'Co. Aytch' - Maury Grays, First Tennessee Regiment - Samuel Rush Watkins (good books to read for adults .txt) 📗

had better get out of their way, but I did not. The person in command said, "Say, there! you, sir; say, you, sir!" Says I, "Are you speaking to me?" "Yes," very curtly and abruptly. "What regiment do you belong to?" Says I, "One hundred and twenty- seventh Illinois." "Well, sir, fall in here; I am ordered to take up all stragglers. Fall in, fall in promptly!" Says I, "I am instructed by General McCook to remain here and direct a courier to General Williams' headquarters." He says, "It's a strange place for a courier to come to." His command marched on. About an hour afterwards—about 3 o'clock— I heard the assembly sound. I knew then that it was about time for me to be getting out of the way. Soon their companies were forming, and they were calling the roll everywhere. Everything had begun to stir. Artillery men were hitching up their horses. Men were dashing about in every direction. I saw their army form and move off. I got back into our lines, and reported to General Polk.

He was killed that very day on the Kennesaw line. General Stephens was killed the very next day.

Every now and then a dead picket was brought in. Times had begun to look bilious, indeed. Their cannon seemed to be getting the best of ours in every fight. The cannons of both armies were belching and bellowing at each other, and the pickets were going it like wood choppers, in earnest. We were entrenched behind strong fortifications. Our rations were cooked and brought to us regularly, and the spirits of the army were in good condition.

We continued to change position, and build new breastworks every night. One-third of the army had to keep awake in the trenches, while the other two-thirds slept. But everything was so systematized, that we did not feel the fatigue.

PINE MOUNTAIN—DEATH OF GENERAL LEONIDAS POLK

General Leonidas Polk, our old leader, whom we had followed all through that long war, had gone forward with some of his staff to the top of Pine Mountain, to reconnoiter, as far as was practicable, the position of the enemy in our front. While looking at them with his field glass, a solid shot from the Federal guns struck him on his left breast, passing through his body and through his heart. I saw him while the infirmary corps were bringing him off the field. He was as white as a piece of marble, and a most remarkable thing about him was, that not a drop of blood was ever seen to come out of the place through which the cannon ball had passed. My pen and ability is inadequate to the task of doing his memory justice. Every private soldier loved him. Second to Stonewall Jackson, his loss was the greatest the South ever sustained. When I saw him there dead, I felt that I had lost a friend whom I had ever loved and respected, and that the South had lost one of her best and greatest generals.

His soldiers always loved and honored him. They called him "Bishop Polk." "Bishop Polk" was ever a favorite with the army, and when any position was to be held, and it was known that "Bishop Polk" was there, we knew and felt that "all was well."

GOLGOTHA CHURCH—GENERAL LUCIUS E. POLK WOUNDED

On this Kennesaw line, near Golgotha Church, one evening about 4 o'clock, our Confederate line of battle and the Yankee line came in close proximity. If I mistake not, it was a dark, drizzly, rainy evening. The cannon balls were ripping and tearing through the bushes. The two lines were in plain view of each other. General Pat Cleburne was at this time commanding Hardee's corps, and General Lucius E. Polk was in command of Cleburne's division. General John C. Brown's division was supporting Cleburne's division, or, rather, "in echelon." Every few moments, a raking fire from the Yankee lines would be poured into our lines, tearing limbs off the trees, and throwing rocks and dirt in every direction; but I never saw a soldier quail, or even dodge. We had confidence in old Joe, and were ready to march right into the midst of battle at a moment's notice. While in this position, a bomb, loaded with shrapnel and grapeshot, came ripping and tearing through our ranks, wounding General Lucius E. Polk, and killing some of his staff. And, right here, I deem it not inappropriate to make a few remarks as to the character and appearance of so brave and gallant an officer. At this time he was about twenty-five years old, with long black hair, that curled, a gentle and attractive black eye that seemed to sparkle with love rather than chivalry, and were it not for a young moustache and goatee that he usually wore, he would have passed for a beautiful girl. In his manner he was as simple and guileless as a child, and generous almost to a fault. Enlisting in the First Arkansas Regiment as a private soldier, and serving for twelve months as orderly sergeant; at the reorganization he was elected colonel of the regiment, and afterwards, on account of merit and ability, was commissioned brigadier-general; distinguishing himself for conspicuous bravery and gallantry on every battlefield, and being "scalped" by a minnie ball at Richmond, Kentucky— which scar marks its furrow on top of his head today. In every battle he was engaged in, he led his men to victory, or held the enemy at bay, while the surge of battle seemed against us; he always seemed the successful general, who would snatch victory out of the very jaws of defeat. In every battle, Polk's brigade, of Cleburne's division, distinguished itself, almost making the name of Cleburne as the Stonewall of the West. Polk was to Cleburne what Murat or the old guard was to Napoleon. And, at the battle of Chickamauga, when it seemed that the Southern army had nearly lost the battle, General Lucius E. Polk's brigade made the most gallant charge of the war, turning the tide of affairs, and routing the Yankee army. General Polk himself led the charge in person, and was the first man on top of the Yankee breastworks (vide General D. H. Hill's report of the battle of Chickamauga), and in every attack he had the advance guard, and in every retreat, the rear guard of the army. Why? Because General Lucius E. Polk and his brave soldiers never faltered, and with him as leader, the general commanding the army knew that "all was well."

