<h2 id="id00039" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER I</h2>
<h5 id="id00040">RETROSPECTIVE</h5>
<h4 id="id00041" style="margin-top: 2em">"WE ARE ONE AND UNDIVIDED"</h4>
<p id="id00042">About twenty years ago, I think it was—I won't be certain, though—
a man whose name, if I remember correctly, was Wm. L. Yancy—I write only
from memory, and this was a long time ago—took a strange and peculiar
notion that the sun rose in the east and set in the west, and that the
compass pointed north and south. Now, everybody knew at the time that
it was but the idiosyncrasy of an unbalanced mind, and that the United
States of America had no north, no south, no east, no west. Well,
he began to preach the strange doctrine of there being such a thing.
He began to have followers. As you know, it matters not how absurd,
ridiculous and preposterous doctrines may be preached, there will be some
followers. Well, one man by the name of (I think it was) Rhett, said it
out loud. He was told to "s-h-e-e." Then another fellow by the name (I
remember this one because it sounded like a graveyard) Toombs said so,
and he was told to "sh-sh-ee-ee." Then after a while whole heaps of
people began to say that they thought that there was a north and a south;
and after a while hundreds and thousands and millions said that there was
a south. But they were the persons who lived in the direction that the
water courses run. Now, the people who lived where the water courses
started from came down to see about it, and they said, "Gents, you are
very much mistaken. We came over in the Mayflower, and we used to burn
witches for saying that the sun rose in the east and set in the west,
because the sun neither rises nor sets, the earth simply turns on its
axis, and we know, because we are Pure(i)tans." The spokesman of the
party was named (I think I remember his name because it always gave me
the blues when I heard it) Horrors Greeley; and another person by the
name of Charles Sumner, said there ain't any north or south, east or west,
and you shan't say so, either. Now, the other people who lived in the
direction that the water courses run, just raised their bristles and
continued saying that there is a north and there is a south. When those
at the head of the water courses come out furiously mad, to coerce those
in the direction that water courses run, and to make them take it back.
Well, they went to gouging and biting, to pulling and scratching at a
furious rate. One side elected a captain by the name of Jeff Davis,
and known as one-eyed Jeff, and a first lieutenant by the name of Aleck
Stephens, commonly styled Smart Aleck. The other side selected as
captain a son of Nancy Hanks, of Bowling Green, and a son of old Bob
Lincoln, the rail-splitter, and whose name was Abe. Well, after he
was elected captain, they elected as first lieutenant an individual of
doubtful blood by the name of Hannibal Hamlin, being a descendant of the
generation of Ham, the bad son of old Noah, who meant to curse him blue,
but overdid the thing, and cursed him black.</p>
<p id="id00043">Well, as I said before, they went to fighting, but old Abe's side got
the best of the argument. But in getting the best of the argument they
called in all the people and wise men of other nations of the earth,
and they, too, said that America had no cardinal points, and that the sun
did not rise in the east and set in the west, and that the compass did
not point either north or south.</p>
<p id="id00044">Well, then, Captain Jeff Davis' side gave it up and quit, and they, too,
went to saying that there is no north, no south, no east, no west.
Well, "us boys" all took a small part in the fracas, and Shep, the
prophet, remarked that the day would come when those who once believed
that the American continent had cardinal points would be ashamed to own
it. That day has arrived. America has no north, no south, no east,
no west; the sun rises over the hills and sets over the mountains,
the compass just points up and down, and we can laugh now at the absurd
notion of there being a north and a south.</p>
<p id="id00045">Well, reader, let me whisper in your ear. I was in the row, and the
following pages will tell what part I took in the little unpleasant
misconception of there being such a thing as a north and south.</p>
<h4 id="id00046" style="margin-top: 2em">THE BLOODY CHASM</h4>
<p id="id00047">In these memoirs, after the lapse of twenty years, we propose to fight
our "battles o'er again."</p>
<p id="id00048">To do this is but a pastime and pleasure, as there is nothing that so
much delights the old soldier as to revisit the scenes and battlefields
with which he was once so familiar, and to recall the incidents, though
trifling they may have been at the time.</p>
<p id="id00049">The histories of the Lost Cause are all written out by "big bugs,"
generals and renowned historians, and like the fellow who called a turtle
a "cooter," being told that no such word as cooter was in Webster's
dictionary, remarked that he had as much right to make a dictionary as
Mr. Webster or any other man; so have I to write a history.</p>
<p id="id00050">But in these pages I do not pretend to write the history of the war.
I only give a few sketches and incidents that came under the observation
of a "high private" in the rear ranks of the rebel army. Of course,
the histories are all correct. They tell of great achievements of great
men, who wear the laurels of victory; have grand presents given them;
high positions in civil life; presidents of corporations; governors of
states; official positions, etc., and when they die, long obituaries are
published, telling their many virtues, their distinguished victories,
etc., and when they are buried, the whole country goes in mourning and is
called upon to buy an elegant monument to erect over the remains of so
distinguished and brave a general, etc. But in the following pages I
propose to tell of the fellows who did the shooting and killing, the
fortifying and ditching, the sweeping of the streets, the drilling,
the standing guard, picket and videt, and who drew (or were to draw)
eleven dollars per month and rations, and also drew the ramrod and tore
the cartridge. Pardon me should I use the personal pronoun "I" too
frequently, as I do not wish to be called egotistical, for I only write
of what I saw as an humble private in the rear rank in an infantry
regiment, commonly called "webfoot." Neither do I propose to make this
a connected journal, for I write entirely from memory, and you must
remember, kind reader, that these things happened twenty years ago,
and twenty years is a long time in the life of any individual.</p>
<p id="id00051">I was twenty-one years old then, and at that time I was not married.
