The Life Record of

H. W. Graber

A Terry Texas Ranger

1861-1865

Sixty-two Years in Texas

Copyright 1916 by H. W. Graber

Index

Preface

The purpose of this narrative is to hand down to my children, and to present to my friends, an intimate, personal account of a life which has not been without interesting episodes, and which has been lived during the most eventful period that this Nation will, in all probability, ever know.

Though a large portion of my story will deal with incidents which occurred during the great sectional strife of the sixties, it is not intended as a history of that great calamity, but is meant, simply, to be an account of incidents with which the writer was personally associated.

The Great Strife which so nearly disrupted our country is over. For many years we of the South have been dwelling amicably with those of the North—this is as it should be. We are, united, the greatest country on the face of God’s footstool. And to both the North and the South belongs the credit.

The mistakes of certain Northern fanatics, which were not, I believe, dictated by general Northern sentiment, have long been rectified. The Government at Washington today is, I know, truly representative of the entire country. The tragic blunders which were evident in the South during what has been called the “Reconstruction Period” would not be possible today. The country has become a unit.

In perfect love and friendship for all the good people of the United States, irrespective of location, and with no sectional feeling other than an abiding love for my South, I write this story. I hope it may be found to be not without interest.

H. W. GRABER.

My Earliest Recollections

CHAPTER I

I was born in the city of Bremen, Germany, on the 18th day of May, 1841. My father was a native of Prussia, and my mother of the Kingdom of Hanover. They were married in the city of Bremen in 1839. There were five children born unto them; a daughter, the oldest of the family, died in Bremen; the others moved with the family to Texas. I was educated at a private school, starting at six years old, up to the time of our removal to Texas in 1853.

In connection with the ordinary literary course, the French and English languages were taught in the higher grades in which I had just entered, but when father decided to move to Texas, he had me drop the French and employed an additional private teacher to come to our home and give me English lessons, which enabled me to speak the English language on our arrival in Texas.

Our father was a manufacturer of fine mahogany furniture and established a profitable trade on this with New York, exporting more of his furniture than was sold at home, though he had quite an extensive local trade, as his styles and work were very popular, all of his furniture being hand carved.

The great Revolution of 1848, which caused great stringency in financial affairs of the country, forced him to mortgage his home, and from this he never recovered. It was this condition that induced his removal to Texas.

Father and I came to Texas a year in advance of the balance of the family, for the purpose of getting acquainted with the country and its conditions. Then, the year following the rest of the family came over. We settled in Houston, Texas. We came over on a large sailing ship, as steamships were very few, and we came by way of New Orleans, where we found a great yellow fever epidemic, though we escaped it this year.

I forgot to mention that, when a child about four years old, I was playing on the river front, sliding up and down on a plank with one end in the water, the other end on the steps leading down to the water, when I lost my hold, slid into the river and under the bottom of a schooner, coming out on the opposite side, where one of the sailors caught me by the hair just as I started under the third time. I was carried home unconscious. This proved my first narrow escape from death, of which I had many during life.

Soon after our arrival in Houston, father worked in an undertaking establishment for a man by the name of Pannel, but during the first summer, both father and mother were taken sick with typhoid fever and died within one week, leaving me, the oldest of the family, then thirteen years old, to take care of the rest of the children.

We had an uncle, father’s brother, living on Spring Creek, in the upper part of Harris County, who took charge of our sister and a younger brother until I could make provisions for them to come back to Houston, there to get the benefit of the schools.

During the yellow fever of that fall my brother, next to me, died with yellow fever.

I forgot to mention that soon after arrival in Houston I secured a position in the large retail grocery establishment of F. Bauman, and, subsequently, in the wholesale grocery establishment of C. E. Gregory, where I soon became shipping clerk and an expert marker of freight, with the marking brush; so much so that when a lot of freight was turned out on the sidewalk (to be shipped by ox-wagon, which was the only means of transportation out of Houston before the day of railroads) and when marking this freight, passersby would stop and watch me, as I was the youngest shipping clerk in Houston, which of course made me feel very proud.

After a year or more in the service of this wholesale establishment I was offered a position in a retail dry goods establishment of G. Gerson, where I became familiar with the dry goods business. After about a year, Gerson decided to open a general merchandise establishment at Waxahachie and place his cousin, Robert Angleman, in charge of the same, and, for this purpose, loaded about a half dozen ox-wagons with part of his Houston stock and employed me to go to Waxahachie and clerk for Angleman.

In place of going up to Waxahachie on the stage, our only means of travel then, I begged them to allow me to go with the wagons, as I was anxious to camp out and hunt on the way, but I took a great fancy to driving one of the wagons, the driver of which permitted me to learn, and I became somewhat expert in handling six yoke of oxen, each one of which had a name, such as “Red” or “Ball,” or “Jerry.” The oxen seemed to know their names when called on to move up, followed by the crack of the big whip, and it is hardly necessary to say when this outfit entered Waxahachie, preceded by this team, this little boy was driving, popping his whip as loud as any of the men. I felt I was the biggest man among them.

Angleman’s business proved a great success—selling goods for cash and also taking pecans in trade for goods at fifty cents a bushel. These pecans were shipped by wagon to Houston and from thence to New York, where they netted from sixteen to eighteen cents per pound. Angleman’s business was the first Jewish establishment in Waxahachie, and ultimately grew to be the largest business in that section of the country.

My sojourn at Waxahachie of about two years proved the most pleasant of my life, as everybody seemed to be my friend, and took a special interest in me because I was the only orphan child in the place and was without a home. While there I boarded at both hotels; first at the Rogers House and next at the Ellis House.

CHAPTER II
I Abandon the Printer’s Trade and Take Up Surveying.

After two years in Waxahachie, I decided to move back to Houston, where I concluded to learn the printer’s trade, and for this purpose secured a position in the office of the Houston Telegraph, which, at that time, perhaps, had the largest circulation and was the leading paper in the State. It was published by Allen & Brockett. Soon after entering this office and acting as printer’s devil for a while, they promoted me to the job office, where I became expert in doing fancy work, such as marriage notices, ball invitations, etc., but I was unable to collect any salary; these people were always hard up for money, and I never got anything out of it but my board and sufficient money for clothing. I finally became disgusted and went to Galveston, where I had an offer from a man by the name of Spratt, who published a little paper called the Ignis Fatuous or Jack o’ the Lantern. As the name indicates it was a humorous paper, containing criticisms in a humorous vein, of leading politicians of the city and the State. It was one of the most popular periodicals then published, selling at ten cents a copy, by newsboys, without having any left over each week. Here, too, I failed to get my pay, though I set up the whole paper and made up the forms, which were sent up to the Gazette’s office on Friday, where it was struck off ready for the sale of the paper on Saturday. I did my work at Spratt’s home, where he had set apart a room containing cases. I had board at the same place.

Spratt was a billiard fiend and, as soon as he got the money for his papers on Saturday, he would stay in town, play billiards until his money was exhausted, come home about Tuesday, and then prepare to furnish matter for the next issue. I worked with him for about sixty days. Failing to get my pay, I became disgusted and concluded that the printer’s trade was a good thing for me to drop. I then went back to Waxahachie and again went to work with the Angleman house and formed the acquaintance of an old land surveyor by the name of James E. Patton, who employed me to go with him on surveying expeditions, just for company, paying me a good salary. I furnished my own horse and arms, the latter of which he never carried. He was firm in the belief that Indians would never trouble him, although it was said that he was taken prisoner by the Indians, having been caught surveying lands down on Chambers’ Creek in Ellis County. They turned him loose, which was considered one of the most remarkable cases of Indian generosity ever known on the frontier, as they always killed surveyors whom they caught locating land.

It was also related of this old man, that, in the early days, when he surveyed lands in Ellis County, he substituted chain carrying by hobbling his ankles just the length of a vara, and stepped off the land, in place of measuring it with a chain. Colonel Patton was one of the most popular surveyors and land locaters in Texas. His compensation for locating headright certificates was one-half of the land, which made him one of the richest men in lands, at the time of his death, in that section of the State.

My first trip with Colonel Patton was to Fort Belknap, Texas, where he had formed the acquaintance of a man by the name of Gibbons, who moved there from Arkansas and owned about a dozen negroes, with whom he cultivated a considerable plantation just across the river from Fort Belknap. Gibbons had an Indian wife, a Delaware, who was dark complected like other Indians, but she had a younger sister, who married General Tarrant, an old Texas pioneer and Indian fighter, after whom Tarrant County is named. General Tarrant made his home in Ellis County and he and Colonel Patton were great friends. General Tarrant happened to be on a visit at Gibbons’ when we arrived there on our first expedition, and we were made to feel at home before starting out surveying.

It was the custom there for surveyors to make up a party of a half dozen or more to go on these expeditions, for protection against Indians who were then roaming over that whole section of the country. There was an Indian agency about twelve or fifteen miles below Belknap, in charge of Captain Shapley Ross, the father of General L. S. Ross, then a boy like myself. This agency was composed of remnant tribes of Indians, probably a half dozen or more, whom the Comanche Indians had run in off the range. These Indians had the protection of the United States Government and, of course, pretended to be friendly. The most uncivilized Indian in this agency was the Tonkawa, who, it was claimed, were cannibals. I remember as we passed through Keechie Valley, on our way to Weatherford, we stopped at a store for about an hour, resting and talking, when the storekeeper told us of a trouble he came very near having the day before. It seems a Tonkawa Indian had offered to trade him a pony for a young Kentuckian, who had just come out from his State and was clerking in the store. He asked the Indian what he wanted to do with the Kentuckian if he accepted his offer. The Indian told him that he wanted to eat him. The young man got a gun and was about to shoot the Indian, when the storekeeper stopped him and made the Indian leave.

There was another Indian agency at Camp Cooper, about forty miles west of Belknap, presided over by a man by the name of Neighbors. This agency had a tribe of the Southern Comanches, who were also run in by the Northern Comanches, or Apaches. These Southern Comanches claimed to be friendly with the whites in order to have the protection of the United States Government, but they, and occasionally the Ross Agency Indians, were believed to be responsible for many of the raids on our exposed frontier; especially the Indians at the upper agency at Camp Cooper. These raids became frequent; one of them culminating in the murder of two families in Jack County, and the carrying off of a little boy and girl as prisoners. Being hotly pursued by Rangers and citizens, they were forced to abandon the boy, whom they threw into the brush to be found by the pursuers. He made the statement that he was taken upon a horse, behind a red-headed white man, who seemed to be the leader of the band. This red-headed white man was seen in the Indian camp, located up on the Canadian River, at different times, by scouts.

Major Neighbors, while on a visit to Fort Belknap, became involved in a dispute with one of the citizens, who charged that his Indians were responsible for many of the raids on our frontier. The dispute resulted in a fight and Major Neighbors was killed by the citizen. His death created quite an excitement on the frontier, as he was a United States officer and the Government asked an investigation of the affair, but there was never anything done about it.

While on my first trip with Colonel Patton, while we were making our headquarters at Gibbons’, we found General Tarrant and his wife, the sister of Mrs. Gibbons. This lady, by the way, was as fair as most of the white women on the frontier. Their adopted son, Jesse, was about my age. Gibbons had two sons, one about my age, the other a year younger. We boys became great friends, and sometimes engaged in hunting and fishing.

One day we four decided to go fishing at the mouth of a creek, where it emptied into the Brazos, about three-quarters of a mile below the house. We cut fishing poles at a thicket near the creek. After fishing a while without any result, we got tired and commenced shooting with our pistols, of which each had one. All boys of our age always then went armed with six-shooters, the custom of the frontier. After shooting at a log in the creek, thereby emptying our pistols, we did not reload, not deeming it necessary just then, and decided to go in bathing in the river. The river being very low, was only running on the Fort Belknap side, and we had to walk a considerable distance on a sand bar to the water. Having just stripped ourselves of our clothing, ready to go in, we heard voices calling on the south bank of the river and discovered a group of men beckoning to us to come over to them. These proved to be General Tarrant, Colonel Patton, Gibbons, his overseer and a blacksmith, who, with his wife, occupied a log cabin on Gibbons’ place, he being at work for the troops at the Fort.

When we reached this party of men we were asked where we had been. When we told them that we had cut our fishing poles at a thicket, they commenced laughing and guying this blacksmith, telling him that his wife had mistaken us for Indians and concluded that this was a sufficient explanation of the alarm about Indians that she had created. This blacksmith insisted on going down to this thicket, saying that he was satisfied that his wife was not frightened and made no mistake; that she must have seen Indians there, but they would not hear to it, and in going up to the house, stopped at the cabin and told this woman that it was us boys that she saw, in place of Indians. She, too, insisted that they were mistaken, that there were surely Indians in that thicket, but they paid no further attention to the matter and went home.

It was the custom there to tie all horses in the yard, around the house, which was done that night. When we woke next morning we found all of our horses gone. When they then investigated the thicket where we boys cut our fishing poles, they found plenty of Indian signs, such as small pieces of buffalo meat and moccasin tracks. The matter, of course, was reported to the commandant of the fort, who got his troops ready to start in pursuit the next evening. This was about the character of protection afforded by the United States troops. If rangers had been stationed there, they would have been in the saddle in less than an hour and continued the pursuit until the Indians were caught up with.

CHAPTER III
Indian Troubles—My First Venture in Business.

This bold raid of these Indians stirred up General Tarrant and he determined to raise about five hundred volunteers in the frontier counties, to break up a big Indian camp, under a celebrated chief, Buffalo Hump, that was known to exist on the North Canadian, and for this purpose he canvassed the frontier counties and had no trouble in having volunteers sign to go out on the expedition. He fixed the time of departure from Fort Belknap on the fourth day of July, which was most unfortunate, as the time of his canvass was in the early part of May, when during the long interim the Indians had been quiet, and had made no raids into the settlements. The volunteers who subscribed had lost interest in the matter and would not go.

I was one of twenty who subscribed to go from Ellis County, and believe I was the only one that ever started. About this time Colonel Patton had arranged to start on another surveying expedition, in conjunction with a party of surveyors, in charge of Gid Rucker, who had a contract for running the center line of a twenty-mile reserve, granted by the State to the Memphis & El Paso Railroad Company. This center line was run on the thirty-second parallel. Colonel Patton went along to locate land certificates, of which he had a great many, and was anxious to see the country up on Hubbard’s Creek in Young County. Hubbard’s Creek is a tributary of the Clear Fork of the Brazos.

When we reached Weatherford we found General Tarrant very sick, not expected to live, and he died a few days afterwards, which, of course, broke up the expedition for which I had enlisted. Colonel Patton then induced the railroad company’s surveyors to make me a proposition and pay me two dollars per day to simply go along as company, they being anxious to have a sufficient crowd to overawe any attack Indians might contemplate.

After reaching the eightieth milepost, Colonel Patton had them run down ten miles to the southern boundary of the reserve, which was done, and a most magnificent country developed. It seems Colonel Patton had requested Mr. Rucker to get a sketch of that section of the country from the General Land Office at Austin, and gave him money to pay for such sketch, and when he asked for this sketch Rucker told him that they told him at the Land Office that the whole country was vacant; that there had been no surveys recorded in that section. Colonel Patton then struck out alone, riding around and, after a few hours’ investigation, became disgusted, having found quite a number of rock piles and blazed trees, indicating that the country was not vacant and had been well surveyed over by others.

Colonel Patton then told me that he was going back home, his whole trip was a failure, that he wouldn’t stay with a crowd that had deceived him so grossly. He planned to go back by himself, but I told him he should not do so—if he was going back I would go with him. The whole party started back to the center line, where we quit work. It was now late at night, the moon shining brightly, and we were about ten miles away from water, which we needed for our horses, before we could go into camp. After riding over the high, rolling prairie on this beautiful night, some seven or eight miles, coming over a ridge we discovered a few camp fires in the bottom of Hubbard’s Creek, which, of course, were thought to be Indian fires by our party. After consultation, we decided to make a charge on them and scatter them. For this purpose we drew up in line, having altogether about twenty men, and moved on them cautiously. When within a few hundred yards of the bottoms, we were halted by a vidette picket, who from his brogue, proved to be an Irishman. This indicated to our party that the camp was of United States troops, and not Indians.

On arriving in camp we found Major Van Dorn with a troop of cavalry, on his way from Fort Phantom Hill to Camp Cooper. The major, of course, was glad to have us camp with him. During the night, Mr. Rucker learned that Colonel Patton intended going straight for the settlements, without company except myself. Major Van Dorn sent for Colonel Patton and begged him to go to Camp Cooper with him, where he would no doubt find company from there to Fort Belknap, and then again from Fort Belknap to Weatherford, all of which were dangerous routes for one or two men to travel alone, on account of Indians, but Colonel Patton wouldn’t listen to such advice, claiming the Indians would never bother him and he would have no trouble in getting back to the settlements with me.

The next morning we struck out in a straight line for the settlements, all alone, without taking any provisions, as the old man was mad with Rucker and would not ask for them, nor accept any when they were offered.

This ride to the settlements proved one of the most trying the old gentleman had ever been subjected to. It was, likewise, for me. We were without water for a day and a half, when we struck running water in the North Fork of Palo Pinto, and the second evening, late, we found a small cornfield, about three or four acres, with a board shed and a pile of ashes, indicating that this corn was made by some parties who had camped there and finally abandoned on account of Indian depredations. We then found a well-beaten path from this, leading in the direction we were traveling. About six or eight miles from there we found a house, the home of a frontier settler, with a wife and two children. All were much rejoiced at seeing us and insisted on our staying a week, which, of course, we had to decline and left the next morning, on our way home to Waxahachie, which was reached in due time. This ended my frontier visitation, determined never to go outside of the settlements again, which I never did.

Soon after reaching Waxahachie, I was induced to accept a position with a Mr. Leander Cannon at Hempstead, Austin County, who was then conducting the largest mercantile business in that section of the State. After serving about a year in the dry goods and clothing department, I was induced by Mr. Cannon to take charge of his books, which I did for about six or eight months, when he decided to sell out and offered me his business, giving me all the time I needed to pay for it, if I would enter into copartnership with one J. W. Fosgard, his former bookkeeper, who was an educated, college man, from Sweden. Fosgard was very egotistic and overbearing and I knew we could never get along, therefore, I declined Mr. Cannon’s generous offer. He sold out to Fosgard alone.

A short time after, I had an invitation to join R. P. Faddis in the purchase of the business of Young & Bush, who, at the time, had a better stock of goods than Cannon and made us a very attractive offer, giving us all the time we wanted to pay them. This offer we accepted, constituting the firm of Faddis & Graber. Faddis was the bookkeeper of Young & Bush, and was a very popular man with the trade, which was largely composed of the leading and richest planters in that section of the Brazos country, and we soon built up a profitable business, though unfortunately, for us, our country soon became involved in sectional troubles, which prevented our restocking our reduced stock of goods and finally culminated in secession and war.

War Record

CHAPTER IV
My First Military Experiences.

R. P. Faddis was a native of Minnesota, raised and educated there, and was about nine years my senior. He was more familiar with the true conditions in the North than I was.

