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'Co. Aytch,' Maury Grays, First Tennessee Regiment or, A Side Show of the Big Show

<h2 id="id00461" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XII</h2> <h5 id="id00462">HUNDRED DAYS BATTLE</h5> <h4 id="id00463" style="margin-top: 2em">ROCKY FACE RIDGE</h4> When I got back to Dalton, I found the Yankee army advancing; they were at Rocky Face Ridge. Now, for old Joe's generalship. We have seen him in camp, now we will see him in action. We are marched to meet the enemy; we occupy Turner's Gap at Tunnel Hill. Now, come on, Mr. Yank—we are keen for an engagement. It is like a picnic; the soldiers are ruddy and fat, and strong; whoop! whoop! hurrah! come on, Mr. Yank. We form line of battle on top of Rocky Face Ridge, and here we are face to face with the enemy. Why don't you unbottle your thunderbolts and dash us to pieces? Ha! here it comes; the boom of cannon and the bursting of a shell in our midst. Ha! ha! give us another blizzard! Boom! boom! That's all right, you ain't hurting nothing. "Hold on, boys," says a sharpshooter, armed with a Whitworth gun, "I'll stop that racket. Wait until I see her smoke again." Boom, boom! the keen crack of the Whitworth rings upon the frosty morning air; the cannoneers are seen to lie down; something is going on. "Yes, yonder is a fellow being carried off on a litter." Bang! bang! goes the Whitworth, and the battery is seen to limber to the rear. What next? a yell! What does this yell mean? A charge right up the hill, and a little sharp skirmish for a few moments. We can see the Yankee line. They are resting on their arms. The valley below is full of blue coats, but a little too far off to do any execution. Old Joe walks along the line. He happens to see the blue coats in the valley, in plain view. Company H is ordered to fire on them. We take deliberate aim and fire a solid volley of minnie balls into their midst. We see a terrible consplutterment among them, and know that we have killed and wounded several of Sherman's incendiaries. They seem to get mad at our audacity, and ten pieces of cannon are brought up, and pointed right toward us. We see the smoke boil up, and a moment afterwards the shell is roaring and bursting right among us. Ha! ha! ha! that's funny— we love the noise of battle. Captain Joe P. Lee orders us to load and fire at will upon these batteries. Our Enfields crack, keen and sharp; and ha, ha, ha, look yonder! The Yankees are running away from their cannon, leaving two pieces to take care of themselves. Yonder goes a dash of our cavalry. They are charging right up in the midst of the Yankee line. Three men are far in advance. Look out, boys! What does that mean? Our cavalry are falling back, and the three men are cut off. They will be captured, sure. They turn to get back to our lines. We can see the smoke boil up, and hear the discharge of musketry from the Yankee lines. One man's horse is seen to blunder and fall, one man reels in his saddle, and falls a corpse, and the other is seen to surrender. But, look yonder! the man's horse that blundered and fell is up again; he mounts his horse in fifty yards of the whole Yankee line, is seen to lie down on his neck, and is spurring him right on toward the solid line of blue coats. Look how he rides, and the ranks of the blue coats open. Hurrah for the brave rebel boy! He has passed and is seen to regain his regiment. I afterwards learned that that brave Rebel boy was my own brother, Dave, who at that time was not more than sixteen years old. The one who was killed was named Grimes, and the one captured was named Houser, and the regiment was the First Tennessee Cavalry, then commanded by Colonel J. H. Lewis. You could have heard the cheers from both sides, it seemed, for miles. John Branch raised the tune, in which the whole First and Twenty-seventh Regiments joined in: "Cheer, boys, cheer, we are marching on to battle! Cheer, boys, cheer, for our sweethearts and our wives! Cheer, boys, cheer, we'll nobly do our duty, And give to the South our hearts, our arms, our lives. Old Lincoln, with his hireling hosts, Will never whip the South, Shouting the battle cry of freedom." All this is taking place while the Yankees are fully one thousand yards off. We can see every movement that is made, and we know that Sherman's incendiaries are already hacked. Sherman himself is a coward, and dares not try his strength with old Joe. Sherman never fights; all that he is after is marching to the sea, while the world looks on and wonders: "What a flank movement!" Yes, Sherman is afraid of minnie balls, and tries the flank movement. We are ordered to march somewhere. <h4 id="id00470" style="margin-top: 2em">"FALLING BACK"</h4> Old Joe knows what he is up to. Every night we change our position. The morrow's sun finds us face to face with the Yankee lines. The troops are in excellent spirits. Yonder are our "big guns," our cavalry— Forrest and Wheeler—our sharpshooters, and here is our wagon and supply train, right in our midst. The private's tread is light—his soul is happy. Another flank movement. Tomorrow finds us face to face. Well, you have come here to fight us; why don't you come on? We are ready; always ready. Everything is working like clockwork; machinery is all in order. Come, give us a tilt, and let us try our metal. You say old Joe has got the brains and you have got the men; you are going to flank us out of the Southern Confederacy. That's your plan, is it? Well, look out; we are going to pick off and decimate your men every day. You will be a picked chicken before you do that. What? The Yankees are at Resacca, and have captured the bridge across the Oostanaula river. Well, now, that's business; that has the old ring in it. Tell it to us again; we're fond of hearing such things. The Yankees are tearing up the railroad track between the tank and Resacca. Let's hear it again. The Yankees have opened the attack; we are going to have a battle; we are ordered to strip for the fight. (That is, to take off our knapsacks and blankets, and to detail Bev. White to guard them.) Keep closed up, men. The skirmish line is firing like popping fire-crackers on a Christmas morning. Every now and then the boom of a cannon and the screaming of a shell. Ha, ha, ha! that has the right ring. We will make Sherman's incendiaries tell another tale in a few moments, when—"Halt! about face." Well, what's the matter now? Simply a flank movement. All right; we march back, retake our knapsacks and blankets, and commence to march toward Resacca. Tom Tucker's rooster crows, and John Branch raises the tune, "Just Twenty Years Ago," and after we sing that out, he winds up with, "There Was an Ancient Individual Whose Cognomen Was Uncle Edward," and "The old woman who kept a peanut stand, And a big policeman stood by with a big stick in his hand," And Arthur Fulghum halloes out, "All right; go ahead! toot, toot, toot! puff, puff, puff! Tickets, gentlemen, tickets!" and the Maury Grays raise the yell, "All aboard for Culleoka," while Walker Coleman commences the song, "I'se gwine to jine the rebel band, fightin' for my home." Thus we go, marching back to Resacca. <h4 id="id00477" style="margin-top: 2em">BATTLE OF RESACCA</h4> Well, you want to hear about shooting and banging, now, gentle reader, don't you? I am sorry I cannot interest you on this subject—see history. The Yankees had got breeches hold on us. They were ten miles in our rear; had cut off our possibility of a retreat. The wire bridge was in their hands, and they were on the railroad in our rear; but we were moving, there was no mistake in that. Our column was firm and strong. There was no excitement, but we were moving along as if on review. We passed old Joe and his staff. He has on a light or mole colored hat, with a