Читать книгу One of Morgan's Men - John M. Porter - Страница 13

General Grant moved elements of his Federal army—soon to be known as the “Army of the Tennessee”—on troop transports up the Tennessee River from Paducah, Kentucky, with Flag Officer Andrew H. Foote's armada of gunboats in early February 1862. On February 6, Foote's naval forces bombarded Fort Henry on the east bank of the Tennessee, forcing its surrender by Brigadier General Lloyd Tilghman within seventy-nine minutes. Grant disembarked his land forces at Fort Henry and moved them twelve miles east to besiege Fort Donelson, situated on the west bank of the Cumberland River, while a fleet of gunboats ascended the Cumberland from Smithland, Kentucky, to bombard the fort. General Johnston called upon Buckner, with elements of his division then at Russellville, Kentucky, to reinforce Fort Donelson while the rest of the Confederate army evacuated Kentucky. Buckner ordered John M. Porter to accompany him. Porter thus found himself in Fort Donelson.

Grant's army arrived in front of the outer works of Fort Donelson on February 12. In command of the Confederate forces there, about 18,000 strong, was Brigadier General John B. Floyd of Virginia. Brigadier General Gideon J. Pillow of Tennessee and General Buckner commanded the two divisions forming the garrison. The Confederate lines extended more than three miles, from just east of Dover, Tennessee, on the river, all the way around Fort Donelson to nearly one mile west of it, also on the river.

The Confederate defenders turned back a Federal naval assault on February 14. Confederate ground assaults on February 15 actually broke through the Federal lines and gained possession of the Charlotte and Forge roads to Nashville, but General Pillow ordered the troops withdrawn. That night General Pillow and General Floyd left the fort, fearing what would happen to them if captured, leaving General Buckner to surrender the garrison. The surrender conference took place on February 16 in the Dover Tavern, Buckner's headquarters in Dover, Tennessee, between Buckner and Grant, former classmates at the U.S. Military Academy. Grant demanded that Buckner surrender “unconditionally,” which Buckner reluctantly agreed to do. Porter became a prisoner of war. General Johnston withdrew his Confederate forces from Kentucky altogether. They first occupied Nashville and then Murfreesboro, Tennessee.

It became necessary toward the last of December 1861, around Christmas, to strengthen the Confederate forces at Fort Henry on the Tennessee River and Fort Donelson on the Cumberland River, both of which were menaced by Federal troops. General Buckner moved with a few thousand men to Russellville. The ostensible object of the move was to be in a position from which he could move, as soon as the roads were passable, to attack Brigadier General Thomas L. Crittenden, then in command of a considerable force of the enemy at Calhoun, on the Green River. But the real purpose was to be within aiding distance of Fort Donelson, if it should become necessary to reinforce that position.¹

The wisdom and necessity of this movement was soon made obvious. Already, the enemy had profited by some experience and resorted to famous flank movements, the only way for them to force General Johnston from his position at Bowling Green. A formidable fleet of vessels under the command of Flag Officer Andrew Foote and a large Federal army under Brigadier General Ulysses S. Grant, in February 1862, ascended the Cumberland River for the purpose of reducing Fort Donelson. Brigadier General Lloyd Tilghman had been forced to surrender the Confederate forces at Fort Henry on the Tennessee River, only twelve miles west of Fort Donelson. The rivers were only some twelve miles apart at those points. Upon General Buckner learning that the Federals were moving on Fort Donelson, he moved his command from Russellville as expeditiously as possible to the fort, which was destined, in a few days, to witness bloody and terrible scenes.

