One day, while standing on the banks of the Chattahoochee, a Yankee called out:

"Johnny, O, Johnny, O, Johnny Reb."

Johnny answered, "What do you want?"

"You are whipped, aren't you?"

"No. The man who says that is a liar, a scoundrel, and a coward."

"Well, anyhow, Joe Johnston is relieved of the command."

"What?"

"General Joseph E. Johnston is relieved."

"What is that you say?"

"General Joseph E. Johnston is relieved, and Hood appointed in his place."

"You are a liar, and if you will come out and show yourself I will shoot you down in your tracks, you lying Yankee galloot."

"That's more than I will stand. If the others will hands off, I will fight a duel with you. Now, show your manhood."

Well, reader, every word of this is true, as is everything in this book. Both men loaded their guns and stepped out to their plates. They were both to load and fire at will, until one or both were killed. They took their positions without either trying to get the advantage of the other. Then some one gave the command to "Fire at will; commence firing." They fired seven shots each; at the seventh shot, poor Johnny Reb fell a corpse, pierced through the heart.

REMOVAL OF GENERAL JOSEPH E. JOHNSTON

Such was the fact. General Joseph E. Johnston had been removed and General J. B. Hood appointed to take command. Generals Hardee and Kirby Smith, two old veterans, who had been identified with the Army of Tennessee from the beginning, resigned. We had received the intelligence from the Yankees.

The relief guard confirmed the report.

All the way from Rocky Face Ridge to Atlanta was a battle of a hundred days, yet Hood's line was all the time enfiladed and his men decimated, and he could not hold his position. Old Joe Johnston had taken command of the Army of Tennessee when it was crushed and broken, at a time when no other man on earth could have united it. He found it in rags and tatters, hungry and heart-broken, the morale of the men gone, their manhood vanished to the winds, their pride a thing of the past. Through his instrumentality and skillful manipulation, all these had been restored. We had been under his command nearly twelve months. He was more popular with his troops day by day. We had made a long and arduous campaign, lasting four months; there was not a single day in that four months that did not find us engaged in battle with the enemy. History does not record a single instance of where one of his lines was ever broken-not a single rout. He had not lost a single piece of artillery; he had dealt the enemy heavy blows; he was whipping them day by day, yet keeping his own men intact; his men were in as good spirits and as sure of victory at the end of four months as they were at the beginning; instead of the army being depleted, it had grown in strength. 'Tis true, he had fallen back, but it was to give his enemy the heavier blows. He brought all the powers of his army into play; ever on the defensive, 'tis true, yet ever striking his enemy in his most vulnerable part. His face was always to the foe. They could make no movement in which they were not antic.i.p.ated. Such a man was Joseph E. Johnston, and such his record. Farewell, old fellow! We privates loved you because you made us love ourselves. Hardee, our old corps commander, whom we had followed for nearly four years, and whom we had loved and respected from the beginning, has left us. Kirby Smith has resigned and gone home. The spirit of our good and honored Leonidas Polk is in heaven, and his body lies yonder on the Kennesaw line. General Breckinridge and other generals resigned. I lay down my pen; I can write no more; my heart is too full. Reader, this is the saddest chapter I ever wrote.

But now, after twenty years, I can see where General Joseph E. Johnston made many blunders in not attacking Sherman's line at some point. He was better on the defensive than the aggressive, and hence, bis peccare in bello non licet.

GENERAL HOOD TAKES COMMAND

It came like a flash of lightning, staggering and blinding every one. It was like applying a lighted match to an immense magazine. It was like the successful gambler, flushed with continual winnings, who staked his all and lost. It was like the end of the Southern Confederacy. Things that were, were not. It was the end. The soldier of the relief guard who brought us the news while picketing on the banks of the Chattahoochee, remarked, by way of imparting gently the information-

"Boys, we've fought all the war for nothing. There is nothing for us in store now."

"What's the matter now?"

"General Joe Johnston is relieved, Generals Hardee and Kirby Smith has resigned, and General Hood is appointed to take command of the Army of Tennessee."

"My G.o.d! is that so?"

"It is certainly a fact."

"Then I'll never fire another gun. Any news or letters that you wish carried home? I've quit, and am going home. Please tender my resignation to Jeff Davis as a private soldier in the C. S. Army."

