menu_book Chapter 1

CHAPTER I. About twenty years ago, I think it was. I won't be certain, though. A man whose name, if I remember correctly, was William L. Yancey. I write only from memory, and this was a long time ago. It 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. Not 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 a shh-ee.

Then another fellow by the name, I remember this one because it sounded like a graveyard. Tooms. Said so. And he was told a shh-ee. Then after a while whole heaps of people began to say that they thought 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, Jance, 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 puri-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 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 Alex Stevens, commonly styled Smart Alec. The other side selected as captain the son of Nancy Hanks of Bowling Green and the son of old Bob Lincoln, the rail splitter, and whose name was Abe. Well after he was elected captain they elected

his 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 bent to curse him blue but overdid the thing and cursed him black. 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 the 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. Well then Captain Jeff Davis's 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. Well reader let me whisper in your ear. I was in the row and the following pages will tell what part I took and the little unpleasant

misconception of there being such a thing as a north and south. The Bloody Chasm In these memoirs after the lapse of 20 years we propose to fight our battles o'er again. 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. 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. 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 vidette, and

who drew or were to draw $11 per month in 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 a humble private in the rear rank of 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. 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, states' rights, slavery, or our rights in the territories, or by whatever other name it may be called. These are all

with the past now, in the north and south of 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. 1861

Reader mine, did you live in that stormy period? In the year of our Lord 1861? 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 orders tell of how they would protect that flag and that they would come back with a 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, I might say the agony of mine were very different indeed from the patriotic times at home.

Camp Cheatham After being drilled and disciplined at Camp Cheatham under the administrative ability of General R.C. Foster III for two months, we, the 1st, 3rd, and 11th Tennessee regiments, Maney, Brown, and Rains, learned of the advance of McClellan's army into Virginia toward Harper's Ferry and Bull Run.

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. Secession may have been wrong in the abstract, and has been tried and settled by the arbitraiment

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 States' rights, they in the doctrine of

centralization. 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 on 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. The vote of the regiment was taken, and we all voted to go to Virginia. The Southern Confederacy had established its capital at Richmond. A man by the name of Jackson, who

kept the 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. Everywhere the enemy were advancing the red clouds of war were booming up everywhere, but in this particular epoch I refer you to the history of that period.

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. 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-day's rations, a pistol on each side, and a long bowie knife that had been presented to us by William Wood of Columbia, Tennessee. 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. When we were leaving at Nashville, the citizens turned out en masse to receive us, and 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. The Reverend Mr. Elliott invited us to his college grove, where had been prepared enough

of the good things of earth to gratify the taste of the most fastidious epicure. In what was most novel we were waited on by the most beautiful young ladies, pupils of his school. It was charming, I tell you. Reverend C.D. Elliott was our brigade chaplain all through the war, and Dr. C.T. Quintard, the chaplain of the 1st Tennessee Regiment, two of the best men who ever lived. Quintard

is the present Bishop of Tennessee. On the Road 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 hurrawing 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, readers, see why the old soldier loves to live over again that happy period. But the Yankees were advancing on Manassas. July 21 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. Well, what news? Everyone was wild. They 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 that we would have to return home without ever 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 arms shot off so we could have returned home with an empty sleeve. But the battle was over and we left out. Stanton. From Manassas our train moved on to Stanton, 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 t'other from which. We stretched our

tents and the soldiers once again felt that restraint and discipline to 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. Stanton was a big place, whiskey was cheap and good

Virginia tobacco was plentiful and the currency of the country was gold and silver. The state asylums for the blind and insane were here and we visited all the places of interest. Here is where we first saw the game called Chuck-A-Lock, afterwards so popular in the Army, but I always noticed that Chuck won and Luck always lost. Pharaoh and Roulette were in full blast, in fact the scum 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. Warm Springs, Virginia One day while we were idling around camp, June Tucker sounded the assembly and we were

ordered aboard the cars. We pulled out from Millboro. From there we had to foot it to Bathallam and Warm Springs. We went over the Allegheny Mountains. I was on every march that was ever made by the 1st Tennessee Regiment during the whole war and at this time I cannot remember 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, boots and shoes, Sunday hats, pistols and bowie knives drew 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. Nestled in the valley right before us is Bathallam 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 the person could go in any depth he might desire. It was a free thing and we pitched in. We had no idea of the innervating 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 dish rags. 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. 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. 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 vedette 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'm not mistaken it was either twenty or twenty-one for I remember the incident was in almost every southern paper at the 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. One evening General Robert E. Lee came to our camp. He was a fine looking gentleman and wore a mustache. He was dressed in blue cotton aid 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 of 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 everyone 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. Leaving Big Springs we marched on day by day across Greenbrier and Galley Rivers to Huntersville,

a little bit sprightly town hidden in the very fastness 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 sauerkraut 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 doing duty. We drank the singlings while they were hot. But like the old woman who could not eat cornbread until she heard that they made whiskey out of corn, then she could manage

to worry a little of it down. So it was with us and the singlings. From this time forward we were ever on the march. Tramp, tramp, tramp, always on the march. Lees 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. CHEAT MOUNTAIN