When war was threatened, before Sumter was fired on, minute companies were organized in many of the important towns of Texas; forts and arsenals on our frontiers were taken possession of by the State, and the garrisons shipped North. A Captain Stoneman collected about five hundred picked troops at Fort Brown and refused to surrender. Colonel Ford, an old commander of Texas Rangers, collected about three hundred men and demanded the surrender of the fort, which was refused.

An old New Orleans boat, called the General Rusk, was dispatched to Galveston for reinforcements. On its arrival there, telegrams were sent to Houston, Hempstead and Navasota, which places had organized companies, for the companies to report by twelve o’clock that night for passage on the General Rusk, for Brazos, Santiago. Twelve o’clock that night found four companies aboard of this boat, coasting down the Gulf in a storm, without ballast, rolling and making us all seasick; nearly five hundred men lying on the lower deck. We finally arrived at Brazos Santiago, where we found some other citizen soldiers in the old army barracks, including the Davis Guards, under command of Captain Odium and Dick Dowling.

After two weeks’ camping on Brazos Santiago Island, Captain Stoneman surrendered Fort Brown, and, after disarmament, was sent North with his troops. We then returned home and resumed our civic avocations.

We next organized a cavalry company, commanded by a Captain Alston; Hannibal Boone, First Lieutenant, and W. R. Webb, Second Lieutenant. I was offered the second lieutenancy, but declined, saying I would only serve in a private capacity. I was not a military man, and never expected to be. In about thirty days we were called to hasten to Indianola on horseback, where they had collected more troops, which had refused to surrender. We immediately started there and, when near Victoria, we got information that these troops had also surrendered, making it unnecessary to go any further, and we again returned home to resume our several pursuits. The company then disbanded and largely merged into a new company, organized for frontier protection against Indians. I remained at home, attending to my business with Faddis.

A couple of young Englishmen had come to Hempstead about a year before and started a foundry and machine shop, the second one in the State. They were both experts in their business and good men, receiving the financial support of the community, and soon owed our firm a large amount of money for advances to their hands and monies loaned.

In July, 1861, the same year, Colonel Frank Terry, a large sugar planter in Fort Bend County, and Thomas Lubbock of Houston, returned from the battle of Manassas, where they had served as volunteer aides on the staff of General Beauregard and through their intrepid daring and valuable services, were commissioned to raise a regiment of Texas Rangers.

Immediately upon their return, they issued a call for volunteers, to serve during the war, in Virginia; the men to furnish their own equipment. The response was prompt; in less than thirty days ten companies of over one thousand men were on their way to Houston to be mustered into the service of the Confederate States Army for the war. The personnel was of the highest order, some of the best families in South Texas were represented, many were college graduates, professional men, merchants, stockmen and planters; all anxious to serve in the ranks as privates; all young, in their teens and early twenties; rank was not considered and when tendered, refused; the main desire was to get into this regiment.

I told Faddis our firm must be represented, on which we agreed, and that I wanted to join, but he insisted that it was his time to go, that I had been out twice, and I finally had to yield him the right. He then subscribed to join. The day he was ordered to Houston to be mustered in, he declined to go and frankly told me that he only signed to keep me from going, and he did his best to persuade me not to go. He said that the South was deceived in the spirit and strength of the North; that the North had every advantage of us—they had the army and navy, the arsenals, the treasury and large manufactories, as well as five men to our one; the whole world open to them, while we had nothing, our ports would be blockaded and we would be forced to depend upon our own limited resources, and, as to relying upon the justice of our cause, in the language of Abraham Lincoln, “might was right and would surely conquer.” I told him I could not agree with him and was satisfied the war would not last three months. As soon as we could drive these people back into their own territory, they would be willing to let us alone. “I am going to take your place, Faddis.” I had about an hour to arrange for board for my young brother and sister and Faddis agreed to look after them and pay their board out of my interest in the business, which he pledged himself to continue for our mutual benefit.

When we parted I expected to return inside of three months; he expected he would never see me again, as I might be killed and, if I should return, that I would be a crippled, subjugated man.

Faddis continued the business as far as he was able and finally, to protect us, had to take over the foundry and machine shop, arranging with our Englishmen to run it for him. He then, to keep out of the army, turned his attention to repairing old guns, making swords and other arms, and finally, on the persuasion of his English friends, cast a nine-inch Armstrong gun, the only one ever successfully made in the Confederacy.

This drew the attention of the Confederate Government, who impressed our property, paid him eighty thousand dollars for it and gave him a permit to stay in Brownsville and run cotton into Mexico, returning with goods.

On my return from the army, after four years, I heard of him through a party who knew him in Brownsville. This party reported that Faddis had more gold than he knew what to do with, and I concluded that I was fixed, too, but I was unable to communicate with him, as we had no mails, and did not hear from him until after two years, when he returned to Hempstead broke. He had lost all in grain speculations in Chicago.

I next proceeded to Houston, where I was mustered in with the balance of the regiment, to serve in Virginia, during the war. While in camp at Houston, we organized our company, electing John A. Wharton of Brazoria County captain of the company; who, on his election, made up a speech, in which he said that he had no ambition to gratify more than to command Company B, that he expected to return captain of Company B and did not want any promotion. He was offered by the balance of the regiment in connection with our company, the office of major. The balance of the commissioned officers of the company were Clarence McNeil, first lieutenant and Theodore Bennett, second lieutenant; and the noncommissioned officers were distributed among the different sections from which the company was made up; nobody caring for an office of any kind, as a private was generally the equal of any officer in command. All went to do their patriotic duty and contribute their mite for the success of the cause.

We now started on horseback. After reaching Beaumont we returned our horses to Texas, having to take boat to Lake Charles, Louisiana, from whence we were forced to walk to New Iberia, carrying our saddles and other equipment on wagons, across the country. At New Iberia we again took boat for New Orleans; this was the only route open, as our ports had been blockaded for some time, both at Galveston and at the mouth of the Mississippi River.

During our stay in New Orleans for three or four days, we had a good rest and waited for the balance of the companies to catch up. Colonel Terry received a telegram from General Albert Sidney Johnston at Bowling Green, Kentucky, stating that he had been ordered to take command in Kentucky, and requested Colonel Terry to urge the men to come and serve under him and, by way of inducement, authorized him to say that we should be mounted on the best horses that Kentucky afforded and that we should always remain a separate and distinct command, never to be brigaded with any other troops as long as he lived. General Johnston was well acquainted with the character of Texans, regarding them as fearless and enthusiastic people, proud of their Texas history; and, knowing the young men composing this regiment would endeavor to emulate the example of the heroes of the Alamo, Goliad and San Jacinto, on which point, he was not mistaken. General Johnston had been connected with the army, under General Houston, and had also engaged in sugar planting near the Kyle and Terry plantation in Fort Bend and Brazoria Counties, where a great friendship sprang up between him and Colonel Terry. Colonel Terry’s influence with the men of the regiment was unlimited and he had no trouble in persuading the men to accept General Johnston’s offer and serve with him in Kentucky.

While in New Orleans Colonel Terry made an official visit to General Twiggs, an officer of the old army, who had resigned, and tendered his services to the Confederacy, and who was then in command at New Orleans and the Southwestern territory. Colonel Terry, while there, asked information on the matter of obtaining cooking utensils and tents. When General Twiggs, who had served many years on the frontier of Texas, laughed him out of countenance, saying, “Who ever heard of a Texas Ranger carrying cooking utensils and sleeping in a tent?” It is needless to say that this matter was not mentioned again by Colonel Terry.

Our company arrived at Nashville, Tennessee, ahead of the balance of the regiment, where we were quartered in the Fair Grounds, there to await the arrival of the rest of the companies. I forgot to mention we started out with the name of the “Texas Rangers,” with a reputation we had never earned, but were called on to sustain; how well we did it, we leave history to record our services during the four years we served the Army of the West. While I would not make any invidious distinction as between our regiment and others who served under Forrest, Wheeler and Wharton, I am proud to be able to say that opportunities were afforded us, largely by accident, that demonstrated our ability to meet every expectation of department commanders, as evidenced by the following expressions during the war:

“With a little more drill you are the equals of the old guard of Napoleon.”—General Albert Sidney Johnston. “I always feel safe when the Rangers are in front.”—General Wm. J. Hardee. “There is no danger of a surprise when the Rangers are between us and the enemy.”—General Braxton Bragg. “The Terry Rangers have done all that could be expected or required of soldiers.”—Jefferson Davis.

While camped in the Fair Grounds, the citizens of Nashville, largely ladies, came rolling in, in carriages and buggies; all anxious to see the Texas Rangers, about whom history had written so much about their fearlessness and being great riders. Colonel Terry called on not a few of our men to ride horses that were taken out of buggies and carriages, for the purpose of showing their horsemanship—the most popular feature being a deposit of gold coins on the ground, the rider to run at full speed, stooping down and picking them up. This extraordinary feat, in connection with their general appearance; being armed with shotguns, six-shooters and Bowie knives, seemed to sustain their idea of the Texas Rangers that fought at the Alamo, Goliad and San Jacinto and served under Jack Hayes, Ben McCollough and other Indian and Mexican fighters. The regular army equipment for cavalry was the saber, the carbine and six-shooter. This difference in equipment alone indicated that the Texas Ranger expected and would fight only in close quarters. After a pleasant stay at Nashville of nearly two weeks, we were ordered to go by rail to Bowling Green, Kentucky, where we found an army of infantry and artillery and three regiments of cavalry. Here we drew our horses by lot and it was my good fortune to draw first choice out of about a thousand horses tied to a picket rope. When all were ready to make their selection I was directed to where these horses were tied and ordered to make my selection, which I was not permitted to do with any degree of deliberation. Having about a thousand men waiting on me, all anxious to make their selection, a comrade, seeing I was confused and embarrassed, offered to exchange his thirty-second choice for my choice, paying me a liberal bonus. I was glad to accept it, mainly to get time to look around among the rest of the horses, believing I would stand a better chance to get a good mount. I had got short of money by that time, as we paid our own expenses, except transportation, and this comrade was glad to pay me for my first choice. We had no time to take out a horse and try his gaits, and it proved largely guesswork in the selection of the horses. The best gait for cavalry service is a long swinging walk and fox trot; unfortunately my thirty-second choice proved a pacer.

After drawing our horses and preparing everything ready for active service, the regiment under Colonel Terry was ordered on a scout to Glasgow, Kentucky, where we were kindly received by its citizens and took up our quarters at the Fair Grounds. Here the regiment spent several days pleasantly, feasting on the good things brought in by the ladies of the town.

The second day Colonel Terry ordered Captain Ferrell, with his company and Company B, of which I was a member, to the little town of Edmonton, Kentucky, where it was reported a part of a regiment of Federal cavalry were quartered.

We started at night, which proved to be one of the coldest we had ever been out in, riding all night. When nearly daylight, we reached the suburbs of the town. I was riding a very spirited and nervous horse, which refused to be quieted, while riding in line. In order to keep him quiet, I had loosened the strap on his curb, which proved to be a mistake. Nearing the town, the order came down the line “Silence in ranks,” and soon my horse got to prancing. I jerked him by the reins, throwing him on his haunches, when the hammer of my shotgun struck the horn of the saddle and fired off my gun, which raised the alarm in town. Immediately the order was given “Form fours; Charge!” which excited my horse to such an extent that he broke ranks and flew up the line to the front. Carrying my shotgun in my right hand, I was unable to check him without the curb and he ran away with me, carrying me up into the town on the square, about three hundred yards in advance of my command, where I succeeded in checking him. For this I was reprimanded by Captain Ferrell, who would not receive my explanation that the horse ran away with me and claimed that I was too anxious to get there first.

Had the garrison not received information that we were moving on them for an attack and left during the night for Mumfordsville, instead of occupying the town as we expected, I no doubt would have been killed in this, our first charge.

Captain Ferrell had orders from General Johnston to try to capture a spy by the name of Burrell, who was making this town his headquarters and who always stopped at the hotel. As soon as we entered the square we were ordered to surround the hotel, which was done promptly. Captain Ferrell then called the proprietor to the door, told him to tell the ladies in the house to rise and dress, as he would have to search the house for Burrell. The hotel man said that Burrell was there the evening before, but left for Mumfordsville and was certainly not in the house. Captain Ferrell told him that it made no difference, but to hurry up, he was going to search the house.

The house was partly a two-story building, which had been added to the gable end of the one-story building and the stair landing, built against the gable of a one-story house, with a solid wood shutter covering, and opening into the attic of the one-story building. The ladies took their own time about getting ready for our search, perhaps nearly an hour; some of them in the meantime coming to the door and repeating the proprietor’s statement—that Burrell had left the evening before. When they announced ready, I being near the door, dashed in ahead of all the rest and up the stairs, when I discovered the wooden shutter, which I jerked open, peering into the dark attic. Daylight had now fairly lit up the surroundings and I discovered, through the light of the cracked shingles, what I took to be a bundle of clothing at the far end, under the corner of the roof. I cocked both barrels of my gun and called out, “Come out; I see you; I’ll shoot if you don’t.” He answered, “Don’t shoot.” If he had not answered I, no doubt, would have concluded, and perhaps others that followed me, too, that it was an old bundle of plunder. Proceeding down stairs with the prisoner, Burrell, who proved to be quite an intelligent and good-looking gentleman, I carried him into the parlor, where the ladies had congregated. They were all in tears, with some of our boys laughing at them and telling them they were story tellers.

Captain Ferrell, immediately on entering the square, detailed two men for each road leading into the town, to picket these roads about one-half mile from town. We built log fires on the square to keep us warm during the day until about three o’clock in the evening. A citizen then came in and, in an excited manner, told Captain Ferrell that a large cavalry force was moving in between us and Glasgow, with a view of cutting us off from our main command. The pickets arrested everybody coming into town and by three o’clock we had about fifteen or twenty prisoners, including some four or five Federal soldiers, who rode in on them, thinking the town was still occupied by Federal troops. On receiving information about this large cavalry force moving on a road between us and Glasgow, Captain Ferrell gave the order to mount and form fours, selecting what prisoners (about seven or eight, including Burrell) and the soldiers, to take with us, and turning the balance of them loose. He then placed me in charge of the prisoners, with four others to help guard them. We then commenced our retreat to Glasgow. When about three miles from town, another citizen dashed up to Captain Ferrell, who rode in advance of the column, and reported the same large cavalry force occupying our road some few miles ahead of us. Captain Ferrell, who, by the way, was an old frontiersman, Indian and Mexican fighter, dropped back and ordered me to tie Burrell’s ankles together, under the horse’s body and if we got into a fight and he attempted to escape, to not fail to kill him the first one. I don’t think I ever did anything during the war that I hated as bad as I did to tie this man’s ankles under the horse, but it was my orders from a man I knew would not permit any plea for its modification, and I had to obey.

After riding about eight or ten miles, in this way, feeling sorry for Burrell in his pitiful plight, I couldn’t stand it any longer and told him if he would promise me he would not make a break when the guns opened, that I would unloose the ropes and free his legs, for which he thanked me. Then I told him to be careful and carry out his promise, for if he did attempt a break, I would surely shoot him.

It seems that the report of these citizens proved only a ruse to induce us to liberate our prisoners, as we were never fired on or again heard of any Federal Cavalry in our front and safely reached Glasgow, where we still found the balance of the regiment in camp.

Colonel Terry sent our prisoners to Bowling Green, highly pleased with the capture of Burrell, for whom he had a special order by General Johnston. I am satisfied Burrell was sent to Richmond, Virginia, and was ultimately exchanged, as I saw the name of a Colonel Burrell, commanding Kentucky troops mentioned in a war history, published in the North some years after the War and on which point I trust I was not mistaken, and that he is still in the land of the living.

CHAPTER V
Our First Engagement

We now took up our line of march for Ritters, a point on the Louisville & Nashville Pike, between Cave City and Woodsonville, with Hindman’s Brigade of infantry and a battery of four pieces, camped at Cave City, a few miles in our rear, and established our permanent camp, for the purpose of scouting and picketing. This camp at Ritters in winter proved to be a very trying one to us, raised in Texas in a mild and genial climate. We had a great deal of snow and rain and the exposure on scouts and picket duty soon developed pneumonia, measles and other troubles, necessitating our patients to abandon camp life. They were sent to the hospital at Nashville, where the ladies of Nashville were daily awaiting trains. They would not permit patients to be carried to the hospital but would take them to their private homes for personal care and treatment. They showed a partiality for the Texas Rangers, no doubt largely through sympathy, as we had left our distant, comfortable homes, burning all bridges behind us, to fight for them and their country. Our regiment soon dwindled down from a membership of one thousand to not more than about four hundred for duty; many of the sick were permanently rendered unable to return, while a great many died.

After serving nearly a month in the capacity of picket and scouts, General Hindman, anxious to bring on an engagement with the enemy, who were camped on Green River at Woodsonville and Mumfordsville, conceived the idea of moving his camp. Instead of avoiding a collision, as he had orders to do, he moved right toward the enemy’s lines, ordering Colonel Terry, with our regiment, to move about a mile in his advance.

I was on picket duty, with part of a company, at Horse Cave, about three miles south of the main pike from Bowling Green to Louisville, when Captain Ferrell of the regiment, with part of his company, came by and took us along, moving towards Woodsonville on a dirt road running parallel with the pike on which were Hindman’s Brigade of infantry; with the Louisville & Nashville Railroad running between the two. Just as we came in sight of Rowlett Station, a point on a high ridge this side of Woodsonville, we discovered the regiment, with Colonel Terry and General Hindman about fifty feet in advance, moving in the direction of Rowlett Station. Colonel Terry and General Hindman then discovered a Federal line of infantry lying down behind a rail fence in front of them. Hindman’s infantry were at least a mile behind, coming on, when they discovered the enemy. General Hindman ordered Colonel Terry to withdraw the regiment and let him bring up the artillery and infantry, and dislodge them from their position. In the meantime, Captain Ferrell, in command of the party I was with, had discovered the enemy in our front, which was just across a railroad cut, spanned by the pike bridge. Colonel Terry, in place of obeying the order of General Hindman to withdraw, answered, “General Hindman, this is no place for you; go back to your infantry,” and called on Captain Walker, who was in the rear with the balance of the regiment, to come on, form into line and charge. Simultaneously with his charge on the west side of the railroad, we, under Ferrell, charged the enemy in front of us, behind the rail fence. As soon as we moved forward, other Federals, behind trees and rocks, on small hills on both sides, opened fire on us. Their troops behind the fence held their fire until we got within fifty yards of them, then turned loose. In less time than it takes to tell it, we charged them, delivering our fire of double-barreled shotguns, breaking down the fence and getting among them with our six-shooters. In a few minutes we had run over them, although they numbered two to one, and to save themselves many of them “possumed” on us, and feigned being dead, and by that means saved their lives, though the main portion of them fled towards Woodsonville, where, down in the edge of the timber, they were met by heavy reinforcements. In this charge we lost a number of our best men, killed and wounded. Among the killed was Colonel Terry, which proved an irreparable loss, as no doubt, considering his fearlessness and dash, as also his ability as a commander, he would have proven another Forrest, a Napoleon of cavalry. General Hindman brought up his infantry and artillery, a battery of four pieces, with which he opened on their fort at Mumfordsville, and also on their line of infantry in the woods about a half mile below us. The fort responded, but largely overshot us and our battery. This proved our first baptism by fire. General Hindman was notified by a scout that the enemy was crossing Green River in very heavy force, near the Mammoth Cave, moving in our rear, which necessitated falling back to Cave City. We brought off the bodies of our dead and wounded, the remains of Colonel Terry being sent to Texas in charge of Captain Walker, who was wounded, and the balance of the wounded were sent to hospitals at Nashville.