black feather in it. He is listening to the firing going on at the front. One little cheer, and the very ground seems to shake with cheers. Old Joe smiles as blandly as a modest maid, raises his hat in acknowledgement, makes a polite bow, and rides toward the firing. Soon we are thrown into line of battle, in support of Polk's corps. We belong to Hardee's corps. Now Polk's corps advances to the attack, and Hardee's corps fifty or seventy-five yards in the rear. A thug, thug, thug; the balls are decimating our men; we can't fire; Polk's corps is in front of us; should it give way, then it will be our time. The air is full of deadly missiles. We can see the two lines meet, and hear the deadly crash of battle; can see the blaze of smoke and fire. The earth trembles. Our little corps rush in to carry off our men as they are shot down, killed and wounded. Lie down! thug, thug! General Hardee passes along the line. "Steady, boys!" (The old general had on a white cravat; he had been married to a young wife not more than three weeks). "Go back, general, go back, go back, go back," is cried all along the line. He passes through the missiles of death unscathed; stood all through that storm of bullets indifferent to their proximity (we were lying down, you know). The enemy is checked; yonder they fly, whipped and driven from the field. "Attention! By the right flank, file left, march! Double quick!" and we were double quicking, we knew not whither, but that always meant fight. We pass over the hill, and through the valley, and there is old Joe pointing toward the tank with his sword. (He looked like the pictures you see hung upon the walls). We cross the railroad. Halloo! here comes a cavalry charge from the Yankee line. Now for it; we will see how Yankee cavalry fight. We are not supported; what is the matter? Are we going to be captured? They thunder down upon us. Their flat-footed dragoons shake and jar the earth. They are all around us—we are surrounded. "Form square! Platoons, right and left wheel! Kneel and fire!" There we were in a hollow square. The Yankees had never seen anything like that before. It was something new. They charged right upon us. Colonel Field, sitting on his gray mare, right in the center of the hollow square, gives the command, "Front rank, kneel and present bayonet against cavalry." The front rank knelt down, placing the butts of their guns against their knees. "Rear rank, fire at will; commence firing." Now, all this happened in less time than it has taken me to write it. They charged right upon us, no doubt expecting to ride right over us, and trample us to death with the hoofs of their horses. They tried to spur and whip their horses over us, but the horses had more sense than that. We were pouring a deadly fire right into their faces, and soon men and horses were writhing in the death agonies; officers were yelling at the top of their voices, "Surrender! surrender!" but we were having too good a thing of it. We were killing them by scores, and they could not fire at us; if they did they either overshot or missed their aim. Their ranks soon began to break and get confused, and finally they were routed, and broke and ran in all directions, as fast as their horses could carry them. When we re-formed our regiment and marched back, we found that General Johnston's army had all passed over the bridge at Resacca. Now, reader, this was one of our tight places. The First Tennessee Regiment was always ordered to hold tight places, which we always did. We were about the last troops that passed over. Now, gentle reader, that is all I know of the battle of Resacca. We had repulsed every charge, had crossed the bridge with every wagon, and cannon, and everything, and had nothing lost or captured. It beat anything that has ever been recorded in history. I wondered why old Joe did not attack in their rear. The explanation was that Hood's line was being enfiladed, his men decimated, and he could not hold his position. We are still fighting; battles innumerable. The Yankees had thrown pontoons across the river below Resacca, in hopes to intercept us on the other side. We were marching on the road; they seemed to be marching parallel with us. It was fighting, fighting, every day. When we awoke in the morning, the firing of guns was our reveille, and when the sun went down it was our "retreat and our lights out." Fighting, fighting, fighting, all day and all night long. Battles were fought every day, and in one respect we always had the advantage; they were the attacking party, and we always had good breastworks thrown up during the night. Johnston's army was still intact. The soldiers drew their regular rations of biscuit and bacon, sugar and coffee, whisky and tobacco. When we went to sleep we felt that old Joe, the faithful old watch dog, had his eye on the enemy. No one was disposed to straggle and go back to Company Q. (Company Q was the name for play-outs). They even felt safer in the regular line than in the rear with Company Q. Well as stated previously, it was battle, battle, battle, every day, for one hundred days. The boom of cannon, and the rattle of musketry was our reveille and retreat, and Sherman knew that it was no child's play. Today, April 14, 1882, I say, and honestly say, that I sincerely believe the combined forces of the whole Yankee nation could never have broken General Joseph E. Johnston's line of battle, beginning at Rocky Face Ridge, and ending on the banks of the Chattahoochee. <h4 id="id00486" style="margin-top: 2em">ADAIRSVILLE—OCTAGON HOUSE—THE FIRST TENNESSEE ALWAYS OCCUPIES TIGHT PLACES</h4> We had stacked our arms and gone into camp, and had started to build fires to cook supper. I saw our cavalry falling back, I thought, rather hurriedly. I ran to the road and asked them what was the matter? They answered, "Matter enough; yonder are the Yankees, are you infantry fellows going to make a stand here?" I told Colonel Field what had been told to me, and he hooted at the idea; but balls that had shucks tied to their tails were passing over, and our regiment was in the rear of the whole army. I could hardly draw anyone's attention to the fact that the cavalry had passed us, and that we were on the outpost of the whole army, when an order came for our regiment to go forward as rapidly as possible and occupy an octagon house in our immediate front. The Yankees were about a hundred yards from the house on one side and we about a hundred yards on the other. The race commenced as to which side would get to the house first. We reached it, and had barely gotten in, when they were bursting down the paling of the yard on the opposite side. The house was a fine brick, octagon in shape, and as perfect a fort as could be desired. We ran to the windows, upstairs, downstairs and in the cellar. The Yankees cheered and charged, and our boys got happy. Colonel Field told us he had orders to hold it until every man was killed, and never to surrender the house. It was a forlorn hope. We felt we were "gone fawn skins," sure enough. At every discharge of our guns, we would hear a Yankee squall. The boys raised a tune— "I'se gwine to jine the Rebel band, A fighting for my home"— as they loaded and shot their guns. Then the tune of— "Cheer, boys, cheer, we are marching on to battle! Cheer, boys, cheer, for our sweethearts and our wives! Cheer, boys, cheer, we'll nobly do our duty, And give to the South our hearts, our arms, our lives." Our cartridges were almost gone, and Lieutenant Joe Carney, Joe Sewell, and Billy Carr volunteered to go and bring a box of one thousand cartridges. They got out of the back window, and through that hail of iron and lead, made their way back with the box of cartridges. Our ammunition being renewed, the fight raged on. Captain Joe P. Lee touched me on the