The Siege of Knoxville Raised—Battle of Bean Station—Winter Quarters.
On the night of the 4th of December preparations were made to raise the siege around Knoxville and vacate the fortifications built around the city after a fortnight's stay in the trenches. The wagons had begun moving the day before, with part of the artillery, and early in [318] the night the troops north and west of the city took up the line of march towards Rutledge, followed by McLaws on the right.
Kershaw being on the extreme right of the army and next to the river on the South, could not move until the troops on the left were well underway, thus leaving us in position until near midnight. Lieutenant Colonel Rutherford commanded the rear guard of skirmishers, deployed several hundred yards on either side of the road. Our march was extremely fatiguing, the roads being muddy and badly cut up by the trains in our front. The weather was cold and bleaky; the night so dark that the troops could scarcely see their way, but all night long they floundered through the mud and slough—over passes and along narrow defiles, between the mountain and the river to their right—the troops trudged along, the greater portion of whom were thinly clad, some with shoes badly worn, others with none. Two brigades of cavalry were left near the city until daylight to watch the movements of the enemy. The next day we met General Ranson with his infantry division and some artillery on his long march from Virginia to reinforce Longstreet, but too late to be of any material service to the commanding General. Bragg's orders had been imperative, "to assault Knoxville and not to await the reinforcement."
Burnside did not attempt to follow us closely, as he was rather skeptical about leaving his strong positions around Knoxville with the chances of meeting Longstreet in open field. But strong Federal forces were on a rapid march to relieve the pressure against Knoxville—one column from the West and ten thousand men under Sherman were coming up from Chattanooga, and were now at Loudon, on the Tennessee.
Longstreet continued the march to Rodgersville, some fifty or sixty miles northeast of Knoxville, on the west bank of the Holston, and here rested for several days. It was the impression of the troops that they would remain here for a length of time, and they began building winter quarters. But Burnside feeling the brace of strong reinforcements nearing him, moved out from Knoxville a large detachment in our rear to near Bean Station (or Cross Roads), the one leading from Knoxville by way of Rutledge, the other from the eastern side of the Holston and over the mountain on the western side at Bean's Gap. Longstreet determined to retrace his steps, strike [319] Burnside a stunning blow, and, if possible, to capture his advance forces at Bean Station.
Here I will digress a few moments from my narrative to relate an incident that took place while encamped near Rodgersville, an incident that will ever remain fresh in the memory of all of the old First Division who witnessed it. It is with feelings of sorrow at this distant day to even recall it to mind, and it is with pain that I record it. But as I have undertaken to give a faithful and true story of the army life of the First Brigade, this harrowing scene becomes a part of its history. It was near the middle of the month. The sun had long since dropped out of sight behind the blue peaks of the distant Cumberland. All is still in camp; the soldiers, after their many hardships and fatiguing marches, rest, and soon all in sound slumber. Even the very voices of nature seemed hushed and frozen in the gloomy silence of the night. All is quiet, save in one lonely tent, apart some distance from the rest, before which walks a silent sentinel, as if he, too, feels the chilling effects of the sombre stillness. Murmurings soft and low in the one lighted tent are all that break the oppressive death-like silence. In the back ground the great forest trees of the mountain stand mute and motionless, not even a nod of their stately heads to a passing breeze, while far away to the south could be seen an occasional picket fire, making the surrounding objects appear like moving, grotesque phantoms. The heavens above were all bedecked with shimmering stars, pouring down upon the sleeping Valley of the Holston a cold and trembling light.
In the lonely tent sits a soldier, who is spending his last night on earth; by his side sits his little son, who has come far away over the mountains to spend the last moments with his father and see him die—not to die like a soldier wishes for death, but as a felon and outcast, the ignominious death at the stake. An occasional sob escapes the lips of the lad, but no sigh or tears of grief from the condemned. He is holding converse with his Maker, for to His throne alone must he now appeal for pardon. Hope on earth had gone. He had no friend at court, no one to plead his cause before those who had power to order a reprieve. He must die. The doomed man was an ignorant mountaineer, belonging to one of the regiments from North Georgia or Tennessee, and [320] in an ill-fated moment he allowed his longings for home to overcome his sense of duty, and deserted his colors—fled to his mountain home and sought to shelter himself near his wife and little ones in the dark recesses and gorges thereabout. He was followed, caught, returned to his command, courtmartialed, and sentenced to death—time, to-morrow.
