I was not planning to do a second post on the Battle of Franklin today, but I literally just found the article below in The Evening Repository (Canton, Ohio), and it was too good not to share:
In August 1886, Samuel B. Watts attended the reunion of the 104th Ohio Infantry in Meyer’s Lake, Ohio. The event was a notable occasion for Watts, as he was made an honorary member of the 104th Ohio by the unanimous agreement of the veterans of the regiment. This was a rather unusual occurrence, for 22 years earlier Captain Samuel B. Watts had been an officer in the 10th Mississippi Infantry, and had been captured at the Battle of Franklin, Tennessee by the 104th Ohio.
When Watts was captured, he surrendered his sword to Captain Shepherd M. Knapp, commander of Company D, 104th Ohio Infantry. As the Rebel captain turned over the blade he asked a favor of his captor: that at the end of the war, if they were both still living, that his sword be returned. Captain Knapp agreed to the request, and in 1886 he made good on his promise, contacting Watts at his home in Meridian, Mississippi, and arranging for him to attend the 104th Ohio’s reunion so that the sword could be returned in a formal ceremony.
A.J. Ricks, a lieutenant in the 104th Ohio, made the presentation address, and told Captain Watts that Knapp “has asked me on his behalf to return this sword, so worthily borne by a gallant foe, and so honorably lost in what was almost literally, the last ditch of the war in the west. You won the right to reclaim it because of your gallantry on the field when it was fairly lost and won. Take it as the gift of a brave Union soldier and keep it as a new evidence of the fact that forever hereafter, as always heretofore, the brave soldiers of the North will bear, as they have borne, respect and good will for those of the brave soldiers of the South who have manfully accepted the results of the war.”
After Watts took possession of the sword he was called on to make some remarks to the crowd. He told his fellow veterans, “I can scarcely realize that I stand today in the midst of men in whose midst I stood nearly twenty-two years ago. I was on that memorable occasion your most unwilling captive. I am today your willing captive. I am here in response to a most pressing, and, I am sure, hearty invitation from your worthy president, who expressed a desire to return to me in person the sword which has just been handed me, with an accompaniment of beautiful words from the lovely daughter (unborn at the date of the surrender of the sword) of a brave and noble father, in redemption of a promise made when he received it on the battlefield of Franklin. I compromise no principle for which I fought in my conduct on this occasion; I was not in the army of conquest nor invasion – we fought for what we believed to be right and in defense of our homes and institutions. You recognized our honesty of purpose and the bravery of our soldiers. When I became your prisoner I was treated by true soldiers as a soldier…I again thank you most heartily for your kind reception and bid you one and all good-bye. I hope to meet you on another reunion occasion.”
I don’t know if Captain Watts ever attended another reunion of the 104th Ohio, but if he didn’t, it certainly was not from the lack of opportunities: the old soldier lived until 1931, passing away on January 8. He is buried in Rose Hill Cemetery in Meridian, Mississippi.
Today is the 149th Anniversary of the Battle of Franklin, Tennessee, and it is appropriate that I should remember this date on my blog, as it was the final battle of the Civil War for hundreds of Mississippians. I found the following article recently, and I think it sums up very well the importance that the survivors of the battle attached to the clash of arms that took place at Franklin, Tennessee, on November 30, 1864:
THE BATTLE OF FRANKLIN – THE BLOODIEST OF THE WAR
To the Editor of The Republic
St. Louis, Aug. 1 – I noticed in last Sunday’s Republic an article comparing the losses at Gettysburg with the charge of
the “Light Brigade” at Balaclava, showing that the former exceed the latter. I desire to call your attention to the greatest loss that was sustained in a given time in the Civil War. This was at the battle of Franklin, Tenn., November 30, 1864, where the Confederates, under the command of General Cockrell, now Senator of Missouri, were literally wiped out, and where General Walthall, with his Mississippians, never retreated, but died as near the last ditch as could be; where Generals Granberry and Strahl, with their Texans lying around, were found sitting up erect in death, with their swords in hand, as if they commanded the ghastly crew around them; where Pat Cleburne and his mare were pierced with 49 bullets; were Gist of South Carolina led his veterans, not to conquer, but to die.
