Chapter III: Part 3

“Brer Peter wus in deep prayer when I rid up to his cabin, an’ arter he ris up from his knees he blessed on de top ob my observashun, gib me de grip ob Ainshunt an’ Honorbul Order ob de Bow-legged Sons ob de Black Cat, an’ ’lowed he’d lak ter tak off my sandals an’ wash my feet; but I tole ’im I jes’ wash ’em ’bout er month befo’ an’ didn’t hab no time fur foolishness; dat I cum to dis cabin fur konsolashun an’ den I jus’ got offen dat muel an’ plowed a straight furrer ob facts down de row ob his head: ‘Brer Peter,’ sez I, ‘de doctrine ob our church teach us it am not good fur er man wid er dozen chilluns to lib erlone on one side ob er plantashun, an’ er nice, seekin’ lookin’ widder ’oman wid ten mo’ to lib erlone on de yudder side. In union dar am strength, in numbers dar am prosperity, an’ in Duteromety dar am happiness. Brer Peter, I wants ter marry Sister Calline,’ sez I. ‘She am yo’ widder an’ de widder ob de church, but you know yourself she ain’t had no sho’ ’tall—jes’ ha’f a marrid life an’ er house full ob chilluns—ten ob ’em, all needin’ sum lubbin’ father’s gidin’ arm, wid er hickory attachment, whilst my twelve or fifteen all need de spirtool ker ob er good muther ercompament. De cotton pickin’ seezen am ’most on us, an’ if I kin jine our forces I’ll hab er lead-pipe cinch on de cotton crap ob Tennessee to say nuthin’ ’bout de fo’teenth ’mendment to de skule law fixin’ de pro ratter ob all householders raisin’ twenty or mo’ widin de skule aige.

“I tell you, suh, Brer Peter tuck the thing mighty hard, mighty hard. He didn’t wanter do dat thing ’tall. But arter he dun prayed ober it, he cum out wid er new light in his eye, an’ he put his hand on my head an’ bless me an’ say, ‘Brer Washington, I’ve prayed ober it. It am de will ob de Lord. Lite on dat muel an’ seek your konsolashun. Go in an’ receive de sanshun ob her reten-shun an’ de kompliment ob her adorin’.’ And he kinder wink his off eye an’ sed, ‘Go in an’ win, fur you am de Samson ob lub fightin’ de Phillustines ob matrermony; but when you cum to git konsolashun from er widder’—an’ dar he wink hes eye ergin—‘use de same weepun dat Samson used an’ victory am yourn.’

“But when I got to de widder’s cabin an’ tole her—great Scott, suh! she tuck it terribul hard. She didn’t wan’ marry ’tall. Leastwise she made me b’leeve it. Hit’s jes’ es I tole you, suh; you hafter wrastle might swift fur konsolashun when you goes to marry a widder.

“‘Brer Washington,’ she sez, ‘dis am so suddent, so suddent! Don’t you think you’d be satisfied ef I’d continue in de sisterly relashuns ob de church wid you?’

“‘Sister Calline,’ sez I, sorter detarmined lak, ‘I’ve had ten ebry day sisters all my life en sum seben hundred Sunday ones. What I now wants am one wife!’

“Oh, I tell you, suh, you gotter shoot mighty klose fur konsolashun when you wants ter marry a widder!

“We kept it up for hours, she argyfyin’ an’ me argyfyin’, she prayin’ an’ me prayin’. I tell you, Boss, she wus er speedy filly, an’ she had no noshun ob quittin’. We went round de fus’ quarter ob de last mile nose and nose—argyment ergin argyment, prayer ergin prayer. I thout sho’ she had me distanced onct when she fotch out de scriptures on me an’ turned to de twenty-second chapter ob Exerdust an’ sed: ‘Brer Washington, read fur yo’self: “Thou shalt not afflict any widder or fatherless chile.”’ But I turned over to Timerthy, de fifth chapter an’ de third verse, an’ sez I, ‘Sister Calline, whut you read am Ole Testament. It am anshunt histery. Heah am de New Testament, heah am de new doctrine: “Honor widders dat am widders, indeed.”’ Oh, I tell you, Boss,” laughed the old man, “I sho’ hung onto de sulky wheels ob her contenshun wid de wings ob my orthorteries—you gotter hab sum speed lef’ fur de home stretch ef you wants ter beat er widder home!

“An’ so we went, ’round an’ ’round, wheel ergin wheel, an both drivin’ fur life, she quotin’ scriptures and argyfyin’ an’ me comin’ back wid Numbers an’ Duterrumetics—an’ sumtimes things dat wus Reverlashuns to her! At de half I got her tired, at de three-quarters she quit an’ jes’ befo’ she got to de wire she gib up wid er tired, tangled break, an’ sed:

“Brer Washington, it am de Lord’s will.”

“Oh, I tell you, suh, you got er use a mighty keen switch ob beseechment in de race ef you wanter lead er widder down de home stretch!

“But goodness grashus!” he said, as if suddenly remembering something. “I’d better be buildin’ dis pen or we won’t hab enny sawseges fur Kristmus,” and he began to saw energetically.

“Hold on,” I said, “You never told me whether you married the widow or not.”

