by
A Rambling Reminiscence of Experiences During the Great War Between the States
by Jacob Harris Rockwell
Chapter I
More than half a century has rolled by since the beginning of the gigantic struggle. It would be marvelous indeed for one to commit to memory, without erring in any of the incidents occurring in such varying experiences, and if I should err in any of the brief statements, I hope some comrade will kindly correct me so here goes for the first random shot.
I make no claim to a brilliant war record but, to me, there were many thrilling experiences.
On the 14th of June, 1861 I enlisted as a private soldier in a cavalry company of Missouri State Guards, commanded by Captain T.W. Cruse. The company was know as the Salina Company Mounted Rifles. I was enlisted for six months, and our first encounter with the Yankee army was at Booneville, Missouri on the 17th, three days after the enlisting period. There was no worry waiting for action in a real war. We were all raw recruits. The troops that we met were seasoned soldiers, well-armed and equipped. We were pushed back, with small loss on either side. This took place on the Lamine River. The next morning, conceit run out of us, we took up the line of march south to meet General Sigel at Carthage, Missouri.
General Sigel was badly beaten on the 5th of July. The General beat a hasty retreat to join forces with the famous General Lyon at Springfield, Missouri.
We went into camp of instructions at Cowskin Prairie at the southwest corner of Missouri on the Cowskin River. We drilled six hours daily until about August the 1st, instructed by Col. Kelly, a strict disciplinarian.
On about August the 1st, we broke camp and took up the line of march to form a junction with Gen. Ben McCullough and his Confederate forces at Cassville, Missouri. Both forces arrived at that place at the same time.
The Yankee General Sigel had gone into rest camp for the purpose of pillaging the country around Crane Creek, about 10 or 12 miles north of Cassville, Missouri, believing himself out of danger of molestation by the rebels. When he got news of the close proximity of the Confederates , he became seized with a harrowing fear and beat a helterskelter panic-stricken retreat to join his chief at Springfield, Missouri.
General McCullough, now being placed in command of all the forces, took up his line of march, intending to give battle to Gen. Lyon at Springfield, but when we reached Wilson Creek, we were halted to await the arrival, from the northern part of the state, of the command of Gen. (sic) Slack and McBride with their recruits of Missouri State Guards.
On the dawn of the morning of August the 10th something sure did happen! Fortunately Gen. Slack and McBride had joined us, and thus began some of the thrills of grim visage war for our men.
By some means my horse had gotten loose from the little tree to which I had tied him and wandered out of camp. Luckily I woke earlier than reveille and discovered my horse was gone. When I made that discovery, I frantically rushed out to find no one astir except for Col. Houston, suffering a dreadful headache. Col. Houston said he had seen a gray horse about two hours before, grazing in an open field nearby. As my lucky star was ever present, I soon found him entangled in some grape vines by his halter rein. Thrill #1!! Imagine what it would have been like to walk and carry this outfit although it be small; it would have been tough on any cavalier.
Now comes thrill #2!! For just at that junction (sic), a six-pound shell came crashing through the little tree! To say that I was startled is putting it mildly. You may call it startled, but I have another way of putting it. General Lyon’s attack upon us was a complete surprise as we had lain all night without pickets or guards of any sort. The enemy had moved rapidly, with great stealth, and almost entirely surrounded us, and attacked with appalling fury. Strange as it seemed, being men undisciplined, we were not thrown into confusion but fell in line almost like seasoned veterans. We met the shock in a manner that even filled the heart of the foe in our front with admiration and dismay to behold the manly fortitude of true southern manhood, thus exposed to their first trying ordeal of mortal combat. This was remarked by one of their men who had fallen into our hands as a prisoner of war.
The scenes of carnage on this field of death were enough to have stricken the heart of a blood-thirsty savage. Directly in front of General McBride’s men lay the brave Gen. Lyon surrounded by his brave followers, with eyes glazed and lips sealed in endless sleep. This scene was thrill #3, for it was my lot to have passed over this field of death. Oh horror of horrors; the frightful groans and pitiful pleading for water made me almost wish that I had been murdered with the slain. Oh the horror of it!!!
Just before Gen. Lyon fell, Gen. Sigel, with a detachment of men and one piece of artillery, made an attempt to cut off our supply train. It was discovered in time, and a battalion of cavalry was dispatched to intercept him. As we approached in sight of his column, he turned to the left through the woods in another of his pell-mell retreats. His men, being all German and stricken with panic, threw their guns away but would not surrender and, consequently, they were nearly all killed.
