Fearing that some excited soldier might fire wildly and shoot me
in the back, I turned to investigate, and saw a member of the regiment
standing in an exposed position and coolly and deliberately firing, not
at the enemy, but at a squirrel he had discovered in the branches of the
tree above our heads. Grape shot were tearing the limbs from their
sockets, minies were making music in the air, or striking the oaks with
a dull, dull thud, but that soldier, was oblivious to everything save a
determination to have fried squirrel for supper. If I knew his name I
cannot now recall it, nor do I remember whether the squirrel was
included in the casualties of that day.
JIM THOMAS' DILEMMA.
During the afternoon Jim and a Yankee picket had been taking alternate
shots at each other and it was the Yankee's time to shoot. Jim was
nestling up to the Southern side of his tree and thinking possibly of
all the meanness he had ever committed in order to feel as small as
possible, when a cannon ball crashed through the tree, cutting off its
top and sending it by force of gravity, in the direction of his head. He
was in a dilemma. If he remained where he was he was liable to be
crushed to death by the falling timber, and if he left his cover the
picket would probably kill him. Under ordinary circumstances Jim may not
have been averse to taking a "horn," but in this dilemma he was
undecided which horn to take, whether to bear the ills he had or fly to
others, that unfortunately he knew too well.
"All things come to him who waits," but in this case there was something
coming that Jim didn't care to wait for. Doing perhaps the rapidest
thinking of his life he decided if he had to shuffle off this mortal
coil, he would do so in a soldierly way, and leaving the protection of
his tree he gave his antagonist a fair shot. Fortunately the aim was bad
and Jim lived to laugh over his deliverance from a sea of troubles.
A POOR GUN OR A POOR GUNNER.
Obliquely to the right of my position in the line, and about 250 yards
distant as I estimated it, there was a shallow ravine or valley and 20
or 30 feet beyond, on its further slope, a Yankee rifle pit. For reasons
which readily occurred to the writer at the time and which will
probably suggest themselves to the reader, I did not take the trouble to
verify my estimate of the distance by stepping it. About the center of
this depression in the land was a very large tree--a pine, as I
recollect it. On the farther side of this tree and hidden by it entirely
from my view for the larger part of the day was a six-foot Yankee
soldier, an officer probably, for he had no gun in his hand. During the
afternoon, to protect himself from the fire of other skirmishers on my
right, he had "inched" around the tree until his body from his knee
upward was in plain and unobstructed view of my position. It was
drizzling rain and his shoulders were protected by a blue blanket thrown
across them. It was the fairest, prettiest shot I had enjoyed during the
day and fearing that he would change his position, I aimed at his breast
rather hurriedly and fired. The shot failed even to scare him for he
didn't move an inch. Reloading as rapidly as I could, I steadied the gun
against the red oak and with as deliberate aim as I had ever taken at a
squirrel in my boyhood I fired again. And still he moved not. Reloading
again I took even longer aim and when the smoke cleared from the muzzle
of the gun he had disappeared. I do not think that he was either killed
or disabled as in such event I would have seen him carried to the rear.
I am glad to believe that my third shot simply convinced him that a
change of base was desirable and that he acted upon that conviction
while the smoke obstructed my vision.
And now in at least partial extenuation of what seemed very poor
marksmanship it may not be amiss to say that the weapon used was an
Austrian rifle and was considered a very inferior gun. With an Enfield
or Springfield rifle I think I could have made a better record, provided
always that my nerves had not been rendered unsteady by the necessity
for dodging minies for six or eight hours. George Harrison, who took
care of the tree nearest me on the right has always insisted that I did
redeem my reputation on that day, but with so many guns in possible
range of the same point it was impossible for him to have known
definitely whose shot was effective. Such a result, if positively
settled, would be to me now only an unpleasant memory and while in the
discharge of my duty as a Confederate soldier and in justice to the
cause, for which I fought, I lost no opportunity and spared no effort to
lessen the number of effectives on the other side, it has been a
gratification to me to have no positive knowledge that my efforts were
ever successful.
SAVED FROM DEATH BY A BIBLE.
Evan H. Lawrence, of Morgan county, and a member of the Oglethorpes,
occupied that day a position about 20 feet to my left. He had in his
left breast pocket and covering his heart, a Bible. During the day a
minie ball struck the book and passing partly through, stopped at the
7th verse of the 52d chapter of Isiah. But for the protection furnished
by the book it would probably have produced a fatal wound. He told me
afterwards that the subject matter of that special chapter had been in
his thoughts all day. He survived the war, entered the ministry of the
Baptist church and preached his first sermon from the text named above:
"How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of Him that bringeth good
tidings, that publisheth peace," etc. I am satisfied that the incident
and the peculiar significance of the text had a controlling influence in
the selection of his life work after the war. He fought a good fight,
both as a soldier and a Christian, and I feel assured, has received his
certificate of promotion in the ranks of the army above.