Well, this evening of which I now write, the litter corps ran up and placed him on a litter, and were bringing him back through Company H, of our regiment, when one of the men was wounded, and I am not sure but another one was killed, and they let him fall to the ground. At that time, the Yankees seemed to know that they had killed or wounded a general, and tore loose their batteries upon this point. The dirt and rocks were flying in every direction, when Captain Joe P. Lee, Jim Brandon and myself, ran forward, grabbed up the litter, brought General Polk off the crest of the hill, and assisted in carrying him to the headquarters of General Cleburne. When we got to General Cleburne, he came forward and asked General Polk if he was badly wounded, and General Polk remarked, laughingly: "Well, I think I will be able to get a furlough now." This is a fact. General Polk's leg had been shot almost entirely off. I remember the foot part being twisted clear around, and lying by his side, while the blood was running through the litter in a perfect stream. I remember, also, that General Cleburne dashed a tear from his eye with his hand, and saying, "Poor fellow," at once galloped to the front, and ordered an immediate advance of our lines. Cleburne's division was soon engaged. Night coming on, prevented a general engagement, but we drove the Yankee line two miles.

"DEAD ANGLE"

The First and Twenty-seventh Tennessee Regiments will ever remember the battle of "Dead Angle," which was fought June 27th, on the Kennesaw line, near Marietta, Georgia. It was one of the hottest and longest days of the year, and one of the most desperate and determinedly resisted battles fought during the whole war. Our regiment was stationed on an angle, a little spur of the mountain, or rather promontory of a range of hills, extending far out beyond the main line of battle, and was subject to the enfilading fire of forty pieces of artillery of the Federal batteries. It seemed fun for the guns of the whole Yankee army to play upon this point. We would work hard every night to strengthen our breastworks, and the very next day they would be torn down smooth with the ground by solid shots and shells from the guns of the enemy. Even the little trees and bushes which had been left for shade, were cut down as so much stubble. For more than a week this constant firing had been kept up against this salient point. In the meantime, the skirmishing in the valley below resembled the sounds made by ten thousand wood-choppers.

Well, on the fatal morning of June 27th, the sun rose clear and cloudless, the heavens seemed made of brass, and the earth of iron, and as the sun began to mount toward the zenith, everything became quiet, and no sound was heard save a peckerwood on a neighboring tree, tapping on its old trunk, trying to find a worm for his dinner. We all knew it was but the dead calm that precedes the storm. On the distant hills we could plainly see officers dashing about hither and thither, and the Stars and Stripes moving to and fro, and we knew the Federals were making preparations for the mighty contest. We could hear but the rumbling sound of heavy guns, and the distant tread of a marching army, as a faint roar of the coming storm, which was soon to break the ominous silence with the sound of conflict, such as was scarcely ever before heard on this earth. It seemed that the archangel of Death stood and looked on with outstretched wings, while all the earth was silent, when all at once a hundred guns from the Federal line opened upon us, and for more than an hour they poured their solid and chain shot, grape and shrapnel right upon this salient point, defended by our regiment alone, when, all of a sudden, our pickets jumped into our works and reported the Yankees advancing, and almost at the same time a solid line of blue coats came up the hill. I discharged my gun, and happening to look up, there was the beautiful flag of the Stars and Stripes flaunting right in my face, and I heard John Branch, of the Rock City Guards, commanded by Captain W. D. Kelly, who were next Company H, say, "Look at that Yankee flag; shoot that fellow; snatch that flag out of his hand!" My pen is unable to describe the scene of carnage and death that ensued in the next two hours. Column after column of Federal soldiers were crowded upon that line, and by referring to the history of the war you will find they were massed in column forty columns deep; in fact, the whole force of the Yankee army was hurled against this point, but no sooner would a regiment mount our works than they were shot down or surrendered, and soon we had every "gopher hole" full of Yankee prisoners. Yet still the Yankees came. It seemed impossible to check the onslaught, but every man was true to his trust, and seemed to think that at that moment the whole responsibility of the Confederate government was rested upon his shoulders. Talk about other battles, victories, shouts, cheers, and triumphs, but in comparison with this day's fight, all others dwarf into insignificance. The sun beaming down on our uncovered heads, the thermometer being one hundred and ten degrees in the shade, and a solid line of blazing fire right from the muzzles of the Yankee guns being poured right into our very faces, singeing our hair and clothes, the hot blood of our dead and wounded spurting on us, the blinding smoke and stifling