The enemy we fought at this point proved to be the Thirty-second Indiana Regiment, under Colonel Wilich, a German regiment, said to be the best drilled regiment in Rousseau’s Army.

We next established our camp at Bell Station, a few miles in advance of Cave City, where we continued scouting and picketing for the army. Both armies now remained quiet for several months, collecting reinforcements for a final clash; the rigors of the winter affecting our army perhaps more than it did the Federal army, as they were used to a colder climate. Our regiment was especially affected.

While encamped at Bell Station, I had a messmate by the name of McDonald, who was taken sick with pneumonia and was unwilling to be sent to the hospital at Nashville. He insisted on being taken to some good private family in the neighborhood. I succeeded in finding the family of Isaac Smith, an old gentleman who had six sons in Breckenridge’s Brigade of infantry, and living about three miles from our picket stand with his wife and two daughters. These good people were willing to take McDonald and nurse him, our own surgeon attending him and myself assisting in nursing him, frequently spending the night there. The oldest daughter was also very sick, attended by a citizen doctor in the neighborhood, who also took a deep interest in McDonald.

One day I received orders to report to the command; that Bowling Green was being evacuated. We were ordered to join the army as quickly as possible, Hindman’s Brigade having already arrived at Bowling Green. This information proved to be bad news for McDonald, who was already convalescent, but still very weak. He begged and pleaded to be taken to Bowling Green and Nashville, saying he did not want to be captured. Old Mr. Smith, then perhaps fifty-five years old, decided to hitch up his wagon, as he had no buggy or hack, and haul McDonald to Bowling Green in a wagon, as he wanted to refugee and stay with his boys in the army; he feared to stay at home, surrounded by ugly Union neighbors.

We now put a mattress in the wagon, with plenty of bedclothing. We put McDonald in the wagon, well protected from the cold, and, after a sad parting with the family, proceeded to the Bowling Green pike, the old man driving the wagon and I following on my horse. We reached Bowling Green near night, just in time to witness the last cannon shot striking one of the main pillars of the railroad bridge, which was an iron extension, and saw it drop into the river. We crossed on a covered wooden pike bridge.

On our arrival in town, we inquired for a good place to leave McDonald for the night, which we were unable to find, but were recommended to go out about two miles to a Mr. Roe’s, who had a large flouring mill. This we did, and found excellent quarters for McDonald and myself for the night; old Mr. Smith driving back to town and taking the Nashville pike to try to find Breckenridge’s Brigade of Infantry, with which his sons were connected.

During the night we had a very heavy snow. Mr. Roe had his buggy hitched up and drove McDonald to the railroad station in town, myself following. Roe was unable to remain with us, as we were expecting the enemy to cross the river any moment and enter the town, hence left us by the side of the track and returned home.

After a while, Colonel Wharton, with about fifteen or twenty men out of our regiment, was ordered to destroy the depot and proceeded to fire it. A train with a few passenger coaches and an engine to pull it, was standing on the track on the outside, waiting for orders to move. A good many convalescent soldiers from the hospital, including my friend McDonald, squatted down by the roadside, waiting for the coaches to be opened. As soon as the fire started in the station, the enemy opened a battery on the place, using shells, which exploded all around us. The engineer got scared, uncoupled his engine and pulled out, leaving our train at the mercy of the artillery fire. Looking around for some kind of a vehicle to take McDonald out of there, as he was too feeble to attempt to ride my horse, I rode up town and found a two-horse wagon, loaded with hams, flush to the top of the bed, which the driver had taken from our commissary building and was hauling home. I stopped and told him that I had a sick friend down at the station; that I wanted him to go down there and haul my friend away. He said he wouldn’t go down there for anything in the world. I pulled out my gun and told him to go; and he went.

Arriving at the place, we cut open some infantry baggage that had blankets tied to the knapsacks and put about a half dozen blankets on top of the hams, lifting McDonald and laying him on top, covering him with more blankets. In the meantime, the station was about consumed and the artillery had ceased firing. After getting up on the square and finding our troops had all left, I told this man that he would have to drive on the Nashville Pike until we could catch up with our command, which he did most reluctantly and only under the persuasion of my gun.

About a mile and a half below town we found our regiment drawn up in line of battle. I sent for our surgeon, who examined McDonald and said to the driver, “You will have to drive on down the road until we catch up with my ambulances.” The driver said that he wouldn’t go any further; said I, “If you don’t, we will have to hold on to this team until we unload; I am going to save these hams for our regiment.” They were meat that belonged to our commissary. He said that he wouldn’t go any further, that we could take his team and wagon and go to —— with it. The fellow was evidently afraid that we would force him into the army; he thereby lost his team and wagon, which we had no idea of taking, and he could have saved them by continuing with us.

Our army now took up its long line of retreat for Nashville; our regiment covering the rear without any engagements, or the firing of a single gun. On reaching Nashville, crossing the Cumberland River on the suspension bridge about midnight, we got information that Port Donaldson had surrendered, which made it necessary for our troops to leave Nashville in great haste, which they did; protected in the rear by our regiment. The army continued to Shelbyville, while we were ordered to Fort Donaldson, to cover the escape of many men of the Fort Donaldson army, whom we met scattered all along the road. The weather was most severe.

The winding up of this winter I had a sad experience. About midnight, the second night out, we pulled into a cedar grove by the side of the road, the ground of which was soft and muddy. We tied our horses to the trees around us, and arranged as best we could, to get a little rest and sleep, putting down our oilcloths next to the mud, then our saddle blankets and each having a good blanket and overcoat for cover. My messmate, John Cochran, laid by me, and we soon dropped into a sound sleep, being tired and worn out, and without having had a bite of anything to eat that day and no forage for our horses.

Waking up some time during the night, I felt a curious feeling about my head. Putting my hand to my head I found my hair clotted with blood. I woke up Cochran, my companion, and told him that some one had struck me over the head with a gun, which proved a mistake. Our horses being tied in the cold, without any feed, had pulled the length of the rope and commenced pawing, when one of them pawed me on the head with a sharp shoe, which caused a deep cut of my scalp. We then decided we would move through the woods until we could strike some house, and soon struck a country road. After traveling perhaps a mile, we discovered a little log house by the side of the road and through the cracks of the batten door, we saw a bright fire burning on the inside. We knocked on the door, which was answered by a very old gentleman, whom we told that we wanted to come in and dress my wounds. He asked who we were. We told him we were Confederate soldiers, camped near there and the cause of my hurt. He received us very kindly, invited us into his main room, which contained a double bed where his old wife was sleeping. As soon as she saw my bloody condition, she jumped up, dressed, heated some water and with nice clean towels, commenced bathing my head and dressing my wounds. She then went to work, put some clean sheets and pillowcases on the bed and insisted on our lying down and taking a good nap, while she prepared breakfast for us.

While we told them that it was dangerous for us to sleep in a bed, as we were not used to it and it would give us a cold, we were compelled to take the bed on their refusal to listen to anything else.

When we awoke next morning after daylight, the old lady had a splendid breakfast of fried chicken prepared for us, fine biscuit and good Confederate coffee—made of rye and parched sweet potatoes; everything on the table was neat and spotlessly clean and I do not think we ever enjoyed a meal during the whole war better than we did this.

When we prepared to leave, we asked the old gentleman for our bill; he seemed to feel hurt, and said, “The idea of charging a Confederate soldier for anything he had!” This was out of the question with him; all he asked, if we ever happened in that neighborhood, in twenty miles of him, to be sure to make him another visit, for he hoped to meet us again. Thanking them for their exceeding kindness, we then walked back to camp, where we found many of our comrades still in deep sleep, with no forage for the horses.

In the course of a few hours the bugle called to saddle up, and we resumed our march to Shelbyville, and caught up with a good many of our retreating infantry. Here we spent two days and had our first taste of an attempt at discipline by Major Harrison, who was then in command; Colonel Wharton being sick somewhere on the line of our retreat.

It seems that Major Harrison met a couple of our men in town without permission and ordered them to return to camp immediately, which they refused to do. When he returned to camp he ordered these men arrested by the camp guards and placed on the pike, marking time. A Mr. Sam Ash of Company B (now still living in Houston) went to these men and led them back to camp, telling them that no such disgraceful punishment should be inaugurated in the regiment. The infantry were passing frequently and we considered it a disgrace to the Texas Ranger to submit to such punishment. Major Harrison finally yielded and passed the incident, but to a great extent, lost the respect of the command.

The army now continued its retreat through Shelbyville, Huntsville, Decatur to Corinth, Mississippi, without incidents of note, except the burning of bridges behind us. We also destroyed the magnificent bridge across the Tennessee River at Decatur.

It may be not out of place, before going further, and to give the reader a better idea of the character of the Texas Rangers, to mention an expression of Hardee’s. While passing through Huntsville, Alabama, some ladies, in company with General Hardee, were standing on the sidewalk, watching us pass, cheering and waving their handkerchiefs at us, when one of them remarked to General Hardee, saying “General, the Rangers are the best soldiers you have; are they not?” He told them no, he was not stuck on them, saying that they would not submit to any discipline or drill; but he was willing to say that in a battle, or when called on to meet a forlorn hope, the Rangers always responded. General Hardee was one of the strictest disciplinarians in our army and wrote the military tactics that were used by both sides.

We soon arrived at Corinth, where we were assigned a camp ground about two miles from the place, near a spring and we here witnessed new additions to the main army. Occasionally scouting parties from the regiment were sent out in different directions towards the Tennessee River, which duties were always performed to the satisfaction of the commanding officers.

CHAPTER VI
An Accidental Injury—Shiloh—The “Mark-time” Major.

Our regiment, one night, was ordered out to report at daylight to some point up the Tennessee River, the night being very dark—one of the darkest nights we ever traveled in—and branches and small streams very boggy. Colonel Wharton, at the head of the regiment, was riding a very fast walking horse. We struck many places in these branches where it was only possible for one horse to cross at a time, and Wharton, as soon as across, would strike out in his fast walk, leaving the rest of his command to come on as best they could. This threw the rear end of the regiment considerably behind and we had to lope at full speed to catch up with our file leaders after crossing these bad places. In one of these races to catch up, my horse stumbled and fell, pitching me over his head, with my left arm extended, and I sustained a dislocation of my left arm. Considerably stunned by the fall, and suffering great pain from this dislocation, a comrade was sent back with me to Corinth, where I had a surgeon to replace my arm, with instructions to carry it in a sling until it got well. Our regiment returned the next night without having discovered any of the enemy and was then ordered to prepare three days’ rations, as was also the rest of the army.

In the meantime, the enemy had landed a large force, under General Grant, at Pittsburg Landing. Our regiment was ordered out with no one knowing where they were going, until they moved in the direction of Pittsburg Landing. They were immediately followed by the whole army, and on the fifth of April, they engaged the enemy and fought the battle of Shiloh; our regiment was moved about on the field from right to left. As the dense woods did not afford an opportunity for mounted cavalry, they were unable to do much fighting, except, about ten o’clock the first day, they were dismounted and ordered to charge through a thicket at Owl Creek, which they had to do single file, and were shot down by a large infantry force as fast as the men made their appearance in the open. Soon realizing that it was impossible to dislodge the enemy from their position with this handful of men, they were immediately ordered to fall back. This proved the extent of their active engagement, but they served as a corps of observation on both flanks until Tuesday evening.

After the second day’s engagement, Grant’s army having been reinforced on Sunday night by the whole of Buell’s army (as large as our army originally), our army was compelled to retreat, which was done in a heavy rain, rendering the road to Corinth almost impassable for artillery and ambulances. Realizing that our army was in great danger of being annihilated, General Beauregard sent for General Breckenridge, who was on the field with his Kentucky Brigade, ordering him to cover the retreat and try to save the army. General Breckenridge responded that he would protect the army if it cost the last man he had. This occurred on Tuesday after the battle. Our regiment, what was left of it, and Colonel Forrest, with about fifty men, were ordered to support General Breckenridge. Breckenridge’s Brigade was drawn up near the old battlefield. In their front, about a quarter of a mile away, two lines of battle of the enemy were seen to form with a brigade of cavalry, mounted, in their front, covering their movement. Breckenridge’s Brigade was then moved to the rear a short distance, to a position where they were hid by lying down. Our regiment, in command of Major Harrison, and Colonel Forrest with his fifty men, soon formed in front of Breckenridge, preparing to charge the enemy.

As heretofore stated, Colonel Harrison, up to this time, on our retreat, did not have the confidence or respect of the men on account of a blunder he committed at the small town of Jimtown in Kentucky, which caused him to be dubbed the “Jimtown Major;” then again, on account of his ordering some boys to mark time on the Shelbyville Pike, was dubbed the “Mark-time Major.”

A large number of the regiment had been congregated on the pike, at the point from which Ash had led the prisoners, and when Major Harrison reached the spot, after hearing what had been done, he was met by angry glances on every hand for presuming to treat two gentlemen so inconsiderately. Disregarding their menacing looks Major Harrison called out, “Is there an officer of my regiment present who will execute my orders?” when Pat Christian (then a lieutenant in Company K) stepped to the front, with a salute, and said, “Major, I will.” Then Major Harris ordered him to get a file of men and bring the two prisoners back to complete their sentence, and to inform him instantly if interfered with.

It was here that Christian, afterwards captain of his company, and then major and later lieutenant colonel, first attracted the attention of the regiment, afterwards so devoted to him, for his gallantry and his good traits of character, and here that the regiment had its first lesson in military discipline, under an officer temporarily unpopular, who afterwards won their high respect.

For the first time since our retreat, he was in command of the regiment, Colonel Wharton having been wounded, and very soon the enemy commenced a scattering fire, while the regiment was forming, occasionally striking a man or a horse. The men became restive and wanted to charge, but Major Harrison rode down the line saying to them, “Be quiet, boys, ‘till your ‘Jimtown Mark-time Major’ gets ready for you,” in a very cool and deliberate manner, and finally in ordering the charge said, “Now, follow your Jimtown Major.” He led them on to the cavalry, which, in an impetuous charge, they drove right in among their infantry, and, on account of their being confused in the mix-up, the enemy fell back a short distance, and the regiment brought out a number of prisoners. While this charge proved a success, we lost a number of valuable men in killed and wounded. This was the last fighting on the battlefield of Shiloh.

I have not entered into any details of the battle, as history gives such a complete account, written by both sides, that its details are well known, and as the purpose of this writing is to recount my own personal history and because I was not actively engaged with the regiment during the battle, I find it unnecessary to give the details.

As heretofore stated, I was suffering with a dislocated arm, the effects of my fall, and did not move out with the regiment when they started on this trip; but on Sunday morning, hearing the guns of Shiloh in our camp at Corinth, I mounted my horse and struck out for the field. Unable to learn where our regiment was posted, I remained with an infantry command, offering my services to the extent of what I was able to do, but I was not called on during the several days’ battle, except to carry a few orders from place to place.

I reached Corinth, Mississippi, where our camp was located, on Thursday, aiding and assisting about a half dozen wounded men of the Second Texas, allowing them to ride my horse when they were able. These men were completely exhausted, as they did nothing else but stand in line all day Sunday ‘till four o’clock in the evening, firing their guns, and again on Monday, opposed to Buell’s fresh army, which proved the hardest fighting during the battle. “All honor to the Second Texas.”

Recalling General Albert Sidney Johnston’s promise in a telegram to Colonel Terry at New Orleans, that we should never be brigaded as long as he lived; his death at four o’clock on Sunday evening cancelled this promise. General Beauregard then took command of the army.

A few days after the battle of Shiloh, having recuperated our horses, as well as the men, Colonel Wharton was ordered to report to a General Adams, who had a Kentucky regiment, and General Adams, with this regiment and the Eighth Texas, was ordered on a raid into Middle Tennessee, with instructions to capture and destroy everything of the enemy he could meet up with and was able to handle.

We crossed the Tennessee River at Lamb’s Ferry, the ferry boat being propelled by a paddle wheel, driven by a horse-tread power. Here we left our wagons and all our extra luggage, as well as cooking utensils, awaiting our return, but the Federal cavalry a few days after, crossed the river, captured our entire storage and we never saw cooking utensils or tents afterwards, and were thereby reduced to the condition of the real Texas Ranger as on the frontiers of Texas.

Immediately after crossing the Tennessee River we struck a considerable infantry force, with artillery. General Adams, in place of attacking them, moved us around them in great haste, thereby avoiding a collision and getting away, leaving them shelling the woods for several hours, while we were making distance. We next struck the Pulaski Pike, finding about two hundred wagons, loaded with two bales of cotton on each and a guard of two men with each wagon. General Adams drew us out of sight and hearing and would not allow Colonel Wharton to capture this train, which could have been done without the loss of a man. But no doubt as General Adams suggested, in doing this we would stir up a hornet’s nest and get the whole Yankee army in pursuit of us. Wharton was powerless to do anything, held back by General Adams.

When near the town of Fayetteville, Lincoln County, Tennessee, a citizen sent out by the garrison of the town, numbering about five hundred cavalry, told us to come in; they wanted to surrender; they were tired of the war and wanted to go home. General Adams conceived this to be a trick of theirs and declined their invitation, moving us around the town in the night by a path in the woods, guided by a citizen, thereby losing a splendid opportunity of capturing this garrison.

The second night after this, we camped at the town of Salem, about ten miles south of Winchester, and at Winchester the next night, where information reached us that about two thousand infantry, moving in wagons, and a battery of artillery, had been in pursuit of us and had been camped at Salem the next night after we were there, and was expected to follow us to Winchester. The road from Salem to Winchester was a straight lane with high rail fences on each side. At a point about equal distance between Salem and Winchester, was a large woods lot, running up to the lane, as noticed by Colonel Wharton. He suggested to General Adams that we go back, remain concealed in this woods, close to the road and when the enemy came along, riding in wagons, that we charge them and force them to surrender. This seemed good to General Adams and an opportunity he was willing to risk.

We moved around to this woods lot, remaining there until about daylight, when information reached us that the Yankees had already passed and were then occupying Winchester. We immediately returned to Winchester and found them drawn up behind a railroad cut, with a commanding position for their battery. They opened this battery on us, using shells, as soon as we came in sight. Then Colonel Wharton, riding ‘round hunting a place to charge them, decided this could not be done without the loss of a great many men and a charge might result in failure; we, therefore, moved around Winchester, passing through Decherd’s depot and pitched camp in Hawkins Cove, perhaps twenty miles distant from Winchester.

The second day in camp in Hawkins Cove, a citizen came and reported to General Adams that the Yankees were at his house with a couple of wagons, loading his meat, and begging him to send a small force to drive them away. A company of the Kentucky regiment and Company B of the Rangers, which was the company to which I belonged, were detailed for this service. When we reached this man’s house they had already left with his meat and were driving fast, back into town. We struck a lope, endeavoring to catch up with them, but failed. The Kentucky captain, being the ranking officer, was in command; riding at the head of the column and running over the pickets on a bridge near town, he carried us right into the town, up to the courthouse square. This charge proved a complete surprise. We found the enemy scattered all over town and a large party of them in the courthouse, being the only parties we felt free to fire on, as there were no women and children about. We heard the artillery bugle and concluded to get out of there, which we did very promptly and in such good time the artillery never had a chance to fire a shot at us.

