With General Hood’s movement across the Coosa River he began his last campaign, and the last campaign for the Army of the Tennessee. His intention was to cross the Tennessee at Guntersville and march on Nashville, but he changed his mind and moved down the river to near Decatur, Tuscumbia, and Florence, Ross’s brigade being in front of Decatur, then occupied by the Federals. General Sherman returning to Atlanta, that city was burned, and leaving the smoking ruins behind him, he entered upon his grand march to the sea, with none of General Hood’s army, save General Wheeler’s cavalry, to molest him in his work of devastation.
A day or two after we got to Decatur General Ross ordered our scouting party back up the river to ascertain, if we could, what the enemy was doing in the rear of that place. We moved up on the south side of the river and stopped between Triana and Whitesburg. These towns were garrisoned and the river patrolled by gunboats. We remained in this neighborhood without any further instructions for some weeks. Here I found my half-brother, J. J. Ashworth, who lived on the south bank of the river about fifteen miles from Huntsville, and about three miles above Triana. In this neighborhood were a number of my acquaintances from Madison County, refugeeing, as Huntsville, Brownsboro, and other towns were also garrisoned by the enemy. Several of us crossed the river afoot and remained some days in Madison County. But for the negroes we could have had a pleasant time, as every negro in the country was a spy who would run to report anything that looked suspicious to them, to one of the near-by garrisons, so we dared not allow them to see us. I knew the white people, and knew that they were loyal to our cause, but they could not allow their own negroes to know that they did anything for us, so that we, and they, too, had to be exceedingly careful.
In crossing the river we had to watch for gunboats, make the passage during the night in a canoe, which must be drawn out and hidden, else the first passing gunboat would destroy it. Some three miles north of the river, in the bottom, lived Alexander Penland, a Presbyterian minister, a true and loyal friend to the Confederacy, and three or four miles further on, towards Huntsville, lived William Lanier, Burwell Lanier and William Matkins, the two latter on the Huntsville and Triana road. Dr. William Leftwich also lived in the same neighborhood. All were good, trustworthy men, whom I knew well. Since some of them had taken the non-combatant’s oath they were allowed to go in and out of town at will, and from them I could learn of any movements along the M. & C. Railroad. We crossed the river after night, and being in possession of Mr. Penland’s countersign, we found our way to his house, late at night, after the household was all asleep. I went to a certain front window, tapped lightly and whistled like a partridge. Soon Mr. Penland thrust his head out and in a whisper inquired who we were and what was wanted. I explained to him briefly, and retired to a brush thicket near by, where early next morning he brought us cooked provisions. In order to do this he had to get up and cook for us himself before any of his negroes were awake. The next night we slept in William Lanier’s farm and were fed by him in the same way. We crossed the Triana road and went to the top of a small mountain, from which we could see Huntsville. A rainy season set in and we found shelter in Burwell Lanier’s gin-house, where he fed us. When we thought of recrossing the Tennessee we found that Indian Creek, which we had to cross, was outrageously high, spreading away out over the bottom. We spent a good part of an afternoon in constructing a raft by tying logs together with vines to enable us to cross that night. Just east of William Lanier’s farm there was a large negro quarter, where idle and vicious negroes were in the habit of congregating, and inasmuch as their system of espionage upon the white people of the neighborhood was very annoying, upon the suggestion of some of our friends we determined to raid this place before we left, carry off some of these meddlesome blacks and send them to some government works in south Alabama.
Accordingly after dark we visited the quarter under the guise of recruiting officers from Whitesburg, told them we had been fighting for their freedom for about three years, and the time had now come for them to help us, and we had come for every able-bodied man to go with us to Whitesburg and join the army. I had our men call me Brown, for fear some of them might know me. It was laughable to hear the various excuses rendered for not going into the service. A lot of Confederate conscripts could not have thought up more physical ailments. We finally gathered up six that we decided were able for service, promising they should have a medical examination, and if they were really unfit for service they would be excused. Among them was a powerful, large, muscular black fellow that belonged to Jink Jordan. He had joined the army and, tiring of his job, was now a deserter, and we could see that he was greatly scared and very much opposed to going with us.
Upon leaving the negro houses we went through the field and the woods directly to our raft on the creek and had a great time getting across. The clouds were thick, it was intensely dark, and our means of crossing very poor. We had to make a number of trips, as we could only float three or four men, including the two that used the poles, at one time. In the confusion and darkness two of the prisoners had escaped, and two had just crossed, including the big deserter, when it became my duty to guard them with a short Enfield rifle belonging to one of the men. Having their hands tied with a cord and then tied together back to back, I was not uneasy about keeping them, but before I realized what they were doing they had slipped their hands through the cord and were running through the brush. When the big deserter had gone some twelve or fifteen steps I shot him. He fell at the fire of the gun, but before I could get to him he scrambled up and went crashing through the brush like a stampeding ox. I learned afterwards that he went into Huntsville to a hospital for treatment, and that the ball had gone through the muscle of his arm and plowed into his breast, but not deep enough to be fatal. We finally reached the bank of the river about one or two o’clock in the morning, with two of our prisoners. We then had to hoot like an owl until some one on the other side should wake up, and, hearing the signal, would bring us a canoe, which was finally done, and we crossed over in safety.
