A mere glance at the stores—heaps upon heaps of clothing, blankets, provisions, arms, ammunition, medicines, and hospital supplies for the winter, all for the use and comfort of a vast army—was overwhelming to us. We had never seen anything like it before. The depot, the depot buildings, the machine shops, the roundhouse, and every available space that could be used was packed full, and scores of the largest houses uptown were in use for the same purpose, while a great number of bales of cotton were piled up around the court-house yard. One large brick livery stable on the public square was packed full, as high as they could be stacked, with new, unopened cases of carbines and Colt’s army six-shooters, and a large brick house near by was packed full of artillery ammunition.
For about ten hours, say from 6 A. M. to 4 P. M., we labored destroying, burning, this property, and in order to do this effectually we had to burn a good many houses. Riding out in the afternoon, to the yard where the wagons were being cut down and burned, I found numbers of mules and horses running at large, some of our men turning their lean horses loose and taking big fat captured horses instead. Just then it occurred to me that I had no horse of my own in Mississippi, my mount having been killed at Iuka. John B. Long being in prison when the horses came, I was using his. Now, if I only had some way of taking one of these horses out. Starting back uptown, puzzling over this problem, I met a negro boy coming out of a side street, and hailed him. In answer to my inquiries he said his name was Jake, and belonged to Mr. —— down at Toby Tubby’s ferry on the Tallahatchie. “What are you doing here?” I inquired. “Dese Yankees has bin had me prisoner.” After a little further colloquy he readily agreed to go with me. “Cause,” said he, “you-all done whipped de Yankees now. Dey bin braggin’ all de time how dey could whip de rebels so fast, and when you all come in here dis mornin’ dey went runnin’ everywhere, looking back to see if de rebels was comin’. I done see how it is now. I don’t want nothin’ more to do with dese Yankees. I’se bin hid under de floor all day.” I took one of the abandoned horses, procured a mule for Jake to ride, with saddle, bridle and halter, and taking the outfit uptown said to Jake: “Now, when we start you fall in with the other negroes, in the rear, and keep right up, and when we camp you inquire for Company C, Third Texas Cavalry—and hold on to the horse at all hazards.” I had no further trouble with Jake. He carried my instructions out all right. About 4 P. M., having finished our day’s work, we moved out of the northeast part of the town, and looking back we saw the Federal cavalry coming in from the southwest.
In this raid we captured about 1500 prisoners, according to General Van Dorn, and General Grant said the same. They were commanded by Colonel R. C. Murphy of the Eighth Wisconsin Infantry. Poor Murphy! he was peremptorily dismissed from the service without even a court martial. General Grant estimated their loss in supplies destroyed at $400,000, while General Van Dorn’s estimate was $1,500,000. Doubtless one was too low and the other one too high. We marched out a few miles and camped for the night, and all the evening we could hear the artillery cartridges exploding in the burning buildings.
The next day early we were on the march northward. That morning when I awoke I felt a presentiment that if we had to fight during that day I would be wounded, and no effort of mine was sufficient to remove the impression, even for a moment. As the weather was quite cold, visions of the horrors of going to prison in midwinter troubled me, since a wound that would put me past riding my horse would mean that I would be left to fall into the enemy’s hands. Near noon we came to Davis’ Mill, near the Tennessee line, not far from Lagrange, Tenn., where we made an effort to destroy a railroad bridge and trestle on Wolfe River. It was guarded by 250 troops, commanded by Colonel William H. Morgan of the Twenty-fifth Indiana Infantry. We were fooling about this place three hours perhaps, and it was late before I understood the meaning of our maneuvers. Our brigade was dismounted, double-quicked here and double-quicked there, double-quicked back to our horses, remounted, galloped off to another place, double-quicked again somewhere else and back to our horses. Then, remounting, we took another gallop and double-quicked again to the only tangible thing I saw during the day, and that was to charge a blockhouse or stockade.
