After the battle of Corinth the Confederate army under Van Dorn was entirely on the defensive. Grant and Sherman advanced from Memphis into Mississippi with the evident purpose of taking Vicksburg in the rear. The cavalry had frequent skirmishes with the Federal advance and no little excitement. There was an encounter with Sherman’s troops near Old Lamar in Marshall County, Miss. In relating this incident, I feel the need of a faculty that would enable me to tell three or four things at the same time and make my readers have a clear conception of a number of particulars which run through the mind so rapidly that it is difficult to arrange them in a well connected narrative. As in a dream, we travel over a vast extent of country and talk with many people in the short space of a few seconds, so when armed forces unexpectedly clash, we can see very many things at the same moment, but can speak of only one incident at a time. In the last days of a very dry October the Seventh Tennessee Cavalry was marching by fours in a dusty lane with ditches intervening between the road and the fences. The enemy must have seen that a fine opportunity was at hand, and advanced rapidly on our flank. The clouds of dust so obscured the vision that it was impossible to see just where the enemy were. Having the advantage of an open field they made good use of it. The Confederates were compelled to fall back or be enveloped. The command to right about by fours was given. This order threw about one-half the regiment into a position fronting the other half, which had, in the confusion, never heard it. The red dirt rose in clouds as those who were trying to get to the rear struggled to pass by those who had not heard the command. Horses and riders went into the ditches in a confused mass.
The time for obeying orders had passed. Amid the shouts of the enemy’s flanking lines, the neighing of horses and the curses of desperate men, there seemed to be one thought uppermost, and that was to get out of this trouble alive, if possible. No doubt there were instances of individual bravery and unselfish acts of gallantry, quite common occurrences in the Seventh Regiment, but nobody had anything of this incident to relate on that score around future campfires. Many had thrilling stories of how they escaped. Captain W. J. Tate of Company E, and Captain C. C. Clay went into the ditch together. Tate lost his saddle, but got hold of Clay’s, which he placed on his own horse, mounted and rode out of danger. Captain Clay with many others was captured. This all happened in much less time than it takes to tell it, but it was a remarkable stampede, the second and last the regiment ever was in. The fighting was so constant from that time till Christmas, 1862, that the men learned to stand firm on the firing line and to fall back in good order.
It were a long story to tell of the sullen retreat of the army even now not fully recovered from the effects of the disastrous Corinth campaign. Mansfield Lovell’s division and Price’s Trans-Mississippi veterans, however, were always ready for a fight. The cold, rainy days of winter were upon us, and nothing seemed quite so sure as a great battle on the line of the Tallahatchie. That line was abandoned and the enemy made a fierce attack on our rear guard of cavalry at Oxford. We were expected to hold them in check till our trains were safe beyond the Yokona. It was one of those times in which the woods were alive with bluecoats. But I shall intermit this narrative here and insert a sketch, which is entirely apropos, though printed some time ago. It follows:
Editor Commercial Appeal:
Whenever I hear the patriotic spirit of the Southern women alluded to, I somehow revert to an incident that came under my observation on the 2nd day of December, 1862, at Oxford, Miss. Price and Van Dorn had been forced to abandon the line of the Tallahatchie and were falling back to the line of the Yalobusha. Our cavalry was making a stubborn resistance against overwhelming forces of the Federals in order to hold them in check long enough to allow our trains to get beyond immediate danger. A cold rain was falling and there seemed to be no bottom to the roads. The citizens were panic-stricken and the army was in no good spirits. It had not entirely recovered from the disastrous repulse at Corinth, and the terrible weather added to the distress. “Blue ruin” seemed to stare us in the face. Colonel Wheeler of the First Tennessee Cavalry was temporarily in command of W. H. Jackson’s brigade, which was trying to hold the Abbeville road. There was no picket in our front and there was a call for somebody to reconnoiter. There was no positive order from the Colonel commanding, but as he rode along the front of our company he said: “Some of you men with carbines go out there and see where they are.” It was one of those times when it was nobody’s business in particular, but everybody’s in general. Just then I asked Sam Clinton, who recently died at Bolivar, if he would go with