At 8 p. m. we were relieved and returned to the trenches. Twelve hours'
continuous fighting had rendered us hungry for rest as well as food, but
our rations of both were destined to be short. The beef issued to us had
been slaughtered so long and was so badly tainted that even a soldier's
appetite had to reject it. Only the tallow or fat could be used and this
was stuck on the end of a ramrod, placed in the flame until the outer
surface was scorched and was then eaten with a relish that the rarest
dainties of a royal table would not bring to me now. After a hasty lunch
we were again on the tramp. The roads were very muddy, the march was
obstructed by wagons in front and we made only 2 1-2 miles in four
hours. There were frequent halts and at one of them Will Daniel and the
writer, standing side by side in the mud, both fell asleep. After a time
the company moved on, but neither of us awoke until jostled by other
troops in passing us. This incident recalls the fact that on a forced
march in Tennessee afterwards, I slept walking. The nap must have been a
short one, but that I lost consciousness was proven by the fact that I
dreamed of a young lady three hundred miles away.
A little after midnight we were halted on the crest of a ridge and
thoroughly worn out we lay down to rest, invoking in our hearts if not
upon our lips, blessings on the man that invented sleep.
INCIDENTS ON THE KENNESAW LINE.
On the next day, 19th, we were on reserve picket all day in the rain,
but fortunately with no fighting to do. Relieved at midnight, we retired
behind the trenches, as the writer hoped, for much-needed rest and
sleep. My only blanket had been thoroughly soaked by the rain and
knowing Gen. Johnston's predilection for changing base at night, I was
in doubt whether to take the chance of securing such sleep as I could
get in a wet blanket, or to build a fire, dry the blanket and fall into
the arms of Morpheus like a gentleman. I chose the latter course, spent
an hour in the drying process and then lay down, hopeful of a good
night's rest. I had just fitted my angular frame to the inequalities of
the ground, when the ominous "Fall in," Fall in.. fell like another wet
blanket on my heart and hopes. Out into the mud and darkness we
tramped, not knowing whither we went and caring, perhaps as little. We
were finally halted near the base of Kennesaw Mountain and on the line
we were to occupy for the next two weeks. Before dismissing the company
Will Daniel said, "An attack is expected on this line at daylight
tomorrow, and I have orders to fortify it. I am tired and I am going to
sleep. You can entrench or not, as you choose, but I want you to
distinctly understand that you have got to hold this line in the
morning, breastworks or no breastworks."
Only one man remained awake to fortify and he dug his trench in the
wrong direction. Fortunately the expected attack did not materialize
next day and we found ample opportunity to entrench before it came on
the 27th.
SLEEPING UNDER DIFFICULTIES.
The ground through which our trenches ran sloped upwards in our rear and
as we were in range of the Federal skirmish line, the balls that missed
the breastworks would strike the soil 20 or 30 feet back of them. On the
night of June 25 I was sleeping under a shelter made of bark stripped
from chestnut trees, with Will Dabney as bedfellow. About midnight I was
awakened by his groaning and found that he had been wounded while
asleep, the ball entering his arm above the elbow and stopping at the
bone without breaking it. W. J. Steed was accustomed to use his shoes
and socks as a pillow for his head, a habit growing possibly out of his
daily effort as commissary to make both ends meet. He was a little
surprised one morning to find that a minie ball had passed through his
improvised pillow without disturbing his sleep. Geo. McLaughlin found
one morning a minie imbedded in the heel of the shoe he had laid aside
for the night. These cases might indicate that our Northern friends were
rather partial to that kind of in-shoe-rance, but I am satisfied that
George and "Phunie" would have preferred a different policy.
The fire from the skirmish line was so heavy one morning and the balls
were flying around so carelessly that the company was ordered into the
trenches. Frank Stone and I had not finished our breakfast and as Will
Daniel had a personal interest in the meal, we secured his consent to
continue our culinary operations. I was sitting by the fire cutting up a
piece of beef for hash, when one of those careless minies struck my
right arm near the wrist, ventilating the sleeve of my jacket and
partially disabling my arm for ten days. As a souvenir of that temporary
interruption to the hash business I have that minie filed away among
other war curios.
THE VICTIM OF MISPLACED CONFIDENCE.
