third paper—nashville
by john trotwood moore
no road is so typical of the middle basin as that lying between franklin and nashville. for ten miles it winds around in the lowland basins or over the intervening ridges, amid fields as fertile as ever yielded their increase to the husbandman’s plow. on each side the low hill ranges lie, blue or brown, as the sun happens to fall on them. fertile to their very tops are these hills, green in grain or grasses, or darker green in richer foliage. in this the middle basin, through which for nearly a hundred miles from nashville to pulaski, this historic road runs, the country is different from any in the south. sea shells lie on the tops of the hills—sea shells rich in lime and phosphorus. every foot of this road is rich in history and tradition. down it rode jackson, time and again, from his home at the hermitage, not many miles away. here, also, rode polk and grundy and sam houston and crockett. an old man told me a story about james k. polk which i have never seen in print. he said that in the memorable campaign for the governorship of tennessee between james k. polk and lean jimmie jones, in 1840 (in which campaign it is said that jones, who was the greatest stump orator of his day, and the father of that style of oratory, almost drove the statesman polk from the hustings), there was a mutual agreement between the candidates that polk should speak at franklin and jones at columbia, in the wind-up, the day before the election. columbia was polk’s home, and not very solid for him at that. the friends of polk devised a scheme to give him the advantage by making two speeches in a day. so he made his speech early in franklin and had saddled and ready a thoroughbred horse, which he mounted after his speech, and galloped to spring hill. there he took a fresh horse and rode furiously to columbia, arriving in time to reply to jones’ speech. but my informant, who was an old line whig, informed me that though the future president made record-breaking time in his race down the pike, he lost in votes when it became known that he had broken his agreement and played a trick on lean jimmie. jones defeated him for governor.
but the greatest of all the history made on this pike was made by the two armies of hood and schofield, as they swept over it in the early days of december, 1864, and then swept back again. the situations were exactly reversed, making a wave of war which ebbed and flowed, carrying on its crest the foam of wounds and death and woe. continuing the story from hood’s invasion from our last issue, schofield’s army reached nashville after the battle of franklin, early in the morning of december 1, 1864, and there united with thomas. other detachments had been called in, including gen. a. j. smith, aggregating nearly 12,000 men, and later steedman, with 5,200 more. milroy and granger, with 8,000 troops, were ordered to murfreesboro, and placed under the command of general rousseau. according to general cox (the march to the sea—franklin and nashville. jacob d. cox, page 100), general thomas had in nashville on the morning of november 30, 26,200 men. to these add schofield’s army of 34,000 men, and it will be seen at a glance what hood’s disheartened and stricken army had to fight, and thomas, a virginian, in command, with the bulldog tenacity of grant and the courage of hood.
if franklin had been desperate, what could hood do now, with the heart of them dead in his brave men, with sorrow in their hearts for comrades who slept in trenches under the sod of franklin, and beloved commanders who, now being dust, were but a week before pictured forever between the sky and the bastions of steel as they rode over the breastworks to death? even in the heart of the starved and the hardened lives memory—and what memory must have been theirs in the sleet and cold of those bitter december nights, while waiting for thomas to come forth from his warmth and food to give battle. if franklin had been a desperate case, was not this worse—the combined forces of thomas and schofield, smith and steedman? anyone but hood would have stopped and thought, but hood never thought.
“in truth,” says cox, in the history already quoted, “hood’s situation was a very difficult one, and to go forward or to go back was almost equally unpromising. he followed his natural bent, therefore, which always favored the appearance, at least, of aggression, and he marched after schofield to nashville.” hood put lee’s corps in the center across the franklin turnpike; cheatham took the right, and stewart the left of the line, while forrest, with his cavalry, occupied the country between stewart and the river below nashville.”
general van dorn’s headquarters, near spring hill, where general van dorn was shot to death by one dr. peters for an alleged familiarity with the latter’s wife. peters walked friendly into van dorn’s office, obtained a pass from the general to go through the line, shot him, jumped on a horse and escaped to the federal line.
