CLOSE OF THE ATLANTA CAMPAIGN

Sherman Changes His Tactics—Hood Deceived—Heavy Fighting—Atlanta Surrenders—End of the Campaign—Losses—Scouting—An Invader’s Devastation—Raiding the Raiders—Hood Crosses the Coosa—A Reconnoissance—Negro Spies—Raiding the Blacks—Crossing Indian Creek—A Conversion.

General Sherman had been impatient and dissatisfied that his cavalry was unable to destroy the Macon or Brunswick Railroad, and now changed his tactics. He had been in front of Atlanta, since General Hood had been in command, a period of about five weeks. In a few days after Kilpatrick’s return, he began withdrawing his forces from the front of that beleaguered city, crossed to the north side of the Chattahoochee, marched his main force down to Sand Town, recrossed the river, and moved directly on Jonesboro, some twenty miles below Atlanta.

I do not believe, and never have believed, that General Hood understood this maneuver until it was too late to save even his stores, arms, and ammunition in Atlanta. His infantry scouts, it was understood and believed at the time, watched the enemy’s movements, to the point of their crossing to the north side of the Chattahoochee, and reported that they were retreating, while our cavalry scouts reported that they were recrossing at Sand Town, in heavy force in our front.

We, that is, our cavalry, began fighting the head of their column as soon as they crossed the river, and fought them for detention and delay, as best we could, all the way to the Flint River Crossing near Jonesboro, just as we had fought Kilpatrick’s force a few days before. General Hood, being advised that a heavy force of infantry and artillery was moving on Jonesboro, sent a portion of his army down there, and they fought the enemy most gallantly, but it seemed to me that our army should have been in their front long before they crossed Flint River. As it was, General Sherman threw his army across the railroad, on the first day of September, between us and Atlanta, and, while the fighting was terrific, we were unable to drive them off. A terrible battle, in which there were no breastworks, was fought late in the evening, and General Cleburne’s division was cut in two, for the first time during the war, when General Govan of his division was captured and Colonel Govan killed. We were in line, dismounted, just on General Cleburne’s right, forming a mere skirmish line, in order to cover the enemy’s front. The welcome shades of night soon gathered around us, and the fighting ceased when the opposing lines were almost together. I was on picket two or three hundred yards back of the enemy’s line until one or two o’clock in the morning. All this time they were felling timber and strengthening their position for the fighting they expected in the morning. During the evening Lieutenant-Colonel Berry of the Ninth Texas Cavalry was killed.

Soon after midnight a courier from General Hood passed us and informed us that Atlanta was given up. As soon as he reached our headquarters a courier was sent to order us to fall back. And thus ended the last battle of the long campaign about Atlanta, a campaign involving continuous fighting for three and a half months.

Very soon after General Hood’s courier passed us we began to hear the artillery ammunition exploding in Atlanta. All was burned that could not be carried away on the march, as we now had no railroad transportation. After burning the arms, ammunition, and stores that could not be transported, General Hood moved out with his army, and the Federals took undisputed possession of the city the next day. General Hood, after burning his supplies, had moved out during the night eastwardly and by a circuitous march joined his other forces near Lovejoy Station. General Sherman soon abandoned Jonesboro, moved his army into and around Atlanta and two tired armies rested. Sherman reported his loss in this campaign at 34,514, quite a large army in itself.

Our army settled down for the time being near Jonesboro, Ross’ brigade doing outpost duty. The ranks of the brigade had become very much depleted by the losses in killed, wounded, and captured during the Atlanta campaign, and the companies were temporarily consolidated. This caused the regiments of the brigade, except the Third Texas, to have on hand a number of supernumerary company officers. The Third having more officers in prisons and hospitals than the others, only had about enough officers after consolidation. These officers, with consent of the commanders, agreed to organize themselves into a scouting party. I had permission to join them, and as this offered some recreation, or at least a diversion, I did so, being the only member from the Third. They were all gallant and experienced officers and jovial companionable fellows.