He looked at me in undisguised astonishment—“Law, law, law,” he said, “white folks got such curis ideas. In course I did—marrid her dat night an’ tuck ’er home de naixt day; ain’t I bin tellin’ you whut er hard time I had gettin’ konsolashun frum dat ar ’oman?”

He sawed vigorously away for awhile, but I could see he wished to tell something else. Finally I said:

“Well, go on, I’m waiting.”

He turned around quickly, laid down his saw, laughed, and said: “How de wurl did you know dar was ennything else? Bless my life, suh, but de very look ob er white man am er search warrant to de nigger’s soul. Ef you bleegter hab it, heah it am,” he said, as he looked slyly around: “I hadn’t been married to dat ’oman but two years befo’ I had to run fur er offis, too.

“What office?” I asked.

He grinned sheepishly.

“Patriark ob de Santerfercashun,” he said, “I beat Unk Peter fur dat offis, an’ got eben wid ’im at his own game.

“Lemme tell you, chile,” he added, impressively, “two years ob konsolashun frum er widder will make a dead man or a Patriark outen ’most ennybody,” and he resumed his sawing with a vigor.

Concerning Littleness

_Let not the littleness of people disturb you. Remember that if you have been made big enough to do big things in life, you have been made large enough to overlook little things. So do not imagine you are great, so long as by sifting yourself you find jealousy, hatred, malice or even the spirit which frets, in your heart. These and Greatness sleep not in the same soul._

JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.

Stories of the Soil
The Little Things of Life, Happening All Over the World and Caught in
Ink for Trotwood’s Monthly.

He was a fine-looking old gentleman, well-dressed and had the air of a well-to-do business man. A silver-white mustache set off his cheery-looking, full, round face, and something in his eyes told me he wasn’t at all struck on formality and would not mind talking to a stranger, to pass away an hour or two in a sleeping-car. [Sidenote: An Unfinished Race.] I noticed, too, that his left sleeve had no arm in it, and then that he had on a G. A. R. button.

“That old fellow is all right,” I said to myself, “and I’ll bet he left that arm down in Tennessee. There are a dozen good yarns tucked away under that derby hat that have never yet seen the color of white paper, and I am going to get one of them. I should say that he fought from Shiloh to Chickamauga and from Chattanooga to Nashville, and made a good one, too, or else he wouldn’t have left that arm in the enemy’s country.” “He fought the war out,” I said, after I had studied his countenance more closely and noticed the big bump of benignity that made up his back head and ended in kind, mild countenance; “and after it was over he let it stay over, forgot all its meanness, inhumanity and cussedness generally, came on up here to Indiana and went into business, attended strictly to it, and is now a well-to-do business man.”

Satisfied that my diagnosis was correct, I went over, and taking a seat by him, began to slyly get in my net for the fish I knew was there.

“From Middle Tennessee, you say?” he said after awhile. “Well, I guess I know every foot of it, nearly.” He laughed. “Under a little black locust tree near Murfreesboro is what is left of this,” he said, as he touched his empty coat sleeve. “I have often wanted to go back there and see some of those pretty farms and good horses and bluegrass hills when I didn’t have any guard duty to do and wasn’t looking for an enemy, but friends.”

I cordially invited him to come, and mentioned how many of the veterans come down every now and then to go over the battlefields of the South.

“Is that long, wooden, covered bridge still spanning Duck River at Columbia?” he asked quickly, as if suddenly remembering all about it. “That old bridge has got a history,” he continued. “I was with Buell when we got orders that we were to unite our army with Grant’s somewhere in the neighborhood of Pittsburg Landing, on the Tennessee. When we reached Columbia the river was up and the bridge was partially destroyed, and all the flooring burned. I was one of the engineers and had to repair the bridge. Word had come that we were needed badly, and we worked day and night. Then word came that we were needed worse, and by hard dint I got the army over, and on we rushed for Pittsburg Landing. We got there almost too late. Grant’s army was nearly ruined. Johnston had driven it from Shiloh Church to the river bank, a distance of five or six miles, and only our arrival that night, bringing in the thirty or thirty-five thousand of Buell’s army, saved Grant. On what small things do great destinies hang!” he mused. “A loss of a day at Columbia would have changed the history of this country, and General Grant, instead of having been President, would have been one more of our unsuccessful generals.

“But the funniest experience I had in Tennessee was at a little place in Marshall County, almost at the extreme edge of our army’s position. It was after the battle of Shiloh, when the main army was at Nashville and our outposts went as far south as Pulaski. Do you all still raise pacing horses down there?”

I looked around to see if anybody was near enough to understand the humor of such a question, but seeing none, and no sign of a joke on the old gentleman’s face, I kept my face straight as I answered him that we still raised a few.