shoulder and said, "Sam, please let me have your gun for one shot." He raised it to his shoulder and pulled down on a fine-dressed cavalry officer, and I saw that Yankee tumble. He handed it back to me to reload. About twelve o'clock, midnight, the Hundred and Fifty-fourth Tennessee, commanded by Colonel McGevney, came to our relief. The firing had ceased, and we abandoned the octagon house. Our dead and wounded—there were thirty of them—were in strange contrast with the furniture of the house. Fine chairs, sofas, settees, pianos and Brussels carpeting being made the death-bed of brave and noble boys, all saturated with blood. Fine lace and damask curtains, all blackened by the smoke of battle. Fine bureaus and looking-glasses and furniture being riddled by the rude missiles of war. Beautiful pictures in gilt frames, and a library of valuable books, all shot and torn by musket and cannon balls. Such is war. <h4 id="id00493" style="margin-top: 2em">KENNESAW LINE</h4> The battles of the Kennesaw line were fought for weeks. Cannonading and musketry firing was one continual thing. It seemed that shooting was the order of the day, and pickets on both sides kept up a continual firing, that sounded like ten thousand wood-choppers. Sometimes the wood- choppers would get lazy or tired and there was a lull. But you could always tell when the old guard had been relieved, by the accelerated chops of the wood-choppers. <h4 id="id00495" style="margin-top: 2em">AM DETAILED TO GO INTO THE ENEMY'S LINES</h4> One day our orderly sergeant informed me that it was my regular time to go on duty, and to report to Captain Beasley, of the Twenty-seventh. I reported to the proper place, and we were taken to the headquarters of General Leonidas Polk. We had to go over into the enemy's lines, and make such observations as we could, and report back by daylight in the morning. Our instructions were to leave everything in camp except our guns and cartridge-boxes. These were to be carried, but, under no circumstances, to be used, except in case of death itself. We were instructed to fall in in the rear of our relief guard, which would go out about sunset; not to attract their attention, but to drop out one or two at a time; to pass the Yankee picket as best we could, even if we had to crawl on our bellies to do so; to go over in the Yankee lines, and to find out all we could, without attracting attention, if possible. These were our instructions. You may be sure my heart beat like a muffled drum when I heard our orders. I felt like making my will. But, like the boy who was passing the graveyard, I tried to whistle to keep my spirits up. We followed the relief guard, and one by one stepped off from the rear. I was with two others, Arnold Zellner and T. C. Dornin. We found ourselves between the picket lines of the two armies. Fortune seemed to favor us. It was just getting dusky twilight, and we saw the relief guard of the Yankees just putting on their picket. They seemed to be very mild, inoffensive fellows. They kept a looking over toward the Rebel lines, and would dodge if a twig cracked under their feet. I walked on as if I was just relieved, and had passed their lines, when I turned back, and says I, "Captain, what guard is this?" He answered, "Nien bocht, you bet," is what I understood him to say. "What regiment are you from?" "Ben bicht mir ein riefel fab bien." "What regiment is your detail from?" "Iet du mein got Donnermetter stefel switzer." I had to give it up— I had run across the detail of a Dutch regiment. I passed on, and came to the regular line of breastworks, and there was an old Irishman sitting on a stump grinding coffee. "General McCook's brigade, be jabbers," he answered to my inquiry as to what regiment it was. Right in front of me the line was full of Irish soldiers, and they were cooking supper. I finally got over their breastworks, and was fearful I would run into some camp or headquarter guard, and the countersign would be demanded of me. I did not know what to do in that case—but I thought of the way that I had gotten in hundreds of times before in our army, when I wanted to slip the guard, and that was to get a gun, go to some cross street or conspicuous place, halt the officer, and get the countersign. And while standing near General Sherman's headquarters, I saw a courier come out of his tent, get on his horse, and ride toward where I stood. As he approached, says I, "Halt! who goes there?" "A friend with the countersign." He advanced, and whispered in my ear the word "United." He rode on. I had gotten their countersign, and felt I was no longer a prisoner. I went all over their camp, and saw no demonstration of any kind. Night had thrown her mantle over the encampment. I could plainly see the sentinels on their weary vigils along the lines, but there was none in their rear. I met and talked with a great many soldiers, but could get no information from them. About 2 o'clock at night, I saw a body of men approaching where I was. Something told me that I had better get out of their way, but I did not. The person in command said, "Say, there! you, sir; say, you, sir!" Says I, "Are you speaking to me?" "Yes," very curtly and abruptly. "What regiment do you belong to?" Says I, "One hundred and twenty- seventh Illinois." "Well, sir, fall in here; I am ordered to take up all stragglers. Fall in, fall in promptly!" Says I, "I am instructed by General McCook to remain here and direct a courier to General Williams' headquarters." He says, "It's a strange place for a courier to come to." His command marched on. About an hour afterwards—about 3 o'clock— I heard the assembly sound. I knew then that it was about time for me to be getting out of the way. Soon their companies were forming, and they were calling the roll everywhere. Everything had begun to stir. Artillery men were hitching up their horses. Men were dashing about in every direction. I saw their army form and move off. I got back into our lines, and reported to General Polk. He was killed that very day on the Kennesaw line. General Stephens was killed the very next day. Every now and then a dead picket was brought in. Times had begun to look bilious, indeed. Their cannon seemed to be getting the best of ours in every fight. The cannons of both armies were belching and bellowing at each other, and the pickets were going it like wood choppers, in earnest. We were entrenched behind strong fortifications. Our rations were cooked and brought to us regularly, and the spirits of the army were in good condition. We continued to change position, and build new breastworks every night. One-third of the army had to keep awake in the trenches, while the other two-thirds slept. But everything was so systematized, that we did not feel the fatigue. <h4 id="id00502" style="margin-top: 2em">PINE MOUNTAIN—DEATH OF GENERAL LEONIDAS POLK</h4> General Leonidas Polk, our old leader, whom we had followed all through that long war, had gone forward with some of his staff to the top of Pine Mountain, to reconnoiter, as far as was practicable, the position of the enemy in our front. While looking at them with his field glass, a solid shot from the Federal guns struck him on his left breast, passing through his body and through his heart. I saw him while the infirmary corps were bringing him off the field. He was as white as a piece of marble, and a most remarkable thing about him was, that not a drop of blood was ever seen to come out of the place through which the cannon ball had passed. My pen and ability is inadequate to the task of doing his memory justice. Every private soldier loved him. Second to Stonewall Jackson, his loss was the greatest the South ever sustained. When I saw him there dead, I felt that I had lost a friend whom I had ever loved and respected, and that the