Chapter II: Part 2

The point where I was, just about the center of our line, at the causeway, was assaulted by a regiment of negro troops; and as they got near to us I distinctly heard their officers cursing them. I heard one officer say, "Keep in line there, you damned scoundrels!" and another, "Go on, you damned rascals, or I'll chop you down!" I saw the line waver badly when it got to within fifty yards of us, and on this occasion at least it did not look to me as if the negroes had the spirit to "fight nobly." I know it is a catch phrase elsewhere that the colored troops fought nobly, but I testify to what I saw and heard.

As to these negro troops, there was a sequel, nearly a year later. When I was peaceably in my office in Charleston one of my family's former slaves, "Taffy" by name, came in to see me. In former times he had been a waiter "in the house," and was about my own age; but in 1860, in the settlement of an estate, he with his parents, aunt, and brother were sold to Mr. John Ashe, and put on his plantation near Port Royal. Of course, when the Federals overran that section they took in all these "contrabands," as they were called, and Taffy became a soldier, and was in one of the regiments that assaulted us. In reply to a question from me, he foolishly said he "liked it." I only replied, "Well, I'm sorry I didn't kill you as you deserved, that's all I have to say." He only grinned.

On February 17, James Island was evacuated by the Confederates. Captain Matthews's company, formerly artillery but now infantry, was added to our two, and the battalion known as Manigault's, or the Eighteenth South Carolina Battalion. Major Manigault being wounded, and a prisoner, Capt. B. C. Webb, of Company A, was in command. Our line of march was through St. Andrew's Parish, across the bridge at Bee's Ferry, and along the old State road past Otranto across Goose Creek bridge, which was burned as soon as the last troops had crossed. Our men had started on this march with as much baggage as they thought they could carry, but they soon threw aside their impedimenta, and each settled down to his one blanket and such clothes as he actually wore. This march across the Carolinas was a very hard one. Our feet soon became blistered and sore, and many of us had no shoes, but trudged along in the cold and mud bare-footed as best we could. As I have already said, this was a cold winter, and it seemed to us that it rained and froze constantly. Not a particle of shelter did we have day or night. We would march all day, often in more or less rain, and at nightfall halt, and bivouac in the bushes, with every particle of food or clothing saturated. Within a few minutes after a halt, even under a steady rain, fires would be burning and quickly extend through the bivouac. If a civilian should attempt to kindle a fire with soaked wood under a steady rain, he would find his patience sorely tried, but the soldiers seemed to have no trouble.

After the fires were kindled we had to wait for the arrival of the commissary wagons; and it was not uncommon for a detail of men to be sent back in the night to help push the wagons through the mud; weary, footsore, hungry, in the dark, up to the knees in mud, heaving on the wheels of a stalled wagon! It was often late at night before the wagons were got up and rations could be obtained.

The men, of course, had to take turns in the use of the two or three frying-pans carried for each company, and when worn down by marching from early dawn until dark it was disheartening to have to wait one's turn, which often did not come until eleven o'clock at night. Frequently the men, rather than wait for the frying-pan, would fry their scraps of bacon on the coals, and make the cornmeal into dough, which they would wrap around the ends of their ramrods and toast in the fire. When the rations were drawn they consisted of only seven ounces of bacon and one pint of cornmeal to the man per day; and on several occasions even these could not be had, and the men went to sleep supperless, and with nothing to eat during the next day. The commissary department of the corps seemed to be unequal to the occasion, but this fact is not surprising when the rapidity of the march and desolation of the country are considered. Nevertheless, on several occasions the writer's command passed forty hours without receiving any rations, and once fifty hours, so that we were glad of an opportunity to beg at any farm-house for an ear of corn with which to alleviate our hunger.

All along the line of march large numbers of men were constantly deserting. Nightly, under cover of darkness, many would sneak from their bivouacs and go off, not to the enemy, but to their homes. But those of our men who remained were in good spirits.

The most influential cause of desertions was the news that reached the men of the great suffering of their wives and children at home, caused by the devastations of Sherman's army. Wherever this army passed from Atlanta to Savannah, and from Savannah through Columbia, Camden, and Cheraw, into North Carolina, a tract of country 30 miles wide was devastated. Farm-houses, barns, mills, etc., were all burned. Farm animals, poultry, etc., were all ruthlessly killed, and the women and children left to starve. This was most especially the case in South Carolina, where Sherman burned every town in his path--Walterboro, Barnwell, Midway, Bamberg, Blackville, Williston, Orangeburg, Columbia, Camden, and Cheraw. His cavalry leader, General Kilpatrick, attempted to burn Aiken, but was quickly beaten off by General Wheeler. When the men learned of the suffering of their women at home, many of them not unnaturally deserted, and went to their aid.

