Co. Aytch, or a Side Show of the Big Show

by Sam Watkins

  The Yankees had never seen anything like that before. It was something new. They charged right upon us. Colonel Feild, 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 Resaca. 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.11

  Now, gentle reader, that is all I know of the battle of Resaca. 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.12

  We are still fighting; battles innumerable. The Yankees had thrown pontoons across the river below Resaca, 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.13

  ADAIRSVILLE—OCTAGON HOUSE—THE 1ST TENNESSEE ALWAYS OCCUPIES TIGHT PLACES

  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 Feild 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 Feild 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.14

  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.

  KENNESAW LINE

  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.15

  AM DETAILED TO GO INTO THE ENEMY'S LINES

  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 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. For
tune 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.16

  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. (June 14, 1864.)

  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.

  PINE MOUNTAIN—DEATH OF GENERAL LEONIDAS POLK

  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.17

  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.18

  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.”

  GOLGOTHA CHURCH—GENERAL LUCIUS E. POLK WOUNDED

  On this Kennesaw line, near Golgotha Church,19 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.20

  And, right here, I deem it appropriate 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.21 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.22 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.

  “DEAD ANGLE”

  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.23

  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.