We organized by selecting Captain H. W. Wade of the Sixth Texas commander. I cannot now recall all of them, but among them were Captains O. P. Preston, Reuben Simpson, Cook, and Broughton, and Lieutenants W. J. Swain, Thompson Morris, W. W. McClathie, Bridges, and Park. We were joined by the gallant Captain Reams, of Missouri, whose command had surrendered at the fall of Vicksburg, and who, having gone to Missouri to recruit his command, was captured and imprisoned, but had escaped into Canada, and from there made his way back to General Hood’s army. We were sent on duty in the country lying north of the West Point Railroad and south of the Chattahoochee River, west and northwest of Atlanta—this being a large scope of country not occupied by either army and liable to be depredated upon by the enemy. Campbellton, the county seat of Campbell County, was a town of some importance situated on the south bank of the Chattahoochee River, some thirty miles northwestwardly from Atlanta. The Federal outpost in this direction was twelve or fifteen miles out from the city.

Our duties were performed for several weeks without incident worthy of mention. We were sometimes in the territory over which we had fought during the summer, and a more desolate country I never saw; not a domestic animal or fowl, and scarcely a bird, could be seen; the woods, where we had fed our horses shelled corn, had grown up in green corn more than knee high, and there were no animals to crop it down; the fences had all been torn down to build barricades, and the crops had been without cultivation or protection since the early summer; the corn had made small ears and the sorghum had grown up into little trifling stalks, and the people who lived hereabouts were subsisting on corn bread made of grated meal and syrup made in the crudest manner. Oh, the devastation and horrors of war! They must be seen to be realized.

One morning we met Lieutenant Bob Lee, with his scouts, and it was agreed that we would spend the day together on a trip towards the river between Campbellton and Sherman’s outpost. Bob Lee was a fine scout, a member of the Ninth Texas Cavalry who had been promoted from the ranks to first lieutenant for his efficiency. Lee’s scouts numbered twenty, while we numbered twenty-one, all well armed with Colt’s revolvers and well mounted. On our way we picked up Pem Jarvis, of Company K, Third Texas, who was glad to join us. Pem had the only gun in the company, and no pistol.

We moved north by any road or trail found to lead to the right direction, until about noon, when we struck the rear of a farm lying in a little valley. Along the opposite ridge ran the “ridge road” from Atlanta to Campbellton, probably half a mile distant. Near the road, in a strip of timber, stood a farmhouse. Near the house we heard a gun fire and a hog squeal. Throwing down the fence we rode in and moved across cautiously, so as not to be seen from the house. Passing out through a pair of draw-bars, three or four of the men galloped up to the house and into the yard, where they found two Federal soldiers in the act of dressing a hog they had just killed. From them we learned that a party of about sixty cavalrymen, in charge of an officer, and having with them two four-mule wagons, had just passed, going in the direction of Campbellton. We started off, leaving the hog killers in charge of two of our men, and filed into the road. At the first house on the road, supposed to be Dr. Hornsby’s, two ladies were in the act of mounting their horses at the gate. They were crying, and told us that some Yankee soldiers had passed there and insulted them, and that they were going to headquarters to ask for protection. They estimated the number at about sixty, with two wagons. This was about five miles from Campbellton.

We sent two of our scouts ahead to look for them, as there is also a road from Campbellton to Atlanta called the river road. If they returned by the ridge road we would meet them, if by the river road we would miss them. The scouts were to ascertain this matter and report. We moved on to within about two miles of the town and formed a line in the brush, a few steps south of the road and parallel with it, where, with bridles and pistols well in hand, we patiently waited the return of our scouts. The road from our position, towards town as far as we could see it, ran on a rough down grade and was lined with thick black jack brush. From here it was impossible for a horseman to get into the river road without going into town. The intention was, if they came our way, to wait until their column came up in our front and charge them in flank.

In due time we heard our scouts coming at a gallop, and looking up we saw they were being pursued by two Federals. One of the Federals reined up and stopped before he got in our front, while the other rode along nearly the entire front of our line, fired his gun at our scouts, cussed the d——d rebels, then stopped, and stood as if waiting for the column, which was then slowly moving up the hill. We could hear them driving milch cows, which they had taken from citizens, and accompanied by wagons loaded with the fruits of their day’s robbery, such as tobacco, chickens, and turkeys. The fellow in our front furnished such a tempting target that one of our men fired, and the Federal dropped from his horse. This was sufficient to spoil the ambush, and we instantly spurred our horses into the road, gave a loud yell, and charged at full speed down the rough road, into the head of their column. As we approached them they seemed almost to forget the use of their seven-shooting rifles in an effort to reverse their column, and before they could accomplish this we were in among them, and they ran for dear life back to gain the river road. We went along with them to town, and they fired back at us vigorously, and powder burned some of our men in the face, but no one of our men received as much as a scratch. We were better armed for such a contest than they were, for though they had good rifles, their pistols were few, while we carried from two to four Colt’s revolvers apiece.