This terrible strain on the integrity of the men was the cause of a pitiable execution that took place on the line of march one day. A sergeant in the First Regiment Regulars, upon being reproved by his lieutenant for justifying and advising the desertion of the men, in a fit of temper attempted to shoot this officer. The line was immediately halted, the man was carried before a drum-head court martial, tried, and condemned to be shot on the spot. He was led out, tied with his back against a tree, and shot to death. It was an awful sight. I recollect that while awaiting death, the chaplain spoke to him, and offered to pray with him. His only reply was, "Preacher, I never listened to you in Fort Sumter, and I won't listen to you now."

All of the Confederate troops in South Carolina were under the command of Lieut.-Gen. T. J. Hardee, one of the ablest corps commanders in the Confederate service. He was nicknamed by the men, "Old Reliable." Our battalion, known also as the Eighteenth, with Major Bonneau's Georgia battalion, the battalion of Citadel Cadets, and the Second Regiment South Carolina Heavy Artillery constituted Brig.-Gen. Stephen Elliott's brigade, which, with Col. Alfred Rhett's brigade, constituted Maj.-Gen. Taliaferro's division. About March 1 we reached Cheraw, which we left two days after. As we left the town Sherman's army pressed us closely, and my recollection is that there was a sharp cavalry skirmish at the bridge, which we burned as soon as our troops had got across. I think Gen. M. C. Butler was the last man to cross, and galloped across it while it was actually in flames. At the State line the Citadel Cadets left us, and returned to South Carolina.

The route of the army lay through Fayetteville, N. C., where we crossed the Cape Fear River about a week later. After our men had crossed the bridge I was detailed from my company as one of a number to guard it, until all the wagons, etc., and the last of the cavalry had got across and it was burned, and when the bridge had been burned, one of the cavalrymen let me ride a led horse until I caught up with my command some distance in front. I remember his telling me of a very remarkable scrimmage that had just occurred on the other side in Fayetteville. It seems that before all of our wagons had got across the bridge, and our own cavalry had come up, a troop of about 70 Federal cavalry rode into the town to cut our wagons, etc., off from the bridge. General Hampton, with two of his staff officers and four couriers, in all only seven men, instantly dashed themselves against the Federals, and in a hand-to-hand fight killed eleven of them, captured as many more, and ran the rest out of town, and all without the loss of a single man. A very remarkable affair. I also heard that Hampton had caught a spy, who would be hanged when the army halted. I never heard anything more about it, as I had other things much more personal to engage my attention, and presumed he was strung up according to military usage.

But it seems that the man was not hanged. Wells, in "Hampton and His Cavalry in '64," gives the particulars of this wonderful affair, and states that the spy's name was David Day, and that he was turned over to some junior reserves for safe keeping and escaped. And there was an interesting sequel.

Thirty-one years after this fight, Hampton then being United States Railway Commissioner, and in Denver, Colorado, a stranger called upon him and explained that he was the David Day, the spy captured in the affair, dressed in Confederate uniform. Hampton congratulated him and said he was "glad the hanging did not come off." "So am I," replied the other, laughing.

At Fayetteville a few of the men of our company, I among them, procured Enfield rifles in place of the old Belgians we had, and also got ammunition to suit. The Enfield was a muzzle loader, but really one of the best guns of the day of its kind, and fairly accurate at 600 yards. About half of the company, however, had only the worthless Belgians to the end.

We were now so closely pursued by Sherman that on March 16 General Hardee, having about 6,000 men, determined to make a stand near Averysboro, between the Cape Fear and Black Rivers, where at daylight Taliaferro's division was attacked full in front by the Fourteenth and Twentieth Corps of the Federal Army, and Kilpatrick's cavalry, altogether about 20,000 men, General Sherman being personally on the field. The fighting was stubborn, at very close quarters, along the entire line. Twenty men, of whom I was one, were detailed from Elliott's brigade and attached to the left of Colonel Butler's First Regular Infantry, of Rhett's brigade, and there I served through the fight. We held our position in the open woods without protection for about three hours, and repulsed repeated assaults, until the left of the line, resting on a swamp along the Black River, which had been thought to be impassable, was turned by a heavy force of Federals, which had made their way through the swamp. This force, I afterwards learned, was Colonel Jones's regiment of Indiana cavalry, fighting as infantry, and armed with Spencer magazine carbines. Our whole force then fell back about 400 yards to a line of breastworks manned by McLaws's skeleton division, and which the Federals later in the day unsuccessfully assaulted. The Confederate loss in this battle was 500, and the next day some of Kilpatrick's cavalrymen, who had just been captured, told me that the Federal loss had been about 2,500. The Confederate forces engaged in this fight were Rhett's and Elliott's brigades, two artillery companies, and McLaws's division; and it was not the intention of General Hardee that Taliaferro's division should make such a stubborn stand-up fight. It was the intention that they should engage only as skirmishers, bring on the fight, and then fall back gradually into the breastworks, where the real fighting was to have been done. But Elliott's and Rhett's men had previously done only garrison and artillery duty on the coast, and this was their first experience in infantry fighting in the open, and they knew no better than to stand up and fight it out. Sherman in his report to the U. S. War Department of this affair expressed his surprise at the tenacity with which our men held their ground.

