OFF FOR THE FRONT
Organization of Regiment—Officers—Accouterment—On the March—Taming
a Trouble-maker—Crossing the Red River—In the Indian Territory—The
Indian Maid—Fort Smith—The March to Missouri—McCulloch’s
Headquarters—Under Orders—Preparation for First Battle.
AFTER the companies were mustered into the service the regiment was
organized. Colonel Elkanah Greer was commissioned by the Confederate
War Department. Walter P. Lane was elected lieutenant-colonel, and
George W. Chilton, father of United States Senator Horace Chilton,
was made major. M. D. Ecton, first lieutenant of Company B, was made
adjutant, Captain —— Harris, quartermaster, Jas. B. Armstrong, of
Henderson, commissary, and our Dr. W. W. McDugald, surgeon.
Thus was organized the first regiment to leave the State of Texas, and
one of the best regiments ever in the Confederate service. I would
not say that it was the _best_ regiment, as in my opinion the best
regiment and the bravest man in the Confederate Army were hard to
find. That is to say, no one regiment was entitled to be designated
“the best regiment,” as no one of our brave men could rightly be
designated “the bravest man in the army.” Napoleon called Marshal Ney
“the bravest of the brave,” but no one could single out a Confederate
soldier and truthfully say, “He is the bravest man in the army.” It was
unfortunately true that all our men were not brave and trustworthy,
for we had men who were too cowardly to fight, and we had some men
unprincipled enough to desert; but taken all in all, for gallantry
and for fighting qualities under any and all circumstances, either in
advance or retreat, the regiment deservedly stood in the front rank in
all our campaigning.
The regiment was well officered, field staff, and line. Colonel Greer
was a gallant man, but unfortunately his mind was too much bent on a
brigadier’s stars; Major Chilton, whenever an opportunity offered,
showed himself to be brave and gallant; but Walter P. Lane, our
lieutenant-colonel, was the life of the regiment during our first
year’s service. A more gallant man than he never wore a sword, bestrode
a war horse, or led a regiment in battle. He was one of the heroes of
San Jacinto, and a born soldier. In camps, in times when there was
little or nothing to do, he was not overly popular with the men, but
when the fighting time came he gained the admiration of everyone.
At last the long-looked-for train came—United States wagons drawn
by six-mule teams, poor little Spanish or Mexican mules, driven by
Mexicans. They brought us tents, camp kettles, mess pans and such
things, and for arms, holster pistols. We were furnished with two
wagons to the company and were given Sibley tents,—large round tents
that would protect sixteen men with their arms and accouterments,—a
pair of holster pistols apiece, and a fair outfit of “cooking tricks.”
We were then formed into messes of sixteen men each, and each mess
was provided with the Sibley tent, the officers being provided with
wall tents. Fairly mounted, we were pretty well equipped now, our chief
deficiency being the very poor condition of the mules and the lack
of proper arms, for the men, in mustering, had gathered up shotguns,
rifles, and any kind of gun obtainable at home, many of them being
without a firearm of any kind. A large number had had huge knives made
in the blacksmith shops, with blade eighteen to twenty-four inches
long, shaped something like a butcher’s cleaver, keen-edged, with a
stout handle, a weapon after the order of a Cuban machete. These were
carried in leather scabbards, hung to the saddle, and with these deadly
weapons the boys expected to ride through the ranks of the Federal
armies and chop down the men right and left. Now, however, to this
equipment were added the pair of holster pistols. These very large,
brass-mounted, single-barreled pistols—with barrels about a foot
long—carried a large musket ball, and were suspended in holsters that
fitted over the horn of the saddle, thus placing them in a convenient
position for use. In addition to all this, every fellow carried a grass
rope at least forty feet long and an iron stake pin. These latter were
for staking out the horses to graze, and many was the untrained horse
that paid dear for learning the art of “walking the rope,” for an
educated animal would never injure himself in the least.
