BRICE’S CROSS ROADS.
In the beautiful month of May, and it is a lovely season away down in
Mississippi, the Seventh Tennessee was moved around so much and camped
at so many places, that it is difficult to remember which places came
first. The service was not especially irksome and the weather was fine.
A half dozen men of Company E were sent on a tour of observation up
through Holly Springs and in the direction of Memphis, which I remember
to have greatly enjoyed. The danger of the service was sufficiently
great to make us alert while enjoying the hospitality of the people who
were not only ready, day and night, to give us of their scanty stores,
but to help us with such information as they had in regard to the
movements of the enemy. We rejoined the regiment at Abbeville, feeling
as if we had had a vacation.
About this time the Seventh Tennessee was brigaded with Duff’s Regiment
and A. H. Chalmers’ Battalion, about as good a body of fighting men as
could have been gotten together. This organization was known as Rucker’s
Brigade that won distinction at Brice’s Cross Roads and Harrisburg. We
had only known Rucker as the gallant commander of the upper batteries
at Island No. 10. We had seen men there, carrying ammunition to his
guns, wade in water up to their waists, when it looked from a distance
like the outflow from the river might carry away every man that stood to
his post. At our first sight of him the boys said he had “a sort of
bulldog look.” We soon discovered that tenacity was one of his
characteristics.
It was now about the first of June, 1864, and General Sturgis moving out
from Memphis was north of Ripley with an army reported to be about
10,000 of all arms. Rucker was ordered to cross the Tallahatchie at New
Albany and fall upon the right flank of the enemy, as they advanced
south, in the vicinity of Ripley. After some brisk fighting just south
of Ripley with very little loss to either side Rucker, seeing that the
enemy was in great force, prudently drew off and took post at Baldwyn.
In the meantime, Lee and Forrest were concentrating their forces to
deliver battle somewhere further south.
In the little affair south of Ripley, when ordered with one or two men
to a position on our extreme left until relieved, I saw approaching
along a country pathway a fine ambulance drawn by two splendid mules. A
Federal outfit, perhaps, which would inevitably fall into our hands. It
came up at a sweeping trot. The face of the man in charge was familiar.
It was that of the late William H. Wood of Memphis. Strange position in
which to find so steadfast a Union man--moving rapidly ahead of the
Federal army and seeking refuge within the Confederate lines. This he
would accomplish in a few minutes, but there was no time to ask
questions, for the firing was heavy on the main road. The gentleman must
be on an important mission, at least to him. He was, for at a time, when
thousands of negroes had taken refuge within the Federal lines and the
day for buying and selling this species of property had passed, Mr. Wood
had conceived the idea of running his negroes south, converting them
into cotton, and eventually into gold. This incident is chiefly worth
mentioning, in a reminiscent way, first because it illustrates a thing
that sometimes occurs in real life, but more frequently in fiction,
namely, that acquaintances occasionally come face to face under strange
conditions and peculiar circumstances; and, secondly, because it shows
that there was a singular state of affairs existing when the slaves of
one man, amid all the demoralization, were subject to his will and did
that which seemed like leaving freedom behind. I am not fully informed
as to how the scheme worked, but have always understood that it turned
out profitably to the projector. There was nothing wrong about it, at
least, from a Southern standpoint, but very many good people, even some
descendants of slave-holders, are, at this day, squeamish about what
they are pleased to term “traffick in human flesh.”
It must not be concluded that the negroes spoken of were in that
vicinity, for they were, at that very moment, under a prudent guide,
safe within the Southern lines.
It is not untimely to remark, right here, that the descendants of
slave-holders will, possibly, have some difficulty in justifying them
for consenting to the existence of an institution, which existed in this
country more than two hundred years, but which has been condemned by the
laws of every civilized country on the globe. This difficulty will arise
chiefly from the fact that the true history concerning slavery, its
existence in all the original States, its abolition by some, its
retention by others and, above all, the motives controlling those who
dealt with it, is not now, nor is likely to be, persistently taught in
the family or school. It is one of those questions of which it may be
said the further we get from it, the less we say or know about it.