me. We rode forward, followed by four other men of other companies. I remember that Sam and I realized the danger and would have preferred to be somewhere else. We stirred up a hornet’s nest, for very soon there was one report, and a singing minie passed over our heads. Instantly, a heavy skirmish line of Kansas Jayhawkers, who knew how to shoot, rose up in the bushes on each side of the road. We replied in kind, but retreated at a rapid pace. Only one of the six was struck, Private Wilson of Company B, of Covington, who had his thigh bone fractured and became a permanent cripple. The retreat even was so hot that I hastily concluded to quit the road and try the timber. In forcing my horse, “Old Snip,” up an embankment the wet and thawing earth gave way, and Snip and I fell in such a position, with my left foot under him, that it was difficult to rise. I had to think fast. I spurred the poor beast with my right foot to force him to an effort to rise so that I could recover my left. The next thing was to recover my navy six and saddle bags, containing my scant “wardrobe” which had become detached and fallen in the mud. Replacing my pistol in the holster, throwing my saddle bags on my shoulder and holding on to my carbine, I turned my attention to Snip, who had by a supreme effort recovered his feet and was ready for any emergency. Following my lead, he mounted the embankment and we had the protection of the timber. Just then the gallant Joe Wicks of Memphis, the adjutant of our regiment, came with orders for the squad to fall back. We had already taken orders from the Jayhawkers. But poor Joe Wicks, we never saw him more. Dashing into the thicket, he said he had other orders to deliver. In a few minutes his riderless horse came dashing back to the command. He never delivered his orders, but was buried by the good people of Oxford.
But I started out to say something about the Confederate women. If I have any excuse for this preliminary, it is, that my readers may have a faint appreciation of the troubles that come to a poor private of a retreating army in midwinter. As for the Confederate women, it is always in order, even in the middle of an effective paragraph, to say your best about them, but, if I had some happy trick of phrase or knack of language, which I just now heartily desire, I would write in the language of loftiest eulogy in their praise. However, let us think that there never were any others just like them.
But now as to the particular incident. Oxford was a town of tearful women and weeping maids. This added to our overflowing cup. On the verandah of a cottage, somewhere just south of the courthouse, was standing one of the maidens, who did not seem to be weeping, for her spirit had risen to the occasion. With dark blue eyes and flowing hair, she was animation incarnate. She was most forcibly expressing her opinion about our giving over the town to the merciless Yankees. Her short skirts and youthful appearance, somewhat mollified her impeachment, for, if we had taken her opinion as solid truth, and had seen ourselves as she, for the moment, saw us, we should have been convinced that we were the most cowardly aggregation of “skedaddling” cavalry in the Confederacy. In just twenty days, we had ample revenge and surcease from humiliation at Holly Springs, where the Federal loss of army stores, right in the rear of Grant’s army, went into the millions, and was the greatest loss of supplies that occurred on a single occasion during the war. Historians have not even done this affair under Van Dorn the scantiest justice.
But who was our little maiden, she of the patriotic impulses? Everybody wanted to know, for we hoped to have her think better of us. Cad Linthicum, our little Kentuckian, who somehow had a penchant for knowing all the girls in divers places, said it was Taylor Cook. And so it was Taylor Cook. Then “Taylor Cook” went down the line. She had become famous in a twinkling. The Seventh Tennessee Cavalry would have willingly adopted her as “The Daughter of the Regiment,” if she could have appreciated the honor. She was worthy to become the wife of Nathan Bedford Forrest’s only son. And she did. When I pause at her grave in beautiful Elmwood, I think of that sad day at Oxford.
J. M. HUBBARD.
Erstwhile of Company E,
Seventh Tenn. Cavalry.
On the 3rd day of December, 1862, the Seventh Regiment had placed the Yokona between itself and the enemy. We destroyed the bridges in order to hold them in check. Here we committed about our first depredation on a citizen. We burnt his fence rails. Remember it was cold and wet and we had no axes. The boys spoke of it as an outrage (sic), but felt good as they dried themselves around the burning rails. We consoled ourselves with the reflection that, if the owner were as patriotic as he should have been, he never would utter a word of complaint. Many a time, when the temperature was low, we had occasion to revert with pleasure to the generous fires near Springdale, an old antebellum stagestand.