At Gettysburg Lee had 75,000 men, of which number 3,500 were killed in three days’ fighting. At Franklin Hood had 20,000 men, of whom 1,750 were killed in two hours’ fighting. At Gettysburg there were no bloody bayonets, but at Franklin the Twelfth and Sixteenth Kentucky regiments and Updyke’s brigade of Illinois and Ohio boys had their bayonets literally covered with blood. The Missouri Union troops, namely, the Fifteenth, under the command of Colonel Conrades, and the Forty-fourth, under the command of Colonel Barr, a new one-year regiment, lost fearfully in the battle. The Fourty-forth Missouri, over _00 men, went into the battle. Next morning at roll call the regiment was composed 0f 365, officers and men. Thus the Americans, both Federal and Confederate, and the foreigners of the Fifteenth Missouri, a Swiss organization, showed that they could die for their country. Not since powder was invented has there been such a bloody battle (the battle of Borodino, on September 7, 1813, before Moscow, not excepted) as the battle of Franklin, on November 30, 1864.
In this battle were six Confederate Generals killed, six wounded, and one taken prisoner.
Frederick W. Fout
– St. Louis Republic, August 7, 1898
Frederick W. Fout was well qualified to speak on the ferocity of the Battle of Franklin; a veteran of over a dozen major battles, he was the recipient of a Medal of Honor for his gallantry at Harper’s Ferry in 1862 . His unit, the 15th Independent Battery, Indiana Light Artillery, was posted on the high ground near Fort Granger, overlooking the battlefield. From this spot Fout had a ringside seat to watch one of the bloodiest engagements of the Western theater.
By the time of the Battle of Franklin, Mississippi General Edward C. Walthall had moved up to division command, and
his former brigade, made up of the 24th, 27th, 29th, 30th, and 34th Mississippi regiments, was being led by General William F. Brantley. From his battery’s position, Fout would probably have been able to witness the Mississippian’s attack on the Union left flank, and seen the terrible casualties inflicted on the Confederates. Brantley’s brigade had 76 men killed, 140 wounded, and 21 missing in the Battle of Franklin.
In the winter of 1865, President Andrew Johnson declared a day of celebration would be observed throughout the
newly reunited nation on December 7. In Mississippi, the former citizens of the Confederacy, mourning both a lost nation and many lost loved ones, the call for a day of Thanksgiving was mostly ignored. One newspaper editor, however, felt this was the wrong course, and made his argument on the pages of his publication:
We copy the following manly and sensible article from the ‘Canton Citizen.’ We are always glad to see the paper, for its editor is, in his writing, a man after our own heart:
THANKSGIVING DAY – IT WAS NOT OBSERVED.
Thursday, the seventh day of December, the day set apart by Andrew Johnson, President of the United States, as a day of thanksgiving ‘for the mercies of God, and for the blessings of peace,’ came duly around and occupied its appropriate place in the calendar. It’s bright sunlight, so grateful a contrast to the day preceding, and its stirring invigorating atmosphere, were well calculated to inspire feelings of gladness and thankfulness. But the shops were all kept open, and the marts of trade frequented as usual. The bell of but one church sounded out its invitation to worship, and its call was obeyed by two pious souls beside the pastor.
How is this? Why is this? Have we nothing to be thankful for as a people, as individuals? Yes, all will admit the causes of gratitude and praise to Almighty God are innumerable: but some say, ‘we do not recognize the propriety of the call to give thanks by our captors, those at whose hands we have received such insults and injuries. What they think causes of gratitude, are, to us, rather sources of lamentation.’
It is all true that we have had the issues of this war far different from what it is; it is true that our fondest hopes were based, like the value of your money, on the ‘ratification of a treaty of peace between the Confederate States and the United States of America,’ achieved by the success of our arms. But this never came, never can come. We weep over our failure; our hearts are buried with our noble dead, and though their lives were sacrificed for nought, at least as far as success was concerned, yet will they ever live in our memories, and to them will ever be accorded the highest, the most glorious niche in our Temple of Fame. we have no sort of fellow-feeling, whatever with the man who has been in the South for four years past, whose heart does not beat in living sympathy with everything Confederate. Its failure was ours, its sorrows were ours; its bereavements fell in common upon us all; its glories – and, nothwithstanding its failure, it has glories, bright, undying glories – are ours, and inspire a joyful thrill in our hearts.