Five men of that picket-there were just five-as rapidly as they could, took off their cartridge-boxes, after throwing down their guns, and then their canteens and haversacks, taking out of their pockets their gun-wipers, wrench and gun-stoppers, and saying they would have no more use for "them things." They marched off, and it was the last we ever saw of them. In ten minutes they were across the river, and no doubt had taken the oath of allegiance to the United States government. Such was the sentiment of the Army of Tennessee at that time.

CHAPTER XIII

ATLANTA

HOOD STRIKES

General John B. Hood had the reputation of being a fighting man, and wishing to show Jeff Davis what a "bully" fighter he was, lights in on the Yankees on Peachtree creek. But that was "I give a dare" affair. General William B. Bate's division gained their works, but did not long hold them.

Our division, now commanded by General John C. Brown, was supporting Bate's division; our regiment supporting the Hundred and Fifty-fourth Tennessee, which was pretty badly cut to pieces, and I remember how mad they seemed to be, because they had to fall back.

Hood thought he would strike while the iron was hot, and while it could be hammered into shape, and make the Yankees believe that it was the powerful arm of old Joe that was wielding the sledge.

But he was like the fellow who took a piece of iron to the shop, intending to make him an ax. After working for some time and failing, he concluded he would make him a wedge, and, failing in this, said, "I'll make a skeow." So he heats the iron red-hot and drops it into the slack-tub, and it went s-k-e-o-w, bubble, bubble, s-k-e-o-w, bust.

KILLING A YANKEE SCOUT

On the night of the 20th, the Yankees were on Peachtree creek, advancing toward Atlanta. I was a videt that night, on the outpost of the army. I could plainly hear the moving of their army, even the talking and laughing of the Federal soldiers. I was standing in an old sedge field. About midnight everything quieted down. I was alone in the darkness, left to watch while the army slept. The pale moon was on the wane, a little yellow arc, emitting but a dim light, and the clouds were lazily pa.s.sing over it, while the stars seemed trying to wink and sparkle and make night beautiful. I thought of G.o.d, of heaven, of home, and I thought of Jennie-her whom I had ever loved, and who had given me her troth in all of her maiden purity, to be my darling bride so soon as the war was over. I thought of the scenes of my childhood, my school-boy days. I thought of the time when I left peace and home, for war and privations. I had Jennie's picture in my pocket Bible, alongside of a braid of her beautiful hair. And I thought of how good, how pure, and how beautiful was the woman, who, if I lived, would share my hopes and struggles, my happiness as well as troubles, and who would be my darling bride, and happiness would ever be mine. An owl had lit on an old tree near me and began to "hoo, hoo, hoo are you," and his mate would answer back from the lugubrious depths of the Chattahoochee swamps. A shivering owl also sat on the limb of a tree and kept up its dismal wailings. And ever now and then I could hear the tingle, tingle, tingle of a cow bell in the distance, and the shrill cry of the whip-poor-will. The shivering owl and whip-poor-will seemed to be in a sort of talk, and the jack-o'-lanterns seemed to be playing spirits-when, hush! what is that? listen! It might have been two o'clock, and I saw, or thought I saw, the dim outlines of a Yankee soldier, lying on the ground not more than ten steps from where I stood. I tried to imagine it was a stump or hallucination of the imagination. I looked at it again. The more I looked the more it a.s.sumed the outlines of a man. Something glistens in his eyes. Am I mistaken? Tut, tut, it's nothing but a stump; you are getting demoralized. What! it seems to be getting closer. There are two tiny specks that shine like the eyes of a cat in the dark. Look here, thought I, you are getting nervous. Well, I can stand this doubt and agony no longer; I am going to fire at that object anyhow, let come what will. I raised my gun, placed it to my shoulder, took deliberate aim, and fired, and waugh-weouw, the most unearthly scream I ever heard, greeted my ears. I broke and run to a tree nearby, and had just squatted behind it, when zip, zip, two b.a.l.l.s from our picket post struck the tree in two inches of my head. I hallooed to our picket not to fire that it was "me," the videt. I went back, and says I, "Who fired those two shots?" Two fellows spoke up and said that they did it. No sooner was it spoken, than I was on them like a duck on a june-bug, pugnis et calcibus. We "fout and fit, and gouged and bit," right there in that picket post. I have the marks on my face and forehead where one of them struck me with a Yankee zinc canteen, filled with water. I do not know which whipped. My friends told me that I whipped both of them, and I suppose their friends told them that they had whipped me. All I know is, they both run, and I was b.l.o.o.d.y from head to foot, from where I had been cut in the forehead and face by the canteens. This all happened one dark night in the month of July, 1864, in the rifle pit in front of Atlanta. When day broke the next morning, I went forward to where I had shot at the "boogaboo" of the night before, and right there I found a dead Yankee soldier, fully accoutered for any emergency, his eyes wide open. I looked at him, and I said, "Old fellow, I am sorry for you; didn't know it was you, or I would have been worse scared than I was. You are dressed mighty fine, old fellow, but I don't want anything you have got, but your haversack." It was a nice haversack, made of chamois skin. I kept it until the end of the war, and when we surrendered at Greensboro, N. C., I had it on. But the other soldiers who were with me, went through him and found twelve dollars in greenback, a piece of tobacco, a gun-wiper and gun-stopper and wrench, a looking-gla.s.s and pocket-comb, and various and sundry other articles. I came across that dead Yankee two days afterwards, and he was as naked as the day he came into the world, and was as black as a negro, and was as big as a skinned horse. He had mortified. I recollect of saying, "Ugh, ugh," and of my hat being lifted off my head, by my hair, which stood up like the quills of the fretful porcupine. He scared me worse when dead than when living.

