Chapter L: C. Gause. 21 (3)

Soon after the war ended Johnston was going from Memphis to St. Louis. General Sherman and his staff were on their way to New Orleans. When Sherman learned that his former adversary was on board a certain boat he took passage for St. Louis on the same vessel. After supper he asked Johnston if he had any objection to going over with him the retreat from Dalton. Johnston said he had not. So Sherman spread his maps on the cabin table and, surrounded by a throng of listeners, they began. Sherman would ask about his line at a certain place, and Johnston would explain how his move was made. Sherman would point to his map and say: “How in the world did you get away from me here?” They talked all night. Johnston needed no map. He had been in the very thick of battle for seventy-four days; the map of campaign was burned into his brain, and he knew every foot of the ground. His retreat was a wonder to Sherman and to the world. Yet this great military genius was thrown out on the eve of his final and greatest assault upon Sherman. An assault which would have saved Atlanta to the Confederacy. Hood and Davis tactics prevailed after that and the splendid, unconquered army was swept off the earth into the grave.

Hood questioned the morale of his army, but as for that, our poor little Company G went into line under Hood as true as it ever had under Johnston. We fought for the cause, not the general. Jim Hensley, a boy who had been wounded severely, returned to the company. His physician had not reported him for duty, but had given him merely a pass to his command. I was in the field hospital when the order to forward was given. Hensley came to me saying: “Here, my dear old friend, is a little silver watch I wish to give you, for I shall be killed today.”

I told him he had not been reported for duty; that he was still far from well, and begged him not to go into battle, especially as he had a presentiment that he should be killed. He turned his soulful eyes upon me. “Will, do you think I am afraid because I know I am going to be killed?” Putting his hand on his breast he continued, “I have no fear of death. I am a Christian, and I know I shall be safe in heaven.” With tears we parted. He joined his brave comrades, Jim Murphy, John Baird and George Thomas on the left of Company G, after the line was in motion. They were moving against strong entrenchments heavily defended by abatis. These four boys saw they could crawl under the abatis without being seen and get close to the breastworks. After they started, the command was given to oblique to the left, but in the roar of the musketry the boys failed to hear it and went on alone. There were about a hundred Yankees on the breastworks watching our line which was advancing upon their rear. The four boys crawled close in, prepared, and opened up. At the first fire down came four Yankees. They were taken by surprise, not knowing there were any men at their front. The boys kept at their game until the Yankees ran. Then went forward to take possession of the works. Then they found themselves alone and two hundred of the enemy entrenched behind a second line! It was death anyway, so they ran forward firing on the troops with terrible accuracy. One man had a bead on Thomas when Murphy shot the fellow. One hinged for Murphy when Thomas bayoneted him. So they had it—hand to hand. Poor Hensley was killed, Murphy terribly wounded, Baird wounded, but Thomas would not surrender. He bayoneted them until they took his gun, then he kicked and bit until they finally killed him there. Four men had killed twenty-five Yankees, but only one of the four lived to tell the tale. To question the morale of such men is farcical. The battle on our left raged all day, and we were defeated. Our colonel lost his foot. One third of our regiment was gone. Great numbers were killed and wounded but the troops were as loyal and fought as bravely as any army on earth. This was Hood’s second defeat. In two battles, he had lost ten thousand men—more than we had lost in the whole campaign, in seventy-four days’ battles and skirmishes. It would not take long with such tactics to wipe out the rebel army.

July 29th we marched back to Atlanta. August 31st we marched to Jonesboro and on September 1st we moved to the right, threw up temporary works and Hardee’s corps fought the Battle of Jonesboro. Hood’s and Stewart’s corps were at Atlanta, twenty miles away, and we were entirely unsupported. We fought all day against seven corps of Yankees. We were surrounded and fought in front and in the rear. Fought as General Cleburne always fought. The Yankees charged our company seven lines deep, but our thin line held firm until some of the boys happened to discover a line of Infantry charging in the rear. Then they began to waver. Our Lieutenant Commander Clay jumped on top of the breastworks, waved his gun, (the sixteen-shooter which the officers of our company carried instead of sabres,) and called to his men to stand their ground. He was on the breastworks but a few minutes when he fell, pierced through by one of the thousand bullets fired at him. As he fell he saw for the first time why his men wavered. He ordered a hasty retreat to the right, and although dreadfully wounded successfully threw the line of battle to the rear. He fell in my arms and I got him to an ambulance and sent him to a hospital. In Macon we had only one commissioned officer left, John R. Loftin.

