We kept up the march towards Huntsville till after nightfall, as it was necessary to make a bold feint, at least, against the position commanded by General Gordon Granger. I noticed Buford, who was a notaably large man, making his way that night on a very fine mule. He was one type of ye jolly Kentuckian, popular with his men, and perfectly reliable in a fight. Our fifteen hundred men were so placed about the town as to make as big a show of force as possible. Before this could be done, it was so dark that a lantern was procured from some citizen, so that the usual flag of truce and demand for surrender could be sent in. There was the expected refusal, and a consequent delay till morning. In the meantime, our trains were moving rapidly towards Florence. After daylight, the best possible demonstration without too much exposure of our men was made, and was succeeded by another demand and another refusal to surrender. As General Granger expected to be attacked by the whole of Forrest’s command, as had been intimated to him under the last flag of truce, he ordered women and children to be removed from the city, so as to avoid a bombardment by all of Forrest’s artillery. There was great commotion and distress among the non-combatants, who had no means of finding out that they were really in no danger. The Federal artillery was sending an occasional shot, perhaps for the purpose of getting the range of our lines. One of these went straight down the pike leading west, along which a few people were moving. I saw two ladies and a boy abandon their carriage and advance rapidly through the open field in which I was standing, leaving the colored driver to get out of harm’s way by rapid driving. Riding forward, I noticed that they were greatly excited and badly frightened. The party turned out to be old friends of mine, the wife of Professor Mayhew and son and Miss Sue Murphy, who became, after the war, the plaintiff in an historical lawsuit against the government for damage and loss of property at Decatur, in which she sustained her plea, I directed them how to get to the rear, and around to where their carriage had probably gone. When the command drew off and took the road to Athens, I came upon this same party, who informed me that their trunks had been ransacked and their horses taken by some of our own men. I soon found the horses, and fastened the outrage upon men whom I knew. I lost no time in reporting the matter to Colonel Kelley, who ordered the horses to be turned over to a friend of the ladies.
It was found, when we reached Athens, that the fort, which had been surrendered to us only a few days before, was held by the Federals. There was some exchange of shots, and we had one man wounded. He caught in his mouth an ounce ball which had passed through the fleshy part of his jaw. He kept it as a nice little souvenir of a painful incident. Our part of Forrest’s command reached Florence on the 3d of October, and General Buford set about the task of getting to the south side of the river. The rains had been heavy in the mountains. The river was already high for the season, and still rising. There were only three ferryboats with which to do all the work in hand. Reports came in that overwhelming numbers of the enemy were on the move to encompass the capture or defeat of Forrest, who arrived on the 5th of October. I knew that the situation would be critical, if they pressed us before we accomplished the passage of the river, but I concluded to remain in Florence till the Seventh Regiment came in, when I could join my own company. It came in on the 7th, closely followed by the enemy. The Seventh, Second and Sixteenth Regiments stoutly resisted the advance of the Federals at Martin’s factory, on Cypress creek, just west of town. This was a strong position from which to resist a front attack, but a Federal brigade, crossing three miles above, came near taking us in reverse and capturing the three regiments. Our command had an exciting experience from there to old Newport, where Forrest, in person, was trying to get as many men and horses as possible across to an island thickly set with timber and cane. From the shore to the island was fully two hundred feet. The horses were made to swim this place. In the absence of Lieutenant-Colonel Taylor, who was wounded and sick, the regiment was commanded by Captain H. C. McCutchen of Company H, who received orders from Forrest to save his men, if possible, in any practicable way. The Federals were then right on us in great numbers, and still another column was reported to be advancing east from Waterloo. We did not know but that we were practically in the clutches of the enemy. The anxiety of the men had reached a high pitch. There was a determination to ride out of the situation at almost any risk. I was glad that I knew the country well enough to guide the six companies present to safety, if immediate danger could be passed. I moved right off from the river, through woods and fields, with the command following at a lively gait. My purpose was to cross the Florence and Waterloo road before the two columns of the enemy could form a junction, in which case we should have to cut our way out or surrender. I knew that body of men would ride through or over any ordinary resistance in our front. When we crossed the Colbert’s Ferry road, I felt that one danger was passed, but not the main one. Sometimes we took advantage of country roads leading our way, but our course was north, regardless of roads. Our horses were smoking when we reached the desired highway, and we felt relieved when we saw the way clear. We halted to take a survey of the situation, and to perfect plans for getting into West Tennessee. It was decided to be best for the regiment to disperse, and the commander of each company to lead his men out of danger by whatever means he should think proper to adopt. Company D and Company E had gone into the service together, and it was natural that they should stand by each other in trouble. When these two companies got over into the hills of Wayne County, we hired a guerrilla guide, whom his followers called “Captain” Miller, to show us a place on the river where we could cross. His remuneration was a thousand dollars in Confederate money, which was likely more money of any kind than he had ever