We crossed the river several times during our stay in the neighborhood, particularly one very cold night, when several of us passed over, at the request of Mr. Penland, to transfer his pork to the south side. He had killed a lot of hogs, and was afraid the meat might be taken from him, or that he would be ordered out of the Federal lines as others had been, and he wished to place it in the hands of a friend south of the river for safety. We managed to get an old rickety canoe opposite his place, and crossed early in the night, and again played the rôle of Federal soldiers, as no one on his place but himself must know our real mission. Mrs. Penland had known me from childhood, but as she had lost her mind I did not fear recognition, and while Nancy, their negro woman, also had known me, she failed to recognize me, as I was Mr. Brown of the Federal army. We marched up and called for the man of the house, and when Mr. Penland came forward we told him we were rather short of rations down in Triana, and were out looking for meat, and wished to know if he had any. He acknowledged that he had just killed some meat, but only enough for his family use, and had none to spare. We were bound to have meat, and agreed to leave him one hog, and then yoked up a pair of oxen and hitched them to a wagon. While we were in the smokehouse preparing to take the meat out, Mr. Penland’s two little girls, about nine and eleven, came crying around us, and in a most pitiful manner begged us not to take all of papa’s meat; and poor Mrs. Penland came to the door and said: “Men, please don’t take my little boy’s pony.” When we had hauled all the meat to the river bank and returned the wagon, it was nearly midnight, and we compelled the woman Nancy to get up and prepare us a warm supper. After supper we returned to the river and floated the hogs across in our old canoe.
At this time my brother’s son, George Ashworth, a gallant boy about sixteen years old, who had taken his father’s place in General Roddy’s command, was at home on furlough. One day a thief, believed to be a straggler from General Wheeler’s command, took his horse from a lot some distance from the house, and carried him off. Lieutenant McClatchie and myself mounted a pony and a mule of my brother’s and attempted to overtake him. We followed him as far as Atlanta, but failed to catch him, and then went into the city and viewed the wreck that Sherman had left behind him: thirty-six hundred houses were in ruins, including the best part of the city. This was Saturday, and being tired we went down to the neighborhood of Jonesboro and remained with some of McClatchie’s acquaintances until Monday morning. We were hospitably entertained at the home of Colonel Tidwell, and enjoyed a quiet rest in the company of Miss Mattie Tidwell and Miss Eva Camp.
One evening we passed through the town of Cave Springs, a locality with which I had become familiar while we were campaigning here. On the road we were to travel, at the first house after leaving town, two or three miles out, there lived a tall dignified old gentleman and his handsome young married daughter whose husband was in the army. They lived in a large two-story house, and a large commodious barn, with all other necessary out houses for comfort and convenience, had stood on his premises when I was there before—the barn filled to overflowing with wheat, oats, and corn. Just across the road in front of the house, and stretching across the valley, was his large productive farm, covered with a heavy crop of ungathered corn. While this was the condition, I had come to this house at night, traveling in the same direction, and talked myself almost hoarse without being able to procure from this old gentleman a single ear of corn for my horse or a morsel of food for myself, although he knew I must go eight miles to the next house on the road. I didn’t ask, nor did I wish, to enter his house, but only wanted a feed of corn and a little bread and meat. As we approached the house McClatchie proposed halting, to stay all night—provided we could. I related my earlier experience, but we stopped nevertheless.
Upon seeing us halt, the old gentleman came stepping down to the gate and spoke very kindly, and we asked him if we could spend the night with him. He said such accommodations as he could offer us we would be welcome to, adding: “I have no stables for your horses. Sherman’s army passed this way and burned my barn, with its contents, my stables, and in fact carried off or destroyed everything I had to eat or feed on, and left me and my daughter without a mouthful of anything to eat. They carried every hog, every fowl, and every pound of meat, and even rolled my syrup out of the cellar, knocked the heads out of the barrels and poured the syrup out on the ground, but I will do the best I can for you.” His daughter, too, was very hospitable. At the supper table she detailed all the horrors of Sherman’s visit, and the distressful condition they were left in, how they had to go to a neighbor’s to borrow a few ears of corn to grate them for bread, and concluded by saying: “But as long as I have a piece of bread I will divide it with a Confederate soldier.” After supper she invited us into the parlor, where she had a nice piano and treated us to music. Verily “our friends, the enemy,” had converted one family!