Читать книгу Civil War Live - Charles Carleton Coffin - Страница 11

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All through the night the brave men held the ground they had so nobly won. They rested on snowy beds. They had no supper. They could kindle no fires to warm the wintry air. The cannon above them hurled down shells, and sent volleys of grape, which screamed above and around them like the voices of demons in the darkness. The branches of the trees were torn from their trunks by the solid shot, and the trunks were splintered from top to bottom, but they did not falter or retire from that slope where the snow was crimsoned with the life-blood of hundreds of their comrades. Nearly four hundred had fallen in that attack. The hill had cost a great deal of blood, but it was worth all it cost, and they would not give it up. So they braved the leaden rain and iron hail through the weary hours of that winter night. They only waited for daybreak to storm the inner works and take the fort. Their ardor and enthusiasm was unbounded.

As the morning approached they heard a bugle-call. They looked across the narrow ravine, and saw, in the dim light of the dawn, a man waving a white flag upon the intrenchments. It was a sign for a parley. He jumped down from the embankment, and descended the hill.

“Halt! Who comes there?” shouted the picket.

“Flag of truce with a letter for General Grant.”

An officer took the letter, and hastened down the slope, across the meadow, up to the house on the Dover road, where General Grant had his head-quarters.

During the night there had been a council of war at General Floyd’s head-quarters. Nearly all the Rebel officers commanding brigades and regiments were there. They were down-hearted. They had fought bravely, won a victory, as they thought, but had lost it. A Rebel officer who was there told me what they said. General Floyd and General Pillow blamed General Buckner for not advancing earlier in the morning, and for making what they thought a feeble attack. They could have escaped after they drove McClernand across the brook, but now they were hemmed in. The prospect was gloomy. The troops were exhausted by the long conflict, by constant watching, and by the cold. What bitter nights those were to the men who came from Texas, Alabama, and Mississippi, where the roses bloom and the blue-birds sing through all the winter months.

What should be done? Should they make another attack, and cut their way out, or should they surrender?

“I cannot hold my position a half-hour. The Yankees can turn my flank or advance directly upon the breastworks,” said General Buckner.

“If you had advanced at the time agreed upon, and made a more vigorous attack, we should have routed the enemy,” said General Floyd.

“I advanced as soon as I could, and my troops fought as bravely as others,” was the response from General Buckner, — a middle-aged, medium-sized man. His hair is iron gray. He has thin whiskers and a moustache, and wears a gray kersey overcoat, with a great cape, and gold lace on the sleeves, and a black hat with a nodding black plume.

“Well, here we are, and it is useless to renew the attack with any hope of success. The men are exhausted,” said General Floyd, — a stout, heavy man, with thick lips, a large nose, evil eyes, and coarse features.

“We can cut our way out,” said Major Brown, commanding the Twentieth Mississippi, — a tall, black-haired, impetuous, fiery man.

“Some of us might escape in that way, but the attempt would be attended with great slaughter,” responded General Floyd.

“My troops are so worn out and cut to pieces and demoralized, that I can’t make another fight,” said Buckner.

“My troops will fight till they die,” answered Major Brown, setting his teeth together.

“It will cost the command three quarters of its present number to cut its way through, and it is wrong to sacrifice three quarters of a command to save the other quarter,” Buckner continued.

“No officer has a right to cause such a sacrifice,” said Major Gilmer, of General Pillow’s staff.

“But we can hold out another day, and by that time we can get steamboats here to take us across the river,” said General Pillow.

“No, I can’t hold my position a half-hour, and the Yankees will renew the attack at daybreak,” Buckner replied.

“Then we have got to surrender, for aught I see,” said an officer.

“I won’t surrender the command, neither will I be taken prisoner,” said Floyd. He doubtless remembered how he had stolen public property, while in office under Buchanan, and would rather die than to fall into the hands of those whom he knew would be likely to bring him to an account for his villany.

“I don’t intend to be taken prisoner,” said Pillow.

“What will you do, gentlemen?” Buckner asked.

“I mean to escape, and take my Virginia brigade with me, if I can. I shall turn over the command to General Pillow. I have a right to escape if I can, but I haven’t any right to order the entire army to make a hopeless fight,” said Floyd.