One evening about four 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 someone 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 almost scared out of his wits answered between a wail and a shriek, Why, sir, they're 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. We were soon on the march, and we marched on and on and on. About night it began to

rain. All of 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, da bang, da bang, 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 amba-shade. 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. After the fighting was over, where, oh where, was all the fine rigging heretofore on our officers? They could not be seen. Corporals, sergeants, lieutenants, captains, all had torn 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, Huh! 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 many, as well as cannonballs, were blind, that they had no eyes and could not see. They thought that the balls would hunt for them, not hurt the privates. I always shot at the 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. Sewell Mountain 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 of that time of some distinguished man, whether he was Captain, Colonel, or General, I have forgotten, but I know the papers said, He fought the bauble reputation at the cannon's

mouth and went to glory from the deathbed 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, in eras where we were first paid off in Confederate

money. Remaining here a few days we commenced our march again. Sewell Mountain, Harrisonburg, Lewisburg, Kanawha, Salt Works, first four, forward and back, seemed to be the program of that day. Rosicrans, that wily old fox, kept Lee and Jackson both busy trying to catch him, but Rosie 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 and 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 and leaves in Jackson's army was blown down. This is the first sight we had of Stonewall Jackson, riding upon his old, sorrowful 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 saber rattling by his side. This is the way the grand old hero of a hundred battles looked, his spirit as 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. Romney

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 way 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 and 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 frostbitten, and I heard of many freezing to death along the roadside. 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 keen and piercing shriek seemed as if they would freeze the marrow in our bones. The soldiers and 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 soto voce 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 roadside and swear that they would not follow such a leader any longer. When Jackson got to Romney and was ready to strike Banks and Mead in a vital point, and

which would have changed perhaps the destiny of the war in 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.

One night at this place, Romney, I was sent forward with two other soldiers along the wire bridge as Pickett. One of them was named Schwartz and the other Pfeiffer. He called it Pfeiffer, but spelled it with a P, both full-blooded Dutchman, and belonging to Company E, or the German Jaegers, Captain Harsh, or as he was more generally called, God for Damn. When we had crossed the bridge and taken our station for the night, I saw another snowstorm

was coming. The zigzag 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 the other, the one from the north and the other from the south. The white clouds would roll up, looking like huge snowballs, encircled with

living fires. The earth and hills and trees were covered with snow, and the lightnings seemed to be playing King, King, Kaneko 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

snowstorm 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 asleep 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 mini-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, Here is your mule! Pfeiffer 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. Standing Picket on the Potomac

Leaving Winchester we continued up the valley. The night before the attack on Bath or Berkeley Springs there fell the largest snow I ever saw. Stonewall Jackson had 17,000 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 four o'clock one grand charge and rush was made and the Yankees were routed

and skedaddled. By some circumstance or other Lieutenant J. Lee Bullock came in command of the 1st Tennessee Regiment, but Lee was not a graduate of West Point you see. The hills had left some spiked batteries on the hillside 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 pirouette up that

hill. Pirouette march. Forward men. Pirouette carefully. The boys pirouetted 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.

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 1st Tennessee Regiment who was the prettiest woman he ever saw, he would unhesitatingly answer that he saw her at Berkeley Springs during the war, and he would continue the tale and tell you of Lee Bullock's pirouette and Stonewall Jackson's charge. We rushed

down to the big spring bursting out of the mountainside 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. The snow covered the ground and was still falling. That night I stood picket on a Potomac with a detail of the 3rd 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 at the more I was convinced that it was the Yankee picket. I could see his hat and coat. Yes, see his gun. I was sure that it was the 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 threw 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. 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 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 the line of battle at Winchester.

Schwartz and Pfeiffer. 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 and ice cream and strawberries.

And biscuits fried in tallow were something along the principle of possum and sweet potatoes. While Pfeiffer had got the fat from the kidneys of two hindquarters and made a cake of tallow weighing about 25 pounds he wrapped it up and put it carefully away in his knapsack. When the assembly sounded for the march Pfeiffer strapped on his knapsack. It was pretty heavy but Pfeiffer was well healed. He knew the good frying he would get out of that 25 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. Pfeiffer was in a good humor. He went to get that 25 pounds of good nice fat tallow out of his knapsack and on opening it lo and behold it was a rock that

weighed about 30 pounds. Pfeiffer was struck dumb with amazement. He looked bewildered, even silly. I do not think he cursed because he could not do the subject justice. He looked at that rock with a 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 had just torn his victim limb from limb. I would not have been in Schwartz's shoes for all the tallow and every beef in Virginia. Captain Harsh made Schwartz carry that rock for two days to pacify Pfeiffer. The Court Marshal 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 came 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.

Two days afterwards I received notice to appear before a court marshal 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 someone. He had to be tried for his life. The court marshal 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 marshal 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. 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? Some of you gentlemen of this court marshal 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. THE DEATH WATCH 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. Now were I to tell you 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. A

little village called Hampshire Crossing, our regiment was ordered to go to a little stream called St. John's Run to relieve the Fourteenth Georgia Regiment in the Third 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 guards sure enough. If I remember

correctly there were just eleven of them. Some were sitting down, 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 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. Virginia Farewell. 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 rash 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 Shoemaker

were names with which we had been long associated. We hated to leave 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 in 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 old Joe Bynum and Gus Allen and Patrick Hanley. 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. Virginia, farewell. 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. Chapter 1