A Rebel View of Chickamauga: Benjamin Williams of the 47th Georgia
At
the close of day Saturday September 19, 1863, Breckinridge’s Division, weary,
worn and hungry, was on the edge of the battlefield of Chickamauga. Close in
our front on the ground fought over during the day were many dead men and
artillery horses. Lying dead very near each other at one place, I noticed six
large gray horses and close around were many dead blue artillerymen. I learned
afterward that the fire from a Federal battery posted there was very annoying
and destructive to W.H.T. Walker’s division while forming into line of battle,
shelling his columns as they came up into line. Walker ordered a battery into
position and opened fire on the Federal guns; after a short but very hot
artillery duel, the Federals quickly changed position and harassed Gen. Walker
from a new point. Gen. Walker then send a select detail of sharpshooters at
double quick through a wood to a point where they could reach the Federal
battery, with orders, not as customary, to ‘pick off the gunners,’ but to kill
the horses harnessed to the caissons of the battery. This proved excellent
tactics as in the hurried effort to move their guns after the killing of the
horses, they lost many of their men, their caissons, and two of their field
pieces which fell into our hands. Many of our wounded passed us in ambulances
on their way to the field hospitals in the rear. Longstreet’s corps had been
sent hurriedly from Virginia to reinforce Bragg in Tennessee; many of the
wounded were newly arrived soldiers of the Virginia army.
A
wounded officer gave me very discouraging news of the day’s fight. He said,
“You can’t break their lines; they dispute and fight over every inch of ground
and don’t mind the bayonet; you’ll catch hell when you strike them tomorrow.”
Cold comfort for us.
Gen.
Breckinridge was ordered by Bragg to move to the right and farther front. In
this movement we passed over many dead Confederates and a few Federals. We
rested under orders to sleep in line on your arms. Very early Sunday morning we
were up and awaiting orders. We were very hungry. Very near our line, where we
had slept, at regular intervals of space on the ground were small quantities of
shelled corn, evidently where artillery horses had been fed and moved before
they had eaten all their feed. This corn was hastily raked up and small fires
kindled in which the corn was parched and greedily eaten by the men of my
command. Just as orders came to fall in, Lt. James Cheshire, Co. H (now an aged
citizen of Putnam Co., Florida) ran up the line and gave me a double handful of
this then delicious and heartily relished breakfast food.
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| "You ain't fighting Dutch and 'Downeasters such as you have been used to up in Virginny..." Above is an image of a typical Western theater Federal; this soldier being a veteran from Wood County, Ohio. |
Into
line we were ordered to advance in line of battle 300-400 yards. We emerged
from this wooded tract into open meadow-like ground. As we reached this glade
we encountered a hot fire from a line of skirmishers in the wood beyond. They
retired hastily before our advance and the Federal batteries in their rear
opened fire with solid shot and shell, firing high above their advanced lines,
their shot cutting and crashing through the tree tops above us, many limbs
large and small falling around. We were now in the wood, through which the blue
skirmishers retreated. Here we were halted and allowed to rest in line while
some of Longstreet’s brigades moved to our left that we might take position on
the right and open the battle by an attack on the heavily-massed columns of the
Federal left wing. Those passing brigades of Longstreet’s corps had suffered
severely and met with repulse the evening before. The raillery, almost
insuppressible, between commands in the field not actively engaged began. “Oh
yes,” said a Longstreet man, “you are a fine set when Uncle Bob has got to send
Longstreet from Virginny to advance Bragg’s picket lines.” “Yes,” said a
wiregrass man of the 47th Georgia,” you played hell advancing them
yesterday evening, didn’t you? And I say sonny, before sundown this evening,
you’ll strike the durndest picket lines you ever hit. You ain’t fighting Dutch
and ‘Downeasters,’ such as you have been used to up in Virginny.”