Before General Buckner left Bowling Green, he detached from the “Guides” Joseph S. Gray, Dempsey Burton Bailey, Thomas Robinson, J. W. Rasdell, Reuben M. Johnson and myself, to proceed with him to Russellville. After remaining for two or three weeks at Russellville, scouting very often in the vicinity of the enemy at Calhoun and South Carrollton, we were ordered to move with the army to Fort Donelson. Arriving at Clarksville, we halted a few days, and then, crossing the Cumberland River on coal barges, we proceeded over the rough country to the fort, where we arrived on Wednesday, February twelfth, at about two o'clock in the afternoon.²

The fight had already begun, but only the cavalry had been engaged, commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Nathan Bedford Forrest. For some two or three hours before we got there, we had heard the firing and knew that the crisis was at hand, and we eagerly hurried forward to take part in whatever might occur. The Federal lines were closing in on every side, and but little space intervened between the Federal right wing and the Confederate left, which reached to the river. Through that narrow space on the Confederate left, growing still narrower every hour, we rode, and when once inside the lines of the Confederates, we then appreciatedthe situation. The Cumberland River, very high from recent rains, was in our rear, and an army three times the size of our own was in our front, extending from a point on the river below the fort, in a semi-circular form, to a point on the river above it. Added to this was a large fleet of vessels just down the river, ready to advance and bombard the fort and reduce it by their enormous guns. This was the situation of affairs.³

Brigadier General Ulysses S. Grant as he appeared in the winter and early spring of 1862. (Library of Congress.)

Our troops were disposed in excellent order, and through the openings in the woods could be seen the movements of the enemy as if in confusion and haste. The country there is very broken, hill after hill arises in irregular order, with timber upon all the soil. From one hill I could see the enemy upon another, a deep hollow between, with a thick abatis separating the hostile forces. The weather for a few days previous had been pleasant, but on the night of the twelfth it became extremely cold, and on the morning of the thirteenth our army found itself half frozen, with the enemy in large numbers just in front.⁴

Our line extended in a semi-circular form from the fort below to a point on the Cumberland River, above the town of Dover, Tennessee. The arc was about three miles in length; the river was in a swollen stage in the background. The line of the enemy assumed the same shape, their left resting on the river below our right, and connecting with their fleet of gunboats and transports; their right wing was above our left and rested on the head of a slough which ran at right angles to the river. The little town of Dover at once became full of bustle and confusion, which was greatly increased about dark on the evening of the twelfth, by a few shots from the enemy's batteries upon land which came whistling through the air, some striking houses, some going beyond the town and plunging in the angry waters of the river, some falling in the rifle pits among the soldiers or plowing up the ground nearby. The night became quiet after a time. During the long weary hours nothing was heard, save now and then a shot from the faithful sentinels ever on the alert.

It was extremely cold, and in the early hours of the night a gentle snow fell. The ground was frozen hard. I think it was the brave and daring Thomas Robinson and Dempsey Burton Bailey who, with myself, threw a blanket over a brush pile, and, by tearing away an opening large enough, crept under it and occupied a very small space. There we passed the night in a freezing way, not more than ten paces from our works. Ever and anon during the long and dreadful night the sharp reports of firearms told us that the enemy too was out on his line of defense.⁵

Slowly and gloomily the hours passed away. Morning came and we arose from our bed to look upon our first battlefield. The batteries of the Confederates under the command of Captain Rice E. Graves and Captain Thomas K. Porter had been placed in fine positions, and about this time sent forth their first hostile greetings toward the enemy. Ere long, the conflict began, and, for the first time, but by no means the last, we heard the music of the battlefield, the buzzing of small balls, the screaming of shells, the rumbling explosion and the shrieks of the unfortunate. One would almost have to ask himself if he were not dreaming before he could at first realize the situation. It was no dream, but a reality, a contest between Freedom and Tyranny. It was a shock of arms in which right was battling against wrong. The day wore on. We gained it. Would that we could have maintained it.⁶

Friday the fourteenth came, clear though cold; still, the snow in a measure had disappeared. No general fighting occurred during the day along the line, only skirmishing and sharpshooting. Attention was directed away from the front and centered on the river and the fort. The gunboats were ascending to attack the fort. Would it be able to repel the attack? That was the all important question. It did repel the attack. The close of the day showed two or three of the vessels disabled, and all of them driven off; they retired to a secure spot down the river out of reach of the guns of the fort. The night passed with nothing of interest except that the enemy was massing his forces and bringing up reinforcements.⁷

