NASHVILLE CAMPAIGN.
As we marched more than 800 miles in this campaign, and as a record of
these movements would probably interest only my old comrades, the
general reader has my cheerful permission to skip the following
condensed extracts from my journal and to turn his or her attention to
the special incidents which succeed them. On Sept. 8, '64, two days
after the enemy had abandoned our front at Lovejoy Station, we moved up
to a position one mile above Jonesboro, remaining there ten days. On the
18th we moved to Fairburn and on the 19th to Palmetto, where we
fortified our position and remained until the 29th. Gen. Mercer having
been assigned to another field of duty, Gen. Smith, on the 25th, assumed
command of our brigade. On the 26th President Davis reviewed the army
and on the 28th Gen. Hardee, having asked to be relieved, took leave of
his old corps and Gen. Cheatham was made corps commander. On the 29th we
began our northward march for the purpose of destroying Sherman's line
of communication, passing by easy stages of ten to twenty miles a day,
over the ground we had traversed in the recent campaign and reaching the
vicinity of Dalton, Ga., on Oct. 13th. Here we destroyed three miles of
railroad track, burning the cross-ties and bending the rails by laying
them across the burning ties and twisting them around the trees that
stood near the track. After capturing the garrisons at Dalton and
Tilton, and tearing up a section of the E. T. & Ga. R. R., we left on
the 14th for Gadsden, Ala., en route to Nashville. Hood had decided to
abandon the plan of campaign mapped out by President Davis and himself
and to advance into Tennessee.
Passing through Villanow, Lafayette, Alpine and Blue Pond, we arrived at
Gadsden Oct. 20th. Resting here a day we are off again and for four days
are tramping over the arid stretches of Sand Mountain, reaching the
vicinity of Decatur, Ala., on the evening of the 26th. My journal for
that day has this entry: "March delayed by bridge falling in. Very muddy
tramp after nightfall. Slept under a corn crib." Two days later it has
this entry: "Two ears of corn issued to each man as rations."
Decatur was occupied by a Federal force and after some skirmishing on
the 27th and 28th we resumed our march, passing through Courtland on the
30th, Tuscumbia on the 31st and camping near the Tennessee river on the
evening of that day. Here we remained until Nov. 13th, when we crossed
the river on a pontoon bridge and camped near Florence. On the 14th we
fortified our position and on the 19th Hood began his march to intercept
Schofield in his effort to unite with Thomas at Nashville. Our brigade
was detached to ferry the wagon train across the river and on the 20th
we tramped 12 or 14 miles through a driving snowstorm in a bitterly cold
wind to reach Cheatham's Ferry. I recall the fact that my face became so
thoroughly chilled that the snow that fell on it failed to melt. After a
week's work at the ferry, we left on the 28th in charge of the wagon
train to rejoin our command. On Dec. 1st we struck the Nashville
turnpike and on the 2d received our first information of the battle of
Franklin, which had occurred Nov. 30, and in which our division had
suffered so heavily. Passing through Columbia and Spring Hill on the 3d
and Franklin and the battle ground in its front on the 4th we rejoined
our division near Nashville on the 5th. Next day the Oglethorpes were on
the picket line, were relieved on the 7th and on the 8th our brigade was
ordered to report to Gen. Forrest near Murfreesboro. Under Forrest's
direction the 9th and 10th were spent in tearing up railroad track
encased in snow and sleet, terribly cold work.
Two days' rest with the thermometer at 9 degrees and on the 13th we are
again destroying railroad track near Lavergne. On the morning of the
15th our brigade and Palmer's started out under Forrest to capture a
Federal supply train. Fording Stone river and marching 10 or 12 miles in
the direction of Murfreesboro Forrest is halted by an order from Hood to
hold himself in readiness to go to his aid, as the battle of Nashville
was in progress. Next day we moved back to the Nashville turnpike to
await the issue at Nashville. During the night Forrest received news of
Hood's defeat and with it orders to form a junction with the retreating
army at Columbia.
As the details of our march to that point, of our assignment to the rear
guard and of the retreat to Corinth, Miss., will be given in succeeding
sketches, it is unnecessary to duplicate them here.
A CHRISTMAS DAY WITH FORREST.
