Chapter 1 of 2 · 3895 words · ~19 min read

Part 1

The Twin Seven-Shooters.

[Illustration: CHARLES F. MANDERSON Colonel 19th Ohio Infantry. Brevet Brigadier General Volunteers, U. S. A.]

The Twin Seven-Shooters.

CHARLES F. MANDERSON

LATE COLONEL 19TH OHIO VOLUNTEER INFANTRY, BREVET BRIGADIER-GENERAL VOLS., U.S.A.

[Illustration]

F. TENNYSON NEELY

114 Fifth Avenue 96 Queen Street NEW YORK LONDON

Entered at Stationers’ Hall, London.

_The Twin Seven-Shooters._

“_We came into the world like brother and brother,_ ‘_And now let’s go hand in hand, not one before another._”

--DROMIO, in “Comedy of Errors.”

INTRODUCTION.

The telling of this truthful story of the Great War comes from the numerous requests of comrades, who knew somewhat of the presentation, the capture and the return of the pair of revolvers that came together after a quarter of a century of separation and after they had been carried and used under two flags. Their restoration could not have been had under any other condition than that which came about at the close of our gigantic struggle.

The Civil War was waged on both the Federal and Confederate sides with an intensity and manly vigor characteristic of the race that sprang from the loins of the Puritan and the Cavalier.

The immense hosts that combated upon so many dreadful fields, with the incident sacrifice of life and limb, while actuated by the desire to win, by comparison with which individual loss counted as nothing, were never prompted by personal hatred or ill will. They fought to obtain the result desired, and when the end came, with its feeling of exultation by the one and of depression by the other, there was mutual respect and common consideration, that led naturally to a reunited country and the placing of the Great Republic in its present position as the Chiefest of Nations.

The story permits a description of two great battles--that of Murfreesboro, or Stone’s River, and of Chattanooga, or Mission Ridge--the first-named one of the hardest fought fields of the War, and the last, one of the most spectacular. The recital of these calls for no explanation, and I hope the personal equation of the story needs no apology.

CHARLES F. MANDERSON,

Late Colonel, 19th Regiment Ohio Infantry. B’v’t Brig. Gen. Vols., U.S.A.

PROLOGUE.

[Illustration: “RESTING QUIETLY IN THEIR POLISHED CASE OF DARK MAHOGANY WITH ITS SOFT LINING OF TUFTED CRIMSON SILK.”]

Resting quietly in their polished case of dark mahogany, with its soft lining of tufted crimson silk, they look harmless indeed and as though their lives had been uneventful. Yet, could they speak with other tongues than those of fire and smoke, they could tell a tale to interest and thrill--of scenes of bloody encounter and deadly strife, of combat and carnage, of victory and defeat, of raid and destruction, of pursuit and capture, of loss and recovery, of separation and reunion,--in short, the exciting story of war, and the captivating tale of peace.

You take up the pair of revolvers with a new interest. Yes! they are handsome. Shapely and well proportioned, they deserve your exclamation of admiration. The blued steel of barrels and cylinders contrasts attractively with the silver mounting of the handles, so well fitted to the grasp.

[Illustration: “YOU TAKE THEM IN HAND!

YOU GLANCE ALONG THE SIGHTS!” ]

You take them in hand! You glance along the sights! Ah! my friend, time was when the threatening glint of the eye that brought these sights in line was quite different from the gentle light in yours. And now you read inquiringly the inscription, showing the presentation, deeply engraved upon the silver handle band of each seven shooter. Yes, I am the regimental commander to whom they were presented, by the braves of the gallant 19th Regiment of Ohio Infantry, nearly forty years ago. I had lived but little over half that many years, when they came to me and, since the date you read upon them, I have grown grizzled.

The scene of the presentation, the causes that led to it and the after events of note, are as vivid as though they were of yesterday and yet there is the strange feeling as though I spoke of some other and not of myself. I take it that most of us who served through those four momentous years of gigantic war now feel as though the experiences were those of a third person, of whom we had knowledge, intimate indeed, but with whom we had not identity. As you ask for the story, it shall be given unto you.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

PROLOGUE 5

SCENE I.

