Part 7 (1/2)

THE REAR GUARD

When we had marched about a mile back in the rear of the battlefield, we were ordered to halt so that all stragglers might pa.s.s us, as we were detailed as the rear guard. While resting on the road side we saw Day's brigade pa.s.s us. They were gunless, cartridge-boxless, knapsackless, canteenless, and all other military accoutermentsless, and swordless, and officerless, and they all seemed to have the 'possum grins, like Bragg looked, and as they pa.s.sed our regiment, you never heard such fun made of a parcel of soldiers in your life. Every fellow was yelling at the top of his voice, ”Yaller-hammer, Alabama, flicker, flicker, flicker, yaller-hammer, Alabama, flicker, flicker, flicker.” I felt sorry for the yellow-hammer Alabamians, they looked so hacked, and answered back never a word. When they had pa.s.sed, two pieces of artillery pa.s.sed us. They were the only two pieces not captured at Missionary Ridge, and they were ordered to immediately precede us in bringing up the rear. The whole rear guard was placed under the command of the n.o.ble, generous, handsome and brave General Gist, of South Carolina. I loved General Gist, and when I mention his name tears gather in my eyes. I think he was the handsomest man I ever knew.

Our army was a long time crossing the railroad bridge across Chickamauga river. Maney's brigade, of Cheatham's division, and General L. E. Polk's brigade, of Cleburne's division, formed a sort of line of battle, and had to wait until the stragglers had all pa.s.sed. I remember looking at them, and as they pa.s.sed I could read the character of every soldier. Some were mad, others cowed, and many were laughing. Some were cursing Bragg, some the Yankees, and some were rejoicing at the defeat. I cannot describe it. It was the first defeat our army had ever suffered, but the prevailing sentiment was anathemas and denunciations hurled against Jeff Davis for ordering Longstreet's corps to Knoxville, and sending off Generals Wheeler's and Forrest's cavalry, while every private soldier in the whole army knew that the enemy was concentrating at Chattanooga.

CHICKAMAUGA STATION

When we arrived at Chickamauga Station, our brigade and General Lucius E. Polk's brigade, of Cleburne's division, were left to set fire to the town and to burn up and destroy all those immense piles of army stores and provisions which had been acc.u.mulated there to starve the Yankees out of Chattanooga. Great piles of corn in sacks, and bacon, and crackers, and mola.s.ses, and sugar, and coffee, and rice, and potatoes, and onions, and peas, and flour by the hundreds of barrels, all now to be given to the flames, while for months the Rebel soldiers had been stinted and starved for the want of these same provisions. It was enough to make the bravest and most patriotic soul that ever fired a gun in defense of any cause on earth, think of rebelling against the authorities as they then were. Every private soldier knew these stores were there, and for the want of them we lost our cause.

Reader, I ask you who you think was to blame? Most of our army had already pa.s.sed through hungry and disheartened, and here were all these stores that had to be destroyed. Before setting fire to the town, every soldier in Maney's and Polk's brigades loaded himself down with rations. It was a laughable looking rear guard of a routed and retreating army. Every one of us had cut open the end of a corn sack, emptied out the corn, and filled it with hard-tack, and, besides, every one of us had a side of bacon hung to our bayonets on our guns. Our canteens, and clothes, and faces, and hair were all gummed up with mola.s.ses. Such is the picture of our rear guard. Now, reader, if you were ever on the rear guard of a routed and retreating army, you know how tedious it is. You don't move more than ten feet at furthest before you have to halt, and then ten feet again a few minutes afterwards, and so on all day long. You haven't time to sit down a moment before you are ordered to move on again. And the Yankees dash up every now and then, and fire a volley into your rear. Now that is the way we were marched that livelong day, until nearly dark, and then the Yankees began to crowd us. We can see their line forming, and know we have to fight.

