CONTENTS.
| [Life in the Confederate Army ] | 7 |
| [Kent—A War-time Negro ] | 73 |
| [Rose Blankets ] | 88 |
| [Some Letters Written During the Last Months of the War ] | 100 |
| [Tay ] | 129 |
LIFE IN THE CONFEDERATE ARMY
BEING PERSONAL EXPERIENCES OF A PRIVATE SOLDIER
IN THE CONFEDERATE ARMY
The following account of my experiences as a private soldier in the Confederate Army during the great war of 1861-'65 records only the ordinary career of an ordinary Confederate soldier. It does not treat of campaigns, army maneuvers, or plans of battles, but only of the daily life of a common soldier, and of such things as fell under his limited observation.
Early in April, 1861, immediately after the battle of Fort Sumter, I joined the Palmetto Guards, Capt. George B. Cuthbert, of the Seventeenth Regiment South Carolina Militia. Very soon after, the company divided, and one half under Captain Cuthbert left Charleston, and joined the Second South Carolina Volunteers in Virginia. The other half, to which I belonged, under Capt. George L. Buist, remained in Charleston. Early in the fall Captain Buist's company was ordered to Coosawhatchie, and given charge of four howitzers; and thenceforth for three years, until December, 1864, it served as field artillery. I did not go with my company, as at that time I was a clerk in the Charleston post-office, and really exempt from all service. On April 2, 1862, however, then being about eighteen years of age, I resigned my clerkship, and joining the company at Coosawhatchie, with the rest of the men enlisted in the Confederate service "for three years or the war."
About May 1st the company was ordered to Battery Island at the mouth of the Stono River, where with another company, the "Gist Guards," Capt. Chichester, we were put under the command of Major C. K. Huger, and placed in charge of four 24-pounder smooth-bore guns in the battery commanding the river, our own four howitzers being parked in the rear. Cole's Island, next below, and at the immediate entrance of the river, was garrisoned by Lucas' battalion of Regulars, and the Twenty-fourth Regiment South Carolina Volunteers, Col. C. H. Stevens. An examination of a map of this locality will show that Cole's Island was the key to Charleston; and this question has given rise to considerable acrimonious discussion. But whatever the merits of the case may have been, the facts are, that under the strange fear of the Federal gunboats that obtained on the South Carolina coast at that period, it was believed that our positions on Cole's and Battery Islands could not be held against an attack from the gunboats, which then were off the mouth of the river; and the islands were evacuated. On the 18th the Federals sent a couple of small boats into the mouth of the river to reconnoiter, but they were soon driven back by our pickets. On the next day, and day after, all the guns were removed from both islands to Fort Pemberton, higher up the Stono River—a very strong earth fort that had been built in preparation for this move. A day or two after, while our men were still on Battery Island, but Cole's Island having been deserted, several Federal gunboats entered the river, shelling the woods and empty batteries as they advanced. On their approach we set fire to the barracks and then withdrew across the causeway to James Island. We had to make haste across this causeway, because it was within easy range of the enemy, who soon began to rake it with shells.
This was my first experience with shell fire, and I soon learned that at long range, to men in the field, if the shells did not explode it was more alarming than dangerous. But being quite fresh I thought it unbecoming to appear concerned, and although at first, after crossing the causeway, I had stood wisely behind a friendly oak tree for protection, after the first shell or two I stepped aside and stood in the open, foolishly thinking that this was more soldierly. I had not yet learned that a soldier's common sense should prompt him to make use of what protection there may be at hand and to avoid exposing himself unnecessarily. But only when duty calls, to throw precaution aside and face whatever there is. While we were standing on the James Island side of the causeway a time-fuse shell fell near us, and one of our men, a new recruit, ran up to it, and stood over it with the exclamation, "How the thing does hiss!" Happily the fuse failed and the shell did not explode. When I saw the fortunate termination of the affair I could not resist calling out, "Surely the Lord protects drunken men and fools."
Our company fell back from here to a plantation about a mile inland, where we made our camp. I was a very enthusiastic, energetic youngster, and in pitching our large Sibley tent worked with such energy that I attracted the attention of one of our men, Mr. H. Gourdin Young, who jokingly said, "Ford, you are a splendid worker. If you were a negro, I would buy you." He was very much my senior.
After remaining here for about two months, our men doing some picket duty, we were transferred to Fort Pemberton, a very strong earthwork of 16 guns, on the Stono River, and garrisoned by Lucas' battalion of Regulars, in which my brother was a lieutenant. Here we remained for about three months.
Frequently the Federal gunboats would ascend the river, and there would be interchanges of shots between them and the fort. On one of these occasions an amusing incident occurred. Lieutenant Webb, of our company, had just got a new negro man servant, who was inexperienced in warfare. One afternoon, as a few shells were being thrown at the fort from the gunboats, he was very much scared, saying, "Dem people trow dem t'ings about yere so careless, dey won't mind until dey hu't somebody." Just then a shell passed over the fort, and exploding in the rear, a piece cut off a leg of Lieutenant Webb's horse. "Dere now; w'at I tell you!" exclaimed Sam. "Dey done kill Mass Ben's horse."
During the early period of the war a great many of the private soldiers in the Confederate Army had their own negro servants in the field with them, who waited on their masters, cleaned their horses, cooked their meals, etc. Attached to our company there were probably twenty-five such servants. This system continued during the first year or two of the war, on the Carolina coast, but later on, as the service got harder and rations became scarcer, these negro servants were gradually sent back home, and the men did their own work, cooking, etc. As a rule, these negroes liked the life exceedingly. The work exacted of them was necessarily very light. They were never under fire, unless they chose to go there of their own accord, which some of them did, keeping close to their masters. And they spent much of their time foraging around the neighboring country. Although often on the picket lines, night as well as day, with their masters, I never heard of an instance where one of these army servants deserted to the enemy.
At this period of the war the Confederate Government allowed each soldier a certain sum yearly for his uniform, and each company decided for itself what its own uniform should be. In consequence, "uniform" was really an inappropriate term to apply to the dress of various organizations. At first our company was uniformed in gray woolen frock coats, and trousers of the same material, with blue caps; next we had gray cotton coats and trousers with gray cloth hats; then very dark brown coats with blue trousers furnished by the government, and gray felt hats; and finally the gray round jacket, also furnished by the government, which assumed to provide also the hats, shoes, and underclothing. The shoes, when we could get them, were heavy English brogans, very hard on our feet, but durable. It was in the summer of 1862 that we received our first allowance for uniforms, and our quartermaster applied to a tailor in Charleston to furnish them, but there was considerable delay in getting them, and the tailor wrote that goods were then scarce on account of the moonlight nights, but that in about a fortnight, when the moon waned, they would be in greater supply, and the uniforms could be furnished at $2 more per man than the government allowed. So in due time we each supplemented the government's allowance and got new uniforms of very inferior, half cotton gray stuff, which served us for the rest of the year. Afterwards the government tried to furnish the men gratuitously with the best it could, and we did the best we could with what we got.
In July our command was removed to Charleston, under orders to go to Virginia. These orders were countermanded in a few days owing to aggressive movements of the Federals on the South Carolina coast. The remainder of the summer and the fall were spent in Charleston encamped for most of the time at the Washington race course, doing duty on the lines of breastworks thrown up across the neck just above Magnolia Cemetery. These breastworks were built to keep any enemy out of the city, but the nearest enemy on land at that period was on Folley Island; in Tennessee to the west; and Virginia to the North. And when Sherman did come within 50 miles of Charleston nearly three years later our troops were too much occupied in getting away to think of these breastworks. The battalion then consisted of three companies, each armed with four 8-inch howitzers, and all under the command of Maj. Charles Alston, Jr., Capt. Buist having been promoted to major, and assigned to duty near Savannah.
While encamped on the race course I witnessed the military execution of a deserter. The man belonged to one of the regiments doing duty about Charleston, and had been taken in the act of trying to desert to the enemy; tried by court martial and condemned to death. On the day fixed for the execution, some of the troops in Charleston were marched up to the race course, and so formed as to make three sides of a square. Immediately after followed a wagon, with the coffin, and seated on it, the man with his hands tied, and under guard; the whole preceded by a band playing the dead march; and followed by the detail of twelve men selected by lot to shoot him. Half the rifles were loaded with balls and half with blank cartridges, but none of the detail knew how his own was loaded. As the procession halted the coffin was placed on the ground and the deserter had his hands untied, and knelt in front of it facing the twelve men who were to do the shooting, and were drawn up about thirty feet in front of him. At the word of command "aim," the man, seemingly in desperation, jerked open his shirt and bared his breast to the bullets. Instantly at the command "fire" the detail fired, and the man fell over dead on his coffin. It was the most terrible sight I ever saw, far more dreadful than anything I ever witnessed in battle, and it seemed a sad thing that a really brave man should be so sacrificed; but such is one of the necessities of war, and it is necessary to deter others from playing the role of traitor.
At this time the Federal gunboats were very annoying in Stono River, coming as high up as possible daily, and shelling our pickets, and it was determined to make a diversion. Therefore, in January, 1863, our battery with Capt. Smith's and other troops were sent over to John's Island, and ambushed at Legare's point place to cooperate with two companies of Lucas' battalion and some other troops on James Island. The design was to capture the Isaac P. Smith. This vessel was an iron screw steamer of 453 tons, and carried eight 8-inch navy guns, or sixty-four pounders, and a 7-inch thirty-pounder Parrott gun. She was commanded at the time by Capt. F. S. Conover; and her crew consisted of 11 officers and 105 men.