Hushed
was the friendly gibe and stilled the rising jest for ‘Attention’ rang out down
our line and we knew that our time has come that like the 600 at Balaklava, we
were move into the jaws of death, into the gates of hell, that some of us would
soon have fought our last battle and ere the morrow sleep our last sleep somewhere
on the field before us. We moved to the right and then forward into another
opening, apparently a corn field. Here we must have surprised completely a line
of Federal skirmishers as without firing they rose up, apparently
panic-stricken, some fleeing precipitately to their rear, while others throwing
down their guns ran up to us with arms thrown up, begging for mercy. We were
holding our fire and hurt not one of them who surrendered, thought I had
considerable difficulty in preventing gigantic Lt. Cheshire from sabering a
poor fellow who, too frightened to drop his gun, ran toward us with it in his
hands.
Their
commanding officer, a captain of Co. B, 42nd Indiana Infantry,
handed me his sword, saying he was completely cut off from their army. I gave
his sword to our regimental commander who ordered a detail of two men to
conduct the prisoners to the rear. Beyond the field through which we were
passing, directly in front of the 47th, was a heavily timbered wood;
on reaching this, we were ordered to advance cautiously as the Federal battle
lines were thought to be on an elevation just beyond this wood. Company E,
Capt. DeWitt Bruyn, was deployed as skirmishers at intervals to cover front of
the regiment and ordered to feel the way in advance of the regiment. The right
of the regiment rested near a public road, our skirmishers on right of line
moved along and near this road in the edge of the woods. When near the field in
front, a Federal officer, mounted on a fine cream-colored horse, was seen
rising along the road approaching our skirmish line, apparently carefully
reconnoitering; instantly a shot rang out from the right of our skirmish line;
the Federal officer, throwing up his arms wildly, fell from his horse. “Oh what
a fall!” said the brave but tender-hearted Capt. Bruyn, commanding the line.
“Yes,” said the skirmisher. “I hated it captain, but we’ve got to do that way
to keep from being done that way.”
Capt.
DeWitt Bruyn, captain of Co. E, 47th Georgia, was born and reared in
the state of New York, made Savannah his home in early manhood, and took up
arms for the South. His parents appealed to him by letter to return North and
enlist if he would under the stars and stripes. He replied that he made his
home there, admired the people, loved the South, and deemed our cause just. He
was an anathematized a Rebel, denounced as a traitor, and ostracized by his
entire family. Cultured and refined, he was as modest as a virtuous woman, true
as steel of the Damascus blade, brave and gallant as Ney or Murat. He was my
messmate in camp, my close companion on the march, and side by side we fought
in the battle. About five years ago he became an inmate of the Home for
Confederate Veterans in Atlanta, Georgia. Two years ago he crossed over the
river and I pray that his pure and noble soul is at rest with our God.
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| General Marcus A. Stovall |
Breckinridge’s
division formed the right wing of our army. Adams’ Louisiana brigade was on the
extreme right of our division, the 47th Georgia, next to the left of
Adams’ brigade. At the farther edge of the wood, our skirmishers met with a
galling fire from the enemy’s skirmishers in front of their main line and their
batteries opened fire on us in the wood. Moving into the open field, we were
closed and in full view of the parked batteries and massed columns of
Rosecrans’ left wing. The order was given to charge after our first volley and
with fixed bayonets we swept on into the field. Under the terrible fire of
grape, a regiment on the immediate left of the 47th gave way and
fell back into the woods; this caused some confusion in our brigade and for a
short time the 47th was halted in the open field under the terrible
fusillade of shot and shell from the batteries and rapid fire from the lines of
supporting infantry. The brigade of Louisianans, unaware of this break on their
left, swept on and up to the guns in their front. Seeing that the regiment on
our left did not rally and come into line and that Adams’ brigade unsupported
was being cut to pieces on our right, our regimental commanders ordered the 47th
to charge to the support of Adams. Into the blaze and crash and smoke the 47th
dashed, but too late; troops could not live in such a fire. The large bay horse
of Gen. Adams dashed back through the lines, rider less. Adams was down and his
gallant men strewed the ground.
