"Co. Aytch" Part 12

"What command do you belong to, sir?"

"Well, sir, I belong to Company H, First Tennessee Regiment. I am a wounded man sent to the hospital."

"Well, sir, that's too thin; why did you not get a pa.s.s?"

"I did not think one was required."

"Give me your name, sir."

I gave my name.

"Sergeant, take this name to the hospital and ask if such name is registered on their books."

I told him that I knew it was not. The sergeant returns and reports no such name, when he remarks:

"You have to go to the guard-house."

Says I, "Colonel (I knew his rank was that of captain), if you send me to the guard-house, you will do me a great wrong. Here is where I was wounded." I pulled off my shoe and began to unbandage.

"Well, sir, I don't want to look at your foot, and I have no patience with you. Take him to the guard-house."

Turning back I said, "Sir, aye, aye, you are clothed with a little brief authority, and appear to be presuming pretty heavy on that authority; but, sir"-well I have forgotten what I did say. The sergeant took me by the arm, and said, "Come, come, sir, I have my orders."

As I was going up the street, I met Captain Dave Buckner, and told him all the circ.u.mstances of my arrest as briefly as I could. He said, "Sergeant, bring him back with me to the provost marshal's office." They were as mad as wet hens. Their faces were burning, and I could see their jugular veins go thump, thump, thump. I do not know what Captain Buckner said to them, all I heard were the words "otherwise insulted me." But I was liberated, and was glad of it.

THOSE GIRLS

I then went back to the river, and gave a fellow two dollars to "row me over the ferry." I was in no particular hurry, and limped along at my leisure until about nightfall, when I came to a nice, cosy-looking farm house, and asked to stay all night. I was made very welcome, indeed. There were two very pretty girls here, and I could have "loved either were 'tother dear charmer away." But I fell in love with both of them, and thereby overdid the thing. This was by a dim fire-light. The next day was Sunday, and we all went to church in the country. We went in an old rockaway carriage. I remember that the preacher used the words, "O, G.o.d," nineteen times in his prayer. I had made up my mind which one of the girls I would marry. Now, don't get mad, fair reader mine. I was all gallantry and smiles, and when we arrived at home, I jumped out and took hold the hand of my fair charmer to help her out. She put her foot out, and-well, I came very near telling-she tramped on a cat. The cat squalled.

THE TALISMAN

But then, you know, reader, that I was engaged to Jennie and I had a talisman in my pocket Bible, in the way of a love letter, against the charms of other beautiful and interesting young ladies. Uncle Jimmie Rieves had been to Maury county, and, on returning to Atlanta, found out that I was wounded and in the hospital at Montgomery, and brought the letter to me; and, as I am married now, I don't mind telling you what was in the letter, if you won't laugh at me. You see, Jennie was my sweetheart, and here is my sweetheart's letter:

My Dear Sam.:-I write to tell you that I love you yet, and you alone; and day by day I love you more, and pray, every night and morning for your safe return home again. My greatest grief is that we heard you were wounded and in the hospital, and I cannot be with you to nurse you.

We heard of the death of many n.o.ble and brave men at Atlanta; and the death of Captain Carth.e.l.l, Cousin Mary's husband. It was sent by Captain January; he belonged to the Twelfth Tennessee, of which Colonel Watkins was lieutenant-colonel.

The weather is very beautiful here, and the flowers in the garden are in full bloom, and the apples are getting ripe. I have gathered a small bouquet, which I will put in the letter; I also send by Uncle Jimmie a tobacco bag, and a watch-guard, made out of horse hair, and a woolen hood, knit with my own hands, with love and best respects.

We heard that you had captured a flag at Atlanta, and was promoted for it to corporal. Is that some high office? I know you will be a general yet, because I always hear of your being in every battle, and always the foremost man in the attack. Sam, please take care of yourself for my sake, and don't let the Yankees kill you. Well, good-bye, darling, I will ever pray for G.o.d's richest and choicest blessings upon you. Be sure and write a long, long letter-I don't care how long, to your loving and sincere JENNIE.