We would have been eaten up entirely, but for the coming of night, which gave Hardee a chance to unite his corps and throw up intrenchments. He displayed fine generalship throughout this engagement. Hardee had been offered the command of the army in Tennessee before Hood took it but had replied: “General Johnston is the only man able to command this army, and I will not have it.” Here was another terrible defeat for the new leader. Our loss at Jonesboro was about 2,500 men. The Yanks put our captured men on the train and sent them back over the old route. The fort at Dalton was garrisoned by negro troops. A great number of these negroes were at the station when the prisoners arrived. They insulted our men, and tried to take them from the train, yelling, “No quarter, if we get you on the field.” If white troops had not come to protect them there would have been serious trouble.

Our corps camped on the Macon road. It was a dark night and was raining heavily. By the flashes of lightning we saw the train of army ambulances coming out of Atlanta, and we heard female voices singing Dixie and other Southern songs. These were brave women, non-combatants, driven from their homes by the infamous order of Sherman. They had no shelter, no provision and only the clothes they wore. Some bore nursing babes and one woman gave birth to a Dixie boy in the wagon train. Yet these glorious women would not show anguish or cry out to please the demon general. They shouted for Dixie and sang on their dreary ride. They went further South out of range of the beast of a general. He burned Atlanta and made war on women and children for the rest of the way on his infamous “march to the sea.” As long as he had Johnston to fight he had no time for his diabolical deeds.

September 12th we marched to Palmetto and camped there, and President Davis came to review his thrice defeated army. Beforehand a general order was read, that no cheers should be given on this review. Never-the-less, when Davis reached the center of the troops every man on the field joined in one mighty volume of sound, “Hurrah for General Johnston.” They knew it would be impossible to court martial the entire army.

October 1st we crossed the Chattahoochee river at Moore Bridge. October 9th we crossed the Talacatacline river and went up the railroad as far as Dalton held by the negroes who had promised “no quarter” to our boys. General Cheatham detailed our brigade to guard the wagon train through a different route about four miles from Dalton, while he took Granberry’s Brigade and our Texas troops to attack the fort. As we fought side by side in so many hard battles the Texas men asked that the Arkansas regiment (not on the ground) should have the honor of charging the fort, and this General Cheatham promised. He surrounded the fort and demanded its surrender. This was refused. While the artillery made ready the Texans passed the word down the line as though it came from General Cheatham, “Kill every damn one of them,” which would have been carrying out their own threat of “no quarter.” However, they saved their necks by five minutes, for when the white officers saw they were overwhelmingly surrounded they gave up. The prisoners were put to work at tearing up the railroad track. One of the negroes protested against the work as he was a sergeant. When he had paid the penalty for disobeying orders the rest tore up the road readily and rapidly. That evening the Texas command moved over to us. We heard them yelling and singing but we did not know what had happened. They were guarding the negro prisoners, and were calling to us, “Here are your ‘no quarter’ negroes, come and kill them!” The poor negroes, with eyes popped out nearly two inches, begged, prayed, and made all sorts of promises for the future. They soon moved on out of sight and the general turned them over to the engineering corps, where they did splendid service. This was better than killing them.

That day as the wagons were in skirmish line ready for attack we heard firing in front of our advance column. Everything stopped and we made ready for action. Advancing, we discovered the cause of the tumult. A squad of scouts, whose captain was a man with long red hair, had given a great deal of trouble to the Yankees in that vicinity. Because he was an Independent Scout he had been outlawed and a price was placed upon his head. He and his outlaws were desperate fellows and accepted “no quarter” clause. This squad was on our road and as it happened, met a squad of twenty-two Yankee scouts coming down the same road. The red-headed captain and his five men charged the superior squad, wounded six and killed four. The rest of the Yankees fled in haste. We were close upon them, so Red Head could not kill the wounded. He and his men took to the mountains and we never saw them again.

We passed through Cedar Town and Cave Spring, and camped on Coosa river. We passed through Center and camped on Terrapin Creek. We crossed Chuckluck mountains and camped at Jacksonville. We crossed Coosa at Gordon and camped on Sand mountain. We camped on Black Morgan river.

