Chapter 3
CHAPTER III. Corinth Well here we were, again reorganizing, and after our lax discipline on the road to and from Virginia, and after a big battle which always disorganizes an army, what wonder is it that some men had to be shot, merely for discipline's sake?
And what wonder that General Bragg's name became a terror to deserters and evildoers? Men were shot by scores, and no wonder the army had to be reorganized. Soldiers had enlisted for twelve months only, and had faithfully complied with their volunteer obligations. The terms for which they had enlisted had expired, and they naturally looked upon it
that they had a right to go home. They had done their duty faithfully and well. They wanted to see their families. In fact, wanted to go home anyhow. War had become a reality.
They were tired of it. A law had been passed by the Confederate States Congress called the Conscript Act. A soldier had no right to volunteer and to choose the branch of service he preferred. He was conscripted. From this time on, till the end of the war, a soldier was simply a machine, a conscript.
It was mighty rough on rebels. We cursed the war, we cursed Bragg, we cursed the Southern Confederacy. All our pride and valor had gone, and we were sick of war and the Southern Confederacy. A law was made by the Confederate States Congress about this time, allowing every person who owned twenty Negroes to go home.
They gave us the blues. We wanted twenty Negroes. Negro property suddenly became very valuable, and there was raised the howl of, Rich man's war, poor man's fight. The glory of the war, the glory of the South, the glory and pride of our volunteers, had
no charms for the conscript. We were directed to re-elect our officers, and the country was surprised to see the sample of a conscript's choice. The conscript had no choice. He was callous and indifferent whether he had a captain or not.
Those who were at first officers had resigned and gone home because they were officers. The poor private, a contemptible conscript, was left to howl and gnash his teeth. The war might as well have ended then and there. The boys were hacked, nay, whipped. They were shorn of the locks of their glory.
They had but one ambition now, and that was to get out of the army in some way or other. They wanted to join the cavalry, or artillery, or home guards, or pioneer corps, or to be Yeller Dogs, or anything. The average staff officer and courier were always called Yeller Dogs and were regarded as non-combatants and a nuisance, and the average private never let one pass without
whistling and calling dogs. In fact, the general had to issue an army order. Threatening punishment for the ridicule hurled at staff officers and couriers. They were looked upon as simply hangers-on, or in other words, as yellow sheep-killing that if you would say Boo-at would yelp and get under their master's heels.
Mike Snyder was General George Manney's Yeller Dog, and I believe here is where Joe Jefferson and Rip Rand Winkle got the name of Rip's dog Snyder. At all times of day or night you could hear, whir, yaw, yaw, hear, hear, hue, Snyder, whoopee, hi-yah, whoopee, Snyder, hear, hear, when a staff officer or courier happened to pass. The reason of this was that the private knew and felt that there was just that much more
loading, shooting, and fighting for him. And there are the fewest number of instances on record where a staff officer or courier ever fired a gun in their country's cause, and even at this late day when I hear an old soldier telling of being on some General's staff I always think of the letter E. In fact, later in the war I was detailed as special courier and staff officer for General
Hood, which office I held three days. But while I held the office, in passing a guard I always told them I was on Hood's staff and ever afterwards I made those three days' staff business last me the balance of the war. I could pass any guard in the army by using the magic words, staff officer.
It beat all the counter-signs ever invented. It was the open sesame of war and discipline. Their last hope had set. They hated war. To their minds the South was a great tyrant, and the Confederacy a fraud.
They were deserting by thousands. They had no love or respect for General Bragg. When men were to be shot or whipped the whole army was marched to the horrid scene to see poor trembling wretch tied to a post and a platoon of twelve men drawn up in line to put him to death, and the hushed command of ready, aim, fire would make the soldier or
conscript I should say low the very name of Southern Confederacy. And when some miserable wretch was to be whipped and branded for being absent ten days without leave, we had to see him kneel down and have his head shaved smooth and slick as a peeled onion and then stripped to the naked skin. Then a strapping fellow with a big rawhide would make the blood flow and spurt at every
lick, the wretch begging and howling like a hound, and then he was branded with a red hot iron with a letter D on both hips. When he was marched through the army to the music of the rogue's march it was enough. None of General Bragg's soldiers ever loved him. They had no faith in his ability as a general.
He was looked upon as a merciless tyrant. The soldiers were very scantily fed. Bragg never was a good feeder or commissary general. Rations with us were always scarce. No extra rations were ever allowed to the negroes who were with us as servants.