here, from the first days of december until the 15th, much of the time in sleet and rain, hood’s half starved veterans awaited the oncoming of thomas’ well fed and well seasoned troops. such a meeting could scarcely be termed a battle, however bravely the long, thin lines might hold out, and however desperately they might fight. hood grimly made two stands, but his gray lines, outflanked and outfought, melted away into a disorganized rush, back through mud and slush and freezing rain to the tennessee. and now, back again, over the same highway, rush the two armies. truly this historic highway was baptized in blood. the weather was cold now, sleeting. when it thawed there was slush, and when it froze, needles of ice for bare and bloody feet. no army since valley forge suffered as did hood’s brave men. truly, the men who could follow hood back to the tennessee, in the biting cold and hunger of those days, in the numbness which knows that all was lost, and the sorrow for those who marched no more, truly, the stock of that kind who fought it to a finish, might well survive that their heroic tribe might be given as a future pledge for the perpetuity of the republic.
two things alone saved hood from annihilation: the lack of real generalship in his pursuers, who failed to push their advantage to a finish, and the intrepid genius of forrest, who covered hood’s retreat. had johnston got sherman, had lee got mcclellan in the fix hood was now in, the map of the union would be painted to-day in two colors.
of forrest’s skill in saving hood’s army, general cox pays tribute in the following paragraph, when he says: “at columbia, forrest rejoined hood, and his cavalry, with an infantry rear guard, under command of general walthall, covered the retreat to the tennessee.... this force was able to present so strong a front that ... our advance guard was not able to break through.” but the freezing, pitiless retreat of a brave, broken army, who had gone into this pike of battles fit to fight for a kingdom, who had done more than any similar body of men had ever done before, in facing snow and sleet and hunger and bastions of steel and the entrenched thousands of a well-fed city’s troops, and now went out under the fatal inefficiency of him who led them, is one of the great tragic stories of the lost cause.
forever will this historic highway run between sloping hills and sinking valleys, from the basin’s rim to the tennessee; forever will it girdle with protecting arms the swelling glories of its maiden hills. the sentinel rows of corn land, the massed squadrons of wheat, forever will follow the line of its march, helmeted in tassle-caps, sheathed in scabbard sheafs, with meshes of gold and gilt, while from the forts of its over-towering hills orchards of apples will drop their balls of gold where once contending cannon hurled theirs of steel. forever and forever, a tribute and a lesson to all time that brother no more shall kill brother in the dawning glory of a new age and a new union. but never again will it see the equal of that desperate courage, that sacrifice for conscience, that valor for home and country as each saw it, as shown by these two armies which swept north and south in glory and in gloom.
trotwood does not like to end anything in gloom and sorrow, and so will end this sketch of this historical highway with some cavalry yarns he has picked up from the old survivors of this and other battles.
several years ago, at a confederate reunion, he found himself among a group of interesting talkers—men who had been makers of history in this great struggle. all of them have now joined their comrades who had gone before—and right worthily they went, as their life’s record will show. among that number was gen. w. h. jackson, the owner of belle meade, then the most famous thoroughbred nursery in america.
some cavalry yarns.
on his left was the state’s chief executive, governor turney, or “old pete,” as the big brained and big framed fellow under the slouch hat was familiarly called by every schoolboy in the state. other congenial spirits were around, high in social and political circles, drawn by the annual reunion of confederate veterans. some war yarns had passed around and general jackson, who was a brilliant cavalry leader himself, was explaining how efficient the cavalry service was. the general himself fought through the war and thought that the best horses in the world for cavalry purposes were those with a good dash of thoroughbred in them. jackson himself rode thoroughbreds all through the war. so did fitz-hugh lee, of virginia; john h. morgan, the famous raider, and many others.