The affair was completely successful. The gunboat in her daily ascent was taken by surprise, and after a short fight at only 75 or 100 yards distance, as she ran trying to escape, had her steam drum torn by a shell, and had to surrender. She had twenty-three men killed and wounded, while we lost one man killed. My howitzer was at a sharp bend in the river, and as the gunboat ran past, her stern was directly about 100 yards in front of the gun I served. It put one 8-inch schrapnel shell into her stern port, and I learned afterwards that the shell knocked a gun off its trunnions and killed or wounded eight men. A prize crew was put on board immediately and the vessel towed by a tug up the river, and later on to the city. While the prisoners were being landed, the U. S. S. Commodore McDonough steamed up the river and opened fire on us, but a few well-directed shots from our batteries soon made her desist and drop back down the river. At nightfall, our command returned to Charleston.
Our 8-inch howitzers were soon after exchanged for four twelve-pounder Napoleon guns, and the battery ordered back to James Island. Here in March we took part in a land affair near Grimball's place on the Stono.
Our battery was encamped about a mile from the river, and at daybreak one morning we were aroused and hurried down the road toward Grimball's plantation. Just before we were about to emerge from the woods into a field, the musketry firing going on rapidly on our left front, and a few shells from the gunboats falling into the woods, we were halted, and told that just in front was a field reaching to the river, and as soon as we passed out of the woods the order "battery by right into line" would be given. Well, we started at a rapid trot. I was driver of the lead horses of gun No. 2, and as we passed out of the woods, in obedience to the command I swung to the right, gun No. 3 swung to my right, and No. 4 to right of No. 3, while No. 1 kept straight on down the road, and we all went forward now at a run into battery.
We galloped down to the edge of the marsh along the river, and swinging into battery our guns opened on the U. S. S. Pawnee out in the river, the other two gunboats being farther down, and around a bend of the river. We were engaged for about twenty minutes, when the Pawnee dropped down the river, and the musketry fire on our left gradually ceased.
It seems that the Federals had advanced on the island with a force of about 2,000 men, supported by three gunboats. They had been met, and after sharp fighting, had been driven back by Col. Gaillard's Twenty-fifth Regiment South Carolina Volunteers, the Marion Artillery,—a light battery,—and a Georgia regiment, while our battery engaged the Pawnee. The Confederate loss was 27 men killed and wounded, and the Federal, 45.
The artillery was under the command of Lieut. Col. Delaware Kemper, who sat on his horse by our battery during the scrimmage. After the affair was over he remarked to our captain, "Captain Webb, you have a splendid set of young fellows there, but they need practice. They could not hit John's Island if they had it for a target." As to our marksmanship, he was mistaken, however, for we did put several shells into the Pawnee, and she had to go to Port Royal for repairs.
In this affair, being a driver, my position while the guns were in action was standing by my horses about 100 feet in the rear of my gun; and it was trying to have to stand there quietly, inactive, and take the shells and few rifle balls that passed by. It would have been much more agreeable to be actively engaged about the gun.
Only a few moments after we had got into action, our little company dog, a half-breed fox-terrier, "Boykee," who always stuck to the guns, and seemed to enjoy the excitement, was struck in the neck by a piece of shell, directly in front of where I was standing, and ran screaming to the rear. This wound was not a serious one, and he soon recovered from it. He was afterwards ignominiously killed by a snake in Florida.
In July, 1863, were developed the disastrous results of the evacuation of Cole's Island in May the year before. As soon as we left that island and Battery Island the Federals occupied them, and used them as bases for operations against Charleston. From there they occupied Folley Island, a densely wooded island where their operations could easily be concealed. They advanced to the north end of this island, to Light House Inlet, and under the concealment of the shrubbery built formidable batteries, which at daybreak one morning were unmasked, and under a heavy fire from their guns, an infantry assault in boats was made upon our small force on the southern end of Morris' Island. After a severe fight the Federals got a firm foothold upon this island, which for the next two months or so was the scene of some of the most sanguinary fighting of the war.
Immediately after this surprise by the Federals a detachment of our company was placed in charge of Battery Haskell, on James Island, directly opposite Morris' Island. The celebrated siege of Battery Wagner then began, and we used to watch the fighting at about three-quarters of a mile distance. The terrible bombardment and assault of July 18 was one of the sights of the war. At daylight the bombardment of the fort began, and continued without a minute's cessation all day. Occasionally as many as four shells were observed in the air at the same time. The fort itself was enveloped in a dense black pall of smoke from bursting shells, and at times was completely hidden. As the afternoon wore on the bombardment increased in intensity, and it seemed as if the very foundations of our part of the world were being torn to pieces. The garrison was kept in the bomb-proof, and not a shot was fired in reply. At dusk the bombardment suddenly ceased, and almost immediately the guns of the Confederates in Fort Sumter, trained on the beach in front of Wagner, opened. Almost simultaneously we saw a mass of blue spring up apparently from the earth, and advance on Wagner, and then the rattle of musketry. As the dusk deepened into darkness the rapid flashes of musketry looked at that distance like vast masses of fireflies, over a morass. We saw that it was an infantry assault, and a desperate hand-to-hand fight it was. But the result was very disastrous to the Federals, who were repulsed with a loss of upwards of 2,000 men.
In August was begun the bombardment of Charleston, which was continued steadily for a year and a half. On the night of the 21st, at 10.45 o'clock, General Beauregard received an unsigned note, brought to our pickets, purporting to be from General Gilmore, demanding the evacuation and surrender of Morris' Island and Fort Sumter under penalty of the bombardment of the city within four hours after the note had been sent by him. Two hours and three-quarters after this note had reached General Beauregard's hands, at 1.30 o'clock on the morning of the 22d, the Federal battery in the marsh on the edge of the creek separating Morris from James Island, opened fire, and threw a number of shells into the city. At about 9 o'clock on the morning of the 22d, seven and a quarter hours after the bombardment had begun, General Gilmore sent a properly signed note making the same demands. This note was immediately answered by General Beauregard with an emphatic refusal, and some severe remarks as to his firing upon a city full of women and children before he had given them reasonable time to escape. As may be imagined, the terror of the women and children in Charleston that night was extreme when it was realized that the city was being bombarded. The distance in a direct line from the Swamp Angel Battery, as it was called, to the city was about 5 miles, and it had not been thought that any gun could shoot that far. At first only percussion shells were used, but later on, in 1864, time-fuse shells were also used, and were much more dangerous, as they nearly always exploded. Battery Haskell, at which our company was stationed, was nearly in line between the Swamp Angel and the city, and constantly we watched the shells, city-bound, passing over our heads high in the air. At night, when fuse shells were used, they looked like slow meteors.
Frequently, when the tide was high, some of the Federal gunboats came into the inlet in front of Battery Haskell, and about half a mile off, and threw a number of shells into it. But no harm was done, as we could easily see the shells coming, and dodged them. We were very seldom allowed to reply. After the shelling was over, and the gunboat had hauled off, it was my habit to go about and pick up the shells, generally about sixty-pounders, and store them under my cot in my tent until I could find time to unscrew the fuse plugs and pour out all of the powder. As soon as I had gathered a wagon load I would carry them to Charleston and sell them at the arsenal. This was such a period of violence and bloodshed that the fearful risk of explosion did not concern me, and what I am equally surprised at now, after the lapse of many years, is that my officers allowed such a thing to be done in the battery, or in fact at all.
Here I witnessed an occurrence that, according to the law of chances, would not happen once in a thousand times. In the battery was a dry well, about six or eight feet deep, and one afternoon, while our friend the gunboat was throwing the usual shells at us, and we were dodging them, I remarked to a comrade that "that old well would be a good place to get into." The remark had scarcely been made before a shell dropped into that well as accurately as possible. It was simply one of those remarkable occurrences that happen in real life, but which writers dare not put in fiction.
The picket line on James Island in this vicinity, together with Battery Haskell, was then under the command of Maj. Edward Manigault, an officer of very exceptional ability. During this summer our shortness of rations began, and continued rather to intensify until the end. For one period of about two months it consisted of only one small loaf of baker's bread and a gill of sorghum syrup daily. For that time we had not a particle of either fresh or salt meat. If we had not been where we could obtain plenty of fish, we would have suffered seriously. The quartermaster's department was as badly crippled as the commissary's and most of us could get no new shoes, and several of our men were actually bare-footed in consequence; but it being summer, and on a sandy coast, there was not as much suffering as might have been otherwise. Scurvy, fever, and other ailments were very general and several deaths resulted. The battery was on a strip of land separated from the main land of James Island by a marsh and small creek, over which was a causeway and bridge. This causeway was watched from the Federal gunboats, and every time even one man would go across it he would be saluted with a shell or two. On one occasion I was ordered to drive several sick men to the city in an ambulance, and as we struck the causeway a gunboat sent the customary shells at us. The sick men were nervous, and one of the men called out, "For God's sake, Ford, put down the curtains!"
Toward the fall of 1863, after the evacuation of Morris Island by the Confederate troops, our company was withdrawn, and returned to the old camping ground at Heyward's place near Wappoo Cut.