Our stay at Kennesaw was marked by another squirrel incident differing
somewhat from that of June 18, already referred to. A short distance in
the rear of our position a Confederate battery had been planted and
between this and the enemy's batteries there were frequent artillery
duels. So frequent were these engagements and so accustomed did we
become to the noise of the guns that if asleep it failed to awake us,
although our battery was only seventy-five yards away. On one of these
occasions we were ordered into the trenches for protection from the
shells. Sitting in the ditch with our faces turned rearward, some one in
the ranks spied a squirrel in the branches of a tree standing near our
battery. He was apparently crazed by the noise of the guns and the
shriek of the shells flying around him. One of the Oglethorpes sang out
to him, "Come down in the trenches--you'll be killed up there." I don't
think the squirrel heard him, but the words had barely left his lips,
when the little animal ran down the tree, struck a bee line for the
trenches and leaped in among the men. As he made his way down the line,
some one stamped on him and put an end to his race for life. I regretted
his fate, not only on account of his grey uniform, but for the reason
that if he was really seeking protection he had found himself the victim
of misplaced confidence.
PEDICULUS CORPORIS.
On the evening of June 26, Will Daniel said to me, "Furnish 47 men for
picket duty tonight. Lieutenants Blanchard and McLaughlin will go with
them. As this is a detail, you will remain with the remnant of the
company in the trenches." As Gen. Sherman had not favored us with his
confidence, neither of us knew how much, exemption from that service
meant for both of us on the morrow. In detailing non-commissioned
officers for this detachment, Corp. L. A. R. Reab asked to be excused
upon the ground that he had received that day an outfit of outer and
under clothing--that by changing the old garments for the new after a
thorough ablution he had succeeded in ridding himself of a camp
affliction technically known as "pediculus corporis," but usually
characterized by a less euphonious title--that picket service in the
pits would certainly bring on a renewal of the attack, from which he
desired most earnestly to have at least a few days immunity. While he
had my sympathy, I was unable to consider his excuse a valid one, and
referred him to his commanding officer, who also declined to relieve
him. It was possibly fortunate that he failed as he was captured next
day and was kept a prisoner until the close of the war, securing in this
way exemption from further risk in battle and perhaps a longer lease of
life.
In this connection it may not be amiss to say that the Oglethorpes were,
perhaps, as cleanly as any company in the service and yet during the
last year of the war I do not think a single member was free of this
affliction for a single day. It was simply a physical impossibility to
get rid of it. Discussing this matter with my friend, W. J. Steed some
time since, I made the statement that during our trip to Nashville in
the winter of '64, when we had no opportunity to change our
underclothing for a month or more, it was our custom before retiring at
night, to take our flannel or hickory shirts, close the neck and wrist,
suspend them over a blazing fire and hold them there until the air was
filled with the odor of frying meat. Steed's reply was, "I think a good
deal of you, old fellow, but I advise you never to make that statement
to any one who has not unlimited confidence in your veracity." And yet I
make it here with as full conviction of its absolute truthfulness as any
statement I have ever made in any presence.
And now, bidding the "pediculus corporis" adieu with a great deal of
pleasure, I ask the reader's attention to another theme.
BATTLE OF KENNESAW
The 47 men detailed for picket on the evening of the 26th, went to their
posts with seven other companies from the regiment, with no premonition
of what was in store for them on the coming day. There was the usual
desultory firing during the night, but the sunrise salute on the 27th
was not confined to a single gun. Every battery fronting Hardee's corps
and French's division, joined in the chorus. The cannonade was heavy and
continuous until 8 a. m., when the Federal bugles sounded the advance.
As the assaulting column approached our skirmish line, the pickets
covering the divisions of Cheatham, Cleburne and French retired to the
trenches, where the enemy met with a bloody and disastrous repulse. In
Walker's front their approach was hidden from view by a dense forest
growth, except on the extreme right adjoining French, where the pits
running across an open field, were held by Co. C, of our regiment. This
company had retired with French's pickets, leaving a vacancy in the
line. The Oglethorpes were in reserve, and Maj. Allen, misled by Capt.
Buckner as to the situation and ignorant of the fact that the attacking
column had already reached our skirmish line, ordered the company into
fill the gap. Gallantly led by Lieutenants Blanchard and McLaughlin,
they advanced at a double quick step and on reaching the open field were
met by a murderous fire both from the front and flank, for French's
deserted pits were already occupied by the enemy. The woods to the left
and front were swarming with blue coats. On a portion of the line held
by Co. K, they had reached the pit and a hand to hand conflict ensued.
Men fought with clubbed muskets. A short-legged Irishman of that
company, with the unusual name of John Smith, had his gun seized by a
stalwart Yankee and there was a struggle for its possession. The little
son of Erin was game, but he was overmatched in strength and shoving his
opponent backward as the gun was wrenched from his hands, he said,
"To ---- with you and the gun too." Lieut. George A. Bailie, of Co. B,
had his ear grazed by a minie and his antagonist, twenty feet away,
reloaded to fire again; having no weapon but his sword, Lieut. B.
decided to emulate David in his contest with Goliath, and picking up a
stone he threw it, striking his foe squarely between the eyes and
placing him hors de combat for a time at least. Further up the line and
near the vacant pits, another member of the regiment, whose name is not
recalled, stood loading and firing as rapidly as his teeth could tear
the cartridges and his hands could ram them home. His face was cold and
pallid and bloodless, but not from fear. Blackened with powder stain,
through which the perspiration trickled in streams, his eyes flashed
defiance with every flash from his gun, while disdaining the protection
of the pits he stood there a perfect demon of war, with no thought save
to kill.
