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

by Sam Watkins

  I remember when passing by Hood, how feeble and decrepit he looked, with an arm in a sling, and a crutch in the other hand, and trying to guide and control his horse. And, reader, I was not a Christian then, and am but little better today; but, as God sees my heart tonight, I prayed in my heart that day for General Hood. Poor fellow, I loved him, not as a General, but as a good man. I knew when that army order was read, that General Hood had been deceived, and that the poor fellow was only trying to encourage his men. Every impulse of his nature was but to do good, and to serve his country as best he could. Ah! reader, some day all will be well.

  We continued marching toward our left, our battle-line getting thinner and thinner. We could see the Federals advancing, their blue coats and banners flying, and could see their movements and hear them giving their commands. Our regiment was ordered to double quick to the extreme left wing of the army, and we had to pass up a steep hill, and the dead grass was wet and as slick as glass, and it was with the greatest difficulty that we could get up the steep hill side. When we got to the top, we, as skirmishers, were ordered to deploy still further to the left. Billy Carr and J. E. Jones, two as brave soldiers as ever breathed the breath of life—in fact, it was given up that they were the bravest and most daring men in the Army of Tennessee—and myself, were on the very extreme left wing of our army.

  While we were deployed as skirmishers, I heard, “Surrender, surrender,” and on looking around us, I saw that we were right in the midst of a Yankee line of battle. They were lying down in the bushes, and we were not looking for them so close to us. We immediately threw down our guns and surrendered. J. E. Jones was killed at the first discharge of their guns, when another Yankee raised up and took deliberate aim at Billy Carr, and fired, the ball striking him below the eye and passing through his head. As soon as I could, I picked up my gun, and as the Yankee turned I sent a minnie ball crushing through his head, and broke and run.

  But I am certain that I killed the Yankee who killed Billy Carr, but it was too late to save the poor boy's life. As I started to run, a fallen dogwood tree tripped me up, and I fell over the log. It was all that saved me. The log was riddled with balls, and thousands, it seemed to me, passed over it. As I got up to run again, I was shot through the middle finger of the very hand that is now penning these lines, and the thigh. But I had just killed a Yankee, and was determined to get away from there as soon as I could. How I did get back I hardly know, for I was wounded and surrounded by Yankees. One rushed forward, and placing the muzzle of his gun in two feet of me, discharged it, but it missed its aim, when I ran at him, grabbed him by the collar, and brought him off a prisoner. Captain Joe P. Lee and Colonel H. R. Feild remember this, as would Lieutenant-Colonel John L. House, were he alive; and all the balance of Company H, who were there at the time. I had eight bullet holes in my coat, and two in my hand, beside the one in my thigh and finger. It was a hail storm of bullets.

  The above is true in every particular, and is but one incident of the war, which happened to hundreds of others. But, alas! all our valor and victories were in vain, when God and the whole world were against us.

  Billy Carr was one of the bravest and best men I ever knew. He never knew what fear was, and in consequence of his reckless bravery, had been badly wounded at Perryville, Murfreesboro, Chickamauga, the octagon house, Dead Angle, and the 22nd of July at Atlanta. In every battle he was wounded, and finally, in the very last battle of the war, surrendered up his life for his country's cause. No father and mother of such a brave and gallant boy, should ever sorrow or regret having born to them such a son. He was the flower and chivalry of his company. He was as good as he was brave. His bones rest yonder on the Overton hills today, while I have no doubt in my own mind that his spirit is with the Redeemer of the hosts of heaven. He was my friend. Poor boy, farewell!

  When I got back to where I could see our lines, it was one scene of confusion and rout. Finney's Florida brigade had broken before a mere skirmish line, and soon the whole army had caught the infection, had broken, and were running in every direction. Such a scene I never saw. The army was panic-stricken. The woods everywhere were full of running soldiers. Our officers were crying, “Halt! halt!” and trying to rally and re-form their broken ranks. The Federals would dash their cavalry in amongst us, and even their cannon joined in the charge. One piece of Yankee artillery galloped past me, right on the road, unlimbered their gun, fired a few shots, and galloped ahead again.

