BATTLE OF CORINTH
Captain Dunn, the “Mormon”—Paroles—Baldwin—On to
Corinth—Conscription—Looking for Breakfast—The Army Trapped—A
Skirmish—Escape—Holly Springs—Battle of Corinth—Casualties—Cavalry
Again.
CAPTAIN DUNN, of Company F, was one of our badly wounded men, one of
his legs having been broken by a grape shot. Captain Dunn was a unique
character. He was a lawyer by profession, a very bright fellow, and
lived at Athens, Tex. The first I ever knew of him he came to Rusk just
before the war, to deliver an address to a Sunday-school convention.
He was a very small man. In fact, so diminutive in stature that he
was almost a dwarf. He was a brave, gallant soldier, a companionable,
pleasant associate, and much of a wag. He was a great lover of fun, so
much so that he would sacrifice comfort and convenience and risk his
reputation in order to perpetrate a joke.
The ladies who came to nurse and care for our wounded soldiers at
Iuka were like other women in one particular respect, at least,—they
were desirous to know whether the soldiers were married or single,
religious or otherwise, and if religious, their church relationship,
denominational preferences and so on, and would converse with the boys
with a view of learning these particulars. The usual questions were
put to Captain Dunn by one of these self-sacrificing attendants. He
made no effort to deny that he was married and, with some hesitation,
frankly acknowledged that he was a member of the church of the Latter
Day Saints, usually called Mormons, which was enough information
for one interview. With the exclamation, “Why, _you_ a Mormon!” the
woman retired. In whispers she soon imparted to all the other ladies
who visited the hospital the astounding information that one of the
Texas soldiers was a Mormon. They were incredulous, but after being
vehemently assured by the interviewer that she had it from his own
lips, some believed it was true, while others believed it was a joke
or a mistake. To settle the question they appointed a committee
of discreet ladies to ascertain the truth of the matter, and the
committee promptly waited upon Captain Dunn. Without loss of time in
preliminaries, the spokeswoman of the committee said: “Captain Dunn, we
have heard that you are a Mormon and have come to you, as a committee,
to learn the truth of the matter. Are you a Mormon?” “Yes, madam,”
said Captain Dunn. “Have you more than one wife?” “Yes,” said Captain
Dunn, “I have four wives.” “Captain Dunn, don’t you think it awful
wrong? Don’t you think it’s monstrous to be a Mormon?” “No, madam,”
said Dunn, “that’s my religion, the religion I was brought up in from
childhood. All of my regiment are Mormons. All of them that are married
have two or more wives. The colonel has six; some have four, and some
five, just as they may feel able to take care of them.” A meeting of
the ladies was then called, an indignation meeting, and indignation was
expressed in unmeasured terms. The very idea! that they had scraped
lint, torn their best garments into bandages, had cooked and brought
soups and all the delicacies they could prepare to the hospital—done
all they could, even to the offering up their prayers, for a detestable
Mormon, with four wives! It was unanimously resolved that it could be
done no longer. From that good hour, in passing through the hospital
ministering to the wants of all the other wounded, they gave Dunn not
even as much as a look, to say nothing of smiles, cups of cold water,
soups, cakes, pies, and other more substantial comforts.
This neglect of Captain Dunn was eventually noticed by the other
soldiers, talked of, and regretted by them and its cause inquired into.
They earnestly interceded with the ladies in his behalf, and urged
them that whatever Captain Dunn’s faults might be, he was a brave
Confederate soldier, and had been severely wounded in an attempt to
defend their homes, that he was suffering greatly from his wounds; that
if he was a Mormon he was a human being, and for humanity’s sake he
deserved some attention and sympathy, and should not be allowed to die
through neglect. This argument finally prevailed, the resolution was
rescinded, and the captain fared well for the rest of the time, even
better than he had before the matter came up.
One day one of the ladies asked Captain Dunn how it happened that he
got his leg so badly crushed. In the most serious manner he said to
her: “Well, madam, I am captain of a company, and when we got into the
battle the Yankees began shooting cannonballs at us, and to protect my
men I got out in front of them and would catch the cannonballs as they
came and throw them back at the Yankees; but when the battle grew real
hot they came so fast I couldn’t catch all of them, and one of them
broke my leg.”