On October 27th we marched seven miles and camped in line around Decatur. It was a rainy night, so dark we could not see our file leader. If there were any roads we could not see them. It was impossible to finish the line of battle. The army had lost its way. I was standing beside the other boys holding to a small sapling when a new line came up, moving as best they could in a hog path, each man guessing at the way and calling to the man in front. A log about knee high lay across the path and I saw three different soldiers strike that log and fall over it into the muddy slash. Each time the man’s gun went splashing ahead striking the fellow in front. There was cussin’ all along the line. Finally we ran out on the log and warned others who came along, turning them safely around that point. On October 28th we went further in, completed the line and fought the Battle of Decatur. The night after the battle it turned so cold we nearly froze to death, but we did not mind marching over frozen ground.

October 30th we marched thirty miles and passed Courtland, Alabama. On the 31st we marched twelve miles and camped at Tuscumbia. November 13th we crossed the Tennessee on a pontoon bridge at Florence. November 14th we built breastworks. On the 22nd we marched thirty-two miles and crossed the state line into Tennessee. On the 23rd we passed Warrenton, the 25th through Henryville, and the 26th through Mount Pleasant. We camped on General Pillow’s place. He had a grand old Southern home. A fine brick mansion, surrounded by beautiful groves with splendid driveways. He had his own church, a comfortable and pretty brick building. These cultured people of the best blood of the South lived in this ideal spot and educated their children by teachers who lived in the home. Two members of this family, Ed Pillow and J. D. Pillow, live in Helena, where they still keep up the family customs and traditions.

November 27th we marched nineteen miles and camped near Columbia. The enemy under Schofield had retreated from Mount Pleasant to Columbia and had entrenched in a formidable position. We went around them and crossing the Duck river on pontoon and rail bridges, we double-quicked to Spring Hill and engaged the enemy with Cleburne’s Division. Our regiment was one of the first in action, after the cavalry had skirmished with them. Night overtook us and we could not see to fight. Forrest wished to attack them, even in the night, but was not permitted. As their force was much superior to ours, it would have been useless. Hood did not think they would retreat, but at daylight, when he began to complete his line, surrounding them, he discovered that they had flown to Franklin! With muffled cannon, silently and swiftly, Schofield had fled through the night.

Company G lost some good men at Spring Hill. We established a hospital there, with Dr. Brickie and Dr. Gray in charge to care for the wounded. We brought the ordnance from Columbia and followed the enemy.

The Yankees had been reinforced and had entrenched at Franklin, behind the works they had built some months before. In front of their works was an open field with not a tree or ravine for a mile and a half. Just before the breastworks was an open ditch six feet wide and three feet deep. At the end of the ditch next to the breastworks, were placed poles sharpened spear-shape. Their main works were six feet at the base. The cannon-breast portion was cut down so that the guns, resting on oak logs, were on a level with our bodies. Behind the whole was a thicket of locust trees, as close together as they could possibly grow. After the battle these trees were found to have been cut off level with the breastworks by Confederate balls.

As a description of this battle of Franklin, November 30, 1864, I insert an extract from the Park Marshall address delivered forty-eight years afterward:

“I was born at Franklin, and as a small boy I visited this battle field when the smoke had scarcely disappeared, and the impression of that morning is still in my memory. Without exaggeration I may say that the severest battle of modern history was fought on these plains. In the forefront of that battle there were not over 20,000 Union troops, not over 15,000 Confederates, yet the killed on one side was greater in two or three hours than occurred on any one day on one side in any other battle of the Civil War, except Antietam.

“All the generals objected to the charge. Forrest, the best cavalry leader in the South, begged Hood to change his murderous plan, saying, ‘I know every hog-path in this county, and I can show you a route which will give us a chance.’

“The lesser generals entered their protest along with the great generals. Men of world-wide fame, and privates too, had their opinion, but not the right to speak.

“To send soldiers against such a position was suicidal. Every man in the South available for service was in the field. When these men were killed the Confederacy was destroyed. Oh, for a Johnston before the fatal word was given! Against every protest Hood ordered the advance. What were Cleburne’s last words to his noble warrior boys?

“Boys, we are ordered to charge the works. I don’t think we can take them, but we can try. Forward!”