  Hood's whole army was routed and in full retreat. Nearly every man in the entire army had thrown away his gun and accouterments. More than ten thousand had stopped and allowed themselves to be captured, while many, dreading the horrors of a Northern prison, kept on, and I saw many, yea, even thousands, broken down from sheer exhaustion, with despair and pity written on their features. Wagon trains, cannon, artillery, cavalry, and infantry were all blended in inextricable confusion. Broken down and jaded horses and mules refused to pull, and the badly-scared drivers looked like their eyes would pop out of their heads from fright. Wagon wheels, interlocking each other, soon clogged the road, and wagons, horses and provisions were left indiscriminately.

  The officers soon became effected with the demoralization of their troops, and rode on in dogged indifference. General Frank Cheatham and General Loring tried to form a line at Brentwood, but the line they formed was like trying to stop the current of Duck River with a fish net. I believe the army would have rallied, had there been any colors to rally to. And as the straggling army moves on down the road, every now and then we can hear the sullen roar of the Federal artillery booming in the distance. I saw a wagon and team abandoned, and I unhitched one of the horses and rode on horseback to Franklin, where a surgeon tied up my broken finger, and bandaged up my bleeding thigh. My boot was full of blood, and my clothing saturated with it.

  I was at General Hood's headquarters. He was much agitated and affected, pulling his hair with his one hand (he had but one), and crying like his heart would break. I pitied him, poor fellow. I asked him for a wounded furlough, and he gave it to me. I never saw him afterward. I always loved and honored him, and will ever revere and cherish his memory. He gave his life in the service of his country, and I know today he wears a garland of glory beyond the grave, where Justice says “well done,” and Mercy has erased all his errors and faults.

  I only write of the under strata of history; in other words, the privates' history—as I saw things then, and remember them now.

  The winter of 1864–5 was the coldest that had been known for many years. The ground was frozen and rough, and our soldiers were poorly clad, while many, yes, very many, were entirely bare-footed. Our wagon trains had either gone on, we knew not whither, or had been left behind. Everything and nature, too, seemed to be working against us. Even the keen, cutting air that whistled through our tattered clothes and over our poorly covered heads, seemed to lash us in its fury. The floods of waters that had overflowed their banks, seemed to laugh at our calamity, and to mock us in our misfortunes.

  All along the route were weary and footsore soldiers. The citizens seemed to shrink and hide from us as we approached them. And, to cap the climax, the Tennessee River was overflowing its banks, and several Federal gunboats were anchored just below Mussel Shoals, firing at us while crossing.13

  The once proud Army of Tennessee had degenerated to a mob. We were pinched by hunger and cold. The rains, and sleet, and snow never ceased falling from the winter sky, while the winds pierced the old, ragged, grayback Rebel soldier to his very marrow. The clothing of many were hanging around them in shreds of rags and tatters, while an old slouched hat covered their frozen ears. Some were on old, raw-boned horses, without saddles.

  Hon. Jefferson Davis perhaps made blunders and mistakes, but I honestly believe that he ever did what he thought best for the good of his country. And there never lived on this earth from the days of Hampden to George Washington, a purer patriot or a nobler man than Jefferson Davis; and, like Marius, grand even in
ruins.14

  Hood was a good man, a kind man, a philanthropic man, but he is both harmless and defenseless now. He was a poor general in the capacity of commander-in-chief. Had he been mentally qualified, his physical condition would have disqualified him. His legs and one of his arms had been shot off in the defense of his country. As a soldier, he was brave, good, noble, and gallant, and fought with the ferociousness of the wounded tiger, and with the everlasting grit of the bull-dog; but as a general he was a failure in every particular.

  Our country is gone, our cause is lost. Actum est de Republica.15

  * * *

  1. This is a line from Sir Walter Scott's poem “My Native Land.”

  2. The incident at Spring Hill, Tennessee, on November 29, 1864, was one of the great lost opportunities for the Army of Tennessee and the entire Confederacy. For about five days, Hood's army faced Union General Schofield's Army of the Ohio at Columbia, Tennessee, with steady skirmishing and artillery duels. Schofield faced south and Hood faced north. If Schofield were to retreat to join forces with Union General Thomas in Nashville (under whose command he operated), his route would be a turnpike northeast, proceeding through Spring Hill, then Franklin, before arriving in Nashville.