The
gallant Louisiana brigade was almost annihilated. The remnant of that splendid
command and the 47th Georgia were hurled back, broken and bleeding,
and Breckinridge’s whole division, defeated and crushed, fell back in disorder.
Twice on this first assault the flag of the 47th went down and two
color bearers lay upon the field. Our flagstaff was cut in two and our colors
riddled, but a young officer of our command caught up the flag, bore it safely
to the rear where a temporary staff replaced the old and polished one and
around it the 47th again rallied, but the field was lost and
strewing it over were some of the flower of the command. In this first charge
on Sunday morning, the 47th lost in killed and wounded two officers
and 74 non-commissioned officers and privates. The whole division sustained
heavy loss. In my possession today is the same tattered old flag that waved on
that day on that field, recalling vividly to my memory the scenes of those
days.
As where the rude
Trosach’s dread defile,
Opens on Katrine’s lake
and isle
“Clan
Alpine’s best were backward borne, fighting without their chief.’ So fighting
for the first time without their trusted chief on Sunday, September 20, 1863,
the 47th Georgia was backward borne in the tangled wood and dank
defiles close by the dark side of the River of Death, deep, sluggish
Chickamauga.
During
some time of our unsuccessful assault before referred to I was only a few
minutes, I think ‘hors de combat,’ and utterly unconscious of all surroundings.
When the color-bearer Jack Newberne fell clutching to his brave, broad bosom
the flag and I caught it up, the Federal batteries were firing at very short
range grape, shrapnel, and shell, the shells exploding in front above and
around us. One of these exploded so close in my front that I was thrown forward
and shocked into insensibility by the force of the concussion. A fragment of
the shell cut and shattered the flagstaff just above my hand hold. When I
recovered consciousness, I was laying face downward on the field. My first
sensation on awakening into semi-consciousness was that I was dead, as
thousands of thinking tiny bells seemed ringing in my ears and I felt neither
weariness nor hunger then. I felt that I had dreamed but was sinking and
lapsing into sweet, peaceful, dreamless sleep again; then it seemed that
someone had tenderly raised my head off the ground and I heard someone say “the
adjutant is killed” so I must be dead. I thought of my lately widowed mother
and wondered if I would soon meet my father, the late colonel of the 47th.
I wondered where I was.
I
caught, as if in an echo, a low-sounding “thud, thud” reverberating
continuously and seemingly growing clearer, louder, and more and more distinct
until I recognized the familiar booming of cannon. Then I seemed to be falling
and struggled to rise. On my hands and knees I looked around me and saw dead
and wounded men wherever I looked. I then thought of our flag, and then I
remembered our charge. I remembered Adams’ brigade was being cut to pieces. I
remembered our charge to the rescue. I remembered the confusion, because of a
break in the line on our left, the wavering of my regiment and then-nothing
more. Again I looked and close beside me within arm’s reach lay one of the
finest officers of my regiment and although my senior by many years, my fast
firm friend- First Lt. William A. Carswell, commanding Co. D, 47th
Georgia. I looked close in his face and saw that he was dead. I crawled up to
him and called his name and took his hand. It was yet warm. I remembered then
that I had seen him fall close by my side. I must have gone down the instant
after.
Carswell
was only 35 years of age but his hair and mustache were white. He was tall,
erect and handsome, cool, brave, and courteous in manner, but in speech terse
and curt without being rude. He was esteemed and admired as an efficient
officer but had few friends in the regiment. He had a near kinsman in the
cabinet at Richmond and was influential at headquarters. Proud and of
inflexible honesty, as a friend he was true as steel; as an enemy, he was
unbending, vindictive, and aggressive. Officers of the army, even of the same
command, were not always friends. Quite often a spirit of rivalry made them
antagonistic and often bitter enemies. Lt. Carswell died with his heart filled
with hatred- bitter as gall- of the captain of his company J. Lawton Singleton.