Now I have a house full of young "rebels," clustering around my knees and
bumping against my elbow, while I write these reminiscences of the war
of secession, rebellion, state rights, slavery, or our rights in the
territories, or by whatever other name it may be called. These are all
with the past now, and the North and South have long ago "shaken hands
across the bloody chasm." The flag of the Southern cause has been furled
never to be again unfurled; gone like a dream of yesterday, and lives
only in the memory of those who lived through those bloody days and times.</p>
<h4 id="id00052" style="margin-top: 2em">EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY-ONE</h4>
<p id="id00053">Reader mine, did you live in that stormy period? In the year of our Lord
eighteen hundred and sixty-one, do you remember those stirring times?
Do you recollect in that year, for the first time in your life, of
hearing Dixie and the Bonnie Blue Flag? Fort Sumter was fired upon
from Charleston by troops under General Beauregard, and Major Anderson,
of the Federal army, surrendered. The die was cast; war was declared;
Lincoln called for troops from Tennessee and all the Southern states,
but Tennessee, loyal to her Southern sister states, passed the ordinance
of secession, and enlisted under the Stars and Bars. From that day on,
every person, almost, was eager for the war, and we were all afraid it
would be over and we not be in the fight. Companies were made up,
regiments organized; left, left, left, was heard from morning till night.
By the right flank, file left, march, were familiar sounds. Everywhere
could be seen Southern cockades made by the ladies and our sweethearts.
And some who afterwards became Union men made the most fiery secession
speeches. Flags made by the ladies were presented to companies, and to
hear the young orators tell of how they would protect that flag, and that
they would come back with the flag or come not at all, and if they fell
they would fall with their backs to the field and their feet to the foe,
would fairly make our hair stand on end with intense patriotism, and we
wanted to march right off and whip twenty Yankees. But we soon found out
that the glory of war was at home among the ladies and not upon the field
of blood and carnage of death, where our comrades were mutilated and torn
by shot and shell. And to see the cheek blanch and to hear the fervent
prayer, aye, I might say the agony of mind were very different indeed
from the patriotic times at home.</p>
<h4 id="id00054" style="margin-top: 2em">CAMP CHEATHAM</h4>
<p id="id00055">After being drilled and disciplined at Camp Cheatham, under the
administrative ability of General R. C. Foster, 3rd, for two months, we,
the First, Third and Eleventh Tennessee Regiments—Maney, Brown and Rains—
learned of the advance of McClelland's army into Virginia, toward
Harper's Ferry and Bull Run.</p>
<p id="id00056">The Federal army was advancing all along the line. They expected to
march right into the heart of the South, set the negroes free, take our
property, and whip the rebels back into the Union. But they soon found
that secession was a bigger mouthful than they could swallow at one
gobble. They found the people of the South in earnest.</p>
<p id="id00057">Secession may have been wrong in the abstract, and has been tried and
settled by the arbitrament of the sword and bayonet, but I am as firm in
my convictions today of the right of secession as I was in 1861. The
South is our country, the North is the country of those who live there.
We are an agricultural people; they are a manufacturing people. They are
the descendants of the good old Puritan Plymouth Rock stock, and we of
the South from the proud and aristocratic stock of Cavaliers. We believe
in the doctrine of State rights, they in the doctrine of centralization.</p>
<p id="id00058">John C. Calhoun, Patrick Henry, and Randolph, of Roanoke, saw the venom
under their wings, and warned the North of the consequences, but they
laughed at them. We only fought for our State rights, they for Union and
power. The South fell battling under the banner of State rights, but
yet grand and glorious even in death. Now, reader, please pardon the
digression. It is every word that we will say in behalf of the rights of
secession in the following pages. The question has been long ago settled
and is buried forever, never in this age or generation to be resurrected.</p>
<p id="id00059">The vote of the regiment was taken, and we all voted to go to Virginia.<br/>
The Southern Confederacy had established its capital at Richmond.<br/></p>
<p id="id00060">A man by the name of Jackson, who kept a hotel in Maryland, had raised
the Stars and Bars, and a Federal officer by the name of Ellsworth tore
it down, and Jackson had riddled his body with buckshot from a double-
barreled shotgun. First blood for the South.</p>
<p id="id00061">Everywhere the enemy were advancing; the red clouds of war were booming
up everywhere, but at this particular epoch, I refer you to the history
of that period.</p>
<p id="id00062">A private soldier is but an automaton, a machine that works by the
command of a good, bad, or indifferent engineer, and is presumed to know
nothing of all these great events. His business is to load and shoot,
stand picket, videt, etc., while the officers sleep, or perhaps die on
the field of battle and glory, and his obituary and epitaph but "one"
remembered among the slain, but to what company, regiment, brigade or
corps he belongs, there is no account; he is soon forgotten.</p>
<p id="id00063">A long line of box cars was drawn up at Camp Cheatham one morning in July,
the bugle sounded to strike tents and to place everything on board the
cars. We old comrades have gotten together and laughed a hundred times
