"Co. Aytch," Maury Grays, First Tennessee Regiment / Or, A Side Show of the Big Show

by Samuel R. Watkins

We soon got proud; the blood of the old Cavaliers tingled in our veins. We did not feel that we were serfs and vagabonds. We felt that we had a home and a country worth fighting for, and, if need be, worth dying for. One regiment could whip an army, and did do it, in every instance, before the command was taken from him at Atlanta. But of this another time.

Chaplains were brought back to their regiments. Dr. C. T. Quintard and Rev. C. D. Elliott, and other chaplains, held divine services every Sabbath, prayer was offered every evening at retreat, and the morale of the army was better in every respect. The private soldier once more regarded himself a gentleman and a man of honor. We were willing to do and die and dare anything for our loved South, and the Stars and Bars of the Confederacy. In addition to this, General Johnston ordered his soldiers to be paid up every cent that was due them, and a bounty of fifty dollars besides. He issued an order to his troops offering promotion and a furlough for acts of gallantry and bravery on the field of battle.

The cloven foot of tyranny and oppression was not discernible in the acts of officers, from general down to corporal, as formerly. Notwithstanding all this grand transformation in our affairs, old Joe was a strict disciplinarian. Everything moved like clockwork. Men had to keep their arms and clothing in good order. The artillery was rubbed up and put in good condition. The wagons were greased, and the harness and hamestrings oiled. Extra rations were issued to negroes who were acting as servants, a thing unprecedented before in the history of the war.

Well, old Joe was a yerker. He took all the tricks. He was a commander. He kept everything up and well in hand. His lines of battle were invulnerable. The larger his command, the easier he could handle it. When his army moved, it was a picture of battle, everything in its place, as laid down by scientific military rules. When a man was to be shot, he was shot for the crimes he had done, and not to intimidate and cow the living, and he had ten times as many shot as Bragg had. He had seventeen shot at Tunnel Hill, and a whole company at Rockyface Ridge, and two spies hung at Ringgold Gap, but they were executed for their crimes. No one knew of it except those who had to take part as executioners of the law. Instead of the whipping post, he instituted the pillory and barrel shirt. Get Brutus to whistle the barrel shirt for you. The pillory was a new-fangled concern. If you went to the guard-house of almost any regiment, you would see some poor fellow with his head and hands sticking through a board. It had the appearance of a fellow taking a running start, at an angle of forty-five degrees, with a view of bursting a board over his head, but when the board burst his head and both his hands were clamped in the bursted places. The barrel shirt brigade used to be marched on drill and parade. You could see a fellow's head and feet, and whenever one of the barrels would pass, you would hear the universal cry, "Come out of that barrel, I see your head and feet sticking out." There might have been a mortification and a disgrace in the pillory and barrel shirt business to those that had to use them, but they did not bruise and mutilate the physical man. When one of them had served out his time he was as good as new. Old Joe had greater military insight than any general of the South, not excepting even Lee. He was the born soldier; seemed born to command. When his army moved it moved solid. Cavalry, artillery, wagon train, and infantry stepped the same tread to the music of the march. His men were not allowed to be butchered for glory, and to have his name and a battle fought, with the number of killed and wounded, go back to Richmond for his own glory. When he fought, he fought for victory, not for glory. He could fall back right in the face of the foe as quietly and orderly as if on dress parade; and when his enemies crowded him a little too closely, he would about face and give them a terrible chastisement. He could not be taken by surprise by any flank movement of the enemy. His soldiers were to him his children. He loved them. They were never needlessly sacrificed. He was always ready to meet the attack of the enemy. When his line of battle was formed it was like a wall of granite. His adversaries knew him, and dreaded the certain death that awaited them. His troops were brave; they laughed in the face of battle. He had no rear guard to shoot down any one who ran. They couldn't run; the army was solid. The veriest coward that was ever born became a brave man and a hero under his manipulation. His troops had the utmost confidence in him, and feared no evil. They became an army of veterans, whose lines could not be broken by the armies of the world. Battle became a pastime and a pleasure, and the rattle of musketry and roar of cannon were but the music of victory and success.

COMMISSARIES

Before General Joseph E. Johnston took command of the Army of Tennessee, the soldiers were very poorly fed, it is true, but the blame was not entirely attributable to General Bragg. He issued enough and more than enough to have bountifully fed his army, but there was a lot of men in the army, generally denominated commissaries, and their "gizzards," as well as fingers, had to be greased. There was commissary-general, then corps commissary, then division commissary, then brigade commissary, then regimental commissary, then company commissary. Now, you know were you to start a nice hindquarter of beef, which had to pass through all these hands, and every commissary take a choice steak and roast off it, there would be but little ever reach the company, and the poor man among the Johnnies had to feast like bears in winter—they had to suck their paws—but the rich Johnnies who had money could go to almost any of the gentlemen denominated commissaries (they ought to have been called cormorants) and buy of them much nice fat beef and meal and flour and sugar and coffee and nice canvassed hams, etc. I have done it many times. They were keeping back the rations that had been issued to the army, and lining their own pockets. But when General Johnston took command, this manipulating business played out. Rations would "spile" on their hands. Othello's occupation was gone. They received only one hundred and forty dollars a month then, and the high private got plenty to eat, and Mr. Cormorant quit making as much money as he had heretofore done. Were you to go to them and make complaint, they would say, "I have issued regular army rations to your company, and what is left over is mine," and they were mighty exact about it.

DALTON

We went into winter quarters at Dalton, and remained there during the cold, bad winter of 1863-64, about four months. The usual routine of army life was carried on day by day, with not many incidents to vary the monotony of camp life. But occasionally the soldiers would engage in a snow ball battle, in which generals, colonels, captains and privates all took part. They would usually divide off into two grand divisions, one line naturally becoming the attacking party, and the other the defensive. The snow balls would begin to fly hither and thither, with an occasional knock down, and sometimes an ugly wound, where some mean fellow had enclosed a rock in his snow ball. It was fun while it lasted, but after it was over the soldiers were wet, cold and uncomfortable. I have seen charges and attacks and routes and stampedes, etc., but before the thing was over, one side did not know one from the other. It was a general knock down and drag out affair.

SHOOTING A DESERTER

One morning I went over to Deshler's brigade of Cleburne's division to see my brother-in-law, Dr. J. E. Dixon. The snow was on the ground, and the boys were hard at it, "snow balling." While I was standing looking on, a file of soldiers marched by me with a poor fellow on his way to be shot. He was blindfolded and set upon a stump, and the detail formed. The command, "Ready, aim, fire!" was given, the volley discharged, and the prisoner fell off the stump. He had not been killed. It was the sergeant's duty to give the coup d'etat, should not the prisoner be slain. The sergeant ran up and placed the muzzle of his gun at the head of the poor, pleading, and entreating wretch, his gun was discharged, and the wretched man only powder-burned, the gun being one that had been loaded with powder only. The whole affair had to be gone over again. The soldiers had to reload and form and fire. The culprit was killed stone dead this time. He had no sooner been taken up and carried off to be buried, than the soldiers were throwing snow balls as hard as ever, as if nothing had happened.