Capt. Singleton was a smooth, resourceful, brilliant lawyer; keen deviser,
plausible expounder, and an ambitious, daring adventurer. He loved his curt,
independent, defiant lieutenant about as much as his satanic majesty is reputed
to love holy water and there was no love lost between them. Upon an occasion
while off duty and Singleton and Carswell met, by chance, in my tent, it was
only by the quick exercise of all the tact and coolness I possessed that I
averted a clash between them after reference by the one to ‘presumptuous
impotent subalterns” and by the other to “arrogant, asinine superiors.”
The
high-spirited, sensitive, and proud Maj. Gen. W.H.T. Walker fell dead from his
horse in battle at Atlanta, Georgia with the declaration scarcely off his lips
that his superior officer, Gen. Hardee, should account to him personally for
language used by him (Hardee) in an order to Walker to move his division to a
designated point, after sane and earnest protest by Walker. Capt. Singleton
remarked to me as we started from Savannah, Georgia to join the Western army,
“Now adjutant, by God, sir, for me a yellow sash or a graveyard.” Officers
below the rank of brigadier general wore red silk sashes; a yellow sash was
insignia of the rank of general. Capt. Singleton never attained to rank higher
than captain and continued to wear his red sash so long as he remained in the
service, but Carswell, the Christian gentleman and gallant soldier, had fought
his last battle and Singleton had need no more to dread his lieutenant, in whom
he knew an alert, unyielding rival and a dangerous influential enemy.
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| Kurz & Allison print of the Battle of Chickamauga |
In
substantiation of my belief that there is an undefinable, unimaginable occult
source from which, through some inconceivable mystical medium of transmission
are on occasion conveyed to the brains and minds of men inspiratory impressions
of presentiments, a momentary vague insight or glimpse of futurity, is the fact
that the brave, practical, unwavering irony Carswell confided to me before the
beginning of the battle of Chickamauga his firm conviction that he would soon
fall in battle, never to rise, and in our strictly private interview expressed
severe regret that his early fall would end his aid in his country’s service
and his opportunity to crush Singleton.
Where
I had fallen in front of those smoke-enveloped Federal guns and lay for some
time among the dead and wounded was comparatively safe as the gun muzzles were
elevated and shot and shell were going far above us into the woods beyond where
our lines were reforming. Sitting up, I noticed my coat front and one sleeve
very much blood-stained and I began to question if I had been hit and if so
where as I felt no pain except in my head. Reaching my hand to my head I felt
no pain but discovered that I was bare-headed. My hat and sword lay close to
me, these at once I secured. I then rose and tried to stand up but fell forward
again on my hands and knees. I saw down and tried to locate myself. A dense
smoke was over the field and men were lying around in all attitudes and I could
not tell whether I had fallen with my head or my feet to the foe. I could hear
cannon in front of me and cannon in the rear of me. I quickly concluded that
those nearest, smoke-veiled, quick-firing guns must be the Federal batteries so
I began to crawl in an opposite direction and toward the noise now in front.
Going thus some distance I stopped to rest and instinctively crawled to and
laid down behind a little stump near which were two dead men. Resting a few
moments, I got onto my feet and walked, falling several times to my hands and
knees as my right side seemed partially paralyzed or benumbed.
Reaching
the woods, I saw our troops forming into battle line. Shot and shell were
hurtling around and above and our batteries to left us of us were replying
hotly. Officers were giving their commands for formation in loud tones and
rallying their shattered commands in an excited manner. Rejoining my command, I
found my regiment apparently more demoralized than I had ever seen it. This
gave me great concern and mortification and I determined to remain with them as
long as I could stand, though I was by this time suffering severely with
racking pains in my head. Our regimental line was about one company shorter
than an hour before. Somebody had blundered. We should not have made that
charge unless strongly supported and I wondered why we attacked them as we did.
I learned afterward that our premature advance was because of a persistent
request by Brig. Gen. Adams of the Louisiana brigade to be allowed to charge
and capture the batteries in our front which were so furiously cannonading us.