It was on this occasion that Col. Alfred Rhett was captured. It seems that a Captain Theo. F. Northrop, of a regiment of New York cavalry, was scouting with a few men at early dawn on the morning of the battle, and just in front of our lines came unexpectedly upon Generals Hampton and Taliaferro, with a group of aids. He and his men promptly made themselves invisible, and withdrew, and a few moments after Colonel Rhett rode up on them. He put his pistol in Colonel Rhett's face and said, "You must come with me." Colonel Rhett replied, "Who the hell are you?" and drew his pistol to fight. Instantly the men with Captain Northrop put their carbines to Colonel Rhett's head, and he, seeing how the case stood, gave up, and was carried to General Slocum, who sent him to General Sherman's headquarters. Captain Northrop has stated to me that Colonel Rhett told him that when first accosted he thought he was dealing with one of General Wheeler's men, and he would have shot him for his insolence. And he was always satisfied that if Colonel Rhett had realized at the very first that they were the enemy he met, he would have fought and tried to get away, although he would have probably been killed in the attempt.

Captain Northrop took Colonel Rhett's sword and pistol. The sword was lost some years ago in a railway train, but he has the pistol still, with Colonel Rhett's name engraved on it.

The fight took place in a piece of pine forest, and there were many trees that afforded protection to the men on both sides. The lines were very close together, so close that I could at times clearly observe the faces of the Federal soldiers opposite. At one time I was protected by a good pine tree and felt quite comfortable as the bullets thwacked against the other side of it; but within a few feet, to my left, was an old stump-hole full of dry leaves, and the bullets striking in those leaves made a terrible racket. I stood the racket as long as I could, but finally could stand it no longer, and contrary to common sense abandoned my friendly tree and stepped a few paces to the right, away from that noisy stump-hole. There I stood unprotected in the open, but not many minutes before I was struck full in the middle of my body and knocked down to a sitting posture. My blanket was rolled in a tight roll, not over three inches thick, and being of course on my left shoulder, and across my body downwards to the right, had saved my life. The ball had passed through the roll, and striking a button on my jacket had stopped, and as I dropped it fell down, flattened out of all shape. I lay on the ground for a few moments, paralyzed by the blow, and I recollect hearing a comrade, who received a bullet through the brain only a few moments afterwards, call out, "Ford's killed." I gathered myself back into a sitting posture and replied, "No, I'm not. I think I'm all right." But the pain was intense, as every boy knows who in a boxing bout gets a lick in "the short wind." In a few moments I was back again on my feet, and resumed my place in line, although suffering considerable pain and nausea. For some time after I carried on my body a black and blue spot the size of a dollar.

I recollect noticing the conspicuous coolness of Maj. Thos. Huguenin, of the First Infantry. During the hardest of the fighting he walked slowly immediately behind the line in which I was, smoking his pipe as calmly as if he had been at home.

Here an incident occurred that showed how, under the most serious condition, with death and imminent danger all around, a soldier's mind is often diverted by the most trivial thing. It is a strange phase of the mind which I have heard old soldiers, who have seen much hard fighting, comment upon. During the sharpest of the fighting, a hog started from the swamp on my left and ran squealing and terrified directly down the front of our line, presenting quite a ludicrous spectacle, and I heard a number of men, as he passed along the line, whoop at him and call out, "Go it, piggy!" "Save your bacon, piggy!" etc. But piggy had not got more than a hundred feet past me when he turned a somersault, kicked a moment or two, and lay still. He had evidently stopped a bullet.

An incident showing the same phase of mind was told me by a member of the Fourteenth South Carolina Volunteers, as occurring during the great battle of Gettysburg. As Kershaw's brigade, on the second day, was advancing to the assault of Little Round Top, a company of the Fourteenth was among those thrown forward as skirmishers, and as they advanced across the field toward the Federals, they came to a large patch of ripe blackberries. The men with one accord immediately turned their attention to the ripe fruit which was in great abundance on every side, and, stooping down, kept picking, and eating berries, as they went slowly forward, actually into action. And so much was their attention distracted by the blackberries that they were actually within 50 yards of the enemy's advanced line before they realized their position, when they rushed forward with a yell, and got possession of a slightly elevated roadway, which they held until the main line came up.

During the assault on the breastworks, Capt. S. Porcher Smith, who was standing just behind me, was shot through the face and fell. The litter-bearers picked him up, and as they were carrying him to the rear, one of them was shot and fell, and Captain Smith rolled headlong out of the litter. I well remember this incident.

