The Lone Star Defenders 15
As soon as our men thought they were able to travel they were paroled
and allowed to go free. When Captain Dunn was paroled he went to Texas
for a rest, until he supposed he might be exchanged. On his return,
he was traveling through Arkansas when a woman on the train asked him
where he was going? He replied, “Madam, I am going to Richmond in the
interest of the women of Texas. I am going to make an effort to induce
the Confederate congress, in view of the great number of men that are
being killed in the war, to pass a law providing that every man, after
the war ends, shall have two wives.”
When paroling our people their paroles were filled out by a Federal
officer and presented to them for their signatures. The majority of the
men cared little about the form, but only of the fact that they were to
be allowed to go free until they were exchanged. But when they came to
Colonel Mabry he read the parole over very carefully. He was described
as H. P. Mabry, a colonel in the “so-called Confederate States Army.”
Mabry shook his head and said, “Sir, can you not leave out that
‘so-called?’” He was informed that it could not be done. “Then,” said
the colonel, “I will not sign it.” “In that case,” said the officer,
“you will have to go to prison.” “Well,” Mabry replied, “I will go to
prison and stay there until I rot before I will sign a parole with
that ‘so-called Confederate States’ in it.”
Captain Lee, of the Third Texas, was of the same way of thinking, and
they both went to prison and remained there until they were exchanged,
being sent to some prison in Illinois. Some months after they were
exchanged and came back to us we captured some prisoners one day. One
of them inquired if the Third Texas was there, and was told that it
was. “Then,” said he, “take me to Colonel Mabry or Captain Lee, and
I’ll be all right.” This man was a “copperhead” whose acquaintance they
had made while in prison. He didn’t want to serve in the army against
us, but had been drafted in, and was glad of an opportunity of changing
his uniform.
At Baldwin about two days was spent in preparation for a march to
Ripley, there to join General Van Dorn’s command for a move on Corinth.
I was on fatigue duty while at Baldwin, and had no time to recuperate
after the hard campaign to Iuka and back, having been on guard duty the
night before arriving at Ripley. We camped at that town one night and
started next morning, September 29, 1862, for Corinth, General Van Dorn
in command. On that morning I found myself with a fever, and feeling
unequal to a regular march I obtained permission to march at will, and
found Lieutenant R. L. Hood and F. M. Dodson in the same condition and
having a like permit. We joined our forces and moved up the hot, dusty
road about six miles. Being weary, footsore, and sick, we turned into
the woods, lay down and went to sleep under some oak trees and did not
wake until the beef cattle were passing us in the afternoon. This
meant that we had slept until the entire army was ahead of us—cavalry,
infantry, artillery, and wagon train. We moved on until night without
overtaking our command. Nearing the village of Ruckersville it occurred
to me that many years ago this had been the post office of Peter
Cotten, my mother’s brother. Stopping at a house to make inquiries, I
learned that Willis Cook, his son-in-law, lived only three-quarters of
a mile west of the village. We turned in that direction, and soon found
the place without difficulty. My call at the gate was answered by my
uncle at the front door. I recognized his voice, although I had not
heard it since I was a small boy. Going into the house I made myself
known to him and his daughter, Mrs. Crook, and received a cordial
welcome, such a welcome as made me and my comrades feel perfectly at
home. My good cousin, Tabitha, whose husband, Willis Crook, was in the
cavalry service, and in the army then on its way to Corinth, soon had
a splendid supper ready for us and in due time offered us a nice bed.
We begged out of occupying the beds, however, and with their permission
stretched our weary limbs under a shade tree in the yard and enjoyed a
good night’s sleep.
Next morning one or two of the party had chills, and we rested for the
day. We soon learned that a Federal cavalry command had dropped in
behind our army, and so we were cut off. Had we gone on in the morning
we would probably have been captured during the day. Learning how we
could find parallel roads leading in the direction we wished to go,
late in the evening we started, traveled a few miles and slept in the
woods. The next morning we moved on until ten o’clock, and meeting a
ten-year-old boy on a pony in a lane, we asked him if he knew where we
could get something to eat. He said there was a potato patch right over
there in the field. We asked him to whom it belonged, and he answered:
“It belongs to my uncle; but he is laying out in the brush to keep out
of the army;” and told us that his uncle lived up on the hill a short
distance ahead of us. We did not go into the potato patch, but went
up to the uncle’s house. The house was a fairly good one, and in the
front were two good-sized rooms with a wide, open hall. As we marched
up to the rail fence in front of the house a woman came out into the
hall, and we could see that the very looks of us aggravated and annoyed
her. By way of getting acquainted with her, Dodson said: “Madam,
have you got any water?” In a sharp, cracked voice, she answered: “I
reckon I have. If I hain’t, I would be in a mighty bad fix!” Having it
understood that Dodson was to do the talking, we marched in and helped
ourselves to a drink of water each, from a bucket setting on a shelf
in the hall. During the next few minutes silence of the most profound
sort prevailed. We stood there as if waiting to be invited to sit down
and rest, but instead of inviting us to seats she stood scowling on us
as if she was wishing us in Davy Jones’ locker or some similar place.