  At dawn on November 29, Hood started sending two corps across the Duck River toward the northeast. They deployed parallel to the turnpike in positions that would leave Schofield vulnerable to a flank attack should he attempt a retreat to Spring Hill or beyond—which he did. By 3:00 p.m., only about five thousand of Schofield's twenty-five thousand soldiers had reached Spring Hill. Cleburne's men took them under attack (see “Spring Hill Affair: Afternoon” map, page 250) but stopped to regroup after initial success. Presently, Cheatham instructed Cleburne to wait before renewing the attack until Cheatham could get Brown's division positioned on Cleburne's right. Once in position, Brown would renew the attack with Cleburne following en echelon. Sam was in Brown's division.

  Unfortunately, Brown never renewed the attack. Consequently, Schofield's entire army marched past the Confederates overnight without damage (see “Spring Hill Affair: Evening” map, page 251). Afterward, Rebel generals pointed fingers at one another because it was obvious to even ordinary soldiers like Sam that a great opportunity was lost through inaction. The mystery of who was responsible has never been satisfactorily explained, but Sam notes that he believes neither corps commanders are at fault and inexplicably blames Jefferson Davis.

  3. The reason the Confederates found the Union accouterments along the road is that the Rebels failed to assault Schofield's vulnerable troops while they were retreating. The danger was so obvious to the Yankee rank and file that they routinely dropped excess baggage to escape as quickly as possible in anticipation that the Confederates would promptly realize their mistake of inaction.

  4. Hood was so angry that Schofield's army was allowed to escape the trap at Spring Hill that he ordered a frontal assault the next day (November 30) against the federals, who, by that time, had entrenched in a strong defensive position at Franklin. Hood probably acted out of frustration, although he claimed he believed a frontal assault would work because he mistakenly concluded Schofield lacked enough time to fortify.

  5. See “Battle of Franklin: Approach” map and note the position of Brown's division on the left side of the Columbia Pike.

  6. These words closely resemble an excerpt from the poem “Marco Bozzaris,” by Fitz-Greene Halleck.

  7. Half again as big as Pickett's Gettysburg charge, advancing over twice as much open ground, the attack was a slaughter. Confederate deaths included seven generals, fifty-five regimental commanders, and seventeen hundred other soldiers. See “Attack at Franklin: November 30, 1864” map, page 256.

  8. Confederate casualties are estimated at 6,250 of which 1,750 were killed, 700 missing or captured, and the rest wounded. Federal casualties were much smaller, with less than 200 killed. Given the scenes that Watkins witnessed at the breastworks, it is difficult to comprehend how he luckily avoided harm.

  9. As the Confederacy was collapsing east and west, Hood desperately attempted to besiege the Union army at Nashville under General Thomas. But Thomas's army was twice as big as Hood's. Moreover, the federals were much better supplied and prepared for the cold weather that gained momentum as winter approached. Finally, Union troops enjoyed far superior morale, owing to better comforts and a string of recent victories.

  10. The battle of Nashville transpired over Thursday and Friday, December 15 and 16, 1864. On Thursday, Watkins's regiment was on the right side of the Confederate defensive line, which was south of the city, facing north. General Thomas attacked the right and left sides of the Rebel position, but the attack on the right side was the lesser effort, a feint. The Rebels successfully repulsed it. But the attack on the left side was successful. Consequently, General Hood sent Cheatham's entire division (including Watkins) to the left side to shore up the shrinking Rebel units. This explains why Watkins was on the left side of the Confederate position Friday morning.

  11. Friday afternoon, Union General James Wilson's twenty thousand cavalry equipped with repeating carbines got behind the Confederate left, and federal infantry attacked that wing of the army head on. Consequently, the Confederates, including Watkins, were caught between two strong Yankee forces, both of which were attacking, from the north and south. Watkins's army was routed. About forty-five hundred Confederate soldiers were captured, and Hood lost over half of his artillery.

