MY LAST BATTLE

Tories and Deserters—A Tragic Story—A Brutal Murder—The Son’s Vow—Vengeance—A Southern Heroine—Seeking Our Command—Huntsville—A Strange Meeting—We Find the Division—The Battle in the Fog—My Last Battle.

Haden Pryor, who lived eight miles west on the same road, was a whole-souled, big-hearted old gentleman, who also had a large place and plenty of everything to live on, and whose hospitality towards a Confederate soldier was unbounded. His boys were in the army in Virginia, and he and his wife were at home alone. I had stayed with him while hunting a blacksmith shop, and found that a tired Confederate soldier was more than welcome to his home. Lonely, and impatient for the war to close, that his gallant boys might come home, he would sit out on his front veranda and play solitaire, and was glad to see a soldier come, and sorry to see him leave. He had a nephew in our regiment that I knew and liked, and I had fallen in love with this old gentleman. Next morning McClatchie and I, when we came to his house, called to pay him our respects and to tell him good-by.

This neighborhood, or rather the neighborhood just south of this, and a considerable scope of country lying along the western border of Georgia and the eastern border of Alabama, was infested with a class of the meanest white men on earth—Tories and deserters, men too cowardly to fight in either army, but mean and unscrupulous enough to do anything. We knew they were there, but while our army was in the neighborhood they were never seen. Since the armies had left they were growing bolder, and we were told at Mr. Pryor’s that morning about some of their thievery and robbery. Providence protected us that day. Here were two roads, one to the left and one to the right, and we could follow one or the other and reach our destination in the same number of miles. The matter was left to me, and, without thinking of danger, I selected the right-hand road. On that day the left-hand road was waylaid by a band of these infamous characters and every Confederate soldier who attempted to pass the road was robbed of horse, arms, and everything of any value, and one or two of them murdered. These soldiers had been left behind slightly wounded or sick, and were on their way to overtake their commands. One of the murdered ones belonged to Ross’s brigade.

Since the war I have heard, from a reliable source, a tragic story of this Pryor family, which, if told in detail, would sound like fiction. It seems that in the spring of 1865 a band of these cut-throats, eight in number, rode up to Haden Pryor’s gate and without provocation shot him while he was standing in his front yard in presence of his wife; as he turned and was in the act of returning to his house he fell in his front veranda, a corpse. This was a few days after General Lee’s surrender. His oldest son, John, and a younger one, with eight or ten other Confederates, on their way home that night came within eight or ten miles of their homes, when, tired and footsore, they lay down to rest until morning.

John Pryor, haunted by a strange presentiment, could not sleep, and determined he would quietly leave the camp and go on to his father’s house. While he was dressing one of the others woke and said: “Hello, John, what are you up to?” “I am going home,” said John. “Wait a minute,” said the other, “and I’ll go too.” From that one by one they all roused up and were soon on the road again. Arriving at home, John Pryor found his father a bloody corpse and his mother a widow. His mother told him how it all happened, and gave him the names of his father’s murderers. The next day the funeral took place, and the noble father who had so patiently waited and longed for the return of his soldier boys was laid under the sod.

Over his father’s grave John Pryor made a vow that he would not engage in any business whatever as long as one of his father’s murderers was alive, and starting out upon his fixed purpose he killed one or two of them before the gang became alarmed. The rest now became panic-stricken and fled the country, hiding in different States. John hunted them constantly and relentlessly for weeks and months, until the weeks grew into years, and as he found them they were sent to their final account, one by one, until finally he found the last and least guilty one in Travis County, Texas, a few miles from Austin. It was in the spring of the year, and the man was plowing when John walked into the field where he was. Seeing John coming and recognizing him, he stopped his horse and, waiting until he was within a few steps of him, he said, “John, I know what you have come for; but I will ask you to let me go to the house and tell my wife and children good-by.” John consented, and they went to the house, where were the innocent wife and two small children in a comfortable little home. The husband and father then said: “John, I never hurt your father; I didn’t want those fellows to kill him, and told them not to do it.” “I remember that my mother told me something about this,” replied John, “and said you were the only one who said a word against the murder of my father; and now I will retract my vow as to you, and leave you with your wife and children.”

Now feeling that he had fulfilled his mission, Pryor returned to his home, and devoting his attention to business became a prosperous and successful man.

As we continued our way back to north Alabama, crossing Black Creek, we came to the residence of Mrs. Sansom. Here we stopped under pretense of lighting our pipes, and remained for an hour, merely to get a look at the young heroine, Miss Emily Sansom, the young girl who rode behind General Forrest and piloted him to a ford on the creek where he was in hot pursuit of Colonel Straight and his men. This story of Emily Sansom’s heroism has been published so often that most people are familiar with it. She now lives, a widow, in Upshur County, Texas.[6]

We pushed on to our former headquarters on the Tennessee River, to find that our people had been gone ever so long. General Hood had crossed the river about the last of November, Decatur, Huntsville, Triana, and Whitesburg had all been evacuated by the enemy, and our army was in middle Tennessee. Our scouts, as we afterwards learned, had crossed the river, passed through Huntsville and moved up to the vicinity of Shelbyville. Our command had participated in the fighting on the advance into Tennessee, had been in the battle of Franklin, and was then sent to Murfreesboro.