“i remember the time i longed for one mighty bad,” quietly remarked an alabama colonel present, as he knocked the ashes off his cigar and smiled at the turn the story was taking. “it was around vicksburg, in the trenches, and grant was crowding us day and night. we lived on raw beef and such dogs as happened to stray out of the city, and were begrimed, dirty, half starved and homesick. right next to us in the trenches was a tennessee company, whose captain always managed to ride around on a black thoroughbred horse, as handsome a creature as you ever saw, and which he kept slick and fat and curried always—though the lord only knows where he got his rations from. i watched that fellow and soon caught onto his game. every time the yankees would crowd us pretty close, and it looked as if we would have to surrender anyhow in the teeth of such overwhelming numbers, this fellow’s horse would get frightened and, in spite of all his owner’s endeavors, would break away with him to the rear. one day the fight got terribly hot, our lines were cut nearly in two, they swarmed over the breastworks, it was a hand-to-hand fight. to add to the demoralization, here came this captain on his black horse, going to the rear by the lines like wild, pulling like hercules on his horse’s mouth to stop him, and shouting back as he flew along:
“‘gentlemen, i can’t stop him—he is running away!’
“‘hould on, captain,’ shouted an irishman in our line, as he jumped up and waved his cap at the horse and rider, ‘hould on! i’ll give you a thousan’ dollars to tell me where i can get another one of that breed of horses that you can’t hould when he starts to the rear.’
“the yankees took the shout of laughter that followed pat’s exclamation for the rebel yell and we got a breathing spell at our end of the line for a couple of hours.”
nashville and columbia pike in front of the cheairs’ place, near spring hill, where the battle would have been fought had not hood’s plans miscarried.
“that reminds me of sam watkins,” said a gentleman present. “the same sam that wrote that inimitable book on the war called “company h”—the best book i ever read on the war, for it came nearer to painting it in its true, horrible colors than any of them. sam tells the story as he went through it, from the standpoint of a common soldier, and the motto of his volume seems to have been general sherman’s laconic remark that “war is hell.” if the young idiots ever get up a notion to fight again, sam watkins’ ‘company h’ will do more to stop them than anything i know of. anyway, just before the battle of shiloh sam found himself mounted on the stubbornest mule that ever went to war. he would charge grant’s whole army when the bugle sounded retreat, and would proceed to fall precipitately back when there wasn’t an enemy in a hundred miles. on the first day at shiloh, when johnston’s army was rushing over everything before night, and buell came, sam’s mule suddenly decided to retreat—and retreat he did, much to sam’s mortification and disgust. as he went back full tilt he ran over a gun with four horses attached and before he recovered from the shock of the collision to know which way his rear end was, sam tied a rope to his neck and the other end of the rope to the caisson’s axle, and having mounted again he got the artilleryman to literally haul his muleship into battle. the fight was nearly over when they finally got to the front, and, general johnston being killed, beauregard had ordered a cessation of hostilities till morning. but it suddenly dawned on sam’s mule that he was expected to charge, and no sooner was he released than he straightened his neck, and before his rider could dismount, straightened his tail, brayed once and charged grant’s whole army, penned up on the banks of the tennessee river, and madder than a gored bull in a fence corner. sam’s captain didn’t understand the mule’s maneuvers, and as he went by shouted to his men:
“‘look at brave sam watkins, boys, charging right in the cannon’s mouth.’
the martin place, near spring hill, tennessee, one of the finest farms in the state, formerly the gibson farm, and the first home of tom hal in maury county; also historically associated with hood’s raid.
“‘it ain’t me chargin’, captain,’ shouted poor sam, as he pulled away with all his might to keep out of certain death—‘it ain’t me. i ain’t such a fool as that. it’s this damned old mule! whoa, baalam, whoa!’