“I was always fond of a good saddle horse,” he went on, “and many of the boys in our company of cavalry were of the same way of thinking. In fact, we had picked up a whole company of them down there, and I’m afraid we did not take the trouble to issue any Government warrants for them either,” he laughed. “So when we went into camp in this village of Marshall County we had a company of as fine horses as any cavalry company ever bestrode. Time went a little heavy on our hands, until one day some of the boys got up a bet on the speed of their respective horses, and a quarter race was run that evening at which the entire company turned out. It was won by a little roan horse that could pace nearly as fast as he could run, which was saying a good deal, for he could run for a quarter of a mile about as fast as anything I ever saw on four legs. Well, he won, and two days afterward beat two others, and a week after that beat everything they could rake and scrape up against him. All this was hugely interesting and immensely exciting, and as none of us had ever heard anything of the presence of the rebel cavalry leader and reckless raider, General Forrest, and never dreamed of the danger we were in, I am sorry to say that we were more interested in horse-racing just then than anything else. The owner of the horse called the little roan pacer and runner “Mack,” in honor of General MacPherson, who commanded some of us at Shiloh. Well, after Mack had beaten everything running, it was announced in camp one day that Mack’s match at pacing had been captured a few days before, and a big pacing race was to come off that evening to decide it. I had never seen a pacing race under saddle, and with all the others I went out to see it. You can imagine what asses we were when we left everything in camp, even our side arms, in care of a few sentinels and camp followers, and all of us adjourned to an old field about a quarter of a mile to see the sport. The track was a half-mile, laid off on a nice country road, the judges standing at the end of the half mile and the start was at the beginning. It is needless to say that every man in the company was at the end of the track where the judges were. The horses were nearly equal favorites, and we soon had to appoint a man to hold the bets. He had his hands full, for every man in the company had something upon the race, and the goose hung high—and we were the goose,” he laughed.

“There were to be three heats. An Indiana man rode Mack, and an Ohio man rode the other horse. Down the lane they came on the first heat, and all of us strained our necks to see who led. In forty yards of the wire, so to speak, Mack lost his head, concluded he was born for running and not for pacing, broke out and ran away from his man. The judges gave the heat to the other horse. This made Mack’s friends mad, and after a good deal of palavering the heat was declared off and everything started over. In this heat Mack got down to business and beat the other horse by the nose. But in the next heat the other horse turned the tables on Mack and beat him a good length. I’ve seen a good many harness races in my day since then,” continued the old soldier, “but I never saw one that interested me as much as that. Everything was excitement, and the boys were betting everything they had, from hardtacks to dollars. When they turned up the road to come down for the third heat, we could easily see them from where we were, as the beginning of the track was slightly elevated. They turned ’round to come, when all at once I saw both horses stop, their riders looking intently toward the camp, which was behind us and could be seen by them from their slight elevation. In another instant they started, but not our way. They gave one wild shout, bolted the fence on the side of the road and lit out across the fields, according to our notion, like two fools. Before we had time to imagine what was up, we heard some shouts and shots in camp, some wild galloping and yells our way, and we turned ’round only to rush into the arms of a detachment, some five-hundred strong, of Forrest’s Cavalry. If there ever were a cheap set, we were the boys. We made no bones of surrendering, for we hadn’t a dog’s show and were glad to get off with our clothes.

“‘What in h—— are you Yanks doin’ down here, anyway?’ asked their leader, a big fellow with a Colonel’s gray uniform on. When the situation was explained to him he laughed like a big schoolboy. ‘Where is the stakeholder?’ he asked. When this gentleman was pointed out he hollered out: ‘Fetch them stakes over here, sonny, and tell the judges all bets are declared off on this race’! And the way the Johnnies laughed racked us more than being captured.

“We soon learned the secret of the thing. Forrest had made one of his characteristic raids around Nashville, captured and burned our stores at Gallatin and Murfreesboro, and was sweeping on towards Bragg’s army at Tullahoma. In his sweep he simply scooped us up while we were down in the woods of Marshall County, running a pumpkin fair, a goose show and a pacing meeting. But he was in a big hurry himself, for nearly all of Buell’s cavalry were after him. He had no time to do anything but take all we had, including our horses, the gate receipts and the book money and parole us and push on. But he never got Mack and the other horse, and to this day I have always wished that he had waited five minutes longer. I’d give ten dollars now,” he added, “to know whether Mack or the other horse would have won that last heat. But we never knew, for we were soon forced to the front again; forgot all about our paroles, for we never did think we were fairly captured, and I never saw Mack or his rider again. I stayed the war out, but I never went to see any more pacing races in the enemy’s country,” he laughed.

“Well, come down this fall and see some in the country of friends,” I said. We shook hands and parted.

TROTWOOD.

* * * * *

The poem below goes the rounds of the press every year signed with the name of Gen. Albert Pike. In fact, such is the general belief, and all the books in which I have seen this poem printed fall into this error. [Sidenote: The Old Canoe.] But though General Pike wrote some very beautiful poems, he did not write this one. We have his own admission made to Senator Carmack, the distinguished senior Senator from Tennessee. Like many other good poems, it was, perhaps, the only one some poet wrote, and, never thinking it would be immortal, or that it had any special merit, failed to sign his name to it.

It is a little curious how this poem became identified with General Pike. But we learn how it was from an old citizen of Columbia, Tenn., who knew General Pike when he was a young man and lived here. Pike practiced law there when he first started out in life, but met with poor success. Becoming despondent, he one night paid his hotel bill, went to the river’s edge, got into an old canoe, and drifted down to Williamsport, where he took the stage for Nashville. From there he went West, where he became a successful lawyer and politician, and afterwards wrote a volume of poetry. Those poems in which he allowed himself to be natural, such as “Every Year” and others, are very beautiful. But in his most pretentious poem he seems to imitate Keats and Shelley, and so lost his own individuality.