As soon as our men thought they were able to travel they were paroled
and allowed to go free. When Captain Dunn was paroled he went to Texas
for a rest, until he supposed he might be exchanged. On his return,
he was traveling through Arkansas when a woman on the train asked him
where he was going? He replied, “Madam, I am going to Richmond in the
interest of the women of Texas. I am going to make an effort to induce
the Confederate congress, in view of the great number of men that are
being killed in the war, to pass a law providing that every man, after
the war ends, shall have two wives.”
When paroling our people their paroles were filled out by a Federal
officer and presented to them for their signatures. The majority of the
men cared little about the form, but only of the fact that they were to
be allowed to go free until they were exchanged. But when they came to
Colonel Mabry he read the parole over very carefully. He was described
as H. P. Mabry, a colonel in the “so-called Confederate States Army.”
Mabry shook his head and said, “Sir, can you not leave out that
‘so-called?’” He was informed that it could not be done. “Then,” said
the colonel, “I will not sign it.” “In that case,” said the officer,
“you will have to go to prison.” “Well,” Mabry replied, “I will go to
prison and stay there until I rot before I will sign a parole with
that ‘so-called Confederate States’ in it.”
Captain Lee, of the Third Texas, was of the same way of thinking, and
they both went to prison and remained there until they were exchanged,
being sent to some prison in Illinois. Some months after they were
exchanged and came back to us we captured some prisoners one day. One
of them inquired if the Third Texas was there, and was told that it
was. “Then,” said he, “take me to Colonel Mabry or Captain Lee, and
I’ll be all right.” This man was a “copperhead” whose acquaintance they
had made while in prison. He didn’t want to serve in the army against
us, but had been drafted in, and was glad of an opportunity of changing
his uniform.
At Baldwin about two days was spent in preparation for a march to
Ripley, there to join General Van Dorn’s command for a move on Corinth.
I was on fatigue duty while at Baldwin, and had no time to recuperate
after the hard campaign to Iuka and back, having been on guard duty the
night before arriving at Ripley. We camped at that town one night and
started next morning, September 29, 1862, for Corinth, General Van Dorn
in command. On that morning I found myself with a fever, and feeling
unequal to a regular march I obtained permission to march at will, and
found Lieutenant R. L. Hood and F. M. Dodson in the same condition and
having a like permit. We joined our forces and moved up the hot, dusty
road about six miles. Being weary, footsore, and sick, we turned into
the woods, lay down and went to sleep under some oak trees and did not
wake until the beef cattle were passing us in the afternoon. This
meant that we had slept until the entire army was ahead of us—cavalry,
infantry, artillery, and wagon train. We moved on until night without
overtaking our command. Nearing the village of Ruckersville it occurred
to me that many years ago this had been the post office of Peter
Cotten, my mother’s brother. Stopping at a house to make inquiries, I
learned that Willis Cook, his son-in-law, lived only three-quarters of
a mile west of the village. We turned in that direction, and soon found
the place without difficulty. My call at the gate was answered by my
uncle at the front door. I recognized his voice, although I had not
heard it since I was a small boy. Going into the house I made myself
known to him and his daughter, Mrs. Crook, and received a cordial
welcome, such a welcome as made me and my comrades feel perfectly at
home. My good cousin, Tabitha, whose husband, Willis Crook, was in the
cavalry service, and in the army then on its way to Corinth, soon had
a splendid supper ready for us and in due time offered us a nice bed.
We begged out of occupying the beds, however, and with their permission
stretched our weary limbs under a shade tree in the yard and enjoyed a
good night’s sleep.