seen in one lump. The people along the route cheerfully furnished us with supplies. I remember, we went down Trace creek and across the headwaters of Buffalo, and reached the river at the mouth of Morgan’s creek, in Decatur County. Here was a booming river about a half mile wide, and no means of transportation but a large “dugout” some eighteen or twenty feet in length. We had grown about reckless enough now to try the impracticable and test the impossible. Three men with their horses and trappings were to make the first trip, two to bring back the boat, then three more men with their horses, to go with the two who had brought the boat back, and so on till all had crossed. Everybody worked. Two men took their places at the oars, while I sat in the stern, where I was to hold each horse by the bridle as he was pushed from the bank, which was four or five feet sheer down to the water. Little Black was the first to make the plunge. He made one futile effort to touch bottom, and sank up to his ears. I pulled him up by the reins, and slipped my right hand up close to the bits, so as to keep his nose above the water. He floated up on one side and became perfectly quiet. I soon had the noses of the other two close up to the boat. The men at the oars pulled for dear life against the booming tide, the swellings of which we could feel under the boat. Our object was to make an old ferry landing several hundred yards below. We had no fear for the horses now, for they were behaving admirably. Though the men at the oars exerted themselves to the limit, we missed the landing, and were carried some distance below it. When we did pull into shallow water, I turned the horses loose. My own horse was the first to mount a steep, slippery bank, where he shook himself, and, looking back, gave me a friendly nicker. The first trip was a success, and the men took on fresh courage. The work began at sunrise, and ended with darkness. It added greatly to our critical situation that the Federal gunboats were liable to pass up or down at any moment.
Forrest did not accomplish the chief object of the Middle Tennessee raid, as heretofore stated, which was the destruction of portions of the Nashville & Chattanooga Railroad, which connected Sherman’s army, at Atlanta, with its base of supplies. He said afterward that he killed and captured, upon an average, one man for every man he had in the fights. He tore up about one hundred miles of railroad, destroyed ten blockhouses, captured more supplies than his men could carry off and 800 horses, gathered up more than a thousand recruits, and marched five hundred miles in twenty-three days. He lost about three hundred men in killed and wounded.
That a little fun can be mixed up with the horrors of war was illustrated on this trip somewhere over in the hills of Wayne. James E. Wood’s little chestnut sorrel, the horse which had been tendered by his owner to Captain Tate, as related in the account of the fight at Ripley, and from which that gallant officer was shot, struck the frog of one foot against a stone and was rendered unserviceable. Austin Statler and Tom Joyner set about the task of helping their fellow-soldier to a remount. This was difficult to do in a country which had been stripped of all the good stock. The only animal available appeared to be a three-year-old, standing in an enclosure near an humble cottage. Statler, in his blandest manner, explained the situation to the mistress of the cottage, and alluded in earnest words to the fine points of the lame horse, which needed only a few days’ rest to restore him to his former condition of usefulness. No, no; the old lady couldn’t see it in the light in which it had been so earnestly presented. There were seven stout daughters standing by ready to assist their mother, who averred that the animal was “Sal’s colt,” and he couldn’t have it upon any terms whatever. Statler persisted until high words resulted, and the soldiers advanced towards “Sal’s colt.” Thoroughly aroused, and reinforced by her mother and sisters, Sal herself, a buxom lassie, now came to the rescue, cleared the fence at a bound, and sat astride of the bridleless colt. Victory now seemed to perch upon the banner of the females, but the soldiers, who had no idea of seeing their comrade hotfoot it along the roads of Wayne, moved to the assault, determined to capture the colt, but anxious to inflict no bruises upon their adversaries, who fought like wildcats. The contest was fast and furious, but in a class entirely by itself. There were blood and hair in evidence, but no mortal casualties. There were pinching and twisting, wrenching and wringing, clutching and hugging, yes, hugging, till the female side had mostly lost its wind and Sal, grasping the mane of the colt with the grip of despair, while she planted her heels in its sides, was gently lifted from her position by the gallant trio. “It was all over but the shouting.” The bit was forced and the girth was buckled. “Sal’s colt” had changed its politics and been mustered into the service of the Confederacy. The old lady intimated that “men folks” were at hand and ready to avenge all her wrongs. Statler, as a precautionary measure, rode out in the direction indicated by her and saw three armed citizens approaching. With cocked gun and ready pistol he commanded them, with assumed bravado, to lead the way to the cottage, while he assured them that he, too, had “a whole gang in reach.” Tableau vivant: An elderly man “breathing out threatening and slaughter” and declaring that he would have satisfaction before the sun went down; two lusty young men with guns and in the poise of interested spectators; six bouncing young girls well distributed in the ensemble and joining in a chorus of abuse; an elderly woman standing in the kitchen door and wiping the sweat from her neck and ears with her checked apron, beaten but not conquered; Sal perched upon the top rail of the front fence in the attitude of a show girl about to dance a hornpipe, and gazing at three vanishing cavaliers just then turning a corner and making time to overtake the command; lastly, the abandoned warhorse, which had heard the guns at Tishomingo, stripped of his trappings and “turned out to grass,” was standing meekly by and looking as if he might be thinking he had no friends at all.
