Chickamauga (7 page)

But Back was a good man—a better man than Bacchus Pentland never lived. His only failin’ was the failin’ that so many Pentlands have—he went and got queer religious notions and he wouldn’t give them up.

Well, like I say then, Back was in the Fourteenth. Your Uncle Sam and Uncle George was with the Seventeenth, and all three of them was in Lee’s army in Virginny. I never seed nor heared from either Back or Sam fer the next four years. I never knowed what had happened to them or whether they was dead or livin’
until I got back home in ’65. And of course I never heared from George again until they wrote me after Chancellorsville. And then I knowed that he was dead. They told hit later when I came back home that hit took seven men to take him. They asked him to surrender. And then they had to kill him because he wouldn’t be taken. That’s the way he was. He never would give up. When they got to his dead body they told how they had to crawl over a whole heap of dead Yankees before they found him. And then they knowed hit was George. That’s the way he was, all right. He never would give in.

He is buried in the Confederate cemetery at Richmond, Virginny. Bacchus went through thar more than twenty years ago on his way to the big reunion up at Gettysburg. He hunted up his grave and found out where he was.

That’s where Jim and me thought that we’d be too. I mean with Lee’s men, in Virginny. That’s where we thought that we was goin’ when we joined. But, like I’m goin’ to tell you now, hit turned out different from the way we thought.

Bob Saunders was our Captain; L. C. Mclntyre our Major; and Leander Briggs the Colonel of our regiment. They kept us thar at Clingman fer two weeks. Then they marched us into Altamont and drilled us fer the next two months. Our drillin’ ground was right up and down where Parker Street now is. In those days thar was nothing thar but open fields. Hit’s all built up now. To look at hit today you’d never know thar’d ever been an open field thar. But that’s where hit was, all right.

Late in October we was ready and they moved us on. The day they marched us out, Martha Patton came in all the way from Zebulon to see Jim Weaver before we went away. He’d known her fer jest two months;
he’d met her the very week we joined up and I was with him when he met her. She came from out along Cane River. Thar was a camp revival meetin’ goin’ on outside of Clingman at the time, and she was visitin’ this other gal in Clingman while the revival lasted; and that was how Jim Weaver met her. We was walkin’ along one evenin’ toward sunset and we passed this house where she was stayin’ with this other gal. And both of them was settin’ on the porch as we went past. The other gal was fair, and she was dark: she had black hair and eyes, and she was plump and sort of little, and she had the pertiest complexion, and the pertiest white skin and teeth you ever seed; and when she smiled there was a dimple in her cheeks.

Well, neither of us knowed these gals, and so we couldn’t stop and talk to them, but when Jim saw the little ’un he stopped short in his tracks like he was shot, and then he looked at her so hard she had to turn her face. Well, then, we walked on down the road a piece and Jim stopped and turned and looked again, and when he did, why, sure enough, he caught her lookin’ at him too. And then her face got red—she looked away again.

Well, that was where she landed him. He didn’t say a word, but Lord! I felt him jerk there like a trout upon the line—and I knowed right then and thar she had him hooked. We turned and walked on down the road a ways, and then he stopped and looked at me and said:

“Did you see that gal back thar?”

“Do you mean the light one or the dark one?”

“You know damn good and well which one I mean,” said Jim.

“Yes, I seed her—what about her?” I said.

“Well, nothin’—only I’m a-goin’ to marry her,” he said.

I knowed then that she had him hooked. And yet I never believed at first that hit would last. Fer Jim had had so many gals—I’d never had a gal in my whole life up to that time, but Lord! Jim would have him a new gal every other week. We had some fine-lookin’ fellers in our company, but Jim Weaver was the handsomest feller that you ever seed. He was tall and lean and built just right, and he carried himself as straight as a rod: he had black hair and coal-black eyes, and when he looked at you he could burn a hole through you. And I reckon he’d burned a hole right through the heart of many a gal before he first saw Martha Patton. He could have had his pick of the whole lot—a born lady-killer if you ever seed one—and that was why I never thought that hit’d last.

And maybe hit was a pity that hit did. Fer Jim Weaver until the day that he met Martha Patton had been the most happy-go-lucky feller that you ever seed. He didn’t have a care in the whole world—full of fun—ready fer anything and into every kind of devilment and foolishness. But from that moment on he was a different man. And I’ve always thought that maybe hit was a pity that hit hit him when hit did—that hit had to come jest at that time. If hit had only come a few years later—if hit could only have waited till the war was over! He’d wanted to go so much—he’d looked at the whole thing as a big lark—but now! Well she had him, and he had her: the day they marched us out of town he had her promise, and in his watch he had her picture and a little lock of her black hair, and as they marched us out, and him beside me, we passed her, and she looked at him, and I felt him jerk again and knowed the look she gave him had gone through him like a knife.