Now, this very commendable spirit which enshrines in our hearts the memory of our departed heroes, and makes us glad and willing to assume, and heroically bear up what the world may choose to call the obloquy of our course, illy comports with the sham of surrendering to our captors, of laying down our arms at their feet, and protesting we will not take them up again, and at the same time in all matters, where we dare do it, disregarding their authority, and acting as if we were separate people.
A truly brave man when he is overpowered and cries enough, is done with the thing: if an agreement is made between him and his adversary, though it is distasteful to him, he keeps it in good faith; he would realize that to speak evil of the compact, and go as far toward breaking it as he dare, would not only be ignoble, but would also do himself harm. After he failed after an honest effort, he submits and makes the best of it.
So it should be with our Confederacy. We have been overpowered; we have asked to be taken back into the Union; we have sued for executive clemency; and we will brand ourselves as hypocrites and craven spirits if we do not adjust ourselves, as far as we can, to our changed condition, and carry out in good faith our part of the agreement.
Once, it was noble, it was brave, it was righteous, to be a rebel to the core, to indulge no feeling of compromise with the people at war with us, but that time is past; by our consent we are citizens of the government against which we rebelled, and to keep up the old feelings of animosity now, is acting in bad faith; it is wicked and ungenerous.
If it is right to go to Washington City and implore Andy Johnson’s pardon, and his restoration of property, thus acknowledging his authority, then it was also right to acknowledge the propriety of his appointing a day of Thanksgiving, and, as a Christian and sincere people, to have observed it in good faith, giving thanks to Almighty God for the blessings he has sent and for the curses he has averted.
– Reprinted in the Natchez Daily Courier, December 19, 1865
In the winter of 1864, General Sherman’s bummers were tearing apart the Confederate heartland in their march from Atlanta to the sea. The Confederate Army of Tennessee lacked the numbers to stop them. Instead, General John Bell Hood turned his Rebels north, hoping that a victory in Tennessee might turn the tide of the war.
I found the following article in The Daily Clarion (Meridian, Miss.) October 28, 1864, written by an unknown soldier the day that the Army of Tennessee began their last great campaign of the war. The thing that strikes me about this missive is how optimistic the writer is; he still believes the war can be won. The missed opportunity at Spring Hill; the terrible slaughter at Franklin; the rout of the Army of Tennessee at Nashville; none of these disasters had happened yet.
Here is the letter of a hopeful soldier of the Army of Tennessee, known only as “Shirley:”
Gadsden, Ala., Saturday Night, October 22, 1864.
The army has moved. The troops are gone. The last train has disappeared, and the last soldier has taken his farewell peep of the south side of the Coosa. The shadows of night creep slowly over the scene, and the stars look down in vain for the camp-fires that answered but yesternight their own resplendent glitters:
‘The bridge is up, and the channel flows an impassable flood betwixt us and them.’
You may hear, indeed, the clink of a few rusty chains, which are left behind; you may see, indeed, dim outlines of a few old wagons, that did not cross the stream, and now and then you may meet a stray quartermaster or teamster groping about in the gloom; but the great caravan, with its wild menagerie, has passed beyond the stretch of eye and ear, and has left the world of Gadsden ‘in darkness and to me.’
On yesterday Stewart’s corps marched out in the van. It was followed by Lee, or rather Dick Taylor, who occupies the
centre; and to day at dawn the delighted Tennesseans under Cheatham crossed the river Jordan or Coosa. (May they not find it a hard road to travel!) The transportation quickly followed, and at noon the pontoon was taken up and also hurried forward after the troops.
What does it mean? It has but one signification. That is ‘forward.’ Gen. Hood has at last struck the right chord, and comprehends the true policy. No matter what the critics may say – no matter what the books may say – no matter what silence may say – we lose more in retreat than we do in advancing. The nature of our troops demands action, and they will not bear retrograde. General Cheatham was quite unwell when he mounted to follow his corps, ‘but,’ said he, ‘we are going home now, and I’ll strap myself to my saddle before they shall leave me behind.’ Gen. Beauregard is with Gen. Hood. Every general officer is at his post, and the spirit and morale of the men unbounded.