CHAPTER XI.
HOOD’S EXPEDITION—THE WILSON RAID TO SELMA.
We had not more than gotten the last three men with their horses and accoutrements across the Tennessee river, as related in the preceding chapter, than two gunboats and two transports came puffing along. It was easy to conjecture what would have happened to five men and three horses, if our little craft with its burden had been met in midstream by the gunboats. And yet we had been taking the risk of being sunk or captured all that day. We rode leisurely to Bolivar and the men dispersed to their homes for a much needed rest.
Just as I was congratulating myself that I would have a few days for recuperation, several carbuncles developed on my body as a result of poor food and exposure. This affliction virtually placed me on furlough from the middle of October till the middle of January. In the meantime, Forrest’s Cavalry had assembled at Corinth and gone on an expedition to the Tennessee river, which finally culminated in the movement with Hood to Nashville. Others have written graphic accounts of how Forrest with a force of three thousand men, cavalry and artillery, boldly attacked transports and gunboats and concluded his operations in that quarter by the total destruction of an immense depot of supplies at Johnsonville. He said himself that he captured and destroyed in two or three days four gunboats, fourteen transports, twenty barges, twenty-six pieces of artillery which, with stores destroyed, amounted to a money value of over six million dollars. He captured 150 prisoners, while his own loss was two killed and nine wounded. Altogether this was one of the most remarkable campaigns of the whole war, and I have always somewhat regretted that I could not participate in its operations. As for the expedition to Nashville which followed, I have always considered myself fortunate in having missed it. The history of it is a pitiful story and well worth reading, particularly by those who did not hear it from the lips of hundreds of brave men who gave vivid accounts of personal experiences. I began to hear these pitiful accounts early in January from soldiers returning to their homes in an utter state of demoralization. I began to consider whether or not I could recover my health and join Company E ere there was a collapse of the Confederacy. However, as the men of our regiment had been permitted to go to their homes for a few days, there was time for consideration.
When I reported for duty at Verona, Miss., late in January, 1865, Colonel Richardson was in command of Rucker’s Brigade, the ranks of which were filling up surprisingly well, considering the heavy blow we had received in the disastrous repulse of our army in front of Nashville. Most of our men had spent some time at home and came in with new clothes and fresh horses. The rations were good but we had no tents. We constructed rude shelters with whatever timber was at hand, principally fence rails, and over this spread our rubber cloths. Then a good layer of corn stalks was placed for a floor and on this our army blankets. With a roaring log fire in front, we were measurably comfortable. We really had little to do for some time. It was in this camp that it got to the ears of Colonel Richardson that A. S. Coleman, our sutler, who kept a variety of articles in store, was dealing out to the boys a poor article of Confederate whisky. Richardson determined to confiscate the sutler’s whole stock of goods, and sent an officer to seize them. The members of Company E went to the rescue and, it being dark, succeeded, while Coleman was parleying with the officer, in “purloining” all the goods on hand, which they carried out through the back of the tent and kept concealed till the trouble blew over. Coleman was soon doing business at the old stand.