From that time on he was a different man; from that time on he was like a man in hell. Hit’s funny how
hit all turns out—how none of hit is like what we expect. Hit’s funny how war and a little black-haired gal will change a man—but that’s the story that I’m goin’ to tell you now.

The nearest rail head in those days was eighty mile away at Locust Gap. They marched us out of town right up the Fairfield Road along the river up past Crestville, and right across the Blue Ridge there, and down the mountain. We made Old Stockade the first day’s march and camped thar fer the night. Hit was twenty-four miles of marchin’ right across the mountain, with the roads the way they was in those days, too. And let me tell you, fer new men with only two months’ trainin’ that was doin’ good.

We made Locust Gap in three days and a half, and I wish you’d seed the welcome that they gave us! People were hollerin’ and shoutin’ the whole way. All the women folk and childern were lined up along the road, bands a-playin’, boys runnin’ along beside us, good shoes, new uniforms, the finest-lookin’ set of fellers that you ever seed—Lord! You’d a-thought we was goin’ to a picnic from the way hit looked. And I reckon that was the way most of us felt about hit, too. We thought we was goin’ off to have a lot of fun. If anyone had knowed what he was in fer or could a-seed the passel o’ scarecrows that came limpin’ back barefoot and half naked four years later, I reckon he’d a-thought twice before he ’listed up.

Lord, when I think of hit! When I try to tell about hit thar jest ain’t words enough tell what hit was like. And when I think of the way I was when I joined up—and the way I was when I came back four years later! When I went away I was an ignorant country boy, so tenderhearted that I wouldn’t harm a rabbit. And when I came back after the war was over I could a-stood by
and seed a man murdered right before my eyes with no more feelin’ than I’d have had fer a stuck hog. I had no more feelin’ about human life than I had fer the life of a sparrer. I’d seed a ten-acre field so thick with dead men that you could have walked all over hit without step-pin’ on the ground a single time.

And that was where I made my big mistake. If I’d only knowed a little more, if I’d only waited jest a little longer after I got home, things would have been all right. That’s been the big regret of my whole life. I never had no education. I never had a chance to git one before I went away. And when I came back I could a-had my schoolin’ but I didn’t take hit. The reason was I never knowed no better: I’d seed so much fightin’ and killin’ that I didn’t care fer nothin’. I jest felt dead and numb like all the brains had been shot out of me. I jest wanted to git me a little patch of land somewheres and settle down and fergit about the world.

That’s where I made my big mistake. I didn’t wait long enough. I got married too soon, and after that the childern came and hit was root, hawg, or die: I had to grub fer hit. But if I’d only waited jest a little while hit would have been all right. In less’n a year hit all cleared up. I got my health back, pulled myself together and got my feet back on the ground, and had more mercy and understandin’ in me, jest on account of all the sufferin’ I’d seen, than I ever had. And as fer my head, why hit was better than hit ever was: with all I’d seen and knowed I could a-got a schoolin’ in no time. But you see I wouldn’t wait. I didn’t think that hit’d ever come back. I was jest sick of li vin’.

But as I say—they marched us down to Locust Gap in less’n four days’ time, and then they put us on the cars fer Richmond. We got to Richmond on the mornin’ of one day, and up to that very moment we had
thought that they was sendin’ us to join Lee’s army in the north. But the next mornin’ we got our orders—and they was sendin’ us out west. They had been fightin’ in Kentucky: we was in trouble thar; they sent us out to stop the Army of the Cumberland. And that was the last I ever saw of old Virginny. From that time on we fought it out thar in the west and south. That’s where we war, the Twenty-ninth, from then on to the end.

We had no real big fights until the spring of ’62. And hit takes a fight to make a soldier of a man. Before that, thar was skirmishin’ and raids in Tennessee and in Kentucky. That winter we seed hard marchin’ in the cold and wind and rain. We learned to know what hunger was, and what hit was to have to draw your belly in to fit your rations. I reckon by that time we knowed hit wasn’t goin’ to be a picnic like we thought that hit would be. We was a-learnin’ all the time, but we wasn’t soldiers yet. It takes a good big fight to make a soldier, and we hadn’t had one yet. Early in ’62 we almost had one. They marched us to the relief of Donelson—but law! They had taken her before we got thar—and I’m goin’ to tell you a good story about that.