We went into camp at Baldwyn drenched by the continuous rains and
fatigued by the exigencies of an arduous service. The Federals had moved
steadily southeast from Ripley, and were in close proximity to a part of
our forces. Everything at Baldwyn gave evidence of an impending
struggle. In the midst of the acute feeling in the minds of the
soldiers, it was announced that three men had been tried by
court-martial and condemned to be shot for desertion. This was a phase
of war with which we were not familiar. The poor fellows, confined in a
box car, gave forth the most pitiful wailings. The cries of one of the
condemned, a mere stripling, were particularly distressing. The whole
brigade was mustered to witness the execution. Guilty or not guilty, I
somehow wished that these victims of their own acts would escape the
impending doom. Each man was placed by his grave and coffin. A file of
eight men appeared with bristling guns. The suspense was terrible. Death
on the battlefield was nothing compared to that which we were to
witness. The sentence of the court-martial was read. The boy was
released and, still weeping, left the field. At the firm command of the
officer in charge, the shots rang out and one man fell dead. The same
thing was repeated and another went to his death. Though the justice of
the court-martial was never questioned, there was a profound sensation
among the soldiers, which it took a battle to shake off.
Know ye, that the very next morning, June 10th, 1864, we were galloping
to Brice’s Cross Roads. Acting under the orders of Lee, Forrest was
trying to keep his forces between the Federal vanguard and Tupelo, so as
to finally turn upon them when a more open country was reached. To do
this with dispatch, he must reach the cross roads, by a road leading
southwest, ahead of the Federals, who were moving towards the same point
by a road leading southeast. The Federal cavalry advance, moving
rapidly, passed the point and even went some distance beyond in the
direction of Guntown. When the Confederate advance came up, the enemy
was ready to block their way on the road from Baldwyn and had the
advantage of position. Johnson’s Alabamians in advance fell upon them
furiously while Rucker’s Brigade was coming to the rescue. At this
critical juncture, Forrest seems to have abandoned all intention of
merely holding the enemy in check and deferring a battle to a more
convenient season. He had his own little army well in hand, though it
was having a hard time to reach the desired point promptly on account of
the muddy roads. A man of wonderful military instinct and surpassing
genius for war, he saw at a glance that, although the cavalry of the
Federals, at that moment, held the advantage of position, their main
body was strung along a narrow road, and their general would assuredly
have trouble in protecting his left flank, crossing Tishomingo creek,
and throwing his infantry and artillery into line of battle. It was
indeed the psychological moment and the faith of the general spread to
the men. Rucker was turned to the left and into the woods, where his men
were quickly dismounted and gotten ready for battle. At the word they
sprung over a fence and into a muddy cornfield. Will I ever forget it?
The enemy posted in a dense wood and behind a heavy fence poured a
galling fire into our ranks. It looked like death to go to the fence,
but many of the men reached it. Four of Company E were killed in this
charge. Men could not stay there and live. The Seventh Tennessee with
Chalmers’ Battalion on the left was driven back in confusion. With the
steadiness of veterans, they re-formed for another onset. As I remember
it, this time we went over the fence. Reinforcements were evidently at
hand for the Federals, for on they came like a resistless tide. It was
death not to give back. Another readjustment of lines, and we were at
them again. I cannot now say how many times this was repeated, for men
in the very presence of death take no note of time. The roar of
artillery and the fusillade of small arms were deafening. Sheets of
flame were along both lines while dense clouds of smoke arose above the
heavily wooded field. No language is adequate to paint the verities of
the moment. High tide of battle had come, and one side or the other must
quail very soon. Which side should it be? The answer came when
apparently by common consent both drew back just far enough for the
intervening trees and dense undergrowth to obscure the vision. Our men
still in line of battle lay on the ground for a much needed rest.
Here we had a bountiful supply of water from the rills, which had been
fed by the recent rains. I never tasted better. The cessation of battle
was as grateful as the water, but there was intense anxiety to know the
final result. An order to retire from the field would have brought no
surprise. But Forrest and his brigade commanders were better informed.