I hope I never killed anyone, The nearest that I know of ever killing a man or his horse was on that fateful retreat. Two of the third Texas Cavalry had by some means fallen into our company. They being well-mounted, and I the same, we had gotten well in advance of our column. We encountered three federal soldiers riding side by side, and refusing to halt, one of the Texans said, “We’ll halt them”, [and] we all fired at the same time. One shot got the men and two got the horses.
On the 11th, which was the next day after the battle, Gen. Ernestine sent , under a flag of truce, two companies of infantry armed with picks and shovels , praying for time to bury their dead, which was readily granted. They worked far into the night burying their dead. Although not being through with this gruesome task , they left the field with many remaining above the sod. Many slain on Sigel’s retreat were not buried until five days later. The weather was very hot, and you can form some faint idea of the gruesome task the next poor fellows had to perform, burying the remains of the putridity of the the corpses.
Three days after the battle I became a member of a detail of 50 men that was sent over that part of the field to gather up the guns and swords left behind during their wild flight. The stench was still awful, and what it must have been two days later would baffle the imagination.
It would require a most retensive (sic) mind to call up in detail all of the incidents and experiences. To the best of my memory, it was the 22nd of August that we broke camp at Springfield, Missouri. General Sterling Price became commander of all of the forces of the Missouri State Guards. We took up the march north to Lexington, Missouri and at Dry Wood Creek near Fort Scott, Kansas, we were greeted by the notorious Jayhawker, Gen. Jim Lans,. [For] about five hours [we] amused that marauder when he seemed to get tired of the company of the damned border ruffians and left the field in disgust and went on in his laudable occupation of stealing negroes and mules and robbing defenseless women and children, finding it more profitable and less dangerous.
Next morning we resumed the march toward Lexington, without further incidence of any note, until we reached that place to find the gallant Gen. Mulligan with his Irish brigade strongly fortified at that place to which Gen. Price at once laid siege. Most of our army retraced its steps south. Our six months having expired, our company was honorably discharged, and thus our military service to the great state of Missouri ended.
Chapter II
I have tried to set forth in the preceding chapter a part of my experiences as a soldier in the Missouri State Guards and in this chapter, I shall try to relate some of my experience as a follower of the stars and bars in company with the wearers of the gray.
On the 13th of December, my term of service in the State Guards expired, and two days later I enlisted in the service of the Confederate States of America in the Infantry Company, and we elected Mr. Frank Robertson as our captain. (December 1861) In a day or two, seven or eight more companies of recruits had rendezvoused with us near Grand Pass Chapel, making enough to organize a regiment. Capt. Robertson was elected as the regiment’s Colonel. Neither of these companies was assigned a letter nor the regiment number, the regiment being known by the name of the colonel and the companies by the name of their respective captains.
On the 18th of December 1861 we struck the trail for Dixie, marched until 11pm that night and made camp in a bend of Black Water Creek near Kirkpatricks Mill. The Federal General Jeff C. Davis heard of our presence and, with about two regiments of cavalry, attacked us. With what few arms we had, we gave them a few pounds and drove them back out of range of our old shotguns. When they sent a demand to surrender, it seemed our officers did so willingly; doubtless many of them were heartily ashamed and their men disgusted. In this short skirmish we lost no men, and it was said that the enemies lost five, killed and wounded. I failed to see any of their casualties, and I was in a position to see as well as anyone.
We marched out into line in front of our little battle line and ordered to ground arms, which we did with great reluctance. The men felt sure that we could cut our way out of the little trap. At least some of us could escape. This is the saddest blow that had ever struck us, for in the six months in the State Guard we had met with one reverse, that of Booneville, and just a short time before had forced the surrender of Mulligan and his Irish brigade at Lexington. Then we know how to sympathize with our vanquished foe.
The day after our surrender we were marched to Sedalia, Missouri. We were placed in boxcars, sixty prisoners and three guards. Imagine the jam: we were packed in like a shipment of swine and when we reached St. Louis, Missouri, we were in sorry shape. Many of these noble boys never recovered. Some of their mortal remains still lie in some secluded place in that cold city. We were placed in a Medical College owned by Dr. McDowell, a grandson of Gen. McDowell of the revolutionary fame. The Yankees confiscated his property on account of his radical secession views and almost demolished the building, totally destroying the oldest and finest medical museum that had ever been collected in the west. Many of the prisoners sickened and died a few days after entering. I was stricken with pneumonia and, the 9th day of February of 1862, was removed to the 5th Street Hospital where I remained until the 11th day of March, 1862. I was paroled and was permitted to return to my home.