We shall cross the Tennessee river, as is generally believed, near Guntersville, at about to-morrow night and the next day. The weather is delicious and the roads good. The days are just cool enough to make a tramp of thirty miles a healthful exercise, and the nights not too cold for sound and happy slumbers by great log heaps. The country is clad in her gayest suit to greet the soldiers as they pass, and to cheer the soldiers as they pass, and to cheer them on to the land of milk and honey. What pleasant benedictions the boughs of chestnut, beech, and maple, which clasp their hands above the marching columns, cast down upon the soldier’s head, and how these deepening tints of ‘orange, scarlet, and apple green’ remind him of home and peace! May God in His infinite mercy and grace, send to these brave men, who have toiled so long and so faithfully, Home and Peace!
At the time I posted the article I noted that Foote was a prolific author, and there were probably other manuscripts of his waiting to be found. Well, I was correct. The following reminiscence about the siege of Petersburg, Virginia, was written by Foote and published in The Clarion (Jackson, Mississippi), on September 10, 1884:
The Death Grapple at Petersburg! Last Days of Harris’ Mississippi Brigade
July and August were dry and sultry; water was scarce, and hard to get at. The picket post suffered the most this way, until we sank several wells in our trenches, and then we had pretty fair water. On out post duty we were not allowed the little shelter tents so common to both armies; as when erected they might impede our efforts to resist a surprise of the post. So we had to sweat it out the best we could. One day a commotion amongst our neighbors in blue across the way attracted our attention; and we saw a Federal soldier speeding across the fields toward Fort Sedgewick with a
number of canteens on. He was after water, and braved our shots for the precious liquid. Fire was opened on him, more on the impulse of the moment than anything else, and my messmate upset him; he made several attempts to rise, but could not, and finally fell back, and lay quiet. A few minutes afterwards we noticed a stretcher, such as used to carry off the wounded, raised from behind a pit; we knew that they wanted to go out and bring in the wounded man. We yelled to ‘go ahead, we won’t shoot,’ and taking us at our word, four of them made their way out and carried the man into the pine timber around Sedgewick. While this was going on, both picket lines watched the act of humanity; and neither attempted fire upon the other, though both were greatly exposed.
Life on the picket line was the same every day, varied by such incidents as these. Life in the trenches proper was burdensome; none were allowed to be idle for a long time. Huge traverses forty feet high, twelve feet thick, and one
hundred feet long, were reared to destroy the enfilade fire of the enemy’s batteries. Day and night we labored until the huge crib of earth was completed; and then feeling safe we became careless and idle. The rear of our works were dug out and widened. Three steps or platforms carried you up to the level of the works when necessary. In this wide trench we lived; our little shelters were erected; they being so much lower than the breastworks, we felt less danger than common. Before the traverses were finished, we were greatly disturbed by a Rodman gun which had an enfilade fire upon us. The gun was about one mile distant and the gunners were wonderfully accurate in their shots. We called it the ‘greased lightning gun,’ because the ball would come whistling be before we heard the sound. That gun has often made us scatter pell-mell as its shell came bounding in amongst our tents, camp kettles and trunks of trees. It would strike a stump, glance off at right and left angles for a piece; strike something else, and go the contrary course, causing everything to get out of its way. Yells, whoops, cat-calls, dog-barks and cheers, greeted the erratic course of these contrivances of death. It would force a hasty exit of some lazy, slumbering soldier from its path, which in itself caused merriment. One round shot came bounding down the line scattering everything; it was ricocheting with consummate freaks of waywardness and meant business. As it struck in the 12th regiment they sounded the alarm, and we cleared the way. A German of our regiment remained in its path to look after a pot of coffee; and in attempting to dodge it ran plump against it; and his leg was taken off for his foolishness. The ball stopped near us, and spun around until it was as bright as a dollar. One Mike Hart put out his foot, to see if it still had much strength or devilment in it and found out to his sorrow that it did, for it had force enough to snap his ankle; and to-day he stumps along on a wooden leg. Such was life those days in the trenches. Something of this kind was frequently happening. ‘Chuck-your-luck’ was indulged in while bombs were bursting in the air, and the minnie would brush your hair as it whizzed by.
Editor’s Note: The Mike Hart mentioned above was a private in Company E, 48th Mississippi Infantry. According to his compiled service record, he was wounded at Petersburg, and admitted to the General Hospital on June 20, 1864. He was retired to the Invalid Corps on November 17, 1864, and assigned to duty at Columbus, Mississippi, the next month.
Five years of active service had care-hardened the men; and for a time they were indifferent to aught else but personal comforts. Heavy details finally completed the works, and we felt then well nigh impregnable. We never left the lines, only for a market trip to Petersburg. Provisions were too high for us to buy; but it did seem good to see them, even if we could not buy.