It was the winter of '64, and to those of us who wore the grey it was
likewise the "winter of our discontent." The hopes of the Confederacy
were on the wane. The clouds that hung above it had no silver lining,
free or otherwise. Sherman was "marching through Georgia," leaving in
his wake the ashes of many a Southern home. Hood's reckless raid on
Nashville had ended in disaster and his ragged battalions were making
tracks for the Tennessee river, (some of them with bare feet) at a
quickstep known to Confederate tactics as "double distance on half
rations." The morale of the army was shattered if not destroyed. If the
soliloquy of a gaunt Tennesseean as he rose from a fall in the mud on
the retreat fairly represented the sentiment of his comrades, it was
badly shattered. He is reported to have said: "Ain't we in a ---- of a
fix, a one-eyed president, a one-legged general and a one-horse
Confederacy."
The Oglethorpes had fortunately escaped the butchery at Franklin against
which Forrest had so strongly protested. As this immunity was due to
our having been detained with Smith's brigade to ferry a salt train
across the Tennessee river, salt had literally "saved our bacon."
After rejoining the army, we had been again detached to operate under
Forrest near Murfreesboro and in this way had missed the rout at
Nashville. Aside from these immunities the campaign had been one of
exceptional hardships. The weather was bitterly cold and our wardrobes
were not excessively heavy. The writer wore a thin fatigue jacket, with
no overcoat and slept under a single blanket with the thermometer at
nine degrees above zero. For a week prior to the retreat we had been
engaged in the pleasant pastime of handling with ungloved hands,
railroad ties and rails encased in sleet and snow. In addition to these
hardships our commissary department was but illy supplied. And yet I
cannot recall a single complaint made by a soldier during that campaign.
It is my deliberate conviction, based upon this and similar evidence,
that the Confederate soldier fought harder on shorter rations and
grumbled less under greater privations than any soldier in history. The
battle of Nashville opened on the morning of December 15th and for two
days, thirty miles away, we listened to the thunder of the artillery and
anxiously awaited the issue. At 1 a. m. Dec. 17th we were aroused to
begin the longest, hardest forced march of our four years' service.
Columbia, the point of junction with Hood's retreating army, is sixty
miles away and we have to make it in forty-eight hours or run the risk
of almost certain capture by a force ten times our own. It is cold, dark
and raining--a dreary combination. The roads are a mass of mud and
before we have tramped a mile one of my shoe strings breaks, leaving the
shoe imbedded six inches deep in the yielding soil. Fishing it out, I
resume the march with one bare foot, but the rocks in the mud cut and
bruise it at every step and I am forced to stop for repairs. Taking the
strap from my rolled blanket, slits are cut in the flaps of the shoe,
the strap is buckled around so as to hold it in place, and I hurry
forward to rejoin my command. For twenty-one hours we plow wearily
through the mud, camping at 10 p. m. after marching 35 miles. Dr.
McIntyre, in one of his Lyceum lectures, says that he had no proper
appreciation of either absolute silence or absolute darkness until he
stood within the central chamber of the Wyandotte cavern. If he had
tramped with Forrest that winter day he would probably have added to his
experience an adequate conception of absolute fatigue.
Five hours' rest and we are again on the march, but with slower step,
for the strain of the previous day has told on the boys. In the early
morning we halt to rest and I breakfast on an ear of corn picked up by
the roadside, smearing it with black grease scraped from the bottom of
my frying pan. About midday Forrest dismounts a number of his cavalry
and gives up his own horse for a time to help the "barefoot" brigade
along. By 10 p. m. we have made 25 miles and are completely fagged.
Only five of the thirty Oglethorpes reach camp that night, Dick Morris,
the writer, and three others whose names I do not recall. Dick is
short-limbed, but he has the grit and the habit of getting there. On
reaching Columbia we are assigned to the rear guard under Forrest and
Walthall, who are instructed by Hood to sacrifice every man in the
command if necessary to ensure the safety of his army. Manning trenches
half filled with snow and holding the enemy in check for a few days so
as to give Hood a fair start in the race, we begin our retreat Dec. 22
and on Christmas Eve camp near Pulaski, Tenn. Coiled up in a single
blanket on the cold, bare ground, no visions of Santa Claus nor hopes of
a Christmas menu on the morrow brighten our dreams.
Early Christmas morning we are gathered around the camp fire awaiting
orders to march. Frank Stone, tall and thin, so thin that Charlie
Goetchius had advised him always to present a side view to the enemy, as
a minie ball would never reach his anatomy in that position, ambles up
on a horse he had secured from one of the cavalry. Frank had tried
manfully to keep up with the procession. Half sick, his shoes worn
soleless and his feet lacerated and bleeding, he had marched when every
step was agony and had crawled over the rocky portions of the road on
his hands and knees until human nature could endure no more. Fortunately
one of Forrest's cavalry gave him a lift that saved him from a Northern
prison. Frank had no saddle and to supply that need the boys had piled
his steed with blankets to a depth of five or six inches. As he rode up
his eye fell on a lot of cooking utensils that had to be left for lack
of transportation, and turning to Will Daniel he said, "Lieutenant,
hadn't I better take along some of these?" Gen. Forrest was standing a
few feet away, grave and silent. Attracted by Frank's question, he
turned and inspecting the blanket outfit for a moment he said, "I think
you've got a ---- sight more now than you're entitled to." Frank made
no reply, but the criticism was thoroughly unjust for no truer, braver
soldier wore the grey.