During the days and nights that passed since the dread sentence had been read to him, he lay upon his rude couch in the guard tent all indifferent to his environments, and on the march he moved along with the guard in silence, gazing abstractedly at the blue vaults of heaven or the star-strewn, limitless space. That far away future now to him so near—that future which no vision can contemplate nor mortal mind comprehend—is soon to be unfolded. Little heed was paid to the comforting words of his sympathetic comrades in arms, who bid him hope, for the condemned man felt inwardly and was keenly conscious of the fact that he had been caught upon the crest of a great wave of destiny, soon to be swept away by its receding force to darkness, despair, death. "Fate had played him falsely."
To witness death, to see the torn and mangled remains of friends and comrades, are but incidents in the life of a soldier. While all dread it, few fear it. Yet it is upon the field of battle that it is expected—amid the din and smoke, the shouts of his comrades, the rattle of musketry, and the cannon's roar. There is the soldier's glory, his haven, his expected end; and of all deaths, that upon the battlefield, surrounded by victorious companions and waving banners, the triumphant shouts of comrades, is the least painful.
The grounds selected for the carrying out of the court's sentence were on a broad plateau, gently sloping towards the center on three sides. So well were the grounds and surroundings adapted to the end in view, that it seemed as if nature had anticipated the purposes of man.
By 9 o'clock the troops of the division were in motion, all under the command of Colonel James D. Nance, of the Third South Carolina, marching for the field of death. Kershaw's Brigade took the lead, and formed on the left of the hollow square. Wofford's on the right, with Bryan's doubling on the two, while Humphrey's closed the space at the west end of the square.
A detail of thirty men were made to do the firing, fifteen guns being loaded with powder and ball, the others with powder alone, this arrangement being made, perhaps, with a view to ease the qualms of conscience, should any of the guards have scruples of shedding the blood of a former comrade in arms. None could know positively who held the death-dealing guns. An opening was made at the lower end and the first platoon of guards entered with arms reversed, then the band playing the "Dead March," followed by the condemned and his son, the second platoon bringing up the rear. The cortege marched around the whole front of the lined-up troops, keeping step to the slow and dismal sounds of the "Dead March." The prisoner walked with the firm and steady step of a Sagamore, or an Indian brave marching and singing his death chants, to the place of his execution. His son was equally as courageous and self-possessed, not a tremor or faltering in either. At times the father and son would speak in low, soft tones to each other, giving and receiving, perhaps, the last messages, the last farewells on earth, the soldier-outcast being now under the very shadow of death.
After making the entire circuit of the square, the condemned was conducted to the open space at the eastern side, where a rude stake had been driven in the ground. To this he boldly walked, calmly kneeling in front, allowing himself to be bandaged and pinioned thereto. The guards had formed in double ranks, fifteen paces in front, his faithful son standing some distance to his right, calm, unmoved, and defiant, even in the face of all the terrors going on before him. The officer in charge gives the command, "ready," thirty hammers spring back; "aim," the pieces rise to the shoulders; then, and then only, the tension broke, and the unfortunate man, instead of the officer, cried out in a loud, metallic voice, "fire." The report of the thirty rifles rang out On the stillness of the morning; the man at the stake gives a convulsive shudder, his head tails listlessly on his breast, blood gushes out in streams, and in a moment all is still. The deserter has escaped.
The authorities at Washington had grown tired of Burnside's failure to either crush Longstreet or drive him out of East Tennessee, and had sent General Foster to relieve him, the latter General bringing with him the standing orders, "Crush or drive out Longstreet." How well [322] General Foster succeeded will be related further on. In obedience to the department's special orders, General Longstreet had, several days previous, sent Wheeler's Cavalry back to General Johnston, now commanding Bragg's Army. Our troops had heard the confirmation of the report of General Bragg's desperate battle at Missionary Ridge—his disastrous defeat his withdrawal to Dalton, and his subsequent relinquishment of command of the Army of Tennessee. This had no effect upon our troops, no more so than the news of the fall of Vicksburg just after Lee's bloody repulse at Gettysburg. The soldiers of the eastern Army had unbounded confidence in themselves and their commander, and felt that so long as they stood together they were invincible.
