There was something about that “follow me” and manner that got my back up. He had hardly got his horse straightened out down the pike before I was alongside of him. If my thoughts had been spoken there, they would have been something like: “D— you, I have always been used to riding beside better men than you are.”
We passed the guns as if they were standing still. Never a word or look did that fellow give me. He kept on till I thought he was surely going to charge the town. After I had about given him up as crazy, he suddenly pulled up, and I, not expecting it, shot on by, but stopped in almost a bound and rode back. Pointing to the right of the pike, he said: “I saw General Forrest up there a few moments ago, and guess he is there yet.”
I looked in the direction he pointed, but could make out nothing for the smoke. The lines seemed to be close together and engaged in a fearful conflict. This was my first and lasting sight of the fearful fight at Franklin. I turned toward the staff officer to get more definite directions, and found he had disappeared. I never saw him any more. I left the pike and rode in the direction he had pointed. The ground was strewn with dead and wounded men. I had to ride slowly. I worked my way along in the rear of the Confederate lines a long ways to the right, but could not find General Forrest. Then I concluded I was too close in. I knew he had no command there. I did not think he would go up so close to the firing line if he were only looking on, so rode further off and then turned towards the pike again.
I had almost reached the pike when I heard someone swearing at a fearful rate. I could not see very far for the smoke and gloom.
I thought, “If that is not the General, it’s his twin brother, for nobody could swear that way but he.”
It proved to be the old boy himself. By that time our lines were giving way, and men were going to the rear in squads. The General was trying to rally them. He had worked himself into a terrible rage, had his saber drawn, and I expected to see him use it on some of them, and they would probably have shot the stuffing out of him. They did not know him, and seemed to resent his interference. Their own officers rallied them and charged those impregnable breastworks nine times, they say.
I rode up to General Forrest, stuck my dispatch under his nose and told him it was very important. He glared at me a moment like he could not make up his mind whether to cut my head off or shoot me. Finally he called, “Major!”
Out of the smoke rode the major and took the dispatch and read it to the General. I don’t recollect now whether it was Major Strange or Anderson. Both were nice men to do business with. Before he got through reading the report all signs of anger and passion had disappeared from the General’s face. It was always my private opinion that most of it was “put on,” though I did not tell him so for various reasons.
“Bully for old Abe,” says General Forrest, after hearing the report. “Major, tell him to hold what he’s got, and I will be with him as soon as I see General Hood and get the infantry.”
He went off on the jump. We were standing then on the side of the pike. The major was dismounted, stooping down writing on his knee, and I was holding his horse.