South had lost one of her best and greatest generals. His soldiers always loved and honored him. They called him "Bishop Polk." "Bishop Polk" was ever a favorite with the army, and when any position was to be held, and it was known that "Bishop Polk" was there, we knew and felt that "all was well." <h4 id="id00505" style="margin-top: 2em">GOLGOTHA CHURCH—GENERAL LUCIUS E. POLK WOUNDED</h4> On this Kennesaw line, near Golgotha Church, one evening about 4 o'clock, our Confederate line of battle and the Yankee line came in close proximity. If I mistake not, it was a dark, drizzly, rainy evening. The cannon balls were ripping and tearing through the bushes. The two lines were in plain view of each other. General Pat Cleburne was at this time commanding Hardee's corps, and General Lucius E. Polk was in command of Cleburne's division. General John C. Brown's division was supporting Cleburne's division, or, rather, "in echelon." Every few moments, a raking fire from the Yankee lines would be poured into our lines, tearing limbs off the trees, and throwing rocks and dirt in every direction; but I never saw a soldier quail, or even dodge. We had confidence in old Joe, and were ready to march right into the midst of battle at a moment's notice. While in this position, a bomb, loaded with shrapnel and grapeshot, came ripping and tearing through our ranks, wounding General Lucius E. Polk, and killing some of his staff. And, right here, I deem it not inappropriate to make a few remarks as to the character and appearance of so brave and gallant an officer. At this time he was about twenty-five years old, with long black hair, that curled, a gentle and attractive black eye that seemed to sparkle with love rather than chivalry, and were it not for a young moustache and goatee that he usually wore, he would have passed for a beautiful girl. In his manner he was as simple and guileless as a child, and generous almost to a fault. Enlisting in the First Arkansas Regiment as a private soldier, and serving for twelve months as orderly sergeant; at the reorganization he was elected colonel of the regiment, and afterwards, on account of merit and ability, was commissioned brigadier-general; distinguishing himself for conspicuous bravery and gallantry on every battlefield, and being "scalped" by a minnie ball at Richmond, Kentucky— which scar marks its furrow on top of his head today. In every battle he was engaged in, he led his men to victory, or held the enemy at bay, while the surge of battle seemed against us; he always seemed the successful general, who would snatch victory out of the very jaws of defeat. In every battle, Polk's brigade, of Cleburne's division, distinguished itself, almost making the name of Cleburne as the Stonewall of the West. Polk was to Cleburne what Murat or the old guard was to Napoleon. And, at the battle of Chickamauga, when it seemed that the Southern army had nearly lost the battle, General Lucius E. Polk's brigade made the most gallant charge of the war, turning the tide of affairs, and routing the Yankee army. General Polk himself led the charge in person, and was the first man on top of the Yankee breastworks (vide General D. H. Hill's report of the battle of Chickamauga), and in every attack he had the advance guard, and in every retreat, the rear guard of the army. Why? Because General Lucius E. Polk and his brave soldiers never faltered, and with him as leader, the general commanding the army knew that "all was well." Well, this evening of which I now write, the litter corps ran up and placed him on a litter, and were bringing him back through Company H, of our regiment, when one of the men was wounded, and I am not sure but another one was killed, and they let him fall to the ground. At that time, the Yankees seemed to know that they had killed or wounded a general, and tore loose their batteries upon this point. The dirt and rocks were flying in every direction, when Captain Joe P. Lee, Jim Brandon and myself, ran forward, grabbed up the litter, brought General Polk off the crest of the hill, and assisted in carrying him to the headquarters of General Cleburne. When we got to General Cleburne, he came forward and asked General Polk if he was badly wounded, and General Polk remarked, laughingly: "Well, I think I will be able to get a furlough now." This is a fact. General Polk's leg had been shot almost entirely off. I remember the foot part being twisted clear around, and lying by his side, while the blood was running through the litter in a perfect stream. I remember, also, that General Cleburne dashed a tear from his eye with his hand, and saying, "Poor fellow," at once galloped to the front, and ordered an immediate advance of our lines. Cleburne's division was soon engaged. Night coming on, prevented a general engagement, but we drove the Yankee line two miles. <h4 id="id00508" style="margin-top: 2em">"DEAD ANGLE"</h4> The First and Twenty-seventh Tennessee Regiments will ever remember the battle of "Dead Angle," which was fought June 27th, on the Kennesaw line, near Marietta, Georgia. It was one of the hottest and longest days of the year, and one of the most desperate and determinedly resisted battles fought during the whole war. Our regiment was stationed on an angle, a little spur of the mountain, or rather promontory of a range of hills, extending far out beyond the main line of battle, and was subject to the enfilading fire of forty pieces of artillery of the Federal batteries. It seemed fun for the guns of the whole Yankee army to play upon this point. We would work hard every night to strengthen our breastworks, and the very next day they would be torn down smooth with the ground by solid shots and shells from the guns of the enemy. Even the little trees and bushes which had been left for shade, were cut down as so much stubble. For more than a week this constant firing had been kept up against this salient point. In the meantime, the skirmishing in the valley below resembled the sounds made by ten thousand wood-choppers. Well, on the fatal morning of June 27th, the sun rose clear and cloudless, the heavens seemed made of brass, and the earth of iron, and as the sun began to mount toward the zenith, everything became quiet, and no sound was heard save a peckerwood on a neighboring tree, tapping on its old trunk, trying to find a worm for his dinner. We all knew it was but the dead calm that precedes the storm. On the distant hills we could plainly see officers dashing about hither and thither, and the Stars and Stripes moving to and fro, and we knew the Federals were making preparations for the mighty contest. We could hear but the rumbling sound of heavy guns, and the distant tread of a marching army, as a faint roar of the coming storm, which was soon to break the ominous silence with the sound of conflict, such as was scarcely ever before heard on this earth. It seemed that the archangel of Death stood and looked on with outstretched wings, while all the earth was silent, when all at once a hundred guns from the Federal line opened upon us, and for more than an hour they poured their solid and chain shot, grape and shrapnel right upon this salient point, defended by our regiment alone, when, all of a sudden, our pickets jumped into our works and reported the Yankees advancing, and almost at the same time a solid line of blue coats came up the hill. I discharged my gun, and happening to look up, there was the beautiful flag of the Stars and Stripes flaunting right in my face, and I heard John Branch, of the Rock City Guards, commanded by Captain W. D. Kelly, who were next Company H, say, "Look at that Yankee flag; shoot that fellow; snatch that flag out of his hand!" My pen is unable to describe the scene of carnage and death that ensued in the next two hours. Column