Jarvis’ horse became unmanageable in the excitement and ran under some black jack, and knocked Jarvis’ gun out of his hand and plunged in among the enemy, passing by several of them while Jarvis had nothing to defend himself with. Some of them were in the act of shooting him in the back, but invariably Bob Lee or someone else would save him by shooting his assailant in the back of the head. The foremost and best mounted men, about twenty in number, with one wagon, got through the town. We followed them a few hundred yards and turned back. We had twelve prisoners unhurt, and going back over the road we found fourteen dead and fifteen wounded. We had in our possession one wagon and team, thirty or forty rifles, a few pistols, and a number of horses with their rigging.

As I was going back on the road I came to an elderly wounded man just outside of the road. I reined up my horse, and as I did so he reached out a trembling hand, in which he held a greasy leather pocketbook, and said: “Here, take this, but please don’t kill me.” I told him to put up his pocketbook; that I would neither take that nor his life; that I only wanted his arms.

The slightly wounded men, who would likely be able to fight again very soon, we put into the wagon, and mounting the unhurt ones on the captured horses we paired off with them, and thus started for our own lines. I rode with one of the prisoners, who was quite a talkative fellow. Upon asking him why it was that so many of their men refused to surrender, and allowed themselves to be shot, he said: “Our officers have told us that Ross’s brigade never shows prisoners any quarter, but will rob and murder them; and we knew it was Ross’s brigade as soon as you yelled that way.” I told him that was a great slander on the brigade; that no men would treat prisoners more kindly; that sometimes we were hard up for clothes and would take an overcoat, or blanket, or something of the kind from a fellow that was well supplied. “Oh,” said he, “that’s nothing; we do that.” I then said to him: “I believe your boots will fit me, and these brogans of mine will do you just as well at Andersonville.” He said, “All right,” and instantly he dismounted and pulled his boots off. We traded, and I had a good pair of kip boots that fit me, and he had brogan shoes, and was apparently happy. He asked me how it was that we were so much better mounted than they were. I explained that we furnished our own horses, and we must keep them or go to the infantry, and that made our men good horsemasters; while the United States Government furnished them with horses and they knew that when they rode one to death they would get another.

We continued our scouting duties in the same section of country until the early days of October, when General Hood moved around in General Sherman’s rear, and began destroying his communications, capturing supplies and provisions. Sherman moved out of Atlanta and followed Hood until the latter came to the vicinity of Rome. General Hood unwilling to risk a battle in the open field, crossed the Coosa River, moving by way of Gadsden, Ala., towards Guntersville on the Tennessee River. When General Sherman discovered this movement he turned back towards Atlanta, devastating the country and despoiling the citizens as he went.

With General Hood’s movement across the Coosa River he began his last campaign, and the last campaign for the Army of the Tennessee. His intention was to cross the Tennessee at Guntersville and march on Nashville, but he changed his mind and moved down the river to near Decatur, Tuscumbia, and Florence, Ross’s brigade being in front of Decatur, then occupied by the Federals. General Sherman returning to Atlanta, that city was burned, and leaving the smoking ruins behind him, he entered upon his grand march to the sea, with none of General Hood’s army, save General Wheeler’s cavalry, to molest him in his work of devastation.

A day or two after we got to Decatur General Ross ordered our scouting party back up the river to ascertain, if we could, what the enemy was doing in the rear of that place. We moved up on the south side of the river and stopped between Triana and Whitesburg. These towns were garrisoned and the river patrolled by gunboats. We remained in this neighborhood without any further instructions for some weeks. Here I found my half-brother, J. J. Ashworth, who lived on the south bank of the river about fifteen miles from Huntsville, and about three miles above Triana. In this neighborhood were a number of my acquaintances from Madison County, refugeeing, as Huntsville, Brownsboro, and other towns were also garrisoned by the enemy. Several of us crossed the river afoot and remained some days in Madison County. But for the negroes we could have had a pleasant time, as every negro in the country was a spy who would run to report anything that looked suspicious to them, to one of the near-by garrisons, so we dared not allow them to see us. I knew the white people, and knew that they were loyal to our cause, but they could not allow their own negroes to know that they did anything for us, so that we, and they, too, had to be exceedingly careful.