Next morning one or two of the party had chills, and we rested for the
day. We soon learned that a Federal cavalry command had dropped in
behind our army, and so we were cut off. Had we gone on in the morning
we would probably have been captured during the day. Learning how we
could find parallel roads leading in the direction we wished to go,
late in the evening we started, traveled a few miles and slept in the
woods. The next morning we moved on until ten o’clock, and meeting a
ten-year-old boy on a pony in a lane, we asked him if he knew where we
could get something to eat. He said there was a potato patch right over
there in the field. We asked him to whom it belonged, and he answered:
“It belongs to my uncle; but he is laying out in the brush to keep out
of the army;” and told us that his uncle lived up on the hill a short
distance ahead of us. We did not go into the potato patch, but went
up to the uncle’s house. The house was a fairly good one, and in the
front were two good-sized rooms with a wide, open hall. As we marched
up to the rail fence in front of the house a woman came out into the
hall, and we could see that the very looks of us aggravated and annoyed
her. By way of getting acquainted with her, Dodson said: “Madam,
have you got any water?” In a sharp, cracked voice, she answered: “I
reckon I have. If I hain’t, I would be in a mighty bad fix!” Having it
understood that Dodson was to do the talking, we marched in and helped
ourselves to a drink of water each, from a bucket setting on a shelf
in the hall. During the next few minutes silence of the most profound
sort prevailed. We stood there as if waiting to be invited to sit down
and rest, but instead of inviting us to seats she stood scowling on us
as if she was wishing us in Davy Jones’ locker or some similar place.
Hood and myself finally moved a little towards the front of the hall,
and the following dialogue took place between Dodson and the woman:
Dodson: “Madam, we are soldiers and are tired and hungry. We have
been marching hard, and last night we slept in the woods and haven’t
had anything to eat. Could we get a little something here?” “No, you
can’t. I don’t feed none of your sort. You are just goin’ about over
the country eatin’ up what people’s got, and a-doin’ no good.” “Why,
madam, we are fighting for the country.” “Yes, you are fightin’ to keep
the niggers from bein’ freed, and they’ve just as much right to be free
as you have.” “Oh, no, madam; the Bible says they shall be slaves as
long as they live.” “The Bible don’t say no sech a thing.” “Oh, yes, it
does,” said Dodson, gently; “let me have your Bible and I’ll show it to
you.” “I hain’t got no Bible.” “Madam, where is your husband?” “That’s
none of your business, sir!” “Is he about the house, madam?” “No, he
ain’t.” “Is he in the army, madam?” “No, he ain’t. If you _must_ know,
he’s gone off to keep from bein’ tuk to Ripley and sold for twenty-five
dollars.” “Why, madam, is he a nigger?” “No, he ain’t a nigger; he’s
just as white as you air, sir.” “Well, madam, I didn’t know that they
sold white men in Mississippi.” “No, you don’t know what your own
people’s a-doin’.” During the conversation I kept my eye on the lowest
place in the fence. What she said about being sold for twenty-five
dollars was in allusion to a reward of that amount offered by the
conscript authorities for able-bodied men who were hiding in the brush
to keep out of the army.
That night we lodged with a good old Confederate who treated us the
best he could. Next morning Dodson bought a pony from him, which we
used as a pack-horse to carry our luggage. We then moved much easier.
Late in the evening we crossed Hatchie River on the bridge over which
the army had passed on its way to Corinth. Here we found Adam’s Brigade
and Whitfield’s Legion guarding the bridge, that it might be used in
the event of the army’s being compelled to retreat. This bridge was
only a short distance south of the Memphis & Charleston Railroad, and a
few miles west of Corinth. We took the railroad and followed it nearly
all night, turning off to sleep a little while before daylight. Early
in the morning we struck across into the main-traveled road, and pushed
on in an effort to rejoin our command. About nine or ten o’clock we
came to a house, and determined to try for some breakfast, as we were
quite hungry. We afterwards learned that a poor old couple occupied the
house. Walking up to the front door we asked the old lady if we could
get some breakfast, telling her we had been out all night and were
hungry, and so on, the usual talk. She very readily said, yes, if we
would wait until she could prepare it. She then invited us to come in
and be seated, and said she would have the meal ready in a few minutes.
In a little while she came back and invited us in to breakfast in a
little side room used for a kitchen and dining-room. As we started in
I was in front, and as we entered the little dining-room and came in
sight of the table she began to apologize because she was unable to
give us anything more. I glanced at the table and saw a small, thin
hoe-cake of corn bread and a few small slices of bacon, “only this
and nothing more.” I asked her if that was all she had. She answered
that it was. Then I said, “Where are you going to get more when that
is gone?” She did not know. Not doubting the truth of her statements,
I said: “Madam, while we are hungry and do not know when we will get
anything to eat, we could not take all you have. While we are just as
thankful to you as if you had given us a bountiful breakfast, we are
soldiers, and can manage to get something to eat somewhere, and will
leave this for you and your husband,” and we bade her good-by without
sitting down to the table or tasting her scanty offering.
