Organization of Regiment—Officers—Accouterment—On the March—Taming a Trouble-maker—Crossing the Red River—In the Indian Territory—The Indian Maid—Fort Smith—The March to Missouri—McCulloch’s Headquarters—Under Orders—Preparation for First Battle.
After the companies were mustered into the service the regiment was organized. Colonel Elkanah Greer was commissioned by the Confederate War Department. Walter P. Lane was elected lieutenant-colonel, and George W. Chilton, father of United States Senator Horace Chilton, was made major. M. D. Ecton, first lieutenant of Company B, was made adjutant, Captain —— Harris, quartermaster, Jas. B. Armstrong, of Henderson, commissary, and our Dr. W. W. McDugald, surgeon.
Thus was organized the first regiment to leave the State of Texas, and one of the best regiments ever in the Confederate service. I would not say that it was the best regiment, as in my opinion the best regiment and the bravest man in the Confederate Army were hard to find. That is to say, no one regiment was entitled to be designated “the best regiment,” as no one of our brave men could rightly be designated “the bravest man in the army.” Napoleon called Marshal Ney “the bravest of the brave,” but no one could single out a Confederate soldier and truthfully say, “He is the bravest man in the army.” It was unfortunately true that all our men were not brave and trustworthy, for we had men who were too cowardly to fight, and we had some men unprincipled enough to desert; but taken all in all, for gallantry and for fighting qualities under any and all circumstances, either in advance or retreat, the regiment deservedly stood in the front rank in all our campaigning.
The regiment was well officered, field staff, and line. Colonel Greer was a gallant man, but unfortunately his mind was too much bent on a brigadier’s stars; Major Chilton, whenever an opportunity offered, showed himself to be brave and gallant; but Walter P. Lane, our lieutenant-colonel, was the life of the regiment during our first year’s service. A more gallant man than he never wore a sword, bestrode a war horse, or led a regiment in battle. He was one of the heroes of San Jacinto, and a born soldier. In camps, in times when there was little or nothing to do, he was not overly popular with the men, but when the fighting time came he gained the admiration of everyone.
At last the long-looked-for train came—United States wagons drawn by six-mule teams, poor little Spanish or Mexican mules, driven by Mexicans. They brought us tents, camp kettles, mess pans and such things, and for arms, holster pistols. We were furnished with two wagons to the company and were given Sibley tents,—large round tents that would protect sixteen men with their arms and accouterments,—a pair of holster pistols apiece, and a fair outfit of “cooking tricks.” We were then formed into messes of sixteen men each, and each mess was provided with the Sibley tent, the officers being provided with wall tents. Fairly mounted, we were pretty well equipped now, our chief deficiency being the very poor condition of the mules and the lack of proper arms, for the men, in mustering, had gathered up shotguns, rifles, and any kind of gun obtainable at home, many of them being without a firearm of any kind. A large number had had huge knives made in the blacksmith shops, with blade eighteen to twenty-four inches long, shaped something like a butcher’s cleaver, keen-edged, with a stout handle, a weapon after the order of a Cuban machete. These were carried in leather scabbards, hung to the saddle, and with these deadly weapons the boys expected to ride through the ranks of the Federal armies and chop down the men right and left. Now, however, to this equipment were added the pair of holster pistols. These very large, brass-mounted, single-barreled pistols—with barrels about a foot long—carried a large musket ball, and were suspended in holsters that fitted over the horn of the saddle, thus placing them in a convenient position for use. In addition to all this, every fellow carried a grass rope at least forty feet long and an iron stake pin. These latter were for staking out the horses to graze, and many was the untrained horse that paid dear for learning the art of “walking the rope,” for an educated animal would never injure himself in the least.
All things being ready, we now started on our long march, accompanied by Captain J. J. Goode’s battery, which had been organized at Dallas, to join General Ben McCulloch in northwestern Arkansas, where he, with what forces he had been able to gather, was guarding our Arkansas frontier. Leaving Dallas on the—day of July, we moved via McKinney and Sherman, crossing Red River at Colbert’s ferry, thence by the overland mail route through the Indian Territory to Fort Smith, Ark., and beyond. We made moderate marches, the weather being very warm, and we then had no apparent reason for rapid movements.
