The Lone Star Defenders 30

The Lone Star Defenders 30

We continued our scouting duties in the same section of country until

the early days of October, when General Hood moved around in General

Sherman’s rear, and began destroying his communications, capturing

supplies and provisions. Sherman moved out of Atlanta and followed Hood

until the latter came to the vicinity of Rome. General Hood unwilling

to risk a battle in the open field, crossed the Coosa River, moving

by way of Gadsden, Ala., towards Guntersville on the Tennessee River.

When General Sherman discovered this movement he turned back towards

Atlanta, devastating the country and despoiling the citizens as he went.

 

With General Hood’s movement across the Coosa River he began his last

campaign, and the last campaign for the Army of the Tennessee. His

intention was to cross the Tennessee at Guntersville and march on

Nashville, but he changed his mind and moved down the river to near

Decatur, Tuscumbia, and Florence, Ross’s brigade being in front of

Decatur, then occupied by the Federals. General Sherman returning to

Atlanta, that city was burned, and leaving the smoking ruins behind

him, he entered upon his grand march to the sea, with none of General

Hood’s army, save General Wheeler’s cavalry, to molest him in his work

of devastation.

 

A day or two after we got to Decatur General Ross ordered our scouting

party back up the river to ascertain, if we could, what the enemy was

doing in the rear of that place. We moved up on the south side of the

river and stopped between Triana and Whitesburg. These towns were

garrisoned and the river patrolled by gunboats. We remained in this

neighborhood without any further instructions for some weeks. Here I

found my half-brother, J. J. Ashworth, who lived on the south bank of

the river about fifteen miles from Huntsville, and about three miles

above Triana. In this neighborhood were a number of my acquaintances

from Madison County, refugeeing, as Huntsville, Brownsboro, and

other towns were also garrisoned by the enemy. Several of us crossed

the river afoot and remained some days in Madison County. But for

the negroes we could have had a pleasant time, as every negro in

the country was a spy who would run to report anything that looked

suspicious to them, to one of the near-by garrisons, so we dared not

allow them to see us. I knew the white people, and knew that they were

loyal to our cause, but they could not allow their own negroes to know

that they did anything for us, so that we, and they, too, had to be

exceedingly careful.

 

In crossing the river we had to watch for gunboats, make the passage

during the night in a canoe, which must be drawn out and hidden, else

the first passing gunboat would destroy it. Some three miles north

of the river, in the bottom, lived Alexander Penland, a Presbyterian

minister, a true and loyal friend to the Confederacy, and three or four

miles further on, towards Huntsville, lived William Lanier, Burwell

Lanier and William Matkins, the two latter on the Huntsville and Triana

road. Dr. William Leftwich also lived in the same neighborhood. All

were good, trustworthy men, whom I knew well. Since some of them had

taken the non-combatant’s oath they were allowed to go in and out

of town at will, and from them I could learn of any movements along

the M. & C. Railroad. We crossed the river after night, and being

in possession of Mr. Penland’s countersign, we found our way to his

house, late at night, after the household was all asleep. I went to a

certain front window, tapped lightly and whistled like a partridge.

Soon Mr. Penland thrust his head out and in a whisper inquired who

we were and what was wanted. I explained to him briefly, and retired

to a brush thicket near by, where early next morning he brought us

cooked provisions. In order to do this he had to get up and cook for

us himself before any of his negroes were awake. The next night we

slept in William Lanier’s farm and were fed by him in the same way.

We crossed the Triana road and went to the top of a small mountain,

from which we could see Huntsville. A rainy season set in and we found

shelter in Burwell Lanier’s gin-house, where he fed us. When we thought

of recrossing the Tennessee we found that Indian Creek, which we had

to cross, was outrageously high, spreading away out over the bottom.

We spent a good part of an afternoon in constructing a raft by tying

logs together with vines to enable us to cross that night. Just east

of William Lanier’s farm there was a large negro quarter, where idle

and vicious negroes were in the habit of congregating, and inasmuch as

their system of espionage upon the white people of the neighborhood was

very annoying, upon the suggestion of some of our friends we determined

to raid this place before we left, carry off some of these meddlesome

blacks and send them to some government works in south Alabama.

 

Accordingly after dark we visited the quarter under the guise of

recruiting officers from Whitesburg, told them we had been fighting

for their freedom for about three years, and the time had now come for

them to help us, and we had come for every able-bodied man to go with

us to Whitesburg and join the army. I had our men call me Brown, for

fear some of them might know me. It was laughable to hear the various

excuses rendered for not going into the service. A lot of Confederate

conscripts could not have thought up more physical ailments. We finally

gathered up six that we decided were able for service, promising they

should have a medical examination, and if they were really unfit for

service they would be excused. Among them was a powerful, large,

muscular black fellow that belonged to Jink Jordan. He had joined the

army and, tiring of his job, was now a deserter, and we could see that

he was greatly scared and very much opposed to going with us.

 

Upon leaving the negro houses we went through the field and the woods

directly to our raft on the creek and had a great time getting across.

The clouds were thick, it was intensely dark, and our means of crossing

very poor. We had to make a number of trips, as we could only float

three or four men, including the two that used the poles, at one time.

