My Last Shot at the Confederacy: A Yankee’s Vivid Account of Brice’s Crossroads Part II

In part 2 of this series, Ira F. Collins of the 114th Illinois completes his account of the Battle of Brice's Crossroads by telling how he was wounded in the head during the retreat and describes his capture the following morning. 

This uneven contest could not last long nor have but one result. We were soon convinced that to stay there was only to court death or capture. So, the guns of the battery were ordered spiked, but before it could be done, the Rebels were upon us and only two could be spiked. Some of the artillerymen were captured at their guns while others fell back with the infantry.  This occurred about the middle of the afternoon and the heat was intense. At the front and in the shade of the log house before mentioned was an old bench against the wall and I observed myself among the rest, as many as could sit on the bench waiting for their guns to cool and resting themselves fully exposed to the Rebel fire. Minie balls would strike those old, seasoned logs directly over our heads and flatten themselves out with a report as loud as a pistol.

Ira F. Collins in 1889 as Senior Vice Commander of the Kansas Department of the Grand Army of the Republic. 

At the same time, we could have had the best protection by simply going around to the west side of the house, but then we would have been exposed to the intense heat of the burning sun which we dreaded more than we did the Rebel bullets. A few hours’ fighting had made us forget, or at least become insensible, of the danger to which we were exposed. But the bravery one exhibits in battle is a different kind of courage than that which would induce him to face the same danger when not surrounded by the excitement incident to an engagement. The smell of the powder, the smoke of the battle, the rattle of musketry, the booming of cannon, and the wild shouts and hurrahs of friends and foes makes one brave and daring.

We fell back in a southwesterly direction from the crossroads through the garden and truck patch belonging to the old log house, down a slight incline at the foot of which was an old rail fence not more than 150 yards from the cabin. This fence had been thrown down by our cavalry when they were advancing. Every other panel had been laid to the right and left, leaving the rails piled up in little pyramids. This I thought would be a good place to make a stand and have always imagined that I had an order to that effect, but of this I may be mistaken as there was a great deal of confusion among both officers and men and none could have had a very decided idea of what was best to do at just that time.

At any rate, I at once proceeded to act upon the supposition conceived upon in the impulse of the moment, that the protection offered behind the piles of old fence rails was too good to be wasted. I occupied the first one I could reach and again faced the enemy. A thrilling sight met my view. The Rebels were swarming around the battery we had just left and were bringing the guns into position to be used against us. They were rushing across the road, climbing over fences, and coming down upon us with the force of an avalanche. The old log house in which, I presume, some of our wounded had taken refuge, was surrounded by a throng of exultant graybacks. Some of these were clambering up to the window in the south end of the cabin while the rest were pressing toward my line of improvised breastworks. All these observations I made in an instant for the moment my musket had added its thug of sound to the hundreds of others around me. This shot, fired at short range with a good rest and at a large target, proved to be my last shot into the Southern Confederacy.

I looked around and found that our forces had not made a halt but were slowly falling back up the hill towards some large timber and that I was midway between the two lines. I concluded to evacuate the breastworks without further delay and very little grass grew under my feet as I made tracks towards that big timber. I found an inducement for rapid locomotion both front and rear. In the front I could see the boys picking out the largest trees and my chances for a tree large enough to afford any protection began to look slim, while in the rear the Rebs were handling their guns with such reckless carelessness that IU was in great danger of being shot down at every step.

Indeed, I had not gone far when something struck me on the side of the head which felt as if I had been hit by a club and I went tumbling about somewhat like a chicken with its head cut off. Though half blind and dazed, my first thought was to save myself from capture if possible. So I gathered myself up as best I could and started to run but had only gone a short distance when I discovered that I was running towards the Rebels. I faced about and started the other way but before I reached our lines I fell, completely exhausted from loss of blood. Two German boys, brothers in my company, saw me fall and came to my assistance, carrying me back.

The battle was now at its height. The enemy was in front of us and to the right and left of us. The cannonading was terrific. Large trees were being shorn of their limbs and their trunks torn into splinters by solid shot and shell. Fortunately for us, their batteries were so close that most of the shot and shell passed over our heads.

The shot I received struck me just back of the right ear, passing through the ear close to the skull into the cheekbone and out at the corner of the right eye, cutting all the nerves and blood vessels on that side of my head and face. This, together with the overheated condition of my body, caused an immense flow of blood and as my German comrades kept me in an upright position, one under each of my arms, it was but a very short time until I was covered with blood from heat to foot, and I doubt if there was ever another soldier carried from the battlefield who presented as bloody a sight as I did that day on the battlefield of Guntown.