Some years after the war, a Winchester paper was sent me, giving an account of fifty Texas Rangers attacking two thousand infantry and artillery in their town, with a loss of only one man, who had his arm broken by an explosive ball.

We returned to our camp in Hawkins Cove. On that night General Adams came down to Colonel Wharton’s camp fire and announced that he would start across the mountain, for Chattanooga, the next morning, and secure artillery, that he could not undertake to remain in Middle Tennessee without it. Colonel Wharton had become exasperated at General Adams’ conduct the entire trip and told him to take his Kentucky regiment and go to Halifax with it, if he wanted to—that he intended remaining in Middle Tennessee and doing what he could to carry out the original order of General Beauregard.

After a few days’ rest in Hawkins Cove, where the enemy did not attempt to molest us, a messenger reached us, with orders from General Kirby Smith at Knoxville, to report to Colonel Forrest at McMinnville, which Wharton did, as soon as we reached there. After a day’s rest Colonel Forrest (who had the First and Second Georgia and a Tennessee battalion, all cavalry) in conjunction with our regiment, started, late evening, for Murfreesboro, which was then the headquarters for Tennessee, of the Federal Army, with Major General Crittenden in command. Murfreesboro’s garrison consisted of the Ninth Michigan Infantry, a part of a regiment of cavalry located in their camp to the right of town, the Third Minnesota and a battery of artillery on the northwest of town. They had about one hundred prisoners in the courthouse, upstairs, with a strong guard downstairs.

Greatly outnumbering us, our success depended on a surprise. When near their advance picket on the pike, Colonel Forrest asked for some Rangers to capture this picket without the fire of a gun, which was done in very short order. He then had a consultation with the commanders of the different regiments, and it was decided that Colonel Wharton, with our regiment in advance and the Second Georgia next in column, attack the Ninth Michigan and the cavalry camp on the right. To reach them he had to turn into a side street about two or three blocks from the courthouse, where Colonel Forrest halted, awaiting for his part of the command to come up to take them through town to the Third Minnesota and battery camp, ignoring the courthouse as much as possible.

After our regiment had passed into the side street, following Wharton, Forrest discovered that the Georgians and Tennesseans had failed to come up and immediately decided to take what was left of our regiment and lead them to the attack on the Third Minnesota and the battery north of the town. This gave him a force of only about fifty or sixty men. By this action he cut our company about half in two, which threw me into the first set of fours at the head of the column, with Forrest riding by my side, on my right. Nearing the courthouse, a couple of Federals up in the second story door, dropped down on their knees and raised their guns to fire, but Forrest and I fired ahead of them. When Forrest fired his pistol, his horse dodged almost in front of me, just as I fired, very nearly shooting Forrest through the head. I have often thought what a misfortune this would have been, as I came very near killing a man who turned out to be the Napoleon of cavalry.

In the upper story of the courthouse were confined about one hundred prisoners, some of Morgan’s men, but mostly civilians, and the courthouse was guarded by about one hundred men, who fired on us through doors and windows. We moved around the courthouse, some to the left and some to the right, as the courthouse was standing in the middle of the square immediately fronting the center of the street we came up on. About the time we reached the courthouse, Wharton, with the balance of the regiment, had charged the Michigan camp, many of whom were asleep in their tents, and the noise of the battle reached us about the time we fired into the courthouse. As stated, Forrest with about fifty men in columns of fours, except a few that were left on the courthouse square, shot down by courthouse guards, moved on to the north of town, where he lost his bearings and was compelled to get a citizen out of his house, to pilot us to the Minnesota camp and battery. When we reached there we found the men up and dressed and the battery opened on us, throwing a few shells among us, which scattered us and caused the disappearance of Forrest. We were in an old field, and on leaving, I was called by a Kentuckian, who had volunteered to go with us into the fight and had his arm shattered by a piece of shell, begging me to not go off and leave him. He was hardly able to sit on his horse. I rode up, taking his horse by the bridle, leading him up to a fence in the edge of the timber, with a scattering fire directed on us. I dismounted and let down the fence, leading his horse over it. While doing this, noticing I was trying to get off a wounded comrade, they gallantly ceased firing on us. I now led my wounded friend through the woods, until we reached a house, about a mile from there, when the gentleman at the house hitched up his buggy, and, placing my friend in the buggy, he drove around the town, with myself following, leading the wounded man’s horse, until we reached a point about a mile below town, where we found the Rangers collecting what was left of them, out of the Michigan camp fight and also the few men who were with Forrest in the old sedge field when fired on by the Third Minnesota and battery.

The regiment formed and gathered at this point about a mile below town, awaiting further orders, with Wharton, wounded again, directing the formation, when a messenger came from Forrest, who was then up town with his Georgia and Tennessee battalions, ordering us back up into town. After joining the Georgians and having displayed about three times as many men as he really had, by moving them around a block, in sight of the enemy (who had gathered and formed, in a splendid position, supported by their battery) Forrest went in, under a flag of truce and demanded their immediate surrender, telling them that he had five men to their one and was determined to take them; that if he had to make another charge on them, on their own heads be the responsibility; that the little fight had, was only with his advance guard, that he had five hundred Texas Rangers he couldn’t control in a fight, and the responsibility was with them. After deliberating on the matter for a few minutes, they raised the white flag and surrendered. The result of this surrender was a parole of eighteen hundred and sixteen privates at McMinnville, the further capture of forty-seven commissioned officers, including Major General Crittenden, with Colonel Duffield of the Ninth Michigan badly wounded in the Michigan camp; thirty-eight wagonloads of valuable stores; a magnificent battery of four pieces of artillery and several million dollars’ worth of commissary and quartermaster’s stores, destroyed by fire.

I would also mention the release of two citizen prisoners confined in the jail, who were condemned to be hung the next day, as spies. The wife of one of these men, with many other ladies, witnessed our passing through Woodbury. Learning that we were going to Murfreesboro, she wrung her hands and begged and plead with us to bring her husband back. Some of the men who heard her, answered that we would surely bring her husband back, which we did the next day.

A dastardly act I will recount here—of one of the Federal guards stationed at the jail. When he found we were about to capture the town, he set fire to the jail, which no doubt would have burned the poor prisoners, but the fire was promptly extinguished by several of our men, who succeeded in capturing the fellow who started the fire and in taking him before General Forrest. Forrest pulled out his pistol and killed him on the spot, a well-deserved punishment.

On marching our prisoners to McMinnville, the commissioned officers who had been captured, were given the privilege of the pike, they taking a parole not to attempt to make their escape. When this high privilege was offered Major General Crittenden, he refused the courtesy, telling Forrest that he could not accept, as his government didn’t recognize him as a regular Confederate soldier and only knew him as a guerilla. Forrest told him that it made no difference with him and he furnished him with a guard of two Texas Rangers, dressed in buckskin, wearing Mexican sombreros. These men were somewhat wild in appearance, no doubt, to General Crittenden. After riding along with his guards for an hour or two, one man on each side of him, occasionally nodding at each other, the general concluded that perhaps they were planning to kill him, and had them take him up to Colonel Forrest, when he asked Forrest to parole him and give him the privilege of the pike, like the rest; saying he verily believed that these men would kill him.

After paroling the privates at McMinnville, permitting them all to retain their private property, which included a magnificent set of silver band instruments, Forrest told the officers that they would have to be taken to Knoxville to General Smith’s headquarters and directed Colonel Wharton, who was wounded, with Company B, his old company, to take charge of them, the battery and thirty-eight wagonloads of valuable stores. He requested Colonel Wharton, when he got safely up on top of the mountain, by way of Sparta, to send back a messenger, reporting that fact, and I was sent back with this message to Colonel Forrest.

Reaching Sparta about daylight, I could not find any one who could tell me the whereabouts of Forrest’s command, and struck out, back in the direction of McMinnville, when incidentally I met a citizen, who reported that they were camped at a certain place in the woods between Sparta and Lebanon, which I succeeded in finding about noon. Reporting to Colonel Forrest that Wharton had got up on top of the mountain safely with his prisoners, artillery and wagons, I told him that I didn’t feel like going back to catch up with my company, going to Knoxville, lying around in camp and that I wanted to remain with the regiment and asked his permission to do so. He kindly consented and told me to report to the regiment and stay with them.

CHAPTER VII
I Am Wounded and Captured.

The Rangers now felt that they were commanded by somebody who meant business and that there was plenty of work in store for them. After remaining in this camp another day, we started for Lebanon, in the night, where it was understood a considerable cavalry force of the enemy were camped. Reaching the town about daylight, we formed fours and charged in, being greeted by ladies, through their windows, waving handkerchiefs and cheering, with no Federal cavalry in town, they having moved to Murfreesboro during the night, in great haste, learning we were on the way.

Here at Lebanon, we found, as in nearly every town we had been in in Middle Tennessee, a strong Southern people, who, while we were camped there for two days, gave us a great feast of everything that was good, which was heartily enjoyed by the whole command. Forrest, on being interviewed as to what was next on docket, said that he was going to take Nashville, though strongly fortified, and garrisoned by an infantry force of not less than ten thousand men under General Nelson.

On the early morning of the third day, we started out on the main Nashville pike, moving along at an ordinary gait, occasionally meeting citizens, out from Nashville, saying there was great excitement among the Yankees, and they were digging additional pits and preparing a strong defense. When we reached within twelve miles of Nashville, we struck a road leading through the cedars, to La Vergne, a station between Murfreesboro and Nashville. Before reaching La Vergne, General Forrest detailed about two hundred Rangers, under Captain Ferrell, to meet and capture a train from Murfreesboro, at La Vergne, which they succeeded in doing, capturing a large number of commissioned officers, who were on their way home on furlough, and capturing also the mails and express freight. Among these prisoners I will mention the kind-hearted and excellent business man among us today, a Mr. Fordyce, of the Pierce-Fordyce Oil Association, one of the largest oil concerns doing business in Texas.

Forrest, with the balance of the command, went to work tearing up the railroad between La Vergne and Nashville, burning trestles and bridges and tearing up the track. We then again retired to McMinnville. Before leaving in front of Nashville, Colonel Forrest asked for a detail of about fifteen or twenty men, who were selected from the Rangers and joined by four or five of Morgan’s men, who happened to be along. I was one of this party, and we were all under the command of a Captain Gordon, who proved to be a reckless fellow, unfit to command such a party successfully. We crossed Cumberland River near Lebanon, in a bend called Little Dixie. Little Dixie was settled with some of the strongest Southern and most liberal people in the State, and regarded as a safe haven for the wounded Confederate soldiers, whom these good people would nourish and care for, to the extent of any character of risk. While crossing there, we promised the ladies if any of us were wounded, we would not fail to make our way back, so they could take care of us until able to join our command. Our orders from Colonel Forrest for the expedition were to collect information on the disposition of the Federal forces, preparatory to a general raid of our cavalry.

After crossing the river, we moved up towards the Louisville & Nashville Railroad, circulating through that section quite extensively, gathering information, and, on our return, we decided to capture a railroad train, with the mails from the army, which always proved very valuable, as the soldiers were always writing home on the movements of their army, which proved most valuable information for our headquarters.

In accordance with our plans, we struck the Louisville & Nashville Railroad between Woodburn and Franklin, at a point about equidistant between the two places; watering our horses at a branch within hearing of a Union man’s house, who was awakened and decided that we had about three hundred men, supposing us to be of Morgan’s command. Riding around in the branch, as we did, led him to the conclusion that we had about three hundred men. We struck the railroad about daylight, when we removed a few spikes, spreading the track, for the purpose of stopping the train and, being in a thick woods out of hearing, with no settlement near, we all laid down for a short nap. The mail train from the army was due at this point about eleven-thirty; another mail train from above was due about twelve o’clock, with numerous freight trains, carrying troops and war material, due throughout the day, also trains returning with wounded and discharged soldiers.

We heard the mail train whistle, from below, when it reached Franklin, and nothing of any other train, waiting until between three and four o’clock in the evening. I became satisfied that we were going to be caught in a trap and so told Gordon, insisting on leaving there, but Gordon refused to listen; he had just about sense enough to lose what he had. Finally, between three and four o’clock we heard the train, and immediately took position by the side of the track, having nineteen men for the fight, two of the men remaining with our horses, in the rear. All that could get trees for shelter, within twenty feet of the track took position behind trees, while eight of us, unable to find trees convenient, laid down flat on the ground. Very soon the train came up, turning a bend in the road about a half mile below us. The engineer, to fool us, put on more steam, making us think that they were entirely ignorant of our presence, and stopped right at the place we had shifted the rail. Soon they were right on us and began firing with about three hundred muskets, killing seven of our party, who were lying on the ground and jumped up, and badly wounding me, but the balance of our party, eleven strong, behind trees, with six-shooters, drove those fellows off the train on to the other side of the track. There the commanding officer, Lieutenant-Colonel (Blank), succeeded in forming about a hundred men in line in about twenty minutes, so he stated to me at the hospital at Bowling Green, where he made me a visit about a week after, furthermore stating that he believed if we had had about twenty-five more men we would have gotten his train. It seems that this was the first time these people were ever under fire and when under the impression that we had three hundred of Morgan’s men, they were no doubt demoralized at the noise of their own guns.

The citizen at whose house we watered our horses at the branch had spied out our exact location on the railroad, a desolate place, where Morgan’s cavalry had captured a train before. He went to Franklin, where he met the train from the army, reported three hundred of Morgan’s men, when they ran the train back to Gallatin, Tennessee, unloaded the mails and express freight and took this regiment aboard, also notifying other trains that we were on the road, which caused their delay.

While the Federals were jumping off the train on the other side, we fell back to our horses, mounting, leaving the horses belonging to the men that were killed; not knowing at the time just who was left behind. I was able to run back and mount my own horse, with the assistance of a comrade. We hurried out of there, taking the road by which we had come, by this Union man’s house, where I stopped to get me a drink of water. I had just been relieved of my pistol belt, and had grown very weak and faint from the loss of blood, which had collected in my boots, and was about to fall from the horse when I was caught by a comrade. Some one called out, “Here they come!” This aroused me. I made them hand me my pistols. We drew up in line in the lane and saw a party in the edge of the timber. Drawing our pistols we waved them at them and urged them to come on, which they didn’t do. We soon discovered that they were only parties from the train who had found our dead men’s horses and were afraid to come forward.

We now continued our march on this country road about eight or ten miles. I became too weak to travel and, satisfied that being encumbered with me would cause them all to get captured or killed, I insisted on their leaving me, believing that I was done for, anyway.

We soon reached a Mr. White’s (an humble log house) who had two sons in Breckenridge’s Brigade, and had with him his wife and daughter. He was an ardent Southern man and promised my comrades that I should have every attention, if left with them. Before leaving, I begged them to let me keep my pistols, which they failed to do, thinking it was best to leave me disarmed, as it proved to be.

My comrades then proceeded in haste to get out of that neighborhood and made for the Cumberland River, our main army then being near Chattanooga. In about an hour a citizen doctor came to see me and filled my wound full of cotton, in order to check the bleeding, saying that this was all that he could do for me; he had to hurry back home, lest he was caught giving me his attention, believing his neighbors would hang him and burn his family out of house and home, as this section of the country was inhabited by a desperate, vindictive Union people.

During the evening a young man called and claimed to be a good Rebel, saying that he had an uncle, who was also a good friend of the South, living up in the mountains, and if he could succeed in taking me there, that I would be perfectly safe. He arranged with me to come that night, with a hack, and take me to his uncle’s, which he failed to do.

Mr. White’s house was a double log house, a room at each end, with about a ten-foot hall in between, but no porch in front, a step at each room, leading out into the yard and heavy batten doors covering the door opening. Old Mr. White occupied a bed in the room with me, while his wife and daughter occupied a room at the other end. They had improvised a cot for me, in the middle of the room, so they could get around it. They used wick and tallow lamps for lights, which created a bad smell in the room and annoyed me a great deal, as I had considerable fever. Some time after midnight I begged the old man to extinguish his lamp, and very soon thereafter, I heard voices in the yard and immediately a pounding on the door with the butt end of a gun. The reader can imagine my feelings; I was satisfied they were Tories and my time had come. I would then have given a kingdom for my pistols and, no doubt, would have opened on them as they came in. They called and demanded of the old man to open the door quick. He told them to wait until he could strike a light, which he did. I was in position, from where I lay, to notice them coming in and to my great relief, saw a lieutenant and ten men in uniform, passing around me. Here was one time I was glad to see the Federal uniform. When they got up to my bunk, I feigned sleep and listened to what they had to say. The lieutenant asked the old man if I was badly hurt. He told him to turn down the sheet and he could judge for himself, when the lieutenant expressed his surprise and said, “I’m afraid we won’t be able to move him.” Now I concluded it was my time to say something. I opened my eyes and feigned bewilderment, looking up at them. The lieutenant asked, “Are you hurt much, sir?” I told them no, I did not think I was, and couldn’t understand why I had been left there. The lieutenant asked if I thought that I could stand to be hauled to Woodburn, a station about five miles from there and the first station this side of Bowling Green. I told him I was satisfied I could stand it all right. He then ordered the old gentleman to direct him where he could find feed for his horses, also to have breakfast for his men by daylight and have his own team and wagon ready to haul me to their camp at a church about four miles from there, where the balance of his regiment, the Eleventh Kentucky Mounted Infantry, were camped.

About daylight they started for their camp, with me lying on a mattress in the wagon. We reached camp in due time. The lieutenant-colonel commanding the regiment, which had been started in pursuit of our party, then stood up on the wagon wheel and questioned me as to where the balance of our party had gone. I told him they had gone up on the railroad towards Louisville, where they expected to capture a train before they returned to the army, thus directing him off their trail, as they were making great haste to cross the Cumberland River and were avoiding pursuit.

When this officer called to see me at the hospital at Bowling Green, he referred to my throwing him off my comrades’ trail, saying that he couldn’t account for accepting my statement, as he did, but “you seemed so honest in your statement, that I believed you, and committed one of the greatest blunders I was ever guilty of.”

After questioning me at this camp, he sent a sergeant and two men, with a wagon, to haul me to Woodburn, the first station, where I was lifted into a boxcar on a train for Bowling Green.

Arriving at Bowling Green I was taken up to General Judah’s headquarters, laid down on the floor of his room, surrounded by some soldiers, and he questioned me on the number of our party, what command we belonged to; he also asked if we had ever been engaged in that kind of warfare before. I told him that it had been the business of our regiment to destroy their line of communication, capture trains and everything else we were able to do to annoy the enemy, when he said, “Young man, you will never fire into another train.” I told him that I expected to fire into many an one, that this little scratch would soon get well and I would be ready for service again. He said, “Young man, we’ve got a rope for all such fellows as you.” I told him there was a higher authority than he, that would have my disposition. He said, “Who?” I told him, “President Davis.” He laughed and said, “Jeff Davis has no authority here.” I told him that I hoped it wouldn’t be long before he would have. Feeling very irritable, with a hot fever on me, I was able to resent his threat in the manner I did and felt able to talk to him, although an officer of a high rank, in resentment of his threat.