Saturday the fifteenth dawned, and many who saw the sun rise on that morning beheld its rising beams for the last time. Ere the rays cast from its western pathway fell upon the slanting hillsides around Dover, the spirits of many had gone up from a field red with carnage to the God of Battles. It was a fearful day, a day of terrible fighting. Dead bodies, here, there and almost everywhere round told how hard and severe had been the contest, how they had fought, and how they had died with their faces to the foe, and their guns to their faces. For two or three miles upon our right the enemy had been driven in great confusion and with immense loss. Outnumbered on our right five to one, a portion of our line at night-fall was in the possession of the enemy. Darkness found us thus situated. We had gained the day; we had driven the enemy, but had not sufficient force to maintain our success. Reinforcements were constantly coming to the enemy, while we were getting no aid.⁸

No longer could the contest be waged. A vague idea of surrendering passed in the minds of many who banished it in a moment, and, grasping their weapons with a firmer hand, they begged to be again led forth to battle with the enemy. Gloomy indeed were the reflections when it became almost certain that the morrow's sun would arise on a defeated and imprisoned, though by no means a conquered, army.

Tennessee was there in the person of her gallant sons who felt the proud satisfaction that their duty had been heroically performed. The Mississippians, with tearful eyes, looked towards the far-off South, their own home, conscious that the pristine valor of their State had been maintained upon that field, as twenty years before it had been maintained on the plains of Buena Vista. Virginia, too, from the summit of her western ridges, felt that the spirit of George Washington and Patrick Henry were hovering over the hills around Dover. Kentucky, with General Buckner and Colonel Roger Weightman Hanson at the head of the Second Regiment of Infantry, felt a pride akin to that of the ancient Spartans in praising the chivalry of Leonidas and his brave band at the historic pass of Thermopylae. Beating hearts told the deep feeling within, while the compressed lips and defiant eyes spoke louder than words: “Give us one more chance to press our way out upon the left; let us drive back the enemy once more and gain the open country, or find a resting place on the hard fought field.” His eyes streaming with tears, General Buckner bid them be content, saying it was folly to sacrifice so many lives to save a few, and added: “You have crowned yourselves with glory”…“A prison will not, cannot, tear from your brows the laurels entwined here today.”⁹

A few feet in the rear of our line of works on the crest of a hill was a tent which had been put up by Major Samuel K. Hays, brigade quartermaster. Two or three of us were ordered to report to Hays's tent at about, perhaps, nine or ten o'clock at night. Several officers were assembled there and, from them, we learned the surrender of the fort would soon take place a mile distant. One was sent with pieces of breastworks, a token of surrender, to avoid the firing as soon as it should become light enough in the morning.¹⁰

I was sent with a dispatch to an officer in Dover. The dangerous condition of the road, owing to the ice and deep declivities and darkness and also the desultory firing from the enemy's guns which kept up a continual business during the night, rendered the ride extremely hazardous. My horse fell on a bad piece of road and caught my leg and disabled me for more than two weeks. Even with this mishap, I performed my duty and returned in the darkness to my post, after more than once hearing the bullets “zip” by me with the peculiar noise which they make and which is not easily forgotten. The remainder of the night was consumed in similar duties, and morning came, the saddest I had up to that time experienced during my military service, having been only about four or five months in the army.¹¹

Colonel Roger Weightman Hanson. (Library of Congress.)

During the dark hours just preceding the dawn, the shrill sound of “parley” was heard, and the conference between the commanders began. It ended ere long, and Oh! What feelings can be compared to those we experienced when we knew all was done. He who had not slept for four nights lay down by his trusty gun to snatch a moment's well-earned repose to dream of home and the loved ones there, of country, liberty, and the right. The sun rose joyously, but shone upon sad hearts. Soon long lines of gleaming bayonets, borne by the enemy, came on toward our works. One after another of the gallant regiments of the Confederates were marched out and arms were grounded. Murmurs deep, not loud, ran all round.

Our party of “Guides” wended our way to the little village of Dover, about one mile distant. We all met in town, although we had been engaged during the battle on different parts of the field. Dismounting, we tied our trusty horses—and I might say we loved our horses—and threw ourselves by their sides to await the turn of events. Visions of prisons were before our eyes. One soldier prepared to swim the wide and angry river in our rear, but it was given up as too dangerous. Another proposed that we all mount and swim our horses and escape by that means. But the question was: could our horses stem the swift current and carry us safely over? It was thought not. It was finally agreed, after discussing every possibility of escaping, to calmly await the development of affairs.