On the 20th day of August, there was an order from provisional Gov. Gambol for all able-bodied men to report to the county seats, there enroll in the State Militia, or enroll disloyal. I chose neither. At that time I was employed by John S. Prunty, operating a ferry boat on the Missouri River at Miami. I went to Mr. Prunty and asked, “What are you going to do about the order?” His answer was, “I don’t know,” with a curt, “What are you going to do about the order?” My answer was the same as his had been. We went together and reported in Marshall. He told me he was going to enroll disloyal. I replied, “They will kill you , sure.” At this juncture, my thinking box began working as never before and before we reached town, my plans were completed, and how well they succeeded will follow.
Captain Love of Company L of the Seventh Missouri, U.S. Cavalry, was garrisoning that part, and I was well-acquainted with many of his men and, I must say, most of them were good boys. On the fourth of July, I had met and was introduced to the Captain; he teased me about having seceded. Well, when John and I parted at the courthouse square, I at once betook myself to the Captain’s marquee.
I at once told him that Gov. Gambol’s order was hateful to me. While I was as loyal a man as Missouri had in it, I was opposed to being forced into the Militia but was ready to join his company in the United States service. He shook his head and said, “Mr. Rockwell, I am sorry, for [the] company has every man that the regulation provides for.” Imagine my feelings when it seemed that my plan had failed. Hope soon revived. Capt. Love said, “There are two of our men that have applied for discharges and, in about two weeks, there will be an opening. If you will wait ’til then, you can join us.” I came to my feet, offered him my hand, thanked him most cordially and, with the best grace within me, left his company. December 1862, the battle of Prairie Grove, it became a part of a very pleasant duty to assist in taking charge of a large wagon train of army supplies, with the Seventh Missouri Military Cavalry as escort. I was once again united with some of my old neighbors.
Here I [return] to the conclusion of the tale, if the patient reader will pardon the digression. Mr. Prunty [my former employer] drove back to Miami and lost no time in moving his family to Nebraska.
After I ate a hurried supper, I mounted my favorite horse and struck out through the neighborhood to gather up all the boys that I knew. I had gotten together twenty-eight heroic, honorable soldiers as ever surrendered up their noble lives in defense of a righteous cause, by midnight. Many of them perished in the later battles. They elected me as their leader at the base of a long high ridge known as the “Devil’s Backbone.” We took up this march to join Captain Joseph A. Shelby, then camped near Grand Pass Chapel, fifteen miles west. We reached that place about four o’clock in the morning and found Captain Shelby gone. We struck his trail and overtook him at Pineville, in the southwest corner of Missouri. By this time many other squads had gathered at the same place, enough to organize a full regiment, which we did, and elected Captain Shelby as its Colonel. This was numbered the 1st Missouri Cavalry, Trans-Mississippi. In a few days more, two more regiments and one battalion were with us, and a cavalry brigade was formed. Shelby was its commander. History tells its career during that fall and its minor engagement with the enemy. Early in November we broke camp near Van Buren, Arkansas and started on the campaign north to meet the Yankees that had then penetrated northwest Arkansas. I believe in history that this is now called “Pea Ridge Battlefield.” We went into camp at Cane Hill on the southern slope of the Boston Mountains and lay there a day or two. At early dawn of the third day we were aroused from our peaceful slumber by reveille sounded by Yankee muskets!!! This was another thrill for me, but we were soon returning the salute and beating a hasty but orderly retreat. A desperate fight was fought at Dripping Springs. Many brave men fought their last fight and slept their last sleep from which no sound can awaken them to glory again until the great reveille beyond the river.
- “Rest thee, warriors. Comrades mourn thee, while you slumber in the grave.
- Oh, what sleep thy souls are sleeping with the spirit of the brave,”
We lost some gallant officers and many brave men in this engagement. The humble author of this narrative lost his first drop of blood in mortal combat; however, the wound was only a flesh wound and disabled very little.
There were some exciting scenes with humor as well. In falling back to get in line we had to cross a deep, narrow depression, across which was hanging a grapevine which, as we came out, got about half of the hats that were going that way. I retained my head gear as I had on a cap. The enemy was punished for their audacity and quit the chase.