  12. Hood's address to his soldiers was authored shortly before the federals began their decisive attack on the left side of the Confederate position at 4:00 p.m. Friday. At the time it was written, it appeared as though Hood's army would finish intact on Friday. Thus, when he wrote it, Hood's address was not so ridiculously incongruous as it seemed by sundown.

  13. The Union gunboats may well have been able to prevent Hood's army from reaching safety south of the Tennessee River if they had steamed closer to the pontoon bridge. However, the fleet commander claimed he had no bar pilot he could trust and was fearful of navigating farther upstream as would be required to bombard the bridge.

  14. Marius was the Roman conqueror of Carthage.

  15. “It is all over with the Republic.”

  SEVENTEEN

  THE SURRENDER

  THE LAST ACT OF THE DRAMA

  On the 10th day of May, 1861, our regiment, the First Tennessee, left Nashville for the camp of instruction, with twelve hundred and fifty men, officers and line. Other recruits continually coming in swelled this number to fourteen hundred. In addition to this Major Fulcher's battalion of four companies, with four hundred men (originally), was afterwards attached to the regiment; and the Twenty-seventh Tennessee Regiment was afterwards consolidated with the First. And besides this, there were about two hundred conscripts added to the regiment from time to time.

  To recapitulate: The First Tennessee, numbering originally, 1,250; recruited from time to time, 150; Fulcher's battalion, 400; the Twenty-seventh Tennessee, 1,200; number of conscripts (at the lowest estimate), 200—making the sum total 3,200 men that belonged to our regiment during the war. The above I think a low estimate. Well, on the 26th day of April, 1865, General Joe E. Johnston surrendered his army at Greensboro, North Carolina. The day that we surrendered our regiment it was a pitiful sight to behold. If I remember correctly, there were just sixty-five men in all, including officers that were paroled on that day.

  Now, what became of the original 3,200? A grand army, you may say. Three thousand two hundred men! Only sixty-five left! Now, reader, you may draw your own conclusions. It lacked just four days of four years from the day we were sworn in to the day of the surrender, and it was just four years and twenty four days from the time that we left home for the army to the time that we got back again. It was indeed a sad sight to look at, the Old First Tennessee Regiment. A mere squad of noble and brave men, gathered around the tattered flag that they had followed in every battle through that long war. It was so bullet-riddled and
torn that it was but a few blue and red shreds that hung drooping while it, too, was stacked with our guns forever.

  Thermopylae had one messenger of defeat, but when General Joe E. Johnston surrendered the Army of the South there were hundreds of regiments, yea, I might safely say thousands, that had not a representative on the 26th day of April 1865.

  Our cause was lost from the beginning. Our greatest victories—Chickamauga and Franklin—were our greatest defeats.1

  Our people were divided upon the question of Union and secession. Our generals were scrambling for “Who ranked.” The private soldier fought and starved and died for naught. Our hospitals were crowded with sick and wounded, but half provided with food and clothing to sustain life. Our money was depreciated to naught and our cause lost.

  We left our homes four years previous. Amid the waving of flags and handkerchiefs and the smiles of the ladies, while the fife and drum were playing “Dixie” and the “Bonnie Blue Flag,” we bid farewell to home and friends. The bones of our brave Southern boys lie scattered over our loved South. They fought for their “country,” and gave their lives freely for that country's cause: and now they who survive sit, like Marius amid the wreck of Carthage, sublime even in ruins.

  Other pens abler than mine will have to chronicle their glorious deeds of valor and devotion. In these sketches I have named but a few persons who fought side by side with me during that long and unholy war. In looking back over these pages, I ask, Where now are many whose names have appeared in these sketches?

  They are up yonder, and are no doubt waiting and watching for those of us who are left behind. And, my kind reader, the time is coming when we, too, will be called, while the archangel of death is beating the long roll of eternity, and with us it will be the last reveille. God Himself will sound the “assembly” on yonder beautiful and happy shore, where we will again have a grand “reconfederation.” We shed a tear over their flower-strewn graves. We live after them. We love their memory yet. But one generation passes away and another generation follows. We know our loved and brave soldiers. We love them yet.