Mounted on his big sorrel horse, sabre in hand, sleeves rolled up, his
coat lying on the pommel of his saddle, looking the very God of War, the
General rode down our line as far as we could see him. I remember his
words, which I heard more than once: “Get up, men. I have ordered Bell
to charge on the left. When you hear his guns, and the bugle sounds,
every man must charge, and we will give them hell.” That was enough. We
heard Bell’s guns and the bugle. Advancing over the dead bodies of
Federals and Confederates and regaining the ground lost in the last
repulse, Rucker’s Brigade in one grand last charge moved to the assault
of the enemy’s position. Small bushes, cut off near the ground and
falling in our front, meant that the Federals had been reinforced by
veteran infantry and were firing low. So close were we now to their line
and the fighting so nearly hand to hand that our navy sixes were used
with deadly effect. The Federals bravely withstood our onslaught for a
time, but soon gave way in confusion and broke to the rear. Rucker’s
men, greatly encouraged, moved rapidly to the front and, with no regard
for formation, came out into the open at the Brice residence, which
stands in the angle formed by the Guntown and Pontotoc roads. The men of
the various commands, concentrating upon this point, became intermingled
as they charged up to where all could see the grand scamper of the
Federals running down towards Tishomingo creek. Six pieces of their own
artillery had been turned upon them and these were quickly reinforced by
Morton’s and Rice’s batteries. These, double shotted with canister,
added to the confusion of the entangled mass of infantry, cavalry,
ambulances and wagons. The Federal dead and wounded lay on every hand
about the cross roads, showing the deadly aim of our men in the last
charge, while our loss at this point was inconsiderable, though the rain
of bullets from the Federal line appeared sufficient to destroy the
whole brigade. The negro brigade under Bouton came in for its full share
of the calamity, the deluded creatures, in many instances, having ceased
their war cry of “Remember Fort Pillow,” and throwing away their badges,
took to the woods.
When hundreds of our men had crossed the creek and conditions had become
a little more quiet, they began to realize that they were very tired and
very hungry. No time was lost in helping themselves to the subsistence
in the abandoned wagons where there was an abundance for both man and
horse.
A reflection or two. General Forrest, in fighting this battle at his own
discretion, had shown that he very well knew just when a commander,
acting on the defensive-active, should fall upon an invading army. He
had, not for the first time, particularly emphasized the fact that
Southern cavalrymen, dismounted and well handled, could cope with
trained infantry, and even put them to rout when fighting at odds of two
to one against themselves. On this eventful day he had put into
practice his favorite tactics, which had uniformly brought him success,
that of launching his entire command, as soon as he could get it into
action, against his adversary. Forrest’s Cavalry never looked around for
reserves, but confidently expected to do the work themselves and to do
it quickly. Hence, at Brice’s Cross Roads they fought with the
intrepidity of veteran infantry and exhibited the dash of the best type
of Southern cavalry. In other words, they fought when Forrest said so,
and every charge was like the first one in which they expected to break
the lines of the enemy. The man behind the gun was in evidence at
Tishomingo, and it was a glorious victory. May his tribe increase.
A consideration of the comparative forces is interesting. According to
information, which is fairly authentic, Forrest had 3,200 men, including
two four-gun batteries. Federal official report gives them 3,300 cavalry
and 5,400 infantry, or 8,700 men. In addition, they had, according to
the best information, 24 pieces of artillery and men to man them. Notice
the respective losses. Forrest lost about 140 officers and men killed,
and about 500 wounded and none taken prisoners. Sturgis lost, according
to official report, 23 officers and 594 men killed and 52 officers and
1,571 men captured, or a total of 2,240 men. Forrest says he captured
1,571 men and 52 officers, an ordnance train with a large supply of
fixed ammunition, ten days’ rations for the whole Federal army, over two
hundred wagons and parts of their teams, and large quantities of
supplies, thirty ambulances and twenty-one caissons. Clearly then, we
fought them at an odds of nearly three to one in their favor.