A common meal cost ten dollars. We fought for eleven dollars. One month’s hard fighting for a mess of potatoes, and rancid meat made into a stew, and covered with swarms of flies. Our wells furnished plenty of water, sweeps drew it out; an ammunition box made the bucket; a strap on a sapling made the rope; thus, we managed. We washed our clothes in the trenches; dried them there; ironed them there, by rubbing them around a smooth pole; and got our fuel from the slashings in front of the works, with which to boil the clothes, to kill the vermin, and then when boiled enough the kettle would be rinsed out. And beef – poor, stringy and onion flavored – would be boiled for rations. One vessel answered for many purposes. We rested secure. The works and traverses warded off the bullets and shells to some extent. Utter indifference stole over us; and we awaited the storm of battle to burst upon us. In time all fuel about us was consumed; and then details were made who hauled wood some five miles to us. It was allowanced out to squads. We dug a counter-mine toward Fort Sedgewick; but soon abandoned it; too much work for nothing so we thought. Shells flew overhead pretty thick, and afforded a source of revenue to the poor Confederate soldier, which in those hard times was indeed a God send; and that was gathering of iron fragments of bursted shells and the leaden balls that fell behind our lines in vast quantities and selling them to the junk dealers at Petersburg, who bought them up for the C.S. Government. It was no unwonted sight to see dozens of ragged Confederates digging, gouging, and gathering to themselves the precious fragments in heaps from the fields to our rear. Thousands of pounds of each were thus gotten, and disposed of at good figures; and the iron showers that bursted over-head proved a blessing in this respect; and brought sustenance to man, where it was intended to wreak destruction. The government had it worked over into shell and bullets which would be sent to us; and thus it returned to our foe to make death or be lost in the pines. The soldiers finally became so reckless that frequently orders had to be issued forbidding the men to gather the iron. I have seen dozens of soldiers racing after a huge mortar shell; they knew about where it would drop, and recklessly exposed themselves to secure the shell or its pieces. These shells would frequently not burst, and this was a prize eagerly striven for, as it realized about thirty dollars.
Between our lines and Petersburg was a pond in which we had some delightful baths; but the mortar guns got the range, and broke up the fun. None cared about being struck while in bathing, as he would drown before help would reach him. It was enjoyable to see dozens of the boys hurrying out of the water, as the dull explosion told the warning to look out for shells; and they would flatten themselves naked to the ground to escape the shell.
The ingenuity of many of the soldiers was wonderful in providing personal comforts. Two usually bunked together, one man’s rations furnished the morning meal; the other the evening one. Blacking was made out of fine charcoal dust, set with sorgum syrup. It answered well enough; but drew myriads of flies. Shoes were patched and soled with the flap of cartridge boxes taken from some field of victory. The shoes furnished by the C.S. Government were utterly worthless. In many instances the leather would be green; and shoes of this make in wet weather showed a disposition to reverse _____ for the sole would certainly get on top; and the heel be opposite the ankle. The English shoes had a thin leather sole; and the filling was of paper; they answered well enough in camp and for cavalry; but for marches they were worthless. Our clothes were of every grade, copperas-hued pants would be patched behind with a large heart-shape patch of ‘Yankee blue,’ and contrasting oddly. No full uniform was to be seen amongst the soldiers of the line. A store shirt was a luxury, and one I owned was frequently borrowed by the gallants of the regiment when they called on the fair citizens of Petersburg. It was of course cotton with a pink plaitee or ruffled bosom. That was a shirt in those times. A blue half cotton shirt sent from home was sold in Petersburg for thirty-five dollars. Our uniforms, or what was intended for such, were of every description of material and cut. We used flannel nearly altogether, as it saved washing.
We could not get soap, handy, and generally traded on the picket post with the Federals. We drew an abundance of the best tobacco, and this being scarce and dear with our Northern friends, we could drive a bargain easy enough. If one-half the ways and means adopted by the Southern soldier for his personal comfort were known it would instruct and amuse. It showed how he adapted himself to circumstances; and this very fact is one of the leading reasons why the Southerner was naturally a better soldier than the Northerner. Inspections seldom occurred during the siege; but a glance was all that was necessary to see that the arms were clean, bright, and ever ready. Much trouble was had with the soldiers of Lee’s army about the bayonet. The most stringent laws and punishments failed to force him to carry one. Finally each soldier was charged up with a bayonet on the roll and if he did not have one on pay day, it had to be paid for out of his hard earned eleven dollars. These men paid more attention to the rifle, than to a cumbersome, useless weapon, hence their repugnance.
