'Co. Aytch' - Maury Grays, First Tennessee Regiment by Samuel Rush Watkins (best autobiographies to read TXT) 📕

Joe pointing toward the tank with his sword. (He looked like the pictures you see hung upon the walls). We cross the railroad. Halloo! here comes a cavalry charge from the Yankee line. Now for it; we will see how Yankee cavalry fight. We are not supported; what is the matter? Are we going to be captured? They thunder down upon us. Their flat-footed dragoons shake and jar the earth. They are all around us—we are surrounded. "Form square! Platoons, right and left wheel! Kneel and fire!" There we were in a hollow square. The Yankees had never seen anything like that before. It was something new. They charged right upon us. Colonel Field, sitting on his gray mare, right in the center of the hollow square, gives the command, "Front rank, kneel and present bayonet against cavalry." The front rank knelt down, placing the butts of their guns against their knees. "Rear rank, fire at will; commence firing." Now, all this happened in less time than it has taken me to write it. They charged right upon us, no doubt expecting to ride right over us, and trample us to death with the hoofs of their horses. They tried to spur and whip their horses over us, but the horses had more sense than that. We were pouring a deadly fire right into their faces, and soon men and horses were writhing in the death agonies; officers were yelling at the top of their voices, "Surrender! surrender!" but we were having too good a thing of it. We were killing them by scores, and they could not fire at us; if they did they either overshot or missed their aim. Their ranks soon began to break and get confused, and finally they were routed, and broke and ran in all directions, as fast as their horses could carry them.

When we re-formed our regiment and marched back, we found that General Johnston's army had all passed over the bridge at Resacca. Now, reader, this was one of our tight places. The First Tennessee Regiment was always ordered to hold tight places, which we always did. We were about the last troops that passed over.

Now, gentle reader, that is all I know of the battle of Resacca. We had repulsed every charge, had crossed the bridge with every wagon, and cannon, and everything, and had nothing lost or captured. It beat anything that has ever been recorded in history. I wondered why old Joe did not attack in their rear. The explanation was that Hood's line was being enfiladed, his men decimated, and he could not hold his position.

We are still fighting; battles innumerable. The Yankees had thrown pontoons across the river below Resacca, in hopes to intercept us on the other side. We were marching on the road; they seemed to be marching parallel with us. It was fighting, fighting, every day. When we awoke in the morning, the firing of guns was our reveille, and when the sun went down it was our "retreat and our lights out." Fighting, fighting, fighting, all day and all night long. Battles were fought every day, and in one respect we always had the advantage; they were the attacking party, and we always had good breastworks thrown up during the night.

Johnston's army was still intact. The soldiers drew their regular rations of biscuit and bacon, sugar and coffee, whisky and tobacco. When we went to sleep we felt that old Joe, the faithful old watch dog, had his eye on the enemy. No one was disposed to straggle and go back to Company Q. (Company Q was the name for play-outs). They even felt safer in the regular line than in the rear with Company Q.

Well as stated previously, it was battle, battle, battle, every day, for one hundred days. The boom of cannon, and the rattle of musketry was our reveille and retreat, and Sherman knew that it was no child's play.

Today, April 14, 1882, I say, and honestly say, that I sincerely believe
the combined forces of the whole Yankee nation could never have broken
General Joseph E. Johnston's line of battle, beginning at Rocky Face
Ridge, and ending on the banks of the Chattahoochee.

ADAIRSVILLE—OCTAGON HOUSE—THE FIRST TENNESSEE ALWAYS OCCUPIES TIGHT PLACES

We had stacked our arms and gone into camp, and had started to build fires to cook supper. I saw our cavalry falling back, I thought, rather hurriedly. I ran to the road and asked them what was the matter? They answered, "Matter enough; yonder are the Yankees, are you infantry fellows going to make a stand here?" I told Colonel Field what had been told to me, and he hooted at the idea; but balls that had shucks tied to their tails were passing over, and our regiment was in the rear of the whole army. I could hardly draw anyone's attention to the fact that the cavalry had passed us, and that we were on the outpost of the whole army, when an order came for our regiment to go forward as rapidly as possible and occupy an octagon house in our immediate front. The Yankees were about a hundred yards from the house on one side and we about a hundred yards on the other. The race commenced as to which side would get to the house first. We reached it, and had barely gotten in, when they were bursting down the paling of the yard on the opposite side. The house was a fine brick, octagon in shape, and as perfect a fort as could be desired. We ran to the windows, upstairs, downstairs and in the cellar. The Yankees cheered and charged, and our boys got happy. Colonel Field told us he had orders to hold it until every man was killed, and never to surrender the house. It was a forlorn hope. We felt we were "gone fawn skins," sure enough. At every discharge of our guns, we would hear a Yankee squall. The boys raised a tune—

    "I'se gwine to jine the Rebel band,
     A fighting for my home"—

as they loaded and shot their guns. Then the tune of—

    "Cheer, boys, cheer, we are marching on to battle!
     Cheer, boys, cheer, for our sweethearts and our wives!
     Cheer, boys, cheer, we'll nobly do our duty,
     And give to the South our hearts, our arms, our lives."