“If you surrender it to me, I shall turn it over to General Buckner,” said General Pillow, who was also disposed to shirk responsibility and desert the men whom he had induced to vote to secede from the Union and take up arms against their country.

“If the command comes into my hands, I shall deem it my duty to surrender it. I shall not call upon the troops to make a useless sacrifice of life, and I will not desert the men who have fought so nobly,” Buckner replied, with a bitterness which made Floyd and Pillow wince.

It was past midnight. The council broke up. The brigade and regimental officers were astonished at the result. Some of them broke out into horrid cursing and swearing at Floyd and Pillow.

“It is mean!” “It is cowardly!” “Floyd always was a rascal.”

“We are betrayed!” “There is treachery!” said they.

“It is a mean trick for an officer to desert his men. If my troops are to be surrendered, I shall stick by them,” said Major Brown.

“I denounce Pillow as a coward, and if I ever meet him, I’ll shoot him as quick as I would a dog,” said Major McLain, red with rage.

Floyd gave out that he was going to join Colonel Forrest, who commanded the cavalry, and thus cut his way out; but there were two or three small steamboats at the Dover landing. He and General Pillow jumped on board one of them, and then secretly marched a portion of the Virginia brigade on board. Other soldiers saw what was going on, that they were being deserted. They became frantic with terror and rage. They rushed on board, crowding every part of the boat.

“Cut loose!” shouted Floyd to the captain. The boats swung into the stream and moved up the river, leaving thousands of infuriated soldiers on the landing. So the man who had stolen the public property, and who did all he could to bring on the war, who induced thousands of poor, ignorant men to take up arms, deserted his post, stole away in the darkness, and left them to their fate.

General Buckner immediately wrote a letter to General Grant, asking for an armistice till twelve o’clock, and the appointment of commissioners to agree upon terms by which the fort and the prisoners should be surrendered.

“No terms, other than unconditional and immediate surrender can be accepted. I propose to move immediately upon your works,” was General Grant’s reply.

General Buckner replied, that he thought it very unchivalrous, but accepted the terms. He meant that he did not think it very honorable in General Grant to require an unconditional surrender. He professed to have a high sense of all that was noble, generous, honorable, and high-minded. But a few days before he had so forgotten those qualities of character, that he took some cattle from Rev. Mr. Wiggin of Rochester, Kentucky, one of his old acquaintances, and paid him with a check of three hundred dollars on the Southern Bank at Russelville. When Rev. Mr. Wiggin called at the bank and presented the check, the cashier told him that General Buckner never had had any money on deposit there, and the bank did not owe him a dollar! He cheated and swindled the minister, and committed the crime of forgery, which would have sent him to the state-prison in time of peace.

The morning dawned, — Sunday morning, calm, clear, and beautiful. The horrible nights were over and the freezing days gone by. The air was mild, and there was a gentle breeze from the south, which brought the blue-birds. They did not mind the soldiers or the cannon, but chirped and sang in the woods as merrily as ever.

I saw the white flag flying on the breastworks. The soldiers and sailors saw it, and cheered. General Grant had moved his head-quarters to the steamboat Uncle Sam, and, as I happened to be on board that boat, I saw a great deal that took place.

The gunboats, and all the steamboats, fifty or more, began to move up the river. Dense clouds of smoke rolled up from the tall chimneys. The great wheels plashed the sparkling stream. Flags were flying on all the staffs. The army began its march into the fort. The bands played. How grand the crash of the drums and the trumpets! The soldiers marched proudly. The columns were winding along the hills, — the artillery, the infantry, the cavalry, with all their banners waving, and the bright sunshine gleaming and glistening on their bayonets! They entered the fort, and planted their standards on the embankments. The gunboats and the field artillery fired a grand salute. From the steamboats, from the hillside, from the fort, and the forest there were answering shouts. The wounded in the hospitals forgot, for the moment, that they were torn and mangled, raised themselves on their beds of straw, and mingled their feeble cheers in the universal rejoicing!

Thirteen thousand men, sixty-seven pieces of artillery, and fifteen thousand small arms were surrendered. A motley, care-worn, haggard, anxious crowd stood at the landing. I sprang ashore, and walked through the ranks. Some were standing, some lying down, taking no notice of what was going on around them. They were prisoners of war. When they joined the army, they probably did not dream that they would be taken prisoners. They were to be victorious, and capture the Yankees. They were poor, ignorant men. Not half of them knew how to read or write. They had been deluded by their leaders, — the slaveholders. They had fought bravely, but they had been defeated, and their generals had deserted them. No wonder they were down-hearted.