After many years Pike came back to Columbia, a celebrated man. He was an ardent Whig, and made a big speech in support of his principles. To offset his influence some ardent Democrat composed a doggerel called “The Old Canoe,” in which it was plainly intimated that Pike had left here years before between two suns, and had not been too particular about taking some one else’s canoe to get away in. This doggerel was sung around the streets until General Pike and his friends were exasperated beyond measure, ending in the sensitive poet’s leaving the town. Of course, it was all a lie, and the old canoe was probably the property of no man, but it seems that then, as now, nothing was too mean for one political party to say of another. This beautiful poem, “The Old Canoe,” coming out about that time, was attributed to General Pike, and its authorship has never before, perhaps, been publicly corrected. It is found in the schoolbooks, and in books on elocution, as being by General Pike, but Senator Carmack is our authority that General Pike himself told him he did not write it.

Where the rocks are gray and the shore is steep,
And the waters below look dark and deep,
Where the rugged pine, in its lonely pride,
Leans gloomily over the murky tide,
Where the reeds and rushes are long and rank,
And the moss grows thick on the winding bank,
Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through,
There lies at its moorings the old canoe.

The useless paddles are idly dropped,
Like a seabird’s wings that the storm has lopped,
And crossed on the railing one o’er one
Like the folded hands when the work is done.
While busily back and forth between
The spider stretches his silvery sheen
And the solemn owl, with his dull “too-hoo”
Settles down on the side of the old canoe.

The stern half-sunk in the slimy wave
Rots slowly away in its living grave,
And the green moss creeps o’er its dull decay,
Hiding its moldering dust away.
Like the hand that plants o’er the tomb a flower
Or the ivy that mantles the falling tower;
While many a blossom of loveliest hue
Springs up o’er the stern of the old canoe.

The current-less waters are dead and still,
But the light wind plays with the boat at will;
And lazily in and out again
It floats the length of the rusty chain.
Like the weary march of the hands of time,
That meet and part at the noontide chime;
And the shore is kissed at each turning anew,
By the dripping bow of the old canoe.

Oh, many a time, with a careless hand,
I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand,
And paddled it down where the stream runs quick,
Where the whirls are wild and the eddies are thick,
And laughed as I leaned o’er the rocking side,
And looked below in the broken tide,
To see that the faces and boats were two,
That were mirrored back from the old canoe.

But now, as I lean o’er the crumbling side,
And look below in the sluggish tide,
The face that I see there is graver grown,
And the laugh that I hear has a soberer tone,
And the hands that lent to the light skiff wings
Have grown familiar with sterner things.
But I love to think of the hours that sped
As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed,
Ere the blossoms waved, or the green grass grew
O’er the moldering stern of the old canoe.

* * * * *

The mule is such an ungainly animal that very few ladies are given over to admiring him. As for me, I’d rather see an old mule coming my way when I have the blues, than to see a long absent friend.

[Sidenote: A Mule and a Proposal.]

I know that is a broad assertion, but when you hear the why, I know you will agree with me, and say as did a little negro, that “one end of him was good.”

When a little girl, I lived with my people on a handsome farm three miles distant to the church we attended.

Charley, my dear lord and master, lived only a mile from the church. You see, Charley was the most bashful man around the neighborhood, and while everyone knew ages before he proposed, that he loved me, it begun to look as though he would never gather courage enough to say so.

Night after night he would call, and invariably told me “I was looking kind of pretty,” and after a dreadful silence, he would break out suddenly, “I’m kind o’ stuck on you,” giving me such a start that I would nearly jump out of my chair.

Beyond that “I’m kind o’ stuck on you,” it seemed he would never get, and at last, growing desperate, one night I determined to use a little strategy and screw his courage to the sticking point. So when he came, and discoursed a short time on the weather, the brightness of the moon, our sick neighbors and such like, I knew my time was near, and awaited nervously for the never-failing sentence, “I’m kind o’ stuck on you,” when I expected to say, “Oh, Charles, this is so sudden. I only thought you liked me as a friend.” This I felt sure would do the work.

At last, clearing his throat, Charles made ready. Looking lovingly at me, he said, “May, I’m kind o’ stuck on you,” and before the blush had fairly mantled my cheeks, aye, before I had a chance to utter a sound, the mean thing went on, “Oh, May, I forgot to tell you, we have a new colt.”

Never in my life did I feel more like strangling a man than I did that night. I had to turn aside to hide my tears of disappointment, for you must know that I really loved the dear fellow. He was not the least bit bashful with men, or even in the presence of old women. But when it came to girls, his conversation above speaks volumes.

One Sunday Charley had asked me if I would allow him to drive me home from church the following Sabbath. I was only too willing to say yes, hoping that something would happen to make him utter the much-desired words. Oh, girls, you can better imagine my disappointment than I can describe it, when late Saturday afternoon my mother’s maiden sister arrived, bag and baggage. I did not need to be told that I should be left at home next morning, as the carriage would not accommodate all.

I could not eat any supper and later brother Tom found me lying in my favorite nook in the summer house, sobbing as though my heart would break.

Little by little he coaxed me into telling him the reason for my grief, and at last I told him of my promise to Charley.

