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COLONEL WILLIAM DAVIE DESSAUSURE OF THE THIRTEENTH.

Colonel Dessausure was certainly the Bayard of South Carolina, having served during his entire manhood, with little exception, amid the exciting, bustling scenes of army life. He was a hero of both the Mexican and Civil wars, and served in the Old Army for many years on the great Western Plains. A friend of his, an officer in his command who was very close to the Colonel, writes me a letter, of which I extract the following:

"In my judgment, he was the superior of Kershaw's fine set of Colonels, having, from nature, those rare qualities that go to make up the successful war commander, being reticent, observant, far-seeing, quick, decided, of iron will, inspiring confidence in his leadership, cheerful, self-possessed, unaffected by danger, and delighting like a game cock in battle. He was singularly truth loving and truth speaking, and you could rely with confidence on the accuracy of his every statement. He understood men, was clear sighted, quick and sound of judgment, and seemed never to be at a loss what to do in emergencies. He exposed himself with reckless courage, but protected his men with untiring concern and skill. He was rather a small man, physically, but his appearance and bearing were extremely martial, and had a stentorian voice that could be heard above the din of battle."

Colonel Dessausure was born in Columbia, S.C., December 12th, 1819, was reared and educated there, graduated at the South Carolina College, and studied law in the office of his father, Hon. Win. F. Dessausure. He raised a company in Columbia for the Mexican war, and served through that war as Captain of Company H, Palmetto Regiment. After that he was commissioned Captain of Cavalry, and assigned to General (then Colonel) Joseph K. Johnston's Regiment in the United States Army, and served on the Plains until the Civil war commenced, when he resigned, returned to his native State and organized the Fifteenth Regiment, and was assigned to Drayton's Brigade, then on the coast.

After the Seven Days' Battle around Richmond he went with his Regiment, as a part of Drayton's Brigade, in the first Maryland campaign. On Lee's return to Virginia, just before the Fredericksburg battle, his regiment was assigned to Kershaw.

The papers promoting him to the rank of Brigadier General were in the hands of the Secretary of War at the time he was killed. He was buried in a private cemetery near Breane's Tavern, in Pennsylvania, and his body removed to the family burying ground after the war.

He was married to Miss Ravenel of Charleston, who survived him some years.

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DONALD MCDIARMID MCLEOD

Was descended from Scotch ancestors who immigrated to this country about 1775 and settled in Marlboro District, near Hunt's Bluff, on Big Pee Dee River. He was son of Daniel McLeod and Catherine Evans McLeod. He graduated from the South Carolina College about 1853, and for some time engaged in teaching school in his native county; then married Miss Margaret C. Alford and engaged in planting near where he was born. He was then quietly leading a happy and contented life when South Carolina seceded. When the toscin of war sounded he raised the first company of volunteers in Marlboro and was elected Captain of it. This company, with another from Marlboro organized about the same time under Captain J.W. Hamington, formed part of the Eighth Regiment, of Kershaw's Brigade. Capt. McLeod was of commanding presence, being six feet four inches tall, erect, active, and alert, beloved by his company, and when the test came proved himself worthy of their love and confidence. On the field of battle his gallantry was conspicuous, and he exhibited undaunted courage, and was faithful to every trust.

At the reorganization of the Regiment he was elected Major and served as such through the battles of Savage Station, Malvern Hill, Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, and Gettysburg. In the last named he was killed while gallantly leading the Regiment in the desperate charge on the enemy's twenty pieces of artillery, in the celebrated peach orchard, where in a few minutes the Eighth Regiment, being on the left of the Brigade, without support, assailed in front and flanked, lost one hundred and eleven of the one hundred and seventy who were engaged in the battle. Of this number twenty-eight were killed and buried on the field of battle. Notwithstanding this slaughter the Old Eighth never faltered, but with the other regiments drove the enemy from the field, pursuing them upon the rugged slopes of Round Top Hill. Thus ended the life of one of the noblest and most devoted of Carolina's sons.

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DR. T.W. SALMOND

Was born in Camden, S.C., on 31st of August, 1825. Received his diploma from the Medical College, in Charleston, S.C., in 1849. Practiced medicine in Camden till the war came on. Married first, Miss Mary Whitaker, afterwards Miss Isabel Scota Whitaker. He had two daughters, one by each marriage. When the troops were ordered to Charleston, he left with General Kershaw as Surgeon of his regiment. General Kershaw was Colonel of the Second South Carolina Regiment. His regiment was at the bombardment of Sumter. His staff consisted of Dr. T.W. Salmond, Surgeon; Fraser, Quarter-Master; J.I. Villipigue, Commissary; A.D. Goodwyn, Adjutant.

At the reorganization of the Brigade, Dr. Salmond was promoted to Brigade Surgeon and was in all of the battles in Virginia. He went with General Kershaw to Tennessee and came home when General Kershaw went back to Virginia, owing to ill health in the spring of 1864.

He resumed his practice after the war and continued till his death, August 31st, 1869.

I give below a short sketch concerning the Brigade Surgeon, copied from a local paper, as showing the kind of metal of which Dr. Salmond was made:

To the Editor of The Kershaw Gazette:

I never look upon a maimed soldier of the "Lost Cause," who fought manfully for the cause which he deemed to be right, without being drawn towards him with I may say brotherly love, commingled with the profoundest respect. And I beg space in your valuable columns to relate an incident in connection with the battle of Gettysburg, which, I think, will equal the one between General Hagood and the Federal officer, Daley.

In that memorable battle, whilst we were charging a battery of sixteen pieces of artillery, when great gaps were being made in the lines by the rapid discharge of grape and canister, when the very grass beneath our feet was being cut to pieces by these missiles of death, and it looked as if mortal men could not possibly live there; Capt. W.Z. Leitner of our town was shot in the midst of this deadly shower at the head of his company. When his comrades were about to remove him from the field he said, "Men I am ruined but never give up the battle. I was shot down at the head of my company, and I would to God that I was there yet." He refused to let them carry him off the field. Dr. Salmond, then Brigade Surgeon of Kershaw's Brigade, learning that his friend Captain Leitner was seriously wounded, abandoned his post at the infirmary, mounted his horse and went to the field where Captain Leitner lay, amid the storm of lead and iron, regardless of the dangers which encompassed him on every hand. He placed Captain Leitner on his horse, and brought him off the field. The writer of this was wounded severely in this charge, and while he was making his way as best he could to the rear, he met the Brigade Surgeon on his mission of mercy to his fallen friend, ordering those to the front who were not wounded, as he went along. Brave man, he is now dead. Peace to his ashes. As long as I live, I shall cherish his memory and think of this circumstance.

A Member of the Old Brigade.

Taken from Kershaw Gazette of February 26, 1880.

Judge Pope gives me several instances of devotion and courage during the Gettysburg campaign, which I take pleasure in inserting.

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"DID THE NEGROES WISH FREEDOM?"

I have listened to much which has been said and written as to the aspiration of the negroes for freedom while they were slaves, but much that I saw myself makes me doubt that this aspiration was general.

Let me relate an instance that fell under my immediate observation. An officer had lost his bodyservant in May, 1863, when he mentioned the fact to some of the gentlemen of the and regiment, the reply was made: "There is a mess in Company A or I of the Third Regiment who have an excellent free negro boy in their employment, but they must give him up and no doubt you can get him." I saw the soldiers they referred to and they assured me that they would be glad if I would take the servant off their hands. The result was the servant came to me and I hired him. Soon afterwards we began the march to the Valley of Virginia, then to Maryland and Pennsylvania. The servant took care of my horse, amongst his other duties. Having been wounded at Gettysburg and placed in a wagon to be transported to Virginia this boy would ride the horse near by the wagon, procuring water and something to eat. As the caravan of wagons laden with wounded soldiers was drawing near to Hagerstown, Maryland, a flurry was discovered and we were told the Yankees were capturing our train. At this time the servant came up and asked me what he should do. I replied, "Put the Potomac River between you and the Yankees." He dashed off in a run. When I reached the Potomac River I found William there with my horse. The Yankees were about to attack us there. I was to be found across the river. I said to William, "What can you do?" He replied that he was going to swim the horse across the Potomac River, but said he himself could not swim. I saw him plunge into the river and swim across. The soldiers who were with me were sent from Winchester to Staunton, Virginia. While in Staunton, I was assured that I would receive a furlough at Richmond, Virginia, so William was asked if he wished to accompany me to South Carolina. This seemed to delight him. Before leaving Staunton, the boy was arrested as a runaway slave, being owned by a widow lady in Abbeville County. The servant admitted to me, when arrested, that he was a slave. A message was sent to his mistress how he had behaved while in my employment—especially how he had fled from the Yankees in Pennsylvania and Maryland. This was the last time I ever saw him. Surely a desire for freedom did not operate very seriously in this case, when the slave actually ran from it.