after column of Federal soldiers were crowded upon that line, and by referring to the history of the war you will find they were massed in column forty columns deep; in fact, the whole force of the Yankee army was hurled against this point, but no sooner would a regiment mount our works than they were shot down or surrendered, and soon we had every "gopher hole" full of Yankee prisoners. Yet still the Yankees came. It seemed impossible to check the onslaught, but every man was true to his trust, and seemed to think that at that moment the whole responsibility of the Confederate government was rested upon his shoulders. Talk about other battles, victories, shouts, cheers, and triumphs, but in comparison with this day's fight, all others dwarf into insignificance. The sun beaming down on our uncovered heads, the thermometer being one hundred and ten degrees in the shade, and a solid line of blazing fire right from the muzzles of the Yankee guns being poured right into our very faces, singeing our hair and clothes, the hot blood of our dead and wounded spurting on us, the blinding smoke and stifling atmosphere filling our eyes and mouths, and the awful concussion causing the blood to gush out of our noses and ears, and above all, the roar of battle, made it a perfect pandemonium. Afterward I heard a soldier express himself by saying that he thought "Hell had broke loose in Georgia, sure enough." I have heard men say that if they ever killed a Yankee during the war they were not aware of it. I am satisfied that on this memorable day, every man in our regiment killed from one score to four score, yea, five score men. I mean from twenty to one hundred each. All that was necessary was to load and shoot. In fact, I will ever think that the reason they did not capture our works was the impossibility of their living men passing over the bodies of their dead. The ground was piled up with one solid mass of dead and wounded Yankees. I learned afterwards from the burying squad that in some places they were piled up like cord wood, twelve deep. After they were time and time again beaten back, they at last were enabled to fortify a line under the crest of the hill, only thirty yards from us, and they immediately commenced to excavate the earth with the purpose of blowing up our line. We remained here three days after the battle. In the meantime the woods had taken fire, and during the nights and days of all that time continued to burn, and at all times, every hour of day and night, you could hear the shrieks and screams of the poor fellows who were left on the field, and a stench, so sickening as to nauseate the whole of both armies, arose from the decaying bodies of the dead left lying on the field. On the third morning the Yankees raised a white flag, asked an armistice to bury their dead, not for any respect either army had for the dead, but to get rid of the sickening stench. I get sick now when I happen to think about it. Long and deep trenches were dug, and hooks made from bayonets crooked for the purpose, and all the dead were dragged and thrown pell mell into these trenches. Nothing was allowed to be taken off the dead, and finely dressed officers, with gold watch chains dangling over their vests, were thrown into the ditches. During the whole day both armies were hard at work, burying the Federal dead. Every member of the First and Twenty-seventh Tennessee Regiments deserves a wreath of imperishable fame, and a warm place in the hearts of their countrymen, for their gallant and heroic valor at the battle of Dead Angle. No man distinguished himself above another. All did their duty, and the glory of one is but the glory and just tribute of the others. After we had abandoned the line, and on coming to a little stream of water, I undressed for the purpose of bathing, and after undressing found my arm all battered and bruised and bloodshot from my wrist to my shoulder, and as sore as a blister. I had shot one hundred and twenty times that day. My gun became so hot that frequently the powder would flash before I could ram home the ball, and I had frequently to exchange my gun for that of a dead comrade. Colonel H. R. Field was loading and shooting the same as any private in the ranks when he fell off the skid from which he was shooting right over my shoulder, shot through the head. I laid him down in the trench, and he said, "Well, they have got me at last, but I have killed fifteen of them; time about is fair play, I reckon." But Colonel Field was not killed—only wounded, and one side paralyzed. Captain Joe P. Lee, Captain Mack Campbell, Lieutenant T. H. Maney, and other officers of the regiment, threw rocks and beat them in their faces with sticks. The Yankees did the same. The rocks came in upon us like a perfect hail storm, and the Yankees seemed very obstinate, and in no hurry to get away from our front, and we had to keep up the firing and shooting them down in self-defense. They seemed to walk up and take death as coolly as if they were automatic or wooden men, and our boys did not shoot for the fun of the thing. It was, verily, a life and death grapple, and the least flicker on our part, would have been sure death to all. We could not be reinforced on account of our position, and we had to stand up to the rack, fodder or no fodder. When the Yankees fell back, and the firing ceased, I never saw so many broken down and exhausted men in my life. I was as sick as a horse, and as wet with blood and sweat as I could be, and many of our men were vomiting with excessive fatigue, over-exhaustion, and sunstroke; our tongues were parched and cracked for water, and our faces blackened with powder and smoke, and our dead and wounded were piled indiscriminately in the trenches. There was not a single man in the company who was not wounded, or had holes shot through his hat and clothing. Captain Beasley was killed, and nearly all his company killed and wounded. The Rock City Guards were almost piled in heaps and so was our company. Captain Joe P. Lee was badly wounded. Poor Walter Hood and Jim Brandon were lying there among us, while their spirits were in heaven; also, William A. Hughes, my old mess-mate and friend, who had clerked with me for S. F. & J. M. Mayes, and who had slept with me for lo! these many years, and a boy who loved me more than any other person on earth has ever done. I had just discharged the contents of my gun into the bosoms of two men, one right behind the other, killing them both, and was re-loading, when a Yankee rushed upon me, having me at a disadvantage, and said, "You have killed my two brothers, and now I've got you." Everything I had ever done rushed through my mind. I heard the roar, and felt the flash of fire, and saw my more than friend, William A. Hughes, grab the muzzle of the gun, receiving the whole contents in his hand and arm, and mortally wounding him. Reader, he died for me. In saving my life, he lost his own. When the infirmary corps carried him off, all mutilated and bleeding he told them to give me "Florence Fleming" (that was the name of his gun, which he had put on it in silver letters), and to give me his blanket and clothing. He gave his life for me, and everything that he had. It was the last time that I ever saw him, but I know that away up yonder, beyond the clouds, blackness, tempest and night, and away above the blue vault of heaven, where the stars keep their ceaseless vigils, away up yonder in the golden city of the New Jerusalem, where God and Jesus Christ, our Savior, ever reign, we will sometime meet at the marriage supper of the Son of God, who gave His life for the redemption of the whole world. For several nights they made attacks upon our lines, but in every attempt, they were driven back with great slaughter. They would ignite the tape of bomb shells, and