“In thirty minutes this glorious patriot’s blood was flowing upon the ground. The advance was made without a halt, but men were mowed down as wheat before the reaper. They marched to the breastworks and scaled the walls, but they were bayoneted on top of the works and fell over on the enemy. Seven dead generals were brought and laid on this porch—Cleburne, Granberry, Strahl, Gist, Carter and Adams. Adams fell, leaving his dead horse on the very crest of the breastworks. Cleburne’s horse fell also crossing the works. This is one of the most heroic pictures of the war.”

Sixty per cent of our army was killed and wounded. The enemy retreated to Nashville after the best day’s work (for them) they had ever done.

Our company had but one officer left. We were consolidated with Company B and the two together scarcely made a full company. The whole regiment was consolidated into six companies, instead of ten.

The enemy’s loss was slight compared with ours. The bravest of the blood of the South was poured out for nothing. Who was right, Johnston or Hood?

We followed Schofield to Nashville and invested that post, but we were outnumbered, as he had been re-inforced from every quarter. He broke our line and captured about half of our regiment. My friend, Bob Bond was captured; Logan too, and many others.

We retreated in quick time. Near Spring Hill a squad of about fifty cavalrymen made a dash through our line, as we had stacked arms and were preparing to camp for the night, and went far to the rear. Coming along the pike, never dreaming of danger, were four soldiers, bearing a wounded man on a litter. The Yankee squad shot the doctor’s horse, wounding the doctor and killed one of the four soldiers. As the poor fellow fell, the wounded man rolled out on the pike. The front line, recovered from its surprise, grabbed the guns, surrounded the Yankees, captured them and made things lively for them for awhile.

We crossed the river at Columbia on two pontoon bridges, one for Forrest’s cavalry, being about two hundred yards below us, down the river. It was almost dark, but skirmishing was still going on, when Forrest’s pontoon broke loose, leaving him, his staff and about two hundred of his cavalry.

Our ordnance was crossing on our bridge, and all was over except two wagons. Our regiment was waiting on the bank. General Cheatham and his staff were at the top of the bank. General Forrest rode up to our bridge and was about to cut off the three wagons of ordnance when the driver whipped up his horses to join the other wagons. Forrest took his pistol and threatened to kill him if he attempted to go on the bridge ahead of the cavalry. The driver was quite plucky. He said his orders were to follow the ordnance train; if General Forrest did not like it he must go to higher officers. Forrest was furious. He spurred his horse and went to General Cheatham, swearing he would cross that bridge ahead of the ordnance. General Cheatham was perfectly calm, and explained that he wished to get the wagons over before night, and into camp, so he could lay his hands on his ordnance. Forrest was not pacified. He drew his pistol and threatened to shoot Cheatham, who rode to him at once, saying, “Shoot; I am not afraid of any man in the Confederacy.”

Now living at Marianna, Arkansas.]

The infantry with loaded guns, closed in around them, prepared to defend Cheatham. The cavalrymen, who had not heard what was said, came up the hill to see what was going on. Forrest’s adjutant plunged between the two generals and pulled Forrest down toward the bridge. By that time the wagons were over. So General Forrest and his troops crossed the bridge without further parley. It might have been a terrible tragedy. If either general had been killed, we would have had war right there.

Next day Forrest sent an apology to Cheatham, at least so it was reported. The affair was witnessed by our company, but it was kept quiet as we had troubles enough without fighting each other. Forrest was a great officer and a fine cavalry leader, but he was tyrannical and hot-headed.

December 20th we marched all day on the pike to Pulaski in a cold rain—a rain that froze on the trees. We had to sleep on the wet ground. Many men were barefooted and marched over the pike with bleeding feet. We were called the “straggling squad” because we had to march more slowly than the others, and we were between the infantry and the rear cavalry, commanded by Forrest. In his mind a straggler deserved death. When he came up to a poor little squad he struck one, a Lieutenant, who was in charge of the barefoot squad, over the head with his sword and ordered him to go on and keep up with his command. He would listen to no excuse, as if these barefooted men, braving sleet and snow with bleeding feet, were not doing their duty as loyally as any man in the army.

These incidents are a part of the unwritten history; merely a few things that I know to be facts in our army life with Company G.

We established a hospital at Pulaski to care for our sick and wounded, and left it in charge of Dr. Brickie. I went to the Colonel of our regiment and told him I feared Dr. Brickie would detail me to be his druggist; that I wanted a pass so I could go on ahead and meet the command beyond the town. He gave it to me and I had gotten about half a mile beyond Pulaski, when I heard a horse galloping behind me. It was the Division Surgeon, Dr. L., who stopped me, saying, “Are you Bill Bevens of Company G, First Arkansas.”