“i don’t know how that is,” remarked a colonel who had seen hard service on foot, “but i do know that we infantry fellows had a holy contempt of all cavalrymen. at the battle of murfreesboro i was badly wounded in the leg and arm, and for days i could scarcely walk. as i was hobbling back to the rear on the third day after the fight, i met my brother mounted. as soon as he saw my condition he got down, helped me up on his horse and told me how to ride out to find the hospital surgeon. now, in our brigade, we had a standing reward of a thousand dollars for anybody who would show us a dead cavalryman. i had forgotten all about this when all at once i rode into a texas regiment camping and fixing for supper. my arm was in a sling, and from my drooping position it was plain i was wounded. as soon as they saw me one of them yelled out:
“‘run here, boys, run quick, and see the curiosity of the century. here is a wounded cavalryman!’
the lane of the lost opportunity, near spring hill, tennessee, where hood came so near cutting off schofield.
“and before i could get on they had surrounded me and proceeded to make life a greater burden. in vain i tried to explain; as far as i went i heard only one yell:
“‘look at the wonder of the century! here is a real wounded cavalryman. sonny, how in the world did you ever get that close to a bullet?’ and so on. i got off of that horse as soon as i could and never tried to play cavalry again during the war.”
“i think it pretty well established,” remarked general jackson, “that the greatest cavalry leader of the confederacy was gen. n. b. forrest. his career was a curious one, as illustrating the heights to which a natural genius, uneducated though it may be, can go in its chosen path. he had twenty-nine horses, in all, killed under him during the war, and yet came out unhurt save when a minie ball one day ploughed through his stirrup and the sole of his boot. after the war, in which he rose to be a lieutenant-general, his fame as a cavalry leader had spread so far that during the franco-prussian war, napoleon iii sent a distinguished military tribunal over here to get general forrest’s mode of fighting cavalry. on their way to memphis they stopped over at belle meade to inspect my stud, and as i had seen a good deal of service with forrest i was telling them of some of his ways of fighting cavalry. only one of them could speak english, and i remember how the other two laughed as i told their interpreter how forrest escaped annihilation by pure audacity, on hood’s retreat out of tennessee, of whose army his cavalry covered the retreat. forrest’s cavalry was really mounted infantry, and he had in it also two of the deadliest batteries in the civil war. on hood’s retreat he saved the army by planting his batteries and checking the federal advance—then, when they came in overpowering numbers he would fall back to another natural hill breastwork and check them again, while hood was trying to get over duck river. but one time he came near being annihilated. he held his ground too long when suddenly an officer dashed up and shouted:
“‘general! general, we are ruined! the enemy is in our rear. we will have to surrender! what shall we do?’
“‘do? do?’ shouted forrest, as he cursed the officer for a chicken-hearted coward. ‘is that all you know about war? what will i do? in my rear, are they? well, i’ll just about face and then i’ll be in them, won’t i?’ and he did, capturing more prisoners than he could take into the tennessee river with him. the french committee were highly amused, and said such a course would never have been thought of in european warfare. i afterwards learned that the only information they got from forrest on their visit was his now historic answer to their question as to what was his rule of warfare, to which he answered, ‘there ain’t but one rule—i always tried to git thar fust with the most men.’ now, the thoroughbred horse is the best horse in tennessee to ’git thar fust’ on,’” laughed the general, “unless it is one of trotwood’s pacers,” he said, as he winked my way, “and the only reason they are fit for anything is because they are built on the best kind of thoroughbred lines, as he has admitted time and again.”
“i remember a laughable incident on hood’s retreat at a small creek between nashville and columbia,” said another old soldier present. “it was early morning, cold and sleety. we had waded the creek, but had to go back to help pull the artillery over. as we came out of the mud and water, a long line of us tugging at a gun, a lank, solemn soldier walked up on the bank, drew himself up with great dignity, and in a sepulchral voice said: “fellow citizens!”
instantly every man stopped and listened for some important announcement.
“fellow citizens,” went on the man, in a deep, earnest tone, “aftah much reflection an’ mature deliberation, i have decided that south carolina was a little too hasty.”
he was so solemn and earnest that he was greeted with a big laugh and shout.