“Ours not to why but to charge and die.” Many very brave and gallant officers
and men were sacrificed in that desperate encounter.
Rallying
and reforming, we were ordered to rest in line while other troops were coming
up. The battle was raging on our left and center. While lying on the ground,
big, athletic Lt. James S. Patterson of Co. F and tall broad-shouldered
Sergeant Major John R. Mines (Scotch and Irish) were telling me how they raised
me up to being me off the field in front when Miniss
cried out ‘No use, the adjutant is dead,” and both proceeded to get themselves
off for a large shell struck and exploded in the earth very near us, leaving a
longitudinal opening. Jack Williams, private in Co. F, by rolling over about
twice, dropped into the fissure and appeared quite pleased. “Jack, I asked,
“why do you tumble into that hole that way?” “Why Adjutant,” he replied. “a
damned bombshell is like lightning. It never strikes twice in the same place.”
I did not argue with Jack, his philosophy was generally as incredible and
irrefutable as “What is to be will be.” We were held idle in those woods for
fully two hours while the battle in front trebly thundering shook the gale. It
is a severe strain on troops to keep them on the edge of a battlefield, within
hearing of the fray and range of fire. Illustrative of this was the exclamation
of Lt. Doyle of Co. A. “Adjutant, why the devil do they hold us here to be hot
without even being shot at?” There were two lieutenants Doyle in my regiments,
both Irish. This one was known as “Red” Doyle. He was more than six feet tall,
powerfully built, with red hair, red beard, and red skin- ferocious as a tiger.
He went through the war and was post bellum sheriff of a county in upper
Georgia. Heavens, what a sheriff Red I imagine.
At
about 4 P.M. came the order ‘fall in and be ready to move quickly to the left.’
As we stood in line awaiting the passage of some batteries moving to the left
where the battle seemed to be terrific and into which I knew we were going, an
incident, slight, unimportant in our proceeding and scarcely heeded at the
time, occurred which always appears to my memory-picture of the battle of
Chickamauga. A battery of Tennessee artillery halted for a moment in front of
our line. At the halt, the driver on the rear horse of the first gun was not
more than eight feet in front of me and about two feet on the right from a
straight line. He was a fine, handsome young fellow and sat on his horse so ‘a
la chevalier’ as to attract my attention and excite my admiration. I thought
‘what a superb cavalryman he would be. At that instant, a small conical shell
from the enemy whizzed across and just above the back of the horse on his right
and struck the young soldier squarely in the side, completely disemboweling
him, passed the distance of about 30 feet, struck a large tree, and exploded.
He was not jolted in his saddle and as I observed him closely, his eyes closed
as gently as if he were falling asleep, his arms dropped by his side and he
began to sink forward. Before I could step to his side, two gunners of the
battery sprang from the gun chest and caught him in their arms as he swayed
slowly forward. Laying him on the
ground, almost at my feet, one sprang into the saddle, the other back onto the
chest, and the batteries moved quickly forward as the bugle was sounding
forward.
The
artillery out of the way began one move at quick time to the left. Instead of
moving right oblique thus nearing our line in action, we swept around almost at
a right angle nearing the Chickamauga River, halted, fronted, and
double-quicked forward through a wood bordering the stream into the edge of a
large opening which extended far in our front. Here we formed a line of our batteries,
guns unlimbered, loaded, pointed, and gunners standing with fuse inserted and
lanyard in hand, ready to fire. Close in rear of this line of field pieces was
a line of infantry standing with fixed bayonets. Through these lines we passed
and halted ten paces in front of the artillery, fixed bayonets, and laid down
in closed rank in line- front line as ever seemed our forte. Our line of battle
engaged in front was suffering severely and being pressed slowly backward by
overwhelming numbers, but they were stubbornly fighting over every inch of
ground, giving way only as they were pressed and borne backward. They were
Cleburne’s regiments than which no better ever marshaled on any field on earth.