In the confusion and darkness two of the prisoners had escaped, and

two had just crossed, including the big deserter, when it became my

duty to guard them with a short Enfield rifle belonging to one of the

men. Having their hands tied with a cord and then tied together back to

back, I was not uneasy about keeping them, but before I realized what

they were doing they had slipped their hands through the cord and were

running through the brush. When the big deserter had gone some twelve

or fifteen steps I shot him. He fell at the fire of the gun, but before

I could get to him he scrambled up and went crashing through the brush

like a stampeding ox. I learned afterwards that he went into Huntsville

to a hospital for treatment, and that the ball had gone through the

muscle of his arm and plowed into his breast, but not deep enough to

be fatal. We finally reached the bank of the river about one or two

o’clock in the morning, with two of our prisoners. We then had to hoot

like an owl until some one on the other side should wake up, and,

hearing the signal, would bring us a canoe, which was finally done, and

we crossed over in safety.

 

We crossed the river several times during our stay in the neighborhood,

particularly one very cold night, when several of us passed over, at

the request of Mr. Penland, to transfer his pork to the south side. He

had killed a lot of hogs, and was afraid the meat might be taken from

him, or that he would be ordered out of the Federal lines as others

had been, and he wished to place it in the hands of a friend south of

the river for safety. We managed to get an old rickety canoe opposite

his place, and crossed early in the night, and again played the rôle

of Federal soldiers, as no one on his place but himself must know our

real mission. Mrs. Penland had known me from childhood, but as she had

lost her mind I did not fear recognition, and while Nancy, their negro

woman, also had known me, she failed to recognize me, as I was Mr.

Brown of the Federal army. We marched up and called for the man of the

house, and when Mr. Penland came forward we told him we were rather

short of rations down in Triana, and were out looking for meat, and

wished to know if he had any. He acknowledged that he had just killed

some meat, but only enough for his family use, and had none to spare.

We were bound to have meat, and agreed to leave him one hog, and then

yoked up a pair of oxen and hitched them to a wagon. While we were in

the smokehouse preparing to take the meat out, Mr. Penland’s two little

girls, about nine and eleven, came crying around us, and in a most

pitiful manner begged us not to take all of papa’s meat; and poor Mrs.

Penland came to the door and said: “Men, please don’t take my little

boy’s pony.” When we had hauled all the meat to the river bank and

returned the wagon, it was nearly midnight, and we compelled the woman

Nancy to get up and prepare us a warm supper. After supper we returned

to the river and floated the hogs across in our old canoe.

 

At this time my brother’s son, George Ashworth, a gallant boy about

sixteen years old, who had taken his father’s place in General Roddy’s

command, was at home on furlough. One day a thief, believed to be

a straggler from General Wheeler’s command, took his horse from a

lot some distance from the house, and carried him off. Lieutenant

McClatchie and myself mounted a pony and a mule of my brother’s and

attempted to overtake him. We followed him as far as Atlanta, but

failed to catch him, and then went into the city and viewed the wreck

that Sherman had left behind him: thirty-six hundred houses were in

ruins, including the best part of the city. This was Saturday, and

being tired we went down to the neighborhood of Jonesboro and remained

with some of McClatchie’s acquaintances until Monday morning. We were

hospitably entertained at the home of Colonel Tidwell, and enjoyed a

quiet rest in the company of Miss Mattie Tidwell and Miss Eva Camp.

 

One evening we passed through the town of Cave Springs, a locality with

which I had become familiar while we were campaigning here. On the road

we were to travel, at the first house after leaving town, two or three

miles out, there lived a tall dignified old gentleman and his handsome

young married daughter whose husband was in the army. They lived in

a large two-story house, and a large commodious barn, with all other

necessary out houses for comfort and convenience, had stood on his

premises when I was there before—the barn filled to overflowing with

wheat, oats, and corn. Just across the road in front of the house, and

stretching across the valley, was his large productive farm, covered

with a heavy crop of ungathered corn. While this was the condition, I

had come to this house at night, traveling in the same direction, and

talked myself almost hoarse without being able to procure from this old

gentleman a single ear of corn for my horse or a morsel of food for

myself, although he knew I must go eight miles to the next house on the

road. I didn’t ask, nor did I wish, to enter his house, but only wanted

a feed of corn and a little bread and meat. As we approached the house

McClatchie proposed halting, to stay all night—provided we could. I

related my earlier experience, but we stopped nevertheless.

 

Upon seeing us halt, the old gentleman came stepping down to the gate

and spoke very kindly, and we asked him if we could spend the night

with him. He said such accommodations as he could offer us we would be

welcome to, adding: “I have no stables for your horses. Sherman’s army

passed this way and burned my barn, with its contents, my stables, and

in fact carried off or destroyed everything I had to eat or feed on,

and left me and my daughter without a mouthful of anything to eat. They

carried every hog, every fowl, and every pound of meat, and even rolled

my syrup out of the cellar, knocked the heads out of the barrels and

poured the syrup out on the ground, but I will do the best I can for

you.” His daughter, too, was very hospitable. At the supper table

she detailed all the horrors of Sherman’s visit, and the distressful

condition they were left in, how they had to go to a neighbor’s to

borrow a few ears of corn to grate them for bread, and concluded by

saying: “But as long as I have a piece of bread I will divide it with a Confederate soldier.” After supper she invited us into the parlor, where she had a nice piano and treated us to music. Verily “our friends, the enemy,” had converted one family!