In crossing the river we had to watch for gunboats, make the passage during the night in a canoe, which must be drawn out and hidden, else the first passing gunboat would destroy it. Some three miles north of the river, in the bottom, lived Alexander Penland, a Presbyterian minister, a true and loyal friend to the Confederacy, and three or four miles further on, towards Huntsville, lived William Lanier, Burwell Lanier and William Matkins, the two latter on the Huntsville and Triana road. Dr. William Leftwich also lived in the same neighborhood. All were good, trustworthy men, whom I knew well. Since some of them had taken the non-combatant’s oath they were allowed to go in and out of town at will, and from them I could learn of any movements along the M. & C. Railroad. We crossed the river after night, and being in possession of Mr. Penland’s countersign, we found our way to his house, late at night, after the household was all asleep. I went to a certain front window, tapped lightly and whistled like a partridge. Soon Mr. Penland thrust his head out and in a whisper inquired who we were and what was wanted. I explained to him briefly, and retired to a brush thicket near by, where early next morning he brought us cooked provisions. In order to do this he had to get up and cook for us himself before any of his negroes were awake. The next night we slept in William Lanier’s farm and were fed by him in the same way. We crossed the Triana road and went to the top of a small mountain, from which we could see Huntsville. A rainy season set in and we found shelter in Burwell Lanier’s gin-house, where he fed us. When we thought of recrossing the Tennessee we found that Indian Creek, which we had to cross, was outrageously high, spreading away out over the bottom. We spent a good part of an afternoon in constructing a raft by tying logs together with vines to enable us to cross that night. Just east of William Lanier’s farm there was a large negro quarter, where idle and vicious negroes were in the habit of congregating, and inasmuch as their system of espionage upon the white people of the neighborhood was very annoying, upon the suggestion of some of our friends we determined to raid this place before we left, carry off some of these meddlesome blacks and send them to some government works in south Alabama.

Accordingly after dark we visited the quarter under the guise of recruiting officers from Whitesburg, told them we had been fighting for their freedom for about three years, and the time had now come for them to help us, and we had come for every able-bodied man to go with us to Whitesburg and join the army. I had our men call me Brown, for fear some of them might know me. It was laughable to hear the various excuses rendered for not going into the service. A lot of Confederate conscripts could not have thought up more physical ailments. We finally gathered up six that we decided were able for service, promising they should have a medical examination, and if they were really unfit for service they would be excused. Among them was a powerful, large, muscular black fellow that belonged to Jink Jordan. He had joined the army and, tiring of his job, was now a deserter, and we could see that he was greatly scared and very much opposed to going with us.

Upon leaving the negro houses we went through the field and the woods directly to our raft on the creek and had a great time getting across. The clouds were thick, it was intensely dark, and our means of crossing very poor. We had to make a number of trips, as we could only float three or four men, including the two that used the poles, at one time. In the confusion and darkness two of the prisoners had escaped, and two had just crossed, including the big deserter, when it became my duty to guard them with a short Enfield rifle belonging to one of the men. Having their hands tied with a cord and then tied together back to back, I was not uneasy about keeping them, but before I realized what they were doing they had slipped their hands through the cord and were running through the brush. When the big deserter had gone some twelve or fifteen steps I shot him. He fell at the fire of the gun, but before I could get to him he scrambled up and went crashing through the brush like a stampeding ox. I learned afterwards that he went into Huntsville to a hospital for treatment, and that the ball had gone through the muscle of his arm and plowed into his breast, but not deep enough to be fatal. We finally reached the bank of the river about one or two o’clock in the morning, with two of our prisoners. We then had to hoot like an owl until some one on the other side should wake up, and, hearing the signal, would bring us a canoe, which was finally done, and we crossed over in safety.