“I am.”

“I detailed you to report to Dr. Brickie, corps surgeon in charge of Corps Hospital at Pulaski.”

“I won’t do it.”

“If you don’t, I will have you court-martialed.”

“All right, but I won’t go.”

After he rode away I thought more soberly. I had been in the army four years and had never been arrested. Perhaps I had better go. I went back, but I gave it to Dr. Brickie. I told him there were a hundred druggists in that army; why didn’t he get some other one? He answered that he had selected me because he knew I would not drink his whiskey nor give it away to “bums,” but keep it for the sick. I told him I would give away every spoonful of it. I told him it was all right for him to be captured. He would be paroled. But I should be sent to Johnson’s Island to freeze.

He said he would arrange that. He knew all the assistant surgeons and told them when we were captured they must address me as “Doctor.” He ordered Dr. Gray to take charge of Ward 4, but to call it my ward.

So the army went without me and I felt sad indeed. I had not been separated from my comrades before. But “It is not what you want that makes you fat, but what you have.”

Forrest’s cavalry was the last to leave. High officers would call on Dr. Brickie, cough and say they were ill, hoping he would give them a drink. He was a positive man and all men looked alike to him. The reply was always, “Not a darned drop; it is for the sick and wounded.” The cavalry surgeons would beg for some, but to no purpose, for they got the same answer.

The infantry had been gone four days. Some of our patients had been taken to the homes of the good Southern women, some had gone with the cavalry, on horseback and in wagons. There was a big decrease in our hospital. About three o’clock in the afternoon Dr. Brickie told me I could go and gave me a pass. He added, “Here are ten plugs of tobacco; you can hire some of the cavalry fellows to let you ride, and you may keep up with them.”

I left him with a glad heart, but I did not know what I was up against. A lone web-foot to keep up with Forrest’s Cavalry! I was certainly used to hardships, but that was more than I could do, to save my life. I went over the muddy road until my wind was almost gone, and I had to rest. One of our boys belonging to Hardee’s Guards, came along and spying me, rode up to where I was saying, “Bill, is that you? You have too much baggage. Give me some of it, and I will deliver it to your regiment wagons when I get back to the army.”

I unloaded, rested for an hour and struck out again. The cavalry was ahead of me. I moved faster, for a Yankee rear does sometimes hurry a fellow.

I went all night; slept in the road and at daylight started again, making a good day’s march. Late in the evening I found I was near the cavalry again, so I made great strides to catch up. Ahead I saw a bridge across a stream and Forrest and his staff walking on the gravel bar. I hoped I could slip over before they saw me and handed the guard my pass. He said, “You will have to show it to General Forrest.” I was frightened sure enough. General Forrest did not care for passes or anything else when out of humor. I had faced a thousand Yankee guns, but I couldn’t face Forrest!

I waited some distance off, hoping he would go to an other part of the line, but he seemed to attend to that bridge himself. Finally he did walk away a few paces. Then I ran up to the adjutant, showed him my pass, and he waved the guard to let me go over.

I tried to beat Forrest to the next bridge, but when I got there he was on the bank higher above it. By their firelight I could see the infantry across the river and I thought, “I am safe now.” When I reached the pontoon bridge over the Tennessee, the cavalry was crossing. I started across in the dark, but the guard stopped me. “You can’t cross here—pass or no pass—you will have to see General Forrest.” I argued with that guard, but it did no good. Then I thought to myself, “He will not shoot into his own men,” and I said, “I am going across and you may shoot me if you like.” I ran past him. He could not see me in the dark, or he might have shot.

After I got across the bridge I found that my command had gone two days before, so I camped all night by the straggler’s fire. It was one of the worst nights of the campaign. A biting cold wind was blowing and we fairly froze to the ground. For two days I followed my regiment. My rations gave out and I was trudging along the road, forlorn and very hungry, when I heard some one call me. It was a boy of Company G, detailed with the engineers’ corps. I stayed with him that night. He had plenty of grub and filled me up.