Gen. Hineman camped at Van Buren, being in command of all the western army, at once took up the march north to intercept Gens. Herring and Blunt with large forces of infantry, artillery, and cavalry. Our march was rapid, and we soon met the enemy at Prairie Grove, in northwest Arkansas, and attacked him at early dawn. Until late that evening the conflict raged, in which there was terrible carnage on both sides. The losses in this battle have been estimated from 1200 to 1600 on either side. The havoc was terrible.. There was a six-gun battery commanded by Captain Totten that got a perfect range on our right wing, which was commanded by Capt. Totten. Gen. Scoop and Shelby were making havoc in our ranks. Indeed, it seemed that our right wing was doomed to annihilation, but just at that juncture a four-gun battery commanded by Capt. Will A. Miller, turned his gun upon Totten and drew his death-dealing fire away from us to defend himself from the unerring blows of the little Arkansas Swamp Angel. Late that evening an armistice of ten hours was agreed upon, and dawn of the next morning found our army ten miles south and the enemy just as far north of the scene of conflict, with about 150 men of either side at the gruesome task of burying the slain.
Chapter III
When I agreed to write of my experience as a soldier in the Confederate Army [in the War] Between the States for southern independence, the magnitude of undertaking had not dawned upon my mind. For the lack of space and fear of wearying the reader, it seems best to abridge, as best I may, my articles in the continued chapters.
As I said in the first chapter, it would be impossible to give incidents and dates in detail. I [ask] you to go back with me to Newtonia, Mo., where we had the first engagement with the enemy after organization of Shelby’s brigade. We marched from PIneville, where we organized to Elm Springs; the writer got his first military boost, being placed in the horse inspection bureau with the rank of Lieutenant and serving in that capacity until we had inspected about 12,000 horses and mules. We were joined by Gen. Cooper, with three regiments of Texas Cavalry, and Col. Stanwitty (Stand Watie), with two regiments of our Indian allies who, in the battle that took place five days afterward, proved themselves to be a foe worthy of the enemy’s steel. The Yankees had concentrated a heavy force at Sercoxie, fifteen miles north of Newtonia, Mo. and we encamped about six miles south of Elm Springs. They moved south to Newtonia, and we made the attack upon their lines about 8 o’clock in the morning they got there. The attack was brought on by Bledsoe’s Artillery; the first shot was from the old historic 12-pounder Sacramento, captured from the notorious Santa Anna in the war between the United States and Mexico. The enemy had splendid artillery and returned the fire with resolute fierceness with telling effect. Our brigade was in battle line and ordered to charge that battery, which we did, and drove them back; another battery of four guns had taken a position on a ridge about 500 yards to their left and opened fire with grapeshot, striking our line with terrific effect, and right here something took place that inspired great confidence in our Indian troops. Col. Standwitty ordered his warriors to charge that battery. Oh, horrors! That frightful war whoop! The most bloodcurdling, ear-splitting yell went up that I had ever heard, similar to our modern church solos. Then, like an avalanche, those furious warriors went at them with demon-like savagery, keeping up that unearthly howl, comparable to the unhappy shriek of lost souls coming up from the dismal depths of endless torture.
Well, that was too much for our friends in blue. The rebel yell would have been like sacred music to it, and you know a rebel yell never sounded good to our friends, the enemy.
By this time, our entire battle line was moving rapidly forward, and the enemy broke into a hasty retreat from which they never rallied until they reached a belt of timber about two and one-half miles north. It was near night, and there was no more hard fighting, just a shot fired here and there that was kept up until dark came upon us. Then an artillery duel began with about twelve pieces on either side. Our regiment had a position about one-half a mile north of that cross line, not exposed to danger from fire of either side. The night was very dark, and I think we witnessed the grandest fireworks that I have ever seen. Shells passed like great balls of fire rushing through the air with long meteor-like tails streaming back; when these shells exploded, a great hale of flame, covering a large diameter, burst forth. We moved east and soon had the order to advance upon Gen. Brown, fortified at Springfield, Missouri. Being joined by other Missouri and Arkansas troops, we made a forced march and attacked him when he least expected it. He knew we were coming, and a heavy reinforcement had been ordered to join him from Raleigh. Our attack was vigorous and his resistance stubborn. It had a telling effect upon our ranks. They were barricaded in three strong stockades, and heavy loss occured as we approached this fortress. We soon carried the first works, and the enemy suffered greatly; as they left their first stockade, we entered; going into the second, we followed them but, in doing so, sustained greater losses than we did in capturing the first, losing many brave men and several gallant line officers, among whom were two dear friends of the writer, Capt. Titsworth and his first Lt. Francis Buffington of Company A of the First Missouri Cavalry.