The Battle 9

SCENE II.

The Presentation 24

SCENE III.

The Capture 29

SCENE IV.

The Reunion 44

Epilogue 51

The Twin Seven-Shooters.

SCENE I.

THE BATTLE.

The recital will start fairly on Christmas day of the year 1862, near Nashville, in the camps of the Army of the Cumberland, then commanded by General Rosecrans.

The festive holiday time had increased the usually present disease, until home-sickness was the all-pervading complaint. As the picket peered through the gloomy air under the dull, wintry sky, he saw, in his mind’s eye, the dear ones at home, gathered about the yule-log. The sentry’s thoughts were far away, as he challenged the approaching guard, that brought relief, but gave none save in name, and received the sharp replies, so different from the words of good cheer properly incident to the time. The men gathered about the camp fires during the evening hours with abortive attempts at merriment, soon to be given up, and then to talk in whispers of friends and family and home. The bugle calls, holding out the promise that balmy sleep might bring forgetfulness, were welcomed; although tattoo seemed a wail, and lights-out a sob.

The restless quiet of a great military camp comes at last. A nest of sleeping souls, it heaves with sound. The sentinels look like stalking ghosts.

After midnight the dreaming sleepers are disturbed by the clank of the sabre of the orderly, seeking the headquarters of regiments to deliver an important order. Be quick! Light the candle stuck in the bayonet shank at the head of the ground bed where lies the regimental commander.

Ah! Here is a Christmas gift with a vengeance! Read!

“You will place your command in readiness to march at daylight. Move very light--three days’ rations in haversacks and two days’ in wagons. Forty rounds of ammunition on each man, with all the reserve ammunition in wagons. Take no tents and no baggage.”

A battle order! Up and be stirring, for there is much to be done before daylight. Sleepers are aroused, their dreams of home and its festivities rudely disturbed, tents are struck and rolled, and, with the baggage and surplus stores packed into wagons to be sent within the earth-works of Nashville.

Reveille finds the Army of the Cumberland, nearly fifty thousand strong, on the march to attack the Confederates under Bragg at Murfreesborough, thirty miles away. No holiday march this, I assure you. The enemy is alert. He harasses our front with artillery, attacks our flanks with infantry and harries our rear with cavalry. The elements seem in league with him, for snow, sleet and rain make heavy roads, at which men swear and in which wagons and artillery flounder and stall.

Four days of skirmishing and hard marching, with four nights of unrest and chilly misery bring us to our objective--the enemy. He has selected his battle ground on the bank of Stone’s River, a swift stream, in places fordable.

The night of December 30th we slept, or essayed to sleep, upon our arms, without fires. Never can I forget the dispirited and woe-begone look of the men as, rising from the frozen ground, they shook themselves at daylight. The hoar-frost covered them, giving to the uniforms of blue a new color, resembling somewhat the grey of the foe. Is there fighting quality in this line of shivering men? Can the battle fire be kindled in these chilled frames? A cold breakfast from the haversacks, a tin cup of coffee to each man, a warming drill in the manual of arms and their appearance is changed for the better.

The order comes! We are to cross Stone’s River at the lower ford and lead the attack upon the enemy’s right. Rosecrans will strike with his left.

An inspection of the guns, a distribution of ammunition, filling both cartridge boxes and haversacks, some words of encouragement and cheer from the youthful commander, and we move to the river bank, to find our crossing, by wading the cold stream, unopposed by the enemy. We form in line of battle upon the other side and are about to advance to the attack, when the sound of cannon, heard but faintly from our right a short time ago, becomes louder and more loud. A terrific battle is raging there and the movement of sound means our men are being driven. We are halted. There is stir and excitement among the division staff. We are ordered to recross the river and hasten to the support of the right wing.