I was then taken to their regular hospital, located on Barren River, about a mile and a half from town, where I was very kindly received by the surgeon in charge, who turned out to be a very sympathetic, kind-hearted man. I was furnished a cot, the same as their other sick, in the principal ward, and had a guard detailed to stay with me all the time. This guard consisted of two men, who were on duty every alternate six hours.

Under the care of this doctor and good nurses, I soon began to recover my strength and began to hope that I would be permitted to stay there until able to travel on foot, having no doubt I could make my escape out of there, when ready.

Unfortunately the Rebel ladies of Bowling Green, learning there was a wounded Texas Ranger at the hospital, would get permission from the provost marshal to visit the sick, he supposing that they meant the Federal sick. When admitted to the wards they would come directly to my cot and deposit flowers, fruit and cake, and encourage me in the belief that I would soon get well again.

My generous, kind-hearted surgeon would sometimes send and get fish or oysters for me, evidently in the belief that he was doing a last kind act for me, as he expected me to be court martialed and sentenced to death, having frankly told me so, trying to persuade me to take the oath, which I refused to do.

As soon as I was able to sit up and talk without effort and overtaxing my strength, we had several discussions about the conduct of the war and the merits of the two armies. On one occasion I said to him, “I’m going to make an assertion, Doctor, and before I make it, I want to qualify it by stating that you have many good, patriotic men in your army and you are one of them; but, taking your army as a whole, they are an army of hirelings, fighting for their bounties and their pay, and would not hold together thirty days if their pay was stopped.” He spurned the idea, telling me that I was sadly mistaken, while there might be a few men that could be classed as hirelings, the bulk of their army were prompted only by patriotic motives and were not considering gain or pay. I said, “Doctor, I will prove my assertion right here in your presence,” and called up some convalescents. Addressing one, I asked him, “What induced you to join the army and what are you fighting for?” He said, “I am fighting for the flag and the Union,” but I said, “As a matter of fact, were you not paid a bounty?” He admitted that he had been paid six hundred dollars by his State. Then again, “What pay do you receive?” He said, “Twelve dollars per month.” “What do you do with your money?” He said, “I send it home, for safety.” “Why don’t you spend it?” “I have nothing to spend it for.” “Does your Government furnish you everything you need?” “Everything,” he said. I interrogated a second one, whose answers were about the same. I then detailed the treatment our Government had been forced to accord our army, who were frequently without pay, often without rations or clothing, especially without shoes, sometimes forced them to go barefooted, leaving their bloody tracks on the road. “Now, boys, if your Government treated you in such manner, what would you do?” They replied, “We wouldn’t fight for any such d—— Government; we would go home and stay there.” I said to the doctor, “Withdraw your pay and rations from your army and you wouldn’t hold them together for sixty days,” on which point we could not agree and he said, “Graber, you are too good a man to be engaged in such a cause.” I replied, “Doctor, that is just my opinion of you; you ought to wear the gray in place of the blue,” all of which he took in the kindliest spirit. I frequently conversed with the ward master and some of the nurses, who seemed to have taken a great fancy for me on account of my bold, outspoken sentiments, and they sympathized with me in my helpless condition.

I had concluded to try to make my escape as soon as I got strong enough to undertake walking through the woods, over a rough country across the river. There were always a number of boats tied to the river bank. I would have had no difficulty in crossing Barren River. One night a guard on duty with me was sound asleep, snoring, with his head resting on the foot of my cot and I was wide awake. The nurse on duty went over to the ward master’s bed, not far from my cot, and woke him up. He aroused himself, and the nurse in a low voice told him, “The guard is asleep; let us tell Texas to get away.” The ward master said, “No, don’t do that; you had better wake up the guard,” which he did. A little pleading on my part then would, no doubt, have had their consent, but I was still too feeble to undertake the hazard.

After spending about a month at this hospital, the provost marshal had heard of the ladies abusing his confidence and calling at my berth only, and rarely ever having a kind word for the Federal sick, so he had me moved to the prison, where I found about twenty-five or thirty men confined, most of them Morgan’s men and a few highway robbers, who sought the protection of the Confederate Government by claiming to belong to certain Confederate commands, which I was satisfied was not the case. Kentucky afforded a good territory for these highwaymen to operate, on account of this condition.

Arriving at this prison proved the commencement of my suffering and trouble, as the surgeon in charge was a brute. He came in and threw some soap and bandages at my feet and I never saw him any more.

The prison was a two-story stone building with a brick gable, with the side fronting the street; it had been a two-story residence, converted into a jail by attaching iron gratings in the large windows; it had only four rooms, two upstairs, occupied by the prisoners, and two downstairs, occupied by about twenty guards on active duty. There was also a room for the lieutenant commanding. There was a stairway, leading down into one of the rooms below, with a door at the foot of the steps. About two companies of infantry camped in the back yard, which was surrounded by a high board fence, and there was a sink in the back end of the yard. These troops were quartered in tents. The building was located diagonally across the street from a big hotel, which was occupied by the commanding officers, as headquarters.

Here I made the acquaintance of a Lieutenant Clark of Morgan’s command, whose home was Bowling Green, where he was teaching before the war. Lieutenant Clark was a brother-in-law of Captain Tom Hines, one of Morgan’s trusted lieutenants and the man that planned Morgan’s escape out of the Ohio penitentiary. Lieutenant Clark and I were both held under the same charges for court martial, Morgan’s command raiding Kentucky, destroying their line of communications and Forrest in charge of Middle Tennessee; it is hardly necessary to say that we became fast friends and plotted and planned escape, the only chance for which was frustrated.

Colonel Clarence Prentice, in conjunction with Major Kit Ousley, also of Morgan’s command, was sent into Kentucky by our War Department to recruit a regiment for the Confederate Army.

Colonel Clarence Prentice was the son of the publisher of the Louisville Courier, which was largely responsible for retaining Kentucky in the Union. The family were divided in sentiment; the father was a great Union man and particular friend of Abraham Lincoln, while Mrs. Prentice and the two sons were strongly Southern in sentiment, the sons joining the Confederate Army.

Colonel Prentice, immediately on his arrival at his home, was captured and through the influence of his father, was sent around for exchange. Major Kit Ousley was captured near Bowling Green, in citizen’s clothes, therefore treated as a spy and placed in prison with us, awaiting court martial. When Ousley was captured they found a letter on his person from Fountain Fox, whose home was in Elizabethtown, this letter stating that Fox had succeeded in raising a company of one hundred and four of the best young men of his neighborhood, ready to move at a moment’s warning. They immediately sent up and arrested Fountain Fox and placed him in prison with us.

Fountain Fox’s father also was an influential Union man, and the Fox family was divided like the Prentice family, Mrs. Fox and sons strong Southern sympathizers, and Mr. Fox a personal friend of Abraham Lincoln. When Lincoln commenced making his appointments abroad, he appointed Fountain Fox, Consul to Madrid, Spain. Consulting with his mother about the appointment, she advised him not to accept, telling him he would see the time very soon when he would blush to represent the American Government abroad. Taking his mother’s advice, he declined the appointment.

After a short time, to appease his father’s anger, he accepted a captaincy in the Home Guards, in which capacity he served about a year. On the reorganization of the regiment, he was appointed major, serving in this capacity about three or four months longer, when they were ordered to Franklin, Tennessee, to the front. He said, “Considering that all of his youth’s companions and nearly all of his schoolmates were in the Southern army, he could not go down there and fight them” and made haste to resign.

Some sixty days after his resignation he met Major Ousley some distance from Elizabethtown, out in the country. Being well acquainted with him Ousley gave Fox a commission to raise a company for the Confederate Army, and he soon wrote Ousley the letter that was found on Ousley’s person when he was captured, and which caused Fox’s arrest.

His father immediately went to see the President and secured an order for his release, provided he would take the oath of allegiance to the United States and remain north of the Mason and Dixon’s line during the war, also giving a bond of fifty thousand dollars, all of which he did, remaining in prison with us perhaps only two or three weeks. This prison was directly in charge of Major Erastus Motley, provost marshal, an old friend of Clark’s before the war and a schoolmate of Captain Hines. He, like many Kentucky officers in such position, had made himself very obnoxious by his tyrannical treatment of the families of Confederate soldiers and seemed greatly prejudiced against Clark and myself.

CHAPTER VIII
The Escape of Major Ousley.

A court martial to try Major Kit Ousley was soon organized and his trial resulted easily in conviction, as he occupied the position of a spy, being captured in citizen’s clothes. Very soon his sentence was returned from General Burnside, and approved by him, General Burnside being in command of Kentucky and Ohio, with his headquarters at Cincinnati.

Major Ousley, while recruiting up in the Blue Grass region near Lexington, married a very wealthy and beautiful young lady, who as soon as she heard of his capture and imprisonment at Bowling Green, came down to render what assistance she could, and succeeded in bribing a lieutenant, who had an office in town, paying him eight thousand dollars for his assistance. This officer kept her posted and gave her the information about the return that evening of the verdict of the court martial, approved by General Burnside, which was his conviction as a spy and his punishment death by hanging. He was to be placed over in the courthouse in irons under a special guard until the day of his execution, which was fixed for the 29th of May, while this information was imparted on the 14th of May.

Major Ousley asked permission that evening to go to a barber shop, which permission was granted by sending a special guard with him. At this barber shop he met his wife, who succeeded in obtaining a private interview with him, when she imparted the information about having bribed this lieutenant and the location of his office, which Ousley understood, as he was well acquainted in Bowling Green. She had also received from the lieutenant a pair of surgeon’s shoulder straps and the password for that night, which was “Columbia,” and which was imparted to Lieutenant Clark and myself by Ousley, after he returned to the prison.

Major Ousley had a visit that evening from several officers of the court martial, who seemed to be old acquaintances of his and had quite a long chat with them, with a good deal of levity, which of course was a matter of surprise to Clark and myself, as he seemed to be completely at ease. Considering his condition with his doom already sealed, we thought he displayed more nerve than any man we ever saw.

Major Ousley requested his officer friends, before they left him, to send him a bottle of brandy, which they did and which he distributed freely among the guards on duty in the lower room, hoping to load them up, and in doing this we were afraid he imbibed a little too much himself.

Now, it was imperative for him to make his escape that night, for, as stated, he was to be placed in irons the next day and kept in the courthouse under special guard. With Clark and myself, and other trusted friends in the prison, we planned that the only means of his escape would be to cut a hole through the plastering overhead large enough to admit a man into the attic; then take a sufficient number of brick out of the gable end which connected with the roof of a single-story house adjoining, all of which was done by the willing hands of our comrades; but a mistake was made in the location of the hole through the brick wall. This hole opened on top of a roof, on the side facing the street in full view of the headquarters on the other side. Major Ousley imparted the countersign to Clark and myself with an injunction and earnest request not to attempt to get out until after giving him four hours the start, as his case was the most desperate one and we had not been tried by the court martial. This promise we fully kept.

When Major Ousley passed through the hole in the brick wall on to the roof of the other house, it was drizzling rain and the night was very dark, so the hole could not be discovered on the other side of the street. He laid flat on the roof for a few minutes, then quietly crawled over the comb of the house, on the other side, out of sight of the street, then to the far end of the roof away from the prison and dropped down into the yard of a private residence when a large dog got after him, giving one bark and no more. Ousley told me afterwards that he hit this dog with his fist and said, “I reckon I killed him!” Some of the guards in our prison yard rushed to the fence and asked a lady who came to the door, what was the matter; she said, “Nothing that I know of, everything is all right over here,” which seemed to quiet their suspicion, so they went back to their tents. Major Ousley soon was heard to come down the walk in front of our prison. He was halted by the guard, asking, “Who comes there?” “A friend with the countersign.” “Advance, friend, and give the countersign.” He gave the countersign and passed on down the street and found the lieutenant’s room. The lieutenant told him it would not be safe for him to attempt to go out that night, but to go down into the river bottoms, stay there all next day, then return to his office, when he would have a horse and side arms for him and give him the new countersign for that night. Ousley went down to the river bottoms and spent the day until very near night. Then, being very hungry, he decided to go to a friend’s house, who lived away out in the suburbs and get something to eat. Just before reaching his friend’s house, he struck the big road and immediately heard the running of a horse behind him, which proved to be a man on horseback loping towards town. Though he did not suspect any such thing, the man evidently went to town and raised the alarm. On entering the house his friend’s wife met him. She was well acquainted with Ousley, but her husband was not at home, and she, of course, was surprised and alarmed, as she knew that he was a prisoner. When he made known his wants, she rushed in and prepared a lunch, while he stood at the front door, watching. As soon as the lunch was ready, she invited him into the diningroom and took his place watching. Before he finished his lunch she rushed into the diningroom, saying, “My God, Major Ousley, you are lost, you are lost.” He told her to keep perfectly quiet. “The safest place is among the enemy,” he said, and grabbed a couple of biscuits, stuck them into his coat pocket, and started out of the front door when a couple of guards behind a rosebush, jumped up, threw their guns down on him and told him to halt. He cursed them and told them to get behind that bush. Major Ousley would see them, making them believe that he was one of their own officers.

I forgot to mention that he had the surgeon’s shoulder straps sewed on to his coat at the shoulders, the same as was the custom in the Federal Army. As already stated, when captured, he had on a splendid double-breasted frock coat and black pants, all of which in the dark could easily be mistaken for a Federal uniform, hence on the spur of the moment, he made the two guards believe that he was one of their own officers. He walked to the gate and passing outside, walked very fast up the fence, and when about a hundred yards these men began to call, “Halt,” when he broke into a run and left them firing after him, not receiving a scratch. While, of course, they ran after him I imagine they didn’t try very hard to catch him, fearing perhaps that he had accomplices, prepared to defend him.

Major Ousley next circled around the town and again made his way to the lieutenant’s room, who had a horse ready for him, gave him a couple of six-shooters and the countersign for that night. He boldly rode down the main street leading to Barren River bridge, where he gave the countersign to the guards, then up the pike towards Louisville.

After an all-night’s ride he pulled up at a friend’s house, where he decided to stay until Morgan’s command came in there and go with them back to our main army, telling his friend his purpose. His friend said, “Major, you can’t stay here; there is a brigade of Yankees camped at a spring about a mile from here and Colonel Gross, the commander, comes over occasionally and has a game of poker with me.” Ousley told him that would not make any difference, he was going to stay anyway and take a hand with him at poker. He then proceeded to disguise; cut off a heavy mustache, and also cut his hair short, which made him look like a different man; and he actually stayed at this friend’s house for nearly three weeks, joining his friend and Colonel Gross in several games of poker. He finally heard of Morgan’s command in the blue grass region, mounted his horse to try to find them and telling his friend good-bye and to give him a half hour’s start, and then to tell Colonel Gross who he was and tell him the next time they met pistols would be trumps. His friend said that he wouldn’t do such a thing for anything in the world; he said, “Colonel Gross never will find out through me or mine who you were.”

Major Ousley succeeded in finding Morgan’s command and went out of the State with them, reporting to the War Department at Richmond, and was given a job in the department and an order forbidding him to re-enter the army. I met him again at Richmond, where he detailed all of the features and incidents of his escape from the time he dropped into the adjoining yard and knocked over the dog.

CHAPTER IX
In Prison at Louisville, Where I Was Honored With Handcuffs.

Referring to Bowling Green prison, where Major Ousley had left us: Four hours after Ousley’s escape, our friends in the prison boosted Clark and me up into the attic, when we found out to our dismay that the weather had cleared and the moon had risen sufficiently high to light up the front of our building, disclosing the hole in the gable. The general’s headquarters being diagonally across the street with a guard’s beat immediately in front, I whispered to Clark, “We had better wait until the corporal comes with his relief guard in front of the headquarters and watch their actions.” Waiting about thirty minutes, a corporal with a relief appeared on the beat and the three stood for some time talking and looking up at our prison wall, which satisfied us that they had made the discovery of the hole and were only waiting for some of us to crawl out on the roof, when they would have shot us. We, therefore, decided it would be folly to attempt our escape that night, which proved a wise decision.

The next morning at roll call the discovery was made that Major Ousley was missing, which caused the greatest excitement; and immediately scouting parties of eight or ten men dashed up to the headquarters across the street for orders, and started out in a lope. All that day these parties called for orders and came back and reported at headquarters. Major Motley came up and saw the manner of Ousley’s escape, and asked the prisoners who made those holes and assisted Ousley. None of us vouchsafed any information. He then sent for the most desperate prisoners, some that were not Confederates, as heretofore stated, and told them that their cases were bad, but if they would tell who assisted Ousley in making his escape, and tried to make their escape with him, he would do all he could to let them off as easy as possible. This we learned through two most excellent citizens, who were in the prison with us, and who were also taken out and offered their liberty if they would disclose Ousley’s accomplices. One of these was a Colonel Lewis, living near Franklin; the other a Doctor Vertriece, a neighbor of Colonel Lewis. These men were imprisoned because of our raid on the railroad, which the reader will remember occurred between Franklin and Woodburn. It was the custom of the Federal commander, whenever Morgan, or any other troops, made a raid on the railroad, to arrest the most prominent citizens in the neighborhood.

After several days of questioning these prisoners, Major Motley came up; my friend Clark was asleep on a mattress the lieutenant of the guard had favored me with, on account of my being wounded. He was lying with his face to the wall. I was sitting on the window sill, looking out into the street when Major Motley walked up to where Clark was asleep and gave him a kick in the back, thereby waking him. Clark raised up and asked, “What do you want, Ras’?” when Motley produced a pair of handcuffs he had held behind him and put them on him. Turning around to me, he said, “I will have a pair here for you in a few minutes,” but as it turned out fortunately there was not another pair of handcuffs in Bowling Green, and he had to send to Louisville after them. After he left the prison Doctor Vertriece suggested to me that I write a letter to Colonel Hawkins, who was then in command of the post, telling him that I was a wounded Confederate soldier, and that Major Motley had threatened to put handcuffs on me. I stated in this letter that our command had captured thousands of their men and had always treated them humanely and kindly, notably the Ninth Michigan and Third Minnesota, who, after we had paroled them and when parting with us, said, “If any of you Texas Rangers are captured, call for the Ninth Michigan and Third Minnesota, and we will see that you are well treated.” In winding up my letter to Colonel Hawkins, I called on him as a gentleman and a soldier not to permit such an outrage perpetrated as that of placing irons on a wounded prisoner. This letter Doctor Vertriece succeeded in smuggling around Major Motley, bribing a guard to take it directly to Colonel Hawkins without Motley’s knowledge, and we soon had an answer returned in the same manner from Colonel Hawkins, expressing his regret at our condition, praising Major Motley as a very kind-hearted and good man, and stating that he was satisfied he would do all in his power to alleviate our condition and suffering, and trusting that we would be able to bear up with our condition.

