Personal Recollections of Sherman’s Campaigns in Georgia and the Carolinas
Captain George W. Pepper
© Captain George W. Pepper 1866.
First published by Hugh Dunne.
This edition published in 2018 by Sharpe Books.
To The
Hon. David Tod,
Distinguished No More For Faithful Services
In Public Trusts Than By Exalted
Patriotism During The
Recent War;
To The
Hon. L. C. Davis,
And J.W. Fitzghirald, ESQ,
The Tried and Trusted Friends of The Union,
This Volume Is Respectfully Dedicated.
PREFACE
This volume is composed of the personal recollections of the author, from the time that General Sherman took command of the Army of the Tennessee, to the end of the rebellion. The history of this gallant army is a history of individual valor, splendid courage, hardships and victories. Its camps have been innumerable, and its battles and campaigns are those of the Southwest. The author of these war sketches does not pretend to give a complete narration of all the movements of Sherman's army, but he does claim to have prepared and arranged an impartial and reliable history of the most prominent engagements and campaigns, in the States of Georgia and the Carolinas. It is to be hoped that someone, capable of doing full justice to this renowned army, will yet write its history. In this volume are included two or three letters from Captain Miller, of the Cincinnati Commercial, and Doyle, of the New York Herald, two well-known army correspondents, whose contributions to the "war literature " of the country equal in xuquancy and descriptive power the productions of Napier or Russell. In placing this book before the public, I do it with the assurance that it has been prepared with a conscientious regard to truth.
CONTENTS.
PREFACE
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER I.
En-route to Sherman's Army — Character of Kentucky — Louisville —Amusing conversation between two Englishmen — The foot-prints of war —Nashville — The eloquent Priest — Incident of the Embargo — The Defences and Fort of Nashville — Sketch of Tennessee.
In the fall of 1863, I was commissioned with the rank of Captain, by Governor Tod, of Ohio, having formerely served in the same capacity under General Halleck, in Mississippi. Adjutant General Cowan, an able and faithful public officer, furnishing the necessary passes and transportation, I proceeded to join Sherman's army, then cantoned in and around Chattanooga. In addition to my professional duties, I acted as war correspondent for two or three prominent journals.
En-route to our regiment, we passed through Cincinnati and Indianapolis, two fine cities, which in wealth, commercial activity and literary ambition, are behind none of their more ambitious sisters in the West. The citizens of both these cities were greeting with shoutsings and hosannahs, returning veteran regiments, bronzed, battle-scarred patriots, how proudly they walk the streets, how enthusiastically they are welcomed, and how lovingly and respectfully saluted by every passer-by. The day was beautiful, inviting, the breeze bracing, the sky clear and splendid.
We ride at a rapid rate over the country. Onward is the word. A place called Seymour is reached, a mere collection of houses. This part of Indiana is utterly destitute of any handsome towns or villages. To be sure they have them in name, and marked upon the map, but such caricatures are they in fact, that they are only causes of laughter when seen by the eye. The character of the country, the population, their pursuits, their politics, their surroundings, all these furnish one with food for mental digestion. We soon arrive at Jeffersonville, a thriving place, and for this part of the world, probably an improving town. Getting nearer rebeldom, we enter old Kentucky, cautiously, carefully, and circumspectfully.
Kentucky is a State for which nature has done everything, and man nothing. Her fertile soil and genial climate, her immense forests of timber and boundless pasture are some of the advantages which might make it the abode of a numerous, prosperous and happy people. The healthiness of the climate is seen in the vigor, robust manhood and physical beauty of its sons. The State is well timbered. The magnolia bears a rich and beautiful blossom, of an exquisite fragrance. Such is the variety and beauty of the blooming shrubs and plants which grow spontaneously in this State, that in the proper season the wilderness appears in blossom. In various portions of the State caves are to be found, amazingly large, in some of which you may travel several miles, under nooks, sustained by extraordinary arches and pillars—whilst Mammoth Cave, with its dark, wild, gloomy caverns, gigantic pits and domes, a splendid group of wonders, crowns the whole.
The smile of heaven has fallen nowhere more softly and sweetly than it has fallen upon Kentucky. It rests upon her mountain brows like a crown of glory; the eye lingers rapturously upon the landscape where nature's pencil has left its most delicate touches and tints. In mid-winter over her variegated fields of wild flowers, steals an air "soft and balmy as the perfumed atmosphere of an Arcadian Heaven. In the transparent bosom of the quiet lakes, millions upon millions of the finny tribe sport, while along the shady shores the air is often darkened with the wings of the canvass-back and other aquatic fowls, the flesh of which epicureans praise as a delicious delicacy. Fruits, rich in the voluptuous juices that delight the thirsty palate, are indigenous to the soil, and it is there you will find the throne of the vegetable kingdom. In her hill-sides is found every variety of mineral ore. Her rivers are broad and navigable enough to furnish commerce highways, while thousands of her small streams tempt enterprise to speculate in the wasting of her spendthrift waters. From her mountain side’s mineral fountains gush, the medicinal force of which arrests the attention and attracts the weary footsteps of affliction's weary pilgrims from all parts of the world. Why is it that Kentucky, with near mineral wealth and vast resources, her beautiful woodlands and meadows, does not compare today, in population, wealth and enterprise, with her sister States north? Can you give any other reason than that slavery's withering touch has fallen heavily upon this land.