As it seemed that we would remain here all winter, as we really did, I obtained permission to build a log cabin for myself and my mess. One day, as I was building the chimney, I saw Maj. Edward Manigault and his brother, Gen. Arthur Manigault, who was spending the day with him, walking toward me to inspect the guns parked near by. As they approached I jumped down off the scaffolding and saluted them. They returned the salute, and then the Major said: "We have been admiring your chimney, Mr. Ford. It is as well built as if a mason had done the work." The old man, whenever on the few occasions he spoke to me, strange to say, always addressed me, a private soldier, as "Mr." Ford. I never could account for it, unless it was that he knew all about me and my people. He had been a West Pointer, but had resigned from the U. S. Army a good many years before. Thus he was a strict disciplinarian, and on that account at that time not popular with the men; but I always liked him, and approved of his discipline. Later on, as the service became more exacting, and really active, the men became devoted to him, as they realized his ability as an officer.
On December 23 our company, then having four 24-pounder Parrott guns, started off for John's Island, where an attempt was to be made to capture a small body of Federals that were near Legareville, and also to sink or capture a Federal gunboat that was off that place. Our company was to have been supported by a Virginia regiment. On Christmas day at daylight we opened fire from our masked battery upon the two gunboats, for there were two on hand instead of one, but the infantry remained in the background, and failed to attack the Federals near Legareville as designed, and we had to bear the whole brunt of the fight. It was a sharp affair, and we soon had to get out of it as best we could, with the loss of several men and a half dozen horses.
In this affair I had a very narrow escape, and another man lost his life in my stead. I had been lead driver on gun No. 2, and when we started on this expedition I was transferred to cannoneer's duty, and young Heyward Ancrum given my horses. Well, in the fight a shell from the U. S. S. Marblehead passed entirely through the bodies of both of my horses, and took off Ancrum's leg at the knee. He fell among the struggling, dying horses, but was pulled out, and died soon after. He was certainly killed in my place.
It was about this time that I saw that celebrated torpedo submarine boat, the Hundley, the first submarine boat ever built. As I was standing on the bank of the Stono River, I saw the boat passing along the river, where her builder, H. L. Hundley, had brought her for practice. I watched her as she disappeared around a bend of the river, and little thought of the fearful tragedy that was immediately to ensue. She made an experimental dive, stuck her nose in the mud, and drowned her entire crew. Her career was such an eventful one that I record what I recollect of it.
She was built in Mobile by Hundley, and brought on to Charleston in 1863. She was of iron, about 20 feet long, 4 feet wide, and 5 feet deep—in fact, not far from round, as I have seen it stated; and equipped with two fins, by which she could be raised or lowered in the water. The intention of her builder was that she should dive under an enemy's vessel, with a torpedo in tow, which would be dragged against the vessel, and exploded while the Hundley, or "Fish," as some called her, rose on the other side. She was worked by a hand propeller, and equipped with water tanks, which could be filled or emptied at pleasure, and thus regulate her sinking or rising. The first experiment with her was made in Mobile Bay, and she went down all right with her crew of seven men, but did not come up, and every man died, asphyxiated, as no provision had been made for storing a supply of air.
As soon as she was raised, she was brought to Charleston, and a few days after her acceptance by General Beauregard, Lieutenant Payne, of the Confederate Navy, volunteered with a crew of six men to man her and attack the Federal fleet off Charleston. While he had her at Fort Johnson, on James Island, and was making preparations for the attack, one night as she was lying at the wharf the swell of a passing steamer filled her, and she went to the bottom, carrying with her and drowning the six men. Lieutenant Payne happened to be near an open manhole at the moment, and thus he alone escaped. Notwithstanding the evidently fatal characteristics of this boat, as soon as she was raised another crew of six men volunteered under Payne and took charge of her. But only a week afterwards an exactly similar accident happened while she was alongside the wharf at Fort Sumter, and only Payne and two of his men escaped.
H. L. Hundley, her builder in Mobile, now believed that the crews did not understand how to manage the "Fish," and came on to Charleston to see if he could not show how it should be done. A Lieutenant Dixon, of Alabama, had made several successful experiments with the boat in Mobile Bay, and he also came on, and was put in charge, with a volunteer crew, and made several successful dives in the harbor. But one day, the day on which I saw the boat, Hundley himself took it into Stono River to practice her crew. She went down all right, but did not come up, and when she was searched for, found and raised to the surface, all of her crew were dead, asphyxiated as others had been.
After the boat was brought up to Charleston, several successful experiments were made with her, until she attempted to dive under the Confederate receiving ship Indian Chief, when she got entangled with an anchor chain and went to the bottom, and remained there until she was raised with every one of her crew dead, as were their predecessors.
No sooner had she been raised than a number of men begged to be allowed to give her another trial, and Lieutenant Dixon was given permission to use her in an attack on the U. S. S. Housatonic, a new gunboat that lay off Beach Inlet on the bar, on the condition that she should not be used as a submarine vessel, but only on the surface with a spar torpedo. On February 17, 1864, Lieutenant Dixon, with a crew of six men, made their way with the boat through the creeks behind Sullivan's Island to the inlet. The night was not very dark, and the Housatonic easily could be perceived lying at anchor, unmindful of danger. The "Fish" went direct for her victim, and her torpedo striking the side tore a tremendous hole in the Housatonic, which sank to the bottom in about four minutes. But as the water was not very deep her masts remained above water, and all of the crew, except four or five saved themselves by climbing and clinging to them. But the "Fish" was not seen again. From some unknown cause she again sank, and all her crew perished. Several years after the war, when the government was clearing the wrecks and obstructions out of Charleston harbor, the divers visited the scene of this attack, and on the sandy bottom of the sea found the hulk of the Housatonic, and alongside of her the shell of the "Fish." Within the latter were the skeletons of her devoted crew.
This submarine torpedo boat must not be confused with the surface ones, called "Davids," that were first built and used at Charleston in the fall of 1863. These "Davids" were cigar-shaped crafts about 30 feet long, and propelled by miniature steam engines; and they each carried a torpedo at the end of a spar in the bow. There were several of them at Charleston and points along the coast.
In March, 1864, I had the only violent illness I had during my service, until at the end, a year later, and being given a thirty-day furlough went up to Sumter, where I had some near relatives. Here I stayed a couple of weeks, and then went over to Aiken, where my parents and sisters resided. Although the distance from Sumter to Aiken was only about 135 miles, the railway trains took seventeen hours to make the distance. It is hard to realize now the delays and discomforts of travel in the South in 1864. With worn-out tracks and roadbeds, dilapidated engines and cars, it is remarkable that the railway trains were able to run at all. On this occasion, which was typical of travel then, I left Sumter at 10 o'clock p. m., and just before reaching Kingsville the engine ran off the track from a worn-out rail. Two hours or more were spent in prying it back. Then shortly after the train stopped in a piece of woodland, and the fireman and train hands took their axes and spent an hour cutting wood and putting it on the tender. So it was full daylight when we reached Kingsville. From there all went well until after passing Branchville the engine broke one of its connecting rods, and we had to wait until another engine could be got from Branchville. Some miles farther up the road the train again stopped, and the hands went into the woods and cut wood for the engine. Finally, at about four o'clock in the afternoon I arrived at Aiken. Here I remained for a fortnight, and then joined my command, which had just been ordered to Florida.
Early in the spring the Federals made an advance into Florida from Jacksonville, and a number of troops were sent from South Carolina to oppose them. Among them was our battery of artillery. We reached the section of the State threatened the day after the battle of Olustee, or Ocean Pond, and were then ordered back to Madison, where we encamped, and during our stay there of a couple of weeks were most hospitably treated by the ladies of the town.
This battle of Olustee was a very severe fight, and a bloody one, in which the Federals under General Seymour were routed by the Confederates under Gen. Pat. Finnigan and Gen. A. H. Colquitt. In this battle the Federal loss was about 1,900 men and the Confederate about 1,000. The obstinacy of the struggle may be appreciated when it is observed that, out of the total of 11,000 men engaged, the casualties amounted to 2,900, nearly 27 per cent. As I have said, our battery reached the scene after the battle, so we made no stay near Olustee, but retired to Madison. The wounded were all cared for at the wayside hospitals, and the dead white men of both sides buried; but the dead negroes were left where they fell. There had been several regiments of negroes in the Federal force, who as usual had been put into the front lines, and thus received the full effect of the Confederate fire. The field was dotted everywhere with dead negroes, who with the dead horses here and there soon created an intolerable stench, perceptible for half a mile or more. The hogs which roamed at large over the country were soon attracted to the spot and tore many of the bodies to pieces, feeding upon them. This field of death, enlivened by numbers of hogs grunting and squealing over their hideous meal, was one of the most repulsive sights I ever saw.
About the beginning of March our battery was ordered to Baldwin, about 9 miles from Jacksonville. Here we remained for nearly a month, and strange to say had a very uncomfortable time as far as food was concerned. The surrounding country was barren, swampy, and very thinly settled, so there was very little private foraging to be done and we had to suffer from the very scant rations served out by the commissary.
This department was in a very disorganized condition, probably because of the sudden massing of troops at an unexpected point; but the fact was that our men seldom got enough of even the coarsest food. Our battery horses were supplied with corn and forage, and on several occasions after going twenty-four hours without any food I made use of some opportunity to steal the horses' corn, and parched that for a meal.