U. S. Grant was thar to take her, and we was marchin’ to relieve her before old Butcher could git in. We was seven mile away, and hit was comin’ on to sundown—we’d been marchin’ hard. We got the order to fall out and rest. And that was when I heared the gun and knowed that Donelson had fallen. Thar was no sound of fightin’. Everything was still as Sunday. We was sittin’ thar aside the road and then I heared a cannon boom. Hit boomed five times, real slow like—Boom!—Boom!—Boom!—Boom!—Boom! And the moment that I heared hit, I had a premonition. I turned to Jim and I said: “Well, thar you are! That’s Donelson—and she’s surrendered!”

Cap’n Bob Saunders heared me, but he wouldn’t believe me and he said: “You’re wrong!”

“Well,” said Jim, “I hope to God he’s right. I wouldn’t care if the whole damn war had fallen through. I’m ready to go home.”

“Well, he’s wrong,” said Captain Bob, “and I’ll bet money on hit that he is.”

Well, I tell you, that jest suited me. That was the way I was in those days—right from the beginnin’ of the war to the very end. If thar was any fun or devilment goin’ on, any card playin’ or gamblin’, or any other kind of foolishness, I was right in on hit. I’d a-bet a man that red was green or that day was night, and if a gal had looked at me from a persimmon tree, why, law! I reckon I’d a-clumb the tree to git her. That’s jest the way hit was with me all through the war. I never made a bet or played a game of cards in my life before the war or after hit was over, but while the war was goin’ on I was ready fer anything.

“How much will you bet?” I said.

“I’ll bet you a hundred dollars even money,” said Bob Saunders, and no sooner got the words out of his mouth than the bet was on.

We planked the money down right thar and gave hit to Jim to hold the stakes. Well, sir, we didn’t have to wait half an hour before a feller on a horse came ridin’ up and told us hit was no use goin’ any farther—Fort Donelson had fallen.

“What did I tell you?” I said to Cap’n Saunders, and I put the money in my pocket.

Well, the laugh was on him then. I wish you could a-seen the expression on his face—he looked mighty sheepish, I tell you. But he admitted hit, you know, he had to own up.

“You were right,” he said. “You won the bet. But—
I’ll tell you what I’ll do!” He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. “I’ve got a hundred dollars left—and with me hit’s all or nothin’! We’ll draw cards fer this last hundred, mine against yorn—high card wins!”

Well, I was ready fer him. I pulled out my hundred, and I said, “Git out the deck!”

So they brought the deck out then and Jim Weaver shuffled hit and held hit while we drawed. Bob Saunders drawed first and he drawed the eight of spades. When I turned my card up I had one of the queens.

Well, sir, you should have seen the look upon Bob Saunders’ face. I tell you what, the fellers whooped and hollered till he looked like he was ready to crawl through a hole in the floor. We all had some fun with him, and then, of course, I gave the money back. I never kept a penny in my life I made from gamblin’.

But that’s the way hit was with me in those days—I was ready fer hit—fer anything. If any kind of devilment or foolishness came up I was right in on hit with the ringleaders.

Well then, Fort Donelson was the funniest fight that I was ever in because hit was all fun fer me without no fightin’. And that jest suited me. And Stone Mountain was the most peculiar fight that I was in because—well, I’ll tell you a strange story and you can figger fer yourself if you ever heared about a fight like that before.

Did you ever hear of a battle in which one side never fired a shot and yet won the fight and did more damage and more destruction to the other side than all the guns and cannon in the world could do? Well, that was the battle of Stone Mountain. Now, I was in a lot of battles. But the battle of Stone Mountain was the queerest one of the whole war.

I’ll tell you how hit was.

We was up on top of the Mountain and the Yankees was below us tryin’ to drive us out and take the Mountain. We couldn’t git our guns up thar, we didn’t try to—we didn’t have to git our guns up thar. The only gun I ever seed up thar was a little brass howitzer that we pulled up with ropes, but we never fired a shot with hit. We didn’t git a chance to use hit. We no more’n got hit in position before a shell exploded right on top of hit and split that little howitzer plumb in two. Hit jest fell into two parts: you couldn’t have made a neater job of hit if you’d cut hit down the middle with a saw. I’ll never fergit that little howitzer and the way they split hit plumb in two.