The bugle sounds and we are again on the march. About midday we halt on
the summit of a ridge with an old line of breastworks skirting its
crest. Glad to have a rest we adjust ourselves to take advantage of the
respite, when the ominous "Fall in," "Fall in" comes down the line. The
ranks are hastily formed, the trenches are manned and Morton's battery
is planted a short distance in their rear and commanding the road. Our
regiment is placed as a support for the battery and as we line up,
Forrest passes us on foot going to the front in a half bent position.
Reaching the trenches he watches the advance of the enemy for a few
minutes and then hurries to the rear. In a moment we hear the clatter of
a horse's feet and the "Wizard of the Saddle" dashes by at half speed,
riding magnificently, his martial figure as straight as an arrow and
looking six inches taller than his wont, a very god of war, yelling as
he reaches the waiting ranks: "Charge!" "Charge!" "CHARGE!" Over the
breastworks flashes a line of grey and down the slope they sweep,
yelling at every step. The captain commanding our regiment is undecided
as to his duty, but finally orders us to retain our position in the rear
of the battery. Just then Gen. Featherston rides up, "What regiment is
this?" "63rd Ga." "What are you doing here?" "Supporting this battery."
"Battery the d--l. Get over them breastworks and get quick," and we
"get." But the skirmish is soon over. The Yankees have fled, leaving a
piece of artillery and a number of horses in our possession.
We hold our position until late in the afternoon, when "Red" Jackson,
with his cavalry, relieves us and we resume the march. As we are filing
off the enemy reappears and the cavalry carbines are waking the echoes.
We are directly in the line of fire and the hiss of the minies does not
make pleasant music to march by. But Jackson repels the attack and we
have no further trouble with our friends, the enemy. Night comes on and
if there was ever a darker or more starless one I can not place it.
Tramping, tramping in the cold and mud and darkness, companies and
regiments are all commingled and no one knows where he is, or where he
ought to be. Too dark to see the file next in front, we walk by faith
and not by sight. Elmore Dunbar was carrying the colors and but for his
occasional whistling imitation of the bugle call in order to let us
know "where he was at," our regiment would have lost in the darkness all
semblance of its organization. I can not well conceive how a larger
share of unadulterated physical comfort could have been compressed into
the five solid hours for which we kept it up.
At 11 p. m. we are ordered to halt, and camp near Sugar Creek. The sound
never was more welcome, nor fell more sweetly on our ears than on that
Christmas night. Dinnerless and supperless and completely worn out we
hailed it with almost rapture for it brought the promise of rest and
sleep. Of all the Christmas days that have come to me in life, only this
stands out in gloomy prominence as utterly wanting in every element of
the season's cheer and gladness. Yet looking backward through the mists
of more than thirty years, recalling all its dangers and discomforts,
its toil and weariness and hunger, I would not if I could blot that
day's record from my memory, for o'er its somber shadows fell and falls
today the light that comes to every true heart in the path of duty;
while gilding all its gloom there comes across the waste of years a
vision of the knightly Forrest, the bravest of the brave, for as he rode
the lines that day, the light of battle in his eye and the thunderous
"Charge!" upon his lips he rode into my heart as well, the impersonation
of chivalry, and rides there still.
CLOSING DAYS OF THE CAMPAIGN.
Early on the morning of the 26th the Federal cavalry came within range
of our camp during a dense fog. A volley scattered them and our cavalry
drove them back for two miles.
Holding our position for two hours, and no further advance being made by
the enemy, we resumed the march, camping at night near Lexington. A
march of 12 miles on the 27th brought us to the Tennessee river, which
had already been crossed by Hood with his army and wagon train. During
the night, in expectation of an attack by the enemy, we were moved into
a line of breastworks which had been vacated by Loring's division, but
we had seen the last of our blue-coated friends for that campaign.
Crossing the river on the 28th we found on its Southern bank and near
the end of the pontoon bridge, 10 or 12 dead mules, and among them three
or four grey specimens of that much abused animal. I had heard when a
boy that a grey mule never died, that they were gifted with a sort of
equine immortality. And now this dogma of my early days found its
complete subversion, for these were not only dead, but as Gen. Jno. C.
