After the affair at Davis’ Mill we retired to the neighborhood of the Lane Farm, and rested for part of the night. Our horses had a bountiful feed and a short rest. What must be done must be done quickly. So we struck the usual trot. My little blooded stallion seemed to know just what was wanted. He would lie down like a tired dog when the column made a short halt, but was all life and animation when it was moving. Across Wolf river at Moscow in the early morning, we took the road to Somerville. It was said that we would repeat the Holly Springs business at Bolivar. The men of Company E knew every road and by-path leading to the town. Our hopes were high. We were willing to head a surprise party, or lead an assault. We should be fighting in the presence of our own people—the home folks. But we passed on to Danceyville, and that did not look like going to Bolivar. A short halt and a countermarch, and we were surely on the road to Bolivar.
We had traveled over much of Fayette and Hardeman counties, but bivouacked on Clear Creek on the night of December 23rd. We had been bountifully fed right here when on our way to Randolph the year before and had slept on this ground part of a night on the Armstrong raid. When I think of this place I think of chicken pie. The rank and file were confident that we would go into Bolivar, only a few miles distant, the next morning, and have a jolly Christmas right at home. That was not to be. Our scouts and spies reported that the Federals in great force were strongly fortified and were ready for us. They had evidently heard from Holly Springs. Van Dorn drew off to Middleburg, seven miles southwest of Bolivar where a small garrison was protected by a brick storehouse with a hall above, through the walls of which they had made many portholes. Here we needed some kind of artillery. The Federals stood bravely to their guns and refused to comply with our demand to surrender. It was a detachment of the Twelfth Michigan infantry, which the community thought to be about as devilish a lot as ever came south.
At Middleburg I saw the prettiest line of battle in action that I saw in the whole war. It was Ross’ Texas brigade advancing on foot with a firing line of skirmishers several rods in advance. As we stood to the rear in reserve, I could but take pride in this fine body of Texans, as Sul Ross, afterward governor of Texas, was my schoolmate. He was a noble young fellow at college, a gallant Indian fighter before the war, a successful general in the Confederate army, an incorruptible statesman after the war and, finally, the most popular man in Texas. I was glad to call him friend. I have passed Middleburg many times since then, but always think of Ross’ line of battle. “After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well.”
Van Dorn retired, without molestation from the Federals, while Grant hastened to break camp on the Tallahatchie and to fall back to Memphis. The object of the expedition had been pretty fully accomplished.
CHAPTER V.
SOME PERSONALS AND PORTRAITURES.
When Van Dorn reached Ripley on his way south, Dr. Bob Mayes and I concluded that we would take a short respite from camp life and make an expedition of our own into Alabama. While maturing our plans we fully realized that we had to take the chances of being reported absent without leave. We reasoned that it was mid-winter and that neither army would make an offensive move for some time. Then everybody was in good humor because of our late success, and besides we knew that we were not serving under martinets in the persons of our high officers—a rather common conclusion in those days. So at the first favorable opportunity we two moved by the left flank and took the road to Guntown. This was the same road along which Sturgis advanced and retreated when Brice’s Cross Roads became a famous place. We passed the cross roads and the now noted Dr. Agnew and Brice residences around which the battle was to be fought. We could not tell when we might come into contact with a Federal scouting party from Corinth or a squad of bushwhackers. In such an emergency, we were not to show our weakness to the enemy, but were to bluff them, if we could, and take to the woods in good order. We had seven shots apiece and plenty of ammunition. We questioned citizens in regard to the roads and the prospects of trouble. When we struck the wild country east of the Tombigbee, we were always on the alert and were cautious how we let any man approach us. The further we went the wilder the country appeared. Rough, rocky roads wound along the streams and down through the valleys, which lay between the lofty hills. Excellent places to be shot at.
Out through the village of Allsboro, we took the road to the old town of Frankfort with lighter hearts. We spoke gratefully of the kindness of the citizens along our route, who had treated us so hospitably, and concluded that we were never in as much danger as we had thought we were. We had not seen an armed man on the trip. At Tuscumbia, Mayes took the road to Courtland, I the one to Florence. I found the bridge over the Tennessee had been destroyed, and was compelled to take the risk of crossing on a rather dilapidated oar boat. But I felt at home on the dear old soil. Little Ernest, my first born, was soon to be in my arms and loving hands, including the old servants, were to leave nothing undone to make me feel happy. I was to stand again by the grave of a bride-mother, the beloved of all Florence, and too those of her father and two brothers over which the fresh earth still lay. My tired horse is really climbing the old hill; I see the old Dr. Todd place up to my left, the antiquated buildings of older Florence, the pillared seat of justice, built in the long ago. Why, I am right up in town. I turn into Military street. The old home is in sight. My heart! My heart! Bright eyes! Bright eyes! The loved ones with the baby.
But I look around and find the place greatly changed. I see more women than men. Two colleges closed and little or no business doing in the stores. No courts in session. Many residences closed. Small groups of anxious men stand on the corners, for Bragg is fighting at Murfreesboro and many of the Florence soldiers are there. Just such meager reports were coming in as would create the greatest suspense. The town had been in the hands of the Federals much of the time since the battle of Shiloh, and had been greatly harassed by raiders. Clothing and provisions, even the necessities of life, were hard to get. So the people talked mostly of the distress and gloom brought on by the war. Men and women, heretofore prosperous and happy, were bowed down with grief and, in many cases, in dire want. These good people were subject to insult and liable to lose the last crust at the hands of a rude soldiery. In fact, they did undergo, before the war was over, sufferings more intense and cruelties more severe. The state of affairs described bore hard upon all, but especially so upon the conservative element made up largely of old gentlemen, patriotic and true, who believed that a peaceable settlement could have been effected and war avoided. I was in sympathy, from the first, with that element in politics, who, while opposed to secession, yet when war was flagrant, gave up everything and, in many cases, took up arms in behalf of the South. I mention as typical of this class William B. Wood, Henry C. Jones and R. M. Patton.