In parting I may add that, left to themselves negroes are very kind-hearted, and even now I recall with lively pleasure the many kindnesses while I was wounded, from this servant, who was a slave.

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HE WOULD FIGHT.

Why is it that memory takes us away back into our past experiences without as much saying, "With your leave, sir"? Thirty-six years ago I knew a fine fellow just about eighteen years old and to-day he comes back to us so distinctly! He was a native of Newberry and when the war first broke out he left Newberry College to enlist as a private in Company E of the Third South Carolina Infantry. With his fine qualities of head and heart, it was natural that he should become a general favorite—witty, very ready, and always kind. His was a brave heart, too. Still he was rather girlish in appearance, for physically he was not strong. This latter condition may explain why he was called to act as Orderly at Regimental Headquarters when J.E. Brown gave up that position for that of courier with General Longstreet early in the year 1863. Just before the Third Regiment went into action at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, and while preparing for that event, it became necessary, under general orders, that the field and staff of the regiment should dismount. It was the habit during battles to commit the horses to the control of the Regimental Orderly. On this occasion the Adjutant said to young Sligh: "Now, Tom, get behind some hill and the moment we call you, bring up the horses; time is often of importance." To the Adjutant's surprise Sligh burst into tears and besought that officer not to require him to stay behind, but on the contrary, to allow him to join his company and go into battle. At first this was denied, but so persistent was he in his request that the Adjutant, who was very fond of him, said: "Well Tom, for this one time you may go, but don't ask it again." Away he went with a smile instead of a tear. Poor fellow! The Orderly, Thomas W. Sligh, was killed in that battle while assisting to drive back General Sickles from the "Peach Orchard" on the 2d day of July, 1863.

* * * * *

RETURN TO VIRGINIA.

At daylight on the morning of the 5th the remnant of that once grand army turned its face southward. I say remnant, for with the loss of near one-third its number in killed, wounded, and prisoners the pride, prestige of victory, the feelings of invincibility, were lost to the remainder, and the army was in rather ill condition when it took up the retreat. Lee has been severely criticised for fighting the battle of Gettysburg, especially the last charge of Pickett; but there are circumstances of minor import sometimes that surround a commander which force him to undertake or attempt that which his better judgment might dictate as a false step. The world judges by results the successes and achievements of a General, not by his motives or intentions. Battles, however, are in a great measure but series of accidents at best. Some unforeseen event or circumstance in the battles of Napoleon might have changed some of his most brilliant victories to utter defeats and his grandest triumphs into disastrous routs. Had not General Warren seen the open gap at little Round Top, and had it been possible for Federal troops to fill it up, or that Hancock had been one hour later, or that our troops had pushed through the gorge of little Round Top before seen by Warren and gained Meade's rear—suppose these, and many other things, and then reflect what momentous results depended upon such trivial circumstances, and we will then fail to criticise Lee. His chances were as good as Meade's. The combination of so many little circumstances, and the absence of his cavalry, all conduced to our defeat.

Hill took the lead, Longstreet followed, while Ewell brought up the rear. Our wagon trains had gone on, some of them the day before, towards Williamsport. Kilpatrick made a dash and captured and destroyed a goodly number of them, but the teamsters, non-combatants and the wounded succeeded in driving them off after some little damage.

Along down the mountain sides, through gorges and over hills, the army slowly made its way. No haste, no confusion. The enemy's cavalry harassed over rear, but did little more. Meade had had too severe a lesson to hover dangerously close on the heels of Lee, not knowing what moment the wily Confederate Chieftain might turn and strike him a blow he would not be able to receive. The rain fell in torrents, night and day. The roads were soon greatly cut up, which in a measure was to Lee's advantage, preventing the enemy from following him too closely, it being almost impossible to follow with his artillery and wagons after our trains had passed. We passed through Fairfield and Hagerstown and on to Williamsport. Near Funkstown we had some excitement by being called upon to help some of Stuart's Cavalry, who were being hard pressed at Antietam Creek.

After remaining in line of battle for several hours, on a rocky hillside, near the crossing of a sluggish stream, and our pickets exchanging a few shots with those of the enemy, we continued our march. On the night of the 6th and day of the 7th our army took up a line of battle in a kind of semi-circle, from Williamsport to Falling Waters. The Potomac was too much swollen from the continuous rains to ford, and the enemy having destroyed the bridge at Falling Waters we were compelled to entrench ourselves and defend our numerous trains of wagons and artillery until a bridge could be built. In the enclosure of several miles the whole of Lee's army, with the exception of some of his cavalry, were packed. Here Lee must have been in the most critical condition of the war, outside of Appomattox. Behind him was the raging Potomac, with a continual down-pour of rain, in front was the entire Federal army. There were but few heights from which to plant our batteries, and had the enemy pressed sufficiently near to have reached our vast camp with shells, our whole trains of ordnance would have been at his mercy. We had no bread stuff of consequence in the wagons, and only few beef cattle in the enclosure. For two days our bread supply had been cut off. Now had such conditions continued for several days longer, and a regular siege set in, Lee would have had to fight his way out. Lumber was difficult to obtain, so some houses were demolished, and such planks as could be used in the construction of boats were utilized, and a pontoon bridge was soon under way.

In this dilemma and strait an accident in the way of a "wind fall" (or I might more appropriately say, "bread fall") came to our regiment's relief. Jim George, a rather eccentric and "short-witted fellow," of Company C, while plundering around in some old out-buildings in our rear, conceived the idea to investigate a straw stack, or an old house filled with straw. After burrowing for some time away down in the tightly packed straw, his comrades heard his voice as he faintly called that he had struck "ile." Bounding out from beneath the straw stack, he came rushing into camp with the news of his find. He informed the Colonel that he had discovered a lot of flour in barrels hidden beneath the straw. The news was too good to be true, and knowing Jim's fund of imagination, few lent ear to the story, and most of the men shook their heads credulously. "What would a man want to put flour down in a straw stack for when no one knew of 'Lee's coming?'" and, moreover, "if they did, they did not know at which point he would cross." Many were the views expressed for and against the idea of investigating further, until "Old Uncle" Joe Culbreath, a veteran of the Mexican War, and a lieutenant in Jim George's company, said: "Boys, war is a trying thing; it puts people to thinking, and these d——n Yankees are the sharpest rascals in the world. No doubt they heard of our coming, and fearing a raid on their smoke houses, they did not do like us Southern people would have done—waited until the flour was gone before we thought of saving it—so this old fellow, no doubt, put his flour there for safety." That settled it. "Investigate" was the word, and away went a crowd. The straw was soon torn away, and there, snugly hidden, were eight or ten barrels of flour. The Colonel ordered an equal division among the regiment, giving Jim an extra portion for himself.

By the 13th the bridge was completed, and the waters had so far subsided that the river was fordable in places. An hour after dark we took up the line of march, and from our camp to the river, a distance of one mile or less, beat anything in the way of marching that human nature ever experienced. The dust that had accumulated by the armies passing over on their march to Gettysburg was now a perfect bog, while the horses and vehicles sinking in the soft earth made the road appear bottomless. We would march two or three steps, then halt for a moment or two; then a few steps more, and again the few minutes' wait. The men had to keep their hands on the backs of their file leaders to tell when to move and when to halt. The night being so dark and rainy, we could not see farther than "the noses on our faces," while at every step we went nearly up to our knees in slash and mud. Men would stand and sleep—would march (if this could be called marching) and sleep. The soldiers could not fall out of ranks for fear of being hopelessly lost, as troops of different corps and divisions would at times be mingled together. Thus we would be for one hour moving the distance of a hundred paces, and any soldier who has ever had to undergo such marching, can well understand its laboriousness. At daybreak we could see in the gloomy twilight our former camp, almost in hollering distance. Just as the sun began to peep up from over the eastern hills, we came in sight of the rude pontoon bridge, lined from one end to the other with hurrying wagons and artillery—the troops at opened ranks on either side. If it had been fatiguing on the troops, what must it have been on the poor horses and mules that had fasted for days and now drawing great trains, with roads almost bottomless? It was with a mingled feeling of delight and relief that the soldiers reached the Virginia side of the river—but not a murmur or harsh word for our beloved commander—all felt that he had done what was best for our country, and it was more in sorrow and sympathy that we beheld his bowed head and grief-stricken face as he rode at times past the moving troops.