We crossed the river several times during our stay in the neighborhood, particularly one very cold night, when several of us passed over, at the request of Mr. Penland, to transfer his pork to the south side. He had killed a lot of hogs, and was afraid the meat might be taken from him, or that he would be ordered out of the Federal lines as others had been, and he wished to place it in the hands of a friend south of the river for safety. We managed to get an old rickety canoe opposite his place, and crossed early in the night, and again played the rÔle of Federal soldiers, as no one on his place but himself must know our real mission. Mrs. Penland had known me from childhood, but as she had lost her mind I did not fear recognition, and while Nancy, their negro woman, also had known me, she failed to recognize me, as I was Mr. Brown of the Federal army. We marched up and called for the man of the house, and when Mr. Penland came forward we told him we were rather short of rations down in Triana, and were out looking for meat, and wished to know if he had any. He acknowledged that he had just killed some meat, but only enough for his family use, and had none to spare. We were bound to have meat, and agreed to leave him one hog, and then yoked up a pair of oxen and hitched them to a wagon. While we were in the smokehouse preparing to take the meat out, Mr. Penland’s two little girls, about nine and eleven, came crying around us, and in a most pitiful manner begged us not to take all of papa’s meat; and poor Mrs. Penland came to the door and said: “Men, please don’t take my little boy’s pony.” When we had hauled all the meat to the river bank and returned the wagon, it was nearly midnight, and we compelled the woman Nancy to get up and prepare us a warm supper. After supper we returned to the river and floated the hogs across in our old canoe.

At this time my brother’s son, George Ashworth, a gallant boy about sixteen years old, who had taken his father’s place in General Roddy’s command, was at home on furlough. One day a thief, believed to be a straggler from General Wheeler’s command, took his horse from a lot some distance from the house, and carried him off. Lieutenant McClatchie and myself mounted a pony and a mule of my brother’s and attempted to overtake him. We followed him as far as Atlanta, but failed to catch him, and then went into the city and viewed the wreck that Sherman had left behind him: thirty-six hundred houses were in ruins, including the best part of the city. This was Saturday, and being tired we went down to the neighborhood of Jonesboro and remained with some of McClatchie’s acquaintances until Monday morning. We were hospitably entertained at the home of Colonel Tidwell, and enjoyed a quiet rest in the company of Miss Mattie Tidwell and Miss Eva Camp.

One evening we passed through the town of Cave Springs, a locality with which I had become familiar while we were campaigning here. On the road we were to travel, at the first house after leaving town, two or three miles out, there lived a tall dignified old gentleman and his handsome young married daughter whose husband was in the army. They lived in a large two-story house, and a large commodious barn, with all other necessary out houses for comfort and convenience, had stood on his premises when I was there before—the barn filled to overflowing with wheat, oats, and corn. Just across the road in front of the house, and stretching across the valley, was his large productive farm, covered with a heavy crop of ungathered corn. While this was the condition, I had come to this house at night, traveling in the same direction, and talked myself almost hoarse without being able to procure from this old gentleman a single ear of corn for my horse or a morsel of food for myself, although he knew I must go eight miles to the next house on the road. I didn’t ask, nor did I wish, to enter his house, but only wanted a feed of corn and a little bread and meat. As we approached the house McClatchie proposed halting, to stay all night—provided we could. I related my earlier experience, but we stopped nevertheless.

Upon seeing us halt, the old gentleman came stepping down to the gate and spoke very kindly, and we asked him if we could spend the night with him. He said such accommodations as he could offer us we would be welcome to, adding: “I have no stables for your horses. Sherman’s army passed this way and burned my barn, with its contents, my stables, and in fact carried off or destroyed everything I had to eat or feed on, and left me and my daughter without a mouthful of anything to eat. They carried every hog, every fowl, and every pound of meat, and even rolled my syrup out of the cellar, knocked the heads out of the barrels and poured the syrup out on the ground, but I will do the best I can for you.” His daughter, too, was very hospitable. At the supper table she detailed all the horrors of Sherman’s visit, and the distressful condition they were left in, how they had to go to a neighbor’s to borrow a few ears of corn to grate them for bread, and concluded by saying: “But as long as I have a piece of bread I will divide it with a Confederate soldier.” After supper she invited us into the parlor, where she had a nice piano and treated us to music. Verily “our friends, the enemy,” had converted one family!