And what of the Oglethorpes? They had picked up something too hot to
hold. Attacked both in front and flank by largely superior numbers they
were in a veritable hornet's nest. They fought bravely to hold their
position, but the odds were too great and George McLaughlin, seeing that
it was wholesale death or capture, sang out, "Save yourselves, boys."
The place was too hot to hold and almost to let go. For two or three
hundred yards to the rear was an open field sloping upwards. To retire
through this bullet swept as it was at short range, was simply to court
death. Obliquely to the rear was a piece of woodland from which some
protection could be gained. Most of the men made a break for this. Some
of them ran squarely into the arms of the enemy who had possession of
the woods, and were captured. Some failed to leave the pits in time and
were taken prisoners there. Some ran the gauntlet safely, while some
brought to the rear in frame or limb a perpetual souvenir of that warm
day. With the first volley as they entered the open field, Lieut.
Blanchard was wounded and W. J. Steed fell by his side with a ball
through his lungs. A moment later A. M. Hilzheim, who had joined us only
a day before, had received a fatal wound, and Wyatt Chamblin had fallen
with a shattered leg. When the order to retire was given, W. J. Steed,
John Weigle and Charlie Bayliss attempted to make their way to the rear
through the open field. Steed had gone but a little way when a ball
crashed through his hand. As he slung it in pain, another shattered his
elbow and he fell. As he lay there suffering agony from three wounds a
fourth ball broke the same arm near the shoulder. A little way off
Charlie Bayliss lay dead and John Weigle had fallen with a broken thigh.
The Federal line was re-formed in rear of the pits and Steed and Weigle
were ordered to come in and surrender. They replied that they were
unable to go in, but that if litter bearers were sent out they could be
carried in. Just then a shell from one of French's batteries burst over
the Federal line and they took to the woods without the ceremony of a
formal dismissal. Steed and Weigle took advantage of a temporary lull in
the firing and renewed their efforts to escape. Steed was so weakened by
loss of blood from his four wounds that he could only rise, stagger a
little way and fall, then rest for a time and renew the effort, while
Weigle was forced to crawl and drag his wounded limb. In the effort he
was shot in the other leg, but was finally reached by the litter bearers
and taken to the rear, one of them being fatally wounded as they bore
him off. After repeated efforts, occupying an hour or more, Steed
reached the haven and swooned away. In this condition he was found and
rescued. He still lives, but an armless sleeve furnishes constant
reminder of the terrible experience of that June day. Weigle, poor
fellow, a model soldier and a brave, true man, died from his wounds.
And now, though it is due to the truth of history, I regret to record
the fact, that while these comrades of mine, who had been shot down on
the soil of their own State for defending their homes and firesides,
were making in bitter agony their heroic struggle for life, Federal
soldiers, schooled in Sherman's creed that "War is hell" and that "the
humanities of life have no place" amid its horrors, concealed behind
trees and under the shelter of rifle pits, were trying to murder these
men as they lay maimed and mangled and bleeding and helpless upon the
ground. It is not a pleasant picture, and I am glad to be able to shift
the reader's attention to another that blooms out in striking and
refreshing contrast to this product of Northern civilization. At the
same hour and less than a mile away, the attack of Palmer's corps on
Cleburne's and Cheatham's divisions met with a bloody repulse and as
the Union line retired, exploding shells or paper wrapping from the
rifle cartridges, fired the woods where the Federal dead and wounded
lay. "Cease firing," rang out from brave Pat Cleburne's lips, and the
rugged heroes of Granbury, Govan and Lowry, dropped their arms and
leaping the breastworks they hurried out under the summer sun and the
fiercer heat of the blazing woods to rescue and save their fallen and
helpless foes. Comment is unnecessary and if it were, as a reconstructed
citizen of a reconstructed union, I have no heart to make it.
In addition to the casualties already named Ab. Mitchell of the
Oglethorpes, lost an arm, and W. W. Bussey, W. B. Morris, Bob Prather,
Billy Pardue, Ben Rowland and Randall Reeves were otherwise wounded. L.
A. R. Reab, Joe Derry, Willie Eve, Geo. Harrison, Bud Howard, W.
Chamblin, Jabe Marshall, Polk Thomas, John Coffin and Lott were
captured. George Pournelle's fate was never positively known. Those who
escaped thought he was captured and those who were captured thought he
escaped. He was the last to leave his pit, was probably killed there and
falling in it was thus concealed from the view of other members of the
company. He was my friend and messmate, brave and kind and true. Three
years' comradeship had drawn us very close together and the mystery of
his death has always saddened me.
