JONESBORO.
I begin here the last inspection and reminiscence, on my return trip
from attending the recent Confederate reunion at Macon, May, 1912, and
while I distrust my ability to do the theme proper justice, I am tempted
to undertake the task through the love of the brave "old boys" who still
survive and the memory of several hundred noble young Kentuckians whose
life blood consecrates the soil of Georgia on every field from
Chattanooga to Jonesboro.
My mind becomes a whirlpool of recollections as I stand here and "view
the landscape o'er" and contemplate the horrible scenes enacted here
forty-eight years ago, and in which the Confederacy was surely and
rapidly expiring in the throes of dissolution.
It is not my purpose or aim to controvert in any instance the
descriptions and recitals of the historians, but merely as a pastime to
revert to some of my personal experiences and recollections. Nor shall I
attempt to enlarge upon or embellish the history of that glorious little
band of Kentuckians known as the "Orphan Brigade." That has been done by
others, done by such men as Prof. N. S. Shaler, Gens. Joseph E. Johnson,
W. J. Hardee, Stephen D. Lee, Ed. Porter Thompson and many others, able
and eloquent men, historians and statesmen, and in whose history
Kentuckians of all beliefs must ever rejoice as one of the brightest and
most interesting pages in her history. And why not, since they
represented so many of the noblest and best young men of the state and
were led by such men as Breckinridge, Hanson, Helm, Lewis, Monroe and
others whose names are a synonym of glory and greatness.
When we arrived here (Jonesboro) in the great campaign there were many
absent--not without leave, thank God, but with honor, whose brows had
been crowned with everlasting wreaths of honor--in death "on Fame's
eternal camping ground." When the roll was called no response came from
many. Hanson, Helm, Hewitt, Graves, Rogers, Dedman, Madeira, Daniel,
McKendrie, Millett, Williams, Innis, Bramblett, Bell and three thousand
others failed to answer. But as the "blood of martyrs is the seed of the
church," so the sacrifice of these Kentuckians is a diadem in the wreath
that encircles her history.
But now I stand on this historic spot where forty-eight years ago the
unequal, almost suicidal conflict raged with destruction and fury, and
see, in my mind's eye, the raging conflict and hear the cannon's mighty
roar, the screaming shot and shell and the ping and whistle of the
deadly minnie, the shouts and yells of the combatants as they grapple in
the deadly conflict. Here I experienced the pangs of a painful wound
from a minnie ball, while assisting a dear friend (Lieutenant Neal),
being in the throes of death, both he and the man on my left falling
simultaneously. How well I remember the look of anguish upon his noble
countenance as he held up both hands, imploring my assistance. Brave,
noble fellow and Christian gentleman, I trust and believe his soul rests
in peace among the angels.
Imagine my grief on reaching the ambulance (assisted by comrades) to
find my bosom friend (and by many said to be my double), Ensign Robert
H. Lindsay of Scott County, in the ambulance, he having received a
mortal wound from which he died that night while lying upon the same
blanket with myself. The reader can imagine my feelings when the dawn of
morning came and I threw back the blanket that covered us and beheld his
noble countenance cold in death, with the fixed glare of the eyes that
told me that my beloved comrade and friend had passed to the realms of
eternal glory. Poor Bob! I tried in vain, while on the way to the field
hospital, to extort a parting message, a last farewell to mother and
family, but the messenger of death held him in his grasp and refused
compliance with this last request of his friend who loved him as a
brother. A circumstance coincident with his death was the fact that we
prepared and ate our dinners together that day, meantime talking over
the probable results of the approaching battle and making certain
requests of each other in the event that one or the other should fall.
Hence my anxiety to hear a last farewell from his dying lips. Memory
takes me back over the intervening years and I am tempted to exclaim:
Sing thou music of the spheres
The song of the weeping pines
As the days and years go by,
But let me, Oh! let me not forget,
The dear friend who 'neath them lies.
I have always thought this a singular circumstance, that the three
friends--boon companions--holding the same rank, should be stricken down
almost at the same moment--that "two should be taken and the one left,"
but such are the vicissitudes of war.
I can recognize only two landmarks of this historic spot and its
surroundings--the old stone depot and the prominent knoll, occupied by
the enemy's skirmishers on the morning of the battle (August 31st) and
which Lieut. Heck Burden, the commander of that gang of army sleuths,
that Sherman and his officers admitted they dreaded--known as the
Kentucky sharpshooters--and myself, in a spirit of daring, approached
within easy rifle range, by means of a deep gully, and which terminated
in one less Federal officer reporting to his commander. I have looked
upon this particular spot with no little concern, for it was near this
my two dear friends just noted fell, and where I also received my
quietus--as a reward, perhaps, for my daring of the morning. This
circumstance (my wounding) precludes the mention from personal
experience a description of the second day's fight and in which the
Orphans sustained the loss of a number of men and officers and resulted
in the capture of the greater part of the survivors, Sherman's
overwhelming numbers enabling him to outflank and overpower the left of
the Confederate line. But they were held as prisoners but a short time
and were exchanged and returned to service almost immediately. Here, as
in other instances, the enemy outnumbered us three to one and enabled
them to envelop our flanks more readily than in previous engagements,
the country being without the natural barriers and obstructions that had
previously favored us in the mountain section of the country through
which we had passed.
Here at Jonesboro ended my service to the Confederacy and my experience
as a soldier in the field. The next six months, which brought the war to
a close, were spent by me in hospitals, which also came near bringing my
earthly career to a close. But, thank God, I am still here and now
engaged in reviewing our movements of the past. And I shall be happy if
what I may have written should fall under the eye of some old comrade or
friend and afford him pleasure or food for contemplation.
(NOTE--_The author takes the liberty and desires to thank Genl. W.
B. Haldeman, of the Orphan Brigade, the Courier-Journal Job
Printing Co., and others, for their kind assistance in the
publication and introduction of this little booklet._)
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