Their clothes were of all colors. Some wore gray, some blue, some butternut-colored clothes, — a dirty brown. They were very ragged. Some had old quilts for blankets, others faded pieces of carpeting, others strips of new carpeting, which they had taken from the stores. Some had caps, others old slouched felt hats, and others nothing but straw hats upon their heads.

“We fought well, but you outnumbered us,” said one.

“We should have beaten you as it was, if it hadn’t been for your gunboats,” said another.

“How happened it that General Floyd and General Pillow escaped, and left you?” I asked.

“They are traitors. I would shoot the scoundrels, if I could get a chance,” said a fellow in a snuff-colored coat, clenching his fist.

“I am glad the fighting is over. I don’t want to see another such day as yesterday,” said a Tennesseean, who was lying on the ground.

“What will General Grant do with us? Will he put us in prison?” asked one.

“That will depend upon how you behave. If you had not taken up arms against your country, you would not have been in trouble now.”

“We couldn’t help it, sir. I was forced into the army, and I am glad I am a prisoner. I sha’n’t have to fight any more,” said a blue-eyed young man, not more than eighteen years old.

There were some who were very sullen and sour, and there were others who did not care what became of them.

I went up the hill into the town. Nearly every house was filled with the dying and the dead. The shells from the gunboats had crashed through some of the buildings. The soldiers had cut down the orchards and the shade-trees, and burned the fences. All was desolation. There were sad groups around the camp-fires, with despair upon their countenances. O how many of them thought of their friends far away, and wished they could see them again!

The ground was strewed with their guns, cartridge-boxes, belts, and knapsacks. There were bags of corn, barrels of sugar, hogsheads of molasses, tierces of bacon, broken open and trodden into the mud.

I went into the fort, and saw where the great shells from the gunboats had cut through the embankments. There were piles of cartridges beside the cannon. The dead were lying there, torn, mangled, rent. Near the intrenchments, where the fight had been fiercest, there were pools of blood. The Rebel soldiers were breaking the frozen earth, digging burial-trenches, and bringing in their fallen comrades and laying them side by side, to their last, long, silent sleep. I looked down the slope where Lauman’s men swept over the fallen trees in their terrible charge; then I walked down to the meadow, and looked up the height, and wondered how men could climb over the trees, the stumps, the rocks, and ascend it through such a storm. The dead were lying where they fell, heroes every one of them! It was sad to think that so many noble men had fallen, but it was a pleasure to know that they had not faltered. They had done their duty. If you ever visit that battle-field, and stand upon that slope, you will feel your heart swell with gratitude and joy, to think how cheerfully they gave their lives to save their country, that you and all who come after you may enjoy peace and prosperity forever.

How bravely they fought! There, upon the cold ground, lay a soldier of the Ninth Illinois. Early in the action of Saturday he was shot through the arm. He went to the hospital and had it bandaged, and returned to his place in the regiment. A second shot passed through his thigh, tearing the flesh to shreds.

“We will carry you to the hospital,” said two of his comrades.

“No, you stay and fight. I can get along alone.” He took off his bayonet, used his gun for a crutch, and reached the hospital. The surgeon dressed the wound. He heard the roar of battle. His soul was on fire to be there. He hobbled once more to the field, and went into the thickest of the fight, lying down, because he could not stand. He fought as a skirmisher. When the Rebels advanced, he could not retire with the troops, but continued to fight. After the battle he was found dead upon the field, six bullets having passed through his body.

One bright-eyed little fellow, of the Second Iowa, had his foot crushed by a cannon-shot. Two of his comrades carried him to the rear. An officer saw that, unless the blood was stopped, he never would reach the hospital. He told the men to tie a handkerchief around his leg, and put snow on the wound.

“O, never mind the foot, Captain,” said the brave fellow. “We drove the Rebels out, and have got their trench; that’s the most I care for!” The soldiers did as they were directed, and his life was saved.