Bragg, actuated by the same motive as Rosecrans, conceiving the same plan, had attacked our right, but his fresh and sheltered troops struck their blow at an earlier hour. They doubled our line back upon itself. They took our straight bar of iron and bent it into a horse-shoe. Our right flank had become our rear.

Defeat seemed imminent. On our hurried way, the 19th Ohio, leading Crittenden’s Division, met horses, teams and men in confusion most confounded. Rousseau, of Kentucky, riding bare-headed, cries to me, “What troops are these?” and to my answer says, with tearful entreaty in his voice, “For God’s sake! get quickly to the cedars on our right and stop this rout.” We hasten on. Rosecrans, pale with anguish of the thought that Garesche, bosom friend and Chief of Staff, had just been killed by his side, but determined of purpose and confident in bearing, says, “Men! you can save the day. Will you do it?” “Aye! Aye! sir; if mortal men can, we will!”

We pass from the march by the flank into line under the direction of the Commanding General himself, my regiment forming the right of the front line.

The grey coats, flushed with success that is so near victory, came gaily on. We wait until they are within easy range. It is a weary waiting and hard to endure. Our men are falling rapidly under the fire of the advancing foe. My favorite mare drops dead with a ball through her gentle heart. Adjutant Brewer, always alert and devoted replaces her with his good grey. Rising from the ground, with no great bodily harm, although I had been pitched headlong, I exclaim: “But, Adjutant, my glasses are broken into many bits and I see dimly.” “Never mind; I will see for you,” he quickly responds. And so he did. Gallant fellow! Brave heart! He gave his young life to his country and his parting benediction to me afterwards, in a desperate mêlée and fearful charge.

[Illustration: CHARGE OF GENERAL VAN CLEVE’S DIVISION IN THE CEDARS, AT THE BATTLE OF STONE’S RIVER, UNDER DIRECTION OF GENERAL ROSECRANS.

The 19th Ohio Infantry forming the right of the front line. Photograph of a picture made during the war by Private Mathews, of the 31st Ohio Infantry.]

At last the order to fire! From every musket leaps a missile of death. The Confederate line wavers! Strong young teeth tear the cartridges. We load and fire with energy. The grey line breaks! A charge is ordered by Rosecrans in person. They run! How inspiring! What exhilaration! With wild yells we rush on. We regain much of the ground lost in the early morning and hold it fast and firm.

Again the nightfall, the last of the eventful year. What horrid din, of cannon and of watchful picket’s gun, to disturb and harass the weary unharmed, who seek to sleep. How cold and miserable the wounded in blue and grey who groan and moan between the lines, where succor cannot come.

Morn at last! The new year has come. Both armies are so torn and shattered that the re-forming of lines and watchful rest is a necessity. The day passes in care for the wounded and hasty burial of the dead.

Another night, and again the morning. Who will strike the blow? Rosecrans, tenacious of purpose, returns to his original plan. Again our division fords Stone’s River in front of the enemy’s right. The shortened line of each regiment tells the story of the slaughter of the 31st. We wait patiently the order to strike.

The hours pass. Few in number, our division is a tempting bait to Bragg. General Breckenridge, with a column of many lines, advances upon us. With precision of movement they march across the open fields. The sight fascinates us! Splendid spectacle! They break the charm by opening fire and charging upon us with the shrill yell of the South. With a crash the lines meet, to mingle a moment and break apart. Our reserve becomes our front line. We fight for minutes that seem hours, with bayonet and clubbed musket, with deep cursing and loud yells, with hot rage and bold defiance, that rarest of happenings in battle comes to us--a hand to hand fight between lines of infantry upon an open field. We are overwhelmed by numbers and flanked by the greater force. Thrice has our color bearer been felled to earth, and of all the color guard not one is unhurt.

But the regimental flag does not touch the ground. Gallant Phil Reefy, Lieutenant of Company F, strong and stalwart, bears it aloft. Sullenly we retreat to the river bank, fighting as we retire. We reach the stream.