The bacon served out occasionally was of the most emphatic character, and very animated, but when fried and eaten with eyes shut, and nostrils closed, did no harm. Once in a while some of the men would go into the swamp and still-hunt wild hogs, and we would get some fresh pork. This hunting was against orders, and the officers tried their best to stop it, and occasionally some man would be caught at it and punished, but the men were really too much in need of food to remain quiet when game could be had. These hogs had once had recognized owners, but since that section of country had been deserted, had run wild, and lived in the swamp. It was by no means easy to shoot them, as they were very wary, and however quiet the hunter might remain behind his brush blind would often detect his presence by their sense of smell, and could not be decoyed within range.
My company was soon ordered back to South Carolina, and our route lay over the Albany and Gulf Railroad, now the Atlantic Coast Line, from Quitman to Savannah. This road, like all others in the South, was in a terribly dilapidated condition—rails and trestles decayed, and rolling-stock worn out. The engine that drew our train, containing only our battery, was unable to do the work, and several times when we reached the easy grades on that generally very level road, the men would be compelled to get off and assist the engine by pushing the train up the incline. When the train was got up to the top of the grade it would go down the other side by its own impetus, and on level stretches the engine got along fairly well. We made the distance of 170 miles in about sixteen hours, a little over ten miles an hour—fairly good speed in the South in 1864.
Our battery was stopped at Green Pond, on the Savannah and Charleston Railroad, and we spent the summer of 1864 doing picket duty at Combahee Point, and along the Ashepoo River.
At Combahee Point we were stationed on Mr. Andrew Burnett's plantation. The camp was located on the edge of the abandoned rice field, while the picket post was in front on some breastworks on the river's edge. The old rice fields were more or less overflowed, the banks having been broken for two years or more, and in them were numerous alligators, some of considerable size. At night the noises made by these amphibians, and the raccoons in the adjacent marsh, would have been interesting to a naturalist, but were annoying to us. But the most serious disturbers of our peace were the mosquitoes. These were of such size and venom and in such numbers as to cause real suffering, and necessitate the use of unusual schemes to protect ourselves against their attacks.
Accounts of these mosquitoes must seem incredible to any one who has never spent a midsummer's night in the rice fields; and very few white people have done this since the war. During the day the comparatively few that were about could be driven off by tobacco smoke and other means, but when night fell, and the myriads came up from the fields and marsh, then the situation became serious. When we were on sentry duty, walking post, many of us wore thick woolen gloves to protect our hands; and over our heads and necks frames made of thin hoops covered with mosquito netting. And when we wanted to retire to our small "A" tents, we had to make smudge fires in them first, and then crawl in on our hands and knees, and keep our faces near the ground to breathe, until finally we got asleep. And, moreover, we dared not let our faces or hands touch the sides of the tent, for immediately the mighty insects would thrust their probosces through the canvas and get us. I feel dubious about the advisability of recording such a statement, but as I am stating only facts as I experienced them, this must go on record.
In this rice field section our men suffered greatly from fever, and there were several deaths. I was the only man in the company of 70 who persisted in taking three grains of quinine daily, and one other of our men and I were the only two who did not have a touch of fever.
While on duty here, early one morning four negro men came to our picket bringing two Federal officers, and turned them over to us. Upon inquiry it seemed that these two officers, one of them a Captain Strong of the Regular Army, and the other a Volunteer lieutenant, had been captured in Virginia, and were on their way to prison in Georgia, but had escaped from the cars on the Savannah and Charleston Railroad, and had tried to make their way to the Federal fleet, but were simply starved out, until they had to appeal to the negroes for help, and they promptly brought them in to us. I was detailed as one of the men to guard and carry them to Green Pond, about 15 miles off, and deliver them to the authorities. On the way we stopped for a moment at Mr. Benjamin Rhett's plantation, who, as soon as he learned what was up came to the wagon and with the consent of the sergeant in command, invited the officers into his house. There, as soon as they had made some ablutions, he carried them in to breakfast, and entertained them for an hour; at the same time sending breakfast and genuine coffee out to us. Captain Strong spoke to me very pleasantly, and said that he was a graduate of West Point; and learning that I was from Charleston, inquired about several people there whom I knew, among others of Col. Sam. Ferguson, who he said had been a classmate of his at the Academy, and who I told him was at that time with the army in the West. I recollect that he was interested at hearing of him. He seemed also quite struck with the youthfulness of our men, and remarked on it.
Late in the fall our battery was removed to a point on the Charleston and Savannah Railroad, south of Green Pond, and put in charge of a battery there, as the Federals had advanced up from Port Royal, with the evident intention of attempting to seize the railroad. It seems that this really was the aim of the movement, conducted under the command of Gen. Guy V. Henry. And this movement was suggested by General Sherman, who, when he determined upon his march through Georgia, stated to the government at Washington that he expected to reach Savannah about the end of December, and suggested that the railway between Charleston and Savannah be destroyed before he got there. The Federals made several advances, but never could get nearer than about half a mile of the railroad, and in their efforts to do so were defeated and driven back in two or three affairs, notably in a serious fight at Tulafinny, in which the cadets of the South Carolina Military Academy, mere boys, were engaged.
In these infantry affairs we had no part, as they occurred at some distance from our position. Our company at the time was serving as heavy artillerists, and, as I have said, had charge of a battery commanding the railroad. The Federals had, however, established a battery of field pieces about 700 yards in our front, and there were frequent artillery duels, but without serious injury, certainly to our side. There was a short section of the railway track in an open piece of country, of which the enemy got the range, and every time a train passed in the daytime they would open on it with their guns. When the engineers approached this section they put on all the speed attainable, which was not very much at best, with the dilapidated engines they then had, and there was considerable interesting excitement in being on a flat car and running the gauntlet in this way. I do not think, however, that a train was ever hit.
About December the field pieces were taken away from our company and Capt. Porcher Smith's, and both were turned into infantry, and armed with old-fashioned Belgian rifles, probably the most antiquated and worthless guns ever put into a modern soldier's hands. But they were all our government had. These rifles could not send a ball beyond 200 yards, and at much shorter range their aim was entirely unreliable. This our men felt hard to stand, as they knew that at this period the Federal soldiers were being generally armed with breech-loading Springfield rifles, weapons which thirty years later were reckoned very formidable. We soon after were ordered back to James Island, where with Captain Smith's company we were again under the command of Maj. Edward Manigault. We were at once put on very arduous picket duty along the lines on the southwestern part of the island. The weather at this time I well recollect was unusually cold and wet, and with an insufficiency of food and clothing, our sufferings were severe. Men had got very scarce then, and the same relay had to be kept on picket week after week without relief, and the men would often have to stand guard on the outposts eight or ten hours on a stretch.
On one occasion while another man and I were on sentry duty on the lines in the rifle-pits, at the break of day we saw the two Federal sentries on the other side of the intervening marsh desert their posts, and unarmed walk quickly toward us. When they got within about ten paces we halted them, and called our officer. As soon as he came up we turned them over to him. I always had a loathing for a deserter, and said to the men, "If I had my way I would have you given thirty-nine lashes each and sent back under flag of truce to your command, so you could be shot as you deserve." One of them twiggled his fingers on his nose and replied, "Ah, but you hav'n't got no say in the matter."
While on duty on these outpost lines, the Federals frequently shelled us from their gunboats in Stono River. We did not mind the Parrott shells, but the shells from the Cohorn mortars on a mortar schooner were very trying. They would fall, apparently from the sky, and there was no dodging them. But fortunately none of them fell directly in the rifle-pits, but all exploded harmlessly in the field. All old soldiers know that mortar shells take a very mean advantage of a man.
One of the outposts on these lines which was manned only at night was out in the marsh, and I had it one night, and it was about the most disagreeable night I ever had on picket. I was placed on the post at dark, with orders to keep in the marsh, at the edge of the tide as it went down, and to come in at the first daylight. I was all the time up to my insteps in mud, by myself, with the rain falling all night. I stood out in that marsh from dark until daylight, in the drenching rain, for about ten hours. Like most of the men, I had no oilskin, or any protection against the weather, and of course was thoroughly drenched early in the night, and the steady rain all night kept me saturated. The best I could do was to try to keep my ammunition and gun-lock dry. It was certainly the worst night I ever spent.
On February 10, 1865, we had our first serious infantry fight, as infantry. We were doing picket duty at this time on the lines near Grimball's causeway, with our right extending to Stono River. At about daylight that morning the Federals began to shell our lines from four gunboats and a mortar schooner, whose masts we could see over the trees; and soon after we could see a large force of their infantry assembling on Legare's plantation on the other side of the flat and marsh in front of our lines. Our entire force along this part of the lines consisted of 52 men of our company and 40 men of the Second South Carolina Artillery and about 20 cavalry, together with 7 officers—all told, 119 men. Just before the Federal infantry advanced, a section of artillery took position at about 600 yards in front of us, and shelled our line, but did no damage. The Federal infantry engaged, as I learned a few months afterwards from one of their officers, were the Fifty-fourth and One Hundred and Forty-fourth New York, white; and the Thirty-second, Thirty-third, and Fifty-fifth U. S. negro troops, altogether about 1,500 men, and one section of artillery. We were assaulted directly in front, but held our ground until the enemy were within 30 feet of our line; in fact, some of their men were actually into our trenches, and having hand-to-hand fights with our men. So close had they got that I had ceased firing, and had just fixed my bayonet, and braced myself for a hand-to-hand fight, when Major Manigault, who was standing only a few paces to my right in rear of the line, gave the order to retreat. To this moment not a man had flinched, but at the order to retreat we broke for the rear, a few of the men reloading, turning, and firing back as they retreated. We halted at a ditch about 300 yards in the rear, where we found the battalion of cadets of the South Carolina Military Academy, and a company of the Second Regiment South Carolina Artillery, altogether about 185 men. We who had come out of the affair, feeling strong with this support, were anxious to return and try to drive back the Federals, but we had no such orders. And probably it was well we did not do so; for about 700 of the enemy were white men, and, as I afterwards learned, more than half of them Irish; and for about 267 men to tackle in open fight nearly three times their number, of that class of men, was too serious an undertaking to be attempted. Of course as to the 800 negroes the odds would not have been counted.