Just then a sound broke upon our ears. It was the music of the advancing victorious army, and never did music sound to us so much like the wails of the dying. Nearer and still nearer the sound approached, and then up the street a few hundred yards from where we were, we beheld the head of a Yankee regiment with streaming banners, making for the center of the town. We held our place and looked. It was, I think, the Forty-fourth Indiana Infantry Regiment. Then a sound from the river indicated that a boat was coming up. It finally approached and landed, and from it came Flag Officer Andrew Foote, the Federal naval officer. He met in the street the colonel of the Indiana Regiment which had just arrived. A body of horsemen came next, comprising General Grant and his staff. General Buckner had already come to town and was at his headquarters.¹²

The surrender flag appears on the parapet of Fort Donelson, February 16, 1862. (Editor's collection.)

Flag Officer Foote and General Grant met amid the yells of the enemy's troops. Never during the entire war did the Yankees learn how to utter a decent yell. Their attempts at it were simply ridiculous, not to say hideous. The Confederates, on the other hand, were experts and adept at it; they could not be excelled. Grant and Foote went immediately to the house to meet General Buckner. We saw them meet. It was formal, though after the style of military men. We heard no conversation, and we saw no more of them afterwards.

A large quantity of military stores were thrown open to the Confederates when it was ascertained that a surrender was inevitable, and many soldiers found everything they desired, even whiskey, the soldier's greatest enemy. Sugar was abundant and it was not unusual to see a barrel of whiskey with one head burst out and buckets of the contents taken out, and large quantities of sugar put in. Thus, many soldiers got under the influence of the sweetened dram to a considerable extent. But the sequel can be gathered from what goes before.

About four o'clock in the afternoon of that memorable Sunday, February 16, 1862, we were ordered on board the steamer, Memphis, to be convoyed, we knew not where. From one thousand to twelve hundred weary Confederates, crowded together, composed her passengers, or, rather, I should say, freight, for there was nothing to remind us of being passengers in the sense it is used. The boat dropped down the river a short distance and remained till next morning. We found but a sorry place to rest, and slept in a damp and filthy part of the vessel. It was damp on account of the vapor and steam, and filthy because it had been used in transporting Federal troops. Sleep, however, in any place, is sweet to those who need its refreshing effects, and the night went by without our knowledge.

We went when morning came and moved on down the Cumberland River with many other boats, all bearing prisoners. At Smithland, Kentucky, we entered the Ohio River and then went on down to Paducah, Kentucky, and Cairo, Illinois. It was known that St. Louis was our destination. In due time we ascended the Mississippi and were at St. Louis. There we were anchored in the river opposite the city for some days; I have forgotten how long.

A chance of escaping the fate of being confined in prison was presented, and so Joseph S. Gray, Dempsey Burton Bailey and Dr. Frank Porter and myself availed ourselves of it and fortunately succeeded. Our hope of success was indeed little. A good many civilians had been made prisoners at Fort Donelson and conveyed with the soldiers to St. Louis. Major General Henry Halleck, the Federal commander, whose headquarters were at that time in the city, directed that all the citizens should be sent back to the place of capture and there released. One day a Yankee officer came on the boat and required all the citizens to give him their names to be taken to headquarters and acted upon. By chance, one of our party heard the officer make that announcement, and he immediately proposed that we should all try the chance. Three objected, and the four of us before named consented to the plan, wrote our names on a slip of paper, and gave it to the officer, having very little hope that we would ever again hear anything about it more.¹³

Three days afterwards we were on a boat coming back to Fort Donelson. Our names had been included in the number to be released, and when we were called, we gladly responded. No oath of any kind was required, and we took none. I do not deny that it was dissembling and deceiving the enemy, but I am firm in my convictions that we were justified in our action, and am utterly astonished, when I reflect upon it, that more did not make the attempt as we did. Nothing was easier. I venture such an opportunity given a year later would have been crowded with eager applicants. Very few tried it; only four, as I think.