On several occasions, Mississippi statesmen came out to camp, and addressed the brigade. Amongst them came one Colonel —–, a man of fertile brain and vivid imagination, otherwise a ‘crank.’ He addressed us on a pet hobby of his, that of making a wonderful arid monster in which to soar aloft, and with bombshells, and Greek fire, rain destruction on the Federal lines below. He claimed the scheme as practicable and grand; and presented recommendations from parties high in official circles. Two names I saw appended to this document encouraging it, would, if written here, be pronounced false. The Colonel only wanted one hundred thousand dollars to contrive and equip this wonder which he called ‘Artis Avis,’ or ‘The Bird of Art.’ We of the line ‘could not see’ the project in this view, that he wanted us to – that is, give something towards building the machine out of eleven dollars per month, promises to pay.
The latter days of July were characterized by intense and sultry heats. For comfort many of the boys would brave the deadly crack of the sharpshooter’s rifle in order to breathe the pure, fresh air. In spite of every day precedents they would insist upon erecting their little tents, in the open ground to our rear. Not unfrequently would it happen at roll call that some one was found beyond the reach of duty, pierced unto death while sleeping sweetly.
Such was the condition of affairs when the monotony of life in the trenches was broken by orders, the evening before July 29th, to man the entire length of the lines in our front by 4 o’clock in the morning. Having been quiet for some time before, all were of course more or less enervated, so when the hour rolled by on July 30th, the most obedient only obeyed the order. Some slowly and reluctantly fell into line, and with a yawn answered ‘here.’ Others, slept oblivious of duty, while friends answered for them, or a drowsy response came from their bunks. Weeks of inactivity had partly relaxed discipline. Besides they felt a consciousness that for a direct attack they had nothing to fear. The same state of affairs as regarded our strength of position prevailed with our commanders, and to the last days the judgement was sustained, as the line was never taken, but turned at Five Forks. Daylight of July 30th dawned upon a scene of activity, and bustle in the trenches. In vain we peered into the glimmering of daylight toward our enemy for signs; all was still. Even the picket line was unwontedly quiet; and gradually all sought easy positions and awaited. Another false alarm, we thought, to try the men, and see if they were prepared for a sudden irruption of the Federals on our works. To our left lay a portion of Beauregard’s army; beyond him, to Appomattox River, was a part of Gordon’s command, I believe. The country in front of our lines there was broken and rugged; ravines, washes and gullies afforded a front incapable of being assaulted with any certainty of success. While we lay nodding for a few minutes against the breast-works, catching cat-naps and indulging in reveries of loved ones in sunny Mississippi, some one cried out, ‘Look yonder!’ As we did so we saw a dark, heavy mass of matter; smoke and flame ascending high into the air, and accompanied with a rumbling noise; in an instant more it began falling. A mine had been sprung under a fort; and the order to man the lines, emanating the evening before, showed that our commander knew before hand, and had used the precaution to have his troops prepared for action. The debris had scarcely settled before every Federal gun that could be brought to bear upon the ruptured lines opened a terrific bombardment. We crouched close to our works to escape the fury of the storm of projectiles, and feeling secure we grinned defiance. The earth shook and trembled. The air was full of racing projectiles seething, hissing and bursting overhead flinging their splinters in every direction. The din that pierced the charge of Pickett at Gettysburg was nearly equalled here, gun for gun and shot for shell and showers of iron hail every where. The bulk of it fell upon the exploded lines, half a mile distant to our left. But we got a good share, to prevent our taking part in the recapture of the lines. We, as old soldiers, knew that an assault would shortly take place, for a heavy cannonade generally preceded an attack. We wished it to occur in our front, for a view was opened and fully a mile wide, and we knew that the whole Federal army could not drive us. The mortar guns in the pines around Fort Sedgewick soon joined in, and began dropping their shells lively, and most too accurately; some inside the works, some behind, and one fell right on top of the slope, tearing a deep hole, and filling everyone around with dirt. These mortar shells always created more demoralization than any other projectile. They could not be dodged. In front of the works was just as safe as the rear, or any place save distance. In fact for awhile the front seemed the safest place.