All things being ready, we now started on our long march, accompanied
by Captain J. J. Goode’s battery, which had been organized at Dallas,
to join General Ben McCulloch in northwestern Arkansas, where he,
with what forces he had been able to gather, was guarding our Arkansas
frontier. Leaving Dallas on the—day of July, we moved via McKinney and
Sherman, crossing Red River at Colbert’s ferry, thence by the overland
mail route through the Indian Territory to Fort Smith, Ark., and
beyond. We made moderate marches, the weather being very warm, and we
then had no apparent reason for rapid movements.
When near McKinney we stopped two or three days. Here our man from
the State of Maine began to give us trouble. When sober, Buxton
was manageable and a useful man to the company, but when he was in
liquor, which was any time he could get whisky, he was troublesome,
quarrelsome, and dangerous, especially to citizens. One afternoon
Captain Taylor and myself rode into McKinney, where we found Buxton
drunk and making trouble. The captain ordered him to camp, but he
contumaciously refused to go. We managed to get him back to the rear of
a livery stable, near a well, and Captain Taylor forced him down across
a mound of fertilizer—holding him there. Then he ordered me to pour
water on Buxton, which I did most copiously. I drew bucket after bucket
of cold water from the well and poured it upon Buxton’s prostrate,
soldierly form, until he was thoroughly cooled and partially sobered,
when the captain let him up and again ordered him to camp—and he went,
cursing and swearing vengeance. This man, after giving us a good deal
of trouble from time to time until after the battle of Elkhorn in the
spring of 1862, was jailed in Fort Smith for shooting a citizen in the
street, and here we left him and crossed the Mississippi River. He made
his escape from jail and followed us to the State of Mississippi, when
Lieutenant-Colonel Lane ordered him out of camp. He afterwards returned
to Rusk, where he was killed one day by a gunshot wound, but by whom no
one seemed to know.
We passed through Sherman early in the morning, and I stopped to
have my horse shod, overtaking the command at Colbert’s ferry in the
afternoon, when they were crossing Red River. The day was fair, the
weather dry and hot. The river, very low now, had high banks, and in
riding down from the south side you came on to a wide sandbar extending
to a narrow channel running against the north bank, where a small
ferryboat was carrying the wagons and artillery across. A few yards
above the ferry the river was easily fordable, so the horsemen had all
crossed and gone into camp a mile beyond the river, as had most of the
wagons. I rode to the other side and stopped on the north bank to watch
operations.
All the wagons but one had been ferried over, and this last one had
been driven down on the sandbar near the ferry landing, waiting for
the boat’s return, while two pieces of artillery were standing near
by on the sandbar. Suddenly I heard a roaring sound up the river,
as if a wind storm was coming. I looked in that direction and saw a
veritable flood rushing down like a mighty wave of the sea, roaring
and foaming as it came. The driver of the team standing near the water
saw it and instinctively began turning his team to drive out, but,
realizing that this would be impossible, he detached his mules and
with his utmost efforts was only able to save the team, while every
available man had to lend assistance in order to save the two pieces of
artillery. In five minutes’ time, perhaps, the water had risen fifteen
to eighteen feet, and the banks were full of muddy, rushing water, and
remained so as long as we were there. The wagon, which belonged to
the quartermaster, was swept off by the tide and lost, with all its
contents. It stood in its position until the water rose to the top of
the cover, when it floated off.
After camping for the night, we moved on. As we were now in the Indian
Territory, the young men were all on the look-out for the beautiful
Indian girls of whom they had read so much, and I think some of them
had waived the matter of engagement before leaving home until they
could determine whether they would prefer marrying some of the pretty
girls that were so numerous in this Indian country. We had not gone
far on our march when we met a Chickasaw damsel. She was rather young
in appearance, of medium height, black unkempt hair, black eyes,
high cheekbones, and was bare-headed and barefooted. Her dress was
of some well-worn cotton fabric, of a color hard to define, rather
an earthy color. In style it was of the extreme low neck and short
kind, and a semi-bloomer. Of other wearing apparel it is unnecessary
to speak, unless you wish a description of another Indian. This one
was too sensible to weight herself with a multiplicity of garments in
July. She was a regular middle of the roader, as she stuck close to
that part of the Territory strictly. As we were marching by twos we
separated and left her to that part of the highway which she seemed to
like best. She continued her walk westwardly as we continued our march
eastwardly, turning her head right and left, to see what manner of
white soldiers the Confederate Government was sending out. This gave
all an opportunity to glimpse at her charms. Modestly she walked along
without speaking to any of us, as we had never been introduced to her.