December 27th, we passed Tuscumbia and on the 29th we camped at Iuka. On this march we crossed Bear Creek on a railroad bridge. The mules were unhitched from the wagons and led across. When I got there a fine pair of mules were on the bridge. They got half way over, then mule-like, decided they would back a little, and they backed clear off the bridge and went under the water, head and ears, to the amusement of the web-foot soldiers.

January 1, 1865, we marched seven miles and camped near Corinth. Here we washed up, and felt of ourselves, to see if we were all there. Here I caught up with my command. I surely was glad to see the boys and they were to see me, for they supposed I was eating rats on Johnson’s Island. There were not many of us left. The killed, wounded and captured at Nashville had about finished the “shooting-match.”

We traveled over the Mobile & Ohio railroad to Tupelo, from which place I was sent to Aberdeen to bring the medical wagons to Alesia, where they were to be put on cars and taken to South Carolina. At Richmond (while I was in Aberdeen) it was decided to give a furlough to seven men of every company, so we might visit our homes in Arkansas. The boys put my name in the hat and drew for me and I got it. The other boys who got furloughs left at Meridian to make their way to Arkansas. They meant to take chances at crossing the river to get home. I was waiting at the Alesia station to deliver my medical supplies. The officer who came to ship them said, “Isn’t your name Bill Bevens?” I said, “Yes.” “Well, you have a furlough for 120 days to go to Arkansas.” I said, “You are wrong. I never applied for one. Never have had one. I have been with the army nearly four years and have never seen Arkansas in all that time.”

But as the train flew by, the boys yelled at me that I had a furlough; so I went to see about it. It was at the Eighth Arkansas headquarters and I had no authority to stop. I had to go to South Carolina before I could get it. My crowd went without me.

I went on with the army. At Mobile some of us went again to the Battle House restaurant. We ate three rations in one meal, and our bill was one hundred and twenty dollars. Our paper currency had taken a great fall.

It was a cold ride down on the Mobile & Ohio railroad. The soldiers were thinly clad and few of them had shoes. One or two men froze, riding on top of the cars. We traveled to Milledgeville, Georgia, and from there we had to march over a forty mile gap to the Augusta road. I found my friends, Ed Dickinson, Ben Adler and Thad Kinman were still in Augusta. They got me a new gray suit with a long tail coat. I sure was dressed in the height of style, but my shoes hardly corresponded to my suit. They were not very stylish.

In South Carolina I got my furlough, told my comrades good-bye, and took letters from them to the home-folks.

These were my friends who gave me good clothes instead of common, regulation clothes. They belonged to the Quartermaster’s Department.]

General Cheatham was in a box car and I got on the same car. It was the first time I had seen him since the quarrel with Forrest. I told him I had a furlough and I wanted to get transportation. He seemed to doubt it and said, “Let me see your furlough.” He looked at the signature and he knew it was genuine.

Securing transportation I went back to Augusta. I went out to Belair, ten miles from the city, where my uncle had a summer residence. He was very kind to me. Next morning we went into the city and found a great commotion. General Beauregard was placing all stragglers in the guard house. My uncle said, “Son, you go back to Belair and I will see General Beauregard about it.” But I answered, “The general will have you in the guard house if you go to bothering him. I have an authority that ranks him or any general, as it is by order of the war department.”

When we went back to Belair that night my uncle presented me with a fine pair of boots which cost $100. Then my stylish outfit was complete. I told them good-bye, went to see Ed Dickinson, Ben Adler and Thad Kinman, and left for home.

I got to Forty Mile Gap. I had more baggage than when I went down. As I marched along one of the drivers of the four-mule wagons asked if I wanted to ride. A web-foot never refused. He said he would walk if I would ride and drive, but I told him I had never driven a four-mule team in my life.

“Oh, that’s all right,” said he, “the mules follow the wagon ahead without a driver.”

I rode his mule and drove his wagon, stylishly dressed, as I have said, in my long-tailed coat and fine new boots. The Virginia soldiers going on foot to their command, guyed me greatly. “When the war is over I bet that fellow will never tell that he drove a wagon train.” Then others would yell, “Don’t that guy look fine with his gay clothes on?” General Walthold came along and attracted by my dress, eyed me muchly. I did not know what was in my wagon, and to avoid inquiry, and trouble for the driver, I began to whip up the mules, looking the other way. But that didn’t work. The general called out authoritatively, “What have you, sir, in that wagon?”

“Quartermaster’s supplies,” I answered, hastening on. Soon I passed the danger line for myself and the driver and was safe from any general (except a Yankee General!)