at the plunder and property that we had accumulated, compared with our
subsequent scanty wardrobe. Every soldier had enough blankets, shirts,
pants and old boots to last a year, and the empty bottles and jugs would
have set up a first-class drug store. In addition, every one of us had
his gun, cartridge-box, knapsack and three days' rations, a pistol on
each side and a long Bowie knife, that had been presented to us by
William Wood, of Columbia, Tenn. We got in and on top of the box cars,
the whistle sounded, and amid the waving of hats, handkerchiefs and flags,
we bid a long farewell and forever to old Camp Cheatham.</p>
<p id="id00064">Arriving at Nashville, the citizens turned out <i>en masse</i> to receive us,
and here again we were reminded of the good old times and the "gal we
left behind us." Ah, it is worth soldiering to receive such welcomes as
this.</p>
<p id="id00065">The Rev. Mr. Elliott invited us to his college grove, where had been
prepared enough of the good things of earth to gratify the tastes of the
most fastidious epicure. And what was most novel, we were waited on by
the most beautiful young ladies (pupils of his school). It was charming,
I tell you. Rev. C. D. Elliott was our Brigade Chaplain all through the
war, and Dr. C. T. Quintard the Chaplain of the First Tennessee Regiment—
two of the best men who ever lived. (Quintard is the present Bishop of
Tennessee).</p>
<h4 id="id00066" style="margin-top: 2em">ON THE ROAD</h4>
<p id="id00067">Leaving Nashville, we went bowling along twenty or thirty miles an hour,
as fast as steam could carry us. At every town and station citizens and
ladies were waving their handkerchiefs and hurrahing for Jeff Davis and
the Southern Confederacy. Magnificent banquets were prepared for us all
along the entire route. It was one magnificent festival from one end of
the line to the other. At Chattanooga, Knoxville, Bristol, Farmville,
Lynchburg, everywhere, the same demonstrations of joy and welcome greeted
us. Ah, those were glorious times; and you, reader, see why the old
soldier loves to live over again that happy period.</p>
<p id="id00068">But the Yankees are advancing on Manassas. July 21st finds us a hundred
miles from that fierce day's battle. That night, after the battle is
fought and won, our train draws up at Manassas Junction.</p>
<p id="id00069">Well, what news? Everyone was wild, nay, frenzied with the excitement
of victory, and we felt very much like the "boy the calf had run over."
We felt that the war was over, and we would have to return home without
even seeing a Yankee soldier. Ah, how we envied those that were wounded.
We thought at that time that we would have given a thousand dollars to
have been in the battle, and to have had our arm shot off, so we could
have returned home with an empty sleeve. But the battle was over,
and we left out.</p>
<h4 id="id00070" style="margin-top: 2em">STAUNTON</h4>
<p id="id00071">From Manassas our train moved on to Staunton, Virginia. Here we again
went into camp, overhauled kettles, pots, buckets, jugs and tents,
and found everything so tangled up and mixed that we could not tell
tuther from which.</p>
<p id="id00072">We stretched our tents, and the soldiers once again felt that restraint
and discipline which we had almost forgotten en route to this place.
But, as the war was over now, our captains, colonels and generals were
not "hard on the boys;" in fact, had begun to electioneer a little for
the Legislature and for Congress. In fact, some wanted, and were looking
forward to the time, to run for Governor of Tennessee.</p>
<p id="id00073">Staunton was a big place; whisky was cheap, and good Virginia tobacco was
plentiful, and the currency of the country was gold and silver.</p>
<p id="id00074">The State Asylums for the blind and insane were here, and we visited all
the places of interest.</p>
<p id="id00075">Here is where we first saw the game called "chuck-a-luck," afterwards
so popular in the army. But, I always noticed that chuck won, and luck
always lost.</p>
<p id="id00076">Faro and roulette were in full blast; in fact, the skum had begun to come
to the surface, and shoddy was the gentleman. By this, I mean that civil
law had been suspended; the ermine of the judges had been overridden by
the sword and bayonet. In other words, the military had absorbed the
civil. Hence the gambler was in his glory.</p>
<h4 id="id00077" style="margin-top: 2em">WARM SPRINGS, VIRGINIA</h4>
<p id="id00078">One day while we were idling around camp, June Tucker sounded the<br/>
assembly, and we were ordered aboard the cars. We pulled out for<br/>
Millboro; from there we had to foot it to Bath Alum and Warm Springs.<br/>
We went over the Allegheny Mountains.<br/></p>
<p id="id00079">I was on every march that was ever made by the First Tennessee Regiment
during the whole war, and at this time I cannot remember of ever
experiencing a harder or more fatiguing march. It seemed that mountain
was piled upon mountain. No sooner would we arrive at a place that
seemed to be the top than another view of a higher, and yet higher
mountain would rise before us. From the foot to the top of the mountain
the soldiers lined the road, broken down and exhausted. First one
blanket was thrown away, and then another; now and then a good pair of
pants, old boots and shoes, Sunday hats, pistols and Bowie knives strewed
the road. Old bottles and jugs and various and sundry articles were
lying pell-mell everywhere. Up and up, and onward and upward we pulled
and toiled, until we reached the very top, when there burst upon our
view one of the grandest and most beautiful landscapes we ever beheld.</p>
<p id="id00080">Nestled in the valley right before us is Bath Alum and Warm Springs.