General Pettigrew had the post of rear guard. He, with his brave troops, beat back the charge after charge of Kirkpatrick's Cavalry as they attempted to destroy our rear forces. It was a trying time to the retreating soldiers, who had passed over the river to hear their comrades fighting, single-handed and alone, for our safety and their very existence, without any hope of aid or succor. They knew they were left to be lost, and could have easily laid down their arms and surrendered, thus saving their lives; but this would have endangered Lee's army, so they fought and died like men. The roar of their howitzers and the rattle of their musketry were like the blasts of the horn of Roland when calling Charlemagne to his aid along the mountain pass of Roncesvalles, but, unlike the latter, we could not answer our comrades' call, and had only to leave them alone to "die in their glory." The brave Pettigrew fell while heading his troops in a charge to beat back some of the furious onslaughts of the enemy. The others were taken prisoners, with the exception of a few who made their escape by plunging in the stream and swimming across.

At first our march was by easy stages, but when Lee discovered the enemy's design of occupying the mountain passes along the Blue Ridge to our left, no time was lost. We hastened along through Martinsburg and Winchester, across the Shenandoah to Chester Gap, on the Blue Ridge. We camped at night on the top of the mountain.

Here an amusing, as well as ludicrous, scene was enacted, but not so amusing to the participants however. Orders had been given when on the eve of our entrance into Maryland, that "no private property of whatever description should be molested." As the fields in places were enclosed by rail fences, it was strictly against orders to disturb any of the fences. This order had been religiously obeyed all the while, until this night on the top of the Blue Ridge. A shambling, tumble-down rail fence was near the camp of the Third South Carolina, not around any field, however, but apparently to prevent stock from passing on the western side of the mountain. At night while the troops lay in the open air, without any protection whatever, only what the scrawny trees afforded, a light rain came up. Some of the men ran to get a few rails to make a hurried bivouac, while others who had gotten somewhat damp by the rain took a few to build a fire. As the regiment was formed in line next morning, ready for the march, Adjutant Pope came around for company commanders to report to Colonel Nance's headquarters. Thinking this was only to receive some instructions as to the line of march, nothing was thought of it until met by those cold, penetrating, steel-gray eyes of Colonel Nance. Then all began to wonder "what was up." He commenced to ask, after repeating the instructions as to private property, whose men had taken the rails. He commenced with Captain Richardson, of Company A.

"Did your men take any rails?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you have them put back?"

"Yes, sir."

"Captain Gary, did your men use any rails?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you have them replaced?"

"No, sir."

And so on down to Company K. All admitted that their men had taken rails and had not put them back, except Captain Richardson. Then such a lecture as those nine company commanders received was seldom heard. To have heard Colonel Nance dilate upon the enormity of the crime of "disobedience to orders," was enough to make one think he had "deserted his colors in the face of the enemy," or lost a battle through his cowardice. "Now, gentlemen, let this never occur again. For the present you will deliver your swords to Adjutant Pope, turn your companies over to your next officer in command, and march in rear of the regiment until further orders." Had a thunder bolt fallen, or a three hundred-pound Columbiad exploded in our midst, no greater consternation would they have caused. Captain Richardson was exhonorated, but the other nine Captains had to march in rear of the regiment during the day, subject to the jeers and ridicule of all the troops that passed, as well as the negro cooks. "Great Scott, what a company of officers!" "Where are your men?" "Has there been a stampede?" "Got furloughs?" "Lost your swords in a fight?" were some of the pleasantries we were forced to hear and endure. Captain Nance, of Company G, had a negro cook, who undertook the command of the officers and as the word from the front would come down the line to "halt" or "forward" or "rest," he would very gravely repeat it, much to the merriment of the troops next in front and those in our rear. Near night, however, we got into a brush with the enemy, who were forcing their way down along the eastern side of the mountain, and Adjutant Pope came with our swords and orders to relieve us from arrest. Lieutenant Dan Maffett had not taken the matter in such good humor, and on taking command of his company, gave this laconic order, "Ya hoo!" (That was the name given to Company C.) "If you ever touch another rail during the whole continuance of the war, G——d d——n you, I'll have you shot at the stake."

"How are we to get over a fence," inquired someone.

"Jump it, creep it, or go around it, but death is your portion, if you ever touch a rail again."

On the 13th of August the whole army was encamped on the south side of the Rapidan. We were commencing to settle down for several months of rest and enjoy a season of furloughs, as it was evident neither side would begin active operations until the armies were recruited up and the wounded returned for duty. This would take at least several months. But, alas! for our expectations—a blast to our fondest dreams—heavy fighting and hard marching was in store for our corps. Bragg was being slowly driven out of Tennessee and needed help; the "Bull Dog of the Confederacy" was the one most likely to stay the advancing tide of Rosecrans' Army.

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CHAPTER XXI

Transferred to Georgia—Scenes Along the Route.

While in camp great stress was laid on drills. The brigade drill was the most important. Every day at 3 o'clock the whole brigade was marched to a large old field, and all the evolutions of the brigade drill were gone through with. Crowds of citizens from the surrounding country came to witness our maneuvers, especially did the ladies grace the occasions with their presence. The troops were in the very best of spirits—no murmurs nor complaints. Clothing and provision boxes began coming in from home. A grand corps review took place soon after our encampment was established, in which Generals Lee and Longstreet reviewed the troops.

All expected a good, long rest after their many marches and bloody battles in Maryland and Pennsylvania, but we were soon to be called upon for work in other fields. General Bragg had been driven out of Tennessee to the confines of Georgia, and it seemed that, without succor from the Army of the East to aid in fighting their battles, and to add to the morale of the Western Army, Bragg would soon be forced through Georgia. It had long been the prevailing opinion of General Longstreet that the most strategic movement for the South was to reinforce General Bragg with all the available troops of the East (Lee standing on the defensive), crush Rosecrans, and, if possible, drive him back and across the Ohio. With this end in view, General Longstreet wrote, in August, to General Lee, as well as to the Secretary of War, giving these opinions as being the only solution to the question of checking the continual advance of Rosecrans—renewing the morale of the Western Army and reviving the waning spirits of the Confederacy, thus putting the enemy on the defensive and regaining lost territory.

It should be remembered that our last stronghold on the Mississippi, Vicksburg, had capitulated about the time of the disastrous battle of Gettysburg, with thirty thousand prisoners. That great waterway was opened to the enemy's gun boats and transports, thus cutting the South, with a part of her army, in twain.

This suggestion of General Longstreet was accepted, so far as sending him, with a part of his corps, to Georgia, by his receiving orders early in September to prepare his troops for transportation.

The most direct route by railroad to Chattanooga, through Southwest Virginia and East Tennessee, had for some time been in the hands of the enemy at Knoxville. We were, therefore, forced to take the circuitous route by way of the two Carolinas and Georgia. There were two roads open to transportation, one by Wilmington and one by Charlotte, N.C., as far as Augusta, Ga., but from thence on there was but a single line, and as such our transit was greatly impeded.

On the morning of the 15th or 16th of September Kershaw's Brigade was put aboard the trains at White Oak Station, and commenced the long ride to North Georgia. Hood's Division was already on the way. Jenkins' (S.C.) Brigade had been assigned to that division, but it and one of the other of Hood's brigades failed to reach the battleground in time to participate in the glories of that event. General McLaws, also, with two of his brigades, Bryan's and Wofford' (Georgians), missed the fight, the former awaiting the movements of his last troops, as well as that of the artillery.

Long trains of box cars had been ordered up from Richmond and the troops were loaded by one company being put inside and the next on top, so one-half of the corps made the long four days' journey on the top of box cars. The cars on all railroads in which troops were transported were little more than skeleton cars; the weather being warm, the troops cut all but the frame work loose with knives and axes. They furthermore wished to see outside and witness the fine country and delightful scenery that lay along the route; nor could those Inside bear the idea of being shut up in a box car while their comrades on top were cheering and yelling themselves hoarse at the waving of handkerchiefs and flags in the hands of the pretty women and the hats thrown in the air by the old men and boys along the roadside as the trains sped through the towns, villages, and hamlets of the Carolinas and Georgia, No, no; the exuberant spirits of the Southern soldier were too great to allow him to hear yelling going on and not yell himself. He yelled at everything he saw, from an ox-cart to a pretty woman, a downfall of a luckless cavalryman to a charge in battle.

The news of our coming had preceded us, and at every station and road-crossing the people of the surrounding country, without regard to sex or age, crowded to see us pass, and gave us their blessings and God speed as we swept by with lightning speed. Our whole trip was one grand ovation. Old men slapped their hands in praise, boys threw up their hats in joy, while the ladies fanned the breeze with their flags and handkerchiefs; yet many a mother dropped a silent tear or felt a heart-ache as she saw her long absent soldier boy flying pass without a word or a kiss.