Brown said to us in North Carolina afterwards, when asked as to
President Lincoln's death, they were "very dead." Unable to resist the
force of this absolute demonstration of the fact, I have always believed
since that a grey mule could die, though if further personal evidence
were demanded I would be unable to produce it.
After crossing the river and without stopping to hold a post-mortem
examination on these faithful animals, who robed in grey had died in the
cause, we set out to rejoin our division at Corinth, Miss. Passing
through Tuscumbia Bartow and Cherokee, we reached Birnsville, Miss., on
the evening of Dec. 31st. Here in the waning hours of the dying year,
after tramping eight hundred miles in absolute health I lay down and had
an old-fashioned Burke county chill. Lying by a log-heap fire through
the long watches of the winter night, my changes of base in the effort
to keep the chilly side of my body next to the blazing logs were almost
continuous. My old comrade Joe Warren, whose stalwart frame in company
with Jim Thomas, Bill Jones and Eph Thompson graced the leading "file of
fours" in this campaign was wont to say that a certain brand of whiskey
had "a bad far'well." So the closing year had for the writer at least "a
bad far'well." The New Year found me unable to travel. Lying over until
Jan. 2d, in company with several other invalids, I secured a seat on top
of a dilapidated box car. We had ridden only a mile, when the conductor
fearing the concern would collapse and kill us all, kindly invited us to
step down and out. Complying with some degree of reluctance I shouldered
my gun and after a tramp of fifteen miles rejoined my command at
Corinth, Miss., where the shattered remnant of Hood's army had gathered.
SOME INCIDENTS OF THE CAMPAIGN.
"GO OFF AND WASH YOURSELVES."
After the death of Gen. W. H. T. Walker, in July, '64, our brigade was
assigned to Pat Cleburne's division. In his younger days he had served
in the English army and had probably imbibed his ideas of military
discipline from that service. On Sept. 26, '64, near Jonesboro, Ga., the
army was reviewed by President Davis and in the afternoon of that day
our regiment was ordered to appear at Cleburne's headquarters for
inspection. The men had received no intimation of the order and some of
the companies were not in a very cleanly condition either as to dress or
arms. Soap was scarce and but little time had been spent on their
toilets. The inspection proceeded without comment from Cleburne until
the company commanded by Capt. Joe Polhill of Louisville, Ga., was
reached. Cleburne looked over the ranks with his keen Irish eyes as
Capt. Dixon inspected the arms, and then in a tone indicating some
degree of disgust, said, "Attention company! Shoulder arms. Close order,
march. Right face. Forward by file right--march. Go off and wash
yourselves," and the regiment was ordered back to its quarters. Will
Daniel, jealous of the reputation of the Oglethorpes, who had not been
inspected, addressed a note to Gen. Cleburne protesting against the
implied reflection on his company, to which the General replied that no
reflection was intended where no inspection was made. In justice to
Capt. Polhill and his company it is only proper to say that at a
subsequent inspection next day they redeemed their reputation.
PARTING WITH HARDEE.
On the displacement of Gen. Johnston in July, 64, Gen. Hardee, as the
ranking lieutenant general in the Army of Tennessee, felt aggrieved at
the promotion of Gen. Hood above him, but was too patriotic to ask for
an assignment to other fields while his lines were facing the enemy. At
the close of the campaign he did prefer this request and on Sept. 28
took leave of his old corps. Many of them had followed him from Shiloh
to Jonesboro. His almost unbroken success as brigade, division and corps
commander had given him the title of the "Old Reliable." Even at
Missionary Ridge his corps held its line and on a portion of it, at the
suggestion of Gen. Alfred Cumming, made a counter charge, driving the
enemy from their front. At Ringgold Gap and in every assault upon his
lines during the Dalton and Atlanta Campaign Hardee had repulsed the
attacking column, with the single exception of Jonesboro, where ten
lines of battle had been massed against Govan's thinly manned trenches.
For these reasons his old corps was loth to give him up. On the evening
before his departure large numbers of his command went over to bid him
good-bye. In a simple and touching address he expressed his deep regret
at parting from those with whom he had been associated so long, but said
that he would be with them in spirit if not in person and hoped they
would always sustain the reputation they had so gallantly won. "I leave
you," said he, "but I leave you in good hands, Frank Cheatham's. Frank
and Pat go well together. If Frank fails you, you have Pat to fall back
upon." Just then a soldier, who had climbed a tree and was sitting on a
limb 20 feet from the ground, sang out, "Yes, General, and Crazy Bill
ain't far off," alluding to Gen. Bate. The scene was a very affecting
one and after speeches by Gen. Gist and Gen. Capers of So. Ca., closed
with appropriate music rendered by the band.