The pickets were rallied by Major Allen on a line nearer our trenches,
but the Federals made no further effort to advance. The brave stand made
by our regiment on the skirmish line checked the assaulting column and
by 11:30 the battle had ended. Sherman had lost 3,000 and Johnston only
630, one-eighth of it falling on the 63rd Ga. Gen. W. H. T. Walker
complimented the regiment on its gallantry, but suggested that it be
tempered with a little more discretion.
ROLL CALL AFTER BATTLE.
Few scenes in a soldier's life are touched with sadder interest than the
first roll call after a battle. As Orderly sergeant of the Oglethorpes I
had to call its roll, perhaps a thousand times, and yet I do not now
remember one that touched my heart more deeply than that which closed
that summer day at Kennesaw. The voices of twenty-two of those who had
so promptly answered to the call of duty a few short hours before, were
hushed and silent when their names were called. Some with Federal
bayonets guarding them, were tramping to prison dens, perhaps to slow
and lingering death. Some with mangled form and limb were suffering more
than death, while some with white cold faces turned toward the stars,
were answering roll call on the other shore. Standing beside the
breastworks on that summer evening, under the shadow of grim and silent
Kennesaw, with twilight deepening into night, there were shadows on all
our hearts as well, shadows that stretched beyond us and fell on hearts
and hearthstones far away, shadows that rest there still and never will
be lifted.
UNDER TWO FLAGS.
Some time in '63 there came to the regiment a young and beardless boy,
"the only son of his mother and she was a widow." Timid and shrinking,
he was assigned to a company in which he had neither friend nor
acquaintance, and he soon grew homesick and despondent. He had been my
brother's schoolboy friend and in pity for his loneliness I made an
effort to secure his transfer to the Oglethorpe's. His captain declined
to approve the papers and the effort failed. Frail and unfitted to
endure the hardships of a soldier's life, he nevertheless bore up
bravely under the constant toil and danger of the Dalton and Atlanta
campaign until the battle of Kennesaw was fought. His company was on the
skirmish line that day and suffered heavily. When the Federal line had
been repulsed and in the hush of the twilight air the roll was called,
he was reported "missing," a word that carried with it to many a lonely
home a world of agony in those war days.
Two hours later a member of his company came to me and said, "Dick is
lying dead between the picket lines. If I can get two others, will you
go with us to find the body and bring it in?" Prowling around at night
between two hostile skirmish lines in constant expectation of being shot
by either side was not a pleasant duty, but I thought of his widowed
mother and, and told him I would go. He went away to secure other help,
but learned in some way that he had been mistaken; that the dead soldier
lying cold out under the starlight was not Dick, but another member of
the regiment. A few days later we abandoned the Kennesaw line and I
heard no more of my boy friend until the war had ended. Then I learned
through returning prisoners that he had been captured at Kennesaw; that
under the bitter cruelties of prison life he had grown sick and helpless
and was slowly dying; that in his weakness and under the inhuman policy
of Grant and Lincoln, hopeless of release by exchange, he was offered a
chance of renewed life if he would consent to serve against the Indians,
who were giving trouble in the far West. Lee's shadowy line was growing
thinner day by day. Hood's reckless raid on Nashville had ended in
disaster and the end had nearly come. With the shadow of the grave
resting on every prison wall and more, perhaps, from love of mother than
of life, he yielded. But the seeds of death were sown too deeply in his
boyish frame. The prison horrors, that merit, but find no place on
Lincoln's monument, nor Grant's mausoleum, had done their work. A few
short months and somewhere under the Western sky, far from home and
kindred, the prairie grass was weaving in the summer sunshine, its
creeping tendrils over his lonely grave.
Poor, gentle-hearted Dick! Deaths were common, sadly common in those old
days but the memory of his fate has never been recalled in all these
years without a sense of sadness and of sorrow. My heart has never
judged him save in pity and in kindness always, for I am sure few mounds
of earth have lain above a purer or a gentler heart.
AN UN-DRESS PARADE.
In active service, brass bands and "dress parades" fell largely into
"innocuous desuetude." When a band was seen going to the rear it was
considered prima facie evidence that there was a fight on hand, while an
order for dress parade dispelled any apprehension of an early
engagement. I recall one instance, however, of an undress parade on the
firing line and without a brass band accompaniment.
In the early days of July, '64, the Northern and Southern banks of the
Chattahoochee formed for a time the skirmish lines of Johnston's and
Sherman's armies. One day some of our pickets established with their
opponents on the other side a self-appointed truce. No firing was to be
done during its existence, and proper notice was to be given of its
termination. The weather was warm and a squad of Yankee pickets relying
upon the honor of their Southern foes, decided to take a swim in the
river. Stripping themselves to the bathing suit furnished by nature,
they plunged in and were enjoying the bath immensely. The Confederate
officer of the day becoming apprised of the temporary cessation of
hostilities, sent a courier down with orders to stop the truce and
renew the firing at once. The bathers were in plain view and in easy
range of our rifle pits. Notice was given them of the orders and they
begged to be allowed time to dress and resume their positions in their
own pits. The courtesy was accorded, but their toilets were not made in
either slow or common time. There was a hasty run on the bank, a hurried
leap into the pits and then the crack of the rifles announced the end of
the truce and of the undress parade as well.