We held our position until about midnight, when we fell back to a place called Elevation. This night's march was a very trying one. The road was terribly cut up by the wagons and artillery, and as the rains had been frequent it seemed as if the clay mud was knee deep. We floundered along for about six hours, and at daylight on the 17th halted and were given some rations. Most of us had not had a morsel of food since the night of the 15th. It happened in this way. On the night of the 15th we cooked our cornmeal and bacon and ate our supper, saving half for the next day. At the early break of day on the 16th, as I was warming my bacon and corn pone in a frying-pan before eating some of it, the Federals attacked us, and we had to fall into line instantly. So I had to leave the frying-pan with all my food as it was on the fire and go through that day's hardship, and until the next day at Elevation, without any food whatever. It had been General Hardee's intention to give us two or three days' rest at Elevation, but it having been ascertained that the Federal army was pushing toward Goldsboro, Gen. Jos. E. Johnston, then only recently put in command of the Confederate troops in North Carolina, ordered General Hardee to hurry forward and intercept Sherman near Bentonville. So about 3 o'clock on the morning of the 19th we were aroused and hurried on toward Bentonville, where we arrived a little before three in the afternoon, having made the 20 miles in rather less than 12 hours.

It was on the march this day that an amusing incident occurred. I had not owned a pair of socks since I left James Island a month before, and my shoes were in such tattered condition that I could keep uppers and soles together only by tying them with several leather strings, but most of my toes stuck out very conspicuously. I had read of the importance that great generals attached to the good condition of infantry soldiers' feet, and hence the aphorism, "A marching man is no stronger than his feet," and I determined to keep mine in good condition if possible. I knew that frequent bathing prevented blistering; therefore, every night before going to sleep, and often on the march during the day I would bathe my feet, so that they were never blistered, and I kept well up with my company in marching. On this day as we crossed a little stream, according to my custom I stepped aside, and pulling off my shoes soaked my feet in the running water. General Hardee and his staff rode by at the moment. He checked his horse and called sternly to me, "You there, sir! What are you doing straggling from your command? I suppose you are one of those men who behaved so badly at Averysboro." (A few men had been guilty of misconduct there.) I sprang to my feet, and saluting him said, "Excuse me, General, but you are speaking to the wrong man, sir. I have never misbehaved, and never straggled. I am only bathing my feet to prevent them from blistering. There is my company right ahead there, sir, and I always keep up with it." My injured tone and evident sincerity struck the old man, and he saluted me with the words, "I beg your pardon, sir," and rode on. He was a courtly and knightly soldier, and a great favorite with the men.

We reached Bentonville at about 3 o'clock p. m., only a short time after the battle had begun, and as we marched hurriedly along the road in the direction of the firing we passed a number of wounded men coming to the rear; and then several operating tables on both sides of the road, some with wounded men stretched on them with the surgeons at work, and all of them with several bloody amputated legs and arms thrown alongside on the grass. The sight was temporarily depressing, as it foreshadowed what we had to expect. But we hurried on, and our division halted for a few moments on the ground from which the Federals had just been repulsed, and there were quite a number of their dead and wounded lying about. One of the Federal wounded, a lieutenant, begged us for some water, and I stepped from the line and gave him a drink from my canteen. Others begged me likewise, and in a few moments my canteen was empty. I knew that this might result seriously to me, in case I should need the water badly for myself, but I could not refuse a wounded man's appeal even if he was my enemy; and one of our men, a thrifty fellow, who always managed to have things, produced a little flask of whiskey, and gave a good drink to a Federal who had his leg badly crushed. The blue-coat raised his eyes to Heaven with, "Thank God, Johnnie; it may come around that I may be able to do you a kindness, and I'll never forget this drink of liquor." We were not allowed to remain long relieving the suffering, but soon were called to "attention," and received orders to create it, by an attack upon the enemy from our extreme right. At this moment Maj. A. Burnett Rhett, of the artillery, rode along the line and called out that news had been received that France had recognized the Confederacy and would send warships to open our ports immediately. The men cheered, few of us realizing that the end was so near. We were blinded by our patriotism. There was Lee with his 30,000 men that moment surrounded by Grant with his 150,000. Here was Johnston with his 14,000 trying to keep at bay Sherman with his 70,000, with the knowledge that Schofield was only two days off with 40,000 more. And this was about all there was to the Confederacy; and they talked of recognition! Oh, the pity of it!