THE BRAVE CAPTAIN

When I got back to the Alabama river, opposite Montgomery, the ferryboat was on the other sh.o.r.e. A steamboat had just pulled out of its moorings and crossed over to where I was, and began to take on wood. I went on board, and told the captain, who was a clever and good man, that I would like to take a trip with him to Mobile and back, and that I was a wounded soldier from the hospital. He told me, "All right, come along, and I will foot expenses."

It was about sunset, but along the line of the distant horizon we could see the dark and heavy clouds begin to boil up in thick and ominous columns. The lightning was darting to and fro like lurid sheets of fire, and the storm seemed to be gathering; we could hear the storm king in his chariot in the clouds, rumbling as he came, but a dead lull was seen and felt in the air and in nature; everything was in a holy hush, except the hoa.r.s.e belchings of the engines, the sizzing and frying of the boilers, and the work of the machinery on the lower deck. At last the storm burst upon us in all its fury; it was a tornado and the women and children began to scream and pray-the mate to curse and swear. I was standing by the captain on the main upper deck, as he was trying to direct the pilot how to steer the boat through that awful storm, when we heard the alarm bell ring out, and the hoa.r.s.e cry of "Fire! fire! fire!" Men were running toward the fire with buckets, and the hose began throwing water on the flames. Men, women, and children were jumping in the water, and the captain used every effort to quiet the panic, and to land his boat with its pa.s.sengers, but the storm and fire were too much, and down the vessel sank to rise no more. Many had been saved in the lifeboat, and many were drowned. I jumped overboard, and the last thing I saw was the n.o.ble and brave captain still ringing the bell, as the vessel went down. He went down amid the flames to fill a watery grave. The water was full of struggling and dying people for miles. I did not go to Mobile.

HOW I GET BACK TO ATLANTA

When I got to Montgomery, the cars said toot, toot, and I raised the hue and cry and followed in pursuit. Kind friends, I fear that I have wearied you with my visit to Montgomery, but I am going back to camp now, and will not leave it again until our banner is furled never to be again unfurled.

I, you remember, was without a pa.s.s, and did not wish to be carried a second time before that good, brave, and just provost marshal; and something told me not to go to the hospital. I found out when the cars would leave, and thought that I would get on them and go back without any trouble. I got on the cars, but was hustled off mighty quick, because I had no pa.s.s. A train of box-cars was about leaving for West Point, and I took a seat on top of one of them, and was again hustled off; but I had determined to go, and as the engine began to puff, and tug, and pull, I slipped in between two box-cars, sitting on one part of one and putting my feet on the other, and rode this way until I got to West Point. The conductor discovered me, and had put me off several times before I got to West Point, but I would jump on again as soon as the cars started. When I got to West Point, a train of cars started off, and I ran, trying to get on, when Captain Peebles reached out his hand and pulled me in, and I arrived safe and sound at Atlanta.

On my way back to Atlanta, I got with Dow Akin and Billy March. Billy March had been shot through the under jaw by a minnie ball at the octagon house, but by proper attention and nursing, he had recovered. Conner Akin was killed at the octagon house, and Dow wounded. When we got back to the regiment, then stationed near a fine concrete house (where Shepard and I would sleep every night), nearly right on our works, we found two thirty-two-pound parrot guns stationed in our immediate front, and throwing sh.e.l.ls away over our heads into the city of Atlanta. We had just begun to tell all the boys howdy, when I saw Dow Akin fall. A fragment of sh.e.l.l had struck him on his backbone, and he was carried back wounded and bleeding. We could see the smoke boil up, and it would be nearly a minute before we would hear the report of the cannon, and then a few moments after we would hear the scream of the sh.e.l.l as it went on to Atlanta. We used to count from the time we would see the smoke boil up until we would hear the noise, and some fellow would call out, "Look out boys, the United States is sending iron over into the Southern Confederacy; let's send a little lead back to the United States." And we would blaze away with our Enfield and Whitworth guns, and every time we would fire, we would silence those parrot guns. This kind of fun was carried on for forty-six days.