In the midst of the combat Gen. Mahone came down the lines and viewed with anxiety the surroundings; and gave some general orders. The General was in his fighting weight that day, ninety-seven pounds; and was clothed in a linen uniform of jacket and pants cut after a boy’s pattern, and made out of the material that composed the little shelter tents provided by Uncle Sam for the comfort of the ‘boys in blue and grey.’ He had scarcely left before orders put the division into line; and as the Alabamians moved off, we opened our ranks and covered their space, and so on until the entire length of the division was covered; and thus Harris’ Brigade occupied a mile or more front, and each individual
stood about forty feet apart, on the day of the battle of the Crater, July 30th. Our batteries were not idle, but kept the enemy employed. We awaited the denouement to our left, and when the shrill cries of the attacking force came above the din, we began to feel anxious; for what could we do, one man to defend forty feet; but we relied on our batteries to break the column if it came; but fully expecting at any time the order, to ‘about face,’ and engage the enemy, as he swept up the lines. The conflict at the Crater was raging now with fury. Cheers and yells alternately told of advantage. We knew exactly when Mahone got down to work; steady work of regular volleys of musketry, for his men always fought well under discipline. Our line to our rear was swarming with fugitives, many of whom we induced to remain with us and help defend the works if necessary. Others too badly demoralized to listen to duty, moved off in disregard of our taunts. Many of them presented a pitiable sight as dazed, and uncertain of what had occcured, they recounted the improbabilities of the explosion. No doubt wonderful escapes were had; bordering on exaggeration, and improbable. A tall, slabsided son of Carolina, in a woeful voice described to us, as he rested within our lines, of the effect of the ‘blow up.’ He said ‘he was cooking coffee, having arisen early according to orders; when all at once the ground all around him heaved up, and he saw and felt the fire and heat as it rushed by him, scorching him badly; he was thrown into the air, and fell into a pile of debris, but had sense enough to keep kicking, thus warding off much of the falling earth. Beside him lay a soldier with the upper part of his body buried, his legs sticking out, and working in vain efforts to get out; his sufferings soon ended, as death by suffocation ensued.’ Many poor wretches presented sickening sights, as flame scorched or powder-burnt, or crippled by heavy falls, they filed by us. Some were wild in their sufferings, and recklessly exposed themselves to the sharp-shooters now doubly venomous. We did what lay in our power for their relief and wondered at this new phase of warfare.
The battle, by 7 o’clock, was going all right, and Mahone’s men had the advantage; they were driving the blacks and whites pell-mell; and as they crossed the open field we saw the rush and fury of the battle A friend in Weiseiger’s brigade – Mahone’s old command – told us of the fight, and what he saw. ‘We understood through our officers,’ said he, ‘that no quarter was to be shown the nigger soldiers. That they had shown no mercy to the fallen Confederates; and none should be shown them – all must be lost – no prisoners must be reported.’ Continuing, he said: ‘We formed in several columns, and then advanced to the charge; as we crossed the rise of the ridge a furious fire was poured into us from all sides, which worked us up to a high pitch of desperation and frenzy.’ The idea of having to fight niggers, and perhaps our own, and seeing our comrades falling by their fire, was maddening; thus excited we swept irresistably forward. Their line was easily broken, and they were driven headlong back to the main line in and around the crater.
Amongst these they plunged and sought safety in the depths of the mine; and to hundreds of them proving their sepulture. The resistance offered, did not check the assault; the cry of ‘no quarter to the dam rebels!’ rang out at intervals, ‘and was answered by a shot or a stab with the bayonet at some poor devil of a negro who fell into our hands. Gradually we approached the very edge of the gap, and saw it seething with frenzied human beings; some fighting; some crying for mercy, for help; and others, ‘no quarter!’ Thus they struggled for room or shelter, while a shower of pittiless minnie balls was pouring in on them; the living dying by the hands of the dead, as it were, as they fell so thick and fast, crushing and suffocating those around them. The white Federal troops acted very cowardly, and their bullets destroyed as many negro lives as of the Confederates. Thus between two fires the poor black soldiers soon fell to the last man; and the pit became a vast burial vault. The scene was one of demoniac conception, one never to be forgotten. We lay down on the brink, loaded and fired our rifles into the dense mass, where every ball found a mark. One man that seemed inbued with devilish impulse would gather rifles from around him, and throw them into the pit, where the dull thud told that the bayonet was driven to very shank. A Confederate gun secure from Federal attack got the range of the mine, and threw shell and shot with frightful precision. I got tired and surfeited with blood, and was glad to hear orders to retire given; and the dying were left with the dead.
