OFF FOR THE FRONT

Organization of Regiment—Officers—Accouterment—On the March—Taming a Trouble-maker—Crossing the Red River—In the Indian Territory—The Indian Maid—Fort Smith—The March to Missouri—McCulloch’s Headquarters—Under Orders—Preparation for First Battle.

After the companies were mustered into the service the regiment was organized. Colonel Elkanah Greer was commissioned by the Confederate War Department. Walter P. Lane was elected lieutenant-colonel, and George W. Chilton, father of United States Senator Horace Chilton, was made major. M. D. Ecton, first lieutenant of Company B, was made adjutant, Captain —— Harris, quartermaster, Jas. B. Armstrong, of Henderson, commissary, and our Dr. W. W. McDugald, surgeon.

Thus was organized the first regiment to leave the State of Texas, and one of the best regiments ever in the Confederate service. I would not say that it was the best regiment, as in my opinion the best regiment and the bravest man in the Confederate Army were hard to find. That is to say, no one regiment was entitled to be designated “the best regiment,” as no one of our brave men could rightly be designated “the bravest man in the army.” Napoleon called Marshal Ney “the bravest of the brave,” but no one could single out a Confederate soldier and truthfully say, “He is the bravest man in the army.” It was unfortunately true that all our men were not brave and trustworthy, for we had men who were too cowardly to fight, and we had some men unprincipled enough to desert; but taken all in all, for gallantry and for fighting qualities under any and all circumstances, either in advance or retreat, the regiment deservedly stood in the front rank in all our campaigning.

The regiment was well officered, field staff, and line. Colonel Greer was a gallant man, but unfortunately his mind was too much bent on a brigadier’s stars; Major Chilton, whenever an opportunity offered, showed himself to be brave and gallant; but Walter P. Lane, our lieutenant-colonel, was the life of the regiment during our first year’s service. A more gallant man than he never wore a sword, bestrode a war horse, or led a regiment in battle. He was one of the heroes of San Jacinto, and a born soldier. In camps, in times when there was little or nothing to do, he was not overly popular with the men, but when the fighting time came he gained the admiration of everyone.

At last the long-looked-for train came—United States wagons drawn by six-mule teams, poor little Spanish or Mexican mules, driven by Mexicans. They brought us tents, camp kettles, mess pans and such things, and for arms, holster pistols. We were furnished with two wagons to the company and were given Sibley tents,—large round tents that would protect sixteen men with their arms and accouterments,—a pair of holster pistols apiece, and a fair outfit of “cooking tricks.” We were then formed into messes of sixteen men each, and each mess was provided with the Sibley tent, the officers being provided with wall tents. Fairly mounted, we were pretty well equipped now, our chief deficiency being the very poor condition of the mules and the lack of proper arms, for the men, in mustering, had gathered up shotguns, rifles, and any kind of gun obtainable at home, many of them being without a firearm of any kind. A large number had had huge knives made in the blacksmith shops, with blade eighteen to twenty-four inches long, shaped something like a butcher’s cleaver, keen-edged, with a stout handle, a weapon after the order of a Cuban machete. These were carried in leather scabbards, hung to the saddle, and with these deadly weapons the boys expected to ride through the ranks of the Federal armies and chop down the men right and left. Now, however, to this equipment were added the pair of holster pistols. These very large, brass-mounted, single-barreled pistols—with barrels about a foot long—carried a large musket ball, and were suspended in holsters that fitted over the horn of the saddle, thus placing them in a convenient position for use. In addition to all this, every fellow carried a grass rope at least forty feet long and an iron stake pin. These latter were for staking out the horses to graze, and many was the untrained horse that paid dear for learning the art of “walking the rope,” for an educated animal would never injure himself in the least.

All things being ready, we now started on our long march, accompanied by Captain J. J. Goode’s battery, which had been organized at Dallas, to join General Ben McCulloch in northwestern Arkansas, where he, with what forces he had been able to gather, was guarding our Arkansas frontier. Leaving Dallas on the—day of July, we moved via McKinney and Sherman, crossing Red River at Colbert’s ferry, thence by the overland mail route through the Indian Territory to Fort Smith, Ark., and beyond. We made moderate marches, the weather being very warm, and we then had no apparent reason for rapid movements.

When near McKinney we stopped two or three days. Here our man from the State of Maine began to give us trouble. When sober, Buxton was manageable and a useful man to the company, but when he was in liquor, which was any time he could get whisky, he was troublesome, quarrelsome, and dangerous, especially to citizens. One afternoon Captain Taylor and myself rode into McKinney, where we found Buxton drunk and making trouble. The captain ordered him to camp, but he contumaciously refused to go. We managed to get him back to the rear of a livery stable, near a well, and Captain Taylor forced him down across a mound of fertilizer—holding him there. Then he ordered me to pour water on Buxton, which I did most copiously. I drew bucket after bucket of cold water from the well and poured it upon Buxton’s prostrate, soldierly form, until he was thoroughly cooled and partially sobered, when the captain let him up and again ordered him to camp—and he went, cursing and swearing vengeance. This man, after giving us a good deal of trouble from time to time until after the battle of Elkhorn in the spring of 1862, was jailed in Fort Smith for shooting a citizen in the street, and here we left him and crossed the Mississippi River. He made his escape from jail and followed us to the State of Mississippi, when Lieutenant-Colonel Lane ordered him out of camp. He afterwards returned to Rusk, where he was killed one day by a gunshot wound, but by whom no one seemed to know.