GEN. BATE AS A POET AND WIT.
The allusion to Gen. Bate in the preceding incident recalls an address
made by him Oct. 21, '64, at Gadsden, Ala., where we had halted for a
day on our trip to Nashville. On the evening of that day the officers
were serenaded by the army bands and responses were made by Beauregard,
Cleburne, Clayton and Bate. The last sparkled with eloquence and wit and
was the gem of the evening. Gov. Brown of Georgia, had issued an order
exempting a goodly number of citizens of conscript age in each county
from military service for the purpose of raising provisions for the
army, sorghum being named as one of the products to be so used. This
order had created a feeling of resentment in the minds of those at the
front and Gen. Bate, in voicing this sentiment, and in criticism of Gov.
Brown's action, impromptued the following parody on Campbell's downfall
of Poland:
"What tho' destruction sweep these lovely plains,
Who cares for liberty while sorghum yet remains?
With that sweet name we wave our knives on high,
And swear to cut it while we live and suck it till we die."
Gen. Bate's bravery as an officer equalled his wit as a speaker, but his
division had been unfortunate in several engagements and other troops
were disposed to guy it, saluting it as it passed them with, "Lie down
Bate, we are gwine to bust a cap" or "scorch a feather," and such like
sallies of so-called wit. Our regiment had indulged in this pastime to
some extent and this fact seems to have come to the knowledge of the
General. At the battle of Bentonville in March, '65, we were assigned to
Bates' corps. In the early morning an assault was made on Govan's
brigade, on our immediate left, and as we were without breastworks we
were ordered to lie down. As we had not been on the firing line for some
time and the whistle of the minies had grown a little unfamiliar, we
obeyed the order very promptly, lying as flat as possible without
imbedding ourselves in the ground, and in the case of Frank Stone and
the writer this was pretty flat. Gen. Bate rode up to our line and
asked, "What command is this?" "63rd Ga.," was the reply. "Why, boys,
you lie mighty close. I came very near riding over you without seeing
you. Never tell Bate to lie down any more," and we didn't.
PAT CLEBURNE AS AN ORATOR.
Gen. Cleburne was a better fighter than speaker, and yet his oratory was
sometimes very effective. Of his address on the occasion above referred
to I recall but a single sentiment uttered by him. After referring to
the outrages committed by Northern troops on Southern soil he said, "I
am not fighting for right, I am fighting for vengeance." Of another
address delivered by him on the same day I retain a more vivid
recollection. Two soldiers of our brigade had appropriated a hog
belonging to some citizen living near Gadsden, and the matter was
reported to Gen. Cleburne. The brigade was ordered out and formed into a
hollow square facing inwards. The two culprits were brought in under
guard and placed in the center of the square and then Cleburne and his
staff rode in. With the culprits before him and in the presence and
hearing of the entire brigade he for fifteen minutes abused and demeaned
and shamed them until I think they were thoroughly reformed on that
particular line of moral depravity. On the march, some days later, the
road we were traveling changed direction abruptly to the right. A corn
field lay on that side and a number of the boys, with the view of
shortening their tramp that day, leaped the fence and took the
hypotenuse of the triangle rather than walk the longer distance
represented by the other two sides. Gen. Cleburne, who was riding at the
head of the division, probably suspected such a result and when he had
reached the corner of the field where they would come out he stopped
his horse and quietly awaited their coming. As they reached the road,
singly or in pairs, the General gave them a brief but pointed lecture on
the sin of straggling, and to impress it more forcibly on their memories
he told them in his suave Irish way that they could each take a rail
from the fence and carry it on their shoulders for the next half mile.
It was a new, but not a pleasant form of traveling by rail. If my memory
is not at fault one of the Oglethorpes had the honor of membership in
the rail squad that day, and probably has still a feeling recollection
of the incident. He was something of a vocalist in those days and was
wont to enliven the march with the tender strains of "Faded Flowers,"
"The Midnight Train," "Benny Havens Ho," and other popular musical
selections, but on that day his lyre was voiceless and all its music
hushed.
HOOD'S STRATEGY.