This poor old woman, who must have been sixty or more years old, had
said, without a murmur and without hesitation or excuse, that she would
prepare us some breakfast, and gone about it as cheerfully as if she
had had an abundance, cooking us all the provisions she had, and only
regretted she could not do more for us,—this, too, when not knowing
where she would get any more for herself.
After leaving this humble abode we soon began to meet troops,
ambulances, and so on, and from them we learned that our army was
falling back. Instead of going farther we stopped on the roadside and
waited for our command. Noticing a squad of soldiers out some distance
from the road engaged apparently about something unusual, my curiosity
led me out to where they were. To my surprise I found they were Madison
County, Alabama, men, most of whom I knew. They were burying a poor
fellow by the name of Murry, whom I had known for years, and who lived
out near Maysville. They had rolled him up in his blanket and were
letting him down into a shallow grave when I approached, and they told
me that some of the boys that I knew were wounded—in a wagon just
across the road. I soon found my old friends, John M. Hunter and Peter
Beasley, of Huntsville, Ala., in a common, rough road-wagon. Poor
Hunter! he was being hauled over the long, rough road only that he
might die among his friends, which he did in a few days. Beasley was
not dangerously wounded.
We soon after joined our command and marched westward toward Hatchie
bridge. But long before we got there Generals Ord and Hurlbut had
come down from Bolivar, Tenn., with a heavy force of fresh troops,
had driven our guards away, and were in undisputed possession of the
crossing. Whitfield’s Legion had been on the west side and had been so
closely crowded, with such a heavy fire concentrated on the bridge,
that they had to take to the water to make their escape.
Here was a problem confronting General Van Dorn, a problem which must
be speedily solved, otherwise a dire calamity awaited his whole army.
These two divisions of fresh troops were in front of an army of tired,
hungry, worn-out Confederates, with General Grant’s victorious army
only a few miles in our rear. What was called the boneyard road ran
some miles south of us and crossed the river on a bridge at Crum’s
Mill; but this bridge, as a precautionary measure, had just been
burned, and even now its framework was still aflame. The route we were
on led west from Corinth parallel with, and but a little south of, the
Memphis & Charleston Railroad, crossing Hatchie only a short distance
south of Pocahontas. After crossing the river we would turn south on
the main Ripley road, and this road ran parallel with the river,
passing not far, three or four miles perhaps, west of Crum’s Mill, so
that a force might move rapidly from Corinth, on the boneyard road,
cross at Crum’s Mill and strike us in the flank and possibly capture
our trains. Hence the precaution of burning this bridge. Everything of
our army, whether on wheels, on foot, or on horseback, was now between
Ord and Hurlbut in front and Grant and Rosecrans in the rear, without a
crossing on Hatchie. The trains were parked, with a view, as I was told
at the time, to burning them, leaving the troops to get out as they
could, and we already had visions of swimming the stream. Personally I
was wondering how much of my luggage I could get over with, and whether
or not I could make it with a dry gun and cartridge box. General Price,
in this dilemma, undertook to get the trains out, and he succeeded
notably.
We had a pretty heavy skirmish with the forces at the bridge, with
infantry and artillery, but only to divert attention from the trains
as they moved out to gain the boneyard road. General Price went to the
mill and, pulling down the gable end, cast it on the mill dam, and
thus made a temporary bridge over which the trains and artillery were
driven. Then that gallant old man, who had just proved himself to be
as much at home acting as chief wagon master as when commanding his
army corps, sat on his horse at the end of his unique bridge nearly
all night, hurrying the wagons and artillery across. On the west bank
of the stream he kept a bonfire alight, which threw a flickering glare
across the bridge. As each teamster drove on to the east end of the
queer bridge he would slow up his team and peer through the dim light
for the proper and safe route. Just as he would slow up one could hear
the loud, distinct voice of “Old Pap” shouting: “Drive up there! Drive
up! Drive up! Drive up!” And thus it continued until every wheel had
rolled across to the west side of the Hatchie.