What is that deafening roar? It is as though heaven and earth had come together. Fifty-two guns, massed by Mendenhall, Chief of Artillery, commanding the position we had just left, have opened with grape and canister at short range upon the but now exultant foe. What dreadful slaughter! Masses of men fall writhing as the missiles hurtle through the air. They turn and flee, for mortal men cannot withstand such storm.

We pursue until darkness comes, capturing prisoners, guns and stores, and Reefy, proudly exultant, plants the flag of the 19th Ohio upon two cannon captured in the tempestuous pursuit.

[Illustration: REPULSE OF THE ATTACK OF THE COLUMN OF GENERAL BRECKENRIDGE, BEING THE CLOSING SCENE OF THE BATTLE OF STONE’S RIVER.

Made from a picture drawn by Private Mathews, of the 31st Regiment, Ohio Infantry, during the war.]

No battle of the war shows the dash, pluck, bravery and endurance of the American soldier better than Stone’s River. The attack, so spirited and bold, upon the right wing, under McCook, in the gray dawn of that winter morning, that forced it back until the exultant enemy was not only on our flank but in our rear! The speedy taking of new positions by the troops of the left wing, under Crittenden; their gallant and successful charge in the cedars that regained much of the ground so ruinously lost!

The sturdy and immovable stand of the center, under Thomas, that resisted assaults most impetuous and broke the charging columns into disorganized fragments, as waves are broken on a rock-bound coast! The dash of the Southerners in attack, the steadiness of the Northerners in resistance, the impulsive ardor of the one, the deliberate repose of the other; both so characteristic! The bold front, the confident daring, the personal exposure, the actual leadership, and the unconquerable spirit of Rosecrans, that “plucked victory from defeat and glory from disaster!”

All this, any of this, was worth the sacrifice of life itself to see.

It stands in history as a bright page. The dreadful figures of loss tell the story of how terribly sanguinary were the engagements when Americans fought each other. Of 44,000 Federals, 12,000, and of 38,000 Confederates, 10,000 were killed and wounded--over twenty-five per cent. Recall the fact that at Waterloo, Wellington lost less than twelve, and at Marengo and Austerlitz, Napoleon lost less than fifteen per cent.

At daylight the next morning, after the battle, my line was formed. Shorn was it of half its length, for forty per cent. had fallen. Three officers were killed and three wounded. Company B, with more of its own dead to bury than there were unhurt survivors to do them honor. Ah! the familiar faces gone from us. We who were left looked upon each other with feelings unknown before. We felt a kinship stronger than brotherhood, as though we were parts of one body.

We heard read, with infinite satisfaction, of the glory of our achievements, the congratulations of the General and the thanks of President Lincoln. We shook hands with each other that we had been specially mentioned in the reports, and took satisfactory delight that the commander of the 79th Indiana had officially reported that the good behavior of his command might be attributed to the splendid conduct of the 19th Ohio, and to the effect of our example.

We were heroes all, and were proudly conscious of the fact.

SCENE II.

THE PRESENTATION.

The restful weeks following the great battle go slowly by. The ranks of the regiment fill up from the return of the slightly wounded and the detached. The white tents about Murfreesborough, placed in regular rows, form a new city of vast extent. Camp duties, drills, inspection, review, guard mounting and dress parade fill the busy hours. The fighting giant is in training for the summer campaign of Tullahoma and the advance into Georgia.

I recall the afternoon of a perfect day in the early spring time. Parade over and dismissed, by some preconcerted signal, to me unknown, the first sergeants do not march the men to quarters, but go to their positions and company commanders take their places in line. “Attention! Battalion!” shouts Major Stratton, assuming the command. I look on somewhat amazed at this sudden devotion to a drill not down in the camp orders.

The battalion forms square. I am invited to it, and with speech all too complimentary and feeling reference to the great battle, its losses and its gains, am presented with the beautiful weapons you here admire.

The surprise is only excelled by my delight with the gift. They shall be worn with pride, they shall be used in honor.