There in the trenches was a Rebel soldier with a rifle-shot through his head. He was an excellent marksman, and had killed or wounded several Union officers. One of Colonel Birges’s sharpshooters, an old hunter, who had killed many bears and wolves, crept up towards the breastworks to try his hand upon the Rebel. They fired at each other again and again, but both were shrewd and careful. The Rebel raised his hat above the breastwork, — whi —— z! The sharpshooter out in the bushes had put a bullet through it. “Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the Rebel, sending his own bullet into the little puff of smoke down in the ravine. The Rocky Mountain hunter was as still as a mouse. He knew that the Rebel had outwitted him, and expected the return shot. It was aimed a little too high, and he was safe.

“You cheated me that time, but I will be even with you yet,” said the sharpshooter, whirling upon his back, and loading his rifle and whirling back again. He rested his rifle upon the ground, aimed it, and lay with his eye along the barrel, his finger on the trigger. Five minutes passed. “I reckon that that last shot fixed him,” said the Rebel. “He hasn’t moved this five minutes.”

He raised his head, peeped over the embankment, and fell back lifeless. The unerring rifle-bullet had passed through his head.

If you could go over the battle-ground with one of those sharpshooters, he would show you a little clump of bushes, and some stumps, where three or four of them lay on Saturday, in front of one of the Rebel batteries, and picked off the gunners. Two or three times the artillerymen tried to drive them out with shells; but they lay close upon the ground, and the shells did not touch them. The artillerymen were obliged to cease firing, and retreat out of reach of the deadly bullets.

Some of the Rebel officers took their surrender very much to heart. They were proud, insolent, and defiant. Their surrender was unconditional, and they thought it very hard to give up their swords and pistols. One of them fired a pistol at Major Mudd, of the Second Illinois, wounding him in the back. I was very well acquainted with the Major. He lived in St. Louis, and had been from the beginning an ardent friend of the Union. He had hunted the guerillas in Missouri, and had fought bravely at Wilson’s Creek. It is quite likely he was shot by an old enemy. General Grant at once issued orders that all the Rebel officers should be disarmed. General Buckner, in insolent tones, said to General Grant that it was barbarous, inhuman, brutal, unchivalrous, and at variance with the rules of civilized warfare! General Grant replied: —

“You have dared to come here to complain of my acts, without the right to make an objection. You do not appear to remember that your surrender was unconditional. Yet, if we compare the acts of the different armies in this war, how will yours bear inspection? You have cowardly shot my officers in cold blood. As I rode over the field, I saw the dead of my army brutally insulted by your men, their clothing stripped off of them, and their bodies exposed, without the slightest regard for common decency. Humanity has seldom marked your course whenever our men have been unfortunate enough to fall into your hands. At Belmont your authorities disregarded all the usages of civilized warfare. My officers were crowded into cotton-pens with my brave soldiers, and then thrust into prison, while your officers were permitted to enjoy their parole, and live at the hotel in Cairo. Your men are given the same fare as my own, and your wounded receive our best attention. These are incontrovertible facts. I have simply taken the precaution to disarm your officers and men, because necessity compelled me to protect my own from assassination.”

General Buckner had no reply to make. He hung his head in shame at the rebuke.

Major Mudd, though severely wounded, recovered, but lost his life in another battle. One day, while riding with him in Missouri, he told me a very good story. He said he was once riding in the cars, and that a very inquisitive man sat by his side. A few rods from every road-crossing the railroad company had put up boards with the letters W. R. upon them.

“What be them for?” asked the man.

“Those are directions to the engineer to blow the whistle and ring the bell, that people who may be on the carriage-road may look out and not get run over by the train,” the Major answered.

“O yes, I see.”

The man sat in silence awhile, with his lips working as if he was trying to spell.

“Well, Major,” he said at last, “it may be as you say. I know that w-r-i-n-g spells ring, but for the life of me I don’t see how you can get an R into whistle!”

The fall of Fort Donelson was a severe blow to the Rebels. It had a great effect. It was the first great victory of the Union troops. It opened all the northwest corner of the Confederacy. It compelled General Johnston to retreat from Bowling Green, and also compelled the evacuation of Columbus and all Central Tennessee. Nashville, the capital of that State, fell into the hands of the Union troops.

On Sunday morning the Rebels at Nashville were in good spirits. General Pillow had telegraphed on Saturday noon, as you remember, “On the honor of a soldier, the day is ours.” The citizens shouted over it.