The record of that day’s work shows a dreadful one; full twenty-two hundred Federals were ‘hors du combat,’ of whom more than eighteen hundred were negroes. The attack was badly managed; wretchedly led; and from the first start an ignominious failure; and met a barrier indeed in Mahone’s veterans, when they were thrown into the breach. A portion of this fight we could see if we chose to risk butting our heads against minnie balls, and it was frequently risked. The artillery fire upon us had not ceased; the ground around us was ploughed and torn by the cannon balls. And as [a] sheet of minnie balls, as it were, constantly swept just over the breast-works, singing deceptive tunes as if to lure one on to meet the danger, guised in sounds of harmony.
In the height of the melee, while Mahone and Beauregard were charging, Gen. Lee along and on foot, came into our lines and adjusting his glass swept the field in front for some time with some anxiety. Apparently not satisfied with the survey and to our consternation he left the protection of the works, and advanced to our open rear, and then carefully and calmly surveyed the battle-field. Point after point was carefully scanned. Picture to yourself the tumult of battle; men frenzied by passions contending in death grapple; the very air dark with exploding material; the ringing cheers or yells of combatants; the death shriek; the wail of agony; the appeals for mercy from some poor stricken wretch, as he knows his days are numbered. The ground around torn and great furrows of dirt continually being thrown up as shot
and shell strike, and in the midst of this scene stands our peerless commander, Gen. Robert E. Lee, bare headed, erect, proud and magnificent. Gracefully he sweeps the field and takes into consideration the most trivial matter. We looked on with bated breath and trembled for his safety. A shell rushing by strikes our well sweep, and hurls the fragments far to the rear. Unonscious of danger, there he stood until satisfied. Great uneasiness prevailed for fear some sharp shooter might spy him, with a fatal aim and several of the 48th regiment went to him and kindly remonstrated with him for thus exposing himself. An Irishman, who exposed himself a few steps from Gen. Lee, who shot through the head. Thus no wonder we trembled for the life of our great captain. Gen. Lee kindly noticed this demonstration of affection, and soon after came back into the lines. He was attracted by the many little conveniences the men had contrived for comfort, and drank a cup of water from our wells. A fireplace cut out of the bank of earth seemed to please him. With a salute peculiar only to himself, he retired; and then all felt a sense of relief, while prayers of thankfulness arose from grateful hearts for his preservation. The battle ended; quiet was again supreme, a few shells only coursing the heavens more out of practice than with intent to harm. The day after the ‘mine fiasco,’ I obtained permission to see the battle field. It was hot as blazes, both overhead from old Sol; and the more dangerous ones contrived by man for man’s destruction – bomb-shells. Taking a round-about way, I found myself in Blanford cemetery, where a look could be had generally of the field and of the opposing lines. Near the monument erected to the ‘Cockade City’s,’ heroes of the war of 1812, I sheltered myself and took in the sights. Marks of cruel war and havoc abounded even here in the ‘silent city of the dead.’
Great holes in the ground, deep and yawning, told that mortar shells had fallen there. Shafts and monuments rendered into many fragments spoke of the sharp rush of cannon balls; while blue spattered marks on almost every stone in the yard, many of them split and chipped, showed where the minnie ball had struck. Of the effect of these latter messengers of death I had occular demonstration a few minutes later, as one came humming by and struck a simple slab, making a bluish splash and cracking the stone. As a bomb-shell came rushing down, and exploded just overhead, wreathed in a beautiful coil of dark, dense smoke, with rattling fragments falling in every direction, I came to the conclusion that it would appear queer to be killed behind a sheltering tombstone, so I ‘changed my base,’ and flanked my way out as quietly as if I was leaving a dead friend.
This ends the first part of Foote’s reminiscence about the siege of Petersburg, but the story will continue in future posts. During the period covered in this article, Harris’ Mississippi brigade (of which the 48th Mississippi was part), suffered heavy losses: in May and June, 37 men were killed, 76 wounded, and 14 missing; and the siege of Petersburg had many bloody months left to run.