At the towns which we were forced to stop for a short time great tables were stretched, filled with the bounties of the land, while the fairest and the best women on earth stood by and ministered to every wish or want. Was there ever a purer devotion, a more passionate patriotism, a more sincere loyalty, than that displayed by the women of the South towards the soldier boys and the cause for which they fought? Was there ever elsewhere on earth such women? Will there ever again exist circumstances and conditions that will require such heroism, fortitude, and suffering? Perhaps so, perhaps not.

In passing through Richmond we left behind us two very efficient officers on a very pleasant mission, Dr. James Evans, Surgeon of the Third, who was to be married to one of Virginia's fair daughters, and Captain T.W. Gary, of same regiment, who was to act as best man. Dr. Evans was a native South Carolinian and a brother of Brigadier General N.G. Evans, of Manassas fame. While still a young man, he was considered one of the finest surgeons and practitioners in the army. He was kind and considerate to his patients, punctual and faithful in his duties, and withal a dignified, refined gentleman. Such confidence had the soldiers in his skill and competency, that none felt uneasy when their lives or limbs, were left to his careful handling. Both officers rejoined us in a few days.

We reached Ringold on the evening of the 19th of September, and marched during the night in the direction of the day's battlefield. About midnight we crossed over the sluggish stream of Chickamauga, at Alexander's Bridge, and bivouaced near Hood's Division, already encamped. Chickamauga! how little known of before, but what memories its name is to awaken for centuries afterwards! What a death struggle was to take place along its borders between the blue and the gray, where brother was to meet brother—where the soldiers of the South were to meet their kinsmen of the Northwest! In the long, long ago, before the days of fiction and romance of the white man in the New World, in the golden days of legend of the forest dwellers, when the red man chanted the glorious deeds of his ancestors during his death song to the ears of his children, this touching story has come down from generation to generation, until it reached the ears of their destroyers, the pale faces of to-day:

Away in the dim distant past a tribe of Indians, driven from their ancestral hunting grounds in the far North, came South and pitched their wigwams along the banks of the "river of the great bend," the Tennessee. They prospered, multiplied, and expanded, until their tents covered the mountain sides and plains below. The braves of the hill men hunted and sported with their brethren of the valley. Their children fished, hunted, played, fought, and gamboled in mimic warfare as brothers along the sparkling streamlets that rise in the mountain ridges, their sparkling waters leaping and jumping through the gorges and glens and flowing away to the "great river." All was peace and happiness; the tomahawk of war had long since been buried, and the pipe of peace smoked around their camp fires after every successful hunting expedition. But dissentions arose—distrust and embittered feelings took the place of brotherly love. The men of the mountains became arrayed against their brethren of the plains, and they in turn became the sworn enemies of the dwellers of the cliffs. The war hatchet was dug up and the pipe of peace no longer passed in brotherly love at the council meeting. Their bodies were decked in the paint of war, and the once peaceful and happy people forsook their hunting grounds and entered upon, the war path.

Early on an autumn day, when the mountains and valleys were clothed in golden yellow, the warriors of the dissenting factions met along the banks of the little stream, and across its turbid waters waged a bitter battle from early morn until the "sun was dipping behind the palisades of Look-Out Mountain"—no quarters given and none asked. It was a war of extermination. The blood of friend and foe mingled in the stream until its waters were said to be red with the life-blood of the struggling combatants. At the close of the fierce combat the few that survived made a peace and covenant, and then and there declared that for all time the sluggish stream should be called Chickamauga, the "river of blood." Such is the legend of the great battleground and the river from whence it takes its name.

General Buckner had come down from East Tennessee with his three divisions, Stewart's, Hindman's, and Preston's, and had joined General Bragg some time before our arrival, making General Bragg's organized army forty-three thousand eight hundred and sixty-six strong. He was further reinforced by eleven thousand five hundred from General Joseph E. Johnston's army in Mississippi and five thousand under General Longstreet, making a total of sixty thousand three hundred and thirty-six, less casualties of the 18th and 19th of one thousand one hundred and twenty-four; so as to numbers on the morning of the 20th, Bragg had of all arms fifty-nine thousand two hundred and forty-two; while the Federal commander claimed only sixty thousand three hundred and sixty six, but at least five thousand more on detached duty and non-combatants, such as surgeons, commissaries, quartermasters, teamsters, guards, etc. Bragg's rolls covered all men in his army. Rosecrans was far superior in artillery and cavalry, as all of the batteries belonging to Longstreet's corps, or that were to attend him in the campaign of the West, were far back in South Carolina, making what speed possible on the clumsy and cumbersome railroads of that day. So it was with Wofford's and Bryan's Brigades, of McLaw's Division, Jenkins' and one of Hood's, as well as all of the subsistence and ordnance trains. The artillery assigned to General Longstreet by General Lee consisted of Ashland's and Bedford's (Virginia), Brooks' (South Carolina), and Madison's (Louisiana) batteries of light artillery, and two Virginia batteries of position, all under the command of Colonel Alexander.

As for transportation, the soldiers carried all they possessed on their backs, with four days of cooked rations all the time. Generally one or two pieces of light utensils were carried by each company, in which all the bread and meat were cooked during the night.

Our quartermasters gathered up what they could of teams and wagons from the refuse of Bragg's trains to make a semblance of subsistence transportation barely sufficient to gather in the supplies. It was here that the abilities of our chiefs of quartermaster and commissary departments were tested to the utmost. Captains Peck and Shell, of our brigade, showed themselves equal to the occasion, and Captain Lowrance, of the Subsistence Department, could always be able to furnish us with plenty of corn meal from the surrounding country.

The sun, on the morning of the 20th, rose in unusual splendor, and cast its rays and shadows in sparkling brilliancy over the mountains and plains of North Georgia. The leaves of the trees and shrubbery, in their golden garb of yellow, shown out bright and beautiful in their early autumnal dress—quite in contrast with the bloody scenes to be enacted before the close of day. My older brother, a private in my company, spoke warmly of the beautiful Indian summer morning and the sublime scenery round about, and wondered if all of us would ever see the golden orb of day rise again in its magnificence. Little did he think that even then the hour hand on the dial plate of destiny was pointing to the minute of "high noon," when fate was to take him by the hand and lead him away. It was his turn in the detail to go to the rear during the night to cook rations for the company, and had he done so, he would have missed the battle, as the details did not return in time to become participants in the engagement that commenced early in the morning. He had asked permission to exchange duties with a comrade, as he wished to be near me should a battle ensue during the time. Contrary to regulations, I granted the request. Now the question naturally arises, had he gone on his regular duties would the circumstances have been different? The soldier is generally a believer in the doctrine of predestination in the abstract, and it is well he is so, for otherwise many soldiers would run away from battle. But as it is, he consoles himself with the theories of the old doggerel quartet, which reads something like this:—

"He who fights and runs away, May live to fight another day; But he who is in battle slain, Will ne'er live to fight again."

Longstreet's troops had recently been newly uniformed, consisting of a dark-blue round jacket, closely fitting, with light-blue trousers, which made a line of Confederates resemble that of the enemy, the only difference being the "cut" of the garments—the Federals wearing a loose blouse instead of a tight-fitting jacket. The uniforms of the Eastern troops made quite a contrast with the tattered and torn homemade jeans of their Western brethren.

General Bragg had divided his army into two wings—the right commanded by Lieutenant General Leonidas Polk (a Bishop of the M.E. Church, and afterwards killed in the battles around Atlanta.) and the left commanded by that grand chieftain (Lee's "Old War Horse" and commander of his right), Lieutenant General James Longstreet. Under his guidance were Preston's Division on extreme left, Hindman's next, with Stewart's on extreme right of left wing, all of Major General Buckner's corps. Between Hindman and Stewart was Bushrod Johnson's new formed division. In reserve were Hood's three brigades, with Kershaw's and Humphries', all under Major General Hood, standing near the center and in rear of the wing.

The right wing stood as follows: General Pat Cleburn's Division on right of Stewart, with Breckenridge's on the extreme right of the infantry, under the command of Lieutenant General D.H. Hill, with Cheatham's Division of Folk's Corps to the left and rear of Cleburn as support, with General Walker's Corps acting as reserve. Two divisions of Forrest's Cavalry, one dismounted, were on the right of Breckenridge, to guard that flank, while far out to the left of Longstreet were two brigades of Wheeler's Cavalry. The extreme left of the army, Preston's Division, rested on Chickamauga Creek, the right thrown well forward towards the foot hills of Mission Ridge.

In the alignment of the two wings it was found that Longstreet's right overlapped Folk's left, and fully one-half mile in front, so it became necessary to bend Stewart's Division back to join to Cleburn's left, thereby leaving space between Bushrod Johnson and Stewart for Hood to place his three brigades on the firing line.