First Lt. Thomas S. Berry
Co. D, 114th Illinois

The pain of a gunshot wound is dull and heavy, and in the excitement of battle is not much noticed, but the constitutional disturbances are great and peculiar. Paleness, trembling, weakness, and faintness which seem worse than death itself. All this is accompanied by a burning thirst that water will only satisfy while it is being drank. Every old soldier had heard the piteous cry of the wounded on the battlefield for water, water, water, and can imagine what this thirst is like. No language of mine can describe it, but the rich man crying from the sulfurous pit of Lazarus resting on Abraham’s bosom for a drop of water to cool his parched lips suffered no greater torture. This is generally followed by a high fever accompanied by delirium and the poor victim knows but little and cares less for what is transpiring around him.

My German comrades carried me back to Tishomingo Creek. We plunged in and this probably saved my life as the water, which came up to my chin, was cool and refreshing and had the tendency to stop the excessive flow of blood. Back of this creek on the first ridge we passed through the ranks of the colored regiments drawn up in line of battle. I remember with what anxiety they inquired about the position of the Rebels and how close they were, and that I tried to make them desperate that they might retrieve our loss by crying out to them, “Boys, remember Fort Pillow,” and they answered back with, “We will.”
          My comrades went back as rapidly as they could with their burden until we came up with our wagon train which had turned about and was going the other way as fast as the confusion would admit. No ambulance could be found, so my comrades loaded me into the back end of an ammunition wagon drawn by six mules and driven by a good-hearted Negro who rode the rear wheel mule. After placing me in the wagon, one of my comrades went back to take his place at the front while the other stayed to look after me. We made very slow time in that old government wagon and I don’t think we had gone more than half a mile before the road became entirely blockaded and to add to our dilemma, a shell came singing toward us and burst almost over the wagon, killing the lead mule. This settled the wagon business.

The driver at once cut his saddle mule loose and at the request of my comrade took me on behind him. He held my hand in front of him to support me while my comrade walked beside the mule to steady me and keep me from falling off. We had no time to lose. The firing was very close in the rear and we made our way back as fast as possible until we overtook the ambulance train which was already loaded down with its miserable freight. I was put into an ambulance that contained three other men. One was shot in the leg, one in the arm, and the other through the body. This one and I occupied the rear of the ambulance. The size of an ambulance box is about 3 feet by 8 feet and for four wounded men to occupy this space without annoying each other required a great deal of patience and care.

The retreat of Sturgis's army from Brice's Crossroads degenerated into a rout and Ira Collins, badly wounded and fainting from the loss of blood, was left on the porch of a civilian home and subsequently captured by Forrest's men as they pursued the Federals. He would spend the next ten months in captivity before being paroled at the end of the war. 

But I was soon oblivious to all around me. That awful faint-heart sickness had been on me and I unconsciously went to sleep. The sun had not yet gone down when I was placed in the ambulance and it was past midnight when I awoke and the moon was just coming up in the east. The night was as clear and quiet as one ever saw. When I awoke, I found that my comrade who lay beside me had fallen into the last long sleep of death and his eyes were set and glaring as if to watch his spirit on his flight to Heaven. My friend who was shot in the arm had disappeared and the one shot in the leg was begging for a drink of water in which I soon joined him. It was not long before our appeal was answered by a straggler passing by. My wounded comrade told me that we were at the edge of a great swamp and that the road was blockaded with ambulances and wagons that had mired down. Our driver had cut his team loose from the ambulance, mounted one of the horses and with the comrade who was shot in the arm they let out, leaving us to the tender mercies of the stragglers. The situation was anything but pleasant as it looked as if we were booked for a tour through the Confederacy.

          I determined to make a desperate effort to yet save myself. I raised myself to a sitting position to watch an opportunity for assistance. The rising moon gave the straggling soldiers a better opportunity to get away, many of whom had laid by and caught a little rest during the dark part of the night. As soon as the moon was up, they came out of their hiding places and went hurrying by singly and in squads, heedless of the groans of the wounded and dying. Some were mounted on mules and some were on horses, but most of them were plodding along on foot.

          I soon heard the voice of a man who belonged to our regiment. He had come to the regiment with some other recruits from Springfield, Illinois and was assigned to Co. B. He was a great, big overgrown countryman with a mouth on him capable of furnishing chin music for two or three companies, but with a heart as big as a mountain. He was known in the regiment as “Big Archie.” As he approached, I saw that he was mounted on a government mule. This chance was not to be lost, so I called him by name. He turned, rode up close to the ambulance and looked me over critically but did recognize me, nor do I think my most intimate friends would have done so at that time.

          “Who are you?” he asked.

          “One of the 114^th,” I answered.

          “Wounded?”

          “Yes.”

          “Bad?”
          “Yes, got a mighty sore head.”