THE BATTLE OF CAT CREEK

About dark a small body of cavalry dashed in ahead of us and captured and carried off one piece of artillery and Colonel John F. House, General Maney's a.s.sistant adjutant-general. We will have to form line of battle and drive them back. Well, we quickly form line of battle, and the Yankees are seen to emerge from the woods about two hundred yards from us. We promptly sh.e.l.l off those sides of bacon and sacks of hard-tack that we had worried and tugged with all day long. Bang, bang, siz, siz. We are ordered to load and fire promptly and to hold our position. Yonder they come, a whole division. Our regiment is the only regiment in the action. They are crowding us; our poor little handful of men are being killed and wounded by scores. There is General George Maney badly wounded and being carried to the rear, and there is Moon, of Fulcher's battalion, killed dead in his tracks. We can't much longer hold our position. A minnie ball pa.s.ses through my Bible in my side pocket. All at once we are ordered to open ranks. Here comes one piece of artillery from a Mississippi battery, bouncing ten feet high, over brush and logs and bending down little trees and saplings, under whip and spur, the horses are champing the bits, and are muddied from head to foot. Now, quick, quick; look, the Yankees have discovered the battery and are preparing to charge it. Unlimber, horses and caisson to the rear. No. 1 shrapnel, load, fire-boom, boom; load, ablouyat-boom, boom. I saw Sam Seay fall badly wounded and carried to the rear. I stopped firing to look at Sergeant Doyle how he handled his gun. At every discharge it would bounce, and turn its muzzle completely to the rear, when those old artillery soldiers would return it to its place-and it seemed they fired a shot almost every ten seconds. Fire, men. Our muskets roll and rattle, making music like the kettle and ba.s.s drum combined. They are checked; we see them fall back to the woods, and night throws her mantle over the scene. We fell back now, and had to strip and wade Chickamauga river. It was up to our armpits, and was as cold as charity. We had to carry our clothes across on the points of our bayonets. Fires had been kindled every few yards on the other side, and we soon got warmed up again.

RINGGOLD GAP

I had got as far as Ringgold Gap, when I had unconsciously fallen asleep by a fire, it being the fourth night that I had not slept a wink. Before I got to this fire, however, a gentleman whom I never saw in my life-because it was totally dark at the time-handed me a letter from the old folks at home, and a good suit of clothes. He belonged to Colonel Breckinridge's cavalry, and if he ever sees these lines, I wish to say to him, ”G.o.d bless you, old boy.” I had lost every blanket and vestige of clothing, except those I had on, at Missionary Ridge. I laid down by the fire and went to sleep, but how long I had slept I knew not, when I felt a rough hand grab me and give me a shake, and the fellow said, ”Are you going to sleep here, and let the Yankees cut your throat?” I opened my eyes, and asked, ”Who are you?” He politely and pleasantly, yet profanely, told me that he was General Walker (the poor fellow was killed the 22nd of July, at Atlanta), and that I had better get further. He pa.s.sed on and waked others. Just then, General Cleburne and staff rode by me, and I heard one of his staff remark, ”General, here is a ditch, or gully, that will make a natural breastwork.” All I heard General Cleburne say was, ”Er, eh, eh!” I saw General Lucius E. Polk's brigade form on the crest of the hill.

I went a little further and laid down again and went to sleep. How long I had lain there, and what was pa.s.sing over me, I know nothing about, but when I awoke, here is what I saw: I saw a long line of blue coats marching down the railroad track. The first thought I had was, well, I'm gone up now, sure; but on second sight, I discovered that they were prisoners. Cleburne had had the doggondest fight of the war. The ground was piled with dead Yankees; they were piled in heaps. The scene looked unlike any battlefield I ever saw. From the foot to the top of the hill was covered with their slain, all lying on their faces. It had the appearance of the roof of a house s.h.i.+ngled with dead Yankees. They were flushed with victory and success, and had determined to push forward and capture the whole of the Rebel army, and set up their triumphant standard at Atlanta-then exit Southern Confederacy. But their dead were so piled in their path at Ringgold Gap that they could not pa.s.s them. The Spartans gained a name at Thermopylae, in which Leonidas and the whole Spartan army were slain while defending the pa.s.s. Cleburne's division gained a name at Ringgold Gap, in which they not only slew the victorious army, but captured five thousand prisoners besides. That brilliant victory of Cleburne's made him not only the best general of the army of Tennessee, and covered his men with glory and honor of heroes, but checked the advance of Grant's whole army.