Longstreet having no artillery, he was forced to engage all of the thirty pieces of Buckner's. In front of Longstreet lay a part of the Twentieth Corps, Davis' and Sheridan's Divisions, under Major General McCook, and part of the Twenty-first Corps, under the command of General Walker. On our right, facing Polk, was the distinguished Union General, George H. Thomas, with four divisions of his own corps, the Fourteenth, Johnson's Division of the Twentieth, and Van Cleve's of the Twenty-first Corps.

General Thomas was a native Virginian, but being an officer in the United States Army at the time of the secession of his State, he preferred to remain and follow the flag of subjugation, rather than, like the most of his brother officers of Southern birth, enter into the service of his native land and battle for justice, liberty, and States Rights. He and General Hunt, of South Carolina, who so ably commanded the artillery of General Meade at Gettysburg, were two of the most illustrious of Southern renegades.

In the center of Rosecrans' Army were two divisions, Woods' and Palmer's, under Major General Crittenden, posted along the eastern slope of Mission Ridge, with orders to support either or both wings of the army, as occasions demanded.

General Gordon Granger, with three brigades of infantry and one division of cavalry, guarded the Union left and rear and the gaps leading to Chattanooga, and was to act as general reserve for the army and lay well back and to the left of Brannan's Division that was supporting the front line of General Thomas.

The bulk of the Union cavalry, under General Mitchell, was two miles distant on our left, guarding the ford over Chickamauga at Crawfish Springs. The enemy's artillery, consisting of two hundred and forty-six pieces, was posted along the ridges in our front, giving exceptional positions to shell and grape an advancing column.

Bragg had only two hundred pieces, but as his battle line occupied lower ground than that of the enemy, there was little opportunity to do effective work with his cannon.

The ground was well adapted by nature for a battlefield, and as the attacking party always has the advantage of maneuver and assault in an open field, each commander was anxious to get his blow in first. So had not Bragg commenced the battle as early as he did, we would most assuredly have had the whole Federal Army upon our hands before the day was much older. Kershaw's Brigade, commanded by General Kershaw, stood from right to left in the following order: Fifteenth Regiment on the right, commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Joseph Gist; Second Regiment, Colonel James D. Kennedy; Third, Colonel James D. Nance; Third Battalion, by Captain Robert H. Jennings; Eighth, Colonel John W. Henagan; Seventh, Colonel Elbert Bland.

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CHAPTER XXII

The Battle of Chickamauga.

As I have already said, this was a lovely country—a picturesque valley nestling down among the spurs of the mountain, with the now classic Chickamauga winding its serpentine way along with a sluggish flow. It was also a lovely day; nature was at her best, with the fields and woods autumn tinged—the whole country rimmed in the golden hue of the Southern summer. The battling ground chosen, or rather say selected by fate, on which the fierce passions of men were to decide the fortunes of armies and the destiny of a nation, was rolling, undulating, with fields of growing grain or brown stubble, broken by woods and ravines, while in our front rose the blue tinted sides of Mission Ridge.

Both commanders were early in the saddle, their armies more evenly matched in numbers and able Lieutenants than ever before, each willing and anxious to try conclusions with the other—both confident of success and watchful of the mistakes and blunders of their opponent, ready to take advantage of the least opportunity that in any way would lead to success. The armies on either side were equally determined and confident, feeling their invincibility and the superiority of their respective commanders. Those of the North felt that it was impossible for the beaten Confederates to stand for a moment, with any hope of triumph, before that mighty machine of armed force that had been successfully rolling from the Ohio to the confines of Georgia. On the other hand, the Army of Tennessee felt that, with the aid from Joe Johnston, with Buckner, and the flower of Lee's Army to strengthen their ranks, no army on earth could stay them on the battlefield.

The plan of battle was to swing the whole army forward in a wheel, Preston's Division on Longstreet's extreme left being the pivot, the right wing to break the enemy's lines and uncover the McFarland and Rossville Gaps, thus capturing the enemy's lines of communication to Chattanooga.

The Union Army was well protected by two lines of earthworks and log obstructions, with field batteries at every salient, or scattered along the front lines at every elevation, supported by the pieces of position on the ridges in rear.

The Confederate commander made no secret of his plan of battle, for it had been formulated three days before, and his manoeuvers on the 18th and 19th indicated his plan of operations. Early in the morning Bragg saluted his adversary with thirty pieces of artillery from his right wing, and the Federal Commander was not slow in acknowledging the salutation. The thunder of these guns echoed along the mountain sides and up and down the valleys with thrilling effect. Soon the ridges in our front were one blaze of fire as the infantry began their movements for attack, and the smoke from the enemy's guns was a signal for our batteries along the whole line.

The attack on the right was not as prompt as the commander in chief had expected, so he rode in that direction and gave positive orders for the battle to begin. General D.H. Hill now ordered up that paladin of State craft, the gallant Kentuckian and opponent of Lincoln for the Presidency, General John C. Breckenridge, and put him to the assault on the enemy's extreme left. But one of his brigade commanders being killed early in the engagement, and the other brigades becoming somewhat disorganized by the tangled underbrush, they made but little headway against the enemy's works. Then the fighting Irishman, the Wild Hun of the South, General Pat Cleburn, came in with his division on Breckenridge's left, and with whoop and yell he fell with reckless ferocity upon the enemy's entrenchments. The four-gun battery of the Washington (Louisiana) Artillery following the column of Assault, contended successfully with the superior metal of the three batteries of the enemy. The attack was so stubborn and relentless that the enemy was forced back on his second line, and caused General Thomas to call up Negley's Division from his reserves to support his left against the furious assaults of Breckenridge and Cleburn. But after somewhat expending their strength in the first charge against the enemy's works, and Federal reinforcements of infantry and artillery coming up, both Confederate divisions were gradually being forced back to their original positions. Deshler's Brigade, under that prince of Southern statesmen, Roger Q. Mills, supported by a part of Cheatham's Division, took up Cleburn's battle, while the division under General States R. Gist (of South Carolina), with Liddell's, of Walker's Corps, went to the relief of Breckenridge. Gist's old Brigade (South Carolina) struck the angle of the enemy's breastworks, and received a galling fire from enfilading lines. But the other brigades of Gist's coming up and Liddell's Division pushing its way through the shattered and disorganized ranks of Breckenridge, they made successful advance, pressing the enemy back and beyond the Chattanooga Road.

Thomas was again reduced to the necessity of calling for reinforcements, and so important was it thought that this ground should be held, that the Union commander promised support, even to the extent of the whole army, if necessary.

But eleven o'clock had come and no material advantage had been gained on the right. The reinforcements of Thomas having succeeded in checking the advance of Gist and Liddell, the Old WarHorse on the left became impatient, and sent word to Bragg, "My troops can break the lines, if you care to have them broken." What sublime confidence did Lee's old commander of the First Corps have in the powers of his faithful troops! But General Bragg, it seems, against all military rules or precedent, and in violation of the first principles of army ethics, had already sent orders to Longstreet's subalterns, directly and not through the Lieutenant General's headquarters, as it should have been done, to commence the attack. General Stewart, with his division of Longstreet's right, was at that moment making successful battle against the left of the Twentieth and right of Twenty-first Corps. This attack so near to Thomas' right, caused that astute commander to begin to be as apprehensive of his right as he had been of his left flank, and asked for support in that quarter. Longstreet now ordered up the gallant Texan, General Hood, with his three brigades, with Kershaw's and Humphreys in close support. Hood unmercifully assailed the column in his front, but was as unmercifully slaughtered, himself falling desperately wounded. Benning's Brigade was thrown in confusion, but at this juncture Kershaw and Humphreys moved their brigades upon the firing line end commenced the advance. In front of these two brigades was a broad expanse of cultivated ground, now in stubble. Beyond this field was a wooded declivity rising still farther away to a ridge called Pea Ridge, on which the enemy was posted. Our columns were under a terrific fire of shells as they advanced through the open field, and as they neared the timbered ridge they were met by a galling tempest of grape and canister. The woods and underbrush shielded the enemy from view.

Law now commanding Hood's Division, reformed his lines and assaulted and took the enemy's first lines of entrenchments. Kershaw marched in rear of the brigade, giving commands in that clear, metallic sound that inspired confidence in his troops. At the foot of the declivity, or where the ground begun to rise towards the enemy's lines, was a rail fence, and at this obstruction and clearing of it away, Kershaw met a galling fire from the Federal sharpshooters, but not a gun had been fired as yet by our brigade. But Humphreys was in it hot and heavy. As we began our advance up the gentle slope, the enemy poured volley after volley into us from its line of battle posted behind the log breastworks. Now the battle with us raged in earnest.