Hood and myself finally moved a little towards the front of the hall,
and the following dialogue took place between Dodson and the woman:
Dodson: “Madam, we are soldiers and are tired and hungry. We have
been marching hard, and last night we slept in the woods and haven’t
had anything to eat. Could we get a little something here?” “No, you
can’t. I don’t feed none of your sort. You are just goin’ about over
the country eatin’ up what people’s got, and a-doin’ no good.” “Why,
madam, we are fighting for the country.” “Yes, you are fightin’ to keep
the niggers from bein’ freed, and they’ve just as much right to be free
as you have.” “Oh, no, madam; the Bible says they shall be slaves as
long as they live.” “The Bible don’t say no sech a thing.” “Oh, yes, it
does,” said Dodson, gently; “let me have your Bible and I’ll show it to
you.” “I hain’t got no Bible.” “Madam, where is your husband?” “That’s
none of your business, sir!” “Is he about the house, madam?” “No, he
ain’t.” “Is he in the army, madam?” “No, he ain’t. If you _must_ know,
he’s gone off to keep from bein’ tuk to Ripley and sold for twenty-five
dollars.” “Why, madam, is he a nigger?” “No, he ain’t a nigger; he’s
just as white as you air, sir.” “Well, madam, I didn’t know that they
sold white men in Mississippi.” “No, you don’t know what your own
people’s a-doin’.” During the conversation I kept my eye on the lowest
place in the fence. What she said about being sold for twenty-five
dollars was in allusion to a reward of that amount offered by the
conscript authorities for able-bodied men who were hiding in the brush
to keep out of the army.
That night we lodged with a good old Confederate who treated us the
best he could. Next morning Dodson bought a pony from him, which we
used as a pack-horse to carry our luggage. We then moved much easier.
Late in the evening we crossed Hatchie River on the bridge over which
the army had passed on its way to Corinth. Here we found Adam’s Brigade
and Whitfield’s Legion guarding the bridge, that it might be used in
the event of the army’s being compelled to retreat. This bridge was
only a short distance south of the Memphis & Charleston Railroad, and a
few miles west of Corinth. We took the railroad and followed it nearly
all night, turning off to sleep a little while before daylight. Early
in the morning we struck across into the main-traveled road, and pushed
on in an effort to rejoin our command. About nine or ten o’clock we
came to a house, and determined to try for some breakfast, as we were
quite hungry. We afterwards learned that a poor old couple occupied the
house. Walking up to the front door we asked the old lady if we could
get some breakfast, telling her we had been out all night and were
hungry, and so on, the usual talk. She very readily said, yes, if we
would wait until she could prepare it. She then invited us to come in
and be seated, and said she would have the meal ready in a few minutes.
In a little while she came back and invited us in to breakfast in a
little side room used for a kitchen and dining-room. As we started in
I was in front, and as we entered the little dining-room and came in
sight of the table she began to apologize because she was unable to
give us anything more. I glanced at the table and saw a small, thin
hoe-cake of corn bread and a few small slices of bacon, “only this
and nothing more.” I asked her if that was all she had. She answered
that it was. Then I said, “Where are you going to get more when that
is gone?” She did not know. Not doubting the truth of her statements,
I said: “Madam, while we are hungry and do not know when we will get
anything to eat, we could not take all you have. While we are just as
thankful to you as if you had given us a bountiful breakfast, we are
soldiers, and can manage to get something to eat somewhere, and will
leave this for you and your husband,” and we bade her good-by without
sitting down to the table or tasting her scanty offering.
This poor old woman, who must have been sixty or more years old, had
said, without a murmur and without hesitation or excuse, that she would
prepare us some breakfast, and gone about it as cheerfully as if she
had had an abundance, cooking us all the provisions she had, and only
regretted she could not do more for us,—this, too, when not knowing
where she would get any more for herself.
After leaving this humble abode we soon began to meet troops,
ambulances, and so on, and from them we learned that our army was
falling back. Instead of going farther we stopped on the roadside and
waited for our command. Noticing a squad of soldiers out some distance
from the road engaged apparently about something unusual, my curiosity
led me out to where they were. To my surprise I found they were Madison
County, Alabama, men, most of whom I knew. They were burying a poor
fellow by the name of Murry, whom I had known for years, and who lived
out near Maysville. They had rolled him up in his blanket and were
letting him down into a shallow grave when I approached, and they told
me that some of the boys that I knew were wounded—in a wagon just
across the road. I soon found my old friends, John M. Hunter and Peter
Beasley, of Huntsville, Ala., in a common, rough road-wagon. Poor
Hunter! he was being hauled over the long, rough road only that he
might die among his friends, which he did in a few days. Beasley was
not dangerously wounded.
We soon after joined our command and marched westward toward Hatchie
bridge. But long before we got there Generals Ord and Hurlbut had
댓글 없음:
댓글 쓰기