As we stood in line ready to advance my next comrade remarked, "Well, boys, one out of every three of us will drop to-day. I wonder who it will be?" This had been about our proportion in our two previous infantry engagements, and it was not far short of the same here, for out of the twenty-one men the company carried into the fight five were left on the field. At the word the line advanced through a very thick black jack-oak woods full of briars, and then double-quicked. We ran right over the Federal picket line and captured or shot every one of the pickets. One picket was in the act of eating his dinner, and as we ran upon him he dropped his tin bucket, which, strange to say, had rice and peas boiled together. Our lieutenant grabbed it up, and carried it, with the spoon still in the porridge, in his left hand in the charge. We went through the bushes yelling and at a run until we struck a worm rail fence on the edge of an old field. I sprang up on the fence to get over, but when on top could see no enemy, and so called out to the men, a number of whom were likewise immediately on the fence. Just at this moment the officers called to us to come back, as a mistake had been made. Our division had not gone far enough to our right. The line was again formed in the thick bushes, and we went about two hundred yards or so farther to the right, and during this movement the lieutenant ate the captured porridge, and gave me the empty tin bucket and spoon. I attached the bucket to my waist belt, and kept it for about a month, when in an amusing encounter with Gen. Sam Cooper, of which I will tell farther on, it got crushed. The spoon I have kept to the present time.

Our line was soon again halted just on the inside edge of the dense woods, and concealed by the brush, and I could see on the other side of the field, about 300 yards distant, twelve pieces of artillery glistening in the sun, and behind them a dense mass of blue infantry evidently expecting our attack, and ready for us.

As we stood there for a few minutes and saw the work cut out for us, one of our men, one of the few who had been of age in 1860, said in a plaintive tone, "If the Lord will only see me safe through this job, I'll register an oath never to vote for secession again as long as I live."

At the word "forward" our brigade left the cover of the woods at the double-quick, and the men reopened with their yells.

As all veterans of the great war know, in a charge the Confederates did not preserve their alignment, as the Federals did. They usually went at a run, every man more or less for himself. There was also an inexplicable difference between the battle cries of the Federal and Confederate soldiers. In the assaults of the Federals the cries were regular, like "Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!" simply cheers, lacking stirring life. But the Confederate cries were yells of an intensely nervous description; every man for himself yelling "Yai, Yai, Yi, Yai, Yi!" They were simply fierce shrieks made from each man's throat individually, and which cannot be described, and cannot be reproduced except under the excitement of an assault in actual battle. I do not know any reason for this marked difference unless it was in the more pronounced individuality of the average Confederate soldier.

As soon as our line charged out into the open field the Federal artillery opened on us with grape shot, and the infantry with their rifles. My eyes were in a moment filled with sand dashed up by the grape which struck around. I wiped them with my hand, and keeping them closed as much as I could, kept on at a run until I suddenly realized that I was practically alone. When I looked back I saw that the brigade, after getting about half way across the field, had stopped and was in confusion. In a moment it broke and went back in a clear panic. It is needless to say I followed. Our line was reformed in the woods, and I am glad to say of my own company, and I think Captain Matthews's, they both rallied at the word to a man. Every man was in place except those who had fallen. This was more than could be said for some of the other commands of the brigade, some of whose men never rallied, but went straight on home from the field, and were never heard of again.

Our line was again moved forward to the position from which we had first driven the Federal pickets, and our company was sent to the edge of the woods from which we had made the last charge, and deployed as pickets, two men at each post. It was now about dark, and, while the Federal infantry had ceased firing, the wretched pieces of artillery never let up on us and kept throwing grape shot, and occasional shells into the woods where they knew we were, making a terrible racket through the tree-tops, tearing off branches, etc. At about eight o'clock that night our lieutenant came running along the line calling for "Ford." As soon as he came to my post he told me that he had brought another man to take my place and that I was relieved, and at 12 o'clock must go directly to the rear and get some rations that were expected, and cook them for the company. I begged to be let off, but it was no go. He said he knew I could cook, and must go. So I laid down where I was, with instructions to my comrade to awake me at 12 o'clock, and in an instant was sound asleep, oblivious to the shells, etc., that the enemy kept meanly crashing through the trees and brush, and worse still to the groans and cries of the wounded that still lay in the field in front where they had fallen. After dark the occasional screams of some wounded horses lying in our rear were particularly distressing. Early in the afternoon Halsey's battery of flying artillery, attached to Hampton's cavalry, had held a gap in the line, until the arrival of our division, and in advancing I saw probably a dozen horses lying dead or wounded where the battery had been. To this day I recall the piteous expressions of two or three of these wounded horses, as they raised their heads in their suffering and looked at us as we passed between them. They were perfectly quiet, but it was only after dark that in their loneliness they uttered any sounds.