Bushrod Johnson entered the lists with his division, and routed the enemy in his front, taking the first line of breastworks without much difficulty. Hindman's Division followed Johnson, but his left and rear was assailed by a formidable force of mounted infantry which threw Manigault's (South Carolina) Brigade on his extreme left in disorder, the brigade being seriously rattled. But Twigg's Brigade, from Preston's pivotal Division, came to the succor of Manigault and succeeded in restoring the line, and the advance continued. Kershaw had advanced to within forty paces of the enemy's line, and it seemed for a time that his troops would be annihilated. Colonel Bland, then Major Hard, commanding the Seventh, were killed. Lieutenant Colonel Hoole, of the Eighth, was killed. Colonel Gist, commanding the Fifteenth, and Captain Jennings, commanding the Third Battalion, were dangerously wounded, while many others of the line officers had fallen, and men were being mown down like grain before a sickle.

General Kershaw ordered his men to fall back to the little ravine a hundred paces in rear, and here they made a temporary breastwork of the torn down fence and posted themselves behind it. They had not long to wait before a long line of blue was seen advancing from the crest of the hill. The enemy, no doubt, took our backward movement as a retreat, and advanced with a confident mien, all unconscious of our presence behind the rail obstruction. Kershaw, with his steel-gray eyes glancing up and down his lines, and then at the advancing line of blue, gave the command repeatedly to "Hold your fire." When within a very short distance of our column the startling command rang out above the din of battle on our right and left, "Fire!" Then a deafening volley rolled out along the whole line. The enemy halted and wavered, their men falling in groups, then fled to their entrenchments, Kershaw closely pursuing.

From the firing of the first gun away to the right the battle became one of extreme bitterness, the Federals standing with unusual gallantry by their guns in the vain hope that as the day wore on they could successfully withstand, if not entirely repel, the desperate assaults of Bragg until night would give them cover to withdraw.

The left wing was successful, and had driven the Federal lines back at right angles on Thomas' right. The Federal General, Gordon Granger, rests his title to fame by the bold movement he now made. Thomas was holding Polk in steady battle on our right, when General Granger noticed the Twentieth Corps was being forced back, and the firing becoming dangerously near in the Federal's rear. General Granger, without any orders whatever, left his position in rear of Thomas and marched to the rescue of McCook, now seeking shelter along the slopes of Mission Ridge, but too late to retrieve losses—only soon enough to save the Federal Army from rout and total disaster.

But the turning point came when Longstreet ordered up a battalion of heavy field pieces, near the angle made by the bending back of the enemy's right, and began infilading the lines of Thomas, as well as Crittenden's and McCook's. Before this tornado of shot and shell nothing could stand. But with extraordinary tenacity of Thomas and the valor of his men he held his own for a while longer.

Kershaw was clinging to his enemy like grim death from eleven o'clock until late in the evening—his men worn and fagged, hungry and almost dying of thirst, while the ammunition was being gradually exhausted and no relief in sight. Hindman (Johnson on the left) had driven the enemy back on Snodgrass Hill, where Granger's reserves were aiding them in making the last grand struggle. Snodgrass Hill was thought to be the key to the situation on our left, as was Horse Shoe Bend on the right, but both were rough and hard keys to handle. Kershaw had driven all before him from the first line of works, and only a weak fire was coming from the second line. All that was needed now to complete the advance was a concentrated push along the whole line, but the density of the smoke settling in the woods, the roar of battle drowning all commands, and the exhaustion and deflection of the rank and file made this move impossible.

But just before the sun began dipping behind the mountains on our left, a long line of gray, with glittering bayonets, was seen coming down the slope in our rear. It was General Grade, with his Alabama Brigade of Preston's Division, coming to reinforce our broken ranks and push the battle forward. This gallant brigade was one thousand one hundred strong and it was said this was their first baptism of fire and blood. General Gracie was a fine specimen of physical manhood and a finished looking officer, and rode at the head of his column. Reaching Kershaw, he dismounted, placed the reins of his horse over his arm, and ordered his men to the battle. The enemy could not withstand the onslaught of these fresh troops, and gave way, pursued down the little dell in rear by the Alabamians. The broken lines formed on the reserves that were holding Snodgrass Hill, and made an aggressive attack upon Gracie, forcing him back on the opposite hill.

Twigg's Brigade, of the same division, came in on the left and gave him such support as to enable him to hold his new line.

The fire of Longstreet's batteries from the angle down Thomas' lines, forced that General to begin withdrawing his troops from their entrenchments, preparatory to retreat. This movement being noticed by the commanding General, Liddell's Division on the extreme right was again ordered to the attack, but with no better success than in the morning. The enemy had for some time been withdrawing his trains and broken ranks through the gaps of the mountain in the direction of Chattanooga, leaving nothing in front of the left wing but the reserves of Granger and those of Crittenden. These held their ground gallantly around Snodgrass Hill, but it was a self-evident fact to all the officers, as well as the troops, that the battle was irretrievably lost, and they were only fighting for time, the time that retreat could be safely made under cover of darkness. But before the sun was fairly set, that great army was in full retreat. But long before this it was known to the brilliant Union commander that fate had played him false—that destiny was pointing to his everlasting overthrow. He knew, too, that the latter part of the battle, while brief and desperate, the lurid cloud of battle settling all around his dead and dying, a spectre had even then arisen as from the earth, and pointing his bony fingers at the field of carnage, whispering in his ear that dreaded word, "Lost!"

As night closed in upon the bloody scenes of the day, the Federal Army, that in the morning had stood proud and defiant along the crests and gorges of the mountain ridges, was now a struggling mass of beaten and fleeing fugitives, or groups groping their way through the darkness towards the passes that led to Chattanooga.

Of all the great Captains of that day, Longstreet was the guiding genius of Chickamauga. It was his masterful mind that rose equal to the emergency, grasped and directed the storm of battle. It was by the unparalleled courage of the troops of Hood, Humphreys, and Kershaw, and the temporary command under Longstreet, throwing themselves athwart the path of the great colossus of the North, that checked him and drove him back over the mountains to the strongholds around Chattanooga. And it is no violent assumption to say that had the troops on the right under Polk supported the battle with as fiery zeal as those on the left under Longstreet, the Union Army would have been utterly destroyed and a possible different ending to the campaign, if not in final, results might have been confidently expected.

The work of the soldier was not done with the coming of night. The woods along the slopes where the battle had raged fiercest had caught fire and the flames were nearing the wounded and the dead. Their calls and piteous wails demanded immediate assistance. Soldiers in groups and by ones and twos scoured the battlefield in front and rear, gathering up first the wounded then the dead. The former were removed to the field infirmaries, the latter to the new city to be built for them—the city of the dead. The builders were already at work on their last dwelling places, scooping out shallow graves with bayonets, knives, and such tools that were at hand. Many pathetic spectacles were witnessed of brother burying brother. My brother and five other members of the company were laid side by side, wrapped only in their blankets, in the manner of the Red Men in the legend who fought and died here in the long, long ago. Here we left them "in all their glory" amid the sacred stillness that now reigned over the once stormy battlefield, where but a short while before the tread of struggling legions, the thunder of cannon, and the roar of infantry mingled in systematic confusion. But now the awful silence and quietude that pervades the field after battle—where lay the dreamless sleepers of friend and foe, victor and vanquished, the blue and the gray, with none to sing their requiems—nothing heard save the plaintive notes of the night bird or the faint murmurs of grief of the comrades who are placing the sleepers in their shallow beds! But what is death to the soldier? It is the passing of a comrade perhaps one day or hour in advance to the river with the Pole Ferryman.

Bragg, out of a total of fifty-nine thousand two hundred and forty-two, lost seventeen thousand eight hundred. Rosecran's total was sixty thousand eight hundred and sixty-seven (exclusive of the losses on the 18th and 19th). His loss on the 20th was sixteen thousand five hundred and fifty. The greater loss of the Confederates can be accounted for when it is remembered that they were the assaulting party—the enemy's superior position, formidable entrenchments, and greater amount of artillery.

The Battle of Chickamauga was one of the most sanguinary of the war, when the number of troops engaged and the time in actual combat are taken into consideration. In the matter of losses it stands as the fifth greatest battle of the war. History gives no authentic record of greater casualties in battle in the different organizations, many of the regiments losing from fifty to fifty-seven per cent, of their numbers, while some reached as high as sixty-eight per cent. When it's remembered that usually one is killed out right to every five that are wounded, some idea of the dreadful mortality on the field can be formed.

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CHAPTER XXIII

Notes of the Battle—Pathetic Scenes—Sketches of Officers.