Only one time did I hear her speak a word, and that was apparently to
herself. As Lieutenant Daniel passed her with his long saber rattling,
she exclaimed, in good English: “_Pretty white man!_—got big knife!”
As we went marching on the conversation became more general; that is,
more was said about the beautiful country, the rich lands and fine
cattle, and not so much about beautiful Indian girls. But every fellow
kept his eye to the front, expecting we would meet scores of girls,
perhaps hundreds, but all were disappointed, as this was the only
full-blooded Indian we met in the highway from Colbert’s ferry to Fort
Smith. The fact is, the Indians shun white people who travel the main
road. Away out in the prairie some two hundred yards you will find
Indian trails running parallel with the road, and the Indians keep
to these trails to avoid meeting the whites. If they chance to live
in a hut near the road you find no opening toward the road, and, if
approached, they will deny that they can speak English, when, in fact,
they speak it readily and plainly.
One day I came up with one of our teamsters in trouble. He needed an ax
to cut down a sapling, so I galloped back to an Indian’s hut near by,
and as there was no enclosure, rode around to the door. The Indian came
out and I asked him to lend me an ax a few minutes. He shook his head
and said, “Me no intender,” again and again, and this was the only word
I could get out of him until I dismounted and picked up the ax, which
was lying on the ground near the door. He then began, in good English,
to beg me not to take his ax. I carried it to the teamster, however,
but returned it to the Indian in a few minutes.
There are, or were then, people of mixed blood living along the
road in good houses and in good style, where travelers could find
entertainment. Numbers of these had small Confederate flags flying over
the front gateposts—and all seemed to be loyal to our cause. Two young
Choctaws joined one of our companies and went with us, one of them
remaining with us during the war, and an excellent soldier he was, too.
At Boggy Depot the ladies presented us with a beautiful flag, which was
carried until it was many times pierced with bullets, the staff shot in
two, and the flag itself torn into shreds. Arriving at Big Blue River,
we lost one or two horses in crossing, by drowning. But finally we
reached Fort Smith, on a Saturday, remaining there until Monday morning.
While in the Choctaw Nation our men had the opportunity of attending an
Indian war dance, and added to their fitness for soldiers by learning
the warwhoop, which many of them were soon able to give just as real
Indians do.
Fort Smith, a city of no mean proportions, is situated on the south
bank of the Arkansas River, very near the line of the Indian Territory.
Another good town, Van Buren, is situated on the north bank of the
river, five miles below Fort Smith. While we were at Fort Smith orders
came from General McCulloch, then in southwest Missouri, to cut loose
from all incumbrances and hasten to his assistance as rapidly as
possible, as a battle was imminent. Consequently, leaving all trains,
baggage, artillery, all sick and disabled men and horses to follow us
as best they could, we left on Monday morning in the lightest possible
marching order, for a forced march into Missouri. Our road led across
Boston Mountain, through Fayetteville and Cassville, on towards
Springfield. Crossing the river at Van Buren, we began the march over
the long, hot, dry, and fearfully dusty road. As we passed through Van
Buren I heard “Dixie” for the first time, played by a brass band. Some
of the boys obtained the words of the song, and then the singers gave
us “Dixie” morning, noon, and night, and sometimes between meals. This
march taxed my physical endurance to the utmost, and in the evening,
when orders came to break ranks and camp, I sometimes felt as if I
could not march one mile farther. The first or orderly sergeant and
second sergeant having been left behind with the train, the orderly
sergeant’s duties fell upon me, which involved looking after forage and
rations, and other offices, after the day’s march.
