In the beautiful month of May, and it is a lovely season away down in Mississippi, the Seventh Tennessee was moved around so much and camped at so many places, that it is difficult to remember which places came first. The service was not especially irksome and the weather was fine. A half dozen men of Company E were sent on a tour of observation up through Holly Springs and in the direction of Memphis, which I remember to have greatly enjoyed. The danger of the service was sufficiently great to make us alert while enjoying the hospitality of the people who were not only ready, day and night, to give us of their scanty stores, but to help us with such information as they had in regard to the movements of the enemy. We rejoined the regiment at Abbeville, feeling as if we had had a vacation.
About this time the Seventh Tennessee was brigaded with Duff’s Regiment and A. H. Chalmers’ Battalion, about as good a body of fighting men as could have been gotten together. This organization was known as Rucker’s Brigade that won distinction at Brice’s Cross Roads and Harrisburg. We had only known Rucker as the gallant commander of the upper batteries at Island No. 10. We had seen men there, carrying ammunition to his guns, wade in water up to their waists, when it looked from a distance like the outflow from the river might carry away every man that stood to his post. At our first sight of him the boys said he had “a sort of bulldog look.” We soon discovered that tenacity was one of his characteristics.
It was now about the first of June, 1864, and General Sturgis moving out from Memphis was north of Ripley with an army reported to be about 10,000 of all arms. Rucker was ordered to cross the Tallahatchie at New Albany and fall upon the right flank of the enemy, as they advanced south, in the vicinity of Ripley. After some brisk fighting just south of Ripley with very little loss to either side Rucker, seeing that the enemy was in great force, prudently drew off and took post at Baldwyn. In the meantime, Lee and Forrest were concentrating their forces to deliver battle somewhere further south.
In the little affair south of Ripley, when ordered with one or two men to a position on our extreme left until relieved, I saw approaching along a country pathway a fine ambulance drawn by two splendid mules. A Federal outfit, perhaps, which would inevitably fall into our hands. It came up at a sweeping trot. The face of the man in charge was familiar. It was that of the late William H. Wood of Memphis. Strange position in which to find so steadfast a Union man—moving rapidly ahead of the Federal army and seeking refuge within the Confederate lines. This he would accomplish in a few minutes, but there was no time to ask questions, for the firing was heavy on the main road. The gentleman must be on an important mission, at least to him. He was, for at a time, when thousands of negroes had taken refuge within the Federal lines and the day for buying and selling this species of property had passed, Mr. Wood had conceived the idea of running his negroes south, converting them into cotton, and eventually into gold. This incident is chiefly worth mentioning, in a reminiscent way, first because it illustrates a thing that sometimes occurs in real life, but more frequently in fiction, namely, that acquaintances occasionally come face to face under strange conditions and peculiar circumstances; and, secondly, because it shows that there was a singular state of affairs existing when the slaves of one man, amid all the demoralization, were subject to his will and did that which seemed like leaving freedom behind. I am not fully informed as to how the scheme worked, but have always understood that it turned out profitably to the projector. There was nothing wrong about it, at least, from a Southern standpoint, but very many good people, even some descendants of slave-holders, are, at this day, squeamish about what they are pleased to term “traffick in human flesh.”
It must not be concluded that the negroes spoken of were in that vicinity, for they were, at that very moment, under a prudent guide, safe within the Southern lines.
It is not untimely to remark, right here, that the descendants of slave-holders will, possibly, have some difficulty in justifying them for consenting to the existence of an institution, which existed in this country more than two hundred years, but which has been condemned by the laws of every civilized country on the globe. This difficulty will arise chiefly from the fact that the true history concerning slavery, its existence in all the original States, its abolition by some, its retention by others and, above all, the motives controlling those who dealt with it, is not now, nor is likely to be, persistently taught in the family or school. It is one of those questions of which it may be said the further we get from it, the less we say or know about it.
We went into camp at Baldwyn drenched by the continuous rains and fatigued by the exigencies of an arduous service. The Federals had moved steadily southeast from Ripley, and were in close proximity to a part of our forces. Everything at Baldwyn gave evidence of an impending struggle. In the midst of the acute feeling in the minds of the soldiers, it was announced that three men had been tried by court-martial and condemned to be shot for desertion. This was a phase of war with which we were not familiar. The poor fellows, confined in a box car, gave forth the most pitiful wailings. The cries of one of the condemned, a mere stripling, were particularly distressing. The whole brigade was mustered to witness the execution. Guilty or not guilty, I somehow wished that these victims of their own acts would escape the impending doom. Each man was placed by his grave and coffin. A file of eight men appeared with bristling guns. The suspense was terrible. Death on the battlefield was nothing compared to that which we were to witness. The sentence of the court-martial was read. The boy was released and, still weeping, left the field. At the firm command of the officer in charge, the shots rang out and one man fell dead. The same thing was repeated and another went to his death. Though the justice of the court-martial was never questioned, there was a profound sensation among the soldiers, which it took a battle to shake off.