In the momentary lull that occurred and always occurs in battle, we could hear
the cheering of the men engaged and knew by experience how the battle went. Now
the fierce yell of the Confederates told of their onslaught as aggressors; then
the hoarse sounding hurrahs of the Federals told of their forward movement but
all coming nearer steadily told that we were gradually giving ground. We were
to hold our fire until our engaged line had fallen back, under orders, and was
safe in the rear, then at the first cannon broadside, we were to deliver our
fire and charge everything in our front with the bayonet.
Never
through my four years of service did I experience such suspense, subdued
excitement, intense anxiety, fearful anticipations, and prayerful hope as in
those 15 minutes of waiting. I knew that victory was trembling in the balance
and upon us then and there devolved the great responsibility of turning the
mighty tide of battle, deciding the issue that was perhaps to shape our
destiny. For two whole days the battle had lasted, fought with skill, valor,
desperation, and ferocity and now the critical moment had come which was to
decide for the one victory, for the other defeat. Generals of divisions and
brigades rode back and forth in front of our phalanxed lines waving high their
swords and exhorting their men for God’s sake to stand firmly and at the word
of command to charge and let nothing between heaven and earth stay them and
that victory was theirs. A general officer on the immediate right of my command
rode at full speed up and down his line with plumed hat held high on the point
of his sword inciting his command to the greatest enthusiasm. The troops caught
the spirit of their leaders and panted in almost breathless suspense for the
movement of action; in fact, it is difficult to restrain and prevent them from
singing out in their Rebel yell and dashing pell-mell into the smoke-enshrouded
fray in front.
Our
regimental commander of the morning had been wounded in the morning’s fight (Capt.
William S. Phillips) and the senior captain had succeeded to the command. No
braver man than he wore sword and bars in Breckinridge’s command, but he was
unpopular and very much disliked by the men (Capt. Joseph S. Cone). I feared
his leading on this account. He appealed to me to sustain him in the coming
ordeal. Personally, we were unfriendly and had his reputation alone been at
stake, I, as did the famous warrior in the siege of Troy, might have sulked in
my tent but cherishing fondly in my heart the reputation of my command and dear
to me was our cause, I was willing and ready to sacrifice all, even life, for
victory in this hour. Passing down the line of the 47th, I said to
the company commanders “We are well supported and victory is within our reach
this hour. I will never come off the field alive if every man in the regiment
falls back. I appeal to you, officers and men; we will shout in victory or
sleep in death on the field in front of us. “Living or dead, adjutant, we will
stay with you. We will go and stay with you, so help me God. We’ll bite the
dust before we’ll turn our backs.” “God damn the Yankee host, we will rout them
now and pay them for this morning’s work. Lead us now, adjutant,” and other
like responses came thick and fast to me.
I said to the captain commanding, “The regiment is all right. Do your duty.”
I had
scarcely regained my place in line when our advanced and struggling line came
falling back under orders to fall in our rear. They came in perfect order and
more defiantly than I ever saw troops fall back, for they would face about,
fire, yell, and load again. Seeing our supporting line, they wanted to rally
and charge again, but the men were exhausted. As we let them through our ranks,
many of them would fall, pitching forward like wounded or dead. Others would
fall to a sitting posture and then away backward in collapse to the earth. Then
could be heard the cheery and loud hurrah from thousands of throats rising and
swelling like the mighty roar of a tempest-tossed seas and out from under the
battle smoke clouds and beyond the smoke line of the ensanguined field came the
serried, charging lines of blow like the mighty waves of an ocean sweeping in
all their power and majesty towards a crag-bound shore Officers on rearing
steeds waved their swords gallantly and cheered their columns on. On our side
was a deathly stillness-silent as the soundless crags.