This incident has no reference to Gen. John B. Hood, whose strategy in
this campaign was apparently conspicuous only by its absence. It refers
only to Private Hood of the Oglethorpes, who joined our ranks in '63 or
'64, probably at Thunderbolt. As I recall his personality, he was an
undergrown youth of sallow complexion and uncertain age. On our march to
Nashville he grew sick or tired, and stopped at the home of a citizen to
recuperate. Some days later a squad of Yankee soldiers stopped at the
house, and Hood, deeming prudence the better part of valor, dropped his
grey uniform and donning a suit belonging to the son of his host, passed
himself off as a member of the family. While chatting with the visitors
one of them said to him, "Well, Bud, haven't they got you in the army
yet?" "No, sir," said Hood, "and they ain't agoing to either." "That's
right, my boy," and with Hood's assurance that he had no idea of
"jining," they bade him good-bye and went their way. Some weeks later he
rejoined us, congratulating himself on the success of his strategy.
A LUCKY FIND.
While ferrying the army train across the Tennessee river, the flat in
charge of Sergeant S. C. Foreman of the Oglethorpes, brought in a box or
case containing three hundred pounds of nice dry salted bacon. It was
reported to me that they had found it floating down the river and
supposed it had been thrown in by the Federal garrison at Florence to
prevent its capture by Hood's army. I swallowed the story and some of
the meat and had no occasion to question the correctness of the
information until Sam Woods told me in '98 that he found it lying in
shallow water near the river bank, and George McLaughlin afterwards
intimated that it was stolen from the wagon train. Whatever may have
been the method by which it came into our possession I remember that it
was divided among the members of the company as extra rations. I recall
the further fact that my mess secured that afternoon a large wash pot
and a supply of corn and boiled up a peck or two of "lye hominy." On the
next day we began our march to rejoin the army and for 17 miles, in
addition to my gun, bayonet, cartridge box and forty rounds of
cartridges, heavy blanket, tent fly and haversack with two day's
rations, I carried 6 or 8 pounds of this bacon and a bucket of the
hominy. The aggregate weight must have been 50 or 60 pounds, a pretty
fair load for a "light weight."
"WHO ATE THE DOG."
This inquiry, while not invested with the same degree of mystery, nor
enjoying as large a measure of notoriety as "Who struck Billy
Patterson?" nevertheless echoed on many a hillside and enlivened many a
camp fire on our trip to Nashville. The incident which gave rise to it
occurred soon after we left the Tennessee river on this ill-fated tramp.
To prevent depredations upon the property of citizens along the route of
our march, a provost guard had been formed, in command of which was
placed an officer now living not a thousand miles from Augusta, but who
shall be nameless here, partly out of respect to his feelings and partly
out of regard for my own. He has warned me that a different course would
be followed by an aggravated case of assault and battery and I do not
care to put the courts to unnecessary expense.
Stringent orders were issued by Gen. Smith to arrest any man found in
possession of fresh meat, for which he could give no satisfactory
account. Several arrests had been made and the captured meat had been
confiscated and appropriated by the provost guard to their own use,
benefit and behoof. To the men engaged in these depredations, justified
in their eyes by the shortness of their rations, these captures became a
little monotonous and they determined to find some means of retaliation.
One day a soldier was seen tramping through the woods with a suspicious
looking sack swinging from his shoulder and one of the guard ordered him
to halt. Instead of obeying the command he gave leg bail and the guard
started in pursuit.
The forager encumbered with the weight of his plunder finally dropped it
and made his escape. The sack was found to contain, apparently, a leg of
mutton nicely dressed, which was turned over to the officer in command.
In view of this tempting addition to the bill of fare, a brother
officer, who has since turned his sword into a spatula and is as well
versed now in drugs as he was then in tactics, was an invited guest at
the midday meal that day. Ample justice was done to the menu by all
concerned and all went merry as a marriage bell until the command had
halted for the night and the men, wearied by the day's march, were
resting around their camp fires. And then a change came o'er the spirit
of their dream. From one end of the camp, up through the stillness of
the evening air, there rose a cry, that like of noise of many waters,
rang and reverberated to its farthest bounds, "Who ate the dog?" And as
its echoes died away, from another camp fire in the same stentorian
tones there came the answer, "Lieut ----," naming the officer of the
provost guard. And on through the entire evening, at brief intervals and
without the stimulus of an encore the program was repeated. And now as
there flitted across the mental vision of the officer aforesaid the
memory of the mutton chops that had seemed so savory and toothsome,
there came to him a dim suspicion that he had been the victim of
misplaced confidence. Was it mutton or was it dog? As he debated the
question pro and con, he was forced to admit with Shakespeare that "all
that glitters is not gold," and with Longfellow, that "things are not
what they seem," and with Whittier that--
"Of all sad thoughts of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these, it might have been"--a dog.