It seemed to me at that time, and since, a glimpse of a better and
brighter world beyond, to the weary Christian pilgrim who may have been
toiling on his journey for years. A glad shout arose from those who had
gained the top, which cheered and encouraged the others to persevere.
At last we got to Warm Springs. Here they had a nice warm dinner waiting
for us. They had a large bath-house at Warm Springs. A large pool of
water arranged so that a person could go in any depth he might desire.
It was a free thing, and we pitched in. We had no idea of the enervating
effect it would have upon our physical systems, and as the water was but
little past tepid, we stayed in a good long time. But when we came out
we were as limp as dishrags. About this time the assembly sounded and we
were ordered to march. But we couldn't march worth a cent. There we had
to stay until our systems had had sufficient recuperation. And we would
wonder what all this marching was for, as the war was over anyhow.</p>
<p id="id00081">The second day after leaving Warm Springs we came to Big Springs.
It was in the month of August, and the biggest white frost fell that I
ever saw in winter.</p>
<p id="id00082">The Yankees were reported to be in close proximity to us, and Captain
Field with a detail of ten men was sent forward on the scout. I was on
the detail, and when we left camp that evening, it was dark and dreary
and drizzling rain. After a while the rain began to come down harder
and harder, and every one of us was wet and drenched to the skin—guns,
cartridges and powder. The next morning about daylight, while standing
videt, I saw a body of twenty-five or thirty Yankees approaching, and I
raised my gun for the purpose of shooting, and pulled down, but the cap
popped. They discovered me and popped three or four caps at me; their
powder was wet also. Before I could get on a fresh cap, Captain Field
came running up with his seven-shooting rifle, and the first fire he
killed a Yankee. They broke and run. Captain Field did all the firing,
but every time he pulled down he brought a Yankee. I have forgotten the
number that he did kill, but if I am not mistaken it was either twenty
or twenty-one, for I remember the incident was in almost every Southern
paper at that time, and the general comments were that one Southern man
was equal to twenty Yankees. While we were in hot pursuit, one truly
brave and magnanimous Yankee, who had been badly wounded, said,
"Gentlemen, you have killed me, but not a hundred yards from here is the
main line." We did not go any further, but halted right there, and after
getting all the information that we could out of the wounded Yankee,
we returned to camp.</p>
<p id="id00083">One evening, General Robert E. Lee came to our camp. He was a fine-
looking gentleman, and wore a moustache. He was dressed in blue
cottonade and looked like some good boy's grandpa. I felt like going up
to him and saying good evening, Uncle Bob! I am not certain at this late
day that I did not do so. I remember going up mighty close and sitting
there and listening to his conversation with the officers of our
regiment. He had a calm and collected air about him, his voice was kind
and tender, and his eye was as gentle as a dove's. His whole make-up
of form and person, looks and manner had a kind of gentle and soothing
magnetism about it that drew every one to him and made them love, respect,
and honor him. I fell in love with the old gentleman and felt like going
home with him. I know I have never seen a finer looking man, nor one
with more kind and gentle features and manners. His horse was standing
nipping the grass, and when I saw that he was getting ready to start I
ran and caught his horse and led him up to him. He took the reins of the
bridle in his hand and said, "thank you, my son," rode off, and my heart
went with him. There was none of his staff with him; he had on no sword
or pistol, or anything to show his rank. The only thing that I remember
he had was an opera-glass hung over his shoulder by a strap.</p>
<p id="id00084">Leaving Big Springs, we marched on day by day, across Greenbrier and
Gauley rivers to Huntersville, a little but sprightly town hid in the
very fastnesses of the mountains. The people live exceedingly well in
these mountains. They had plenty of honey and buckwheat cakes, and
they called buttermilk "sour-milk," and sour-milk weren't fit for pigs;
they couldn't see how folks drank sour-milk. But sour-kraut was good.
Everything seemed to grow in the mountains—potatoes, Irish and sweet;
onions, snap beans, peas—though the country was very thinly populated.
Deer, bear, and foxes, as well as wild turkeys, and rabbits and squirrels
abounded everywhere. Apples and peaches were abundant, and everywhere
the people had apple-butter for every meal; and occasionally we would
come across a small-sized distillery, which we would at once start to
doing duty. We drank the singlings while they were hot, but like the old
woman who could not eat corn bread until she heard that they made whisky
out of corn, then she could manage to "worry a little of it down;"
so it was with us and the singlings.</p>
<p id="id00085">From this time forward, we were ever on the march—tramp, tramp, tramp—
always on the march. Lee's corps, Stonewall Jackson's division—I refer
you to the histories for the marches and tramps made by these commanders
the first year of the war. Well, we followed them.</p>
<h4 id="id00086" style="margin-top: 2em">CHEAT MOUNTAIN</h4>
<p id="id00087">One evening about 4 o'clock, the drummers of the regiment began to beat
their drums as hard as they could stave, and I saw men running in every
direction, and the camp soon became one scene of hurry and excitement.