“Boots and saddles,” for the Federal cavalry had already gotten between the Seventh Regiment and Water Valley. There was but one thing to do. Put on a bold front and run over them or through them. This was so quickly done by our advance that the rear never came in sight of the enemy. The road was now clear and we continued to move south. The next day, just north of Coffeeville, we assisted in forming an ambuscade to entrap the Federal cavalry. This was attended with sufficient success to enable our whole army to take post at Grenada.
We were getting well along into the second year of the war, and our prospects were getting worse on the “Memphis lines.” North Mississippi was in the hands of the Federals, and nothing seemed more probable or possible than that we should be driven further toward the Gulf. Van Dorn had had rather poor success as the commander of an army or the projector of a campaign, but the Confederate authorities knew he was a born cavalryman. He appeared to be the very man to lead a bold movement to the rear of Grant’s army on the Tallahatchie. A corps composed entirely of cavalry was organized to take the road with Holly Springs as an objective point. This place had been abundantly supplied with everything needed by an army of twenty thousand men, encamped south of it, and was garrisoned by about three thousand of all arms. Most of the storehouses around the public square were full of provisions, clothing and medical stores. A large livery stable had been converted into an immense arsenal for the storage of arms and ammunition. There was a long string of cars on the tracks, sufficient, perhaps, to make three good trains, which it was said were loaded with supplies for the army. The sutlers and the small dealers who follow an army, were fully supplied, as if they expected to make a permanent stay in the Sunny South. The cotton speculators were in force, and had hundreds of bales in storage. Van Dorn did not expect to transport any part of these vast supplies south. His purpose was to surprise the garrison at daylight, parole the prisoners and destroy the stores. So after making a march of one day and two nights, much of which was at a trot, and during which we had, after starting from Grenada, swept around by way of Benela, Houston, Pontotoc and New Albany, about 100 miles, we surprised and captured the Federal outpost and entered the town at a gallop. On that clear, frosty morning of December 20th, 1862, the Seventh Regiment was marching in the rear of a column so long and moving so rapidly that we made the last mile or two at about full speed. When we did reach the town, our horses were hot and smoking and men greatly excited. Colonel Murphy, the Federal commander of the post, had already been surprised in his bed and the Confederates were on every corner. Men, women and children were sounding praises to the Confederates. We could hardly realize that we were in possession of the largest booty secured by any army, so far, in the war. Everybody wanted to carry away something, but it was hard to make a selection. Here were great inducements to plunder and such a condition of demoralization existed as might cause the officers to lose control of their men. Whisky, brandy and wines of the best quality and in unbroken packages were among the spoils of war, and everybody so disposed could help himself. And pretty much everybody was disposed. A. S. Coleman, he of the Missouri roasting ear story and sutler of the regiment, had left his wagon at Grenada and had donned his fighting clothes for the raid. He acted as a sort of free lance, who had the assurance to assume special privileges. He visited some of the richest depots early and selected such articles as he knew would please the boys. He soon hove in sight of Company E with a string of hats as long as a plough line wound about him and his horse. What looked like the effigy of a man, clothed in blue trousers of large dimensions and cut in twain at the waist and footless, sat bolt upright on the pommel of Coleman’s saddle. When the contents of the effigy were displayed, we found we had more good liquor than we had room for. All were in fine trim now to attack the commissary stores. As in the case of the fine liquors, the boys did materially reduce the visible supply of good things. People of all classes, without regard even to previous condition of servitude, were told to walk up and help themselves. Children reveled in the pleasures of the occasion, and grown people declared that it was the grandest day the town had ever seen. The work of destruction began in the afternoon. The arsenal was destroyed, all cars with their contents and houses used for the storage of cotton were burned. Town and country were enveloped in smoke and the report of explosives was heard when we were many miles from the scene of destruction. Van Dorn had so completely reaped the fruits of victory that his praise was on every tongue. The men rode out of Holly Springs at nightfall in high glee and perfectly willing to incur other dangers further north. The loss to the Federals has been estimated as high as $3,000,000.