And now if the spirit of Poe will pardon me,
All this dark and dread suspicion
Of such canine deglutition,
As it crossed his mental vision
Leading not to height elysian,
Made him sad and made him sadder,
Made him mad and made him madder,
And his soul from out its shadow
Shall be lifted, nevermore.
For weeks and months, and indeed until the war closed, this canine ghost
would never down. He was not allowed to forget it. He was taunted and
barked at and dogged so constantly that no Lethean waters could wash out
the maddening memory. And the bitterness of it all was that the
perpetrators of the joke would give no intimation as to the special
breed that graced his table that winter day, whether
"Mongrel, puppy, whelp or hound
Or cur of low degree."
The size of the ham precluded the possibility of its having been a
bench-legged fice, but there was the torturing reflection that it might
have been what Mark Twain has termed the Ishmael of his race, the
"yaller dog," who if Mark is to be credited, has been "cursed in all his
generations and relations in his kindred by consanguinity and affinity
and in his heirs and assigns--cursed with endless hunger with perpetual
fear with perennial laziness with hopeless mange, with incessant fleas
and with his tail between his legs."
These unpleasant reflections were, however, not confined to the officer
in command of the provost guard. A part of the meat had been sent to
brigade headquarters and it was said that an aide on the general's
staff, who had eaten very freely of the dish, suffered on learning of
its origin so serious a gastric disturbance that he vomited, as a
colored brother once put it, from Genesis to Revelations.
"I know not how the truth may be,
I tell the tale as 'twas told to me."
Regretting my inability, for reasons already stated, to answer this
inquiry more definitely, I can only say in conclusion as I heard Bob
Toombs once say in another connection, "In spite of compromises,
concessions and constitutions this question still marches onward for its
solution," who ate the dog?
WHERE IS THE OVEN?
Army life is not specially conducive to personal cleanliness, nor to a
high regard for the minor proprieties of life. A young lady visiting
Camp McKenzie, near Augusta, Ga., during the Spanish-American war, was
shocked by seeing a soldier drop a piece of bread upon the ground and
after picking it up resume its mastication. If this sketch should meet
her eye, that feeling will probably be reawakened and intensified:
During the later years of the Confederate war wash basins in camp were
an unknown quantity. The morning ablution, if performed at all, was
managed by pouring water on the hands from a canteen. Lieut. Blanchard,
I remember, always held his hands in cup shape until they were filled
and then dropped one, spilling all the liquid and washing his face with
the moistened palm of the other. In the bitter cold and constant
marching of the Nashville campaign I am satisfied that some of the boys
did not wash their faces nor comb their hair at less than weekly
intervals. As evidence of the infrequency of "bath tub nights" for
reasons stated, I recall the fact that I lost a calico handkerchief and
thought I had dropped it on the march. Some weeks afterwards in removing
my outer clothing for the first time after its disappearance, I found it
hidden away underneath the back of my vest. On our return to Corinth,
Miss., my mess took their underclothing to a lady to be washed and as
they had been wearing it a month or more without change, they apologized
for its condition. "No apology is necessary," she said, "I have washed
some for Forrest's cavalry that was so stiffened with dirt that they
were able to stand alone."
How we managed to keep our pedal extremities in a cleanly condition I do
not recall save in a single instance and this, it is perhaps not amiss
to say, was an exceptional case and not a company custom. A member of
the Oglethorpes one day began his preparations for the midday meal. One
of the cooking utensils was missing and he sang out, "Where is the
oven?" A messmate some distance away shouted back, "Can't you wait till
I finish washing my feet in it?" I am not prepared to testify as to the
flavor of the bread that day as fortunately, I was not a member of that
particular mess.
AMENDE HONORABLE.
It has been my purpose in these records to present the truth, the whole
truth and nothing but the truth. It has not been my purpose to do any
wrong, express or implied, to any member of either of the human or the
canine race. In justice therefore to the truth of history and to the
"yaller dog" as well, it is perhaps proper to say that since penning the
preceding "dog" sketch, an old comrade has informed me that the "mutton
(?) ham" to which allusion was made in that sketch, had its origin in
the anatomy of a "brindle" dog and not of one, who as Mark Twain says,
"slinks through life in a diagonal dog trot as if in doubt which end is
entitled to the precedence." My comrade claims to speak from personal
knowledge and not from hearsay testimony, and as his statement has not
been induced by the fear of punishment or the hope of reward, its
credibility can not be impeached. He says that the dog in question had
grown old in the service of his master and on account of age and
meritorious service had been placed on the retired list with full pay as
to rations, personal care, etc.; that in the enjoyment of the otium cum
dignitate attendant upon these conditions he had grown "fat" if not fair
and forty; that in an evil hour he was enticed away from the retirement
of his home and with malice aforethought slaughtered in cold blood while
his juicy hams were nicely dressed to tickle the palates of the provost
guard.