Louisville, the largest city in Kentucky, is situated on the banks of the Ohio, and is surrounded by a rich and picturesque region of country. The older part of the city appears to have been huddled together without regard to order, cleanliness or convenience, and, while the modern parts present an appearance of wealth, gaiety and splendor, the older parts exhibit, in many places, the most squalid misery.
The public buildings are the admiration of every stranger: the bank edifices and the courthouse are not excelled in any city of the country, while the post office is a chaste specimen of architecture. Among the various places of worship which the city contains, for almost every sect of Christians, we can only notice the Cathedral of the Catholics, which is, in grandeur, the
most remarkable.
Several veteran regiments were here on their way home. The bronzed faces, the shattered banners, and the decimated ranks, eloquently spoke of the worthy and patriotic part they had played in the deadly strife. The march, even though homeward, was both successful and brilliant; the enthusiasm was cordial, hearty, and friendly.
Louisville carries on an extensive trade! Some of the largest contracts for the army have been undertaken here. The retail trade is extensive, and the value of imports and exports immense. At this time it is crowded with soldiers and army followers. There is a vast force of sutlers, pedlars, sharp Jewish faces many of them, very birds of prey some of them, intent on turning an honest or dishonest penny.
I visited the Negro quarters and found the women and children basking in the sun. They were of all ages, from tottering decrepitude to prattling infancy, and for the most part all of the same dusky hue. One little girl, about ten years of age, attracted my notice. She looked as if she belonged to another race. Her hair was flaxen and curly. The color of her skin was like house-painters palm off as imitation of oak. She was barefooted and ragged. Presently seven stood about me all of the same sickly, pale yellow complexion, with the same long fine hair, and a similarity of features most remarkable. A middle aged woman of unmixed African blood told me she was their mother and gave me the name of their father, but I will not print it. Let it rot. The father of the children was a man of great wealth, reputed to be a millionaire. A little while before his death, he made his will in which he bequeathed his money and lands to distant relatives, and to these his seven sons and daughters he pretended to give that which neither nature, or nature's God ever gave him any title— their freedom.
It is a well-known fact, to most of the traveling public, that there is a large number of English secessionists, who constantly denounce the administration and the present war for the destruction of the rebellion, and at the same time lauding up Jeff. Davis and his cohorts. These men claim to be a part and parcel of the London codfish aristocracy, who having resided in this country for many years and made money, are the most bitter enemies of all good loyal citizens, and who occasionally hold their midnight revels in drinking and abusing our institutions. To their notions there is nothing like "hold Hengland and the London Haristocracy." This in connection with the institutions of the South is their grand hobby. There are however exceptions, as was shown in a discussion which we heard at the hotel in Louisville. One of these cockneys addressed himself to a Yorkshire gentleman, loyal to his adopted country, in the following language:
"When will this blasted administration stop the effusion of blood, and let the South alone?"
Union Gent. — "Not until this wicked rebellion is put down, and Northern English sympathizers meet their just deserts."
This was a stunner on secesh, and rising upon his pretended dignity he said in the cockney accent:
"The South must 'ave 'er hindependence, and the habolitionists be put down, and hold Hengland will 'elp to do it."
Union Gent. — "You are, sir, an Englishman, and ought to be ashamed of yourself. You have grown rich under the government, and now you are abusing it. You are a coward, sir, and an ungenerous man, and if you were honest, you would scorn such sentiments, when a people loving liberty, is struggling for its existence. Why don't you go South, if Nothern institutions are so disagreeable, — the fact is you are a skulk and dare not go. You are unworthy to be called an Englishman."
Secesh. — "I don’t wish to have anything further to say," and he thereupon left the hotel like a whipped dog. At first he thought he had found an associate, but soon discovered his mistake. The Union gent gave Mr. Secesh a lesson which he will not very soon forget.
While In Louisville, we called on Mr. George D. Prentice the accomplished editor of the Louisville Journal. Although still in the full vigor of his days; Mr. Prentice has lived in that city during the long period of twenty years, in which he has caused its name to be read by more eyes and uttered by mere lips than the name of any other city, in connection with that of any other man of his time and country. He has been not only the editor of a city journal; he has been the writer of a great nation. There is no city or town, and scarcely a village of any magnitude, where his writings have not been read. His popularity has suffered no decline. If his powers have somewhat abated, in brilliancy and passion, they have greatly increased in weight and ripeness; and hence, if they are less interesting to the young, they are more grateful to the old. Prentice is a journalist by profession, but a poet at heart. Prentice had a son named Clarence in the service of the South, a sort of dashing rebel officer, fond of making reckless adventures. He had several narrow escapes.