RECKLESS COURAGE.
On the same line, on another day, two opposing pickets, who had been
taking alternate shots at each other, finally agreed on a challenge
given by one and accepted by the other, to leave the protection of their
pits and fight to a finish. The gurgling waters of the Chattahoochee lay
between them. Standing on either bank, in full view of each other and
without protection, they loaded and fired until one was killed.
It was simply a life thrown recklessly away, without reason, and with no
possible good to the cause for which he fought. Some weeks later Bob
Swain, who had been transferred to our company from the 12th Ga.
Battalion and to whom reference has already been made in connection with
the raising of Fort Sumter's fallen flag, was on the skirmish line at
Lovejoy Station. The Yankee pickets were probably six hundred yards
away, but they kept up a continuous fire and their balls would
frequently strike the head logs of our rifle pits. So anxious was Bob to
avail himself of every opportunity to secure a shot and so utterly
reckless of danger, that he refused to enter the pit and remained in an
exposed position until he was shot through the head and killed.
Picket firing in war, except when rendered necessary by an attempted
advance by one side or the other, is in my opinion, simply legalized
murder. The losses sustained in this way can never affect the final
result. "Only a picket or two now and then" does not count "in the news
of the battle," but "in some little cot on the mountain" the shadow of
lifelong grief falls just as heavily on the lonely wife or mother as if
the victim had hallowed by his life blood a victory that changed the
fate of a nation.
WATERMELON AS A PERSUADER.
During the summer of '64, Aaron Rhodes of the Oglethorpes, fell sick and
was sent to the hospital at Greensboro, Ga. Dr. H. V. M. Miller, the
"Demosthenes of the mountains," and an ante-bellum professor in the
Medical College at Augusta, Ga., was the surgeon in charge.
Aaron's father secured for him a leave of absence to visit his home and
at its expiration went to Greensboro to procure an extension, as he was
still unfit for duty. Dr. Miller told him that it was impossible to
grant the request, as strict orders had just been received to allow no
further leaves; that the instructions were imperative and gave him no
discretion whatever. Mr. Rhodes argued and pleaded, but the Doctor's
decision was positive and final. At the close of the interview, Mr. R.
gave the assurance that his son would be sent up at once, and then in
taking his leave said, "By the way, Doctor, I brought you those Richmond
county melons I promised you when I was here last and they are now at
the depot for you." "Ah; thank you," said the Doctor, "and by the way,
please say to Aaron, that after reconsidering the matter, he can remain
at home as long as he wishes, or until able to return to duty." And
Aaron's melancholy days were not "the saddest of the year."
SAVED FROM A NORTHERN PRISON BY A NOVEL.
In July '64, the writer passed through his first and only experience
either as prisoner or an inmate of a hospital. Sherman was nearing
Atlanta and his pickets lined the northern bank of the Chattahoochee. I
had been sick for several days and Dr. Cumming, acting assistant
surgeon, insisted that I should go to the rear. With me there went from
the division hospital to Atlanta a boy soldier, who did not seem to be
over 14 years of age, and I do not think he was as tall as his gun. If
not the original of Dr. Ticknor's "Little Giffen of Tennessee," he was
certainly his counterpart for he was "utter Lazarus, heels to head."
Atlanta was only a distributing hospital. The sick were being shipped to
points on the Atlanta and West Point Road. Reports from that section
were anything but favorable. Sick and wounded were said to be "dying
like sheep." Having no special desire to die in that way or in any other
way, if possible to avoid it, I asked assignment to some hospital on the
Georgia Railroad. "All full," said the surgeon. "No room anywhere except
on Atlanta and West Point Road. Train leaves at 7 o'clock in the
morning. Report here at that hour." As I had fully determined not to go
on that road I reported at 8 o'clock instead of 7, and a few hours later
I was pleasantly quartered in the hospital at Oxford, Ga., where I had
spent two years of college life. Four years before, almost to a day, I
had left its classic halls little dreaming that I should return to its
familiar scenes in sickness and in weariness, a victim of grim visaged
war. For many months the college exercises had been suspended and the
chapel, recitation and literary society halls were being utilized as
hospital wards. At the time of my arrival the ladies and older citizens,
who had not been absorbed by the war, felt some apprehensions of a raid
into the village by Sherman's cavalry, which was only forty miles away.