DEATH OF TOM TUCK'S ROOSTER

Atlanta was a great place to fight chickens. I had heard much said about c.o.c.k pits and c.o.c.k fights, but had never seen such a thing. Away over the hill, outside of the range of Thomas' thirty-pound parrot guns, with which he was trying to burn up Atlanta, the boys had fixed up a c.o.c.k pit. It was fixed exactly like a circus ring, and seats and benches were arranged for the spectators. Well, I went to the c.o.c.k fight one day. A great many roosters were to be pitted that day, and each one was trimmed and gaffed. A gaff is a long keen piece of steel, as sharp as a needle, that is fitted over the spurs. Well, I looked on at the fun. Tom Tuck's rooster was named Southern Confederacy; but this was abbreviated to Confed., and as a pet name, they called him Fed. Well, Fed was a trained rooster, and would "clean up" a big-foot rooster as soon as he was put in the pit. But Tom always gave Fed every advantage. One day a green-looking country hunk came in with a rooster that he wanted to pit against Fed. He looked like a common rail-splitter. The money was soon made up, and the stakes placed in proper hands. The gaffs were fitted, the roosters were placed in the pit and held until both were sufficiently mad to fight, when they were turned loose, and each struck at the same time. I looked and poor Fed was dead. The other rooster had popped both gaffs through his head. He was a dead rooster; yea, a dead c.o.c.k in the pit. Tom went and picked up his rooster, and said, "Poor Fed, I loved you; you used to crow every morning at daylight to wake me up. I have carried you a long time, but, alas! alas! poor Fed, your days are numbered, and those who fight will sometimes be slain. Now, friends, conscripts, countrymen, if you have any tears to shed, prepare to shed them now. I will not bury Fed. The evil that roosters do live after them, but the good is oft interred with their bones. So let it not be with Confed. Confed left no will, but I will pick him, and fry him, and dip my biscuit in his gravy. Poor Fed, Confed, Confederacy, I place one hand on my heart and one on my head, regretting that I have not another to place on my stomach, and whisper, softly whisper, in the most doleful accents, Good-bye, farewell, a long farewell."

"Not a laugh was heard-not even a joke- As the dead rooster in the camp-kettle they hurried; For Tom had lost ten dollars, and was broke, In the c.o.c.k-pit where Confed was buried.

"They cooked him slowly in the middle of the day, As the frying-pan they were solemnly turning; The hungry fellows looking at him as he lay, With one side raw, the other burning.

"Some surplus feathers covered his breast, Not in a shroud, but in a tiara they soused him; He lay like a 'picked chicken' taking his rest, While the Rebel boys danced and cursed around him.

"Not a few or short were the cuss words they said, Yet, they spoke many words of sorrow; As they steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, And thought 'what'll we do for chicken tomorrow?'

"Lightly they'll talk of the Southern Confed. that's gone, And o'er his empty carca.s.s upbraid him; But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on, In the place where they have laid him.

"Sadly and slowly they laid him down, From the field of fame fresh and gory; They ate off his flesh, and threw away his bones, And then left them alone in their glory."

When, cut, slash, bang, debang, and here comes a dash of Yankee cavalry, right in the midst of the camp, under whip and spur, yelling like a band of wild Comanches, and bearing right down on the few mourners around the dead body of Confed. After making this bold dash, they about faced, and were soon out of sight. There was no harm done, but, alas! that cooked chicken was gone. Poor Confed! To what a sad end you have come. Just to think, that but a few short hours ago, you was a proud rooster- was "c.o.c.k of the walk," and was considered invincible. But, alas! you have sunk so low as to become food for Federals! Requiescat in pace you can crow no more.

OLD JOE BROWN'S PETS

By way of grim jest, and a fitting burlesque to tragic scenes, or, rather, to the thing called "glorious war," old Joe Brown, then Governor of Georgia, sent in his militia. It was the richest picture of an army I ever saw. It beat Forepaugh's double-ringed circus. Every one was dressed in citizen's clothes, and the very best they had at that time. A few had double-barreled shotguns, but the majority had umbrellas and walking-sticks, and nearly every one had on a duster, a flat-bosomed "biled" s.h.i.+rt, and a plug hat; and, to make the thing more ridiculous, the dwarf and the giant were marching side by side; the knock-kneed by the side of the bow-legged; the driven-in by the side of the drawn-out; the pale and sallow dyspeptic, who looked like Alex. Stephens, and who seemed to have just been taken out of a chimney that smoked very badly, and whose diet was goobers and sweet potatoes, was placed beside the three hundred-pounder, who was dressed up to kill, and whose looks seemed to say, "I've got a subst.i.tute in the army, and twenty negroes at home besides-h-a-a-m, h-a-a-m." Now, that is the sort of army that old Joe Brown had when he seceded from the Southern Confederacy, declaring that each state was a separate sovereign government of itself; and, as old Joe Brown was an original secessionist, he wanted to exemplify the grand principles of secession, that had been advocated by Patrick Henry, John Randolph, of Roanoke, and John C. Calhoun, in all of whom he was a firm believer. I will say, however, in all due deference to the Georgia militia and old Joe Brown's pets, that there was many a gallant and n.o.ble fellow among them. I remember on one occasion that I was detailed to report to a captain of the Fourth Tennessee Regiment (Colonel Farquharson, called "Guidepost"); I have forgotten that captain's name. He was a small-sized man, with a large, long set of black whiskers. He was the captain, and I the corporal of the detail. We were ordered to take a company of the Georgia militia on a scout. We went away around to our extreme right wing, pa.s.sing through Terry's mill pond, and over the old battlefield of the 22nd, and past the place where General Walker fell, when we came across two ladies. One of them kept going from one tree to another, and saying: "This pine tree, that pine tree; this pine tree, that pine tree." In answer to our inquiry, they informed us that the young woman's husband was killed on the 22nd, and had been buried under a pine tree, and she was nearly crazy because she could not find his dead body. We pa.s.sed on, and as soon as we came in sight of the old line of Yankee breastworks, an unexpected volley of minnie b.a.l.l.s was fired into our ranks, killing this captain of the Fourth Tennessee Regiment and killing and wounding seven or eight of the Georgia militia. I hallooed to lay down, as soon as possible, and a perfect whizz of minnie b.a.l.l.s pa.s.sed over, when I immediately gave the command of attention, forward, charge and capture that squad. That Georgia militia, every man of them, charged forward, and in a few moments we ran into a small squad of Yankees, and captured the whole "lay out." We then carried back to camp the dead captain and the killed and wounded militia. I had seen a great many men killed and wounded, but some how or other these dead and wounded men, of that day, made a more serious impression on my mind than in any previous or subsequent battles. They were buried with all the honors of war and I never will forget the incidents and scenes of this day as long as I live.

WE GO AFTER STONEMAN

One morning our regiment was ordered to march, double-quick, to the depot to take the cars for somewhere. The engine was under steam, and ready to start for that mysterious somewhere. The whistle blew long and loud, and away we went at break-neck speed for an hour, and drew up at a little place by the name of Jonesboro. The Yankees had captured the town, and were tearing up the railroad track. A regiment of Rebel infantry and a brigade of cavalry were already in line of battle in their rear. We jumped out of the cars and advanced to attack them in front. Our line had just begun to open a pretty brisk fire on the Yankee cavalry, when they broke, running right through and over the lines of the regiment of infantry and brigade of cavalry in their rear, the men opening ranks to get out of the way of the hoofs of their horses. It was Stoneman's cavalry, upon its celebrated raid toward Macon and Andersonville to liberate the Federal prisoners. We went to work like beavers, and in a few hours the railroad track had been repaired so that we could pa.s.s. Every few miles we would find the track torn up, but we would get out of the cars, fix up the track, and light out again. We were charging a brigade of cavalry with a train of cars, as it were. They would try to stop our progress by tearing up the track, but we were crowding them a little too strong. At last they thought it was time to quit that foolishness, and then commenced a race between cavalry and cars for Macon, Georgia. The cars had to run exceedingly slow and careful, fearing a tear up or ambuscade, but at last Macon came in sight. Twenty-five or thirty thousand Federal prisoners were confined at this place, and it was poorly guarded and protected. We feared that Stoneman would only march in, overpower the guards, and liberate the prisoners, and we would have some tall fighting to do, but on arriving at Macon, we found that Stoneman and all of his command had just surrendered to a brigade of cavalry and the Georgia militia, and we helped march the gentlemen inside the prison walls at Macon. They had furnished their own transportation, paying their own way and bearing their own expenses, and instead of liberating any prisoners, were themselves imprisoned. An extra detail was made as guard from our regiment to take them on to Andersonville, but I was not on this detail, so I remained until the detail returned.

Macon is a beautiful place. Business was flouris.h.i.+ng like a green bay tree. The people were good, kind, and clever to us. Everywhere the hospitality of their homes was proffered us. We were regarded as their liberators. They gave us all the good things they had-eating, drinking, etc. We felt our consequence, I a.s.sure you, reader. We felt we were heroes, indeed; but the benzine and other fluids became a little promiscuous and the libations of the boys a little too heavy. They began to get boisterous-I might say, riotous. Some of the boys got to behaving badly, and would go into stores and places, and did many things they ought not to have done. In fact, the whole caboodle of them ought to have been carried to the guard-house. They were whooping, and yelling, and firing off their guns, just for the fun of the thing. I remember of going into a very nice family's house, and the old lady told the dog to go out, go out, sir! and remarked rather to herself, "Go out, go out! I wish you were killed, anyhow." John says, "Madam, do you want that dog killed, sure enough?" She says, "Yes, I do. I do wish that he was dead." Before I could even think or catch my breath, bang went John's gun, and the dog was weltering in his blood right on the good lady's floor, the top of his head entirely torn off. I confess, reader, that I came very near jumping out of my skin, as it were, at the unexpected discharge of the gun. And other such scenes, I reckon, were being enacted elsewhere, but at last a detail was sent around to arrest all stragglers, and we were soon rolling back to Atlanta.

"BELLUM LETHALE"

Well, after "jugging" Stoneman, we go back to Atlanta and occupy our same old place near the concrete house. We found everything exactly as we had left it, with the exception of the increased number of graybacks, which seemed to have propagated a thousand-fold since we left, and they were crawling about like ants, making little paths and tracks in the dirt as they wiggled and waddled about, hunting for ye old Rebel soldier. Sherman's two thirty-pound parrot guns were in the same position, and every now and then a lazy-looking sh.e.l.l would pa.s.s over, speeding its way on to Atlanta.

The old citizens had dug little cellars, which the soldiers called "gopher holes," and the women and children were crowded together in these cellars, while Sherman was trying to burn the city over their heads. But, as I am not writing history, I refer you to any history of the war for Sherman's war record in and around Atlanta.

As John and I started to go back, we thought we would visit the hospital. Great G.o.d! I get sick today when I think of the agony, and suffering, and sickening stench and odor of dead and dying; of wounds and sloughing sores, caused by the deadly gangrene; of the groaning and wailing. I cannot describe it. I remember, I went in the rear of the building, and there I saw a pile of arms and legs, rotting and decomposing; and, although I saw thousands of horrifying scenes during the war, yet today I have no recollection in my whole life, of ever seeing anything that I remember with more horror than that pile of legs and arms that had been cut off our soldiers. As John and I went through the hospital, and were looking at the poor suffering fellows, I heard a weak voice calling, "Sam, O, Sam." I went to the poor fellow, but did not recognize him at first, but soon found out that it was James Galbreath, the poor fellow who had been shot nearly in two on the 22nd of July. I tried to be cheerful, and said, "h.e.l.lo, Galbreath, old fellow, I thought you were in heaven long before this." He laughed a sort of dry, cracking laugh, and asked me to hand him a drink of water. I handed it to him. He then began to mumble and tell me something in a rambling and incoherent way, but all I could catch was for me to write to his family, who were living near Mt. Pleasant. I asked him if he was badly wounded. He only pulled down the blanket, that was all. I get sick when I think of it. The lower part of his body was hanging to the upper part by a shred, and all of his entrails were lying on the cot with him, the bile and other excrements exuding from them, and they full of maggots. I replaced the blanket as tenderly as I could, and then said, "Galbreath, good-bye." I then kissed him on his lips and forehead, and left. As I pa.s.sed on, he kept trying to tell me something, but I could not make out what he said, and fearing I would cause him to exert himself too much, I left.

It was the only field hospital that I saw during the whole war, and I have no desire to see another. Those hollow-eyed and sunken-cheeked sufferers, shot in every conceivable part of the body; some shrieking, and calling upon their mothers; some laughing the hard, cackling laugh of the sufferer without hope, and some cursing like troopers, and some writhing and groaning as their wounds were being bandaged and dressed. I saw a man of the Twenty-seventh, who had lost his right hand, another his leg, then another whose head was laid open, and I could see his brain thump, and another with his under jaw shot off; in fact, wounded in every manner possible.

Ah! reader, there is no glory for the private soldier, much less a conscript. James Galbreath was a conscript, as was also Fain King. Mr. King was killed at Chickamauga. He and Galbreath were conscripted and joined Company H at the same time. Both were old men, and very poor, with large families at home; and they were forced to go to war against their wishes, while their wives and little children were at home without the necessaries of life. The officers have all the glory. Glory is not for the private soldier, such as die in the hospitals, being eat up with the deadly gangrene, and being imperfectly waited on. Glory is for generals, colonels, majors, captains, and lieutenants. They have all the glory, and when the poor private wins battles by dint of sweat, hard marches, camp and picket duty, fasting and broken bones, the officers get the glory. The private's pay was eleven dollars per month, if he got it; the general's pay was three hundred dollars per month, and he always got his. I am not complaining. These things happened sixteen to twenty years ago. Men who never fired a gun, nor killed a Yankee during the whole war, are today the heroes of the war. Now, I tell you what I think about it: I think that those of us who fought as private soldiers, fought as much for glory as the general did, and those of us who stuck it out to the last, deserve more praise than the general who resigned because some other general was placed in command over him. A general could resign. That was honorable. A private could not resign, nor choose his branch of service, and if he deserted, it was death.

THE SCOUT AND DEATH OF A YANKEE LIEUTENANT

General Hood had sent off all his cavalry, and a detail was made each day of so many men for a scout, to find out all we could about the movements of the Yankees. Colonel George Porter, of the Sixth Tennessee, was in command of the detail. We pa.s.sed through Atlanta, and went down the railroad for several miles, and then made a flank movement toward where we expected to come in contact with the Yankees. When we came to a skirt of woods, we were deployed as skirmishers. Colonel Porter ordered us to re-prime our guns and to advance at twenty-five paces apart, being deployed as skirmishers, and to keep under cover as much as possible. He need not have told us this, because we had not learned war for nothing. We would run from one tree to another, and then make a careful reconnoiter before proceeding to another. We had begun to get a little careless, when bang! bang! bang! It seemed that we had got into a Yankee ambush. The firing seemed to be from all sides, and was rattling among the leaves and bushes. It appeared as if some supernatural, infernal battle was going on and the air was full of smoke. We had not seen the Yankees. I ran to a tree to my right, and just as I got to it, I saw my comrade sink to the ground, clutching at the air as he fell dead. I kept trying to see the Yankees, so that I might shoot. I had been looking a hundred yards ahead, when happening to look not more than ten paces from me, I saw a big six-foot Yankee with a black feather in his hat, aiming deliberately at me. I dropped to the ground, and at the same moment heard the report, and my hat was knocked off in the bushes. I remained perfectly still, and in a few minutes I saw a young Yankee lieutenant peering through the bushes. I would rather not have killed him, but I was afraid to fire and afraid to run, and yet I did not wish to kill him. He was as pretty as a woman, and somehow I thought I had met him before. Our eyes met. He stood like a statue. He gazed at me with a kind of scared expression. I still did not want to kill him, and am sorry today that I did, for I believe I could have captured him, but I fired, and saw the blood spurt all over his face. He was the prettiest youth I ever saw. When I fired, the Yankees broke and run, and I went up to the boy I had killed, and the blood was gus.h.i.+ng out of his mouth. I was sorry.

ATLANTA FORSAKEN

One morning about the break of day our artillery opened along our breastworks, scaring us almost to death, for it was the first guns that had been fired for more than a month. We sprang to our feet and grabbed our muskets, and ran out and asked some one what did that mean. We were informed that they were "feeling" for the Yankees. The comment that was made by the private soldier was simply two words, and those two words were "O, shucks." The Yankees had gone-no one knew whither-and our batteries were sh.e.l.ling the woods, feeling for them. "O, shucks."

"h.e.l.lo," says Hood, "Whar in the d.i.c.kens and Tom Walker are them Yanks, hey? Feel for them with long-range 'feelers'." A boom, boom. "Can anybody tell me whar them Yanks are? Send out a few more 'feelers.' The feelers in the shape of cannon b.a.l.l.s will bring them to taw." Boom, boom, boom.