When near McKinney we stopped two or three days. Here our man from the State of Maine began to give us trouble. When sober, Buxton was manageable and a useful man to the company, but when he was in liquor, which was any time he could get whisky, he was troublesome, quarrelsome, and dangerous, especially to citizens. One afternoon Captain Taylor and myself rode into McKinney, where we found Buxton drunk and making trouble. The captain ordered him to camp, but he contumaciously refused to go. We managed to get him back to the rear of a livery stable, near a well, and Captain Taylor forced him down across a mound of fertilizer—holding him there. Then he ordered me to pour water on Buxton, which I did most copiously. I drew bucket after bucket of cold water from the well and poured it upon Buxton’s prostrate, soldierly form, until he was thoroughly cooled and partially sobered, when the captain let him up and again ordered him to camp—and he went, cursing and swearing vengeance. This man, after giving us a good deal of trouble from time to time until after the battle of Elkhorn in the spring of 1862, was jailed in Fort Smith for shooting a citizen in the street, and here we left him and crossed the Mississippi River. He made his escape from jail and followed us to the State of Mississippi, when Lieutenant-Colonel Lane ordered him out of camp. He afterwards returned to Rusk, where he was killed one day by a gunshot wound, but by whom no one seemed to know.
We passed through Sherman early in the morning, and I stopped to have my horse shod, overtaking the command at Colbert’s ferry in the afternoon, when they were crossing Red River. The day was fair, the weather dry and hot. The river, very low now, had high banks, and in riding down from the south side you came on to a wide sandbar extending to a narrow channel running against the north bank, where a small ferryboat was carrying the wagons and artillery across. A few yards above the ferry the river was easily fordable, so the horsemen had all crossed and gone into camp a mile beyond the river, as had most of the wagons. I rode to the other side and stopped on the north bank to watch operations.
All the wagons but one had been ferried over, and this last one had been driven down on the sandbar near the ferry landing, waiting for the boat’s return, while two pieces of artillery were standing near by on the sandbar. Suddenly I heard a roaring sound up the river, as if a wind storm was coming. I looked in that direction and saw a veritable flood rushing down like a mighty wave of the sea, roaring and foaming as it came. The driver of the team standing near the water saw it and instinctively began turning his team to drive out, but, realizing that this would be impossible, he detached his mules and with his utmost efforts was only able to save the team, while every available man had to lend assistance in order to save the two pieces of artillery. In five minutes’ time, perhaps, the water had risen fifteen to eighteen feet, and the banks were full of muddy, rushing water, and remained so as long as we were there. The wagon, which belonged to the quartermaster, was swept off by the tide and lost, with all its contents. It stood in its position until the water rose to the top of the cover, when it floated off.
After camping for the night, we moved on. As we were now in the Indian Territory, the young men were all on the look-out for the beautiful Indian girls of whom they had read so much, and I think some of them had waived the matter of engagement before leaving home until they could determine whether they would prefer marrying some of the pretty girls that were so numerous in this Indian country. We had not gone far on our march when we met a Chickasaw damsel. She was rather young in appearance, of medium height, black unkempt hair, black eyes, high cheekbones, and was bare-headed and barefooted. Her dress was of some well-worn cotton fabric, of a color hard to define, rather an earthy color. In style it was of the extreme low neck and short kind, and a semi-bloomer. Of other wearing apparel it is unnecessary to speak, unless you wish a description of another Indian. This one was too sensible to weight herself with a multiplicity of garments in July. She was a regular middle of the roader, as she stuck close to that part of the Territory strictly. As we were marching by twos we separated and left her to that part of the highway which she seemed to like best. She continued her walk westwardly as we continued our march eastwardly, turning her head right and left, to see what manner of white soldiers the Confederate Government was sending out. This gave all an opportunity to glimpse at her charms. Modestly she walked along without speaking to any of us, as we had never been introduced to her. Only one time did I hear her speak a word, and that was apparently to herself. As Lieutenant Daniel passed her with his long saber rattling, she exclaimed, in good English: “Pretty white man!—got big knife!”