We passed through Sherman early in the morning, and I stopped to have my horse shod, overtaking the command at Colbert’s ferry in the afternoon, when they were crossing Red River. The day was fair, the weather dry and hot. The river, very low now, had high banks, and in riding down from the south side you came on to a wide sandbar extending to a narrow channel running against the north bank, where a small ferryboat was carrying the wagons and artillery across. A few yards above the ferry the river was easily fordable, so the horsemen had all crossed and gone into camp a mile beyond the river, as had most of the wagons. I rode to the other side and stopped on the north bank to watch operations.

All the wagons but one had been ferried over, and this last one had been driven down on the sandbar near the ferry landing, waiting for the boat’s return, while two pieces of artillery were standing near by on the sandbar. Suddenly I heard a roaring sound up the river, as if a wind storm was coming. I looked in that direction and saw a veritable flood rushing down like a mighty wave of the sea, roaring and foaming as it came. The driver of the team standing near the water saw it and instinctively began turning his team to drive out, but, realizing that this would be impossible, he detached his mules and with his utmost efforts was only able to save the team, while every available man had to lend assistance in order to save the two pieces of artillery. In five minutes’ time, perhaps, the water had risen fifteen to eighteen feet, and the banks were full of muddy, rushing water, and remained so as long as we were there. The wagon, which belonged to the quartermaster, was swept off by the tide and lost, with all its contents. It stood in its position until the water rose to the top of the cover, when it floated off.

After camping for the night, we moved on. As we were now in the Indian Territory, the young men were all on the look-out for the beautiful Indian girls of whom they had read so much, and I think some of them had waived the matter of engagement before leaving home until they could determine whether they would prefer marrying some of the pretty girls that were so numerous in this Indian country. We had not gone far on our march when we met a Chickasaw damsel. She was rather young in appearance, of medium height, black unkempt hair, black eyes, high cheekbones, and was bare-headed and barefooted. Her dress was of some well-worn cotton fabric, of a color hard to define, rather an earthy color. In style it was of the extreme low neck and short kind, and a semi-bloomer. Of other wearing apparel it is unnecessary to speak, unless you wish a description of another Indian. This one was too sensible to weight herself with a multiplicity of garments in July. She was a regular middle of the roader, as she stuck close to that part of the Territory strictly. As we were marching by twos we separated and left her to that part of the highway which she seemed to like best. She continued her walk westwardly as we continued our march eastwardly, turning her head right and left, to see what manner of white soldiers the Confederate Government was sending out. This gave all an opportunity to glimpse at her charms. Modestly she walked along without speaking to any of us, as we had never been introduced to her. Only one time did I hear her speak a word, and that was apparently to herself. As Lieutenant Daniel passed her with his long saber rattling, she exclaimed, in good English: “Pretty white man!—got big knife!”

As we went marching on the conversation became more general; that is, more was said about the beautiful country, the rich lands and fine cattle, and not so much about beautiful Indian girls. But every fellow kept his eye to the front, expecting we would meet scores of girls, perhaps hundreds, but all were disappointed, as this was the only full-blooded Indian we met in the highway from Colbert’s ferry to Fort Smith. The fact is, the Indians shun white people who travel the main road. Away out in the prairie some two hundred yards you will find Indian trails running parallel with the road, and the Indians keep to these trails to avoid meeting the whites. If they chance to live in a hut near the road you find no opening toward the road, and, if approached, they will deny that they can speak English, when, in fact, they speak it readily and plainly.

One day I came up with one of our teamsters in trouble. He needed an ax to cut down a sapling, so I galloped back to an Indian’s hut near by, and as there was no enclosure, rode around to the door. The Indian came out and I asked him to lend me an ax a few minutes. He shook his head and said, “Me no intender,” again and again, and this was the only word I could get out of him until I dismounted and picked up the ax, which was lying on the ground near the door. He then began, in good English, to beg me not to take his ax. I carried it to the teamster, however, but returned it to the Indian in a few minutes.

There are, or were then, people of mixed blood living along the road in good houses and in good style, where travelers could find entertainment. Numbers of these had small Confederate flags flying over the front gateposts—and all seemed to be loyal to our cause. Two young Choctaws joined one of our companies and went with us, one of them remaining with us during the war, and an excellent soldier he was, too.

At Boggy Depot the ladies presented us with a beautiful flag, which was carried until it was many times pierced with bullets, the staff shot in two, and the flag itself torn into shreds. Arriving at Big Blue River, we lost one or two horses in crossing, by drowning. But finally we reached Fort Smith, on a Saturday, remaining there until Monday morning.

While in the Choctaw Nation our men had the opportunity of attending an Indian war dance, and added to their fitness for soldiers by learning the warwhoop, which many of them were soon able to give just as real Indians do.