Governor Patton, a gentleman of the old school, served his state well, and had two sons killed in battle. Judge Billy Wood was Colonel of the Sixteenth Alabama Infantry. I saw Stratton Jones, son of Judge Jones, dead on the field at Pulaski. As typical of those who thought differently on public questions, I mention the names of Richard W. Walker, Edward A. O’Neal and William H. Price, true as steel and patriots all. Walker was a famous lawyer and I heard it said then that he had much to do with the formation of the Confederate Constitution. O’Neal commanded a regiment in Lee’s army and after the war was governor. Major Price was killed in the same charge at Perryville in which his friend, Major Frank Gailor, the father of Bishop Gailor, fell. I record these things in a reminiscent mood, it is true, but they serve to illustrate what had taken place all over the South and, moreover, how people of radically diverse opinions on paramount questions can stand shoulder to shoulder when they come into the presence of a common danger. When the majority of the Southern people had spoken, Florence became a unit on the subject of resistance to Federal aggression. About all of her eligible men had gone into the army, and at the time of which I write she was mourning the death of many of her bravest and best. Lee had retired from Maryland and news came that Bragg was falling back, showing that Antietam and Murfreesboro were, at most, drawn battles. Coupled with Bragg’s retreat from Kentucky after the battle of Perryville they certainly emphasized the success of the Federals in preventing a Confederate invasion of the North. “Hope springs eternal in the human breast,” and there were some cheerful faces in Florence. Among these was that of Colonel Tol Chisholm, the provost marshal, who generously furnished me with a pass that was supposed to be good from Florence to Grenada. I thought at the time that this was a wide territory for the authority of a petty provost to cover, but it was good at nearby points, and might be available, or at least better than nothing, further down the country. So having secured a splendid new mount, I turned my face toward Mississippi. There could be no concert of action between my fellow soldier, Dr. Mayes, and myself as communication was poor between Florence and Courtland. We were compelled to act independently. So, armed with Tol Chisholm’s pass against the Confederates and a good carbine and a navy six against any hostile attack that might beset me on my way, I drew rein in three or four days at Cotton Gin on the Tombigbee. I could now move at my leisure and as my good steed stepped over the muddy roads as if he scorned them, I arrived all right in Grenada.
My part of the personal expedition which Mayes and I projected had so far turned out charmingly, but at Grenada everything was not exactly lovely. In the disposition of the troops, the Seventh Tennessee Cavalry had been ordered to take post north of the Yalobusha for rest and recuperation. The late Senator George, commander of the post, had orders to permit no one to pass north without permission from headquarters of the general commanding the army. I approached Colonel George with nothing to fortify me but a little assurance and Tol Chisholm’s pass. He was a man of pleasing personality with whose countenance I was somewhat familiar, as I had seen him at my father’s house back in the 50’s. I didn’t, however, disclose my identity for the purpose of working myself into his good graces, but on his refusal of a permit concluded it best to retire as gracefully as possible, thankful that he had not placed me under arrest. Across the river or to the guard house, for I had to have subsistence for self and horse. I rode directly to the river, where an officer was ferrying some men and horses in a boat nearly as long as the river was wide. I didn’t even exhibit Tol Chisholm’s pass, but in the confusion, incident to such occasions, I rode boldly into the boat and was soon safe on the north side. I had some occasion for reflection on my adventure and my interview with Colonel George. Only a few years ago I had charge of the schools of Grenada, and I never looked at the site of the old Brown Hotel that the same old reflections did not recur. In a short time I had the pleasure of congratulating Mayes on the pronounced success of his trip. As I expect to write even more fully concerning my impressions of some of the men with whom I served than heretofore, I may say something of Mayes right here. Wherever the short sketches occur, they may be taken as only partial portraitures of character, tinged in some instances, perhaps, with my tributes of praise to men who would do their duty at all hazards. Well then, Dr. R. M. Mayes was somewhat peculiar in his mental makeup, but withal a well-bred gentleman, a good soldier and a friend to rely on in an emergency. He abandoned the practice of dentistry for a season, after the war, and concluded he could make money in the cultivation of peanuts. One crop satisfied him. He married a young lady of estimable character, whom I knew well and who, though reared a blue stocking Presbyterian, by his own insistence followed him in his peregrinations through theological troubles. I may well say this, for Mayes was reared a Baptist but some time after the war was confirmed in the Episcopal Church. He at last sought satisfaction in the Roman Catholic Church. The couple reared a family, and I believe are still living in San Antonio. The thought comes to me now, and I will record it here, that I have learned about as much in my long life by reading people as I have by reading books. In this regard, peculiar people have cut no small figure. Indeed, I can say that, psychologically speaking, the eccentricities of abnormal people afford a wider range of study than do the mental activities of people who are always merely at themselves. Though it may be true that “a fool is born every minute,” all peculiar people are not fools.