Our cartridges were almost gone, and Lieutenant Joe Carney, Joe Sewell, and Billy Carr volunteered to go and bring a box of one thousand cartridges. They got out of the back window, and through that hail of iron and lead, made their way back with the box of cartridges. Our ammunition being renewed, the fight raged on. Captain Joe P. Lee touched me on the shoulder and said, "Sam, please let me have your gun for one shot." He raised it to his shoulder and pulled down on a fine-dressed cavalry officer, and I saw that Yankee tumble. He handed it back to me to reload. About twelve o'clock, midnight, the Hundred and Fifty-fourth Tennessee, commanded by Colonel McGevney, came to our relief.

The firing had ceased, and we abandoned the octagon house. Our dead and wounded—there were thirty of them—were in strange contrast with the furniture of the house. Fine chairs, sofas, settees, pianos and Brussels carpeting being made the death-bed of brave and noble boys, all saturated with blood. Fine lace and damask curtains, all blackened by the smoke of battle. Fine bureaus and looking-glasses and furniture being riddled by the rude missiles of war. Beautiful pictures in gilt frames, and a library of valuable books, all shot and torn by musket and cannon balls. Such is war.

KENNESAW LINE

The battles of the Kennesaw line were fought for weeks. Cannonading and musketry firing was one continual thing. It seemed that shooting was the order of the day, and pickets on both sides kept up a continual firing, that sounded like ten thousand wood-choppers. Sometimes the wood- choppers would get lazy or tired and there was a lull. But you could always tell when the old guard had been relieved, by the accelerated chops of the wood-choppers.

AM DETAILED TO GO INTO THE ENEMY'S LINES

One day our orderly sergeant informed me that it was my regular time to go on duty, and to report to Captain Beasley, of the Twenty-seventh. I reported to the proper place, and we were taken to the headquarters of General Leonidas Polk. We had to go over into the enemy's lines, and make such observations as we could, and report back by daylight in the morning. Our instructions were to leave everything in camp except our guns and cartridge-boxes. These were to be carried, but, under no circumstances, to be used, except in case of death itself. We were instructed to fall in in the rear of our relief guard, which would go out about sunset; not to attract their attention, but to drop out one or two at a time; to pass the Yankee picket as best we could, even if we had to crawl on our bellies to do so; to go over in the Yankee lines, and to find out all we could, without attracting attention, if possible. These were our instructions. You may be sure my heart beat like a muffled drum when I heard our orders.

I felt like making my will. But, like the boy who was passing the graveyard, I tried to whistle to keep my spirits up. We followed the relief guard, and one by one stepped off from the rear. I was with two others, Arnold Zellner and T. C. Dornin. We found ourselves between the picket lines of the two armies. Fortune seemed to favor us. It was just getting dusky twilight, and we saw the relief guard of the Yankees just putting on their picket. They seemed to be very mild, inoffensive fellows. They kept a looking over toward the Rebel lines, and would dodge if a twig cracked under their feet. I walked on as if I was just relieved, and had passed their lines, when I turned back, and says I, "Captain, what guard is this?" He answered, "Nien bocht, you bet," is what I understood him to say. "What regiment are you from?" "Ben bicht mir ein riefel fab bien." "What regiment is your detail from?" "Iet du mein got Donnermetter stefel switzer." I had to give it up— I had run across the detail of a Dutch regiment. I passed on, and came to the regular line of breastworks, and there was an old Irishman sitting on a stump grinding coffee. "General McCook's brigade, be jabbers," he answered to my inquiry as to what regiment it was. Right in front of me the line was full of Irish soldiers, and they were cooking supper. I finally got over their breastworks, and was fearful I would run into some camp or headquarter guard, and the countersign would be demanded of me. I did not know what to do in that case—but I thought of the way that I had gotten in hundreds of times before in our army, when I wanted to slip the guard, and that was to get a gun, go to some cross street or conspicuous place, halt the officer, and get the countersign. And while standing near General Sherman's headquarters, I saw a courier come out of his tent, get on his horse, and ride toward where I stood. As he approached, says I, "Halt! who goes there?" "A friend with the countersign." He advanced, and whispered in my ear the word "United." He rode on. I had gotten their countersign, and felt I was no longer a prisoner. I went all over their camp, and saw no demonstration of any kind. Night had thrown her mantle over the encampment. I could plainly see the sentinels on their weary vigils along the lines, but there was none in their rear. I met and talked with a great many soldiers, but could get no information from them.

About 2 o'clock at night, I saw a body of men approaching where I was. Something told me that I