When I read the letter I threw it on the floor, and told Doctor Vertriece he was mistaken in his man; that Colonel Hawkins was no better than the rest of them. He picked up the letter, read it and told me that I was doing a great injustice to Colonel Hawkins, that I was simply misconstruing his position, that he could not have said anything more to me, a prisoner belonging to the army of his enemy, and could certainly not censure Major Motley, an officer of his own army, for his treatment of us, and furthermore suggested that if I would just wait he was satisfied that the handcuffs would not be put on me.

The next day Major Motley again visited our prison, walked up to Lieutenant Clark and took off his handcuffs, hardly able to look into his face. Turning around, he walked up and down the cell a few times in study, and finally stopped in front of me, saying, “Graber, I want you and Clark to understand that I have no personal feeling in this matter; you are prisoners, have been placed in my charge and keeping; you have tried to make your escape with Major Ousley, and, I am going to keep you here, if I have to chain you to this floor.”

I frequently told Major Motley that if they were holding me for court martial, to bring my charges and specifications, to which he replied that I needn’t be in a hurry, I would receive them sooner than I wanted to, perhaps, and, when finally brought, the charge was being a Guerilla; specifications, my own statement admitting to General Judah that we had been engaged in raiding their lines of communications and destroying them ever since we had been in the army. I concluded they need not resort to any trial, as I was prepared to admit the specifications. In this charge they gave my name, company and regiment, C. S. A. (so-called), which was virtually an admission that I was not a Guerilla, but by an order, No. 38, of General Burnside, all recruiting officers captured within his department should be treated as spies, and all raiding parties, not under a general officer, as Guerillas. Finally one day Major Motley came in about ten o’clock in the morning and ordered me to prepare to leave on the eleven o’clock train for Louisville. I asked him, “What for? Are you sending me up there for safe keeping, or to be treated as a prisoner of war?” He said, “Never mind about that; you will learn soon enough.” When I reached Louisville I was taken to the general prison and there treated as a prisoner of war.

I found the Louisville prison a most excellent one; two barracks running parallel, with bunks on each side and a brick-paved yard in the center, with a splendid waterworks. At one end were the offices occupied by clerks and an officer who kept the roll; at the other end was the kitchen, connected on one side with a barrack, and on the other side having a passageway of about three feet, leading into the backyard in the rear of the kitchen, where they had the sinks, and this backyard was kept in a very filthy condition. We had three rations a day, with coffee in the mornings, the rations consisting of a chunk of light bread and a piece of pickled pork, already cut in proper size for each man, in tubs, on each side of the door. On the inside of the kitchen stood a tub, presided over by negro wenches who would shove these rations to us as we passed through, single file, into the backyard.

A negro official, called “Captain Black” by the prisoners, frequently stood on the outside of the door as the prisoners passed in to draw their rations. When some poor, emaciated prisoner, reduced by confinement, barely able to drag his feet, came along, he would curse, tell him to “Hike out, you d—m Rebel,” and sometimes push them along. This made me fear this negro to the extent that I always avoided him and always moved quickly in his presence, determined never to give him an opportunity to insult me.

One day I was lying on my bunk, the second from the floor, about five feet high, which was the end of the bunks next to the door. I was feeling bad and having considerable fever, and was still suffering from my wounds, so I decided not to go out and get my dinner rations. All that were able had gone out, a few sick remaining in the barracks at different places. A little negro boy came to the door and looking up at me, asked if I was sick and didn’t I want a cup of coffee. I told him yes, to bring me a cup and I would pay him for it. He brought me a small tin cup full of fine coffee, for which I gave him a twenty-five-cent bill.

While lying sipping my coffee, resting on my right elbow, “Captain Black” stepped into the door, and, on discovering me said, “What are you doing here, sir?” I said I was sick and didn’t want my rations. He raised up on his toes and said, “Sick?” “Yes, I am sick, too,” and he started to order me out when I lost all control of myself and, from my bunk, fell right over on him, grabbing at his pistol. I got my hand on it, but he jerked away before I could clinch it, but he thought I had it, saying, “Foh Gawd, Massa; don’t, Massa!” then broke for the gate. Some of the prisoners witnessed the trouble and told the others when they came in from drawing their rations, which created considerable excitement and considerable sympathy for me, for it was believed that I would be placed in irons and in a dungeon.

In about half an hour after the prisoners returned from drawing their rations, one of them rushed up to me and suggested that I hide. He said, “That negro, with a big sergeant, is in the yard hunting you.” I told him that I would not hide, but would go and meet them, walking out into the yard. The negro pointed me out to the sergeant, when he walked up to me and told me to hold up my hands. I asked him, “What for?” He said, “To put these things on you,” producing a pair of handcuffs, which he had held behind him. I asked who ordered it done? He stated, Colonel Orcutt. I asked, “Who is Colonel Orcutt?” He said, “Commander of this prison.” I told him, “All right; put them on; they are Yankee bracelets, and I consider it an honor to wear them.”

After wearing these irons two or three days and nights, an officer in fatigue uniform, whom I took to be Colonel Orcutt, stepped up to me and told me to hold up my hands. I asked him what for? He said, “To take those things off.” I told him he needn’t be in a hurry, I had got used to them and considered it an honor to wear them. By this time he had unlocked them and taken them off. When I turned my back on him and mingled with the crowd, some of the prisoners told me that he started to strike me with them, which I hardly believe.

“Captain Black” very soon came to me and apologized, saying that he was very sorry for what he had done, and that he would never mistreat a prisoner again, that “Dese soldiers had put him up to it.” I told him I would give him five dollars if he would steal those handcuffs for me. He said that he would be glad to do that, and would not charge me anything, and he soon reported that they had not been replaced in the office, where they used to hang, and that he couldn’t find out where they were kept.

CHAPTER X.
Camp Chase—Fort Delaware—I Change My Name for the First Time and Am Finally Exchanged.

After remaining in this prison about a month, a roll was called and the prisoners whose names were called, were ordered to get ready for exchange. We started next morning for City Point, as we were told, but when we reached Columbus, Ohio, we were ordered to march to Camp Chase, where we were quartered in barracks, partitioned into mess rooms of twenty-four in a mess. While here I was very uneasy, expecting to be called for at any time, to be returned to Louisville, as several of the prisoners had been so returned, to meet charges against them, hence concluded perhaps my name appeared on the roll through mistake, but I was fortunate enough to escape this fate and got along fine until I was taken sick with flux. While confined in this prison I was furnished a New York paper, I think it was the Tribune, giving an account of the hanging of one of our comrades of the regiment by the name of Dodd, who was captured near Knoxville, Tennessee, having had his horse killed in an engagement near there, and was ordered to make his way out as best he could. He was raised in Sevier County, and decided to visit his home, while there, and when captured, was taken to Knoxville, there tried as a spy by a court martial, convicted and sentenced to be hung. His conviction was secured on a pocket diary, which he had kept, recording his every-day work.

A correspondent of the New York Tribune, who visited him in the jail just before his execution, claimed he found him a very intelligent, educated gentleman, in fact, believed him to be a grand character, and his execution, which he witnessed, proved such a horrible affair that it elicited the following expression from him: “In the name of humanity and all that is decent, if the terrible exigencies of war require the deliberate taking of human life, let the prisoner be shot or give us the merciful guillotine.”

Satisfied if the members of the regiment heard of Dodd’s execution they would certainly retaliate, and in return the Federal Army would also retaliate, and as I was the only member of the Eighth Texas, their prisoner, they would certainly call for me for such purpose.

After remaining in this prison for a month I agreed with one of Morgan’s men to tunnel out under the fence, and prepared to go to work that night. The fence was only about twenty yards from our mess room, the identical place where one of Morgan’s officers had dug out a few months before and effected his escape. During this day we were suddenly called on to move and were again promised that we should be sent to City Point for exchange. All the sick in the hospital were furnished conveyances to carry them to Columbus, where we took train. As stated heretofore, I had a severe case of flux, which weakened me a great deal, and I was rendered unable to walk soon after we started on our march to Columbus, a distance of about four miles. We were marched by fours with a heavy advance and rear guard and a single file guard on each side of our column. After having marched about a mile I gave out completely, and my comrades reported my case to a lieutenant, marching by the side of us, who instructed me to sit down by the roadside and wait until the rear guard came up; then to tell them to make a detail to stay with me until I reached Columbus. Very soon after the main body had passed, one of the rear guards called out: “Hike out, you d—— Rebel,” which, of course, made me resentful and I refused to hike out, telling him that I had orders to stop and tell some of the rear guard to bring me up to Columbus. By this time he had got pretty close to me and I happening to look around found him charging on me with a bayonet, which made me jump, and proved the best medicine I could have taken for flux. It simply infused new strength and enabled me to hike to Columbus.

At Erie, Pennsylvania, we were put in coal cars with the bottoms pretty thickly covered with coal dust, in which we were carried to Philadelphia, being marched through Chestnut Street to a boat landing.

Their object in moving us in these coal cars we construed to be a policy to make us look as dirty as possible. Many of our men, of course, were somewhat ragged, and, altogether, we appeared a motley crowd, in striking contrast to the heroes that had been cherished by our Northern sympathizers, called “copper-heads” by the fanatics of the North. In our march to the boat landing we were greeted by many intelligent ladies, who were standing on the streets watching our passing, and quite a number of them had their hands full of postage money, which was bills of denominations of less than a dollar, which they threw and scattered among us. After we reached the boat, on which we were ordered up on the second deck, a dray-load of cheese and crackers was sent down to us by some of the ladies, but the guards on the lower deck appropriated it, and, after eating as much as they wanted, sold the balance of it to all that had money. Then, adding insult to injury, they sent word to the ladies to send more—to be treated in the same manner. The boat then moved out down the river where our journey to City Point for exchange terminated at Fort Delaware, where we were unloaded and were roughly treated.

Fort Delaware proved to be the worst prison we had been in; dirty, with no water fit to drink. Our drinking water had to be taken from the canal inside of the levee, which had a green scum floating on top, and, on the lower part of the island, was used for bathing. After about two or three weeks, an arrangement was made with a boat called the “Osceola” to bring us water from the Brandywine River, which proved to be palatable and a great treat.

On our arrival at Fort Delaware we found about twenty thousand prisoners, a large part of them captured at the battle of Gettysburg; among whom were four or five hundred of Hood’s Brigade, and also some from Granbury’s Brigade, who were captured at Vicksburg. This created a sad impression on me and made me wish I was back in the saddle again more than I ever did, but there was nothing to do but submit. While here we also heard of the battle of Chickamauga, the first report of which was most encouraging, as it stated their army was annihilated and Thomas had fled to the mountains. This started the Rebel yell in the prison, and made us feel that we would soon be exchanged, but the next day’s report put a damper on our enthusiasm, and made us feel sad indeed, as the report in this New York paper was that their army had rallied and were holding on to Chattanooga, with our army retreating, and, while their loss was very heavy in killed and wounded, ours was double. It made us realize that fate was against us, and we would never be able to gain a decisive victory, which would unquestionably secure our recognition by foreign governments.

As already stated, Fort Delaware proved the worst prison we had been in; smallpox broke out among us and nearly every other disease known. A large number died. Every morning they called at the big gate, “Bring out your dead!” and the dead were buried on the Jersey shore by a detail of prisoners.

Among one of these details one morning was a gentleman by the name of Simpson, from Houston, Texas, who belonged to Hood’s Brigade. This man was born and raised in New York State and had lived in Houston only a couple of years, engaging in business and had become thoroughly acquainted with the character of our people, and especially the institution of slavery. In this short time he became one of the South’s strongest friends, ready to give his life for her cause, as demonstrated by his joining the first troops Texas sent to Virginia.

Slipping away from the guards, he made his way to his old home, told his people who had heard that he was in the Rebel Army that he had recanted and taken the oath of allegiance to the United States Government, thereby reinstating him with his family, who lavished money and all else on him until he was fully recuperated from the effects of his prison experience, when he again shipped on board a steamer for Nassau, where he took a Confederate blockade runner and came South, to fight it out to the end. After the war he entered into copartnership with a man by the name of Wiggins, constituting the firm of Wiggins & Simpson, which built a large foundry and machine shop. This they conducted for many years, and, at the time of his death, Simpson was wealthy and one of the most honored and esteemed citizens of Houston, never having expressed a word of regret over his conduct during the war.

It might not be out of place here to say that nearly all Northern-raised men among us within my knowledge pursued the same course. They invariably proved gallant soldiers and did their duty for the South to the limit of their ability, returning South after the war and spending the balance of their lives as our most honored citizens. We had twenty-six generals of Northern birth in the Confederate Army, twelve of whom were graduates of West Point, and were offered high rank in the Federal Army. This, no doubt, proved a hard problem for the North to understand, and only emphasizes the justice of our cause, because these men were prompted only by a conscientious motive, and faced suffering, death and disgrace in the eyes of their Northern friends by such a course.

While on this subject I would mention the case of General Pemberton, the gallant soldier who commanded at Vicksburg, and directed its defense to the last ditch. He was the son of wealthy parents in Philadelphia, who threatened to disinherit him if he didn’t resign his commission in the Southern Army and come North, but he ignored their threat and continued in the Southern Army to the end.

Our suffering at Fort Delaware was almost unbearable. We were crowded into these barracks as thick as we could lie, with all character of sickness and disease among us, receiving additional prisoners occasionally to keep the barracks filled, with only two meals a day of three small crackers and an inch of meat. Many prisoners got desperate and attempted to swim the Delaware River to effect their escape, only to have their dead bodies found washed ashore on the Delaware or Jersey side of the river the next day.

A number of our men were shot without cause by the guard, who, we understood, were promoted for such act; still a few of the men made their escape by swimming the river, among whom I might mention Jim Loggins, a boy about eighteen years old, who belonged to Hood’s Brigade. He is now a practicing physician of Ennis, Texas, a father of a large family of children, all highly regarded and respected citizens of their home town.

Prisoners seeking their escape would take canteens, tightly corked, and use them as life preservers. Referring back to the case of Jim Loggins: When he got into the river with others, the tide was running in fast, and the tide took him about five or six miles up the river before he reached a landing on the Delaware side. He then, with one companion, made his way through the State of Delaware into Maryland, crossing the Potomac, then through Northern Virginia, occupied by the Federal Army, back to Richmond, where he rejoined Hood’s Brigade, and was in every important battle until the end of the war, surrendering at Appomattox.

Among our prisoners at Fort Delaware were the First Maryland Cavalry, captured at South Mountain, before the battle of Gettysburg. These Maryland men were the sons of leading families, largely men of great wealth in the State of Maryland. Their friends and families at home petitioned Governor Swann, of Maryland, to intercede for them with the Federal War Department, and permit them to take a parole to go home, and stay at their homes, until regularly exchanged, and it was generally believed success would crown their efforts. These men received clothing and money in the greatest abundance from their families at home, and were about the most genteel looking men we had in prison. In connection with this, I would mention the escape of one of their parties, who, being well dressed and clean shaven, wearing a white shirt and fresh collar, was watching the “Osceola” at the landing about ready to depart, and boldly slipped up on the levee, walked down to the guard, passing him while the guard saluted, mistaking him for a citizen visitor from Delaware City, who came over quite often, then passed on to the boat, walked up on its cabin deck, took a seat in front, with his feet cocked up on the guards, smoking a cigar, when the boat pushed off with him and he was never heard of by us any more, no doubt making good his escape.

Many incidents of interest I might mention, showing the loyalty of the Southern soldier under this most terrible condition, facing death daily, seeing his comrades carried out by the dozen for burial daily, with no prospect for exchange. Certainly history does not record such remarkable devotion to a country and cause.

In line with this, I might mention the effort of General Schoepf, commander of the fort and prison. He one day conceived the idea of creating a stampede among us, for which purpose he ordered out about three hundred East Tennesseeans, formed them in line and made a strong speech to them, telling them of the North’s vast resources for the conduct of the war, and our diminishing, limited means for holding on; showing them the impossibility for our ever succeeding, with no prospect of exchange. Then he told them of the great prosperity of the North, where labor was in demand and wages high, of which they could take the benefit by taking the oath of allegiance and thus save their lives, recover their health and strength, live in peace and happiness the balance of the war, and, finally, he called on them, saying, “Now, all of you that are ready and willing to take the oath of allegiance, step three paces to the front.” Only one man responded.

General Schoepf evidently thought that East Tennessee, as a section of country in the South, was the most disloyal to our cause, its citizens being largely Union people, and that these East Tennesseeans would certainly accept his liberal offer, and, by that means, make a break in our ranks. It is hardly necessary to say that he gave it up as a bad job, and did not attempt another such experiment. In connection with this, however, I regret to have to say that a few weak brothers were found in our ranks, who took the oath of allegiance and were then separated from the rest of the prisoners, in a special camp about a half mile distant, where they were designated by us as “Galvanized Yankees.”

After spending a part of the winter at Fort Delaware, one morning there appeared a notice at what we called a postoffice, inside of the big gate, calling upon all Marylanders, prisoners of war, to appear at the gate with their baggage; which, of course, was construed to mean that Governor Swann had succeeded in his effort to secure a parole for these Marylanders, and that they would be taken to Washington for the purpose of being paroled and permitted to go home to remain until properly exchanged. This, of course, created considerable excitement and rejoicing among the Marylanders, which was shared largely by the rest of the prisoners, although they could not hope to ever be favored in the same manner. It was a source of comfort and gratification to us to know that some of our friends, at least, would be saved the sufferings and almost certain death, even if we could not share it with them.

While they were forming in line, by fours, headed for the big gate, an acquaintance belonging to Hood’s Brigade, whose name was Robert Brantley, of Navasota, called to me and said, “Good-bye, Henry.” I said, “Where are you going, Bob?” He said, “I am going to try to get out with these men.” I said, “How are you going to try to do that?” He said, “I have two names and am going to answer to one of them at roll call.” I said, “Bob, you do not want two names; you can’t answer to both. If you will give me one of them I will try to go out with you.” He said, “All right, come on.” I had time enough to go into the barracks and get an oilcloth satchel, which had been given me at Bowling Green; then I had a magnificent cape overcoat, left me by Major Ousley in Bowling Green prison; with this coat on and this citizen’s new satchel, the coat extending over the top of my boots, hiding partly worn butternut pants. I passed for a Marylander pretty well, seemingly as well dressed as they were, while Bob looked ragged, like one of these Hood Brigade men that had not had any clothing furnished them in some time, and appeared rather suspicious among this well dressed crowd. In giving me the name he retained the name of Charles Erbert, who belonged to the First Maryland Cavalry, and who had died in prison. The name of Charles Stanley, which he gave me to use, was the name of a son of a preacher Charles Stanley was sick in the hospital, and his father, ostensibly to preach to the troops at the fort, was permitted the privilege of a visit, mainly for the purpose of being with his son in the hospital.

The keeper of the prison roll was a Lieutenant Wolff, a renegade Virginian, who was also a “Galvanized Yankee.” Wolff was also acquainted with many of the Marylanders, and particularly with Charles Stanley, on account of his father visiting there. Wolff’s acquaintance with the Marylanders was through their clothing and money sent them, which passed through his hands.