I stayed with the driver until two o’clock in the morning, when I had to leave for Milledgeville, to be in time for the outgoing train. I got there ahead of time, and witnessed one of the sad trials of refugees. An old man and his daughter, a beautiful young girl, were apparently in great haste to get their baggage off on the train, and seemed relieved when they had stowed away the last package. They themselves were just getting on the train when two policemen arrested the old man and started back to town with him. There were eight or ten Arkansas and Texas soldiers on the train. They could not see a nice young girl driven off the cars, and her father treated like a criminal. When she began to cry the crisis had arrived. They jumped off with their guns and pistols and took the old man from the policemen, gave him a pistol, saying, “Kill them both, and we will bury them right here.” The old man refused to shoot, but the policemen did not tarry, nor did they come back.

At Montgomery I was joined by Tobe Hicks, who was going to Helena, Arkansas. As he had come but lately from the Trans-Mississippi army on some war business, and knew the route across the river, I decided to stick to him.

We took a boat to Selma, on the Alabama river. There were many comrades on board and we passed the time in talking of the war. From Selma we went to Kingston, which was twenty-two miles from the railroad. We had to hurry to meet the train. We left at twelve o’clock and walked the ties to the junction, doing the twenty-two miles by seven o’clock. It was hard on Tobe Hicks. To our dismay we missed the train by five minutes and there was no other. We slept on the ground that night and next morning started on the hundred mile walk to Meridian.

At Meridian we took the Jackson railroad, but had been on the train only three hours when we came to a wash-out bridge and had to walk again.

At Panola we gave a negro ten dollars to put us across the river in a skiff. Everywhere was water, water, water.

When we could go no further we fell in with four men going down Cold Water on a flat boat with two bales of cotton. We told our tale of woe and they agreed to let us go with them if we would pull the boat. Although we had always lived on a river, we had never played deck hands. But this was no time to be dignified. We laid hold of the oars and played deck hand for two days and a night. They were hard steamboat men. We could stand it no longer. Late in the afternoon Tobe said, “Let’s land here.” We landed and took off our traps. They tried to bully us into going on, but we were used to bluffs, and they couldn’t work it.

By walking ridges and wading sloughs, we came to the Mississippi. It was miles wide. We went to the house of a man whom Hicks knew. He told us the Yankees had patrol boats out every night and we would certainly be captured. We were between the devil and the deep blue sea. If we went back we would be captured; if we went on we would be captured. But danger had been our meat and drink for four years. We decided to build a raft of cedar logs, huge and square and long and light. We built it in a slough, back from the river, and when it was finished, we went to eat supper with this friend and bid him good-bye. Crossing the Mississippi at night on a raft could never be the safest journey in the world. With the Yankee patrol boat ready to capture us the danger was doubled.

But our friend said he knew of a man who had a skiff (if the Yankees had not burned it) that he would come for us if we could make him hear. We called and to our joy the fellow answered. He landed us at the mouth of St. Francis river about one o’clock in the morning, and we gave him our watches and other valuables in payment for his services.

We had to wade again, but we hurried on. At last we came to the parting of the ways, for Hicks was going to Helena and I to Jacksonport. We felt rather sad at separating after walking, wading, riding, playing deckhand and building rafts together.

To guide me Hicks gave me the names of all the men on the road who were o. k. About two o’clock in the morning I called up one of these o. k. men and asked to stay all night. He laughed and said, “It is day now.”

I told him I had been up all night and must walk for my life that day. I must have two hours’ sleep—on the floor, anywhere.

He told me the Yankees would capture me, but if they came I could run out the back door to the wood behind. He called me at four o’clock for a cup of coffee and a good breakfast, gave me nice lunch for noon, and I was walking on the slippery road before daylight. I walked for my life and made forty miles that day. When ready to pick out a place for the night I went to a house to find out where I was. The good woman saw that I was a rebel, and asked me what was my command.

“Cleburne’s old Division, Govan’s Brigade, Army of Tennessee,” I answered.

She burst out crying, “For God’s sake go on,” she said, “Last night they captured my son from the same command.”

I declared I was not tired at all, and had a half hour more of daylight anyhow. She told me how to get off the big road and where to stay all night. I went five miles further and when I asked for a night’s lodging the good citizen had to be shown my furlough. Then he was glad to see me, gave me a fine supper and a good bed, and went with me next morning to show me the short cuts.