I cherish them for the sake of the givers, and practice to know how and to become worthy to use them. They stand me in good stead very often, and familiarity with them does not breed contempt of their power.

Months go by. The Tullahoma campaign has been fought to a finish. On ostensible recruiting service, but really for participation in the momentous Brough-Vallandigham campaign in Ohio, the opportunity is afforded me to go home for a brief season. I avail myself of it, and take proudly home to show to friends the gift of comrades beloved.

The duty in the north performed, I turn south to rejoin the command. The military situation is most interesting. Like the sharp end of a lance, the western army has pierced into the very vitals of the Confederacy. Rosecrans has won his objective, Chattanooga; paying therefor the bloody penalty of Chickamauga, but is practically besieged by an enemy whose camp fires light the many miles of horizon, from where the crouching lion of lofty Lookout Mountain, with extended paws, touches the Tennessee, around the semi-circle of frowning ridges to where the strongly intrenched line again touches the deep flowing river at Tunnel Hill. He is relieved from command by the powers that be, and Thomas, the reliable, the Rock of Chickamauga, beloved of all men, takes his place as chief. He declares his intention to hold his great strategic position “until we starve,” and unless help comes, starvation seems probable.

[Illustration: GENERAL GEORGE H. THOMAS

“The Rock of Chickamauga.”]

Hooker is on his way from the east with two corps of veterans of the Potomac, and Sherman marches to us with the victorious columns, flushed with the capture of Vicksburg, from the banks of the Mississippi. The great Captain, with the fame of Fort Donelson and Shiloh, comes also, to assume supreme command. Grant! Sherman! Thomas! Behold the triumvirate! Truly, the great game of war is now to be played by experts. I hasten to take place as one of the pawns.

SCENE III.

THE CAPTURE.

Where the fight was the fiercest at Stone’s River, Captain Keel, of ours, in gallant leadership of his company, was shot in the elbow of his right arm. Surgical skill had prevented amputation and obtained exsection, resulting in a cartilaginous elbow and sorely crippled hand. Thus maimed, he came to me at Nashville and declared his intention of reporting for duty. Condemning his judgment, but admiring his pluck, I said, “All right, Captain, we will take the first train for the front.”

We reached Stevenson, Alabama, the end of our ride over rough and worn pieces of iron, dignified by the name of railroad. From there a mountain wagon road formed the connection with the army at Chattanooga. Its course could be traced by the fragments of broken wagons, abandoned stores, and by the carcasses of the poor mules, strangled in the mud of it. Trains laden with ammunition, food and forage started daily from Stevenson. The time of their arrival, at the end of the pontoon bridge across from Chattanooga was an unknown quantity. It was at least two and more frequently four days.

My anxiety to reach the regiment was intense. Upon inquiry I heard of a bridle path leading over the mountain and along the bank of the river. By starting early and riding hard, one might get through in a day, but it was the path of danger. The guns of the Confederates commanded this road, and some of our men had been killed, others wounded and captured, who tried it. I determined to make the effort. The Colonel commanding the post, in response to my earnest appeal, loaned me two horses and an orderly, and we started at the first peep of day.

Keel, too greatly disabled to ride a horse, was to go by the wagon road, taking the baggage of both. He evinced no reluctance when he found that as companions in the same wagon he was to have two estimable women of the Christian Commission, who, with supplies for the sick and wounded, were bound to Chattanooga upon their heaven inspired mission.

Realizing that my route was hazardous, I put on my oldest uniform, stripped myself of all valuables, packing them carefully in the trunk that contained all of my earthly possessions. Determined that my beloved pistols should not fall into the hands of the enemy, I lodged them securely in my trunk, taking in their stead a pair of common holster revolvers.

The orderly and I rode through without mishap, receiving no shot and seeing but few of the enemy. Arrived at regimental headquarters, I found all well, and received a welcome home that thrilled me. I waited, somewhat impatiently, for the disabled Captain to arrive with the baggage so greatly needed.