We were soon marched out to the wharf, where the “Osceola” was awaiting us to carry us to the flag of truce boat, “New York,” anchored in midstream, as the water was too shallow for her to come up to the wharf. We were held on the wharf for nearly an hour before a roll call commenced, during which time I suggested to Bob to separate, for him to take the opposite edge of the party to the edge that I would take, then to post himself on the circumstances of his man’s capture and the location of his home in Maryland, telling him that we might be questioned, and, if posted, we could have a ready answer, thereby keeping down suspicion. Bob said he did not think there was any danger in that; his greatest apprehension was that he would be personally recognized by some of the Yankees, as he had been at work in the cook house, where he made the acquaintance of quite a number, and he thought perhaps Lieutenant Wolff might recognize him, while I had no fear of anything of that kind.

Finally a major, with several other officers, appeared. Lieutenant Wolff was already there. The major began calling the roll alphabetically. When he called the name of Charles Erbert, Bob failed to answer. I decided if he called it the second time that I would answer to the dead man’s name, believing that Bob had lost his nerve and would not answer at all. When he called the name the second time we both answered, but I kept down, while he jumped up quickly. This drew the major’s attention to him, and he never knew who it was that answered over on my side of the crowd. I forgot to mention that we were all squatted down on the wharf. When Bob walked out boldly, attempting to pass the major, on his way to the boat, the major stopped him. “What is your name, sir?” “My name is Charles Erbert.” The major, without any further questioning, told him to take a seat and called up a guard to take charge of him. This sudden decision of the major that there was fraud was no doubt prompted by both of us answering to the same name, yet it created a suspicion with me that perhaps we had been betrayed, as they kept a lot of spies in the prison all the time. As considerable time was consumed in calling the names, down to the letter S, I had ample time to prepare for the issue, and when the name of Charles Stanley was called I jumped up and boldly went forward, passing him, without looking. I was favored by Lieutenant Wolff being engaged in shaking hands with one of the Marylanders and eating an apple with his back turned to the major when he called the name of Charles Stanley, evidently not hearing it, and which I did not permit him to call the second time. I therefore passed through unmolested. As heretofore stated, my appearance tallied pretty well with the rest of the Marylanders and Bob Brantley’s appearance was in striking contrast with theirs.

After getting on the boat and mixing with the Marylanders, I was congratulated by them on my success and promised a good time when they reached home. As soon as all were aboard, the “New York” weighed anchor, when, the next morning, running down the coast on the Atlantic, we were told that we would have to remain down in the hold on the second deck until they could wash decks. They closed down the hatch and only permitted us to come on the main deck when we discovered that we were at Point Lookout, Maryland, under the guns of a thirty-two-pound battery, and the Potomac flotilla, and were then told to march out, and were led into what we called a “bull pen,” where we found about ten or twelve thousand prisoners quartered in little A tents on the sand of the seashore, with nothing else to protect them from the winter’s blast. Had we suspected their motive, we could have easily overpowered the guard on the big steamer, beached and burned her and scattered out in Maryland, without taking a parole. At Point Lookout our camp was laid off in State divisions, a row of little A tents on each side of a wide street with a cook house for each division at the head of it. We were here furnished rations the same as we had at Fort Delaware, by marching in and taking our position at the long table in front of each ration. Sometimes we had a cup of what they called bean soup, but it was always my misfortune to get a cup of bean water, the cook failing to stir up the soup and thoroughly mixing the beans with the water. Besides this, we had three crackers and an inch of meat. This we had twice a day, as at Fort Delaware, and considerable suffering on account of hunger was thereby entailed.

As stated, we were quartered in tents by State Divisions. Coming there with the Marylanders, under a Marylander’s name, I started with the Maryland Division, but in connection with this, soon joined the Texas Division, Tennessee Division and Louisiana Division and drew rations with every one of these divisions, thereby securing three extra rations which I divided among my messmates.

In order to improve my time, with nothing else to do, I decided to try to learn the French language and for this purpose, joined a Louisiana mess, the men belonging to the Seventh Louisiana, who were Creoles and spoke nothing but French in their mess. In a short time, I was enabled to understand some of their talk and they, as well as I, thought I was getting along fine, and I believe if I could have continued with them six months I would have spoken French fluently.

While at this point General Butler was appointed Exchange Agent, this in response to the clamor of the people in the North, demanding exchange, as their people were dying in our prisons, as well as our people in theirs; but, the policy of their War Department, sanctioned by Abraham Lincoln, was not to exchange a prisoner if they could avoid it. They did not want to reinforce our army from that source when our country was about exhausted for men. To carry their point on this they cared very little for their men in our prisons and even openly claimed that it was a protection to their army to enforce non-exchange even at the sacrifice of the men in our prisons.

General Butler being placed in charge of the exchange, the Federal Government knew that they could throw the odium of refusal to exchange on the Confederate Government, because General Butler had been outlawed by our Government through President Davis’ proclamation ordering him executed whenever captured, on account of his dastardly conduct while in command of New Orleans, which earned for him the name of “Beast” Butler. They well knew that his appointment as Chief Exchange Agent would forever place a barrier against exchange.

At this time General Marsden was in command at Point Lookout, and a Captain Patterson, aided by Sergeant Finnegan, in charge of the prisoners.

After the arrival of the Marylanders at Point Lookout, the Federal Government decided to relieve the crowded condition of Fort Delaware by transferring more prisoners to Point Lookout, which was done to a considerable extent.

General Butler, for political reasons, as well as to show his interest in the prisoners, made us a visit, and when his arrival was announced, proceeded in company with General Marsden and their respective staffs, to ride over to our enclosure. We were then called on by Captain Patterson, announcing his approach, to cheer him as he came inside. As soon as the big gate was thrown open and he rode in, perhaps five thousand prisoners had collected at the gate, many of them calling out, “Boys, here is the ‘Beast;’ ” to which he paid no attention or to the name of “Mumford,” the man whom he hung in New Orleans for tearing down the United States flag placed on his house on their first occupancy of New Orleans. When he and General Marsden attempted to enter the First Division, which was the Louisiana Division, the men called out “New Orleans.” By this time such a crowd had gathered in this division that it was difficult for them to ride through, when General Butler decided not to go any further and returned to General Marsden’s headquarters.

About two weeks later General Butler returned and entered the prison enclosure with General Marsden and their respective staffs; all armed with pistols, and having also an escort of about fifty cavalry. They were determined to push through the Louisiana Division, when again the insults thrown at them on his first visit were repeated. In reaching a Sibley tent, where a part of a company of the Louisiana Guard Battery were quartered, one of the young men, seeing General Butler passing in front of the tent, rushed out, took Butler’s horse by the bridle and stopped him, proposed three cheers for Jeff Davis, which were given with a will by our ten thousand throats, then proposed three groans for the “Beast.”

General Butler turned pale, looked at the men, seemed undecided what to do, surrounded by an angry crowd of at least ten thousand men, who although unarmed, he well knew were more than a match for him and his guards and that they would not stand any show for their lives if a single shot was fired. He decided it was best to move on and pass the incident. When nearly at the end of the division some one called “Magruder,” which made him smile, as it referred to the battle of Big Bethel, which he commanded and lost to the Confederates commanded by General Magruder.

He next turned into the North Carolina Division, a brigade of conscripts, who had surrendered without firing a gun. On his entering this division the men cheered him, when he stopped and talked with them, asking how they were getting along. They told him they did not get enough to eat and were starving, and he turned to Captain Patterson and told him to add an extra cracker to the rations, which brought another cheer. He then passed through the division, being cheered frequently by these conscripts and returned to General Marsden’s headquarters.

In punishment for the insults offered him in the Louisiana Division, he sent a regiment, composed of illiterate negroes from the plantations in North Carolina, to guard us. The immediate guard of the prison were on beats on a platform outside of the prison walls, which exposed their heads and shoulders to the prisoners inside of the walls. There were also guard beats at the head of every division between the tents and the cook houses. These negroes were very poorly drilled and disciplined, but fit tools in the hands of a vindictive enemy. As the men in the prison had never seen any negro troops, they gathered along these different beats to watch their performance. They came into the prison for guard duty, carrying their knapsacks as they were afraid to leave them in their camp, fearing that some of the other troops not on duty would rob them. A guard at the head of the Texas Division, tired of carrying his knapsack, deposited it at the end of his beat; as soon as his back was turned, one of the men picked it up and ran away with it. The negro, returning on his beat, discovered his knapsack gone and created a general laugh among the spectators by his puzzled look. Finally he said, “Men, you better give me back my knapsack or I’ll call Marse Lieutenant.” The men again laughed, when finally he called to the guard up on the fence, “Central, Oh Central! Call Marse Lieutenant and tell him one of dese here white folks stole my knapsack,” when in due time the officer of the day came in on horseback, dashed up to the guard and asked what was the matter. The guard said, “Marse Lieutenant, some of these white folks stole my knapsack,” which created additional laughter and merriment. The lieutenant called on the men to return the knapsack, and said that if they didn’t, he would order a search of the camp. This they could not afford to have done. In the meantime, the negro said if they would just give him back his “bacca” and guarretype, he wouldn’t care anything about the balance. The men then returned the knapsack to keep the camp from being searched.

Our troubles with this negro guard commenced the first night, when they shot into the camp whenever they heard any noise. They were undoubtedly instigated by their officers and the white soldiers.

There were a number of attempts to escape, one novel plan being evolved by the Marylanders. The smallpox broke out inside of the prison, and a pesthouse was established on the main land in the piney woods, about three or four miles from the Point. I forgot to mention Point Lookout is a peninsula, connected with the mainland by a very narrow strip, where a strong fort was located, and where these negroes were quartered. We also had an ordinary hospital inside of the enclosure, immediately in charge of Confederate surgeons, but supervised by a Federal surgeon, who would receive their report every morning on the conditions of the sick, the number of the dead, etc. A couple of Marylanders would blister their faces and hands with hot wire, giving it the appearance of smallpox; the Confederate surgeon would point out these two cases having developed smallpox during the night, when they were ordered out to the pesthouse. They were then carried in a one-horse cart out to the pesthouse in the piney woods, where they only had one guard on duty with his beat in front of the door. The Confederate surgeon immediately in charge, at this pesthouse, would add a couple of boxes in connection with others, for the dead that had passed away during the night, and would report these two men among the other dead of the night. These boxes were then buried by Confederate convalescents, and that was the end of it. The two Marylanders, during the night, had slipped by the single guard with his beat in front of the door, then managed to cross the Potuxan River, either by swimming or floating on planks or logs, there being an only bridge which had a strong cavalry guard and could not be crossed without the countersign.

When I was made acquainted with the scheme by Judge Wilson of the Hood’s Texas Brigade, who was a Mason and had a number of Masonic friends among the Marylanders, there were two men out then and after giving them a reasonable time to get away, he had made arrangements for he and I to go out next, but alas, the two men out then were captured and exposed the whole plan, which put an end to it.

Another plan of escape was attempted by others, that of wading out in the bay on dark nights, in water deep enough to barely expose their heads, but when they got opposite the fort those shrewd Yankees had cast an anchor about a quarter of a mile out, to which was attached a rope and the rope attached to a bell inside of the fort, so when the prisoner, wading along in the deep water, would strike this rope, he would ring the bell, which invariably resulted in his discovery.

Other attempts at escape by some of the Marylanders, through bribery of the guard at the gate leading out on the bay shore, invariably failed. The guards would take the bribe, then report the case when he permitted the prisoners to pass out of the gate. The escaping prisoners would then be charged on by a lot of cavalry in waiting around the corner of the fence and shot down by them.

General Butler next conceived the idea to go to Richmond with a batch of prisoners and attempt an exchange, not for the purpose of relieving the prisoners, but simply to test his own case with the Confederate Government. On his arrival at City Point, it seems some arrangement was made that enabled him to deliver these prisoners, presumably in a fair exchange for prisoners held by us. In this batch of prisoners were a number of Marylanders, who thoughtlessly published in a Richmond paper their sufferings and hardships, as well as ill treatment at the hands of the Federal authorities, and particularly denounced Captain Patterson, who had charge of the Point Lookout prison, in most bitter terms. By accident Captain Patterson got hold of a copy of a Richmond paper containing these charges and with it, went to the Maryland Division, read it to the men and told them if further exchanges were had he would see to it that the Marylanders should be the last to leave there.

After this, the Marylanders in the prison, having denounced the article as ill advised and improper, began again to court the favor of Captain Patterson and, after several months, concluded that they had about succeeded in regaining his confidence. One morning they were notified to get ready to go to City Point for exchange. Of course, there was considerable enthusiasm among the Marylanders and I decided to go out with them, in the name of Stanley. We were marched out and carried into another bull pen, kept there five or six hours, when we were permitted to return into our old quarters and found the Tennessee Division had been placed aboard the flag of truce boat and sailed for City Point. It is hardly necessary to say that I was the greatest disappointed man among them, because I also belonged to the Tennessee Division.

In about two weeks the Louisiana Division was called for, to which I also belonged and availed myself of the Louisianan’s name, the owner of which was dead, and passed out with them.

At the mouth of the James River we passed a fleet of gunboats and ships, and in due time arrived at City Point, where we anchored in midstream. The exchange agent, Major Mulford, immediately went ashore and telegraphed to Richmond our arrival. We were anchored here several days, expecting hourly a Confederate boat to put in its appearance with the equivalent of Federal prisoners to be returned in exchange. After several days, having been told that our boat surely would arrive the second day, and as it had not put in its appearance, we decided that there was a hitch somewhere and that we were liable to be carried back. We expected, hourly, a couple of gunboats to come in sight to escort us back to Point Lookout.

The situation, to us, began to look gloomy, and created a feeling of desperation. We were determined never to be taken back to look inside of another prison. In accordance therewith we soon made up a party of about a hundred, agreeing to overpower the guard on the boat if the Confederate boat didn’t make its appearance by ten o’clock next morning.

On the cabin deck of this boat were quite a number of Confederate officers, among them General W. H. Fitts Lee, who had been wounded and captured. He was a son of General Robert E. Lee, and to him we communicated our intentions and asked their support. He replied, urging us to make no such attempt, that everything was all right and the object of our trip would be carried out without doubt. I told the men that we could not afford to accept his advice; that we had too much at stake, and I construed General Lee’s position to be prompted by what he conceived his duty as a Confederate officer. I urged them, by all means, to carry out our plan.

The next day about noon I was sound asleep under the stepladder leading up to the hatch, when awakened by considerable tumult around me. I discovered about a half dozen men on the ladder, ready to make a charge on the upper deck, where the guards were located. It so happened that the man at the top of the ladder hesitated and by way of encouragement, I called to him, “Don’t you stop there; put your shoulders under the hatch and throw it off.” He proved to be an Irishman who said, “The divil, you say; you come up here and take my place.” There was nothing to do but climb up the ladder and take his place. I soon put my back to the hatch and sent it up, whirling on the deck, and jumped on the deck myself. The guard on duty threw his gun down on me, telling me to go back or he would kill me. I called to the men, “Come on, boys,” but none would follow. I noticed General Lee in the front part of the boat, motioning to me, “Go back; go back.” It is hardly necessary for me to say that I felt like a fool and went back.

There is a member of our camp here today who states that he was present, close to General Lee, and saw me; his name is J. W. Middleton.

Our boat finally made its appearance and while it moved up very slowly towards our boat for the purpose of throwing a gang plank across, for us to pass over, a party of the Louisiana Guard Battery, a company of highly educated young men from New Orleans, appeared on the upper deck with a Confederate flag belonging to the Seventh Louisiana, tacked on to a piece of scantling in the center. General Lee and Colonel Davis of the Eighth Virginia were at one end of the line. These young men, who were splendid singers, with fine voices, struck up:

“Farewell forever to the Star Spangled Banner,

No longer shall it wave over the home of the free,

Unfurled in its stead to the bold breeze of Heaven,

Thirteen bright stars around the palmetto tree.”

These lines constituted the chorus of the song, which was sung with a great deal of spirit, and joined in by many of the men and officers. I forgot to mention that while the boats were coming together the Federal prisoners began to twit our boys about going back to live on corn dodgers and bacon, but when they heard this song they were dumbfounded, ceased their guying and simply stood speechless.

On our arrival at the Rockets, a place of landing in Richmond, we were met by a great many citizens, mostly ladies in carriages, and a company of Richmond cadets, escorted us to the Capitol Square, where we were met by President and Mrs. Davis, who shook hands with every one of us. Mrs. Davis was in tears. We were then regaled by a speech from Governor Smith of Virginia, standing on the platform in front of the Capitol, when among other things he said, “They have called me from the tented field to preside over the destinies of this great commonwealth, because they say I am too old to be there; but I deny the charge and want it distinctly understood that among Yankees and women, I am only five and twenty.”

Those who are acquainted with Governor Smith’s history, knowing him at that time to be a man about sixty-five or seventy years old, commanding a brigade in the army when he was elected Governor, will not be surprised at his expression. Governor Smith was generally known as “Extra Billy.” I will take occasion to mention that when I put my foot on Dixie soil it proved the happiest moment of my life up to that time; I felt like kissing the ground that I stood on.

President Davis, in his speech to us, told us that we were only paroled, and could not enter the service again until duly exchanged. He requested those that lived on the West of the Mississippi not to go home on a visit, pending this exchange, stating that he hoped we would soon be called on to return to our respective commands, as we were greatly needed in the army.

With me, this admonition was not needed, my only ambition was to get back to my command and again mount my horse and resume my duties. For this purpose I sought out Senator Oldham from Texas, who went with me to the War Department and secured me a pass from the Secretary of War, to go to Greenville, East Tennessee, where I learned the Rangers were camped and in due time made my way over there and found them in a deep snow.

CHAPTER XI
The Inhumanity of the Federal Government.

In reviewing my prison experience and observation, I find that I omitted to mention a case at Bowling Green, which will give the reader a fair idea of the danger of capture in territory occupied by the Federal Army and now take occasion to recall the case of John R. Lisle, a sergeant in Morgan’s command, who was permitted to visit his home near Russellville, Kentucky, on a short furlough and was shot down in his own home, in the bosom of his family, by some Tory neighbors, the ball striking him on top of the head, which temporarily stunned him and while on the floor, senseless, they rushed in and secured his capture. He had on a new gray Confederate uniform and when searched, had an order from General Morgan to notify all of their men whom he met or had an opportunity to convey the instructions, to report back to their command, having overstayed their furlough.

I got acquainted with Lisle as soon as I entered the prison and found him a very bright, intelligent gentleman. He was then being tried by court martial on the charge of being a spy and convicted on this order of Morgan’s, ordering men back to their command. During the trial he made a pencil memorandum of the proceedings of the court martial and finally, losing his temper one day, blessed out the court martial, telling them that he was satisfied they were after his blood and to stop their mockery of a trial, to go ahead and take his life, lead him out and shoot him. The court martial found him guilty and assessed his punishment at death by hanging. As soon as the findings of the court martial were returned from General Burnside’s headquarters, approved, he was taken down into the lower room and had irons forged on him, taken over to the court house under special guard to await the day of his execution. While at the court house his wife and oldest son, a boy about fifteen, were permitted to see him, when he smuggled the memoranda he had made of the proceedings of the court martial to his wife, with instructions to send his boy to General Bragg’s headquarters, then near Tullahoma, Tennessee, with this memoranda, satisfied that our Government would demand his exchange as a prisoner of war, putting some Federal officer in confinement, as hostage. After he was taken out of the prison we were not permitted to learn anything more about his fate.