We did not budge an inch further for many a long day, but we went into winter quarters right here at Ringgold Gap, Tunnel Hill and Dalton.

CHAPTER XI

DALTON

GENERAL JOSEPH E. JOHNSTON

General Joseph E. Johnston now took command of the army. General Bragg was relieved, and had become Jeff Davis' war adviser at Richmond, Virginia. We had followed General Bragg all through this long war. We had got sorter used to his ways, but he was never popular with his troops. I felt sorry for him. Bragg's troops would have loved him, if he had allowed them to do so, for many a word was spoken in his behalf, after he had been relieved of the command. As a general I have spoken of him in these memoirs, not personally. I try to state facts, so that you may see, reader, why our cause was lost. I have no doubt that Bragg ever did what he thought was best. He was but a man, under the authority of another.

But now, allow me to introduce you to old Joe. Fancy, if you please, a man about fifty years old, rather small of stature, but firmly and compactly built, an open and honest countenance, and a keen but restless black eye, that seemed to read your very inmost thoughts. In his dress he was a perfect dandy. He ever wore the very finest clothes that could be obtained, carrying out in every point the dress and paraphernalia of the soldier, as adopted by the war department at Richmond, never omitting anything, even to the trappings of his horse, bridle and saddle. His hat was decorated with a star and feather, his coat with every star and embellishment, and he wore a bright new sash, big gauntlets, and silver spurs. He was the very picture of a general.

But he found the army depleted by battles; and worse, yea, much worse, by desertion. The men were deserting by tens and hundreds, and I might say by thousands. The morale of the army was gone. The spirit of the soldiers was crushed, their hope gone. The future was dark and gloomy. They would not answer at roll call. Discipline had gone. A feeling of mistrust pervaded the whole army.

A train load of provisions came into Dalton. The soldiers stopped it before it rolled into the station, burst open every car, and carried off all the bacon, meal and flour that was on board. Wild riot was the order of the day; everything was confusion, worse confounded. When the news came, like pouring oil upon the troubled waters, that General Joe E. Johnston, of Virginia, had taken command of the Army of Tennessee, men returned to their companies, order was restored, and ”Richard was himself again.” General Johnston issued a universal amnesty to all soldiers absent without leave. Instead of a scrimp pattern of one day's rations, he ordered two days' rations to be issued, being extra for one day. He ordered tobacco and whisky to be issued twice a week. He ordered sugar and coffee and flour to be issued instead of meal. He ordered old bacon and ham to be issued instead of blue beef. He ordered new tents and marquees. He ordered his soldiers new suits of clothes, shoes and hats. In fact, there had been a revolution, sure enough. He allowed us what General Bragg had never allowed mortal man-a furlough. He gave furloughs to one-third of his army at a time, until the whole had been furloughed. A new era had dawned; a new epoch had been dated. He pa.s.sed through the ranks of the common soldiers, shaking hands with every one he met. He restored the soldier's pride; he brought the manhood back to the private's bosom; he changed the order of roll-call, standing guard, drill, and such nonsense as that. The revolution was complete. He was loved, respected, admired; yea, almost wors.h.i.+pped by his troops. I do not believe there was a soldier in his army but would gladly have died for him. With him everything was his soldiers, and the newspapers, criticising him at the time, said, ”He would feed his soldiers if the country starved.”

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 inst.i.tuted the pillory and barrel s.h.i.+rt. Get Brutus to whistle the barrel s.h.i.+rt 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 pa.s.s, 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 chastis.e.m.e.nt. 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 pa.s.s 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 canva.s.sed 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. Oth.e.l.lo'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