After we left the vicinity of the bridge and after the skirmishing
ceased, there was no time for order in marching, unless it was with the
rear-guard; no time to wait for the trains to stretch out into the road
and to follow it then in twos. We fell into the road pell-mell, and
moved in any style we wished to, in among the wagons, or any way just
so we moved along and kept out of the way of those behind us. During
the afternoon, in the middle of the road, I stumbled upon a small pile
of corn meal, half a gallon, maybe, that had sifted out of a commissary
wagon, and gathered part of it into my haversack, mixed with a little
dirt. I crossed the bridge away along, I suppose, about 11 P. M., after
which I stopped and watched General Price’s maneuvers and the crossing
of the wagons until after midnight.
In the meantime I hunted around and found an old castaway tin cup,
dipped up some river water and made up some dough, and then spreading
it out on a board, I laid it on General Price’s fire until it was
partially cooked. Surely it was the most delicious piece of bread I
have ever tasted, even to this day.
When a good portion of the Third Texas had come up we moved on into the
Ripley road and were sent northward for a mile or two, where we lay
in line of battle in ambush, near the road until the trains had all
passed.
After daylight we moved on towards Ripley, being again permitted
to march at will, as we had marched the night before. Approaching
Ruckersville my heart turned again toward my good cousin, Tabitha
Crook. Taking little David Allen with me, I made haste to find her
home. Arriving there a short time before dinner, I said to her,
“Cousin, I am powerful hungry.” “Oh, yes,” she said, “I know you are,
Willis came by home last night, nearly starved to death.” Soon we were
invited into her dining-room and sat down to a dinner fit for a king.
Here I met her brother, George Cotten, whom I had never seen before.
After dinner Mrs. Crook insisted that we rest awhile, which we did,
and presently she brought in our haversacks filled up, pressed down,
and running over with the most palatable cooked rations, such as fine,
light biscuits, baked sweet potatoes, and such things, and my mess
rejoiced that night that I had good kins-people in that particular part
of Mississippi, as our camp rations that night were beef without bread.
We then moved on to Holly Springs and rested for some days, after a
fatiguing and disastrous campaign, which cost us the loss of many brave
soldiers, and lost General Van Dorn his command, as he was superseded
by General J. C. Pemberton.
The battle of Corinth was fought October 3 and 4, 1862. I do not know
the number of troops engaged, but our loss was heavy. According to
General Van Dorn our loss was: Killed, 594; wounded, 2162; missing,
2102. Total, 4858. The enemy reported: Killed, 355; wounded, 2841;
missing, 319. Total, 3515. But if General Rosecrans stated the
truth, our loss was much greater than General Van Dorn gave, as he
(General R.) stated that they buried 1423 of our dead, which I think
is erroneous. Company C lost our captain, James A. Jones, mortally
wounded; John B. Long and L. F. Grisham, captured. As Captain Jones
could not be carried off the field, Long remained with him and was
taken prisoner, being allowed to remain with Captain Jones until he
died. They were sent to Louisville, Ky., and then to Memphis, Tenn.,
where Captain Jones lingered for three months or more. After his death,
Long, aided by some good women of Memphis, made his escape and returned
to us.
It was at the battle of Corinth that the gallant William P. Rogers,
colonel of the Second Texas Infantry, fell in such a manner, and
under such circumstances, as to win the admiration of both friend and
foe. Even General Rosecrans, in his official report, complimented
him very highly. The Federals buried him with military honors. It
was at Corinth, too, that Colonel L. S. Ross, with the aid of his
superb regiment, the Sixth Texas Cavalry, won his brigadier-general’s
commission.
The evening before reaching Holly Springs we had what in Texas would
be called a wet norther. Crawling in a gin-house I slept on the cotton
seed, and when we reached Holly Springs I had flux, with which I
suffered very severely for several days, as the surgeon had no medicine
that would relieve me in the least. In a few days we moved south to
Lumpkin’s Mill, where we met our horses and were remounted, the Third,
Sixth, Ninth and Whitfield’s Legion composing the cavalry brigade,
which organization was never changed. The army was soon falling back
again, and continued to do so until it reached Grenada, on the south
bank of Yalabusha River.
As we were now in the cavalry service we did the outpost duty for the
army north of the Yalabusha.
[Illustration: JOHN GERMANY
Fourth and last Captain Company C, Third Texas Cavalry]