AN OLD CITIZEN

But after the little unpleasant episode in the rifle pit, I went back and took my stand. When nearly day, I saw the bright and beautiful star in the east rise above the tree tops, and the gray fog from off the river begun to rise, and every now and then could hear a far off chicken crow.

While I was looking toward the Yankee line, I saw a man riding leisurely along on horseback, and singing a sort of humdrum tune. I took him to be some old citizen. He rode on down the road toward me, and when he had approached, "Who goes there?" He immediately answered, "A friend." I thought that I recognized the voice in the darkness-and said I, "Who are you?" He spoke up, and gave me his name. Then, said I, "Advance, friend, but you are my prisoner." He rode on toward me, and I soon saw that it was Mr. Mumford Smith, the old sheriff of Maury county. I was very glad to see him, and as soon as the relief guard came, I went back to camp with him. I do not remember of ever in my life being more glad to see any person. He had brought a letter from home, from my father, and some Confederate old issue bonds, which I was mighty glad to get, and also a letter from "the gal I left behind me," enclosing a rosebud and two apple blossoms, resting on an arbor vita leaf, and this on a little piece of white paper, and on this was written a motto (which I will have to tell for the young folks), "Receive me, such as I am; would that I were of more use for your sake. Jennie." Now, that was the bouquet part. I would not like to tell you what was in that letter, but I read that letter over five hundred times, and remember it today. I think I can repeat the poetry verbatim et literatim, and will do so, gentle reader, if you don't laugh at me. I'm married now, and only write from memory, and never in my life have I read it in book or paper, and only in that letter-

"I love you, O, how dearly, Words too faintly but express; This heart beats too sincerely, E'er in life to love you less; No, my fancy never ranges, Hopes like mine, can never soar; If the love I cherish, changes, 'Twill only be to love you more."

Now, fair and gentle reader, this was the poetry, and you see for yourself that there was no "shenanigan" in that letter; and if a fellow "went back" on that sort of a letter, he would strike his "mammy." And then the letter wound up with "May G.o.d shield and protect you, and prepare you for whatever is in store for you, is the sincere prayer of Jennie." You may be sure that I felt good and happy, indeed.

MY FRIENDS

Reader mine, in writing these rapid and imperfect recollections, I find that should I attempt to write up all the details that I would not only weary you, but that these memoirs would soon become monotonous and uninteresting. I have written only of what I saw. Many little acts of kindness shown me by ladies and old citizens, I have omitted. I remember going to an old citizen's house, and he and the old lady were making clay pipes. I recollect how they would mold the pipes and put them in a red-hot stove to burn hard. Their kindness to me will never be forgotten. The first time that I went there they seemed very glad to see me, and told me that I looked exactly like their son who was in the army. I asked them what regiment he belonged to. After a moment's silence the old lady, her voice trembling as she spoke, said the Fourteenth Georgia, and then she began to cry. Then the old man said, "Yes, we have a son in the army. He went to Virginia the first year of the war, and we have never heard of him since. These wars are terrible, sir. The last time that we heard of him, he went with Stonewall Jackson away up in the mountains of West Virginia, toward Romney, and I did hear that while standing picket at a little place called Hampshire Crossing, on a little stream called St. John's Run, he and eleven others froze to death. We have never heard of him since." He got up and began walking up and down the room, his hands crossed behind his back. I buckled on my knapsack to go back to camp, and I shook hands with the two good old people, and they told me good-bye, and both said, "G.o.d bless you, G.o.d bless you." I said the same to them, and said, "I pray G.o.d to reward you, and bring your son safe home again." When I got back to camp I found cannon and caissons moving, and I knew and felt that General Hood was going to strike the enemy again. Preparations were going on, but everything seemed to be out of order and system. Men were cursing, and seemed to be dissatisfied and unhappy, but the army was moving.