About midnight our picket line was withdrawn and the whole division moved off in Egyptian darkness somewhere, I never did know exactly where, or really care either, for at that moment I was suffering from fever which afterwards developed into a serious illness. At daylight in a cold rain we halted somewhere in the woods on the edge of another field, and threw up breastworks, as we were threatened with an attack, which, however, was not made. On the afternoon of the 21st we were hurriedly ordered to hasten across to the extreme left of Johnston's army to support the troops there who were severely pressed by the Federals. I was now so sick that I was ordered to the rear, but begged off, and a comrade offered to carry my gun for me, so I kept up. When we reached the place our line was formed with our company on the extreme left resting on the edge of Mill Creek. I was really so ill that I could not stand in line for any length of time, and requested permission of my lieutenant to lie down in ranks, so as to be in place when the assault came. He ordered me to the rear, but I succeeded in begging off again, and lay down in line. I was asleep instantly. The next thing I knew I was being dragged by the feet, and heard some one say, "What are you going to do with that dead man?" "Going to throw him in the creek," was the reply. I opened my eyes and said, "I am not dead, but only sick. What is the matter? Where are our men?" Looking around I saw that it was early dawn, and the place was deserted except by two of our cavalry videttes, one of whom said, "If you have life enough left you had better skedaddle, for the Yanks will be here in five minutes. We are the last of the cavalry." I picked myself up, and got across Mill Creek bridge just as the Federal troops began to appear.

I believe I was the last infantryman to get across it, and it was the only bridge across the creek. As I went across I noticed a lot of Wheeler's cavalry on the north bank of the creek, evidently to hold the bridge, and I could see the Federals in the distance, just on the top of the hill on the south side. I suspected what was coming, and, as I had received no invitation to an early morning entertainment, kept on my way. The road on the north side of the bridge inclined sharply to the left, so I was soon out of the line of fire, but heard the scrimmage as the Federals assaulted Wheeler's men and endeavored to capture the bridge. They were repulsed, but not before three of their color-bearers had fallen within fifty feet of the Confederate line.

It seemed that Johnston's army had retreated during the night, and in the darkness my comrades had overlooked me asleep on the ground. At about noon I caught up with my command where it had halted about two miles from the creek. In this battle of Bentonville, Johnston with only 14,100 men, all told, fought Sherman with about 40,000 the first day, and 70,000 the second. The Confederate losses were 2,400 and the Federal 4,000.

I had become so ill now that I could hold out no longer, and reported to the surgeon, and at eight o'clock on the morning of the 23rd was driven in an ambulance to a railway station and put with a lot of sick and wounded men on a train for Greensboro. I had had nothing to eat since about noon the day before, and when we got to Raleigh I got off and went to a near-by little cottage, where I saw a woman at the door, and told her that I was really very sick, and very hungry, and begged her for something to eat. I had not a cent of money. She told me pathetically that she had fed nearly all she had to the soldiers, but had a potato pie, and if I could eat that I would be welcome to it. I took it gratefully and it was the nicest potato pie I ever saw, before or since. We reached Greensboro at dark, making about 90 miles run in ten hours, very good for the speed of railway trains at that time. At Greensboro the court-house was used as the hospital, all the benches, desks, etc., being removed. We had no mattresses nor bedding of any kind, and about 200 of us were laid off in rows on the floor, with only our own blankets that we brought with us. After looking over the accommodations I selected the platform inside of the rail, where the judge's desk used to be, for my place, and went out into the street and begged an armful of hay from a wagon, and with two bricks for a pillow made my bed. Here I lay for about three weeks with fever, and at times really very ill. Three times a day the ladies of the town came and brought us food, and were devoted in their attentions. I got to be very weak, and on April 14th I told the surgeon that I was certainly getting worse, and believed I would die if I stayed where I was. His cold reply was, "I believe you will." I then asked to be allowed to go home. He said, "You will die before you have been out of the hospital twenty-four hours," to which I replied, "It is all the same with me. I would as lieve die in the bushes as here. Only let me make the attempt." Thereupon he gave me my furlough, and at daylight the next morning I put my blanket around me and walked right out into a drizzly rain. The railroad was torn up between Greensboro and Salisbury, so I walked along the track, and the next day reached High Point, and at that place met one of my comrades, who was in the hospital there. He smuggled me in and gave me a night's lodging under his blanket, and shared his scanty supper with me. The next day I struck out again, and after three or four more days walking reached Salisbury, about thirty miles farther, where I again found another comrade in the hospital at that place. With the exception of the night I had spent at High Point, it was my habit, when night overtook me, to step aside into the bushes and sleep until morning. What food I got was only what I begged at the farmhouses on the way.

At the Yadkin River I found that the bridge had not been burned. It seems that the Federal General Stoneman had been raiding that section of country and had attempted to burn this bridge, but had been driven off by a Confederate force under General Pettus, and some cavalry. Just as I approached it, President Jefferson Davis, with quite a party, came riding by. He was sitting gracefully erect on his horse, and courteously returned our salutes. This was the one occasion on which I saw the President.