He sat and thought for a long time, and then breaking out into a happy laugh, he cried: “I have it, little Sis. When the others are gone, I’ll saddle old Bob, and you can ride behind me until we get near the church, when we can get down and tie Bob in the woods and walk the rest of the way.”

I felt many misgivings, I can tell you, about riding that mule, but as this was the only chance of getting to church, I reluctantly assented. Accordingly, when the carriage drove down the driveway the next morning, I flew to my room to dress, while Tom went out to saddle Bob. We were soon ready, and with Tom’s assistance I mounted behind him. The first two miles were soon covered, and feeling uncomfortable from the jolting I was getting, I begged Tom to get off and walk the rest of the way.

All at once Tom uttered a yell like a Comanche Indian, and never in the history of the world did a mule make better time than Bob did, getting nearer and nearer to church at each leap.

How I begged Tom to stop him and let me get off. But never a whit did Bob slacken his speed, and I thought I would faint with horror as the church appeared through the woods.

Faster and faster we came right up to the church door, and that mule brayed longer and louder than he ever did before.

Down I slid, and back on the home track I started as hard as I could run. I had not gone far when a horse and buggy came up behind me and a moment later I was sobbing on Charley’s breast.

He asked me to be his wife that day, and I have long since forgiven the mule, as he certainly brayed some courage into my Charles. Can you blame me for being an ardent admirer now of a mule?

MAMIE TAYLOR GEISSON.

* * * * *

_Some men are natural born pall-bearers._

Ole Cotton-Tail

De white man bil’d de big rock fence,
He’s boss of all de lan’,
He’s lord of all de fiel’s an’ woods,
He wuck me all he can.
He stays up in de big white house,
Long wid his cake an’ ale,
He nurver kno’s whut joy it am
To hunt ole cotton-tail.

Whut keer I if dat fence am ruint,
Whut keer I fer de cost?
Ef I don’t make a hole down dar
Dat cotton-tail am lost.
Den I go sneakin’ home ter night
An’ ketch it, widout fail:
“Ole man, huccum you sneak in heah
Widout dat cotton-tail?”

So watch dar, boy, upon dat fence,
(You, Juno, watch dat crack!)
An’ ef you see Marse John come out
Jes’ drap down in yo’ track.
I’ll git a stick an’ twist in dar—
You’ll heah dat rabbit’s wail—
Whut’s rock an’ stone—dey can’t be e’t,
Lak good ole cotton-tail.

OLE WASH.

Historic Highways of the South.
THIRD PAPER—NASHVILLE

BY JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE

No road is so typical of the Middle Basin as that lying between Franklin and Nashville. For ten miles it winds around in the lowland basins or over the intervening ridges, amid fields as fertile as ever yielded their increase to the husbandman’s plow. On each side the low hill ranges lie, blue or brown, as the sun happens to fall on them. Fertile to their very tops are these hills, green in grain or grasses, or darker green in richer foliage. In this the Middle Basin, through which for nearly a hundred miles from Nashville to Pulaski, this historic road runs, the country is different from any in the South. Sea shells lie on the tops of the hills—sea shells rich in lime and phosphorus. Every foot of this road is rich in history and tradition. Down it rode Jackson, time and again, from his home at The Hermitage, not many miles away. Here, also, rode Polk and Grundy and Sam Houston and Crockett. An old man told me a story about James K. Polk which I have never seen in print. He said that in the memorable campaign for the governorship of Tennessee between James K. Polk and Lean Jimmie Jones, in 1840 (in which campaign it is said that Jones, who was the greatest stump orator of his day, and the father of that style of oratory, almost drove the statesman Polk from the hustings), there was a mutual agreement between the candidates that Polk should speak at Franklin and Jones at Columbia, in the wind-up, the day before the election. Columbia was Polk’s home, and not very solid for him at that. The friends of Polk devised a scheme to give him the advantage by making two speeches in a day. So he made his speech early in Franklin and had saddled and ready a thoroughbred horse, which he mounted after his speech, and galloped to Spring Hill. There he took a fresh horse and rode furiously to Columbia, arriving in time to reply to Jones’ speech. But my informant, who was an old line Whig, informed me that though the future President made record-breaking time in his race down the pike, he lost in votes when it became known that he had broken his agreement and played a trick on Lean Jimmie. Jones defeated him for governor.

But the greatest of all the history made on this pike was made by the two armies of Hood and Schofield, as they swept over it in the early days of December, 1864, and then swept back again. The situations were exactly reversed, making a wave of war which ebbed and flowed, carrying on its crest the foam of wounds and death and woe. Continuing the story from Hood’s invasion from our last issue, Schofield’s army reached Nashville after the battle of Franklin, early in the morning of December 1, 1864, and there united with Thomas. Other detachments had been called in, including Gen. A. J. Smith, aggregating nearly 12,000 men, and later Steedman, with 5,200 more. Milroy and Granger, with 8,000 troops, were ordered to Murfreesboro, and placed under the command of General Rousseau. According to General Cox (The March to the Sea—Franklin and Nashville. Jacob D. Cox, page 100), General Thomas had in Nashville on the morning of November 30, 26,200 men. To these add Schofield’s army of 34,000 men, and it will be seen at a glance what Hood’s disheartened and stricken army had to fight, and Thomas, a Virginian, in command, with the bulldog tenacity of Grant and the courage of Hood.