In February, 1865, Forrest was raised to the rank of Lieutenant-General and given the command of about ten thousand cavalry widely dispersed in Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana. Joe Johnston had superseded Hood and had transferred the remnant of our army further east to place it in the path of Sherman who was marching north from Savannah through South Carolina. So far as our part of the country was concerned, it seemed to me then that the Federals would have had little trouble in sending in a large force and taking possession. With Forrest it was a case of gathering up the fragments, but man never went about anything more earnestly. His work had a telling effect. By a complete reorganization of the cavalry, the troops from each State were thrown into brigades and divisions of their own. This may have added somewhat to the morale of the command, but I do not know that it improved the fighting qualities of the men to any great extent. Certainly there was no better fighting body of men than Rucker’s Old Brigade, composed of Tennesseeans and Mississippians. By the new arrangement, the Tennessee Division was commanded by W. H. Jackson. His two brigade commanders were A. W. Campbell and T. H. Bell. This division now had fat horses, good clothes and good rations. But every man there knew that our quasi holiday would be of short duration. Though the Confederacy seemed tottering to its fall, Jackson’s Division was ready for a campaign. It did not have long to wait. Twelve thousand cavalry were assembled in North Alabama under General James H. Wilson, one of the most capable and enterprising commanders in the Federal army. Accompanied by an immense supply train and a commensurate amount of artillery, this best equipped of all Federal commands set out about the 22nd of March for Selma, Ala., which was a depot for Confederate stores and the location of large factories of arms and ammunition. Being provided with a pontoon train it had little trouble in crossing the swollen streams. It moved rapidly in a southeasterly direction. It was the task of Forrest to move east from Columbus, Miss., fall upon Wilson’s right flank, defeat such detachments as he could cope with, destroy his trains, if possible, and finally beat him to Selma. Forrest’s plans involved the possibility of throwing his whole force against that of Wilson in some favorable position east of Tuskaloosa and to risk the consequences of the greatest cavalry battle ever fought on the continent. How near we subordinates were to witnessing a great event impending and yet how ignorant we were of it! Unforeseen difficulties lay in Forrest’s path while he was apparently making super-human efforts to concentrate his forces for a great battle in which his enemy would number fully two to one. It is painful even to conjecture what the consequences of such a battle might have been. But I anticipate. Prior to the movement towards Selma I had been detailed for duty with the provost guard of Campbell’s Brigade, which was agreeable to me because of the fact that I had not entirely recovered my health, and would have more privileges on the road, though no less responsible service. Our chief duty was to move in the rear and to prevent straggling. It turned out on this expedition to be a position of great danger.
We passed through Columbus, Miss., and took the road to Tuskaloosa. We moved all day and much of the night over muddy roads, miry swamps and rugged hills. Our great commander had the details all in his mind, but we had only a vague idea that we would have to fight at almost any turn in the road. This was an army of veterans, who had been tried in the fire. Jackson’s Division was a long way from home, but was ready for a last desperate struggle in a strange land. It looked like a forlorn hope, for Lee was falling back upon Appomattox and Johnston was in a death struggle with Sherman. But the defeat of Wilson’s cavalry would mean its destruction and the capture of his trains. Such a victory here might change the face of things within a few hours, as we had no idea that any one of our armies would so soon surrender. Anyhow, the men were there to obey orders and to do their whole duty. We were at Sipsey river and the column was moving slowly through its slashy bottom. A weird looking place where the foliage of the heavy timber largely shut out the light of day. A rumor came down the line that two soldiers, at the instance of a drum-head court-martial, had been shot to death for desertion. As the provost guard closed up the column it passed the dead men lying one on each side of the road with their heads against trees. Their hats had been placed over their faces, but labels written in large letters told the story: Shot for Desertion. It was said at the time that this was intended as a deterrent to desertion. It may have had the effect intended. It would be passing over it most kindly to state that the affair caused a profound sensation. It would be nearer the truth to say that, with the rank and file, it met with pronounced condemnation. Only one other writer has touched upon this incident, and he was not on the ground as I was. Therefore, he could not speak personally concerning what might be called the popular verdict of the soldiers. He does say, in substance, that the execution was extremely unfortunate, though coming within the province of military law, in that the declaration of the victims that the older was above the military age and the younger was under it turned out to be true in every particular. It was a matter of common talk that the men were Kentuckians, who had nothing on their persons by which they could be identified, and that there was no proof adduced to show that they belonged to our cavalry. They were possibly deserters from some arm of the Confederate service, but the prevailing sentiment, which is a force to be reckoned with in a volunteer army, was that a drum-head court-martial, instituted on the march and when the command was practically in the presence of the enemy, could not exercise that calm consideration and quiet deliberation required in a case where human life was involved. While, as a general proposition, it were well not to tear open old wounds, yet it were also well to state exact facts in history, in order that the mistakes of the past may enable those who come after us to avoid errors in the future. The power of all Confederate courts-martial was flitting fast, and the bloody hand, under all the circumstances in this case, might well have been stayed. Everybody was glad to change the scene and the subject of thought, for death has no attractive form. Tuskaloosa was a fine old Southern town, with palatial homes, wide streets, shaded by three rows of water oaks, well kept yards, extensive flower gardens, and a large complement of pretty women. The gates were open and the city was ours for the asking. They had never seen a Southern army, and more than that, they had never imagined the like of Forrest’s cavalry as, brimful of fight, it moved along their lovely streets. Alas! all this, within three days, was to be in the grasp of men who did not hesitate to apply the torch even to the State University.