As the yaller dog has already had assigned to him as many of the ills
that flesh is heir to as he can reasonably bear, it gives me pleasure to
make this amende honorable and to relieve him in this special instance
of any of the "white man's burden" even as an involuntary particeps
criminis in the transaction under consideration. Before giving final
dismissal to the subject it may not be amiss to say for the benefit of
the hospitable host and the appreciative guest at that midday meal that
if, as physiologists contend, every atom of our physical organism
undergoes a complete metamorphosis in every seven years of our
existence, it should comfort them to know that 28 years and seven months
ago by exact calculation, the last lingering trace of canine flavor in
their muscles, bones and blood and epidermis likewise had
Gone glimmering through the dream
Of things that were, a schoolboy's tale,
The wonder of an hour.
COURAGE SUBLIME.
In concluding these reminiscences of the Nashville campaign, a campaign
so fraught with disaster to our cause, I am glad to throw over them at
their close the glamour of an incident that in its display of infinite
courage gilds with its glory even the gloom of defeat. In a subsequent
sketch I shall have occasion to pay some tribute to the conspicuous
gallantry of the color-bearer of the First Florida regiment in our last
charge at Bentonville. Under the inspiration of the "Rebel Yell" and
the contagious enthusiasm and excitement of a charge men may have made
reputations for courage they would not sustain when subjected to the
test of "simply standing and dying at ease." This man, however, George
Register by name, was tried in both furnaces and came out pure gold.
The incident referred to occurred at the battle of Franklin, Nov. 30,
'64. The failure of a staff officer to promptly deliver Hood's order to
Cheatham at Spring Hill had allowed Schofield to escape when the
interposition of a single division across his front would have resulted
in the capture of his army and would have ensured the success of the
campaign. And now the Federal army lay at Franklin heavily entrenched
while Hood, fretting over the blunder, determined to retrieve it by an
assault upon their works. Forrest protested that it would be a useless
sacrifice of life, would probably end in failure and offered to flank
Schofield out of his position in two hours if furnished a single
division of infantry to co-operate with his cavalry. Hood could not be
argued out of his purpose to fight and ordered his army into line.
Cleburne rode down his lines as his division filed into position and
passing an old friend, a captain in the ranks, he noticed that he was
barefooted and that his feet were bleeding. Stopping and dismounting he
asked the captain to pull off his boots and then requested him to try
them on his own feet. In reply to the captain's protest he said, "I am
tired wearing boots and can do without them," and then he rode away to
lead his last charge. Gen. Granbury, commanding a Texas brigade in
Cleburne's division, rode out in front of his men and said, "Boys, two
hours work this evening will shorten the war two years." Two hours
later, on that short November afternoon, the very flower of Hood's army
lay dead or dying in front of the Federal breastworks. Among them lay
Cleburne, Granbury, Adams, Gist, Strahl and Carter, six general offices,
a larger number than fell in three day's fighting at Gettysburg, or any
battle field in the four years' struggle.
Under the murderous leaden hail that swept the open field over which
they passed, the First Florida Regiment was ordered to lie down to
secure some immunity from the fire that was rapidly thinning their
ranks. The entire regiment sank to the ground, save one of their number.
The color-bearer, unwilling to lower his flag, yet willing to show his
foe how a brave man could die, refused to avail himself of the partial
protection which a change in position would bring, and standing erect,
calmly faced the storm of shot and shell; faced it unmoved, while seven
of the eight color guards lying at his feet were killed or wounded;
faced it unflinchingly while the staff he held in his brave right hand
was three times shattered by hostile shot; faced it without a tremor
while the folds of his tattered flag were thirty times rent and torn by
hissing minies or shrieking shell; faced it calmly until the blessedness
of night had come to end the carnival of death, and stood there at its
close the very incarnation of courage and yet without the smell of fire
on his garments or the mark of shot or shell on his grey-clad form.
I know not whether he still survives. I know not whether his radiant
deed has found a fitting recognition save in the memory of surviving
comrades. But living or dead, famous or forgotten, my hat goes off to
you today, George Register, in loving admiration of a heroism that in
soldierly devotion to the colors that you bore, crowns you an immortal
and rises to the region of the morally sublime.