The enemy had fortified a position at Bean's Station, in a narrow valley between the Holston River and the Clinch Mountains, the valley being about two miles in breadth. This force Longstreet determined to capture, and his plans were admirably adapted to bring about the result. To the right of the enemy was the river; to their left, a rugged mountain spur; passable at only a few points. Part of our cavalry was to pass down the western side of the mountain, close the gaps in rear, the infantry to engage the enemy in front until the other portion of the cavalry could move down the east bank of the river, cross over, and get in the enemy's rear, thus cutting off all retreat. This part of the Valley of the Holston had been pretty well ravaged to supply the Federal Army, and our troops, with never more than a day's rations on hand at a time, had to be put on short rations, until our subsistence trains could gather in a supply and the neighborhood mills could grind a few days' rations ahead. Old soldiers know what "short rations" mean—next to no rations at all.
General Longstreet says of the morale of his army at this time: "The men were brave, steady, patient. Occasionally they called pretty loudly for parched corn, but always in a bright, merry mood. There was never a time we did not have corn enough, and plenty of wood with which to keep us warm and parch our corn. At this distance it seems as almost incredible that we got along as we did, but all were then so healthy and strong that we did not feel severely our really great hardship. Our serious trouble was in the matter of shoes and clothing."
Early on the morning of the 14th the troops were put in motion and marched rapidly down the almost impassable thoroughfare. Bushrod Johnston's Division being in the front, followed by McLaws'—Kershaw's Brigade in the lead. Part of Jenkins' Division was acting as escort for supply trains in the surrounding country, and that Division did not join the army for several days. Late in the day of the 15th we came in sight of the enemy's breastworks. The Federal artillery opened a furious fusilade upon the troops, coming down the road with their rifled guns and field mortars. Bushrod Johnston had filed to the left of the road and gotten out of range, but the screaming shells kept up a continual whiz through the ranks of Kershaw. The men hurried along the road to seek shelter under a bluff in our front, along the base of which ran a small streamlet. The greater portion of the brigade was here huddled together in a jam, to avoid the shells flying overhead. The enemy must have had presage of our position, for they began throwing shells up in the air from their mortars and dropping them down upon us, but most fell beyond, while a great many exploded in the air. We could see the shells on their downward flight, and the men pushed still closer together and nearer the cliff. Here the soldier witnessed one of those incidents so often seen in army life that makes him feel that at times his life is protected by a hand of some hidden, unseen power. His escape from death so often appears miraculous that the soldier feels from first to last that he is but "in the hollow of His hand," and learns to trust all to chance and Providence.
As a shell from a mortar came tumbling over and over, just above the heads of this mass of humanity, a shout went up from those farther back, "Look out! Look out! There comes a shell." Lower and lower it came, all feeling their hopelessness of escape, should the shell explode in their midst. Some tried to push backwards; others, forward, while a great many crowded around and under an ambulance, to which was hitched an old broken down horse, standing perfectly still and indifferent, and all oblivious to his surroundings. The men gritted their teeth, shrugged their shoulders, and waited in death-like suspense the falling of the fatal messenger—that peculiar, whirling, hissing sound growing nearer and more distinct every second. But instead of falling among the men, it fell directly upon the head [324] of the old horse, severing it almost from the body, but failed to explode. The jam was so great that some had difficulty in clearing themselves from the falling horse. Who of us are prepared to say whether this was mere chance, or that the bolt was guided and directed by an invisible hand?
Bushrod Johnston had formed on the left of the road; Kershaw marching over the crest of the hill in our front, and putting his brigade in line of battle on a broad plateau and along the foot hills of the mountains on the right. Here the troops were halted, to wait the coming up of the rest of the division and Jenkins' two brigades. The cannonading of the enemy was especially severe during our halt, and General Kershaw had to frequently shift his regiments to avoid the terrific force of the enemy's shells. It was not the intention of the commanding General to bring on a general engagement here until he heard from his cavalry beyond the river and those to the west of the mountain. The cavalry had been sent to cut off retreat and close the mountain passes, and the infantry was to press moderately in front, in order to hold the enemy in position.
Just before sunset, however, a general advance was made. One of Kershaw's regiments was climbing along the mountain side, endeavoring to gain the enemy's left, and as our skirmishers became hotly engaged, the movements of the regiment on the side of the mountain were discovered, and the enemy began to retire. Now orders were given to press them hard. The rattle of Bushrod Johnston's rifles on our left told of a pretty stiff fight he was having. As the long row of bristling bayonets of Kershaw's men debouched upon the plain in front of the enemy's works, nothing could be seen but one mass of blue, making way to the rear in great confusion. Our artillery was now brought up and put in action, our infantry continuing to press forward, sometimes at double-quick.