I have been at some pains to find out about how many men Van Dorn had at Holly Springs, but the affair has been so lightly regarded by writers and the records are so lacking in specific statements, that I am only able to state that I had the impression at the time his force numbered about four thousand men. He had no artillery. A statement here as to strength is immaterial in this case, as one thousand men, or maybe less, could have accomplished all that was done. For the Federals, it was a complete surprise and a humiliating disaster. The Confederates could hardly realize that they had participated in one of the most brilliant military exploits of the war. They had lost one man killed, John Graves, of Company A. When our column was on the road next morning, after a brief rest, it looked very like a Federal column, as thousands of new blue overcoats had been captured and were utilized on this clear frosty morning. Van Dorn reached Davis’ Mills, now Michigan City, early in the morning of the 21st of December. This place is about twenty miles north of Holly Springs and on Wolf River. The Federal force here was small, but well protected by a fort, rifle pits and a barricaded millhouse. The Confederates, on foot, assailed the position furiously as if they expected to take it by assault. The fire from the little garrison was so galling from across the river, quite an insignificant stream at that point, that they sheltered themselves for a time behind an earthen mill dam constructed along the bank. Here we had a slight loss in killed and wounded. The retreat to our horses was perilous and the enemy made the most of it. While lying in the ditch beside the milldam, a hat elevated above our protection was apt to receive two or three bullet holes. Lieutenant Statler of Company E had a Holly Springs hat ruined by a minie ball passing through the band and on through his hair. Poor fellow, when I found his dead body, the day after the battle of Harrisburg, July 14th, 1864, I noticed that the ball that killed him had passed through his hat band.
After the affair at Davis’ Mill we retired to the neighborhood of the Lane Farm, and rested for part of the night. Our horses had a bountiful feed and a short rest. What must be done must be done quickly. So we struck the usual trot. My little blooded stallion seemed to know just what was wanted. He would lie down like a tired dog when the column made a short halt, but was all life and animation when it was moving. Across Wolf river at Moscow in the early morning, we took the road to Somerville. It was said that we would repeat the Holly Springs business at Bolivar. The men of Company E knew every road and by-path leading to the town. Our hopes were high. We were willing to head a surprise party, or lead an assault. We should be fighting in the presence of our own people—the home folks. But we passed on to Danceyville, and that did not look like going to Bolivar. A short halt and a countermarch, and we were surely on the road to Bolivar.
We had traveled over much of Fayette and Hardeman counties, but bivouacked on Clear Creek on the night of December 23rd. We had been bountifully fed right here when on our way to Randolph the year before and had slept on this ground part of a night on the Armstrong raid. When I think of this place I think of chicken pie. The rank and file were confident that we would go into Bolivar, only a few miles distant, the next morning, and have a jolly Christmas right at home. That was not to be. Our scouts and spies reported that the Federals in great force were strongly fortified and were ready for us. They had evidently heard from Holly Springs. Van Dorn drew off to Middleburg, seven miles southwest of Bolivar where a small garrison was protected by a brick storehouse with a hall above, through the walls of which they had made many portholes. Here we needed some kind of artillery. The Federals stood bravely to their guns and refused to comply with our demand to surrender. It was a detachment of the Twelfth Michigan infantry, which the community thought to be about as devilish a lot as ever came south.
At Middleburg I saw the prettiest line of battle in action that I saw in the whole war. It was Ross’ Texas brigade advancing on foot with a firing line of skirmishers several rods in advance. As we stood to the rear in reserve, I could but take pride in this fine body of Texans, as Sul Ross, afterward governor of Texas, was my schoolmate. He was a noble young fellow at college, a gallant Indian fighter before the war, a successful general in the Confederate army, an incorruptible statesman after the war and, finally, the most popular man in Texas. I was glad to call him friend. I have passed Middleburg many times since then, but always think of Ross’ line of battle. “After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well.”
Van Dorn retired, without molestation from the Federals, while Grant hastened to break camp on the Tallahatchie and to fall back to Memphis. The object of the expedition had been pretty fully accomplished.