The Seventh Regiment was particularly unfortunate in the loss of her brilliant officers. Colonel Bland and Lieutenant Colonel Hood both being killed, that regiment was left without a field officer. Lieutenant Colonel Joseph Gist, of the Fifteenth, being permanently disabled, and Major William Gist being soon afterwards killed, the Fifteenth was almost in the same condition of the Seventh. So also was the Third Battalion. Captain Robert Jennings, commanding the battalion as senior Captain, lost his arm here, and was permanently retired, leaving Captain Whitner in command. Major Dan Miller had received a disabling wound in some of the former battles and never returned. Colonel Rice returning soon after this battle, he likewise received a wound from which he never sufficiently recovered for active service, so the Third Battalion was thereafter commanded by a Captain, Captain Whitner commanding until his death one year later. The Eighth Regiment met an irreparable loss in the death of Lieutenant Colonel Hoole. No officer in the brigade had a more soldierly bearing, high attainments, and knightly qualities than Colonel Hoole, and not only the regiment, but the whole brigade felt his loss. He was one of those officers whose fine appearance caused men to stop and look at him twice before passing. The many fine officers, Captains as well as Lieutenants, that were killed or wounded here made a death and disabled roll, from the effects of which the brigade never fully recovered. Then the whole army mourned the supposed death of the gallant and dashing Texan, General Hood, but he lived to yet write his name in indelible letters on the roll-of fame among the many officers of distinction in the Army of Tennessee.

In our first general advance in the morning, as the regiment reached the brow of the hill, just before striking the enemy's breastworks, my company and the other color company, being crowded together by the pressure of the flanks on either side, became for the moment a tangled, disorganized mass. A sudden discharge of grape from the enemy's batteries, as well as from their sharpshooters posted behind trees, threw us in greater confusion, and many men were shot down unexpectedly. A Sergeant in my company, T.C. Nunnamaker, received a fearful wound in the abdomen. Catching my hand while falling, he begged to be carried off. "Oh! for God's sake, don't leave me here to bleed to death or have my life trampled out! Do have me carried off!" But the laws of war are inexorable, and none could leave the ranks to care for the wounded, and those whose duty it was to attend to such matters were unfortunately too often far in the rear, seeking places of safety for themselves, to give much thought or concern to the bleeding soldiers. Before our lines were properly adjusted, the gallant Sergeant was beyond the aid of anyone. He had died from internal hemorrhage. The searchers of the battlefield, those gatherers of the wounded and dead, witness many novel and pathetic scenes.

Louis Spillers, a private in my company, a poor, quiet, and unassuming fellow, who had left a wife and little children at home when he donned the uniform of gray, had his thigh broken, just to the left of where the Sergeant fell. Spillers was as "brave as the bravest," and made no noise when he received the fatal wound. As the command swept forward down the little dell, he was of course left behind. Dragging himself along to the shade of a small tree, he sought shelter behind its trunk, protecting his person as well as he could from the bullets of the enemy posted on the ridge in front, and waited developments. When the litter-bearers found him late at night, he was leaning against the tree, calmly puffing away at his clay pipe. When asked why he did not call for assistance, he replied: "Oh, no; I thought my turn would come after awhile to be cared for, so I just concluded to quietly wait and try and smoke away some of my misery." Before morning he was dead. One might ask the question. What did such men of the South have to fight for—no negroes, no property, not even a home that they could call their own? What was it that caused them to make such sacrifices—to even give their lives to the cause? It was a principle, and as dear to the poorest of the poor as to him who counted his broad acres by the thousands and his slaves by the hundreds. Of such mettle were made the soldiers of the South—unyielding, unconquerable, invincible!

An old man in Captain Watts' Company, from Laurens, Uncle Johny Owens, a veteran of the Florida War, and one who gave much merriment to the soldiers by his frequent comparisons of war, "fighting Indians" and the one "fighting Yankees," was found on the slope, just in front of the enemy's breastworks, leaning against a tree, resting on his left knee, his loaded rifle across the other. In his right hand, between his forefinger and thumb, in the act of being placed upon the nipple of the gun, was a percussion cap. His frame was rigid, cold, and stiff, while his glossy eyes seemed to be peering in the front as looking for a lurking foe. He was stone dead, a bullet having pierced his heart, not leaving the least sign of the twitching of a muscle to tell of the shock he had received. He had fought his last battle, fired his last gun, and was now waiting for the last great drum-beat.

A story is told at the expense of Major Stackhouse, afterwards the Colonel of the Eighth, during this battle. I cannot vouch for its truthfulness, but give it as it was given to me by Captain Harllee, of the same regiment. The Eighth was being particularly hard-pressed, and had it not been for the unflinching stoicism of the officers and the valor of the men, the ranks not yet recruited from the results of the battle at Gettysburg, the little band would have been forced to yield. Major Stackhouse was in command of the right wing of the regiment, and all who knew the old farmer soldier knew him to be one of the most stubborn fighters in the army, and at the same time a "Methodist of the Methodists." He was moreover a pure Christian gentleman and a churchman of the straightest sect. There was no cant superstitions or affectation in his make-up, and what he said he meant. It was doubtful if he ever had an evil thought, and while his manners might have been at times blunt, he was always sincere and his language chosen and chaste, with the possible exception during battle. The time of which I speak, the enemy was making a furious assault on the right wing of the Eighth, and as the Major would gently rise to his knees and see the enemy so stubbornly contesting the ground, he would call out to the men, "There they are, boys, give them hell!" Then in an under tone he would say, "May God, forgive me for that!" Still the Yankees did not yield, and again and again he shouted louder and louder, "Boys, give it to them; give them hell!" with his usual undertone, "May God, forgive me for that," etc. But they began closing on the right and the center, and his left was about to give way; the old soldier could stand it no longer. Springing to his feet, his tall form towering above all around him, he shouted at the top of his voice, "Give them hell; give them hell, I tell you, boys; give them hell, G—— souls" The Eighth must have given them what was wanting, or they received it from somewhere, for after this outburst they scampered back behind the ridge.



Years after this, while Major Stackhouse was in Congress, and much discussion going on about the old Bible version of hell and the new version hades, some of his colleagues twitted the Major about the matter and asked him whether he was wanting the Eighth to give the Union soldiers the new version, or the old. With a twinkle in his eye, the Major answered "Well, boys, on all ordinary occasions the new version will answer the purposes, but to drive a wagon out of a stall or the Yankees from your front, the old version is the best."

Major Hard, who was killed here, was one of the finest officers in the brigade and the youngest, at that time, of all the field officers. He was handsome, brilliant, and brave. He was one of the original officers of the Seventh; was re-elected at the reorganization in May, 1862, and rose, by promotion, to Major, and at the resignation of Colonel Aiken would have been, according to seniority, Lieutenant Colonel. Whether he ever received this rank or not, I cannot remember. I regret my inability to get a sketch of his life.

But the Rupert of the brigade was Colonel Bland, of the Seventh. I do not think he ever received his commission as full Colonel, but commanded the regiment as Lieutenant Colonel, with few exceptions, from the battle of Sharpsburg until his death. Colonel Aiken received a wound at Sharpsburg from which he never fully recovered until after the war. Colonel Aiken was a moulder of the minds of men; could hold them together and guide them as few men could in Kershaw's Brigade, but Bland was the ideal soldier and a fighter "par excellence." He had the gift of inspiring in his men that lofty courage that he himself possessed. His form was faultless—tall, erect, and well developed, his eyes penetrating rather than piercing, his voice strong and commanding. His was a noble, generous soul, cool and brave almost to rashness. He was idolized by his troops and beloved as a comrade and commander. Under the guise of apparent sternness, there was a gentle flow of humor. To illustrate this, I will relate a little circumstance that occurred after the battle of Chancellorsville to show the direction his humor at times took. Colonel Bland was a bearer of orders to General Hooker across the Rappahannock, under a flag of truce. At the opposite bank he was met by officers and a crowd of curious onlookers, who plied the Colonel with irrelevant questions. On his coat collar he wore the two stars of his rank, Lieutenant Colonel. One of the young Federal officers made some remark about Eland's stars, and said, "I can't understand your Confederate ranks; some officers have bars and some stars. I see you have two stars; are you a Brigadier General?"

"No, sir," said Bland, straightening himself up to his full height; "but I ought to be. If I was in your army I would have been a Major General, and in command of your army." Then with a merry chuckle added, "Perhaps then you would not have gotten such a d—-n bad whipping at Chancellorsville." Then all hands laughed.

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COLONEL ELBERT BLAND, SEVENTH REGIMENT.