Among these ladies, however, there was one to whom the expectation of
such an event brought no feeling of anxiety. Born and reared in the
North, she felt assured that no Union soldier's vandal hand would
molest any of her possessions. Asked by one of her neighbors what she
proposed to do in the event of their coming she replied, "They'll never
trouble me or mine. I am just going to sit down and see the salvation of
the Lord." How it looked when she saw it, will appear a little further
on.
The old college chapel where I had attended morning and evening prayer
during my college course had been converted into a hospital dining room.
On July 22, a few days after my arrival, the convalescents were taking
their midday meal in this room when the clatter of a horse's feet was
heard. There was some commotion outside and the men hurriedly left the
table to investigate its cause. It required but a few minutes to size up
the situation. A few feet from the door on a horse covered with foam sat
a red-headed Yankee in blue uniform and with full equipment. The
expected raid had materialized and Garrard's division of Federal cavalry
had possession of the town. Most of the convalescents returned hastily
to their quarters without finishing their dinner, The writer, not
knowing when or where his next meal would be taken returned to the table
and replenished his commissary department to its fullest capacity. The
raiders scattered through the village, pillaging to some extent private
residences, destroying government cotton and in this way burning the
home of Mr. Irvine, an old citizen of the place. In due time they
reached the premises of the lady, to whom reference has already been
made. Her husband was not at home. He was an honored minister of the
Methodist church and was considered the champion snorer of the
conference to which he belonged. It was said that his family had become
so accustomed to the sonorous exercise of his talent in this line that
during his absence from home at night, they were forced to substitute
the grinding of a coffee mill to secure sleep. I am not prepared,
however, to vouch for the absolute accuracy of this statement. Whether
on this occasion he had received intimation of the enemy's approach, and
emulating the example of other male citizens of the village, had made
himself conveniently absent, I do not now recall. His wife, possibly
relying on the fact that she was Northern born, or on providential
interposition, for exemption from any war indemnity that her blue-coated
guests might be disposed to exact, received them courteously and as long
as their levy was confined to chickens from the barnyard or hams from
the smoke house she managed to maintain her equilibrium. But when, in
addition to these minor depredations, they bridled her pet family horse
and led him forth to "jine the cavalry," patience ceased to be a virtue.
This crowning indignity furnished the straw that fractured the spinal
column of the proverbial camel. She rose, in her righteous wrath and in
plain and vigorous English she gave them her opinion of the Yankee army
in general, and of her unwelcome guests in particular. Her indignant
protest was unavailing. The stable was thenceforth tenantless, and as
Tennyson might have said, she mourned for the tramp of a vanished horse
and the sound of a neigh that was still.
At 3 p. m. the convalescents were formed into line with orders to report
to the provost marshal. We had marched but a little way, when a Federal
colonel ordered us to disband until 5 p. m. I had borrowed the novel
"Macaria" from a Miss Harrison in the village and decided to spend the
interval in completing its perusal. I retired to my cot in the college
chapel, but somehow the book did not interest me. Visions of a Federal
prison peered at me from every page and I gave it up. Having made an
engagement to take tea with Mr. Harrison's family that evening, I
concluded, if allowed to leave the building, to return the book. Going
down to reconnoiter I saw one of our men walk up the street without
being halted, and with as indifferent air as I could assume, I followed
suit.
Reaching Mr. Harrison's house I found the family anxious and excited.
Mr. H., to avoid capture, had concealed himself in the garden. I
expressed my regrets to Mrs. H. that I was unable to keep my engagement,
as I had another, which was a little more pressing. She insisted that I
remain with them until the hour for leaving and I sat down to meditate
on the fate that the future had in store for me. When a boy I had often
sung the old hymn containing the words:
"Sweet prospects, sweet birds and sweet flowers," but the prospect that
loomed up before me that summer afternoon had no flavor of sugar or
honey and, as I now recall it, not even a trace of sorghum molasses to
shade its bitterness. As I sat there on the piazza, a Federal brigade
passed in a short distance of the house followed by a crowd of
contrabands. One of the soldiers came in and took a ham from the pantry
without taking the trouble to ask for it. Others passed through the yard
on other errands. Nothing was said to me and I made no special effort to
attract their attention. I was saying nothing, but I was doing some
pretty tall thinking. The idea had occurred to me, either, as Judge
Longstreet has said, by "internal suggestion or the bias of
jurisprudence," that if I remained quietly where I was, I might be
overlooked and I decided to make the experiment. At 5 p. m. the squad of
convalescents was re-formed and marched off under guard, passing within
a short distance of where I sat. Possibly I felt that my place was
properly among them, but I felt no disposition to halt them in order to
secure it and my heart grew lighter as the line grew dim in the distance
and finally vanished. I have sometimes been accused of being
absent-minded, but on that occasion I had reason to be grateful for
being absent-bodied.