McClatchie and myself crossed the river and spent the night at the home of our friend, Rev. Alexander Penland. Next day we went into Huntsville, and while waiting for our horses to be shod I had time to see a number of my friends, among them Miss Aggie Scott, from whom I learned that my old friend, W. H. Powers, and his wife, were sojourning in New London, Conn. We went out in the evening and spent the night at the home of Mr. William Matkin, a few miles down the Triana road. Late at night Rev. Lieutenant-Colonel William D. Chadick came to Mr. Matkin’s, afoot, tired and somewhat excited, and informed us that a division of Federal cavalry had entered Huntsville that afternoon. He had been at home with his family, and told an interesting story of his escape. He had left his home, gone across lots, and reaching the Female seminary lot, had hidden under the floor of the seminary until nightfall, when he had made his way through back lots and fields until he was well out of town. He then found his way around to the Triana road and here he was.

General McCook was in command of the forces that had come in so unexpectedly, and learning that Colonel Chadick was at home, showed great anxiety to capture him, so much so that he visited his home in person. Finding Mrs. Chadick there, he interrogated her as to the whereabouts of her husband. She told him that Colonel Chadick was not at home. He seemed incredulous, and cross-questioned her closely, when something in her tone or her favor led him to change the conversation, and he said to her: “Madam, where are you from?” She answered, “I am from Steubenville, Ohio.” “I am also from Steubenville, Ohio. What was your maiden name?” She answered, “My maiden name was Cook.” “Were you Miss Jane Cook?” said he. She answered, “I was.” Then said he: “Do you remember, many years ago, one Sunday morning, when you were on your way to Sunday school, that some little boys were cutting up in the street near the Episcopal church and a policeman was about to take them up when you interceded in their behalf and he let them off?” She answered, “I do.” “I was one of those boys,” said he, “and now, madam, I am ready to do anything in my power for your protection and comfort.” Guards were placed at her gates, and not a soldier allowed to enter the premises while General McCook’s command remained there.

Colonel Chadick was well known to me, he having been pastor of the Cumberland Presbyterian church in Huntsville for several years while I lived there. He first entered the army as chaplain of the Fourth Alabama Infantry, and was with that famous regiment in the first battle of Manassas. He was afterwards made major of an Alabama battalion, of which Nick Davis was lieutenant-colonel, later consolidated with Coltart’s battalion, to become the Fiftieth Alabama Infantry, when John G. Coltart became colonel and William D. Chadick lieutenant-colonel. At this time he had an idea of raising a new regiment of cavalry, and wished me to return and raise a company for the regiment or else take a position on his staff, but we were now too near the end.

McClatchie and myself started out next morning and went up the Huntsville road a short distance, when we came in sight of a small party of Federal cavalry in the act of turning back. We took a road that led us into the Athens road at John N. Drake’s place, where we learned that another party had come out there, and turned back. We then made our way directly to Pulaski, Tenn., on towards Columbia, and found the division on the Columbia pike hotly engaged with the enemy, who was pushing General Hood’s retreat. Our rear-guard was commanded by General Forrest, and consisted of his own cavalry, Jackson’s cavalry division, and about fifteen hundred infantry, under Major-General Walthal. The infantry were trans-Mississippi troops, including Ector’s and Granberry’s brigades. General Hood’s main army was retreating by different roads towards Bainbridge, where we were to cross the Tennessee River. Jackson’s division of cavalry and the infantry of the rear-guard were on the main road, while General Forrest’s cavalry was protecting other roads. We were uncomfortably crowded on the turnpike, but we left it at Pulaski, crossed Richland Creek on a bridge, and fired the bridge. The Federals soon came up and extinguished the fire, however, and then came pouring across the bridge, but as it was now late in the afternoon they did not attack any more for the day.

The next morning General Forrest selected a favorable position in the hills a few miles below Pulaski, masked his batteries, and formed his infantry in ambush, and, when the enemy came on us, attacked them with artillery, infantry, and cavalry, and after a sharp little battle drove them back handsomely, with some loss, capturing one piece of artillery and taught them that in the hills it was imprudent to rush upon an enemy recklessly. For the remainder of that day we were permitted to move quietly down the road unmolested.

That night one of General Frank Armstrong’s Mississippi cavalry regiments was left on picket, and we moved on a mile or two and camped by the roadside. Just after daylight the next morning our Mississippi regiments came clattering in, closely pursued by the enemy’s cavalry. We hastily formed a line across the road and checked the enemy, and then moved on to Sugar Creek and formed another ambush. There was a dense fog along the creek, such as I never saw in the interior. Our infantry were formed along the creek bank just above the crossing, and the cavalry in column of fours in the road forty or fifty yards back from the ford of the creek, and thus, in the fog, we were as completely concealed as if midnight darkness had prevailed. The infantry remained perfectly quiet until the head of the enemy’s column was in the act of crossing the creek, when suddenly, with a yell they plunged through the creek and charged them. This threw the head of their column into confusion, when our cavalry charged them in column at a gallop, and pressed them back two or three miles. And this was the last fight I was ever in!