Now, a few incidents of the battle. When riding to the battle-field that
morning, and at a place where we were passing over a rough causeway on
which many a horse cast a shoe, Isaac H. Pipkin (Doc.), riding by my
side, remarked that if he should be killed that day, all he asked was to
be put away decently. He was in the first charge, through the muddy
cornfield. Imagine my feelings, when driven back in one of the repulses,
I came upon his body still in death. Doc was a typical rustic, a good
fellow in camp, a true soldier in action, a man you might lean on. The
people of Bolivar have long ago graven his name in marble. Tom Boucher
was a plain and unassuming citizen of the Whiteville neighborhood, who
was always at his post, took life easy and never fretted. He died on the
field.
In the first charge, I noticed William C. Hardy, of Bolivar, handling
his gun as if something was the matter with the lock. I never saw him
again, for he never got to the second fence. Billy was a pupil of mine,
a fiery young fellow and a perfectly reliable soldier.
Another schoolboy of mine who fell in this first charge was Charles R.
Neely of Bolivar. He was a boy of gentle birth and noble instincts. He
was a loving friend, a soldier tried and true, who poured out his young
life’s blood upon the field. Could higher eulogy be spoken?
In connection with young Neely’s death I mention the faithful conduct of
James F. Dunlap, his mess mate and true friend. As soon as practicable
Dunlap placed the corpse of his young friend in their small mess wagon
and carrying it through the country delivered it to his mother in
Bolivar, Tenn. This was an exhibition of fidelity hard to surpass.
Suffering from an old wound, Captain Tate, early in the action turned
over the command of the company to Lieutenant J. P. Satler, with whom I
had already agreed to remain through whatever might come to us that day.
Thank heaven, we both came through unscathed.
Do you remember where I left off the main narrative? It was at
Tishomingo creek where we had halted to partake of the bountiful
refreshments, which the Federals had rather unwillingly left in our
hands. When the horse-holders brought forward our mounts, my little
black seemed as glad to see me as I was to see him. I stripped him for a
rubbing and a rest and gorged him on Federal forage.
Instead of an undisturbed night of repose, as we had fondly hoped for,
the Seventh Tennessee was aroused from its slumbers at 2 o’clock in the
morning with the information that Forrest himself was to lead it in
pursuit of the enemy. With Company E in front I, happening to be in the
front file, could very well see everything that was likely to come up on
this memorable advance. Much of our way was lighted up by wagons and
other abandoned property burning. In one place the forewheel of a gun
carriage had been locked by a tree and this and several other handsome
brass pieces in its rear had been abandoned. Many Federal soldiers, now
thoroughly exhausted, were sleeping by the roadside, while others, armed
and unarmed, willingly surrendered. They were invariably told to go to
the rear. Further along, I counted ninety-five wagons laden with
supplies strung along the narrow road. The wheels of some had been
locked by trees and evidently abandoned in hot haste by those who had
ridden the teams away. I saw much of General Forrest that night, who
was in great good humor in regard to the results of the previous day’s
battle. When approaching Ripley, early in the day, which town is about
twenty miles from the battle-field, we were relieved by other troops
going forward to press the enemy, who were making a stand just north of
the town. Buford and Bell were there, and we knew what that meant.
We rode leisurely through the town and to the outskirts. A battle was
going on, but the enemy was believed to be retreating. The command to
form fours and prepare to charge was given. Company E, in front was soon
going at a lively pace and it soon became a question of speed as to who
should reach the enemy first. My little black horse responded in fine
style. At a flying gallop we went straight up the road and, though
hearing guns on every hand, could see no enemy to charge. Instantly we
saw in the woods to our left a whole regiment of Federal cavalry aiming
to reach the road at an angle and speed that would throw them into it
just ahead of us. Over the hill they went as fast as their horses would
carry them. Tom Nelson of Company L, coming up, he and I found ourselves
in uncomfortable proximity to the enemy, for as we too went over the
hill, there they were with their rear huddled together in the valley,
with something apparently blocking their front. Nelson and I had not
intended to fight a whole regiment, but we shot out everything we had at
them. Pressing towards the front and turning in their saddles, as they
went up the hill, they gave us a few shots from their carbines which, I
remember well, they held in one hand. At a cooler moment, I inquired
with some interest how it was that such a thing as I have related could
happen. No one attempted an explanation. Nelson and I were present in
the flesh and had occasion to remember well all that took place, though
events were passing with lightning celerity. Perhaps, perchance and
maybe, it was a case of horseflesh. It was the Third Iowa Cavalry we
were charging. Colonel C. A. Stanton, not so very long ago a citizen of
Memphis, was an officer in this regiment and has a clear recollection of
the incident. I was somewhat surprised a few years ago when Billy
Elkins, a member of Company E, reminded me of the occasion and rehearsed
what took place about as I remember it myself.