Know ye, that the very next morning, June 10th, 1864, we were galloping to Brice’s Cross Roads. Acting under the orders of Lee, Forrest was trying to keep his forces between the Federal vanguard and Tupelo, so as to finally turn upon them when a more open country was reached. To do this with dispatch, he must reach the cross roads, by a road leading southwest, ahead of the Federals, who were moving towards the same point by a road leading southeast. The Federal cavalry advance, moving rapidly, passed the point and even went some distance beyond in the direction of Guntown. When the Confederate advance came up, the enemy was ready to block their way on the road from Baldwyn and had the advantage of position. Johnson’s Alabamians in advance fell upon them furiously while Rucker’s Brigade was coming to the rescue. At this critical juncture, Forrest seems to have abandoned all intention of merely holding the enemy in check and deferring a battle to a more convenient season. He had his own little army well in hand, though it was having a hard time to reach the desired point promptly on account of the muddy roads. A man of wonderful military instinct and surpassing genius for war, he saw at a glance that, although the cavalry of the Federals, at that moment, held the advantage of position, their main body was strung along a narrow road, and their general would assuredly have trouble in protecting his left flank, crossing Tishomingo creek, and throwing his infantry and artillery into line of battle. It was indeed the psychological moment and the faith of the general spread to the men. Rucker was turned to the left and into the woods, where his men were quickly dismounted and gotten ready for battle. At the word they sprung over a fence and into a muddy cornfield. Will I ever forget it? The enemy posted in a dense wood and behind a heavy fence poured a galling fire into our ranks. It looked like death to go to the fence, but many of the men reached it. Four of Company E were killed in this charge. Men could not stay there and live. The Seventh Tennessee with Chalmers’ Battalion on the left was driven back in confusion. With the steadiness of veterans, they re-formed for another onset. As I remember it, this time we went over the fence. Reinforcements were evidently at hand for the Federals, for on they came like a resistless tide. It was death not to give back. Another readjustment of lines, and we were at them again. I cannot now say how many times this was repeated, for men in the very presence of death take no note of time. The roar of artillery and the fusillade of small arms were deafening. Sheets of flame were along both lines while dense clouds of smoke arose above the heavily wooded field. No language is adequate to paint the verities of the moment. High tide of battle had come, and one side or the other must quail very soon. Which side should it be? The answer came when apparently by common consent both drew back just far enough for the intervening trees and dense undergrowth to obscure the vision. Our men still in line of battle lay on the ground for a much needed rest.
Here we had a bountiful supply of water from the rills, which had been fed by the recent rains. I never tasted better. The cessation of battle was as grateful as the water, but there was intense anxiety to know the final result. An order to retire from the field would have brought no surprise. But Forrest and his brigade commanders were better informed. Mounted on his big sorrel horse, sabre in hand, sleeves rolled up, his coat lying on the pommel of his saddle, looking the very God of War, the General rode down our line as far as we could see him. I remember his words, which I heard more than once: “Get up, men. I have ordered Bell to charge on the left. When you hear his guns, and the bugle sounds, every man must charge, and we will give them hell.” That was enough. We heard Bell’s guns and the bugle. Advancing over the dead bodies of Federals and Confederates and regaining the ground lost in the last repulse, Rucker’s Brigade in one grand last charge moved to the assault of the enemy’s position. Small bushes, cut off near the ground and falling in our front, meant that the Federals had been reinforced by veteran infantry and were firing low. So close were we now to their line and the fighting so nearly hand to hand that our navy sixes were used with deadly effect. The Federals bravely withstood our onslaught for a time, but soon gave way in confusion and broke to the rear. Rucker’s men, greatly encouraged, moved rapidly to the front and, with no regard for formation, came out into the open at the Brice residence, which stands in the angle formed by the Guntown and Pontotoc roads. The men of the various commands, concentrating upon this point, became intermingled as they charged up to where all could see the grand scamper of the Federals running down towards Tishomingo creek. Six pieces of their own artillery had been turned upon them and these were quickly reinforced by Morton’s and Rice’s batteries. These, double shotted with canister, added to the confusion of the entangled mass of infantry, cavalry, ambulances and wagons. The Federal dead and wounded lay on every hand about the cross roads, showing the deadly aim of our men in the last charge, while our loss at this point was inconsiderable, though the rain of bullets from the Federal line appeared sufficient to destroy the whole brigade. The negro brigade under Bouton came in for its full share of the calamity, the deluded creatures, in many instances, having ceased their war cry of “Remember Fort Pillow,” and throwing away their badges, took to the woods.
When hundreds of our men had crossed the creek and conditions had become a little more quiet, they began to realize that they were very tired and very hungry. No time was lost in helping themselves to the subsistence in the abandoned wagons where there was an abundance for both man and horse.