Elbert Bland was born in Edgefield County, S.C., and attended the common schools until early manhood, when choosing medicine as a profession, he attended the Medical College of New York, where he graduated with distinction. Ardently ambitious, he remained sometime after graduation, in order to perfect himself in his chosen profession. Shortly after his graduation, war broke out between the States and Mexico, and he was offered and accepted the position of Assistant Surgeon of the Palmetto Regiment, Colonel P.M. Butler commanding. By this fortunate occurrence he was enabled to greatly enlarge his knowledge of surgery. At the close of the war he came home, well equipped for the future. Shortly after his return from the war he was happily married to Miss Rebecca Griffin, a daughter of Hon. N.L. Griffin, of Edgefield. Settling in his native county, he entered at once into a lucrative practice, and at the beginning of the late war was enjoying one of the largest country practices in the State. When the mutterings of war began he was one of the first to show signs of activity, and when Gregg's Regiment went to the coast in defense of his native State, he was appointed Surgeon of that Regiment. Having had some experience already as a Surgeon in the Mexican War, he determined to enter the more active service, and in connection with Thos. G. Bacon, raised the Ninety-Six Riflemen, which afterwards formed part of the Seventh South Carolina Regiment. Bacon was elected Captain and Bland First Lieutenant. Upon organizing the regiment, Bacon was elected Colonel of the regiment and Bland was to be Captain.

Whilst very little active service was seen during the first year of the war, still sufficient evidence was given of Eland's ability as a commander of the men, and upon the reorganization of the regiment, Captain Bland was elected Lieutenant Colonel. From this time until September 20th, 1863, his fortunes were those of the Seventh Regiment. He was conspicuous on nearly every battlefield in Virginia, and was twice wounded—at Savage Station, seriously in the arm, from which he never recovered, and painfully in the thigh at Gettysburg. At the sanguinary battle of Chickamauga, on September 20th, 1863, whilst in command of his regiment, and in the moment of victory, he fell mortally wounded, living only about two hours.

No knightlier soul than his ever flashed a sabre in the cause he loved so well, and like Marshall Nay, he was one of the bravest of the brave. He sleeps quietly in the little cemetery of his native town, and a few years ago, upon the death-bed of his wife, her request was that his grave and coffin should be opened at her death, and that she should be placed upon his bosom, which was done, and there they sleep. May they rest in peace.

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LIEUTENANT COLONEL HOOLE, EIGHTH REGIMENT.

Axalla John Hoole was of English decent, his grandfather, Joseph Hoole, having emigrated from York, England, about the close of the Revolutionary War, and settled at Georgetown, S.C.

James C. Hoole, the father of A.J. Hoole, was a soldier of the war of 1812. He removed to Darlington District and married Elizabeth Stanley, by whom he had five children, the third being the subject of this sketch.

Axalla John Hoole was born near Darlington Court House, S.C., October 12th, 1822. His father died when he was quite small, leaving a large family and but little property, but his mother was a woman of great energy, and succeeded in giving him as good an education as could be obtained at St. John's Academy, Darlington Court House. Upon the completion of the academic course, at the age of eighteen, he taught school for twelve years, after which he followed the occupation of farming.

While a young man he joined the Darlington Riflemen, and after serving in various capacities, he was elected Captain about 1854 or 1855. He was an enthusiastic advocate of States Rights, and during the excitement attending the admission of Kansas as a State, he went out there to oppose the Abolitionists. He married Elizabeth G. Brunson, March 20th, 1856, and left the same day for Kansas. Taking an active part in Kansas politics and the "Kansas War," he was elected Probate Judge of Douglas County by the pro-slavery party, under the regime of Governor Walker.

He returned to Darlington December 5th, 1857, and shortly afterwards was re-elected Captain of the Darlington Riflemen. At a meeting of the Riflemen, held in April, 1861, on the Academy green, he called for volunteers, and every man in the company volunteered, except one. The company went to Charleston April 15th, 1861, and after remaining a short while, returned as far as Florence, where they were mustered in as Company A, Eighth S.C.V.

The Eighth Regiment left Florence for Virginia June 2d, 1861. At the expiration of the period of enlistment, the regiment was reorganized, and Captain Hoole was elected Lieutenant Colonel, in which capacity he served until he was killed at the battle of Chickamauga, September 20th, 1863. He was buried at the Brunson graveyard, near Darlington.

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COLONEL E.T. STACKHOUSE, EIGHTH REGIMENT.

As I have made some mention of Major Stackhouse, he being promoted to Lieutenant Colonel, and afterwards Colonel of the Eighth, I will take this opportunity of giving the readers a very brief sketch of the life of this sterling farmer, patriot, soldier, and statesman, who, I am glad to say, survived the war for many years.

Colonel E.T. Stackhouse was born in Marion County, of this State, the 27th of March, 1824, and died in the City of Washington, D.C., June 14th, 1892. He was educated in the country schools, having never enjoyed the advantages of a collegiate course. He married Miss Anna Fore, who preceded him to the grave by only a few months. Seven children was the result of this union. In youth and early manhood Colonel Stackhouse was noted for his strict integrity and sterling qualities, his love of truth and right being his predominating trait. As he grew in manhood he grew in moral worth—the better known, the more beloved.

His chosen occupation was that of farming, and he was ever proud of the distinction of being called one of the "horny-handed sons of toil." In the neighborhood in which he was born and bred he was an exemplar of all that was progressive and enobling.

In April, 1861, Colonel Stackhouse was among the very first to answer the call of his country, and entered the service as Captain in the Eighth South Carolina Regiment. By the casualties of war, he was promoted to Major, Lieutenant Colonel, and Colonel, and led the old Eighth, the regiment he loved so well, in some of the most sanguinary engagements of the war. All that Colonel Stackhouse was in civil life he was that, and more if possible, in the life of a soldier. In battle he was calm, collected, and brave; in camp or on the march he was sociable, moral—a Christian gentleman. As a tactician and disciplinarian, Colonel Stackhouse could not be called an exemplar soldier, as viewed in the light of the regular army; but as an officer of volunteers he had those elements in him to cause men to take on that same unflinching courage, indominable spirit, and bold daring that actuated him in danger and battle. He had not that sternness of command nor niceties nor notion of superiority that made machines of men, but he had that peculiar faculty of endowing his soldiers with confidence and a willingness to follow where he led.

He represented his county for three terms in the State Legislature, and was President of the State Alliance. He was among the first to advocate college agricultural training for the youth of the land, and was largely instrumental in the establishment of Clemson College, and became one of its first trustees.

He was elected, without opposition, to the Fifty-first Congress, and died while in the discharge of his duties at Washington.

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CHAPTER XXIV

In Front of Chattanooga.

Early on the morning of the 22d we were ordered forward towards Chattanooga, the right wing having gone the day before. On nearing the city, we were shelled by batteries posted on the heights along the way and from the breastworks and forts around the city. It was during one of the heavy engagements between our advanced skirmish lines and the rear guard of the enemy that one of the negro cooks, by some means, got lost between the lines, and as a heavy firing began, bullets flying by him in every direction, he rushed towards the rear, and raising his hands in an entreating position, cried out, "Stop, white folks, stop! In the name of God Almighty, stop and argy!"

In moving along, near the city we came to a great sink in the ground, caused by nature's upheaval at some remote period, covering an acre or two of space. It seemed to have been a feeding place for hogs from time immemorial, for corn cobs covered the earth for a foot or more in depth. In this place some of our troops were posted to avoid the shells, the enemy having an exact range of this position. They began throwing shells right and left and bursting them just over our heads, the fragments flying in every direction. At every discharge, and before the shell reached us, the men would cling to the sides of the sloping sink, or burrow deeper in the cobs, until they had their bodies almost covered. A little man of my company, while a good soldier, had a perfect aversion to cannon shot, and as a shell would burst just overhead, his body was seen to scringe, tremble, and go still deeper among the cobs. Some mischievous comrade took advantage of his position, seized a good sound cob, then just as a shell bursted overhead, the trembling little fellow all flattened out, he struck him a stunning blow on the back. Such a yell as he set up was scarcely ever heard. Throwing the cobs in every direction, he cried out, "Oh! I am killed; I am killed! Ambulance corps! Ambulance corps!" But the laugh of the men soon convinced him his wound was more imaginary than real so he turned over and commenced to burrow again like a mole.

Rosecrans having withdrawn his entire force within the fortifications around Chattanooga, our troops were placed in camp, surrounding the enemy in a semi-circle, and began to fortify. Kershaw's Brigade was stationed around a large dwelling in a grove, just in front of Chattanooga, and something over a mile distant from the city, but in plain view. We had very pleasant quarters in the large grove surrounding the house, and, in fact, some took possession of the porches and outhouses. This, I think, is the point Grant stormed a few months afterwards, and broke through the lines of Bragg. We had built very substantial breastworks, and our troops would have thought themselves safe and secure against the charge of Grant's whole army behind such works.