Fort Smith, a city of no mean proportions, is situated on the south bank of the Arkansas River, very near the line of the Indian Territory. Another good town, Van Buren, is situated on the north bank of the river, five miles below Fort Smith. While we were at Fort Smith orders came from General McCulloch, then in southwest Missouri, to cut loose from all incumbrances and hasten to his assistance as rapidly as possible, as a battle was imminent. Consequently, leaving all trains, baggage, artillery, all sick and disabled men and horses to follow us as best they could, we left on Monday morning in the lightest possible marching order, for a forced march into Missouri. Our road led across Boston Mountain, through Fayetteville and Cassville, on towards Springfield. Crossing the river at Van Buren, we began the march over the long, hot, dry, and fearfully dusty road. As we passed through Van Buren I heard “Dixie” for the first time, played by a brass band. Some of the boys obtained the words of the song, and then the singers gave us “Dixie” morning, noon, and night, and sometimes between meals. This march taxed my physical endurance to the utmost, and in the evening, when orders came to break ranks and camp, I sometimes felt as if I could not march one mile farther. The first or orderly sergeant and second sergeant having been left behind with the train, the orderly sergeant’s duties fell upon me, which involved looking after forage and rations, and other offices, after the day’s march.

On Saturday noon we were at Cassville, Mo. That night we marched nearly all night, lying down in a stubble field awhile before daylight, where we slept two or three hours. About ten o’clock Sunday morning, tired, dusty, hungry, and sleepy, we went into camp in the neighborhood of General McCulloch’s headquarters, in a grove of timber near a beautiful, clear, little stream. The first thing we did was to look after something to eat for ourselves and horses, as we had had no food since passing Cassville, and only a very light lunch then. The next thing was to go in bathing, and wash our clothes, as we had had no change, and then to get some longed-for sleep. In the meantime Colonel Greer had gone up to General McCulloch’s headquarters to report our arrival. I was not present at the interview, but I imagine it ran something like this, as they knew each other well. Colonel Greer would say “Hello, General! How do you do, sir? Well, I am here to inform you that I am on the ground, here in the enemy’s country, with my regiment of Texas cavalry, eleven hundred strong, well mounted and armed to the teeth with United States holster pistols, a good many chop knives, and several double-barreled shotguns. Send Lyons word to turn out his Dutch regulars, Kansas jayhawkers and Missouri home guards, and we’ll clean ’em up and drive ’em from the State of Missouri.”

“Very well, very well, Colonel; go back and order your men to cook up three days’ rations, get all the ammunition they can scrape up in the neighborhood, and be in their saddles at eleven o’clock to-night, and I will have them at Dug Springs at daylight to-morrow morning and turn them loose on the gentlemen you speak of.”

Any way, whatever the interview was, we had barely stretched out our weary limbs and folded our arms to sleep when the sergeant-major, that fellow that so often brings bad news, came tripping along through the encampment, hurrying from one company’s headquarters to another, saying: “Captain, it’s General McCulloch’s order that you have your men cook up three days’ rations, distribute all the ammunition they can get and be in their saddles, ready to march on the enemy, at eleven o’clock to-night.”

Sleep? Oh, no! Where’s the man who said he was sleepy? Cook three days’ rations? Oh, my! And not a cooking vessel in the regiment! But never mind about that, it’s a soldier’s duty to obey orders without asking questions. I drew and distributed the flour and meat, and left the men to do the cooking while I looked after the ammunition. Here the men learned to roll out biscuit dough about the size and shape of a snake, coil it around a ramrod or a small wooden stick, and bake it before the fire.

This Sunday afternoon and night, August 4, was a busy time in our camp. Some were cooking the rations, some writing letters, some one thing, and some another; all were busy until orders came to saddle up. We were camped on the main Springfield road, and General Lyon, with his army, was at Dug Springs, a few miles farther up the same road. We were to march at eleven o’clock and attack him at daylight Monday morning. There already had been some skirmishing between our outposts and his scouts. We had never been in battle, and we were nervous, restless, sleepless for the remainder of the day and night after receiving the orders.

Some of the things that occurred during the afternoon and night would have been ludicrous had not the whole occasion been so serious. In my efforts to obtain and distribute all the ammunition I could procure I was around among the men from mess to mess during all this busy time. Scores of letters were being written by firelight to loved ones at home, said letters running something like this:

Numbers of the boys said to me: “Now, Barron, if I am killed to-morrow please mail this letter for me.” One said: “Barron, here is my gold watch. Take it, and if I am killed to-morrow please send it to my mother.” Another said: “Barron, here is a gold ring. Please take care of it, and if I am killed to-morrow I want you to send it to my sister.” Another one said: “Barron, if I am killed to-morrow I want you to send this back to my father.” At last it became funny to me that each seemed to believe in the probability of his being killed the next day, and were making nuncupative wills, naming me as executor in every case, without seeming to think of the possibility of my being killed.

During the remainder of our four years’ service, with all the fighting we had to do, I never again witnessed similar preparations for battle.