throw them over in our lines, but, if the shell did not immediately explode, they were thrown back. They had a little shell called hand grenade, but they would either stop short of us, or go over our heads, and were harmless. General Joseph E. Johnston sent us a couple of chevaux-de-frise. When they came, a detail of three men had to roll them over the works. Those three men were heroes. Their names were Edmund Brandon, T. C. Dornin, and Arnold Zellner. Although it was a solemn occasion, every one of us was convulsed with laughter at the ridiculous appearance and actions of the detail. Every one of them made their wills and said their prayers truthfully and honestly, before they undertook the task. I laugh now every time I think of the ridiculous appearance of the detail, but to them it was no laughing matter. I will say that they were men who feared not, nor faltered in their duty. They were men, and today deserve the thanks of the people of the South. That night about midnight, an alarm was given that the Yankees were advancing. They would only have to run about twenty yards before they would be in our works. We were ordered to "shoot." Every man was hallooing at the top of his voice, "Shoot, shoot, tee, shoot, shootee." On the alarm, both the Confederate and Federal lines opened, with both small arms and artillery, and it seemed that the very heavens and earth were in a grand conflagration, as they will be at the final judgment, after the resurrection. I have since learned that this was a false alarm, and that no attack had been meditated. Previous to the day of attack, the soldiers had cut down all the trees in our immediate front, throwing the tops down hill and sharpening the limbs of the same, thus making, as we thought, an impenetrable abattis of vines and limbs locked together; but nothing stopped or could stop the advance of the Yankee line, but the hot shot and cold steel that we poured into their faces from under our head-logs. One of the most shameful and cowardly acts of Yankee treachery was committed there that I ever remember to have seen. A wounded Yankee was lying right outside of our works, and begging most piteously for water, when a member of the railroad company (his name was Hog Johnson, and the very man who stood videt with Theodore Sloan and I at the battle of Missionary Ridge, and who killed the three Yankees, one night, from Fort Horsley), got a canteen of water, and gave the dying Yankee a drink, and as he started back, he was killed dead in his tracks by a treacherous Yankee hid behind a tree. It matters not, for somewhere in God's Holy Word, which cannot lie, He says that "He that giveth a cup of cold water in my name, shall not lose his reward." And I have no doubt, reader, in my own mind, that the poor fellow is reaping his reward in Emanuel's land with the good and just. In every instance where we tried to assist their wounded, our men were killed or wounded. A poor wounded and dying boy, not more than sixteen years of age, asked permission to crawl over our works, and when he had crawled to the top, and just as Blair Webster and I reached up to help the poor fellow, he, the Yankee, was killed by his own men. In fact, I have ever thought that is why the slaughter was so great in our front, that nearly, if not as many, Yankees were killed by their own men as by us. The brave ones, who tried to storm and carry our works, were simply between two fires. It is a singular fanaticism, and curious fact, that enters the mind of a soldier, that it is a grand and glorious death to die on a victorious battlefield. One morning the Sixth and Ninth Regiments came to our assistance—not to relieve us— but only to assist us, and every member of our regiment—First and Twenty-seventh—got as mad as a "wet hen." They felt almost insulted, and I believe we would soon have been in a free fight, had they not been ordered back. As soon as they came up every one of us began to say, "Go back! go back! we can hold this place, and by the eternal God we are not going to leave it." General Johnston came there to look at the position, and told us that a transverse line was about one hundred yards in our rear, and should they come on us too heavy to fall back to that line, when almost every one of us said, "You go back and look at other lines, this place is safe, and can never be taken." And then when they had dug a tunnel under us to blow us up, we laughed, yea, even rejoiced, at the fact of soon being blown sky high. Yet, not a single man was willing to leave his post. When old Joe sent us the two chevaux-de- frise, and kept on sending us water, and rations, and whisky, and tobacco, and word to hold our line, we would invariably send word back to rest easy, and that all is well at Dead Angle. I have ever thought that is one reason why General Johnston fell back from this Kennesaw line, and I will say today, in 1882, that while we appreciated his sympathies and kindness toward us, yet we did not think hard of old Joe for having so little confidence in us at that time. A perfect hail of minnie balls was being continually poured into our head-logs the whole time we remained here. The Yankees would hold up small looking-glasses, so that our strength and breastworks could be seen in the reflection in the glass; and they also had small mirrors on the butts of their guns, so arranged that they could hight up the barrels of their guns by looking through these glasses, while they themselves would not be exposed to our fire, and they kept up this continual firing day and night, whether they could see us or not. Sometimes a glancing shot from our head-logs would wound some one. But I cannot describe it as I would wish. I would be pleased to mention the name of every soldier, not only of Company H alone, but every man in the First and Twenty-seventh Tennessee Consolidated Regiments on this occasion, but I cannot now remember their names, and will not mention any one in particular, fearing to do injustice to some whom I might inadvertently omit. Every man and every company did their duty. Company G, commanded by Captain Mack Campbell, stood side by side with us on this occasion, as they ever had during the whole war. But soldiers of the First and Twenty-seventh Regiments, it is with a feeling of pride and satisfaction to me, today, that I was associated with so many noble and brave men, and who were subsequently complimented by Jeff Davis, then President of the Confederate States of America, in person, who said, "That every member of our regiment was fit to be a captain"—his very words. I mention Captain W. C. Flournoy, of Company K, the Martin Guards; Captain Ledbetter, of the Rutherford Rifles; Captains Kelly and Steele, of the Rock City Guards, and Captain Adkisson, of the Williamson Grays, and Captain Fulcher, and other names of brave and heroic men, some of whom live today, but many have crossed the dark river and are "resting under the shade of the trees" on the other shore, waiting and watching for us, who are left to do justice to their memory and our cause, and when we old Rebels have accomplished God's purpose on earth, we, too, will be called to give an account of our battles, struggles, and triumphs. Reader mine, I fear that I have wearied you with too long a description of the battle of "Dead Angle," if so, please pardon me, as this is but a sample of the others which will now follow each other in rapid succession. And, furthermore, in stating the above facts, the half has not been told, but it will give you a faint idea of the hard battles and privations and hardships of the soldiers in that stormy epoch—who died, grandly, gloriously, nobly; dyeing the soil of old mother earth, and enriching the same with their crimson life's blood, while doing what? Only trying to protect their homes and