I asked some one what all this hubbub meant. He looked at me with utter
astonishment. I saw soldiers running to their tents and grabbing their
guns and cartridge-boxes and hurry out again, the drums still rolling and
rattling. I asked several other fellows what in the dickens did all this
mean? Finally one fellow, who seemed scared almost out of his wits,
answered between a wail and a shriek, "Why, sir, they are beating the
long roll." Says I, "What is the long roll for?" "The long roll, man,
the long roll! Get your gun; they are beating the long roll!" This was
all the information that I could get. It was the first, last, and only
long roll that I ever heard. But, then everything was new, and Colonel
Maney, ever prompt, ordered the assembly. Without any command or bugle
sound, or anything, every soldier was in his place. Tents, knapsacks and
everything was left indiscriminately.</p>
<p id="id00088">We were soon on the march, and we marched on and on and on. About night
it began to rain. All our blankets were back in camp, but we were
expected every minute to be ordered into action. That night we came
to Mingo Flats. The rain still poured. We had no rations to eat and
nowhere to sleep. Some of us got some fence rails and piled them
together and worried through the night as best we could. The next
morning we were ordered to march again, but we soon began to get hungry,
and we had about half halted and about not halted at all. Some of the
boys were picking blackberries. The main body of the regiment was
marching leisurely along the road, when bang, debang, debang, bang,
and a volley of buck and ball came hurling right through the two advance
companies of the regiment—companies H and K. We had marched into a
Yankee ambuscade.</p>
<p id="id00089">All at once everything was a scene of consternation and confusion;
no one seemed equal to the emergency. We did not know whether to run or
stand, when Captain Field gave the command to fire and charge the bushes.
We charged the bushes and saw the Yankees running through them, and we
fired on them as they retreated. I do not know how many Yankees were
killed, if any. Our company (H) had one man killed, Pat Hanley, an
Irishman, who had joined our company at Chattanooga. Hugh Padgett and
Dr. Hooper, and perhaps one or two others, were wounded.</p>
<p id="id00090">After the fighting was over, where, O where, was all the fine rigging
heretofore on our officers? They could not be seen. Corporals,
sergeants, lieutenants, captains, all had torn all the fine lace off
their clothing. I noticed that at the time and was surprised and hurt.
I asked several of them why they had torn off the insignia of their rank,
and they always answered, "Humph, you think that I was going to be a
target for the Yankees to shoot at?" You see, this was our first battle,
and the officers had not found out that minnie as well as cannon balls
were blind; that they had no eyes and could not see. They thought that
the balls would hunt for them and not hurt the privates. I always shot
at privates. It was they that did the shooting and killing, and if I
could kill or wound a private, why, my chances were so much the better.
I always looked upon officers as harmless personages. Colonel Field,
I suppose, was about the only Colonel of the war that did as much
shooting as the private soldier. If I shot at an officer, it was at long
range, but when we got down to close quarters I always tried to kill
those that were trying to kill me.</p>
<h4 id="id00091" style="margin-top: 2em">SEWELL MOUNTAIN</h4>
<p id="id00092">From Cheat Mountain we went by forced marches day and night, over hill
and everlasting mountains, and through lovely and smiling valleys,
sometimes the country rich and productive, sometimes rough and broken,
through towns and villages, the names of which I have forgotten, crossing
streams and rivers, but continuing our never ceasing, unending march,
passing through the Kanawha Valley and by the salt-works, and nearly back
to the Ohio river, when we at last reached Sewell Mountain. Here we
found General John B. Floyd strongly entrenched and fortified and facing
the advance of the Federal army. Two days before our arrival he had
charged and captured one line of the enemy's works. I know nothing of
the battle. See the histories for that. I only write from memory,
and that was twenty years ago, but I remember reading in the newspapers
at that time of some distinguished man, whether he was captain, colonel
or general, I have forgotten, but I know the papers said "he sought the
bauble, reputation, at the cannon's mouth, and went to glory from the
death-bed of fame." I remember it sounded gloriously in print. Now,
reader, this is all I know of this grand battle. I only recollect what
the newspapers said about it, and you know that a newspaper always tells
the truth. I also know that beef livers sold for one dollar apiece in
gold; and here is where we were first paid off in Confederate money.