If Franklin had been desperate, what could Hood do now, with the heart of them dead in his brave men, with sorrow in their hearts for comrades who slept in trenches under the sod of Franklin, and beloved commanders who, now being dust, were but a week before pictured forever between the sky and the bastions of steel as they rode over the breastworks to death? Even in the heart of the starved and the hardened lives memory—and what memory must have been theirs in the sleet and cold of those bitter December nights, while waiting for Thomas to come forth from his warmth and food to give battle. If Franklin had been a desperate case, was not this worse—the combined forces of Thomas and Schofield, Smith and Steedman? Anyone but Hood would have stopped and thought, but Hood never thought.

“In truth,” says Cox, in the history already quoted, “Hood’s situation was a very difficult one, and to go forward or to go back was almost equally unpromising. He followed his natural bent, therefore, which always favored the appearance, at least, of aggression, and he marched after Schofield to Nashville.” Hood put Lee’s corps in the center across the Franklin turnpike; Cheatham took the right, and Stewart the left of the line, while Forrest, with his cavalry, occupied the country between Stewart and the river below Nashville.”

General Van Dorn’s headquarters, near Spring Hill, where General Van
Dorn was shot to death by one Dr. Peters for an alleged familiarity
with the latter’s wife. Peters walked friendly into Van Dorn’s
office, obtained a pass from the General to go through the line,
shot him, jumped on a horse and escaped to the Federal line.
]

Here, from the first days of December until the 15th, much of the time in sleet and rain, Hood’s half starved veterans awaited the oncoming of Thomas’ well fed and well seasoned troops. Such a meeting could scarcely be termed a battle, however bravely the long, thin lines might hold out, and however desperately they might fight. Hood grimly made two stands, but his gray lines, outflanked and outfought, melted away into a disorganized rush, back through mud and slush and freezing rain to the Tennessee. And now, back again, over the same highway, rush the two armies. Truly this historic highway was baptized in blood. The weather was cold now, sleeting. When it thawed there was slush, and when it froze, needles of ice for bare and bloody feet. No army since Valley Forge suffered as did Hood’s brave men. Truly, the men who could follow Hood back to the Tennessee, in the biting cold and hunger of those days, in the numbness which knows that all was lost, and the sorrow for those who marched no more, truly, the stock of that kind who fought it to a finish, might well survive that their heroic tribe might be given as a future pledge for the perpetuity of the Republic.

Two things alone saved Hood from annihilation: The lack of real generalship in his pursuers, who failed to push their advantage to a finish, and the intrepid genius of Forrest, who covered Hood’s retreat. Had Johnston got Sherman, had Lee got McClellan in the fix Hood was now in, the map of the Union would be painted to-day in two colors.

Of Forrest’s skill in saving Hood’s army, General Cox pays tribute in the following paragraph, when he says: “At Columbia, Forrest rejoined Hood, and his cavalry, with an infantry rear guard, under command of General Walthall, covered the retreat to the Tennessee.... This force was able to present so strong a front that ... our advance guard was not able to break through.” But the freezing, pitiless retreat of a brave, broken army, who had gone into this Pike of Battles fit to fight for a kingdom, who had done more than any similar body of men had ever done before, in facing snow and sleet and hunger and bastions of steel and the entrenched thousands of a well-fed city’s troops, and now went out under the fatal inefficiency of him who led them, is one of the great tragic stories of the Lost Cause.

Forever will this historic highway run between sloping hills and sinking valleys, from the Basin’s Rim to the Tennessee; forever will it girdle with protecting arms the swelling glories of its maiden hills. The sentinel rows of corn land, the massed squadrons of wheat, forever will follow the line of its march, helmeted in tassle-caps, sheathed in scabbard sheafs, with meshes of gold and gilt, while from the forts of its over-towering hills orchards of apples will drop their balls of gold where once contending cannon hurled theirs of steel. Forever and forever, a tribute and a lesson to all time that brother no more shall kill brother in the dawning glory of a new age and a new Union. But never again will it see the equal of that desperate courage, that sacrifice for conscience, that valor for home and country as each saw it, as shown by these two armies which swept north and south in glory and in gloom.

Trotwood does not like to end anything in gloom and sorrow, and so will end this sketch of this historical highway with some cavalry yarns he has picked up from the old survivors of this and other battles.

Several years ago, at a Confederate reunion, he found himself among a group of interesting talkers—men who had been makers of history in this great struggle. All of them have now joined their comrades who had gone before—and right worthily they went, as their life’s record will show. Among that number was Gen. W. H. Jackson, the owner of Belle Meade, then the most famous thoroughbred nursery in America. [Sidenote: Some Cavalry Yarns.] On his left was the State’s chief executive, Governor Turney, or “Old Pete,” as the big brained and big framed fellow under the slouch hat was familiarly called by every schoolboy in the State. Other congenial spirits were around, high in social and political circles, drawn by the annual reunion of Confederate veterans. Some war yarns had passed around and General Jackson, who was a brilliant cavalry leader himself, was explaining how efficient the cavalry service was. The General himself fought through the war and thought that the best horses in the world for cavalry purposes were those with a good dash of thoroughbred in them. Jackson himself rode thoroughbreds all through the war. So did Fitz-Hugh Lee, of Virginia; John H. Morgan, the famous raider, and many others.