During my imprisonment at Point Lookout, Maryland, a batch of about five hundred prisoners from Johnson’s Island were received there. Hastening to the gate to watch their coming in, thinking perhaps I might see some acquaintances, I met John R. Lisle, who had just been released from a dungeon at Johnson’s Island, where he had been ever since he was moved from Bowling Green in irons—confined in this dungeon and for the first time then treated as a prisoner of war. There is hardly a doubt but designating a couple of Federal officers as hostages for his safety, had the desired effect and saved his life. I left him at Point Lookout with the balance of the prisoners, from whence he was finally sent around for exchange. I had a letter from one of our prison companions near Bowling Green, about eight years ago, saying that Lisle finally returned South and to his home in Kentucky, where he died only a few years before this letter was written.

In order to give the reader an idea of the intense hatred on the part of the Lincoln Government, it might be well here to note that in the very beginning of hostilities they adopted a policy to degrade the Southern Army in the estimation of their own people, as well as that of foreign countries. In order to carry out such policy the War Department issued an order that all executions of Confederate soldiers convicted by court martial, should be by hanging—a felon’s death—which order was never modified and was carried out in its letter and spirit, never in any case permitting an exception.

In this connection I would mention a case in point, which occurred while I was a prisoner and has repeatedly been reported in the papers of the North and South. The case was a Colonel Johnston of the Confederate Army, in conjunction with a lieutenant, whose name I have forgotten, entering the Federal lines as spies. Colonel Johnston was armed with a fictitious order from Secretary of War Stanton to proceed to Murfreesboro, Franklin and Nashville, Tennessee, and inspect the Federal works at these places. They called one evening at Franklin, presented the Secretary of War’s order, which seemed to be genuine, when the colonel commanding received them very courteously and rode around with them, inspecting his works. Colonel Johnston also stated to him that he was just from General Rosencranz’s headquarters, where he had inspected the works around Murfreesboro. After the inspection of the Franklin works Colonel Johnston told the colonel in command that he was compelled to go to Nashville that night and insisted on leaving at once for Nashville, although dark had set in. The colonel tried to persuade him to spend the night with him but all to no purpose. After Colonel Johnston and the lieutenant had been gone perhaps a half hour the colonel got suspicious and wired General Rosencranz for information, and General Rosencranz replied that there had been no such men there, that evidently they were spies, to not fail to capture them and order a drumhead court martial. The colonel then immediately ordered his horse and with a sergeant, pursued Colonel Johnston and the lieutenant, caught up with them some six or eight miles on the road to Nashville, and insisted that they must go back with him and spend the night, which they did. On their arrival at the colonel’s headquarters he immediately had them searched and found ample evidence on their persons that they were Confederate soldiers, acting as spies, notably the sword of Colonel Johnston’s was inscribed “C. S. A.,” and Colonel Johnston readily admitted they were spies.

During the session of the court martial Colonel Johnston made himself known to the colonel commanding, who then recognized him as a classmate at West Point. He then made an eloquent appeal to the court martial to save the life of the lieutenant, telling them that he was unaware, when they started on this expedition, of its object and finally begged them to have him shot, to permit him to die a soldier’s and not a felon’s death. He said to the colonel, “When you rode up we both had our pistols out, under the capes of our overcoats and could have killed you easily, thereby saving our lives, but the thought of killing an old classmate without giving him a chance for his life overruled my better judgment and I decided that I might talk out of it, thereby sparing your life,” but all to no purpose, his pleadings were ignored and he had to meet his fate by hanging.

After the defeat of the Federal Army at the first battle of Manassas, many wagonloads of handcuffs, put up in barrels, were captured, which were intended to be placed on the entire Confederate Army when captured, and marched into Washington City, wearing these bracelets.

Among Mr. Lincoln’s earliest proclamations was the one declaring medicines contraband of war, thus depriving millions of sick of medicines, one of the most brutal and inhuman orders ever published by a civilized Government.

CHAPTER XII.
I Rejoin My Command.

Recurring to the meeting of my comrades at Greenville, Tennessee, where I found them camped in a deep snow, when they had me relate my prison experience, etc.: They had just received orders to move to Dalton, Georgia, where I, having no horse, proceeded by rail. On my arrival at Dalton I found the largest, best equipped army I had ever seen in the Confederacy, mostly quartered in tents. Our advance line occupied the top of a range of mountains, presenting precipitous fronts towards the enemy. This range of mountains was somewhat in the shape of a horseshoe, largely surrounding Dalton with probably a half dozen gaps, which were strongly fortified by our forces, except Snake Creek Gap on our left, nearly on a line with Resacca, a railroad station immediately in our rear on the only line entering Dalton and our only means of supplying the army and enabling retreat. I found General Joseph E. Johnston in command, with General Hardee, his second in command and General Hood, commanding a corps, immediately in front of Dalton.

Not having any horse and unable to secure one, I met a friend, Captain James Britton from Lebanon, Tennessee, who commanded Hood’s escort, who told me that he had several horses in camp, doing nothing, the owners of the horses being sick and confined at the hospital; if I would come and stay with him that I could ride any of the horses. This I gratefully accepted, telling him that I would only do so with the understanding that I would be treated as a member of the company doing duty.

While on this duty, moving out with the escort one morning with General Hood and staff, to his headquarters just in the rear of Railroad Gap, I witnessed the meeting of General J. E. Johnston, W. J. Hardee, General Cheatham, General Hindman, all with their respective staffs, at General Hood’s headquarters, which were under an old workshed with a workbench under it. General Johnston and staff were the last to arrive. After dismounting and shaking hands with the different generals and members of their staffs, as also General Hood, he handed General Hood his crutches. General Hood, it will be remembered, lost his leg at Chickamauga and was ever afterwards on crutches. Generals Johnston and Hood then moved up the road about three hundred yards out of our hearing and were soon engaged in a very animated discussion, which lasted perhaps three-quarters of an hour. When they returned Generals Johnston and Hardee mounted their horses with their respective staffs, returning to town, and gradually the rest of the officers dispersed, going to their respective stations.

CHAPTER XIII.
Middle Tennessee and Kentucky.

On reflection, I find that I omitted about a year’s service in Tennessee and Kentucky, before my capture near Bowling Green and will insert this now.

After destroying trestles and bridges between La Vergne and Nashville, under General Forrest, and capturing a railroad train at La Vergne, on which Colonel Fordyce was captured, we were ordered back across the mountain to Chattanooga, where we commenced scouting and picketing on the Tennessee River. We frequently extended our scouts almost to Guntersville, with the Federal Army massing and camping just across the river. General Mitchell commanded at Huntsville. He gave out that he was building a gunboat, with which to capture Chattanooga, and had the people of Chattanooga badly alarmed about it, but when finally he got his gunboat ready to move up the river, a scout of about twenty Texas Rangers were sent down to meet it with shotguns, taking a position on top of a high bank, opposite the mouth of Battle Creek, which was in plain view of this high bank. The gunboat approached and proved to be an ordinary small river boat, lined with cotton bales on the edge of the decks with the troops aboard, lying around carelessly on the side of this barricade of cotton bales, some of them playing cards. When the boat came very close to our bluff, we turned loose our shotguns on them and drove the boat into the mouth of Battle Creek, where it remained and was utilized by the Federal Army as a bridge for crossing the creek. This proved the end of General Mitchell’s famous gunboat, with which he threatened to capture Chattanooga. It was driven out of commission by Terry’s Rangers’ shotguns and relieved the people of Chattanooga of their anxiety.

While picketing down on the river road with a companion, we stopped at a blacksmith’s shop near Nicajack Cave and had our horses shod; just across the river was a camp of Federal infantry and artillery. The river at this point we judged to be about three-quarters of a mile wide, perhaps more; the railroad continued to run on the banks of the river, after passing the Narrows with the first depot out of Chattanooga, Shell Mound. After having our horses shod we rode down to the railroad on the banks of the river, the grade of which was high enough to protect us and our horses. We discovered a soldier at the river, filling some canteens and to see him run, we fired our pistols across, which of course made him run to his camp. Soon after, we heard the artillery bugle and immediately a gun opened on us with shell, which always struck the Nicajack Cave, some three-quarters of a mile in our rear, the country between us and Nicajack Cave being flat and open. We soon moved down to the little brick depot at Shell Mound and opened on them from there, when they perforated it with their shells; we then moved down to a box bridge across the mouth of the creek running into the river and had them make that a target. It is hardly necessary to say that we enjoyed this, somewhat, having a duel with our pistols against their piece of artillery. We were entirely protected and didn’t consider that we were under any danger whatever of being hit.

While picketing on this main road, General Morgan ran down on a locomotive as far as Shell Mound, just before our escapade with this artillery and came very near having his engine struck by a shell, but he succeeded in getting back to Chattanooga with his locomotive.

We were soon ordered back to Middle Tennessee, under General Forrest, where we operated around McMinnville, Manchester and along the railroad. After an attack on the outskirts of Manchester one morning, which Colonel Forrest decided was too strong for us, we withdrew further down the railroad, where we charged a block-house, the first we ever attempted to capture and the first we had ever seen. But, although some of our men got right up to the house, we were unable to force them to surrender, and were forced to give it up as a bad job. While engaged in this venture, a large force of infantry, cavalry and artillery had moved out on the road from McMinnville and were about to cut off our line of retreat. When we got in sight of this force, hurrying to get out of this corner, they raised a shout, which I must say made me feel very uncomfortable, knowing that they outnumbered us perhaps five to one, but we succeeded in dashing across the main road, where we wheeled and charged their advance column, bringing them to a halt, permitting others of the command to cross, that were virtually cut off, but they did capture a large fine looking negro man, who was the servant of General Forrest. His name was Napoleon, and he was devotedly attached to General Forrest. In connection with his capture they also captured two fine horses belonging to the general. They carried this negro to Louisville prison and did their best to persuade him to take the oath of allegiance and join them, but he steadfastly refused, as he was devotedly attached to General Forrest and was finally, through some special arrangement, exchanged and returned to the general. The last I knew of him I heard of him in Louisville prison, when he was sent around for exchange.

After operating a while longer in Middle Tennessee without any important captures, we got information that General Bragg had crossed the Tennessee River at Chattanooga and was moving across Cumberland Mountain, driving the Federal Army before him and we were instructed to harass the enemy as much as possible. In accordance therewith we would attack their infantry (moving with their artillery, ordnance and wagon trains by divisions on several of the main roads). We would dash into their rear, forcing them to stop and draw up in line of battle, when they would commence shelling us and we would move out of the range of their artillery rapidly, further up the road, striking another column perhaps in flank, leaving the first mentioned column shelling the woods for an hour or more after we had left. In this manner we kept them harassed and impeded their rapid movements, while General Bragg, with the main army, was moving as rapidly as possible on their flank, crossing the Cumberland River higher up on his way to Glasgow, Kentucky. The Federal Army made a short stop at Nashville, collecting all their forces, and then moved from there towards Mumfordsville, Kentucky, on Green River.

While in pursuit of one of these Federal columns on top of a mountain not far from Woodbury, we struck a point on the pike where it was built across a deep ravine; the crossing protected on the side by a rail fence. Just as we entered the narrow point in this lane, General Forrest, who was riding in advance of our regiment, discovered a vidette of the enemy in the woods on the far banks of the ravine, and he immediately had some men dismounted on both flanks, to drive them in, satisfied that the enemy were going to make a stand on the other side of the ravine. He determined to charge them, horseback, for which purpose we formed fours and prepared for the charge by tightening our saddle girths. Just as we were ready to move on them, a masked battery of four pieces opened on us and drove us back, as we stood no chance of reaching it in massed formation of fours through this narrow lane on the Pike.

The first shell cut off a leg below the knee of D. Rugeley, one of the finest looking young men we had in the company, and one of the best. He was held on his horse by his companions, on our retreat, when the enemy’s cavalry charged us and, for the moment, created a little confusion. When Colonel Wharton discovered Rugeley’s plight, holding the lower part of his leg by the foot and being assisted by a comrade on each side, holding him on his horse, he was completely overcome with the sight, rode up and fell over on D., with both arms around his neck, crying, when D. said to him, “Colonel Wharton, this is no place to take on in this manner. Leave me and save yourself.” This aroused Wharton and wheeling his horse, called on the Rangers to rally and drive back that cavalry and save D. Rugeley, which it is hardly necessary to say, was done in short order. This is perhaps the only instance where Colonel Wharton was seen to lose control of himself and can only be explained by the fact that D. Rugeley’s father and he were most intimate friends, and on parting with Rugeley’s father had been enjoined to take special care of his boy.

An instance of appreciation of our services was illustrated near Murfreesboro, Tennessee, through which place we had just passed in pursuit of a large Federal column. In passing through a lane a few miles north of town, where a number of ladies had congregated to see us pass, an old lady among them was cheering us and clapping her hands, when she was heard to remark, “Oh, daughter; just look at our soldiers, grand men as they are, all covered with dust so they can hardly be recognized; God bless them! I wish they could stay long enough so I could wash their clothes.” This old lady perhaps had never seen a washtub in her life, as judging from the magnificent house which appeared through the woods, and its surroundings, she was no doubt raised in wealth and affluence. It was such expressions as this, on the part of the ladies, that made us good soldiers.

After our army reached Glasgow the enemy had concentrated a strong force at Mumfordsville, which was strongly fortified and which they determined to hold at all hazards. Nashville was not evacuated by them, but a force of ten thousand men, strongly fortified, with Andrew Johnson, demanding of General Nelson to hold this place at all hazards, which was done. While our army was at Glasgow, which was only about twenty-five miles from Bell Station, McDonald, a member of our company, proposed to me to go by and see the Smith family, at whose house he had been sick and to which I agreed, and for this purpose called on Colonel Wharton to give us a pass, which he refused, saying that no one could be permitted to pass our lines unless they had a pass from General Bragg, countersigned by General Polk. We told him, “Colonel Wharton, we feel in duty bound to visit these people,” and gave him the reason, telling him that we would make the attempt without a pass. He said, “Graber, if you do and you are caught, Bragg will have both of you shot.” I told him, “All right; catching before hanging.” We started out at night, telling him “If you miss us you’ll know where we are.” We started out the main road towards Bell Station; when about a mile we struck an Alabama picket and asked the lieutenant commanding to allow us to pass through, telling him the circumstances that prompted our determination to visit our friends. He said, “Rangers, you know we would do anything we can for you, but our orders are very strict and we cannot disobey them.” We then moved back out of sight, struck out into the woods on their flank, passing around them and made our way to the Smith home, about four miles from Bell Station. It is hardly necessary to say the old lady and her daughters, the only ones left at home, were delighted to see us, and especially to hear from the army. They had not heard from their boys, who were in Breckenridge’s Brigade, nor their father, who was with them. It will be remembered he left his home with McDonald in a wagon and carried him to Bowling Green, when he was convalescent from his spell of pneumonia. We remained at the house nearly a half day, when we heard heavy firing at Mumfordsville and immediately mounted our horses and started for there.

Arriving at Mumfordsville about night I was unable to get any information of our brigade and we decided to go into the battle with the infantry the next morning, but during the night the Federals surrendered. About daylight we mounted our horses and entered the fort through an embrasure and soon struck the hospital tents, where McDonald dismounted to try to find some liquor. While I never indulged in strong drink, it was hard to keep McDonald from it. While holding his horse, waiting for him to come back, Colonel Wharton rode in, at the head of our regiment, from the opposite side of the fort from where we had entered and on seeing me, simply said, “Hello, Graber; you beat us in,” and smiled. I expect we were the first Confederates inside of the fort. It seems that General Chalmers, the evening before, had made a determined attack on the works and was repulsed with heavy loss. The colonel commanding the fort, learning that General Bragg had arrived with the whole army, completely surrounding him during the night, decided it was better to surrender than to risk another engagement the next day, as he had only about four or five thousand men.

After leaving Mumfordsville, our cavalry and Forrest continued on the main road through Elizabethtown and on to Bardstown, Kentucky, out of which place we drove the Federal cavalry. They retreated to Louisville. We were camped at Bardstown several days, awaiting the arrival of the infantry and while there, formed the acquaintance of a number of good people, which means friends of the South. At Bardstown we found the home of Judge Newman, whose daughter, the wife of my old friend, Cannon, then lived at Courtney. Before they had removed from Hempstead, a year or more before the breaking out of hostilities, her sister, Miss Josie Newman, made a visit to Hempstead, where she formed the acquaintance of quite a number of young men that were in the army with us. On our second day’s sojourn a Mr. Tom Clay, belonging to Company K of our regiment, whose home was in Washington County, and who had been intimately acquainted with Miss Josie during her stay at Hempstead, proposed to me to call on Miss Josie, to which I agreed. Alighting in front of their house, Miss Josie happened to be standing in the door and recognizing us, rushed to the gate and invited us in. Just then a little boy came along and asked me to give him a little silk Confederate flag some young ladies had presented me with the day before and I had sticking in the browband of my horse’s bridle. Fearing the little boy would take the flag while we were in the house, I suggested that I had better take this in with me. Miss Josie then said, “That flag can’t come into our house.” Up to this time we were unaware that they were Union people. My friend, bowing to her, said, “We will certainly not go into a house where our flag is not welcome,” and we declined to go in. By this time her mother had come to the gate, when Miss Josie introduced us. Mrs. Newman having heard my name, through the Cannon family, quite often, she insisted on our coming in, when we told her Miss Josie’s objections. She chided her for her discourtesy and told us to come in and bring the flag, when my friend said to Miss Josie, “We will compromise the matter with you and go in, if you will sing Dixie and Bonnie Blue Flag for us,” which of course she had to agree to do and, while singing these songs, I sat at the end of the piano with my little Confederate flag in my hand and when she sang the chorus I would wave the flag.

After two days’ sojourn we moved on up towards Louisville, part of our force dividing and occupying the town of Taylorsville on our right; the balance of the command camping near Mount Washington on the Bardstown Pike. Here General Forrest received an order from the War Department to personally report to Richmond and turn the command of the brigade over to Colonel Wharton. In about a week the Federal forces advanced out of Louisville. They were said to be a hundred thousand strong, while another force moved out of Cincinnati, about sixty thousand strong, with a view of cutting us off from retreat to Cumberland Gap.

CHAPTER XIV.
Bardstown Engagement—I “Swap” Horses With a Federal.

The object of General Bragg’s advance into Kentucky was to form a nucleus for Kentuckians to rally around, our War Department having been importuned by leading Kentuckians to do this, claiming they would have a hundred thousand men to join us as soon as we could reclaim their territory. On this point, however, they were mistaken, as we gathered only about six thousand recruits and they all wanted to serve in cavalry. They joined us largely about half equipped for cavalry service, many of them with citizen’s saddles and shotguns or squirrel rifles and, while on the subject, I might mention here that over half of them deserted us before we passed through Cumberland Gap and soon after they found that we were unable to hold Kentucky. Gen. Bragg moved in there with about thirty thousand men, exclusive of General Kirby Smith’s force of about twelve thousand, which moved on Cincinnati and fought the battle of Richmond, where they completely defeated the Federal Army of about twenty-five thousand strong, capturing, killing and wounding nearly half, with the balance driven into Covington and Cincinnati.