Remaining here a few days, we commenced our march again.</p>
<p id="id00093">Sewell Mountain, Harrisonburg, Lewisburg, Kanawha Salt-works, first four,
forward and back, seemed to be the programme of that day. Rosecrans,
that wiley old fox, kept Lee and Jackson both busy trying to catch him,
but Rosey would not be caught. March, march, march; tramp, tramp, tramp,
back through the valley to Huntersville and Warm Springs, and up through
the most beautiful valley—the Shenandoah—in the world, passing towns
and elegant farms and beautiful residences, rich pastures and abundant
harvests, which a Federal General (Fighting Joe Hooker), later in the war,
ordered to be so sacked and destroyed that a "crow passing over this
valley would have to carry his rations." Passing on, we arrived at
Winchester. The first night we arrived at this place, the wind blew a
perfect hurricane, and every tent and marquee in Lee's and Jackson's army
was blown down. This is the first sight we had of Stonewall Jackson,
riding upon his old sorrel horse, his feet drawn up as if his stirrups
were much too short for him, and his old dingy military cap hanging well
forward over his head, and his nose erected in the air, his old rusty
sabre rattling by his side. This is the way the grand old hero of a
hundred battles looked. His spirit is yonder with the blessed ones that
have gone before, but his history is one that the country will ever be
proud of, and his memory will be cherished and loved by the old soldiers
who followed him through the war.</p>
<h4 id="id00094" style="margin-top: 2em">ROMNEY</h4>
<p id="id00095">Our march to and from Romney was in midwinter in the month of January,
1862. It was the coldest winter known to the oldest inhabitant of these
regions. Situated in the most mountainous country in Virginia, and away
up near the Maryland and Pennsylvania line, the storm king seemed to rule
in all of his majesty and power. Snow and rain and sleet and tempest
seemed to ride and laugh and shriek and howl and moan and groan in
all their fury and wrath. The soldiers on this march got very much
discouraged and disheartened. As they marched along icicles hung from
their clothing, guns, and knapsacks; many were badly frost bitten,
and I heard of many freezing to death along the road side. My feet
peeled off like a peeled onion on that march, and I have not recovered
from its effects to this day. The snow and ice on the ground being
packed by the soldiers tramping, the horses hitched to the artillery
wagons were continually slipping and sliding and falling and wounding
themselves and sometimes killing their riders. The wind whistling with
a keen and piercing shriek, seemed as if they would freeze the marrow
in our bones. The soldiers in the whole army got rebellious—almost
mutinous—and would curse and abuse Stonewall Jackson; in fact, they
called him "Fool Tom Jackson." They blamed him for the cold weather;
they blamed him for everything, and when he would ride by a regiment they
would take occasion, <i>sotto voce</i>, to abuse him, and call him "Fool Tom
Jackson," and loud enough for him to hear. Soldiers from all commands
would fall out of ranks and stop by the road side and swear that they
would not follow such a leader any longer.</p>
<p id="id00096">When Jackson got to Romney, and was ready to strike Banks and Meade in a
vital point, and which would have changed, perhaps, the destiny of the
war and the South, his troops refused to march any further, and he turned,
marched back to Winchester and tendered his resignation to the
authorities at Richmond. But the great leader's resignation was not
accepted. It was in store for him to do some of the hardest fighting
and greatest generalship that was done during the war.</p>
<p id="id00097">One night at this place (Romney), I was sent forward with two other<br/>
soldiers across the wire bridge as picket. One of them was named<br/>
Schwartz and the other Pfifer—he called it Fifer, but spelled it with a<br/>
P—both full-blooded Dutchmen, and belonging to Company E, or the German<br/>
Yagers, Captain Harsh, or, as he was more generally called, "God-for-dam."<br/></p>
<p id="id00098">When we had crossed the bridge and taken our station for the night,
I saw another snow storm was coming. The zig-zag lightnings began to
flare and flash, and sheet after sheet of wild flames seemed to burst
right over our heads and were hissing around us. The very elements
seemed to be one aurora borealis with continued lightning. Streak after
streak of lightning seemed to be piercing each the other, the one from
the north and the other from the south. The white clouds would roll up,
looking like huge snow balls, encircled with living fires. The earth and
hills and trees were covered with snow, and the lightnings seemed to be
playing "King, King Canico" along its crusted surface. If it thundered
at all, it seemed to be between a groaning and a rumbling sound. The
trees and hills seemed white with livid fire. I can remember that storm
now as the grandest picture that has ever made any impression on my
memory. As soon as it quit lightning, the most blinding snow storm fell
that I ever saw. It fell so thick and fast that I got hot. I felt like
pulling off my coat. I was freezing. The winds sounded like sweet
music. I felt grand, glorious, peculiar; beautiful things began to play
and dance around my head, and I supposed I must have dropped to sleep or
something, when I felt Schwartz grab me, and give me a shake, and at the
same time raised his gun and fired, and yelled out at the top of his
voice, "Here is your mule." The next instant a volley of minnie balls
was scattering the snow all around us. I tried to walk, but my pants and
boots were stiff and frozen, and the blood had ceased to circulate in my
lower limbs. But Schwartz kept on firing, and at every fire he would
yell out, "Yer is yer mool!" Pfifer could not speak English, and I
reckon he said "Here is your mule" in Dutch. About the same time we were
hailed from three Confederate officers, at full gallop right toward us,
not to shoot. And as they galloped up to us and thundered right across
the bridge, we discovered it was Stonewall Jackson and two of his staff.
At the same time the Yankee cavalry charged us, and we, too, ran back
across the bridge.</p>
<h4 id="id00099" style="margin-top: 2em">STANDING PICKET ON THE POTOMAC</h4>
<p id="id00100">Leaving Winchester, we continued up the valley.</p>
<p id="id00101">The night before the attack on Bath or Berkly Springs, there fell the
largest snow I ever saw.</p>
<p id="id00102">Stonewall Jackson had seventeen thousand soldiers at his command.
The Yankees were fortified at Bath. An attack was ordered, our regiment
marched upon top of a mountain overlooking the movements of both armies
in the valley below. About 4 o'clock one grand charge and rush was made,
and the Yankees were routed and skedaddled.</p>
<p id="id00103">By some circumstance or other, Lieutenant J. Lee Bullock came in command
of the First Tennessee Regiment. But Lee was not a graduate of West
Point, you see.</p>
<p id="id00104">The Federals had left some spiked batteries on the hill side, as we
were informed by an old citizen, and Lee, anxious to capture a battery,
gave the new and peculiar command of, "Soldiers, you are ordered to go
forward and capture a battery; just piroute up that hill; piroute, march.