We passed over the enemy's entrenchments without firing a gun. Night having set in, and General Longstreet hearing from his cavalry that all in the enemy's rear was safe, ordered a halt for the night, thinking the game would keep until morning. During the night, however, by some misunderstanding of orders, the commander of the cavalry withdrew from the mountain passes, and the enemy taking advantage of [325] this outlet so unexpectedly offered, made his escape under cover of darkness. Here we had another truthful verification of the oft' quoted aphorism of Burns, about "the best laid plans of mice and men."
This last attempt of Longstreet to bring the enemy to an engagement outside of Knoxville proving abortive, the commanding General determined to close the campaign for the season, and to put his troops in as comfortable winter quarters as possible. This was found on the right or east bank of the Holston, near Morristown and the little hamlet of Russellville. The brigade crossed the Holston about the 17th of December, in a little flat boat, holding about two companies at a time, the boat being put backwards and forwards by means of a stout rope, the men pulling with their hands. A blinding sleet was falling, covering the rope continually with a sheet of ice, almost freezing the hands of the thinly clad and barefooted soldiers. But there was no murmuring nor complaint—all were as jolly and good-natured as if on a picnic excursion. Hardship had become a pleasure and sufferings, patriotism. There were no sickness, no straggling, nor feelings of self-constraint.
General Longstreet speaks thus of his army after he had established his camps and the subsistence trains began to forage in the rich valleys of the French Broad and Chucky Rivers and along the banks of Mossy Creek:
"With all the plentitude of provisions, and many things, which, at the time, seemed luxuries, we were not quite happy. Tattered blankets, garments, shoes (the later going—some gone) opened ways on all sides for piercing winter blasts. There were some hand looms in the country from which we occasionally picked up a piece of cloth, and here and there we received other comforts—some from kind, some from unwilling hands, which could nevertheless spare them. For shoes, we were obliged to resort to raw-hides, from beef cattle, as temporary protection from the frozen ground. Then we found soldiers who could tan the hides of our beeves, some who could make shoes, some who could make shoe pegs, some who could make shoe lasts, so that it came about that the hides passed rapidly from the beeves to the feet of the soldiers in the form of comfortable shoes."
We took up very comfortable quarters, in the way that comfort goes [326] with a soldier—cut off from the outside world. Only a few officers had the old army fly tents; the soldiers were each supplied, or rather had supplied themselves upon the battlefield of the enemy with small tent flies, about five by six feet, so arranged with buttons and button holes that two being buttoned together and stretched over a pole would make the sides or roof and the third would close the end, making a tent about six feet long, five feet wide, and four feet high, in which three or four men could sleep very comfortably. In the bitter weather great roaring fires were built in front during the night, and to which the soldier, by long habit, or a kind of intuition, would stretch his feet, when the cold would become unbearable under his threadbare blanket.
But notwithstanding all these disadvantages, the men of Kershaw's Brigade were bent on having a good time in East Tennessee. They foraged during the day for apples, chickens, butter, or whatever they could find to eat. Some of sporting proclivities would purchase a lot of chicken roosters and then fight, regiment against regiment, and seemed to enjoy as much seeing a fight between a shanghai and a dunghill, as a match between gaved Spanish games.
Many formed the acquaintance of ladies in the surrounding country, and they, too, Union as well as Southern, being cut off like ourselves—their husbands and brothers being either in the Northern or Southern Army—seemed determined on having a good time also. Dancing parties were frequent, and the ladies of Southern sympathies gave the officers and soldiers royal dinners.
In this connection, I will relate an anecdote told on our gallant Lieutenant Colonel Rutherford, of the Third, by a friend of his.