On Saturday noon we were at Cassville, Mo. That night we marched nearly
all night, lying down in a stubble field awhile before daylight, where
we slept two or three hours. About ten o’clock Sunday morning, tired,
dusty, hungry, and sleepy, we went into camp in the neighborhood
of General McCulloch’s headquarters, in a grove of timber near a
beautiful, clear, little stream. The first thing we did was to look
after something to eat for ourselves and horses, as we had had no food
since passing Cassville, and only a very light lunch then. The next
thing was to go in bathing, and wash our clothes, as we had had no
change, and then to get some longed-for sleep. In the meantime Colonel
Greer had gone up to General McCulloch’s headquarters to report our
arrival. I was not present at the interview, but I imagine it ran
something like this, as they knew each other well. Colonel Greer would
say “Hello, General! How do you do, sir? Well, I am here to inform you
that I am on the ground, here in the enemy’s country, with my regiment
of Texas cavalry, eleven hundred strong, well mounted and armed to the
teeth with United States holster pistols, a good many chop knives, and
several double-barreled shotguns. Send Lyons word to turn out his Dutch
regulars, Kansas jayhawkers and Missouri home guards, and we’ll clean
’em up and drive ’em from the State of Missouri.”
“Very well, very well, Colonel; go back and order your men to cook up
three days’ rations, get all the ammunition they can scrape up in the
neighborhood, and be in their saddles at eleven o’clock to-night, and I
will have them at Dug Springs at daylight to-morrow morning and turn
them loose on the gentlemen you speak of.”
Any way, whatever the interview was, we had barely stretched out our
weary limbs and folded our arms to sleep when the sergeant-major, that
fellow that so often brings bad news, came tripping along through
the encampment, hurrying from one company’s headquarters to another,
saying: “Captain, it’s General McCulloch’s order that you have your men
cook up three days’ rations, distribute all the ammunition they can get
and be in their saddles, ready to march on the enemy, at eleven o’clock
to-night.”
Sleep? Oh, no! Where’s the man who said he was sleepy? Cook three days’
rations? Oh, my! And not a cooking vessel in the regiment! But never
mind about that, it’s a soldier’s duty to obey orders without asking
questions. I drew and distributed the flour and meat, and left the men
to do the cooking while I looked after the ammunition. Here the men
learned to roll out biscuit dough about the size and shape of a snake,
coil it around a ramrod or a small wooden stick, and bake it before the
fire.
This Sunday afternoon and night, August 4, was a busy time in our camp.
Some were cooking the rations, some writing letters, some one thing,
and some another; all were busy until orders came to saddle up. We were
camped on the main Springfield road, and General Lyon, with his army,
was at Dug Springs, a few miles farther up the same road. We were to
march at eleven o’clock and attack him at daylight Monday morning.
There already had been some skirmishing between our outposts and his
scouts. We had never been in battle, and we were nervous, restless,
sleepless for the remainder of the day and night after receiving the
orders.
Some of the things that occurred during the afternoon and night would
have been ludicrous had not the whole occasion been so serious. In my
efforts to obtain and distribute all the ammunition I could procure I
was around among the men from mess to mess during all this busy time.
Scores of letters were being written by firelight to loved ones at
home, said letters running something like this:
CAMP ——, Mo., Aug. 4, 1861.
MY DEAR ——:
We arrived at General McCulloch’s headquarters about 10 A. M. to-day,
tired, dusty, hungry, and sleepy, after a long, forced march from Fort
Smith, Ark. We are now preparing for our first battle. We are under
orders to march at eleven o’clock to attack General Lyon’s army at
daylight in the morning. All the boys are busy cooking up three days’
rations. I am very well. If I survive to-morrow’s battle I will write
a postscript, giving you the result. Otherwise this will be mailed to
you as it is.
Yours affectionately,
—— ——
Numbers of the boys said to me: “Now, Barron, if I am killed to-morrow
please mail this letter for me.” One said: “Barron, here is my gold
watch. Take it, and if I am killed to-morrow please send it to my
mother.” Another said: “Barron, here is a gold ring. Please take
care of it, and if I am killed to-morrow I want you to send it to my
sister.” Another one said: “Barron, if I am killed to-morrow I want you
to send this back to my father.” At last it became funny to me that
each seemed to believe in the probability of his being killed the next
day, and were making nuncupative wills, naming me as executor in every
case, without seeming to think of the possibility of _my_ being killed.
During the remainder of our four years’ service, with all the fighting
we had to do, I never again witnessed similar preparations for battle.