families, their property, their constitution and their laws, that had been guaranteed to them as a heritage forever by their forefathers. They died for the faith that each state was a separate sovereign government, as laid down by the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of our fathers. <h4 id="id00523" style="margin-top: 2em">BATTLE OF NEW HOPE CHURCH</h4> We were on a forced march along a dusty road. I never in my whole life saw more dust. The dust fairly popped under our feet, like tramping in a snow-drift, and our eyes, and noses, and mouths, were filled with the dust that arose from our footsteps, and to make matters worse, the boys all tried to kick up a "bigger dust." Cavalry and artillery could not be seen at ten paces, being perfectly enveloped in dust. It was a perfect fog of dust. We were marching along, it then being nearly dark, when we heard the hoarse boom of a cannon in our rear. It sounded as if it had a bad attack of croup. It went, "Croup, croup, croup." The order was given to "about face, double quick, march." We double quicked back to the old church on the road side, when the First Tennessee Cavalry, commanded by Colonel Lewis, and the Ninth Battalion, commanded by Major James H. Akin, passed us, and charged the advance of the Federal forces. We were supporting the cavalry. We heard them open. Deadly missiles were flying in every direction. The peculiar thud of spent balls and balls with shucks tied to their tails were passing over our heads. We were expecting that the cavalry would soon break, and that we would be ordered into action. But the news came from the front, that the cavalry were not only holding their position, but were driving the enemy. The earth jarred and trembled; the fire fiend seemed unchained; wounded men were coming from the front. I asked the litter corps, "Who have you there?" And one answered, "Captain Asa G. Freeman." I asked if he was dangerously wounded, and he simply said, "Shot through both thighs," and passed on. About this time we heard the whoops and cheers of the cavalry, and knew that the Yankees were whipped and falling back. We marched forward and occupied the place held by the cavalry. The trees looked as if they had been cut down for new ground, being mutilated and shivered by musket and cannon balls. Horses were writhing in their death agony, and the sickening odor of battle filled the air. Well, well, those who go to battle may expect to die. An halo ever surrounds the soldier's life, because he is ever willing to die for his country. <h4 id="id00525" style="margin-top: 2em">BATTLE OF DALLAS—BRECKINRIDGE CHARGES THE HEIGHTS</h4> We are ordered to march to Dallas. Reader, somehow the name and character of General John C. Breckinridge charms me. That morning he looked grand and glorious. His infantry, artillery, and cavalry were drawn up in line of battle in our immediate front. He passed along the line, and stopping about the center of the column, said, "Soldiers, we have been selected to go forward and capture yon heights. Do you think we can take them? I will lead the attack." The men whooped, and the cry, "We can, we can," was heard from one end of the line to the other. Then, "Forward, guide center, march!" were words re-repeated by colonels and captains. They debouched through the woods, and passed out of sight in a little ravine, when we saw them emerge in an open field and advance right upon the Federal breastworks. It was the grandest spectacle I ever witnessed. We could see the smoke and dust of battle, and hear the shout of the charge, and the roar and rattle of cannon and musketry. But Breckinridge's division continued to press forward, without wavering or hesitating. We can see the line of dead and wounded along the track over which he passed, and finally we see our battle flag planted upon the Federal breastworks. I cannot describe the scene. If you, reader, are an old soldier, you can appreciate my failure to give a pen picture of battle. But Breckinridge could not long hold his position. Why we were not ordered forward to follow up his success, I do not know; but remember, reader, I am not writing history. I try only to describe events as I witnessed them. We marched back to the old church on the roadside, called New Hope church, and fortified, occupying the battlefield of the day before. The stench and sickening odor of dead men and horses were terrible. We had to breathe the putrid atmosphere. The next day, Colonel W. M. Voorhies' Forty-eighth Tennessee Regiment took position on our right. Now, here were all the Maury county boys got together at New Hope church. I ate dinner with Captain Joe Love, and Frank Frierson filled my haversack with hardtack and bacon. <h4 id="id00530" style="margin-top: 2em">BATTLE OF ZION CHURCH, JULY 4TH, 1864</h4> The 4th day of July, twelve months before, Pemberton had surrendered twenty-five thousand soldiers, two hundred pieces of artillery, and other munitions of war in proportion, at Vicksburg. The Yankees wanted to celebrate the day. They thought it was their lucky day; but old Joe thought he had as much right to celebrate the Sabbath day of American Independence as the Yankees had, and we celebrated it. About dawn, continued boom of cannon reverberated over the hills as if firing a Fourth of July salute. I was standing on top of our works, leveling them off with a spade. A sharpshooter fired at me, but the ball missed me and shot William A. Graham through the heart. He was as noble and brave a soldier as ever drew the breath of life, and lacked but a few votes of being elected captain of Company H, at the reorganization. He was smoking his pipe when he was shot. We started to carry him to the rear, but he remarked, "Boys, it is useless; please lay me down and let me die." I have never in my life seen any one meet death more philosophically. He was dead in a moment. General A. J. Vaughan, commanding General Preston Smith's brigade, had his foot shot off by a cannon ball a few minutes afterwards. It seemed that both Confederate and Federal armies were celebrating the Fourth of July. I cannot now remember a more severe artillery duel. Two hundred cannon were roaring and belching like blue blazes. It was but a battle of cannonade all day long. It seemed as though the Confederate and Federal cannons were talking to each other. Sometimes a ball passing over would seem to be mad, then again some would seem to be laughing, some would be mild, some sad, some gay, some sorrowful, some rollicking and jolly; and then again some would scream like the ghosts of the dead. In fact, they gave forth every kind of sound that you could imagine. It reminded one of when two storms meet in mid-ocean—the mountain billows of waters coming from two directions, lash against the vessel's side, while the elements are filled with roaring, thundering and lightning. You could almost feel the earth roll and rock like a drunken man, or a ship, when she rides the billows in an awful storm. It seemed that the earth was frequently moved from its foundations, and you could hear it grate as it moved. But all through that storm of battle, every soldier stood firm, for we knew that old Joe was at the helm. <h4 id="id00533" style="margin-top: 2em">KINGSTON</h4> Here General Johnston issued his first battle order, that thus far he had gone and intended to go no further. His line of battle was formed; his skirmish line was engaged; the artillery was booming from the Rebel lines. Both sides were now face to face. There were no earthworks on either side. It was to be an open field and a fair fight, when—"Fall back!" What's the matter? I do not know how we got the news, but here is what is told us—and so it was, every position we ever took. When we fell back the news would be, "Hood's line is being enfiladed, and they are