The regiment came up in much less time than it has taken me to tell it,
and advanced to the top of the hill where there was firing by some
Federals posted in an old house and a plum orchard. At this moment,
Captain William J. Tate of Company E, who, sick and suffering was forced
to go to the rear the previous day, came up with the company in
pursuit. Standing for a moment in a protected position, I reminded Tate
that if he forced his horse to mount an embankment by the roadside, he
would be a fair target for bullets, they flying thick about us. He
disregarded my admonition, mounted the embankment and rode forward for a
better view. I quickly changed my position, as many others had come
forward. Very soon I saw Tate supported by two men who were taking him
to a less exposed place. He was asking some one to catch his horse,
which was moving off towards the enemy. At this moment Tommy Elcan, of
Company B, standing by my side, was struck in the head by a minie ball
and fell from his horse dead. The gallant Lieutenant-Colonel A. H.
Chalmers came riding forward and asked about the position of the enemy.
He advanced down the hill at the head of his battalion, but soon
returned afoot. His fine brown mare had been killed. A word more
concerning Captain Tate. It appears that smarting under an absence
enforced by a threatened attack of erysipelas in an old wound, this
gallant gentleman had concluded that he could not forego the pleasure of
seeing the Federal army in full retreat and his own regiment
participating in the pursuit. Mounting Billy Hardy’s white horse he
rode to the front at a gallop. Joining the regiment in time for the
charge, he had his horse almost instantly shot under him. Determined to
go forward he mounted James E. Wood’s horse, which was kindly offered,
and appeared on the firing line, as I have related. He was a young man
of gentle demeanor from the mountains of North Carolina, who shortly
before the war had engaged in farming near Bolivar. He affected few of
the refinements of cultivated society, but was a young countryman of
courage, who made friends and kept them. When we were organizing a
company, he attended the meetings and showed an aptitude for learning
and teaching the cavalry drill. Never did a man more effectually advance
himself in the confidence of a company than he did by perfectly fair
dealing and sheer force of character. Serving as fourth sergeant the
first year, he developed rapidly as a drill master and officer.
Physically, Captain Tate was a man of medium weight and erect and well
knit frame. He was a pronounced blonde with clear blue eyes and very
light hair. Active on foot and tireless when there was stress of work,
he always seemed most at home on horseback. The manner of his death was,
perhaps, such as he would have desired it to be, had he known it was to
come so soon. When I heard that he had succumbed to his wounds, I
hastened to give him decent burial in the cemetery at Ripley, Miss. He
sleeps among the people in whose defense he died.
Forty-four years have come and gone since the scenes of which I write
passed before the vision, but they were so indelibly impressed upon the
tablet of the memory that it is easy to recall them. The slightest
incident often recalls the fiercest battle scene, and for the moment I
live in the past. I am recording events while there are yet living
witnesses to bear me out. As such I mention with pleasure the names of
Lieutenant-Colonel W. F. Taylor, who always bore himself proudly on the
field; A. H. D. Perkins, whom I have seen flaunt the colors of the
regiment in the faces of the enemy, and Captain H. A. Tyler, who with
his squadron of two small companies gallantly bore the brunt of battle
on the extreme left at Tishomingo, and was ready with his Kentuckians to
join in the pursuit of the broken battalions of the enemy.