The next city of importance in our route to the army, is Nashville. This is one of the oldest and most aristocratic cities in the South. The streets are wide and well paved. There are exceptional houses of magnificence, but the bulk of the city is mean. It has a University, a Female College, and a variety of Churches, several miserable Hotels, where you can get miserable board for four or five dollars per day. The population of Nashville is mixed. Since the war, the arrival of Northern energetic, enterprising business men has given to the city a fresh appearance, and has galvanized into more active life the citizens of this spasmodic city. The Capitol is an imposing edifice, standing on a high elevation, commanding a fine view of the city and its suburbs. The building is strongly protected by formidable earthworks. The residence of Mrs. James K. Polk is the most elegant and costly of any in Nashville. Her husband's monument is in the yard. Parton, in his life of Andrew Jackson, gives the following sketch of the Rock city, as he saw it in 1850, before it was disfigured by the foot-prints of war:
"Pleasant Nashville! Unconnected until within these few years with the railway systems either of the North or South, Nashville has grown, comparatively unobserved, from the cluster of log houses which Mr. Astronomer Baily found on the banks of the Cumberland in 1797, to be one of the most vigorous and beautiful cities in the Southwest. North Carolina is the Massachusetts of the South, without a Boston. Tennessee is the Pennsylvania of the South, with a Philadelphia. As the stranger rides in the slow Chattanooga cars from the Southern border of Tennessee, towards its capital, he finds it difficult to believe, at times, that he is not traveling in Pennsylvania. The lay of the land, the Alleghany-like Mountains, the clear rippling streams, the long trains of coal cars, the hard-wood forests, the prevalence of wheat and corn over cotton, are reminding him of the Keystone State. Only the villages are not Pennsylvanian. The villages of Tennessee, as of all the Southern States, are few, small, scattered, shadeless, and to the Northern eye, desolate and forlorn.
Pleasant Nashville! Its situation is superb; a gently undulating, fertile valley, fifteen or twenty miles across, quite encircled by hills. Through this panoramic vale winds the ever winding Cumberland; a somewhat swiftly flowing stream, about as wide as the Hudson at Albany. The banks are of that abrupt ascent which suggested the name of bluffs, high enough to lift the country above the reach of the marvellous rises of the river, but not so high as to render it too difficult of access. In the middle of this valley, half a mile from the banks of the stream, is a high, steep hill, the summit of which, just large enough for the purpose, would have been crowned with a castle, if the river had been the Rhine instead of the Cumberland. Upon this hill stands the Capitol of Tennessee, the most elegant, correct, convenient and genuine public building in the United States. Strickland, whose remains, by his own request, are enclosed within its marble walls, sealed hermetically in a cavity left for the purpose, "Circumspice." From the cupola of this edifice, the stranger, delighted and surprised, looks down upon the city of Nashville, packed between the capitol-crowned hill and the coiling Cumberland, looks round upon the panoramic valley, dotted with villas and villages, smiling with fields, and fringed with distant, dark, forest-covered mountains. And there is one still living who was born in that valley when it was death from the rifle of a savage to go unattended to drink fro
m a spring, an eighth of a mile from the settlement.
Saturday is the great day at Nashville. It has been the custom from the early days of the settlement for the planters to come to town the last day of the week, whether for business or recreation. Then the great square is a busy scene indeed. Along the pavements flit elegantly dressed ladies, looking extremely like their elegantly dressed sisters on this side of the mountains. Occasionally may be seen an ancient, faded, family coach, a relic of old grandeur,— of the days when country gentlemen drove to town in chariots and fours, and the four had as much as they could do to draw the lumbering vehicle through the mud. Those healthy-looking, sturdy, finely developed farmers of Western Tennessee — what a pleasure to look at them! It is nothing to see a ruddy old boy of eighty riding along to town, erect and blithe, who would pass for fifty-eight in New York.
Pleasant Nashville! Where but eighty years ago the war-whoop startled mothers putting children to bed, the stranger, strolling about in the evening, pauses to listen to operatic arias, fresh from Italy, sung with much of the power and more than the taste of a prima donna. Society is lighted with gas, and sits dazzling in the glorious blaze of bituminous coal, and catches glimpses of itself in mirrors capable of full length portraitures. In all Nashville there is but one object that reminds the traveller that he is in a city of the South. It is a little silver plate upon the front of a large house that looks like a private bank, and upon that little silver plate are three words, meaning much. They are: "Negroes for sale." There is not another sign of the peculiar institution to be observed in the place. Sunday is the great day to colored Nashville, particularly Sunday afternoon, when the slave women come out in the largest hoops that ever encircled the female form in any part of the globe, and those hoops covered with silk dresses, black, flounced, voluminous, and long; the men delight in broadcloth of reverend black, upon which the gold chains with gold watches at one end of them show to great advantage. In well-built churches of their own, the slaves assemble in great crowds, and conduct the meetings with dignity and pathos. There is of course some grotesque gesticulation and some frantic shouting. But these are indulged in as in white congregations, only by a very few, half sincere, very ignorant members. Shall I ever forget the lame stentor, who with voice, not less melodious than powerful, in a manner not less tasteful than sincere, rolled out, Carl Formes like — "I would not live always!”
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