In this affair, of the 119 Confederates engaged, we lost 2 officers, of whom one was the gallant Major Manigault, severely wounded, and 37 men. The Federals lost 88. Our loss, as is shown, was about 33 per cent, of our force engaged, and this large mortality shows the heavy fire to which we were subjected. General Schimmelpfennig was in general command of the affair, but the assault was led by Colonel Bennett, who, mounted upon a sorrel horse, was a mark for several shots from our wretched rifles, but escaped unhurt.
The point where I was, just about the center of our line, at the causeway, was assaulted by a regiment of negro troops; and as they got near to us I distinctly heard their officers cursing them. I heard one officer say, "Keep in line there, you damned scoundrels!" and another, "Go on, you damned rascals, or I'll chop you down!" I saw the line waver badly when it got to within fifty yards of us, and on this occasion at least it did not look to me as if the negroes had the spirit to "fight nobly." I know it is a catch phrase elsewhere that the colored troops fought nobly, but I testify to what I saw and heard.
As to these negro troops, there was a sequel, nearly a year later. When I was peaceably in my office in Charleston one of my family's former slaves, "Taffy" by name, came in to see me. In former times he had been a waiter "in the house," and was about my own age; but in 1860, in the settlement of an estate, he with his parents, aunt, and brother were sold to Mr. John Ashe, and put on his plantation near Port Royal. Of course, when the Federals overran that section they took in all these "contrabands," as they were called, and Taffy became a soldier, and was in one of the regiments that assaulted us. In reply to a question from me, he foolishly said he "liked it." I only replied, "Well, I'm sorry I didn't kill you as you deserved, that's all I have to say." He only grinned.
On February 17, James Island was evacuated by the Confederates. Captain Matthews's company, formerly artillery but now infantry, was added to our two, and the battalion known as Manigault's, or the Eighteenth South Carolina Battalion. Major Manigault being wounded, and a prisoner, Capt. B. C. Webb, of Company A, was in command. Our line of march was through St. Andrew's Parish, across the bridge at Bee's Ferry, and along the old State road past Otranto across Goose Creek bridge, which was burned as soon as the last troops had crossed. Our men had started on this march with as much baggage as they thought they could carry, but they soon threw aside their impedimenta, and each settled down to his one blanket and such clothes as he actually wore. This march across the Carolinas was a very hard one. Our feet soon became blistered and sore, and many of us had no shoes, but trudged along in the cold and mud bare-footed as best we could. As I have already said, this was a cold winter, and it seemed to us that it rained and froze constantly. Not a particle of shelter did we have day or night. We would march all day, often in more or less rain, and at nightfall halt, and bivouac in the bushes, with every particle of food or clothing saturated. Within a few minutes after a halt, even under a steady rain, fires would be burning and quickly extend through the bivouac. If a civilian should attempt to kindle a fire with soaked wood under a steady rain, he would find his patience sorely tried, but the soldiers seemed to have no trouble.
After the fires were kindled we had to wait for the arrival of the commissary wagons; and it was not uncommon for a detail of men to be sent back in the night to help push the wagons through the mud; weary, footsore, hungry, in the dark, up to the knees in mud, heaving on the wheels of a stalled wagon! It was often late at night before the wagons were got up and rations could be obtained.
The men, of course, had to take turns in the use of the two or three frying-pans carried for each company, and when worn down by marching from early dawn until dark it was disheartening to have to wait one's turn, which often did not come until eleven o'clock at night. Frequently the men, rather than wait for the frying-pan, would fry their scraps of bacon on the coals, and make the cornmeal into dough, which they would wrap around the ends of their ramrods and toast in the fire. When the rations were drawn they consisted of only seven ounces of bacon and one pint of cornmeal to the man per day; and on several occasions even these could not be had, and the men went to sleep supperless, and with nothing to eat during the next day. The commissary department of the corps seemed to be unequal to the occasion, but this fact is not surprising when the rapidity of the march and desolation of the country are considered. Nevertheless, on several occasions the writer's command passed forty hours without receiving any rations, and once fifty hours, so that we were glad of an opportunity to beg at any farm-house for an ear of corn with which to alleviate our hunger.
All along the line of march large numbers of men were constantly deserting. Nightly, under cover of darkness, many would sneak from their bivouacs and go off, not to the enemy, but to their homes. But those of our men who remained were in good spirits.
The most influential cause of desertions was the news that reached the men of the great suffering of their wives and children at home, caused by the devastations of Sherman's army. Wherever this army passed from Atlanta to Savannah, and from Savannah through Columbia, Camden, and Cheraw, into North Carolina, a tract of country 30 miles wide was devastated. Farm-houses, barns, mills, etc., were all burned. Farm animals, poultry, etc., were all ruthlessly killed, and the women and children left to starve. This was most especially the case in South Carolina, where Sherman burned every town in his path—Walterboro, Barnwell, Midway, Bamberg, Blackville, Williston, Orangeburg, Columbia, Camden, and Cheraw. His cavalry leader, General Kilpatrick, attempted to burn Aiken, but was quickly beaten off by General Wheeler. When the men learned of the suffering of their women at home, many of them not unnaturally deserted, and went to their aid.
This terrible strain on the integrity of the men was the cause of a pitiable execution that took place on the line of march one day. A sergeant in the First Regiment Regulars, upon being reproved by his lieutenant for justifying and advising the desertion of the men, in a fit of temper attempted to shoot this officer. The line was immediately halted, the man was carried before a drum-head court martial, tried, and condemned to be shot on the spot. He was led out, tied with his back against a tree, and shot to death. It was an awful sight. I recollect that while awaiting death, the chaplain spoke to him, and offered to pray with him. His only reply was, "Preacher, I never listened to you in Fort Sumter, and I won't listen to you now."
All of the Confederate troops in South Carolina were under the command of Lieut.-Gen. T. J. Hardee, one of the ablest corps commanders in the Confederate service. He was nicknamed by the men, "Old Reliable." Our battalion, known also as the Eighteenth, with Major Bonneau's Georgia battalion, the battalion of Citadel Cadets, and the Second Regiment South Carolina Heavy Artillery constituted Brig.-Gen. Stephen Elliott's brigade, which, with Col. Alfred Rhett's brigade, constituted Maj.-Gen. Taliaferro's division. About March 1 we reached Cheraw, which we left two days after. As we left the town Sherman's army pressed us closely, and my recollection is that there was a sharp cavalry skirmish at the bridge, which we burned as soon as our troops had got across. I think Gen. M. C. Butler was the last man to cross, and galloped across it while it was actually in flames. At the State line the Citadel Cadets left us, and returned to South Carolina.
The route of the army lay through Fayetteville, N. C., where we crossed the Cape Fear River about a week later. After our men had crossed the bridge I was detailed from my company as one of a number to guard it, until all the wagons, etc., and the last of the cavalry had got across and it was burned, and when the bridge had been burned, one of the cavalrymen let me ride a led horse until I caught up with my command some distance in front. I remember his telling me of a very remarkable scrimmage that had just occurred on the other side in Fayetteville. It seems that before all of our wagons had got across the bridge, and our own cavalry had come up, a troop of about 70 Federal cavalry rode into the town to cut our wagons, etc., off from the bridge. General Hampton, with two of his staff officers and four couriers, in all only seven men, instantly dashed themselves against the Federals, and in a hand-to-hand fight killed eleven of them, captured as many more, and ran the rest out of town, and all without the loss of a single man. A very remarkable affair. I also heard that Hampton had caught a spy, who would be hanged when the army halted. I never heard anything more about it, as I had other things much more personal to engage my attention, and presumed he was strung up according to military usage.
But it seems that the man was not hanged. Wells, in "Hampton and His Cavalry in '64," gives the particulars of this wonderful affair, and states that the spy's name was David Day, and that he was turned over to some junior reserves for safe keeping and escaped. And there was an interesting sequel.
Thirty-one years after this fight, Hampton then being United States Railway Commissioner, and in Denver, Colorado, a stranger called upon him and explained that he was the David Day, the spy captured in the affair, dressed in Confederate uniform. Hampton congratulated him and said he was "glad the hanging did not come off." "So am I," replied the other, laughing.
At Fayetteville a few of the men of our company, I among them, procured Enfield rifles in place of the old Belgians we had, and also got ammunition to suit. The Enfield was a muzzle loader, but really one of the best guns of the day of its kind, and fairly accurate at 600 yards. About half of the company, however, had only the worthless Belgians to the end.