Into
the open, suddenly, they are confronted by our lines; their cheering dies upon
their lips or in their throats and for an instant, they halt in startled
surprise. In that instant, there rings out the command ‘Fire!” And as if a
thousand thunder bolts from heaven, our cannon crash and our rifles rings, and
then from 10,000 throats range out the Rebel yell. “As all the fiends from
heaven that fell, and pealed the banner cry of hell,” and our double line of
gray dashed forward with the bayonet. The blue columns wavered an instant,
delivered a straggling fire, then broke and fell back in confusion and
disorder, a few surrendering, but the greater number fleeing to their rear,
many of them throwing down their arms and stripping off their accoutrements.
Some of their officers acted magnificently and displayed great gallantry in
their efforts to rally their shattered, routed, and fleeing columns. Our line
swept forward not waiting to load and dire and the rout becomes general. Far on
our right and left we could hear the victorious shouts of our troops.
Rosecrans’ splendid army, all save Thomas’ corps, was beaten, routed, and in
full retreat at sundown of that fatal Sabbath day. We were in full possession
of the field and of the thousands of dead and wounded of both sides. Such a
sight as I witnessed in the flight of those shattered line and broken columns
of thousands of the finest soldiers of the Federal army- grand, glorious, and
magnificent to me then- is seldom seen in life. I pray God that it may never
again be seen in this nation by posterity.
When
we halted at about twilight on the farther edge of the field, next to
Chattanooga, we were on the ground which the 47th had fought in the
morning and that night we slept, after the day’s separation, with our comrades,
the victorious living with the immortal dead of the regiment. The whole field
of broad extent was strewn with the dead and wounded, thousands, of blue and
gray, and the men of my regiment broke their long fast with food with food from
the haversacks of some of the dead. When I had, after dark, opportunity to rest
I was too hungry to sleep so I started out to hunt rations. I felt in the dark
of many a dead man’s haversack before I found one containing anything. Finding
one at last on a Federal corporal with a small piece of meat and a few
hardtack, I cut the strap so as to pull it from around him without disturbance
of the dead body. Haversacks of food and canteens of water were all and
everything that I ever took from the person of a dead soldier and that only
when I was actually suffering.
We
were up early in the morning of the 21st Monday. Heavy details of
men were made from each regiment to bury the dead. As soon as possible, I
hastened to look after my dead friend Carswell. He was lying as I had last seen
him, at full length on his back, but his sash, sword, and belt were gone, also
his hat and costly new shoes. The eagle staff buttons had been cut and taken
from his coat and his pockets rifled of everything their contained, among which
was a very handsome valuable watch. The orderly sergeant of Co. D was a nephew
of the dead officer. To this young sergeant, I gave a special detail to bury
his uncle and my friend. We marked the grave and not long afterwards, the body
was taken from the narrow rocky grave at Chickamauga and now rests among his
loved and living ones in Scriven County, Georgia.
After
viewing Carswell’s dead body in the early morning, as I turned toward the road
opposite, a group of officers from the 47th was standing in the road
where Adams’ brigade had fought on our right in the morning. Several of these
officers were of South Carolina stock- Aiken, Singleton, Hazzard, Kennedy,
Cone. Capt. Singleton beckoned me and as I approached the group he said,
pointing to a dead man lying in the road, “Adjutant, there lies a scion of the
noble stock of your and our old Palmetto State.” I saw at a glance that the
dead man was an officer, that he was young, of medium size, finely formed, or
dark complexion, evidently in life a very handsome man. He had been robbed as
had been Carswell but I saw on his collar the imprint of a single star. I said,
“Was he a major? Of what name and command?” Singleton replied, “Major Loudon
Butler, commanding the 19th Louisiana regiment, Adams’s brigade, and
you well know that he led his command on this field as gallantly as did ever
his noble ancestor lead his on the fields of Mexico.”
The
litter corps and burying detail were hard at work; surgeons and nurses were
busy on the field and in the improvised hospital under tent flies and trees;
bugles were sounding amid drums beating the call ‘to arms’ which was ringing
from right to left. We, who heard, took our places in line, turning our backs
on and marching away from those who, on yesterday morning, had fallen in and
fought beside us. We left them with only ‘glory to guard the bivouac of our
dead.’
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