We were quite a large number of men along the roadside, and one of the President's party, a captain, rode up to my group and asked if we were willing to go on across the Mississippi and continue the war there? Many of us, I among them, volunteered to go, but we heard nothing more of it. It seems that this really was Mr. Davis's plan, and he was so much set on it, that as late as April 25 he suggested to General Johnston that instead of surrendering to General Sherman, he should disband his infantry, with instructions to them to rendezvous at some appointed place across the Mississippi, and to bring off his cavalry and all his horses and light pieces of artillery. As is well known, General Johnston fully realized the absolute hopelessness of the struggle and deliberately disobeyed his instructions, and surrendered to General Sherman the next day. When one looks back upon the condition of things then as they must have been known to the highest Confederate authorities, it seems almost incredible that such an impracticable idea as continuing the war across the Mississippi could have been entertained for a moment.

At Salisbury a comrade, who had been also for three years my messmate and chum, joined me, and we traveled from there as far as Chester, S. C., where our ways parted. Strange to say, it seemed to me that I began to improve from the moment I left the hospital. I had a strong fever on me, but was bent on getting home. At Salisbury an amusing event occurred. This was about April 19. Lee's army had been surrendered ten days before, and the first lot of his men, probably 300 or so, now came along, and learning that there was a Confederate storehouse here with supplies of food and clothing, determined to help themselves. I joined the crowd to get my share. The warehouse was guarded by about a dozen boys of the home guard, who protested violently; but they were just swept one side, and the door was broken open, and every man helped himself to what he wanted or needed. I got a handful of Confederate money, a pair of shoes, some flour and bacon, a pair of socks, and a small roll of jeans. This roll of cloth I carried clear home across my shoulders, and when I reached Aiken, in May, exchanged it with the baker for one hundred bread tickets, which provided our family with bread for the rest of the summer.

The railway for a short distance from Salisbury was intact, and here we discovered an engine and two box-cars waiting for President Davis and the Confederate Cabinet. The crowd of soldiers determined to seize this train, and we told the engineer that he must either carry us as far as he could, and then come back for the President, or we would put him off and take the train ourselves. He yielded to force, and carried us about 20 miles. We then got off, and he went back. This led to an amusing experience a couple of days later. There was another section of torn-up track, and then another place where another engine and one box-car were in waiting again for the President and Cabinet. The crowd had dwindled down very much now, so comparatively only a few of us were on hand. These, I among them, at once clambered up on top of the car, and sat there. Presently I saw Gen. Sam Cooper approaching with a squad of about a dozen boys, home guards as they were called. He halted them within a dozen paces of the car, and then gave the orders, "ready, aim," and we had a dozen old muskets pointed at us. Then shaking his finger at us he said, "You scoundrels, you are the men who stole that train day before yesterday. If you do not drop off that car I'll blow you to hell." We dropped. In jumping down, my tin bucket, captured at Bentonville, was crushed against the side of the car. The spoon was in my haversack, and I have it still--1904. I thought to myself, however, "Old cock, I'll get even with you. I have a scheme you don't know about." Going off a few steps I said to my chum, "Just let's wait here until the Cabinet arrives. I bet that we two at least will get back on that car." We lounged around for an hour or two, and presently the wagons appeared with the Cabinet. I knew that Mrs. Geo. A. Trenholm, the wife of the Confederate Secretary of the Treasury, was along, and being a Charlestonian, who knew my family, I felt sure that when I made myself known she would help me. True enough, as soon as I made myself known to her she spoke to General Cooper, and four of us were given permission to ride on top of the car, one at each corner, with our legs dangling over, for the top of the car in the middle was smashed in. Mrs. Trenholm also kindly gave me a half loaf of bread and the half of a chicken.

We jolted along in this way over the good section of the road, until we came to the next break, when we got off, and after tendering our thanks plodded along on foot again.

Gen. Sam'l S. Cooper was Adjutant-General of the Confederate Army, and the senior in rank of Gen. Robert E. Lee, and was a Pennsylvanian. He ranked Lee in the Confederate service; and in the Federal Army before the war he also ranked the great Confederate commander, he having been Adjutant-General of the United States Army.

At Chester I parted with my companions, as our routes diverged. I walked from that town to Newberry, where I met one of my comrades, whose family lived there. He took me to his house, and I stayed there two days. Upon my departure he saw that my haversack was well filled with provisions.

The railway was intact from Newberry to Abbeville, so I got a lift that far.

While making my way through the country I was always treated with much hospitality by all the people along my route. There was only one exception. This was in Chester County, when one day, with my haversack empty, and hunger calling impatiently, I stopped at a farm-house and asked for some food, offering to pay for it. The respectable-looking man whom I addressed asked me what kind of money I had. I said, "Only Confederate money." He replied, "I won't take anything except gold or silver and have no food to give away," and shut the door in my face. I inquired of some negroes, as I walked off, and was told he was a very well-to-do man, and a preacher!