“I remember the time I longed for one mighty bad,” quietly remarked an Alabama colonel present, as he knocked the ashes off his cigar and smiled at the turn the story was taking. “It was around Vicksburg, in the trenches, and Grant was crowding us day and night. We lived on raw beef and such dogs as happened to stray out of the city, and were begrimed, dirty, half starved and homesick. Right next to us in the trenches was a Tennessee company, whose captain always managed to ride around on a black thoroughbred horse, as handsome a creature as you ever saw, and which he kept slick and fat and curried always—though the Lord only knows where he got his rations from. I watched that fellow and soon caught onto his game. Every time the Yankees would crowd us pretty close, and it looked as if we would have to surrender anyhow in the teeth of such overwhelming numbers, this fellow’s horse would get frightened and, in spite of all his owner’s endeavors, would break away with him to the rear. One day the fight got terribly hot, our lines were cut nearly in two, they swarmed over the breastworks, it was a hand-to-hand fight. To add to the demoralization, here came this captain on his black horse, going to the rear by the lines like wild, pulling like Hercules on his horse’s mouth to stop him, and shouting back as he flew along:

“‘Gentlemen, I can’t stop him—he is running away!’

“‘Hould on, Captain,’ shouted an Irishman in our line, as he jumped up and waved his cap at the horse and rider, ‘Hould on! I’ll give you a thousan’ dollars to tell me where I can get another one of that breed of horses that you can’t hould when he starts to the rear.’

“The Yankees took the shout of laughter that followed Pat’s exclamation for the Rebel yell and we got a breathing spell at our end of the line for a couple of hours.”

Nashville and Columbia pike in front of the Cheairs’ place, near
Spring Hill, where the battle would have been fought had not Hood’s
plans miscarried.
]

“That reminds me of Sam Watkins,” said a gentleman present. “The same Sam that wrote that inimitable book on the war called “Company H”—the best book I ever read on the war, for it came nearer to painting it in its true, horrible colors than any of them. Sam tells the story as he went through it, from the standpoint of a common soldier, and the motto of his volume seems to have been General Sherman’s laconic remark that “War is hell.” If the young idiots ever get up a notion to fight again, Sam Watkins’ ‘Company H’ will do more to stop them than anything I know of. Anyway, just before the Battle of Shiloh Sam found himself mounted on the stubbornest mule that ever went to war. He would charge Grant’s whole army when the bugle sounded retreat, and would proceed to fall precipitately back when there wasn’t an enemy in a hundred miles. On the first day at Shiloh, when Johnston’s army was rushing over everything before night, and Buell came, Sam’s mule suddenly decided to retreat—and retreat he did, much to Sam’s mortification and disgust. As he went back full tilt he ran over a gun with four horses attached and before he recovered from the shock of the collision to know which way his rear end was, Sam tied a rope to his neck and the other end of the rope to the caisson’s axle, and having mounted again he got the artilleryman to literally haul his muleship into battle. The fight was nearly over when they finally got to the front, and, General Johnston being killed, Beauregard had ordered a cessation of hostilities till morning. But it suddenly dawned on Sam’s mule that he was expected to charge, and no sooner was he released than he straightened his neck, and before his rider could dismount, straightened his tail, brayed once and charged Grant’s whole army, penned up on the banks of the Tennessee River, and madder than a gored bull in a fence corner. Sam’s captain didn’t understand the mule’s maneuvers, and as he went by shouted to his men:

“‘Look at brave Sam Watkins, boys, charging right in the cannon’s mouth.’

The Martin Place, near Spring Hill, Tennessee, one of the finest farms
in the State, formerly the Gibson Farm, and the first home of Tom
Hal in Maury County; also historically associated with Hood’s raid.
]

“‘It ain’t me chargin’, Captain,’ shouted poor Sam, as he pulled away with all his might to keep out of certain death—‘it ain’t me. I ain’t such a fool as that. It’s this damned old mule! Whoa, Baalam, whoa!’

“I don’t know how that is,” remarked a colonel who had seen hard service on foot, “but I do know that we infantry fellows had a holy contempt of all cavalrymen. At the Battle of Murfreesboro I was badly wounded in the leg and arm, and for days I could scarcely walk. As I was hobbling back to the rear on the third day after the fight, I met my brother mounted. As soon as he saw my condition he got down, helped me up on his horse and told me how to ride out to find the hospital surgeon. Now, in our brigade, we had a standing reward of a thousand dollars for anybody who would show us a dead cavalryman. I had forgotten all about this when all at once I rode into a Texas regiment camping and fixing for supper. My arm was in a sling, and from my drooping position it was plain I was wounded. As soon as they saw me one of them yelled out:

“‘Run here, boys, run quick, and see the curiosity of the century. Here is a wounded cavalryman!’

The Lane of the Lost Opportunity, near Spring Hill, Tennessee, where
Hood came so near cutting off Schofield.
]

“And before I could get on they had surrounded me and proceeded to make life a greater burden. In vain I tried to explain; as far as I went I heard only one yell:

“‘Look at the wonder of the century! Here is a real wounded cavalryman. Sonny, how in the world did you ever get that close to a bullet?’ and so on. I got off of that horse as soon as I could and never tried to play cavalry again during the war.”