We were now so closely pursued by Sherman that on March 16 General Hardee, having about 6,000 men, determined to make a stand near Averysboro, between the Cape Fear and Black Rivers, where at daylight Taliaferro's division was attacked full in front by the Fourteenth and Twentieth Corps of the Federal Army, and Kilpatrick's cavalry, altogether about 20,000 men, General Sherman being personally on the field. The fighting was stubborn, at very close quarters, along the entire line. Twenty men, of whom I was one, were detailed from Elliott's brigade and attached to the left of Colonel Butler's First Regular Infantry, of Rhett's brigade, and there I served through the fight. We held our position in the open woods without protection for about three hours, and repulsed repeated assaults, until the left of the line, resting on a swamp along the Black River, which had been thought to be impassable, was turned by a heavy force of Federals, which had made their way through the swamp. This force, I afterwards learned, was Colonel Jones's regiment of Indiana cavalry, fighting as infantry, and armed with Spencer magazine carbines. Our whole force then fell back about 400 yards to a line of breastworks manned by McLaws's skeleton division, and which the Federals later in the day unsuccessfully assaulted. The Confederate loss in this battle was 500, and the next day some of Kilpatrick's cavalrymen, who had just been captured, told me that the Federal loss had been about 2,500. The Confederate forces engaged in this fight were Rhett's and Elliott's brigades, two artillery companies, and McLaws's division; and it was not the intention of General Hardee that Taliaferro's division should make such a stubborn stand-up fight. It was the intention that they should engage only as skirmishers, bring on the fight, and then fall back gradually into the breastworks, where the real fighting was to have been done. But Elliott's and Rhett's men had previously done only garrison and artillery duty on the coast, and this was their first experience in infantry fighting in the open, and they knew no better than to stand up and fight it out. Sherman in his report to the U. S. War Department of this affair expressed his surprise at the tenacity with which our men held their ground.
It was on this occasion that Col. Alfred Rhett was captured. It seems that a Captain Theo. F. Northrop, of a regiment of New York cavalry, was scouting with a few men at early dawn on the morning of the battle, and just in front of our lines came unexpectedly upon Generals Hampton and Taliaferro, with a group of aids. He and his men promptly made themselves invisible, and withdrew, and a few moments after Colonel Rhett rode up on them. He put his pistol in Colonel Rhett's face and said, "You must come with me." Colonel Rhett replied, "Who the hell are you?" and drew his pistol to fight. Instantly the men with Captain Northrop put their carbines to Colonel Rhett's head, and he, seeing how the case stood, gave up, and was carried to General Slocum, who sent him to General Sherman's headquarters. Captain Northrop has stated to me that Colonel Rhett told him that when first accosted he thought he was dealing with one of General Wheeler's men, and he would have shot him for his insolence. And he was always satisfied that if Colonel Rhett had realized at the very first that they were the enemy he met, he would have fought and tried to get away, although he would have probably been killed in the attempt.
Captain Northrop took Colonel Rhett's sword and pistol. The sword was lost some years ago in a railway train, but he has the pistol still, with Colonel Rhett's name engraved on it.
The fight took place in a piece of pine forest, and there were many trees that afforded protection to the men on both sides. The lines were very close together, so close that I could at times clearly observe the faces of the Federal soldiers opposite. At one time I was protected by a good pine tree and felt quite comfortable as the bullets thwacked against the other side of it; but within a few feet, to my left, was an old stump-hole full of dry leaves, and the bullets striking in those leaves made a terrible racket. I stood the racket as long as I could, but finally could stand it no longer, and contrary to common sense abandoned my friendly tree and stepped a few paces to the right, away from that noisy stump-hole. There I stood unprotected in the open, but not many minutes before I was struck full in the middle of my body and knocked down to a sitting posture. My blanket was rolled in a tight roll, not over three inches thick, and being of course on my left shoulder, and across my body downwards to the right, had saved my life. The ball had passed through the roll, and striking a button on my jacket had stopped, and as I dropped it fell down, flattened out of all shape. I lay on the ground for a few moments, paralyzed by the blow, and I recollect hearing a comrade, who received a bullet through the brain only a few moments afterwards, call out, "Ford's killed." I gathered myself back into a sitting posture and replied, "No, I'm not. I think I'm all right." But the pain was intense, as every boy knows who in a boxing bout gets a lick in "the short wind." In a few moments I was back again on my feet, and resumed my place in line, although suffering considerable pain and nausea. For some time after I carried on my body a black and blue spot the size of a dollar.
I recollect noticing the conspicuous coolness of Maj. Thos. Huguenin, of the First Infantry. During the hardest of the fighting he walked slowly immediately behind the line in which I was, smoking his pipe as calmly as if he had been at home.
Here an incident occurred that showed how, under the most serious condition, with death and imminent danger all around, a soldier's mind is often diverted by the most trivial thing. It is a strange phase of the mind which I have heard old soldiers, who have seen much hard fighting, comment upon. During the sharpest of the fighting, a hog started from the swamp on my left and ran squealing and terrified directly down the front of our line, presenting quite a ludicrous spectacle, and I heard a number of men, as he passed along the line, whoop at him and call out, "Go it, piggy!" "Save your bacon, piggy!" etc. But piggy had not got more than a hundred feet past me when he turned a somersault, kicked a moment or two, and lay still. He had evidently stopped a bullet.
An incident showing the same phase of mind was told me by a member of the Fourteenth South Carolina Volunteers, as occurring during the great battle of Gettysburg. As Kershaw's brigade, on the second day, was advancing to the assault of Little Round Top, a company of the Fourteenth was among those thrown forward as skirmishers, and as they advanced across the field toward the Federals, they came to a large patch of ripe blackberries. The men with one accord immediately turned their attention to the ripe fruit which was in great abundance on every side, and, stooping down, kept picking, and eating berries, as they went slowly forward, actually into action. And so much was their attention distracted by the blackberries that they were actually within 50 yards of the enemy's advanced line before they realized their position, when they rushed forward with a yell, and got possession of a slightly elevated roadway, which they held until the main line came up.
During the assault on the breastworks, Capt. S. Porcher Smith, who was standing just behind me, was shot through the face and fell. The litter-bearers picked him up, and as they were carrying him to the rear, one of them was shot and fell, and Captain Smith rolled headlong out of the litter. I well remember this incident.
We held our position until about midnight, when we fell back to a place called Elevation. This night's march was a very trying one. The road was terribly cut up by the wagons and artillery, and as the rains had been frequent it seemed as if the clay mud was knee deep. We floundered along for about six hours, and at daylight on the 17th halted and were given some rations. Most of us had not had a morsel of food since the night of the 15th. It happened in this way. On the night of the 15th we cooked our cornmeal and bacon and ate our supper, saving half for the next day. At the early break of day on the 16th, as I was warming my bacon and corn pone in a frying-pan before eating some of it, the Federals attacked us, and we had to fall into line instantly. So I had to leave the frying-pan with all my food as it was on the fire and go through that day's hardship, and until the next day at Elevation, without any food whatever. It had been General Hardee's intention to give us two or three days' rest at Elevation, but it having been ascertained that the Federal army was pushing toward Goldsboro, Gen. Jos. E. Johnston, then only recently put in command of the Confederate troops in North Carolina, ordered General Hardee to hurry forward and intercept Sherman near Bentonville. So about 3 o'clock on the morning of the 19th we were aroused and hurried on toward Bentonville, where we arrived a little before three in the afternoon, having made the 20 miles in rather less than 12 hours.
It was on the march this day that an amusing incident occurred. I had not owned a pair of socks since I left James Island a month before, and my shoes were in such tattered condition that I could keep uppers and soles together only by tying them with several leather strings, but most of my toes stuck out very conspicuously. I had read of the importance that great generals attached to the good condition of infantry soldiers' feet, and hence the aphorism, "A marching man is no stronger than his feet," and I determined to keep mine in good condition if possible. I knew that frequent bathing prevented blistering; therefore, every night before going to sleep, and often on the march during the day I would bathe my feet, so that they were never blistered, and I kept well up with my company in marching. On this day as we crossed a little stream, according to my custom I stepped aside, and pulling off my shoes soaked my feet in the running water. General Hardee and his staff rode by at the moment. He checked his horse and called sternly to me, "You there, sir! What are you doing straggling from your command? I suppose you are one of those men who behaved so badly at Averysboro." (A few men had been guilty of misconduct there.) I sprang to my feet, and saluting him said, "Excuse me, General, but you are speaking to the wrong man, sir. I have never misbehaved, and never straggled. I am only bathing my feet to prevent them from blistering. There is my company right ahead there, sir, and I always keep up with it." My injured tone and evident sincerity struck the old man, and he saluted me with the words, "I beg your pardon, sir," and rode on. He was a courtly and knightly soldier, and a great favorite with the men.
We reached Bentonville at about 3 o'clock p. m., only a short time after the battle had begun, and as we marched hurriedly along the road in the direction of the firing we passed a number of wounded men coming to the rear; and then several operating tables on both sides of the road, some with wounded men stretched on them with the surgeons at work, and all of them with several bloody amputated legs and arms thrown alongside on the grass. The sight was temporarily depressing, as it foreshadowed what we had to expect. But we hurried on, and our division halted for a few moments on the ground from which the Federals had just been repulsed, and there were quite a number of their dead and wounded lying about. One of the Federal wounded, a lieutenant, begged us for some water, and I stepped from the line and gave him a drink from my canteen. Others begged me likewise, and in a few moments my canteen was empty. I knew that this might result seriously to me, in case I should need the water badly for myself, but I could not refuse a wounded man's appeal even if he was my enemy; and one of our men, a thrifty fellow, who always managed to have things, produced a little flask of whiskey, and gave a good drink to a Federal who had his leg badly crushed. The blue-coat raised his eyes to Heaven with, "Thank God, Johnnie; it may come around that I may be able to do you a kindness, and I'll never forget this drink of liquor." We were not allowed to remain long relieving the suffering, but soon were called to "attention," and received orders to create it, by an attack upon the enemy from our extreme right. At this moment Maj. A. Burnett Rhett, of the artillery, rode along the line and called out that news had been received that France had recognized the Confederacy and would send warships to open our ports immediately. The men cheered, few of us realizing that the end was so near. We were blinded by our patriotism. There was Lee with his 30,000 men that moment surrounded by Grant with his 150,000. Here was Johnston with his 14,000 trying to keep at bay Sherman with his 70,000, with the knowledge that Schofield was only two days off with 40,000 more. And this was about all there was to the Confederacy; and they talked of recognition! Oh, the pity of it!
As we stood in line ready to advance my next comrade remarked, "Well, boys, one out of every three of us will drop to-day. I wonder who it will be?" This had been about our proportion in our two previous infantry engagements, and it was not far short of the same here, for out of the twenty-one men the company carried into the fight five were left on the field. At the word the line advanced through a very thick black jack-oak woods full of briars, and then double-quicked. We ran right over the Federal picket line and captured or shot every one of the pickets. One picket was in the act of eating his dinner, and as we ran upon him he dropped his tin bucket, which, strange to say, had rice and peas boiled together. Our lieutenant grabbed it up, and carried it, with the spoon still in the porridge, in his left hand in the charge. We went through the bushes yelling and at a run until we struck a worm rail fence on the edge of an old field. I sprang up on the fence to get over, but when on top could see no enemy, and so called out to the men, a number of whom were likewise immediately on the fence. Just at this moment the officers called to us to come back, as a mistake had been made. Our division had not gone far enough to our right. The line was again formed in the thick bushes, and we went about two hundred yards or so farther to the right, and during this movement the lieutenant ate the captured porridge, and gave me the empty tin bucket and spoon. I attached the bucket to my waist belt, and kept it for about a month, when in an amusing encounter with Gen. Sam Cooper, of which I will tell farther on, it got crushed. The spoon I have kept to the present time.
Our line was soon again halted just on the inside edge of the dense woods, and concealed by the brush, and I could see on the other side of the field, about 300 yards distant, twelve pieces of artillery glistening in the sun, and behind them a dense mass of blue infantry evidently expecting our attack, and ready for us.
As we stood there for a few minutes and saw the work cut out for us, one of our men, one of the few who had been of age in 1860, said in a plaintive tone, "If the Lord will only see me safe through this job, I'll register an oath never to vote for secession again as long as I live."
At the word "forward" our brigade left the cover of the woods at the double-quick, and the men reopened with their yells.
As all veterans of the great war know, in a charge the Confederates did not preserve their alignment, as the Federals did. They usually went at a run, every man more or less for himself. There was also an inexplicable difference between the battle cries of the Federal and Confederate soldiers. In the assaults of the Federals the cries were regular, like "Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!" simply cheers, lacking stirring life. But the Confederate cries were yells of an intensely nervous description; every man for himself yelling "Yai, Yai, Yi, Yai, Yi!" They were simply fierce shrieks made from each man's throat individually, and which cannot be described, and cannot be reproduced except under the excitement of an assault in actual battle. I do not know any reason for this marked difference unless it was in the more pronounced individuality of the average Confederate soldier.
As soon as our line charged out into the open field the Federal artillery opened on us with grape shot, and the infantry with their rifles. My eyes were in a moment filled with sand dashed up by the grape which struck around. I wiped them with my hand, and keeping them closed as much as I could, kept on at a run until I suddenly realized that I was practically alone. When I looked back I saw that the brigade, after getting about half way across the field, had stopped and was in confusion. In a moment it broke and went back in a clear panic. It is needless to say I followed. Our line was reformed in the woods, and I am glad to say of my own company, and I think Captain Matthews's, they both rallied at the word to a man. Every man was in place except those who had fallen. This was more than could be said for some of the other commands of the brigade, some of whose men never rallied, but went straight on home from the field, and were never heard of again.
Our line was again moved forward to the position from which we had first driven the Federal pickets, and our company was sent to the edge of the woods from which we had made the last charge, and deployed as pickets, two men at each post. It was now about dark, and, while the Federal infantry had ceased firing, the wretched pieces of artillery never let up on us and kept throwing grape shot, and occasional shells into the woods where they knew we were, making a terrible racket through the tree-tops, tearing off branches, etc. At about eight o'clock that night our lieutenant came running along the line calling for "Ford." As soon as he came to my post he told me that he had brought another man to take my place and that I was relieved, and at 12 o'clock must go directly to the rear and get some rations that were expected, and cook them for the company. I begged to be let off, but it was no go. He said he knew I could cook, and must go. So I laid down where I was, with instructions to my comrade to awake me at 12 o'clock, and in an instant was sound asleep, oblivious to the shells, etc., that the enemy kept meanly crashing through the trees and brush, and worse still to the groans and cries of the wounded that still lay in the field in front where they had fallen. After dark the occasional screams of some wounded horses lying in our rear were particularly distressing. Early in the afternoon Halsey's battery of flying artillery, attached to Hampton's cavalry, had held a gap in the line, until the arrival of our division, and in advancing I saw probably a dozen horses lying dead or wounded where the battery had been. To this day I recall the piteous expressions of two or three of these wounded horses, as they raised their heads in their suffering and looked at us as we passed between them. They were perfectly quiet, but it was only after dark that in their loneliness they uttered any sounds.
About midnight our picket line was withdrawn and the whole division moved off in Egyptian darkness somewhere, I never did know exactly where, or really care either, for at that moment I was suffering from fever which afterwards developed into a serious illness. At daylight in a cold rain we halted somewhere in the woods on the edge of another field, and threw up breastworks, as we were threatened with an attack, which, however, was not made. On the afternoon of the 21st we were hurriedly ordered to hasten across to the extreme left of Johnston's army to support the troops there who were severely pressed by the Federals. I was now so sick that I was ordered to the rear, but begged off, and a comrade offered to carry my gun for me, so I kept up. When we reached the place our line was formed with our company on the extreme left resting on the edge of Mill Creek. I was really so ill that I could not stand in line for any length of time, and requested permission of my lieutenant to lie down in ranks, so as to be in place when the assault came. He ordered me to the rear, but I succeeded in begging off again, and lay down in line. I was asleep instantly. The next thing I knew I was being dragged by the feet, and heard some one say, "What are you going to do with that dead man?" "Going to throw him in the creek," was the reply. I opened my eyes and said, "I am not dead, but only sick. What is the matter? Where are our men?" Looking around I saw that it was early dawn, and the place was deserted except by two of our cavalry videttes, one of whom said, "If you have life enough left you had better skedaddle, for the Yanks will be here in five minutes. We are the last of the cavalry." I picked myself up, and got across Mill Creek bridge just as the Federal troops began to appear.
I believe I was the last infantryman to get across it, and it was the only bridge across the creek. As I went across I noticed a lot of Wheeler's cavalry on the north bank of the creek, evidently to hold the bridge, and I could see the Federals in the distance, just on the top of the hill on the south side. I suspected what was coming, and, as I had received no invitation to an early morning entertainment, kept on my way. The road on the north side of the bridge inclined sharply to the left, so I was soon out of the line of fire, but heard the scrimmage as the Federals assaulted Wheeler's men and endeavored to capture the bridge. They were repulsed, but not before three of their color-bearers had fallen within fifty feet of the Confederate line.
It seemed that Johnston's army had retreated during the night, and in the darkness my comrades had overlooked me asleep on the ground. At about noon I caught up with my command where it had halted about two miles from the creek. In this battle of Bentonville, Johnston with only 14,100 men, all told, fought Sherman with about 40,000 the first day, and 70,000 the second. The Confederate losses were 2,400 and the Federal 4,000.
I had become so ill now that I could hold out no longer, and reported to the surgeon, and at eight o'clock on the morning of the 23rd was driven in an ambulance to a railway station and put with a lot of sick and wounded men on a train for Greensboro. I had had nothing to eat since about noon the day before, and when we got to Raleigh I got off and went to a near-by little cottage, where I saw a woman at the door, and told her that I was really very sick, and very hungry, and begged her for something to eat. I had not a cent of money. She told me pathetically that she had fed nearly all she had to the soldiers, but had a potato pie, and if I could eat that I would be welcome to it. I took it gratefully and it was the nicest potato pie I ever saw, before or since. We reached Greensboro at dark, making about 90 miles run in ten hours, very good for the speed of railway trains at that time. At Greensboro the court-house was used as the hospital, all the benches, desks, etc., being removed. We had no mattresses nor bedding of any kind, and about 200 of us were laid off in rows on the floor, with only our own blankets that we brought with us. After looking over the accommodations I selected the platform inside of the rail, where the judge's desk used to be, for my place, and went out into the street and begged an armful of hay from a wagon, and with two bricks for a pillow made my bed. Here I lay for about three weeks with fever, and at times really very ill. Three times a day the ladies of the town came and brought us food, and were devoted in their attentions. I got to be very weak, and on April 14th I told the surgeon that I was certainly getting worse, and believed I would die if I stayed where I was. His cold reply was, "I believe you will." I then asked to be allowed to go home. He said, "You will die before you have been out of the hospital twenty-four hours," to which I replied, "It is all the same with me. I would as lieve die in the bushes as here. Only let me make the attempt." Thereupon he gave me my furlough, and at daylight the next morning I put my blanket around me and walked right out into a drizzly rain. The railroad was torn up between Greensboro and Salisbury, so I walked along the track, and the next day reached High Point, and at that place met one of my comrades, who was in the hospital there. He smuggled me in and gave me a night's lodging under his blanket, and shared his scanty supper with me. The next day I struck out again, and after three or four more days walking reached Salisbury, about thirty miles farther, where I again found another comrade in the hospital at that place. With the exception of the night I had spent at High Point, it was my habit, when night overtook me, to step aside into the bushes and sleep until morning. What food I got was only what I begged at the farmhouses on the way.
At the Yadkin River I found that the bridge had not been burned. It seems that the Federal General Stoneman had been raiding that section of country and had attempted to burn this bridge, but had been driven off by a Confederate force under General Pettus, and some cavalry. Just as I approached it, President Jefferson Davis, with quite a party, came riding by. He was sitting gracefully erect on his horse, and courteously returned our salutes. This was the one occasion on which I saw the President.
We were quite a large number of men along the roadside, and one of the President's party, a captain, rode up to my group and asked if we were willing to go on across the Mississippi and continue the war there? Many of us, I among them, volunteered to go, but we heard nothing more of it. It seems that this really was Mr. Davis's plan, and he was so much set on it, that as late as April 25 he suggested to General Johnston that instead of surrendering to General Sherman, he should disband his infantry, with instructions to them to rendezvous at some appointed place across the Mississippi, and to bring off his cavalry and all his horses and light pieces of artillery. As is well known, General Johnston fully realized the absolute hopelessness of the struggle and deliberately disobeyed his instructions, and surrendered to General Sherman the next day. When one looks back upon the condition of things then as they must have been known to the highest Confederate authorities, it seems almost incredible that such an impracticable idea as continuing the war across the Mississippi could have been entertained for a moment.
At Salisbury a comrade, who had been also for three years my messmate and chum, joined me, and we traveled from there as far as Chester, S. C., where our ways parted. Strange to say, it seemed to me that I began to improve from the moment I left the hospital. I had a strong fever on me, but was bent on getting home. At Salisbury an amusing event occurred. This was about April 19. Lee's army had been surrendered ten days before, and the first lot of his men, probably 300 or so, now came along, and learning that there was a Confederate storehouse here with supplies of food and clothing, determined to help themselves. I joined the crowd to get my share. The warehouse was guarded by about a dozen boys of the home guard, who protested violently; but they were just swept one side, and the door was broken open, and every man helped himself to what he wanted or needed. I got a handful of Confederate money, a pair of shoes, some flour and bacon, a pair of socks, and a small roll of jeans. This roll of cloth I carried clear home across my shoulders, and when I reached Aiken, in May, exchanged it with the baker for one hundred bread tickets, which provided our family with bread for the rest of the summer.
The railway for a short distance from Salisbury was intact, and here we discovered an engine and two box-cars waiting for President Davis and the Confederate Cabinet. The crowd of soldiers determined to seize this train, and we told the engineer that he must either carry us as far as he could, and then come back for the President, or we would put him off and take the train ourselves. He yielded to force, and carried us about 20 miles. We then got off, and he went back. This led to an amusing experience a couple of days later. There was another section of torn-up track, and then another place where another engine and one box-car were in waiting again for the President and Cabinet. The crowd had dwindled down very much now, so comparatively only a few of us were on hand. These, I among them, at once clambered up on top of the car, and sat there. Presently I saw Gen. Sam Cooper approaching with a squad of about a dozen boys, home guards as they were called. He halted them within a dozen paces of the car, and then gave the orders, "ready, aim," and we had a dozen old muskets pointed at us. Then shaking his finger at us he said, "You scoundrels, you are the men who stole that train day before yesterday. If you do not drop off that car I'll blow you to hell." We dropped. In jumping down, my tin bucket, captured at Bentonville, was crushed against the side of the car. The spoon was in my haversack, and I have it still—1904. I thought to myself, however, "Old cock, I'll get even with you. I have a scheme you don't know about." Going off a few steps I said to my chum, "Just let's wait here until the Cabinet arrives. I bet that we two at least will get back on that car." We lounged around for an hour or two, and presently the wagons appeared with the Cabinet. I knew that Mrs. Geo. A. Trenholm, the wife of the Confederate Secretary of the Treasury, was along, and being a Charlestonian, who knew my family, I felt sure that when I made myself known she would help me. True enough, as soon as I made myself known to her she spoke to General Cooper, and four of us were given permission to ride on top of the car, one at each corner, with our legs dangling over, for the top of the car in the middle was smashed in. Mrs. Trenholm also kindly gave me a half loaf of bread and the half of a chicken.
We jolted along in this way over the good section of the road, until we came to the next break, when we got off, and after tendering our thanks plodded along on foot again.
Gen. Sam'l S. Cooper was Adjutant-General of the Confederate Army, and the senior in rank of Gen. Robert E. Lee, and was a Pennsylvanian. He ranked Lee in the Confederate service; and in the Federal Army before the war he also ranked the great Confederate commander, he having been Adjutant-General of the United States Army.
At Chester I parted with my companions, as our routes diverged. I walked from that town to Newberry, where I met one of my comrades, whose family lived there. He took me to his house, and I stayed there two days. Upon my departure he saw that my haversack was well filled with provisions.
The railway was intact from Newberry to Abbeville, so I got a lift that far.
While making my way through the country I was always treated with much hospitality by all the people along my route. There was only one exception. This was in Chester County, when one day, with my haversack empty, and hunger calling impatiently, I stopped at a farm-house and asked for some food, offering to pay for it. The respectable-looking man whom I addressed asked me what kind of money I had. I said, "Only Confederate money." He replied, "I won't take anything except gold or silver and have no food to give away," and shut the door in my face. I inquired of some negroes, as I walked off, and was told he was a very well-to-do man, and a preacher!
In striking contrast was the treatment by a poor farmer's wife the same day. I stopped at a small farm-house by the roadside, and in response to my call a woman opened the house door, and looking out cautiously asked who I was. I replied, "I am a Confederate soldier trying to get home. I am sick, and want something to eat." She called out, "You got smallpox?" "No," I said. Again she asked, "You got the measles?" "No, I've got only fever, and only want to rest; and if you have anything to spare, something to eat." She then told me to come into the house, and showing me into the back porch, spread a comfort on the floor with a pillow, and said, "My husband got back from the army just yesterday, and went to town this morning. I am sorry, but there's not a scrap of meat in the house, only some veal which he killed this morning. Now you just lie down and take a rest while I cook you some veal, and corn bread." I laid down, and was soon asleep. After a while the good woman aroused me, and led the way to the table, where she had prepared some veal chops and corn bread for me, which I ate with relish. She refused to receive any pay, as she said she "could not receive pay from a soldier." So giving her my warm thanks I resumed my route toward Newberry.
At Abbeville I went into a drug store and invested $30 in a toothbrush.
I had chosen this route to avoid the section devastated by Sherman. From Abbeville my route lay through Washington and Augusta, Ga., to Aiken, where my family were, and which I reached early in May. When passing through Augusta I went to the quartermaster's department and drew my pay, amounting to $156. This was the first pay I had received for a year, and of course it was absolutely worthless, but upon my arrival at Aiken I found a man who accepted $50 of it for a bottle of very crude corn whiskey. The remainder of this pay is still in my desk.
On April 26, 1865, General Johnston's army was surrendered to General Sherman near Durham Station, N. C.. thus putting an end to the war within the limits of their respective commands. At that time General Johnston had 26,000 men on his roll, as many of the remnants of the Army of the Tennessee and others from Wilmington had joined his command. Of these, 2,000 had no arms of any kind. General Sherman had 110,000 men effective. Johnston's army had consumed their last rations when it was surrendered, and General Sherman, when informed of its condition, ordered 250,000 rations immediately distributed, or about ten days' rations to each Confederate soldier. General Johnston in his "Narrative" says that if this had not been done great suffering would have ensued.
The great war was at an end, and the following figures show the fearful odds we fought against.
During the four years the United States put about 3,000,000 men in the field, of whom 720,000 were foreigners. They lost in killed, in battle, and from disease, 366,000, or about 12 per cent.
The Confederate States had only about 625,000 men, all told, from first to last. Of these there were killed in battle, and died from disease, 349,000, or about 56 per cent.
At the close the United States had 1,050,000 men in active service, and the Confederate States 139,000. We were fighting odds of over 7 to 1.
The day after my arrival at home the first Federal troops arrived from Charleston to garrison the town of Aiken. They were a company of negroes, commanded by a German captain, who spoke very broken English. I soon learned that it was a part of the force that had assaulted us on James Island and from the officers I heard their side of the affair. This was the beginning of that era of reconstruction which, for eleven years, was a course of negro domination, corruption, robbery, and outrages; and which steadily increased in intensity until in 1876 it was overthrown by the general uprising of the white people. But this is another subject.