Forward, men; piroute carefully." The boys "pirouted" as best they
could. It may have been a new command, and not laid down in Hardee's or
Scott's tactics; but Lee was speaking plain English, and we understood
his meaning perfectly, and even at this late day I have no doubt that
every soldier who heard the command thought it a legal and technical term
used by military graduates to go forward and capture a battery.</p>
<p id="id00105">At this place (Bath), a beautiful young lady ran across the street.
I have seen many beautiful and pretty women in my life, but she was
the prettiest one I ever saw. Were you to ask any member of the First
Tennessee Regiment who was the prettiest woman he ever saw, he would
unhesitatingly answer that he saw her at Berkly Springs during the war,
and he would continue the tale, and tell you of Lee Bullock's piroute
and Stonewall Jackson's charge.</p>
<p id="id00106">We rushed down to the big spring bursting out of the mountain side,
and it was hot enough to cook an egg. Never did I see soldiers more
surprised. The water was so hot we could not drink it.</p>
<p id="id00107">The snow covered the ground and was still falling.</p>
<p id="id00108">That night I stood picket on the Potomac with a detail of the Third
Arkansas Regiment. I remember how sorry I felt for the poor fellows,
because they had enlisted for the war, and we for only twelve months.
Before nightfall I took in every object and commenced my weary vigils.
I had to stand all night. I could hear the rumblings of the Federal
artillery and wagons, and hear the low shuffling sound made by troops on
the march. The snow came pelting down as large as goose eggs. About
midnight the snow ceased to fall, and became quiet. Now and then the
snow would fall off the bushes and make a terrible noise. While I was
peering through the darkness, my eyes suddenly fell upon the outlines of
a man. The more I looked the more I was convinced that it was a Yankee
picket. I could see his hat and coat—yes, see his gun. I was sure
that it was a Yankee picket. What was I to do? The relief was several
hundred yards in the rear. The more I looked the more sure I was.
At last a cold sweat broke out all over my body. Turkey bumps rose.
I summoned all the nerves and bravery that I could command, and said:
"Halt! who goes there?" There being no response, I became resolute.
I did not wish to fire and arouse the camp, but I marched right up to it
and stuck my bayonet through and through it. It was a stump. I tell the
above, because it illustrates a part of many a private's recollections
of the war; in fact, a part of the hardships and suffering that they go
through.</p>
<p id="id00109">One secret of Stonewall Jackson's success was that he was such a strict
disciplinarian. He did his duty himself and was ever at his post,
and he expected and demanded of everybody to do the same thing. He would
have a man shot at the drop of a hat, and drop it himself. The first
army order that was ever read to us after being attached to his corps,
was the shooting to death by musketry of two men who had stopped on the
battlefield to carry off a wounded comrade. It was read to us in line
of battle at Winchester.</p>
<h4 id="id00110" style="margin-top: 2em">SCHWARTZ AND PFIFER</h4>
<p id="id00111">At Valley Mountain the finest and fattest beef I ever saw was issued to
the soldiers, and it was the custom to use tallow for lard. Tallow made
good shortening if the biscuits were eaten hot, but if allowed to get
cold they had a strong taste of tallow in their flavor that did not
taste like the flavor of vanilla or lemon in ice cream and strawberries;
and biscuits fried in tallow were something upon the principle of 'possum
and sweet potatoes. Well, Pfifer had got the fat from the kidneys of
two hind quarters and made a cake of tallow weighing about twenty-five
pounds. He wrapped it up and put it carefully away in his knapsack.
When the assembly sounded for the march, Pfifer strapped on his knapsack.
It was pretty heavy, but Pfifer was "well heeled." He knew the good
frying he would get out of that twenty-five pounds of nice fat tallow,
and he was willing to tug and toil all day over a muddy and sloppy road
for his anticipated hot tallow gravy for supper. We made a long and hard
march that day, and about dark went into camp. Fires were made up and
water brought, and the soldiers began to get supper. Pfifer was in a
good humor. He went to get that twenty-five pounds of good, nice,
fat tallow out of his knapsack, and on opening it, lo and behold! it was
a rock that weighed about thirty pounds. Pfifer was struck dumb with
amazement. He looked bewildered, yea, even silly. I do not think he
cursed, because he could not do the subject justice. He looked at that
rock with the death stare of a doomed man. But he suspected Schwartz.
He went to Schwartz's knapsack, and there he found his cake of tallow.
He went to Schwartz and would have killed him had not soldiers interfered
and pulled him off by main force. His eyes blazed and looked like those
of a tiger when he has just torn his victim limb from limb. I would
not have been in Schwartz's shoes for all the tallow in every beef in
Virginia. Captain Harsh made Schwartz carry that rock for two days to
pacify Pfifer.</p>
<h4 id="id00112" style="margin-top: 2em">THE COURT-MARTIAL</h4>
<p id="id00113">One incident came under my observation while in Virginia that made a deep
impression on my mind. One morning, about daybreak, the new guard was
relieving the old guard. It was a bitter cold morning, and on coming to
our extreme outpost, I saw a soldier—he was but a mere boy—either dead
or asleep at his post. The sergeant commanding the relief went up to him
and shook him. He immediately woke up and seemed very much frightened.