At nightfall I returned to my hospital cot and slept the sleep of the
just. I was in no hurry to rise next morning until at 9 a. m., some one
came in and reported that all the raiders had shaken the dust of Oxford
from their feet. My escape was due to "Macaria" and for that reason I
have always felt kindly towards the book and its author. In my condition
a Northern prison would have meant for me slow death and an unmarked
grave and these records would have been unwritten or penned by other
hands.
A SLAVES LOYALTY.
On the same day Col. H. D. Capers of the 12th Ga. Battalion, was in
Oxford recuperating from a wound received in Virginia. Being advised of
the approach of Garrard's division, he leaped through a rear window of
his residence and taking a country road proceeded to change his base at
double-quick step. Learning of his escape a squad of cavalry started in
pursuit and on reaching a fork in the road they asked a negro standing
by which route Col. Capers had taken. The slave, faithful to his
master's friend, intentionally misinformed them and before the error was
discovered the colonel was safely hidden.
This act of faithfulness recalls the unswerving loyalty of the race
during the horrors of a four years' struggle, whose issue meant their
freedom. Suggesting as it does the ties of friendship between master and
servant in the old slave days, it furnishes a reason for the kindly
interest the South still feels in the remnant of a class that is fading
from the earth and may account for the further fact that on this
institution, despite its faults, there rested for a hundred years
Heaven's benediction and the smile of God.
ONE AGAINST THREE THOUSAND.
Rumors of the raid had been current for several days before its
occurrence, and a Mr. Jones, a citizen of Covington, Ga., whose hatred
of everything blue had been inflamed by reports of outrages committed by
Sherman's army, pledged himself to kill the first Federal soldier who
approached his home. Learning that Garrard's division had reached the
town, he loaded his squirrel rifle and taking his stand in front of the
court house he awaited his opportunity. He had been on post but a little
while when a Federal cavalryman approached with a squad of convalescents
captured at the hospital. Jones allowed him to come within close range
and then raised his rifle. The Yankee shouted to him: "Don't shoot," but
his purpose was not to be changed and his victim dropped from the
saddle. Reloading his rifle and changing his position to another street
a second squad of prisoners came by and again his rifle brought down its
game. Reloading the third time he intercepted a platoon of cavalry and
fired into it, wounding two of them. They captured him, shot him to
death and then beat out his brains with the butts of their rifles. He
doubtless anticipated such a fate and went coolly to certain death with
no hope of fame and with only the satisfaction of getting two for one.
Geo. Daniel, a Confederate quartermaster, chanced to be at home on
furlough in Covington on the same day. He had been out bird hunting that
morning and on his return was captured by the Yankees, who enraged by
the killing of two of their men by Jones, determined to shoot Daniel
simply because he was found with a gun in his hand. His protest that he
was out for no hostile purpose availed him nothing. He was ordered to
face his executioners and an effort was made to bind a handkerchief over
his eyes. He drew it away and said, "No, a Confederate soldier can face
death without being blindfolded." The rifles rang out and he fell,
another victim to the humane influence of Northern civilization.
A BRAVE CAROLINA MAIDEN.
During my stay at the Oxford hospital a number of ladies who had
refugeed from Charleston, So. Ca., were making their home in the
village. Among them was a Miss Fair, a beautiful girl with a wealth of
wavy brown hair. An ardent Southerner and anxious to benefit the cause
she loved, she had determined to visit Sherman's army around Atlanta as
a spy, bringing out such information as she would be able to procure.
The raven locks were sacrificed, the face and hands were died, a cracker
bonnet and homespun dress were donned and supplied with a basket of
parched ground peas she tramped around the Federal camps, keeping her
eyes and ears open. Making the trip safely, she returned to Oxford and
mailed a letter to Gov. Brown, giving him the information she had
obtained as to Sherman's force and plans. When Garrard's division
entered Oxford, this letter was in the post office and was captured
with other mail matter. It was read by the raiders after they left the
town and a squad was sent back to search for the fair writer, but
fortunately she was securely hidden in the attic of Mr. River's home,
while her father was concealed in a well on the premises. Few braver
acts have been recorded of grim visaged warriors than the daring feat
accomplished by this fair-faced daughter of the South.
A GEORGIA "HOSS."
While the raiders were in possession of the town, one of them belonging
to a Michigan regiment rode up to the gate of the home where this girl
was staying. The lady of the house was sitting on the porch and the
cavalryman saluted her with the remark, "See what a fine Georgia "hoss"
I have." "Yes," she replied, "one you stole I suppose." Turning to her
ten-year-old son standing by the soldier said, "Here, boy, hold this
"hoss." "I'd see you at the d--l first," replied the little Confederate.
This boy, now a middle-aged man, tells me that it was his first and last
use of improper language in the presence of his Christian mother, and
that for some reason she failed on that occasion to administer even a
mild reproof.