That day I went through the prairie, nine miles of sage grass. All day it poured rain, rain, rain. When about half way across there came a terrific cloudburst and I was nearly drowned. I thought, “Oh, to think that, after my perilous crossing of the great Mississippi, I should be drowned on a prairie so near home.” I held my blanket over my head and out in front of me, so that I could breathe, and that saved me. Before I got to the next house I poured the water out of my boots and washed my socks. I pulled off my pants and washed them. I did this because I was afraid the family would not let such a muddy straggler stay all night. But they were nice to me.

I resumed my journey at daybreak. Bayou Deview was out of its banks. I waded to the channel, waist deep. I do not know how long I was about it, but I finally got across and saw the sand ridges and the big home road.

I had to cross Cache river at Gray’s Ferry. As a boy I had known Dr. Gray but he did not know me. I went to the house, introduced myself, and showed him my furlough. He asked when I crossed the Mississippi. I told him. Had I walked all the way? I told him I had. Was I any relation of Judge Bevens of that district? I told him Judge Bevens was my uncle. He finished by saying, “You have walked all the way from St. Francis river and have not stolen a horse?” I told him I was a gentleman, not a horse thief. He said, “Certainly, I will put you across the Cache river.” He called to a negro to bring two horses, and we rode about a mile to the ferry. There a man met us with a skiff and took me across. I went on my way and began to know the landmarks. When I reached the fork of the roads, (one leading to Augusta; the other to Jacksonport), I sat down to rest. Jim Howell, the deputy sheriff rode up. He looked at me for a minute, then shouted, “Why, is that you, Bill Bevens, what in hell are you doing here?”

I showed him my furlough and told him about my journey. He made me ride, while he walked to his house, a few miles up the road. Then he put a little negro up behind me to ride some miles further.

I met Bill Campbell, who lost a leg at Shiloh. He wanted me to stay and talk, but I was headed for home and would not stop. I went on to Colonel McCoy’s at Tupelo. I spent the night with Bruce Waddell. He lost a leg at Shiloh. It was the first time I had seen him since. I helped carry him off the field. It was a happy meeting, and we talked nearly all night. He sent a little negro with me to Village Creek. I crossed in a canoe and walked the rest of the way—six miles—to Jacksonport.

Home again! Was it only four years ago that the Jackson Guards had marched to the Presbyterian church to receive its banner from loving hands? How many miles we had traveled. How many battles we had fought. How many wretched homes and blazing cities we had seen. The sorrows, wounds, sufferings and deaths of centuries were crowded into those four years. Oh, the pity of it!

I went straight to my sister’s home. Her little girls were dressed in long clothes, “playing lady.” Their mother was at a neighbor’s and one of them went for her, not telling her why she was wanted at home. Her surprise at seeing me was great, and our meeting joyous beyond words.

She and the children went with me to father’s home in the next county. My mother had not heard from me, and she did not know whether I was alive or dead. She fell on my neck, cried, laughed, shouted. She almost died of joy. Father was too happy, and too full for utterance.

Mother would look at me for hours and could not talk for joy. Her dear soul was never happier than now with her dear soldier boy safe at home, surrounded by loved ones. God gives no boy a better heritage than such a sweet Christian home and such love.

With her boy a thousand of miles away, and no mails, her prayers for him were the only connecting links. The boy on the field of death remembered his mother’s prayers and was comforted in every danger.

I was unaccustomed to sleeping in a house, and at first used to take my blanket to the yard, but mother could not stand that and I had to go back. My sisters would look under rocks and planks and in various hiding places and bring out my jewelry and other treasures which they had hidden from the Yankees.

Before my furlough was out came the news of General Lee’s surrender at Appomattox. The long cruel war was over and I was separated no more from my home and mother. At Jacksonport I met the boys who had been furloughed with me, but had reached home first—John R. Loftin, Forrest Dillard, Haggerton and others. It was good to be with the old comrades once more. We took up our work again. I began selling drugs. I married here and am still in Jackson county, at Newport, Arkansas.

(THE END.)

Jacksonport, Ark., April 24, 1877.

At an informal meeting called at Col. L. C. Gause’s law office, the following members of the old Jackson Guards, or Company “G,” First Arkansas Regiment, Infantry, were present: