COURAGE SUBLIME.

In concluding these reminiscences of the Nashville campaign, a campaign so fraught with disaster to our cause, I am glad to throw over them at their close the glamour of an incident that in its display of infinite courage gilds with its glory even the gloom of defeat. In a subsequent sketch I shall have occasion to pay some tribute to the conspicuous gallantry of the color-bearer of the First Florida regiment in our last charge at Bentonville. Under the inspiration of the "Rebel Yell" and the contagious enthusiasm and excitement of a charge men may have made reputations for courage they would not sustain when subjected to the test of "simply standing and dying at ease." This man, however, George Register by name, was tried in both furnaces and came out pure gold.

The incident referred to occurred at the battle of Franklin, Nov. 30, '64. The failure of a staff officer to promptly deliver Hood's order to Cheatham at Spring Hill had allowed Schofield to escape when the interposition of a single division across his front would have resulted in the capture of his army and would have ensured the success of the campaign. And now the Federal army lay at Franklin heavily entrenched while Hood, fretting over the blunder, determined to retrieve it by an a.s.sault upon their works. Forrest protested that it would be a useless sacrifice of life, would probably end in failure and offered to flank Schofield out of his position in two hours if furnished a single division of infantry to co-operate with his cavalry. Hood could not be argued out of his purpose to fight and ordered his army into line.

Cleburne rode down his lines as his division filed into position and pa.s.sing an old friend, a captain in the ranks, he noticed that he was barefooted and that his feet were bleeding. Stopping and dismounting he asked the captain to pull off his boots and then requested him to try them on his own feet. In reply to the captain's protest he said, "I am tired wearing boots and can do without them," and then he rode away to lead his last charge. Gen. Granbury, commanding a Texas brigade in Cleburne's division, rode out in front of his men and said, "Boys, two hours work this evening will shorten the war two years." Two hours later, on that short November afternoon, the very flower of Hood's army lay dead or dying in front of the Federal breastworks. Among them lay Cleburne, Granbury, Adams, Gist, Strahl and Carter, six general offices, a larger number than fell in three day's fighting at Gettysburg, or any battle field in the four years' struggle.

Under the murderous leaden hail that swept the open field over which they pa.s.sed, the First Florida Regiment was ordered to lie down to secure some immunity from the fire that was rapidly thinning their ranks. The entire regiment sank to the ground, save one of their number.

The color-bearer, unwilling to lower his flag, yet willing to show his foe how a brave man could die, refused to avail himself of the partial protection which a change in position would bring, and standing erect, calmly faced the storm of shot and sh.e.l.l; faced it unmoved, while seven of the eight color guards lying at his feet were killed or wounded; faced it unflinchingly while the staff he held in his brave right hand was three times shattered by hostile shot; faced it without a tremor while the folds of his tattered flag were thirty times rent and torn by hissing minies or shrieking sh.e.l.l; faced it calmly until the blessedness of night had come to end the carnival of death, and stood there at its close the very incarnation of courage and yet without the smell of fire on his garments or the mark of shot or sh.e.l.l on his grey-clad form.

I know not whether he still survives. I know not whether his radiant deed has found a fitting recognition save in the memory of surviving comrades. But living or dead, famous or forgotten, my hat goes off to you today, George Register, in loving admiration of a heroism that in soldierly devotion to the colors that you bore, crowns you an immortal and rises to the region of the morally sublime.

CHAPTER VII.

THE CLOSING CAMPAIGN.

A weeks' stay in the vicinity of Corinth, Miss., and orders were received for the transfer of Stewart's and Cheatham's corps to the East to aid Hardee in an effort to prevent a junction of the armies of Grant and Sherman.

AN ARCTIC RIDE.

Transportation by rail was furnished only to the sick and barefooted, who were ordered to report at Corinth at daylight, Jan. 10th. Weakened by an attack of chill and fever I joined the sick squad, which left camp at 1 a. m., tramped through the mud and rain, waded several streams and reached Corinth in the early morning with our clothing wet to our knees.

In this condition, with no opportunity to dry our drenched garments, we rode in a box car without fire on a cold winter day from 8 a. m. until 3 p. m. The car was crowded and the heating arrangements were confined to such exercise as we could take in the limited s.p.a.ce we were forced to occupy. I had never been taught to "trip the light fantastic toe" and the figures I cut that day were more continuous than graceful. At 3 p. m. I told the Oglethorpes, who were with me, John Kirkpatrick and Will Dabney among them, I remember, that while I was willing to die in a soldierly way in battle, I did not propose to freeze to death, and suggested that in order to secure an opportunity to thaw, we stop at the next station, which chanced to be Baldwin, Miss. The motion was carried unanimously, though not by a rising vote, as we already occupied from necessity a standing position, our car having no furniture except a floor and a door. To give the reader some gauge of the condition of the railroads in that section at that stage of the war, it is only necessary to say that we had traveled only 31 miles in 7 hours. We were kindly received by a Mr. Kent, an old citizen of Baldwin, who regretted his inability to furnish us anything but shelter and fire, as he had been foraged upon by Yankees and Confederates alike until there was very little meal in the barrel or oil in the cruse and "no prophet in all the land to bless the scanty store." When the evening meal was ready, however, he came to our room and with an apology to my comrades for failing to include them in the invitation, he pressed the writer to share his humble fare. Whether this discrimination in my favor was due to my good looks, my winning ways or the appearance of chronic hunger in my face, has remained to this day an unsolved problem. And yet whatever may have been the right solution, it gives me pleasure through this humble record to waft back over the waste of years my earnest appreciation of his kindness to a sick and underfed Confederate.

CLEANED UP FINANCIALLY.

No train pa.s.sed next morning and we tramped down the railroad for 12 miles, stopping at Saltillo for the night. None of us were well, the weather was cold and to avoid sleeping on the damp, bare ground we began to reconnoiter for better lodging. By reason possibly of the favorable impression made by the writer on our host at Baldwin, I was made spokesman for the occasion. Knocking at the residence of a Mrs. B. I stated our condition in as impressive language as I could command and emphasized our desire to avoid the exposure of sleeping on the cold, damp ground. To this she replied that she was a widow, living there alone, that she knew nothing of us, and that while she disliked to turn off Confederate soldiers, she could not feel that it would be proper or prudent for her to entertain a company of utter strangers. "Well, madame," I replied, "I appreciate your position and if you feel the slightest hesitancy, we will not insist." "Walk in sir," she replied, "You can stay." She told me afterwards that if I had pressed my appeal she would have turned us away, but that my failure to do so convinced her that we were gentlemen. It may be as well to confess that I had antic.i.p.ated such an objection and had framed my reply to meet it.

During the evening she told us with quivering lips, of the death of her soldier boy in Virginia, of her sad mission in visiting the battle field to recover his body and lay it away in the old family burying ground, and spoke so feelingly of her attachment to our cause that on retiring to our room I remember that we entertained some fears that an offer of compensation for our entertainment might offend her. The sum total of our financial a.s.sets, as I recollect it, was a $20 Confederate bill owned by Will Dabney. On taking our leave next morning we tendered it in payment of our bill, thinking, of course, that she would decline it with thanks, but we had reckoned without our host or at least without our hostess. She accepted it with the remark that it would exactly square the account, and we were turned out on the cold charity of the world without a cent.

'Twas the last of our a.s.sets, Gone glimmering alone.

All its blue-backed companions Were wasted and gone, No bill of its kindred Nor greenback was night, Not even a "shinplaster"

To spend for pie.

In justice to our kind-hearted hostess, and lest some reader should imagine that her charges were really extravagant, it is proper to say that she had given five hungry soldiers a sumptuous supper and breakfast, had lodged us on snowy feather beds and had accepted in payment what was equivalent to one dollar or less in good money. If the condition of our finances needs any explanation it may be found in the fact that our last pay day had occurred just 12 months and ten days before.

But I am spinning out these little incidents at too great length.

Resuming our march we were overtaken by our command and tramped with it to Tupelo, where we remained 12 days. On January 25th we boarded the cars for Meridian, but the train was overloaded and we traveled only 18 miles in 12 hours, not very rapid transit. In order to lighten the load two cars were detached and in one of them Lieut. Goetchius and ten of the Oglethorpes, including the writer chanced to be pa.s.sengers. After two days' tramp through the "Prairie Lands" of Mississippi, our squad secured transportation, rejoining our command at Meridian, Jan. 29.

Thence by rail to McDowell's Landing, by boat to Demopolis, by rail to Selma and by boat to Montgomery, reaching that place 1 p. m., Feb. 1st.

The preceding night was a very cold one and as we were deck pa.s.sengers and no heating arrangements had been provided, a fire was built of fat pine on a pile of railroad iron. Frank Lamar, I remember, sat on the leeward side of the fire with the black smoke pouring into his face all night, and next day could have played the role of negro minstrel without the use of burnt cork. The writer kept his temperature above the freezing point by volunteering as an aid to the fireman in the engine room.

Leaving Montgomery Feb. 2d, we reached Columbus, Ga., late in the afternoon and on our arrival were met by a delegation of ladies, who greeted us with a speech, a song and a supper. My journal, I regret to say, records the fact that the supper was last but not least in the degree of appreciation meted out to the trio by the boys. Pa.s.sing through Macon Feb. 3d, we arrived at Midway at 2 a. m. of the 4th and remained there a day drawing clothing and blankets. Leaving the railroad we marched through Milledgeville on the 5th, but did not stop to investigate the condition of Gov. Brown's "collard patch." Reaching Mayfield on the 7th we boarded the cars again, lay over at Camak and arrived at Augusta on the evening of the 8th, the brigade going into camp near Hamburg and the Oglethorpes remaining with friends and relatives in the city.

A SAD HOME-COMING.

Sixteen miles away, embowered in a grove of oak and elm, lay the home I had left, holding within the sacred shadow of its walls all that I loved best on earth. For nearly two months no tidings had come to me from them. We had been so constantly on the move that the letters written had never reached me. The latest message received had told me of my father's illness, but its tone gave me hope of his early recovery. Our pa.s.sage through Augusta gave me the privilege of revisiting the old homestead, but it was a sad home-coming. Twice since I had left it last the family circle had been broken and the shadow of death had fallen on its hearthstone. A few short months before in the autumnal haze of a September day, as sweet a sister as brother ever owned had breathed out her young life just as she was budding into womanhood. And now only a week before I entered its portals again my father, worn out by the added burdens imposed by the absorption of younger physicians in the military service, had been laid away beneath the shadow of the trees in the city of the dead. The reader will pardon, I trust, the filial tribute to his worth that comes unbidden from my heart today. Beyond and above any partial judgment born of the love I bore him, I have always thought him the best and purest man I have ever known. It may be that no human life can claim perfection and yet if his knew aught of fault or blemish in all the years from boyhood to the grave, no human eye could see it. In lofty purpose and in lowly, unremitting faithfulness to duty he lived above the common plane of men, serving his generation by the will of G.o.d, doing justly, loving mercy, walking humbly in all the paths his Master's feet had trod and dying in the noontide of his usefulness, he left to those who loved him, a name as pure and stainless as the snows that winter's breath have heaped upon his grave.

After ten days' rest at home, in company with eight comrades of the Oglethorpes, I left Augusta Feb. 20 to rejoin my command in upper South Carolina, reaching it after six days' tramp, near Pomaria. I recall only two or three incidents of that trip, that are seemingly worthy of record in these pages. The night of Feb. 21 was spent near the residence of Mr. Johnson Bland, who kindly sent to our bivouac an ample supply of edibles for our evening meal. After they had been disposed of, the negro messenger, who had brought the supplies, entertained us with a learned disquisition on a species of ghosts, which he termed "hanks." Harrison Foster, with his usual taste for scientific research, wanted to know how the presence of these hanks could be detected and was informed that if in traveling at night he felt the sudden touch of a warm breath of air on his face he might rest a.s.sured that it was a "hank." Possibly to test the sincerity of his conviction on the subject or to guard our slumbers from the disturbing influence of an inroad of these restless spirits of the night, Harrison gave the negro a gun and posted him as a lone sentry in an adjacent graveyard.

The next night was spent at the residence of Major Dearing. The family were all away and Mr. Smith, who had charge of the plantation, kindly gave us the use of the dwelling for the night. It was very handsomely furnished and to the credit of our squad I desire to record the fact that while silver forks and spoons were lying loosely around the dining room, not one of them disappeared when we took our departure. There were no Ben Butlers among us. Two nights later we slept in a Universalist church, said to be haunted, not by "hanks," but by the ghost of its former pastor, Mr. St.i.tch. My journal records the further fact that on the evening before we rejoined our command the entire squad suffered from an aggravated attack of the "blues." In whatever way the fact may be accounted for, there is but one other similar entry for the four years' service. An hour or two after reaching the camp of our regiment we began the march for Chester, reaching that place March 5th. Remaining there until the 10th we left by rail for Charlotte, but by reason of an accident, failed to arrive at our destination until the evening of the 11th. On the 12th we moved on to Salisbury, remained there until the 17th, when the train took us to Smithfield. A march of 16 miles on the 18th enabled us to rejoin our corps near Bentonville.

OUR LAST BATTLE.

During the Confederate Reunion in Atlanta, Ga., in '98, a man with kindly eyes and grizzled beard approached me with extended hand and said, "Do you know me?" His face seemed familiar, but I was forced to confess that I could not exactly place him. "Do you know where I saw you last?" I was compelled to admit that I was still in the dark as to his ident.i.ty. "Well," said he, "it was behind the biggest kind of a pine."

"Now I know you, Sam Woods," said I. That pine supplied the missing link in my memory and furnished likewise a link in the present sketch.

Our junction with Hardee's force had placed us again under Joe Johnston--the same Joe whose displacement at Atlanta had perhaps as much to do with the collapse of the Confederacy as the failure of Pickett's charge at Gettysburg, the Joe of whom Bill Arp said he would walk ten miles on a rainy night to look into his hazel eyes and feel the grip of his soldier hand--the Joe of whom Capt. Picquet said, as he rode by us on his mettled bay at the battle of Resaca, "Boys, I always feel safer when that man is around"--the same Joe who, when asked by Col. Geo. A.

Gordon at Dalton how he managed to manoeuver an army in the woods in battle, replied, "Well, Colonel, I have to depend largely on my corps commanders; they rely on the Major Generals, who in turn depend on the brigadiers, the brigadiers on the Colonels, the Colonels on the Captains, but," said he, "thank G.o.d, we all have to rely on the private at last."

By 10 a. m., March 19th, the day after our arrival at Bentonville, we were in line of battle, fronting a large part of Sherman's army. Our regiment depleted by sickness and death and capture and possibly "French leave" as we came through Georgia, had only a hundred men in its ranks--the Oglethorpes only nineteen. We had no field officer and, as I remember, only one captain, one lieutenant and an orderly sergeant for the ten companies. At one stage in the fight that followed the orderly sergeant was the ranking officer in the regiment.

Soon after taking our position, near the extreme right of the line, an a.s.sault was made by the enemy and was repulsed. About midday Gen. Bate, commanding our corps, gave the order to advance. In our front and gently sloping upwards for three hundred yards was an old field dotted with second growth pines, and two hundred and fifty yards beyond its highest point on the descending slope lay the Federal breastworks awaiting us.

Closing in to the left as we advanced, we pa.s.sed over the bodies of the enemy who had been killed in the a.s.sault and whose faces, from exposure to the sun, had turned almost black. Reaching the top of the slope we came in view of the Federal line and if our eyes had been closed our ears would have given us ample evidence of the fact. The rattle of the Enfields and the hiss of the minies marked the renewal of our acquaintance with our old antagonists of the Dalton and Atlanta campaign. Down the slope we charged until half the distance had been covered and the enemy's line is only a hundred yards away. The "zips" of the minies get thicker and thicker and the line partially demoralized by the heavy fire suddenly halts. Frank Stone is carrying the colors (Cleburne's division flag--a blue field with white circle in the center) and he and I jump for the same pine. It is only six inches thick and will cover neither of us fully, but we divide its protective capacity fairly. Fifteen or twenty feet to my left there is an exclamation of pain and as I turn to look Jim Beasley clasps his hand to his face as the blood spurts from his cheek.

My cartridge box has been drawn to the front of my body for convenience in loading as well as for protection and as I look to the front again a ball strikes it, and strikes so hard that it forces from me an involuntary grunt. Frank hears it and turns to me quickly, "Are you hurt?" I said I believed not and proceed to investigate. The ball pa.s.sing through the leather and tin had struck the leaden end of a cartridge and being in that way deflected had pa.s.sed out the right side of the box instead of through my body. Thirty or forty feet to the right the gallant color-bearer of the First Florida, whose heroism at Franklin has already received notice in these records, is making his way alone towards the breastworks at half speed, with his flag held aloft, fifty yards in front of the halted ranks. Inspired by his example or recovering from the temporary panic, the line moves forward again, and the enemy desert their breastworks and make for the rear at a double-quick. Leaping the entrenchments, a hatchet, frying pan and Enfield rifle lie right in my path. Sticking the pan and hatchet in my belt, I drop my Austrian gun and seizing the Enfield I see across the ravine a group of the enemy running up the hill. Aiming at the center of the squad I send one of their own b.a.l.l.s after them, but the cartridge is faulty and fails to reach its mark. We pursue them for half a mile and the disordered ranks are halted to be re-formed. Capt. Hanley, formerly of Cleburne's staff, calls for volunteer skirmishers and John Kirkpatrick is first to respond. Turning to me he says, "Come on Walter." The writer is not advertising for that sort of a job, but the call is a personal one and not caring to let the boys know how badly scared I am, I step out of the ranks. Will Dabney, though laboring under a presentiment that he was to be killed that day, joins us, as do others whose names are not recalled. Deploying and advancing through the woods we are soon in range of the minies again. Lieut. Hunter, a little to our left, is struck and tumbles forward on his head. Will calls out to me that Hunter is killed, but he is mistaken. The lieutenant regains his feet and finds that the wound is confined to his canteen. Advancing further I find a lady's gaiter and a gla.s.s preserve dish dropped by the enemy and probably stolen from some Southern home. Capt. Matt Hopkins, of Olmstead's regiment, picks up a book similarly dropped, but does not carry it long before a minie knocks it from his hand. The line of battle follows in our wake but before it reaches us a ball strikes John Miller, pa.s.sing directly through his body, and he turned to the color-bearer and said, "Frank, I'm killed." Frank replied, "I hope not John." The line presses on and John lies down under the pines to die. In a little while Frank is disabled by a wound in the side and turns the colors over to Billy Morris. The regiment reaches the position occupied by the skirmish line and under heavy fire we are ordered to lie down. Sam Woods and the writer seek the shelter of a large pine and while kneeling together behind it a minie pa.s.ses through Sam's hand and thigh and he limps to the rear. Advancing again, we are halted just before night by a pond or lagoon in our front. A friendly log lies near its edge and we lie down behind it. A Federal battery open on us and the color-bearer of Olmstead's 1st Ga. regiment is knocked six or eight feet and disemboweled by a solid shot as it plows through the ranks. As the litter-bearers are carrying off another wounded man from the same regiment he begs piteously for his haversack, which has been left behind. They are under fire and refuse to halt. One of the Oglethorpes, in pity for the poor fellow, leaves the protection of his log and running up the line secures the haversack, takes it to him, then hastens back to his position.

Night comes on, the firing ceases and the fight is ended. We have driven the enemy more than a mile, have captured a number of prisoners and have suffered comparatively little loss. Of the 19 Oglethorpes only one has been killed and three wounded, though thirteen others bear on their bodies, clothing or equipment marks of the enemy's fire, some of them in three or four places. Frank Stone, in addition to the wound in his side and a hole through his sleeve, has a chew of tobacco taken off by a ball that pa.s.ses through his pocket. John Kirkpatrick has his canteen ventilated, Sol Foreman and Will Dabney find the meal in their haversacks seasoned with minies instead of salt, and the writer, in addition to the demoralization of his cartridge box, finds a hole in his haversack and thirteen in his folded blanket, all probably made by a single ball. Relieved from our position in the line by Harrison's regiment, by the aid of torches we find John Miller's body and near it a naked arm taken off at the elbow by a cannon ball. Placing them on a blanket, John Kirkpatrick, Will Dabney, the writer and another comrade carry them nearly half a mile to an open field and give them as decent burial as we can.

War's casualties, alas, are not all counted on the battlefield. From dread suspense that comes between the battle and the published list of slain and wounded, from the wearing agony of a separation that seems so endless, and the weary watching for footsteps that never come again, they fall on gentle hearts in lonely homes far removed from the smoke and din of musketry and cannon, not suddenly, perhaps, but sometimes just as surely as if by deadly missile on the firing line. John was an only child and far away in his Georgia home his stricken parents rendered childless by his death, mourned in their loneliness for "the touch of a vanished hand" until broken hearted they, too, were laid away in the narrow-house appointed for all the living.

On the following day the remainder of Sherman's army came up and two divisions secured a position in our rear, but were driven back. A regiment of Texas cavalry made a successful charge in this engagement, holding their bridle reins in their mouths and a navy pistol in each hand. A gallant son of Gen. Hardee went in with them as a volunteer and was killed in the charge. Our division was not engaged, there being only skirmishing in our front. Harrison Foster and Billy Morris were on the picket line and under a misapprehension of an order of Gen. Bate, who was riding over the line with his crutches strapped to his saddle, they advanced to a point within close range of the Yankee trenches. Subjected to a heavy fire, they took refuge behind a pile of rails. While lying there Billy was struck in the face and the pain of the wound led him to think that he was severely hurt. An investigation, however, showed that a minie ball had shattered a rail and had driven a splinter into the flesh. There was renewed skirmishing on the 21st, but as a company our last gun had been fired. Johnston, finding his force of less than 20,000 men too small to cope with Sherman's entire army, evacuated his position on the 22d and retired to the vicinity of Smithfield. Here we remained until April 10th, when under an Act of the Confederate Congress, the army was re-organized. The numbers in each military organization had become so reduced that it was found necessary to consolidate divisions into brigades, brigades into regiments, and regiments into battalions.

The 1st, 57th and 63rd Ga. were merged into the First Volunteer Regiment of Ga., the 54th Ga. forming a battalion. The Oglethorpes alone of the ten companies of our regiment, retained their separate and original organization. Lieut. Wilberforce Daniel was made captain, with Charles T. Goetchius and Geo. W. McLaughlin as first and second lieutenants.

Lieut. A. W. Blanchard was promoted to the captaincy of Co. K, formed of companies E, F, and G, and the writer, at Capt. Blanchard's request, was made an officer in the same company, Will Dabney being also transferred and given the position of orderly sergeant. I am glad to be able to say to the credit of the Oglethorpes, that the consolidation not only failed to reduce the rank of any of their officers, as was the case in other companies, but that it resulted in the promotion of them all and in addition to this another company in the new regiment was practically officered by them.

As soon as the re-organization had been completed we began our southward march, pa.s.sing through Raleigh and Chapel Hill and reaching the vicinity of Greensboro on April 16th. Appomatox had become history, and a truce of ten days was agreed upon by Johnston and Sherman, with a view to ending the war. On the 17th and 18th rumors were current that the army was to be surrendered and numbers of the troops left their commands, unwilling to submit to the seeming humiliation. To stop this movement Johnston issued an order informing the army that negotiations for peace were going on between the governments, and on April 28th the terms of the Military Convention, agreed to on the 26th were published. Lee's surrender had shattered the last hope of Confederate success and a prolongation of the struggle would have been a useless and criminal sacrifice of life.

A report of President's Lincoln a.s.sa.s.sination had reached our camp and a number of us went over one night to the quarters of Gen. John C. Brown, our division commander, to ascertain the correctness of the rumor. To the question, "Is Lincoln dead?" he replied, "Yes, he's very dead."

"Well, General, what do you propose to do when you get home?" "I am going to join the Quakers," he said, "My fighting days are over." On May 2d our paroles arrived and were signed up and on the 3rd we began our march for Georgia, making the trip of 230 miles in 11 days. In evidence of South Carolina's loyalty to the cause, even in its dying hours, I recall the fact that while pa.s.sing through its territory on our homeward march, no man or woman refused to accept Confederate money for any purchase made by us. Although then

"Representing nothing on G.o.d's green earth, And naught in the waters below it,"

in Carolina, at least,

"Like our dream of success--it pa.s.sed."

Reaching Augusta May 13th, we divided the teams allowed us for transportation and with one dollar and twenty cents in silver paid us at Greensboro for fifteen months' service, we bade our comrades in arms a tender and affectionate farewell, broke ranks for the last time, and turned our weary steps homeward.

The flag we had followed for four years was furled forever and the Southern Confederacy was a thing of the past.