          “Who’s with you?”

          “No one but this corpse here beside me and a fellow over there in the front end wounded in the leg.”

          “Where is the surgeon that belongs to this ambulance?”

          “He is gone, the hospital steward’s gone, the driver’s gone, too. I want you to load me on that mule and take me along.”

          “I’ll never leave one of my regiment as long as I can be of service to him, so just climb on behind and let’s be off as the Johnnies are liable to come along at any time,” he said. He rode up as close as he could, helped me on, and after bidding my late companion with the wounded leg goodbye, we left him alone with his cold and silent companion. I felt cheered and buoyed at the prospect of making my escape but at the same time I felt sad at leaving my comrade with the shattered leg lying all alone with no one to keep him company, soothe his pain, or give him so much as a drink of water. It is said that the fever that follows a gun wound fills the mind with the wildest fancies. What frightful pictures must have passed before his mind that night as he lay there with no companions save the pale moon, the silent stars, and the lifeless form of a dead comrade.

          After I was mounted on the mule behind Big Archie, I put my arms around him and locked my hands in front of him and for a time held on quite well but it was not very long until I began to grow weak and tired and sick, and a terrible faintness came over me and I longed to lie down anywhere so I might get a little rest. I asked Archie if there was any prospect of our army making a stand or going into camp. He thought so, but all this encouraging talk failed to furnish stimulant enough to keep up my drooping spirits and I was only prevented from falling off by his strong hold on my wrists in front of him.

          I begged him to put me off on a fence corner or anyplace else. He finally promised he would leave me at the first house we came to and I did not have long to wait although it seemed an age to me. He rode up to a double log cabin, two rooms standing apart with a porch in between. The floor of the porch was about two or three feet from the ground and on that my good friend tried to land me but failed and I fell on the ground. He threw me his blanket and I had just got settled down to rest when an old woman came out and asked who was there. I answered a wounded Yank. She asked if there was anything she could do for me. I said I would like to be taken into the house as I was chilled with the dew and awfully sick besides In fact, I thought my time had come.

          The old lady and her daughter-in-law came out and assisted me into the house and on to a bed. The old lady saw that I needs stimulant and at once, so she immediately set about to make me a cup of coffee. There was an old-fashioned fireplace in one end of the room with live coals in it and beside the fire set a tea kettle full of hot water. Time was short until the coffee was made. I only drank two or three swallows, but this small amount seemed to revolutionize my system and put new life into my body and I very soon fell asleep.

          I had slept probably an hour when I was awakened by a knocking at the door with a demand to be admitted. The old lady took down the barricade from the door and in stepped a lieutenant in the Confederate army and inquired how long it had been since the last Yanks had passed by. The old lady thought they were still passing. He then informed her that he was one of General Forrest’s staff and that the general was at the door. This was anything but pleasant news to me as I still had hopes of making my escape, but now I realized that I was a prisoner of war badly wounded and in the hands of the Confederates.

Soon after, the young staff officer left, the old lady stepped to the down and blew a conch shell which brought her husband from his hiding place in the brush. He was an old man, about 70 years of age, and was in mortal dread of being picked up by the Yanks and shipped off to a Northern prison. Along about 7 or 8 o’clock in the morning, a couple of Texas Rangers strode in and called for breakfast. The old lady and her daughter-in-law went into the other part of the house to prepare their breakfast.

Click here to read Part 1: Victims of an Inglorious Disaster: A Yankee’s Vivid Account of Brice’s Crossroads

          Ira Fowler Collins was born October 14, 1843, on a farm near Virginia, Illinois and wasn’t even 18 years old when he enlisted as a private in Co. D of the 114^th Illinois on August 9, 1862. Collins saw action at the battles of Jackson, Big Black River, Dresden, and the siege of Vicksburg before being severely wounded at Brice’s Crossroads. Taken prisoner shortly thereafter, he was held at Castle Morgan and Cahaba for ten months before being paroled in April 1865. Following his discharge, he moved to Sabetha, Kansas and entered into what proved to be a successful mercantile business. Collins served several terms in the Kansas legislature, was four times mayor of Sabetha, and was elected president of the Cahaba Ex-Prisoners of War Association in addition to serving in numerous leadership roles within the Grand Army of the Republic including Kansas department commander in 1890. Collins died November 8, 1927, in Long Beach, California at the age of 84 and is buried at Sabetha Cemetery in Kansas.

Source:

“Personal Recollections of Army Life,” Private Ira F. Collins, Co. D, 114^th Illinois Volunteer Infantry, Western Veteran (Kansas), July 3, 1889, pg. 1, July 10, 1889, pg. 1, July 17, 1889, pg. 1