A BODY WITHOUT LIMBS-AN ARMY WITHOUT CAVALRY

Forrest's cavalry had been sent to Mississippi; Wheeler's cavalry had been sent to North Carolina and East Tennessee. Hood had sent off both of his "arms"-for cavalry was always called the most powerful "arm" of the service. The infantry were the feet, and the artillery the body. Now, Hood himself had no legs, and but one arm, and that one in a sling. The most terrible and disastrous blow that the South ever received was when Hon. Jefferson Davis placed General Hood in command of the Army of Tennessee. I saw, I will say, thousands of men cry like babies-regular, old-fashioned boohoo, boohoo, boohoo.

Now, Hood sent off all his cavalry right in the face of a powerful army, by order and at the suggestion of Jeff Davis, and was using his cannon as "feelers." O, G.o.d! Ye G.o.ds! I get sick at heart even at this late day when I think of it.

I remember the morning that General Wheeler's cavalry filed by our brigade, and of their telling us, "Good-bye, boys, good-bye, boys." The First Tennessee Cavalry and Ninth Battalion were both made up in Maury county. I saw John J. Stephenson, my friend and step-brother, and David F. Watkins my own dear brother, and Arch Lips...o...b.. Joe Fussell, Captain Kinzer, Jack Gordon, George Martin, Major Dobbins, Colonel Lewis, Captain Galloway, Aaron and Sims Latta, Major J. H. Akin, S. H. Armstrong, Albert Dobbins, Alex Dobbins, Jim Cochran, Rafe Grisham, Captain Jim Polk, and many others with whom I was acquainted. They all said, "Good-bye, Sam, good-bye, Sam." I cried. I remember stopping the whole command and begging them to please not leave us; that if they did, Atlanta, and perhaps Hood's whole army, would surrender in a few days; but they told me, as near as I can now remember, "We regret to leave you, but we have to obey orders." The most ignorant private in the whole army saw everything that we had been fighting for for four years just scattered like chaff to the winds. All the Generals resigned, and those who did not resign were promoted; colonels were made brigadier-generals, captains were made colonels, and the private soldier, well, he deserted, don't you see? The private soldiers of the Army of Tennessee looked upon Hood as an over-rated general, but Jeff Davis did not.

BATTLE OF JULY 22, 1864

Cannon b.a.l.l.s, at long range, were falling into the city of Atlanta. Details of citizens put out the fires as they would occur from the burning sh.e.l.ls. We could see the smoke rise and hear the sh.e.l.ls pa.s.s away over our heads as they went on toward the doomed city.

One morning Cheatham's corps marched out and through the city, we knew not whither, but we soon learned that we were going to make a flank movement. After marching four or five miles, we "about faced" and marched back again to within two hundred yards of the place from whence we started. It was a "flank movement," you see, and had to be counted that way anyhow. Well, now as we had made the flank movement, we had to storm and take the Federal lines, because we had made a flank movement, you see. When one army makes a flank movement it is courtesy on the part of the other army to recognize the flank movement, and to change his base. Why, sir, if you don't recognize a flank movement, you ain't a graduate of West Point. Hood was a graduate of West Point, and so was Sherman. But unfortunately there was Mynheer Dutchman commanding (McPherson had gone to dinner) the corps that had been flanked, and he couldn't speak English worth a cent. He, no doubt, had on board mein lager beer, so goot as vat never vas. I sweitzer, mein Got, you bet. Bang, bang, bang, goes our skirmish line advancing to the attack. Hans, vat fer ish dot shooting mit mein left wing? Ish dot der Repels, Hans?

THE ATTACK