decimating his men, and he can't hold his position." But we fell back and took a position at <h4 id="id00535" style="margin-top: 2em">CASSVILLE</h4> Our line of battle was formed at Cassville. I never saw our troops happier or more certain of success. A sort of grand halo illumined every soldier's face. You could see self-confidence in the features of every private soldier. We were confident of victory and success. It was like going to a frolic or a wedding. Joy was welling up in every heart. We were going to whip and rout the Yankees. It seemed to be anything else than a fight. The soldiers were jubilant. Gladness was depicted on every countenance. I honestly believe that had a battle been fought at this place, every soldier would have distinguished himself. I believe a sort of fanaticism had entered their souls, that whoever was killed would at once be carried to the seventh heaven. I am sure of one thing, that every soldier had faith enough in old Joe to have charged Sherman's whole army. When "Halt!" "Retreat!" What is the matter? General Hood says they are enfilading his line, and are decimating his men, and he can't hold his position. The same old story repeats itself. Old Joe's army is ever face to face with Sherman's incendiaries. We have faith in old Joe's ability to meet Sherman whenever he dares to attack. The soldiers draw their regular rations. Every time a blue coat comes in sight, there is a dead Yankee to bury. Sherman is getting cautious, his army hacked. Thus we continue to fall back for four months, day by day, for one hundred and ten days, fighting every day and night. <h4 id="id00538" style="margin-top: 2em">ON THE BANKS OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE</h4> Our army had crossed the Chattahoochee. The Federal army was on the other side; our pickets on the south side, the Yankees on the north side. By a tacit agreement, as had ever been the custom, there was no firing across the stream. That was considered the boundary. It mattered not how large or small the stream, pickets rarely fired at each other. We would stand on each bank, and laugh and talk and brag across the stream. One day, while standing on the banks of the Chattahoochee, a Yankee called out: "Johnny, O, Johnny, O, Johnny Reb." Johnny answered, "What do you want?" "You are whipped, aren't you?" "No. The man who says that is a liar, a scoundrel, and a coward." "Well, anyhow, Joe Johnston is relieved of the command." "What?" "General Joseph E. Johnston is relieved." "What is that you say?" "General Joseph E. Johnston is relieved, and Hood appointed in his place." "You are a liar, and if you will come out and show yourself I will shoot you down in your tracks, you lying Yankee galloot." "That's more than I will stand. If the others will hands off, I will fight a duel with you. Now, show your manhood." Well, reader, every word of this is true, as is everything in this book. Both men loaded their guns and stepped out to their plates. They were both to load and fire at will, until one or both were killed. They took their positions without either trying to get the advantage of the other. Then some one gave the command to "Fire at will; commence firing." They fired seven shots each; at the seventh shot, poor Johnny Reb fell a corpse, pierced through the heart. <h4 id="id00553" style="margin-top: 2em">REMOVAL OF GENERAL JOSEPH E. JOHNSTON</h4> Such was the fact. General Joseph E. Johnston had been removed and General J. B. Hood appointed to take command. Generals Hardee and Kirby Smith, two old veterans, who had been identified with the Army of Tennessee from the beginning, resigned. We had received the intelligence from the Yankees. The relief guard confirmed the report. All the way from Rocky Face Ridge to Atlanta was a battle of a hundred days, yet Hood's line was all the time enfiladed and his men decimated, and he could not hold his position. Old Joe Johnston had taken command of the Army of Tennessee when it was crushed and broken, at a time when no other man on earth could have united it. He found it in rags and tatters, hungry and heart-broken, the morale of the men gone, their manhood vanished to the winds, their pride a thing of the past. Through his instrumentality and skillful manipulation, all these had been restored. We had been under his command nearly twelve months. He was more popular with his troops day by day. We had made a long and arduous campaign, lasting four months; there was not a single day in that four months that did not find us engaged in battle with the enemy. History does not record a single instance of where one of his lines was ever broken—not a single rout. He had not lost a single piece of artillery; he had dealt the enemy heavy blows; he was whipping them day by day, yet keeping his own men intact; his men were in as good spirits and as sure of victory at the end of four months as they were at the beginning; instead of the army being depleted, it had grown in strength. 'Tis true, he had fallen back, but it was to give his enemy the heavier blows. He brought all the powers of his army into play; ever on the defensive, 'tis true, yet ever striking his enemy in his most vulnerable part. His face was always to the foe. They could make no movement in which they were not anticipated. Such a man was Joseph E. Johnston, and such his record. Farewell, old fellow! We privates loved you because you made us love ourselves. Hardee, our old corps commander, whom we had followed for nearly four years, and whom we had loved and respected from the beginning, has left us. Kirby Smith has resigned and gone home. The spirit of our good and honored Leonidas Polk is in heaven, and his body lies yonder on the Kennesaw line. General Breckinridge and other generals resigned. I lay down my pen; I can write no more; my heart is too full. Reader, this is the saddest chapter I ever wrote. But now, after twenty years, I can see where General Joseph E. Johnston made many blunders in not attacking Sherman's line at some point. He was better on the defensive than the aggressive, and hence, bis peccare in bello non licet. <h4 id="id00558" style="margin-top: 2em">GENERAL HOOD TAKES COMMAND</h4> It came like a flash of lightning, staggering and blinding every one. It was like applying a lighted match to an immense magazine. It was like the successful gambler, flushed with continual winnings, who staked his all and lost. It was like the end of the Southern Confederacy. Things that were, were not. It was the end. The soldier of the relief guard who brought us the news while picketing on the banks of the Chattahoochee, remarked, by way of imparting gently the information— "Boys, we've fought all the war for nothing. There is nothing for us in store now." "What's the matter now?" "General Joe Johnston is relieved, Generals Hardee and Kirby Smith has resigned, and General Hood is appointed to take command of the Army of Tennessee." "My God! is that so?" "It is certainly a fact." "Then I'll never fire another gun. Any news or letters that you wish carried home? I've quit, and am going home. Please tender my resignation to Jeff Davis as a private soldier in the C. S. Army." Five men of that picket—there were just five—as rapidly as they could, took off their cartridge-boxes, after throwing down their guns, and then their canteens and haversacks, taking out of their pockets their gun-wipers, wrench and gun-stoppers, and saying they would have no more use for "them things." They marched off, and it was the last we ever saw of them. In ten minutes they were across the river, and no doubt had taken the oath of allegiance to the United States government. Such was the sentiment of the Army of Tennessee at that time. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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