No coffee or whiskey or tobacco were ever allowed to be issued to the troops. If they obtained these luxuries they were not from the government. These luxuries were withheld in order to crush the very heart and spirit of his troops. We were crushed. Bragg was the great autocrat.
In the mind of the soldier his word was law. He loved to crush the spirit of his men. The more of a hang-dog look they had about them the better was General Bragg pleased. Not a single soldier in the whole army ever loved or respected him. But he is dead now.
Peace to his ashes. We became starved skeletons, naked and ragged rebels. The chronic diarrhea became the scourge of the army. Corinth became one vast hospital. Almost the whole army attended the sick call every morning.
All the water courses went dry and we used water out of filthy pools. Halleck was advancing. We had to fortify Corinth. The vast army, Grant, Buell, Halleck, Sherman, all were advancing on Corinth. Our troops were in no condition to fight.
In fact they had seen enough of this miserable yet tragic farce. They were ready to ring down the curtain, put out the footlights and go home. They loved the Union anyhow and were always opposed to this war. But breathe softly the name of Bragg. It had more terror than the advancing hosts of Halleck's army.
The shot in shell would come tearing through our ranks. Every now and then a soldier was killed or wounded and we thought what magnificent folly. Death was welcome. Halleck's whole army of bluecoats had no terror now. When we were drawn up in line of battle a detail of one-tenth of the army was placed
in our rear to shoot us down if we ran. No pack of hounds under the master's lash or body of penitentiary convicts were ever under greater surveillance. We were tenfold worse than slaves. Our morale was a thing of the past.
The glory of war and the pride of manhood had been sacrificed upon Bragg's tyrannical holocaust. But enough of this. Roland Shot to Death One morning I went over to the 23rd Tennessee Regiment on a visit to Captain Gray Armstrong
and Colonel Jim Neal, both of whom were glad to see me as we were old antebellum friends. While at Colonel Neal's marquee I saw a detail of soldiers bring out a man by the name of Roland whom they were going to shoot to death with musketry by order of a court-martial for desertion. I learned that he had served out the term for which he had originally volunteered, had
quit our army and joined that of the Yankees and was captured with Prentiss's Yankee Brigade at Shiloh. He was being hauled to the place of execution in a wagon sitting on an old gun box which was to be his coffin. When they got to the grave, which had been dug the day before, the water had risen in
it and a soldier was bailing it out. Roland spoke up and said, "'Please hand me a drink of that water as I want to drink out of my own grave so the boys will talk about it when I am dead and remember, Roland.' They handed him the water and he drank all there was in the bucket, and handing it back
asked him to please hand him a little more as he had heard that water was very scarce in hell, and it would be the last he would ever drink. He was then carried to the death post, and there he began to cut up Jack generally. He began to curse-brag Jeff Davis and the Southern Confederacy and all the rebels at a terrible rate.
He was simply arrogant and very insulting. I felt that he deserved to die. He said he would show the rebels how a Union man could die. I do not know what Aldi did say. When the shooting detail came up he went of his own accord and knelt down at the post.
The captain commanding the squad gave the command, Ready, Aim, Fire! And Roland tumbled over on his side. It was the last of Roland. Killing a Yankee Sharpshooter
In our immediate front at Corinth, Mississippi our men were being picked off by sharpshooters, and the great many were killed, but no one could tell where the shots were coming from. In one particular post it was sure death. Every detail that had been sent to this post for a week had been killed. In distributing the detail this post fell to Tom Webb and myself.
They were bringing off a dead boy just as we went on duty. Colonel George C. Porter of the 6th Tennessee warned us to keep a good look out. We took our stands. A mini-ball whistled right by my head. I don't think it missed me an eighth of an inch.
Tom had sat down on an old chunk of wood and just as he took his seat, zip! A ball took the chunk of wood. Tom picked it up and began laughing at our tight place. Happening to glance up towards the tree tops I saw smoke rising above a tree and about the same time I saw a Yankee peep from behind the tree up among the bushes.
I quickly called Tom's attention to it and pointed out the place. We could see his ramrod as he handled it while loading his gun. We saw him raise his gun as we thought to put a cap on it. Tom in the meanwhile had lain flat on his belly and placed his gun across the chunk he had been sitting on.