“I think it pretty well established,” remarked General Jackson, “that the greatest cavalry leader of the Confederacy was Gen. N. B. Forrest. His career was a curious one, as illustrating the heights to which a natural genius, uneducated though it may be, can go in its chosen path. He had twenty-nine horses, in all, killed under him during the war, and yet came out unhurt save when a minie ball one day ploughed through his stirrup and the sole of his boot. After the war, in which he rose to be a lieutenant-general, his fame as a cavalry leader had spread so far that during the Franco-Prussian War, Napoleon III sent a distinguished military tribunal over here to get General Forrest’s mode of fighting cavalry. On their way to Memphis they stopped over at Belle Meade to inspect my stud, and as I had seen a good deal of service with Forrest I was telling them of some of his ways of fighting cavalry. Only one of them could speak English, and I remember how the other two laughed as I told their interpreter how Forrest escaped annihilation by pure audacity, on Hood’s retreat out of Tennessee, of whose army his cavalry covered the retreat. Forrest’s cavalry was really mounted infantry, and he had in it also two of the deadliest batteries in the Civil War. On Hood’s retreat he saved the army by planting his batteries and checking the Federal advance—then, when they came in overpowering numbers he would fall back to another natural hill breastwork and check them again, while Hood was trying to get over Duck River. But one time he came near being annihilated. He held his ground too long when suddenly an officer dashed up and shouted:

“‘General! General, we are ruined! The enemy is in our rear. We will have to surrender! What shall we do?’

“‘Do? Do?’ shouted Forrest, as he cursed the officer for a chicken-hearted coward. ‘Is that all you know about war? What will I do? In my rear, are they? Well, I’ll just about face and then I’ll be in them, won’t I?’ And he did, capturing more prisoners than he could take into the Tennessee River with him. The French committee were highly amused, and said such a course would never have been thought of in European warfare. I afterwards learned that the only information they got from Forrest on their visit was his now historic answer to their question as to what was his rule of warfare, to which he answered, ‘There ain’t but one rule—I always tried to git thar fust with the most men.’ Now, the thoroughbred horse is the best horse in Tennessee to ’git thar fust’ on,’” laughed the general, “unless it is one of Trotwood’s pacers,” he said, as he winked my way, “and the only reason they are fit for anything is because they are built on the best kind of thoroughbred lines, as he has admitted time and again.”

“I remember a laughable incident on Hood’s retreat at a small creek between Nashville and Columbia,” said another old soldier present. “It was early morning, cold and sleety. We had waded the creek, but had to go back to help pull the artillery over. As we came out of the mud and water, a long line of us tugging at a gun, a lank, solemn soldier walked up on the bank, drew himself up with great dignity, and in a sepulchral voice said: “Fellow citizens!”

Instantly every man stopped and listened for some important announcement.

“Fellow citizens,” went on the man, in a deep, earnest tone, “aftah much reflection an’ mature deliberation, I have decided that South Carolina was a little too hasty.”

He was so solemn and earnest that he was greeted with a big laugh and shout.

* * * * *

[Note—Under this heading, in a near issue, will be the illustrated
story of the Old Nachez Trace and the story of the death of
Meriwether Lewis.—Ed.]

A Famous Horse Race

BY BEN MCCULLOCH HORD

[The incidents in connection with this great race, so graphically
described by the writer, were given him by an old turfman who at
that time was a young jockey and witnessed the race.—Ed.]

At the time of which I speak, there were a number of famous horses on the turf, necessarily producing much rivalry between their various owners and friends. The most prominent that I can call to memory now were Boston, Duane, Decatur, Vashti, Balie Peyton, Fannie Wyatt, Charles Carter, Lady Clifton, Clarion, etc. Boston was just beginning to win the fame that afterward made his name a household word throughout the racing world, and nearly all of the best horses of the day sought to measure strides with this distinguished son of Timoleon. In the language of an old turfman, they were laying for him. At this time Boston belonged to Mr. Nat Reeves, of Richmond, Va., and after Decatur had defeated Fannie Wyatt in a four-mile heat race at Washington, D. C., Mr. James Long, a great admirer of Boston, and a close friend of Mr. Reeves, proposed to Captain Heath, the owner of Decatur, to match Boston against him, four-mile heats, for a purse of $10,000, to be run at Camden, N. J., provided that he could get the use of Boston for the race. The match was accepted and $1,000 forfeit put up. Mr. Long went over to Long Island, where Mr. Reeves had Boston attending the spring meeting, and made known his match, which was agreed to. Decatur was at Washington, while Duane and Charles Carter, both in the same stable, were gathering turf laurels at other places. Boston had never gone four miles up to this time, and there were many prominent turfmen who doubted his ability and courage to negotiate this distance in good company, consequently as soon as the match between him and Decatur became known it made the latter largely the choice in the betting, he having recently defeated that good mare, Fannie Wyatt, in the four-mile race above referred to.

Messrs. Reeves and Long, however, were not slow in finding out Boston’s courage—they were already satisfied as to his speed—so they gave him a trial, which was entirely satisfactory, he having defeated in this trial his stable companion, the celebrated Atlanta, 108 times the length of Mr. Long’s walking stick, a novel way, certainly, to measure distance, but it was certainly done in this case, and in those days horses were tried with horses, and not by the watch, as now.