The enemy was in what they called a blockhouse, constructed by taking an old sawmill as a foundation and piling up cotton bales and cross-ties, and throwing up some earthworks. Approaching this by a wagon road we came to a bridge across a slough perhaps two hundred yards from their fort. We met their first bullets here, as part of their fire could be concentrated on this bridge. Crossing a little river bottom, entirely open except for a few large white oak trees, we came to a bridge across Wolfe River about seventy yards from their works. To charge in column across this bridge under their concentrated fire was the only chance to get to them, but coming to this bridge we found that the floor was all gone, leaving only three stringers about ten inches square, more or less, on which we could cross. Running along the bank up the river to the right was a levee some three feet high. The men in front, five or six impetuous fellows, running on to the stringers, one of them fell as he started across, and the others crossed the river. When I reached the bridge the command was deploying behind the levee without attempting to cross. I remained near the bridge. By this time I was more fatigued, I thought, than I had ever been, with the perspiration streaming off my face, cold as the day was. Here we kept up a fire at the smoke of the enemy’s guns, as we could not see anything else, until a courier could find General Van Dorn, inform him of the situation and ascertain his wishes as to the advisability of our attempting to cross the river. Anxious to know what had become of the men that went onto the bridge, I rose up and looked over the levee. One of them had been killed and was lying in the edge of the water, and the others were crouched under the opposite bank of the river out of immediate danger. While this observation only required a moment of time and a moment’s exposure above the levee, I distinctly felt a minie ball fan my right cheek. While I had not doubted for a moment that I was going to be shot somewhere sometime during the day, this narrow escape of having a minie ball plow through my cheek was very unpleasant. The thought of the ugly scar such a wound would leave flashed into my mind, and wondering where I was to be wounded I settled down behind the levee and continued firing my Sharps’ rifle without exposing myself. Finally we were ordered to fall back. As soon as we were on our feet, and while crossing the little bottom, we would again be exposed to the enemy’s fire, so the command fell back at double-quick. I rose and started, and, looking around, I saw Lieutenant Germany fall, and turned back to assist him, supposing he was shot; but as I approached him he jumped up and passed me, laughing, having merely stumbled and fallen. This threw me behind everybody. I soon found I was so fatigued that I could not double-quick at all, so I slowed up into an ordinary walk. The command, in the meantime, to avoid the fire that could be concentrated on the slough bridge, had flanked off to the left some distance above, and crossed on chunks and logs that had fallen in the slough. Very soon I was the only target for the men in the blockhouse, and they shot at me for sheer amusement. At last a ball struck me on the right thigh. Thinking it was broken, I stopped, bearing all my weight on my left foot, and, selecting a large white oak near by, intending, if I could not walk to manage somehow to pull myself behind this to shield myself, I waited for “something to turn up.” Soon learning, however, that my thigh was not broken, I moved on. Rather than lose time in going up to where the command had crossed and run the risk of being left behind, supposing that on reaching the horses they would mount and move off, I determined to cross on the bridge, which I did in a slow walk, and am sure there was no less than a hundred shots fired at me. Somehow I felt that I was not going to be shot more than once that day, so even after I got across the bridge and lay down to drink out of a little pool of water in the road, their bullets spattered water in my face. I managed to get off with the command, and while my wound was slight it bled freely and caused me a good deal of pain, as I had to ride constantly for several days, and was unable to dismount to fight any more on this trip.
We camped not far from Davis’ Mill, and crossed the Memphis & Charleston Railroad early next morning, cutting the telegraph wires, tearing up the track, burning cross-ties, and bending and twisting the rails. Leaving, we struck a gallop towards Sommerville, Tenn., and galloped nearly all day. Entering Sommerville unexpectedly, we created a little consternation. There was a Union mass meeting in the town, and, there being no thought that there was a Confederate soldier in a hundred miles of them, they were having an enthusiastic time. Some of the old gentlemen, pretty boozy on good Union whisky, stood on the streets and gazed at us with open mouths. I heard one old fellow yell out, “Hurrah for Sommerville!” Another one standing near him yelled out, “Oh, d——n Sommerville to h——l; I say hurrah for the soldiers!” The good ladies, however, when they learned who we were, began bringing whatever they had to eat, handing it to us as we passed along. Camping a few miles out, next morning we took the road leading to Jackson, Tenn., a road which passes west of Bolivar. In the afternoon, however, we changed our course, traveling by roads leading eastward, and camped several miles north of Bolivar.
Next morning, December 24, by making demonstrations against Bolivar, General Van Dorn induced the enemy to gather all his forces in the vicinity for its defense, including 1500 cavalry under Colonel Grierson, sent by General Grant in pursuit of us. We moved down a main road leading into Bolivar from the north, formed fours, driving in their cavalry scouts and infantry pickets to the very suburbs of the town, where the column was turned to the right through alleys, byways, and vacant lots until we were south of the town, when moving quietly out southward, we thus again had all our opposition in our rear. Moving down the railroad seven miles, Middleburg was attacked. As our troops dismounted and formed a line, Ed. Lewis, of Company B, was killed. I remained mounted, with the horses. The command moved up into the town and found the enemy in a brick house with portholes, through which they fired. This was not taken. Of Company C, A. A. Box was killed here. After staying for two hours, perhaps, we moved off just as the enemy’s cavalry from Bolivar came up and fired on our rear.
The next point threatened was Corinth, in order to concentrate the forces in that neighborhood. Leaving Middleburg, we passed through Purdy, took the Corinth road, and moved briskly until night, went into camp, fed, and slept until 1 A. M., when we saddled up, mended up the camp-fires and moved through neighborhood roads, into the Ripley road. Reaching Ripley at noon we rested, fed, and ate our Christmas dinner. In about two hours we moved out, and looking back we could see the enemy’s cavalry from Corinth entering the town. They fired a piece of artillery at us, but as they were in our rear we paid no attention to them. Crossing the Tallahatchie at Rocky Ford we camped on the banks of the stream. Here General Van Dorn waited for the enemy until noon the next day, but Colonel Grierson, who was pretending to follow us, never put in an appearance. In the afternoon we moved to Pontotoc and camped there that night in a terrible drenching rain. We then moved leisurely back into our lines, with “no one to molest us or make us afraid.”