I had taken a rest for my gun by the side of a sapling and both of us had dead aim at the place where the Yankee was. Finally we saw him sort of peep around the tree and we moved about a little so that he might see us and as we did so the Yankee stepped out in full view and bang! Bang!
Tom and I had both shot. We saw that Yankee tumble out like a squirrel. It sounded like distant thunder when that Yankee struck the ground. We heard the Yankees carry him off. One thing I am certain of and that is not another Yankee went up that tree that day
and Colonel George C. Porter complimented Tom and I very highly on our success. This is where I first saw a jack-o-lantern, Eni's Fatui. That night while Tom and I were on our post we saw a number of very dim lights which seemed to be in motion. At first we took them to be Yankees moving about with lights.
Whenever we could get a shot we would blaze away. At last one got up very close and passed right between Tom and I. I don't think I was ever more scared in my life. My hair stood on end like the quills of the fretful porcupine. I could not imagine what on earth it was.
I took it to be some hellish machination of a Yankee trick. I did not know whether to run or stand until I heard Tom laugh and say, Well, well, that's a jack-o-lantern. Colonel Field Before proceeding further with these memoirs I desired to give short sketches of two personages
with whom we were identified and closely associated until the winding up of the ball. The first is Colonel Hume R. Field. Colonel Field was born a soldier. I have read many descriptions of Stonewall Jackson. Colonel Field was his exact counterpart.
He looked somewhat alike, spoke alike, and alike were trained military soldiers. The War Department at Richmond made a grand mistake in not making him a commander of armies. He was not a brilliant man, could not talk at all. He was a soldier. His conversation was yea and nay.
But when you could get yes sir and no sir out of him his voice was as soft and gentle as a maid's when she says yes to her lover. If you please, a man about thirty years old, a dark skin made swarthy by exposure to sun and rain, very black eyes that seemed ablaze with a gentle luster. I never saw him the least excited in my life.
His face was a face of bronze. His form was somewhat slender. But when you looked at him you saw at the first glance that this would be a dangerous man in a ground scuffle, a foot race, or a fight. There was nothing repulsive or forbidding or even domineering in his looks.
A child or dog would make up with him on first sight. He knew not what fear was or the meaning of the word fear. He had no nerves or rather has a rock or tree any nerves? He might as well try to shake the nerves of a rock or tree as those of Colonel Field. He was the bravest man I think I ever knew.
Later in the war he was known by every soldier in the army and the 1st Tennessee Regiment by his manipulations became the regiment to occupy tight places. He knew his men. When he struck the Yankee line they felt the blow. He had himself set the example and so trained his regiment that all the armies in the world
could not whip it. They might kill every man in it, it's true, but they would die game to the last man. His men all loved him. He was no disciplinarian but made his regiment what it was by his own example. And every day on the march you would see some poor old ragged rebel riding his fine gray
mare and he was walking. Captain Joe P. Lee The other person I wish to speak of is Captain Joe P. Lee. Captain Henry J. Webster was our regular captain but he was captured while on furlough sent to a northern prison and died there and Joe went up by promotion.
He was quite a young man about 21 years old but as brave as any old Roman soldier that ever lived. Joe's face was ever wreathed in smiles and from the beginning to the end he was ever at the head of his company. I do not think that any member of the company ever did call him by his title.
He was simply called Joe Lee or more frequently Black Perch. While on duty he was strict and firm but off duty he was one of us boys. We all loved him and respected him. But everybody knows Joe and further comment is unnecessary. I merely mention these two persons because in this rapid sketch I may have cause occasionally
to mention them and only wish to introduce them to the reader so he may understand more fully my ideas. But reader please remember that I am not writing a history at all and do not propose in these memoirs to be anybody's biographer. I am only giving my own impressions.
If other persons think differently from me it is all right and I forgive them. One morning a detail was sent to burn up and destroy all the provisions and army stores and to blow up the arsenal. The town was in a blaze of fire and the arsenal was roaring and popping and bellowing like pandemonium turned loose as we all marched through Corinth on the morning of the evacuation.
We bade farewell to Corinth. Its history was black and dark and damning. No little speck of green oasis ever enlivened the dark recesses of our memory while at this place. It's a desert that lives only in bitter memories.
It was but one vast graveyard that entombed the life and spirit of once brave and chivalrous men. We left it to the tender mercies of the Yankees without one tear of sorrow or regret and bade it farewell forever.