He was fast asleep at his post. The sergeant had him arrested and
carried to the guard-house.</p>
<p id="id00114">Two days afterwards I received notice to appear before a court-martial at
nine. I was summoned to appear as a witness against him for being asleep
at his post in the enemy's country. An example had to be made of some
one. He had to be tried for his life. The court-martial was made up
of seven or eight officers of a different regiment. The witnesses all
testified against him, charges and specifications were read, and by the
rules of war he had to be shot to death by musketry. The Advocate-
General for the prosecution made the opening speech. He read the law in
a plain, straightforward manner, and said that for a soldier to go to
sleep at his post of duty, while so much depended upon him, was the most
culpable of all crimes, and the most inexcusable. I trembled in my boots,
for on several occasions I knew I had taken a short nap, even on the very
outpost. The Advocate-General went on further to say, that the picket
was the sentinel that held the lives of his countrymen and the liberty
of his country in his hands, and it mattered not what may have been his
record in the past. At one moment he had forfeited his life to his
country. For discipline's sake, if for nothing else, you gentlemen that
make up this court-martial find the prisoner guilty. It is necessary for
you to be firm, gentlemen, for upon your decision depends the safety of
our country. When he had finished, thinks I to myself, "Gone up the
spout, sure; we will have a first-class funeral here before night."</p>
<p id="id00115">Well, as to the lawyer who defended him, I cannot now remember his
speeches; but he represented a fair-haired boy leaving his home and
family, telling his father and aged mother and darling little sister
farewell, and spoke of his proud step, though a mere boy, going to defend
his country and his loved ones; but at one weak moment, when nature,
tasked and taxed beyond the bounds of human endurance, could stand no
longer, and upon the still and silent picket post, when the whole army
was hushed in slumber, what wonder is it that he, too, may have fallen
asleep while at his post of duty.</p>
<p id="id00116">Some of you gentlemen of this court-martial may have sons, may have
brothers; yes, even fathers, in the army. Where are they tonight?
You love your children, or your brother or father. This mere youth has
a father and mother and sister away back in Tennessee. They are willing
to give him to his country. But oh! gentlemen, let the word go back to
Tennessee that he died upon the battlefield, and not by the hands of his
own comrades for being asleep at his post of duty. I cannot now remember
the speeches, but one thing I do know, that he was acquitted, and I was
glad of it.</p>
<h4 id="id00117" style="margin-top: 2em">"THE DEATH WATCH"</h4>
<p id="id00118">One more scene I can remember. Kind friends—you that know nothing of a
soldier's life—I ask you in all candor not to doubt the following lines
in this sketch. You have no doubt read of the old Roman soldier found
amid the ruins of Pompeii, who had stood there for sixteen hundred years,
and when he was excavated was found at his post with his gun clasped in
his skeleton hands. You believe this because it is written in history.
I have heard politicians tell it. I have heard it told from the sacred
desk. It is true; no one doubts it.</p>
<p id="id00119">Now, were I to tell something that happened in this nineteenth century
exactly similar, you would hardly believe it. But whether you believe
it or not, it is for you to say. At a little village called Hampshire
Crossing, our regiment was ordered to go to a little stream called
St. John's Run, to relieve the 14th Georgia Regiment and the 3rd
Arkansas. I cannot tell the facts as I desire to. In fact, my hand
trembles so, and my feelings are so overcome, that it is hard for me to
write at all. But we went to the place that we were ordered to go to,
and when we arrived there we found the guard sure enough. If I remember
correctly, there were just eleven of them. Some were sitting down and
some were lying down; but each and every one was as cold and as hard
frozen as the icicles that hung from their hands and faces and clothing—
dead! They had died at their post of duty. Two of them, a little in
advance of the others, were standing with their guns in their hands,
as cold and as hard frozen as a monument of marble—standing sentinel
with loaded guns in their frozen hands! The tale is told. Were they
true men? Does He who noteth the sparrow's fall, and numbers the hairs
of our heads, have any interest in one like ourselves? Yes; He doeth
all things well. Not a sparrow falls to the ground without His consent.</p>
<h4 id="id00120" style="margin-top: 2em">VIRGINIA, FAREWELL</h4>
<p id="id00121">After having served through all the valley campaign, and marched through
all the wonders of Northwest Virginia, and being associated with the army
of Virginia, it was with sorrow and regret that we bade farewell to "Old
Virginia's shore," to go to other fields of blood and carnage and death.
We had learned to love Virginia; we love her now. The people were kind
and good to us. They divided their last crust of bread and rasher of
bacon with us. We loved Lee, we loved Jackson; we loved the name,
association and people of Virginia. Hatton, Forbes, Anderson, Gilliam,
Govan, Loring, Ashby and Schumaker were names with which we had been long
associated. We hated to leave all our old comrades behind us. We felt
that we were proving recreant to the instincts of our own manhood,
and that we were leaving those who had stood by us on the march and
battlefield when they most needed our help. We knew the 7th and 14th
Tennessee regiments; we knew the 3rd Arkansas, the 14th Georgia, and 42nd
Virginia regiments. Their names were as familiar as household words.
We were about to leave the bones of Joe Bynum and Gus Allen and Patrick
Hanly. We were about to bid farewell to every tender association that we
had formed with the good people of Virginia, and to our old associates
among the soldiers of the Grand Army of Virginia. <i>Virginia, farewell!</i>
Away back yonder, in good old Tennessee, our homes and loved ones are
being robbed and insulted, our fields laid waste, our cities sacked,
and our people slain. Duty as well as patriotism calls us back to our
native home, to try and defend it, as best we can, against an invading
army of our then enemies; and, Virginia, once more we bid you a long
farewell!</p>
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