When the Third South Carolina Regiment of Infantry was in East Tennessee, in the month of January, 1864, not only did the soldiers find it difficult to get enough to eat, but their supply of shoes and clothing ran pretty low. Those who had extra pants or jackets helped their needy friends. Lieutenant Colonel Rutherford had turned over his extra pair of pants to some one, which left him the pair he wore each day as his only stock on hand in the pants line. Heavy snows fell. The regiment was encamped very near a pleasant residence, where a bevy of pretty girls lived. After an acquaintance of sometime, a snow-balling [327] was indulged in. It was observed that Colonel Rutherford used his every endeavor to constantly face the girls, who were pelting him pretty liberally on all sides. After awhile he slipped up and fell, but in his fall his face was downward, when lo! the girls discovered that he had a hole in his pants. Too good-natured to appear to see his predicament, no notice was seemingly taken of his misfortune; but as the officers were about going off to bed that night, the married lady said to him:
"Colonel, lay your pants on the chair at your room door tonight, and you will find them there again in the morning. We hope you won't mind a patch."
The Colonel, who was always so gallant in actual battle, and could not bear to turn his back to the Federal soldiers, was just as unwilling to turn his back to snow-balls, who happened to be Confederate lasses, and the reason therefor, although never told, was discovered by them.
The weather had gotten down to two degrees below zero, the ground frozen as hard as brick-bats, and the winds whistled gaily through our tattered tents, our teeth beating tattoo and our limbs shivering from the effects of our scanty clothing and shoes. But our wagons were gathering in supplies from the rich valleys of the French Broad and the Nolachucky, and while we suffered from cold, we generally had provisions sufficient for our want. By the middle of January we had to temporarily break up camp to meet the enemy, who had left Knoxville with the greater part of the army, and was marching up on the right banks of the French Broad to near Dandridge. General Foster seeing the penalty put upon General Burnside for not driving out Longstreet from East Tennessee, the former undertook to accomplish in this bitter weather what the latter had failed to do in comparative good season. Our cavalry, with Jenkins' Division, headed direct towards the moving column of the enemy, while McLaws' Division marched in the direction of Strawberry Plains, with a view to cutting off the enemy and forcing him to battle in an open field. But General Granger, in command of the Federal column, was too glad to cross the French Broad and beat a hasty retreat to Knoxville. We returned to our old camps, and waited, like Micawber, "for something to turn up."
By some disagreement or want of confidence in General McLaws by [328] the commanding General, he was relieved of his command, and General Kershaw being the senior Brigadier General of the division, was placed in command. What the differences were between General Longstreet and his Major General were never exactly understood by the soldiers. While General McLaws may have been a brave soldier and was well beloved by officers and men, still he was wanting in those elements to make a successful General of volunteer troops—dash, discipline, and promptness in action.
General Longstreet had bent all his energies to the repairing of the railroad through East Tennessee and Virginia, and as soon as this was accomplished, a limited number of soldiers were furloughed for twenty-one days. A large lot of shoes and clothing was sent us from Richmond, and this helped to make camp life more enjoyable. Not all the men by any means could be spared by furlough even for this brief period, for we had an active and vigilant foe in our front. Most of the men drew their furloughs by lot, those who had been from home the longest taking their chances by drawing from a hat, "furlough" or "no furlough."
While in winter quarters, during the spasm of chicken fighting, a difficulty occurred between Lieutenant A and Private B, of the Third, both good friends, and no better soldiers were ever upon a battlefield. These are not the initials of their names, but will answer the purpose at hand, and that purpose is to show the far-reaching results of the courtmartial that followed, and a decision reached under difficulties, that the most learned jurist might feel proud of.
I will say for the benefit of those not learned in the law of army regulations, that for an officer to strike a private he is cashiered, and for a private to strike an officer the penalty is either death or long imprisonment with ball and chain attachments.
Now it appeared to the officers who composed the courtmartial, Captain Herbert, Lieutenant Garlington, and the writer of this (all parties of the Third), that Lieutenant A had knocked Private B down. The officer appeared in his own defense, and gave in extenuation of his crime, that Private B had hit his (Lieutenant A's) chicken a stunning blow on the head while they were "petting" them between rounds. Now that decision of the courtmartial astonished our Colonel as much as the men [329] who were parties to the combat themselves. Now it read something like this—time, dress parade:
"Whereas, Lieutenant A, of Company ——, Third South Carolina, did strike Private B, of same company and regiment, with his fist in the face, that he should receive the severest of punishment; but, whereas, Private B did strike the game chicken in the hands of Lieutenant A, without cause or provocation, therefore both are equally guilty of a crime and misdemeanor, and should be privately reprimanded by the Colonel commanding."
Such a laugh as was set up, notwithstanding the grave countenance of the Colonel, was never heard on ordinary occasions.