One sober citizen said: “I never liked Pillow, but I forgive him now. He is the man for the occasion.”

Another, who had been Governor of the State, — a wicked, profane man, — said: “It is first-rate news. Pillow is giving the Yankees hell, and rubbing it in!”6 It is a vile sentence, and I would not quote it, were it not that you might have a true picture from Rebel sources.

The newspapers put out bulletins: —

“Enemy Retreating! Glorious Result!! Our Boys following and peppering their Rear!! A complete Victory!”

The bell-ringers rang jubilant peals, and the citizens shook hands over the good news as they went to church. Services had hardly commenced, when a horseman dashed through the streets, covered with mud, and almost breathless from hard riding, shouting, “Fort Donelson has surrendered, and the Yankees are coming!”

The people poured out from the churches and their houses into the street. Such hurrying to and fro was never seen. Men, women, and children ran here and there, not knowing what to do, imagining that the Yankees would murder them. They began to pack their goods. Carts, wagons, carriages, drays, wheelbarrows, — all were loaded. Strong men were pale with fear, women wrung their hands, and children cried.

Before noon Generals Floyd and Pillow arrived on steamboats. The people crowded round the renegade officers, and called for a speech. General Floyd went out upon the balcony of the hotel, and said: —

“Fellow-Citizens: This is not the time for speaking, but for action. It is a time when every man should enlist for the war. Not a day is to be lost. We had only ten thousand effective men, who fought four days and nights against forty thousand of the enemy. But nature could hold out no longer. The men required rest, and having lost one third of my gallant force I was compelled to retire. We have left a thousand of the enemy dead on the field. General Johnston has not slept a wink for three nights; he is all worn out, but he is acting wisely. He is going to entice the Yankees into the mountain gaps, away from the rivers and the gunboats, and then drive them back, and carry the war into the enemy’s country.”7

General Johnston’s army, retreating from Bowling Green, began to pass through the city. The soldiers did not stop, but passed on towards the South. The people had thought that General Johnston would defend the place, the capital of the State; but when they saw that the troops were retreating, they recklessly abandoned their homes. It was a wild night in Nashville. The Rebels had two gunboats nearly completed, which were set on fire. The Rebel storehouses were thrown open to the poor people, who rushed pell-mell to help themselves to pork, flour, molasses, and sugar. A great deal was destroyed. After Johnston’s army had crossed the river, the beautiful and costly wire suspension bridge which spanned it was cut down. It cost two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and belonged to the daughters of the Rebel General Zollicoffer, who was killed at the battle of Mill Springs in Kentucky. The Rebel officers undertook to carry off the immense supplies of food which had been accumulated; but in the panic, barrels of meat and flour, sacks of coffee, hogsheads of sugar were rolled into the streets and trampled into the mire. Millions of dollars’ worth were lost to the Confederacy. The farmers in the country feared that they would lose their slaves, and from all the section round they hurried the poor creatures towards the South, hoping to find a place where they would be secure.

Throughout the South there was gloom and despondency. But all over the North there was great rejoicing. Everybody praised the brave soldiers who had fought so nobly. There were public meetings, speeches, processions, illuminations and bonfires, and devout thanksgivings to God.

The deeds of the brave men of the West were praised in poetry and song. Some stanzas were published in the Atlantic Monthly in Boston, which are so beautiful that I think you will thank me for quoting them.

“O gales that dash the Atlantic’s swell

Along our rocky shores,

Whose thunders diapason well

New England’s glad hurrahs,

“Bear to the prairies of the West

The echoes of our joy,

The prayer that springs in every breast, —

‘God bless thee, Illinois!’

“O awful hours, when grape and shell

Tore through the unflinching line!

‘Stand firm! remove the men who fell!

Close up, and wait the sign.’

“It came at last, ‘Now, lads, the steel!’

The rushing hosts deploy;

‘Charge, boys!’ — the broken traitors reel, —

Huzza for Illinois!

“In vain thy rampart, Donelson,

The living torrent bars,

It leaps the wall, the fort is won,

Up go the Stripes and Stars.

“Thy proudest mother’s eyelids fill,

As dares her gallant boy,

And Plymouth Rock and Bunker Hill

Yearn to thee, Illinois.”