In striking contrast was the treatment by a poor farmer's wife the same day. I stopped at a small farm-house by the roadside, and in response to my call a woman opened the house door, and looking out cautiously asked who I was. I replied, "I am a Confederate soldier trying to get home. I am sick, and want something to eat." She called out, "You got smallpox?" "No," I said. Again she asked, "You got the measles?" "No, I've got only fever, and only want to rest; and if you have anything to spare, something to eat." She then told me to come into the house, and showing me into the back porch, spread a comfort on the floor with a pillow, and said, "My husband got back from the army just yesterday, and went to town this morning. I am sorry, but there's not a scrap of meat in the house, only some veal which he killed this morning. Now you just lie down and take a rest while I cook you some veal, and corn bread." I laid down, and was soon asleep. After a while the good woman aroused me, and led the way to the table, where she had prepared some veal chops and corn bread for me, which I ate with relish. She refused to receive any pay, as she said she "could not receive pay from a soldier." So giving her my warm thanks I resumed my route toward Newberry.

At Abbeville I went into a drug store and invested $30 in a toothbrush.

I had chosen this route to avoid the section devastated by Sherman. From Abbeville my route lay through Washington and Augusta, Ga., to Aiken, where my family were, and which I reached early in May. When passing through Augusta I went to the quartermaster's department and drew my pay, amounting to $156. This was the first pay I had received for a year, and of course it was absolutely worthless, but upon my arrival at Aiken I found a man who accepted $50 of it for a bottle of very crude corn whiskey. The remainder of this pay is still in my desk.

On April 26, 1865, General Johnston's army was surrendered to General Sherman near Durham Station, N. C.. thus putting an end to the war within the limits of their respective commands. At that time General Johnston had 26,000 men on his roll, as many of the remnants of the Army of the Tennessee and others from Wilmington had joined his command. Of these, 2,000 had no arms of any kind. General Sherman had 110,000 men effective. Johnston's army had consumed their last rations when it was surrendered, and General Sherman, when informed of its condition, ordered 250,000 rations immediately distributed, or about ten days' rations to each Confederate soldier. General Johnston in his "Narrative" says that if this had not been done great suffering would have ensued.

The great war was at an end, and the following figures show the fearful odds we fought against.

During the four years the United States put about 3,000,000 men in the field, of whom 720,000 were foreigners. They lost in killed, in battle, and from disease, 366,000, or about 12 per cent.

The Confederate States had only about 625,000 men, all told, from first to last. Of these there were killed in battle, and died from disease, 349,000, or about 56 per cent.

At the close the United States had 1,050,000 men in active service, and the Confederate States 139,000. We were fighting odds of over 7 to 1.

The day after my arrival at home the first Federal troops arrived from Charleston to garrison the town of Aiken. They were a company of negroes, commanded by a German captain, who spoke very broken English. I soon learned that it was a part of the force that had assaulted us on James Island and from the officers I heard their side of the affair. This was the beginning of that era of reconstruction which, for eleven years, was a course of negro domination, corruption, robbery, and outrages; and which steadily increased in intensity until in 1876 it was overthrown by the general uprising of the white people. But this is another subject.

SOME EXPERIENCES AND SKETCHES OF SOUTHERN LIFE

BY MARION JOHNSTONE FORD

KENT--A WAR-TIME NEGRO

"An African Morgan--a citizen whose name we shall not mention, although many readers know and will recognize the case--was surprised some days ago by the entrance of a good servant, who was supposed to be, if living at all, in Yankee hands at Knoxville. This servant went cheerfully, of course, or he would not have been sent, to wait on 'Young Massa,' who is under Brigadier-General Jenkins, in Longstreet's corps.

"In the retreat from Knoxville, he was accidentally wounded, and necessarily left behind.

"When taken to Knoxville, he was questioned by General Foster, well known for his connection as engineer with Fort Sumter, which has done more than he desired or expected for the defense of Charleston.

"Being asked his master's name, the man replied, when General Foster condescendingly said: 'Oh, yes; I knew him when I was at Sumter. You know that you are now free and have no master.' We need not report the further conversation, or the conduct of the servant. Suffice it to say he did not--like some of our gossiping friends in uniform--talk to everybody about his intention, but at the first promising opportunity he took French leave of Yankee friends and freedom in Knoxville, and not knowing then where to find or reach his 'Young Master,' he struck, according to his best information, for the 'Old Master' and the 'home place.'

"He was compelled to walk over one hundred and fifty miles, and in great part over the route travelled lately by General Morgan, and succeeded in reaching a railroad, which gave him a lift toward this city.

"We would have more such cases if opportunities could be found."

--_Charleston, S. C, Courier, January 19, 1863._

* * * * *

This Kent was not of blood royal, as his name might indicate; he came of a dusky African brood, but his loyalty and faithfulness would have done credit to any race. How he got his name I do not know, but it was a relief to the ear after those his mother had chosen for his brothers--"Cully" and "Hackless." Whether the latter was intended for Hercules, neither Martha, their mother, nor any one else knew.