The Yankee General Brown lost an arm at this fort; we captured their artillery after their last artillery man had fallen; I think they were all crazed with whiskey.
Fort #3 was their strongest stockade; this we never attacked, owing to a large reinforcement of infantry artillery and cavalry that was approaching. We met them at Hartsville the next day; I think this was the hottest place for four hours that I had ever been in. The enemy had chosen well their ground and was awaiting the attack. We were forced to pass over an open field about five hundred yards wide in the face of withering rifle fire that completely blocked our lines. We made quick charge at a double-quick and gave a rebel yell in the face of an outnumbering host of hired ruffians, but they stood there like heroes inspired by a nobler cause. In this awful charge our ranks were terribly thinned; we lost four field officers and twenty line officers. The field officers were McDonald Porter, Wymer and Maj Kirtlay; we lost thirty-two out of our company: our Captain, First and Second Lieutenant and Orderly Sergeant This was another dog fall, both retreating.
We now hit the trail for Dixie to go into a repair shop and reorganize. We are now ready for business! Once more we had a short rest before being ordered out on another campaign into Missouri. Our destination was Cape Girardeau, Missouri, on the Mississippi River. We had many minor engagements with the forces of the enemy. Gen. McNeil was strongly fortified at this place, with heavy artillery on the forts and gunboats in the river. Never daunted, the attack was made by the war hog Shelby, he being in advance and the remainder of the army at old Jackson. Gen. Marmaduke, being in command, ordered Shelby to proceed at once on the Cape, to demonstrate and feel their strength. Well, he sure did it. He put his artillery, consisting of two ten-pound guns and twenty-six Napoleon guns, into a battery about 6000 yards from their fort and opened like he had 640-pounders, and right there, sure enough, felt the strength of about half a dozen 40-pounders that plowed the earth, the air and our ranks, and tore things up like a hog’s bed.
The order that followed, “Forward!!,” the line moved forward in the face of murdering fire! Men falling on every side and half of the artillery boys were either dead or wounded!! Marmaduke dashed up to Shelby and said “Gen. Shelby, I sent you here to show a strength of force”. Shelby replied: “If this is not one, what do you call it?” “Withdraw your men”, was Marmaduke’s order, which he did, forming about half a mile away, although in perfect range of the heavy ordinance of the forts. They opened fire with ring shot and shell and caused another terrible slaughter among our men. We had formed in the edge of heavy open timber and the falling tree tops came crashing down upon our ranks, making that position impossible. We were forced to retreat again but did it in good order, and just in time to escape capture, by a large force, off of our left wing that would cut us off from our supply train back at Jackson. Three days a running fight was kept up until we reached Chalk Bluff on the St. Francis River in northwest Arkansas.
On this retreat there was almost continuous fighting and, from that, we learned to appreciate Ben Siegel’s tactics, “He that fights and runs away, may live to fight another day”!
Crossing at St. Francis was an awful task. It was out of its banks, and our only hope of crossing was to make a raft of large logs, which were plentiful. This raft extended the entire width of the stream and served very well as long as it lasted, but just as the rolling stock had all been safely crossed, Cavalry rode on in such numbers that the old raft parted about the center and all aboard that old craft had to swim, and all the balance did likewise. Imagine the task of swimming seven or eight thousand horses and mules across a stream of water three or four hundred feet wide, and the Lord only knows how deep, and this under the fire of the artillery of both armies, one side trying to destroy and the other drawing their fire to save us. But there was soon humor involved with the peril.
I suppose all volunteer armies have a quota of very brave deadheads that can always see a little better at a distance, and on this occasion, we were well represented by this class of heroes. Our line was formed on the crest of the bluff, which afforded some shelter from the enemy’s fire. In back of this was the dismal swamp of the Cash River. The Yankees, for pure cussedness, began to drop shells among us. They came through the firing line like a rushing mighty wind, filling the wood with a roar of laughter, and it seemed like the devilish Yanks joined in the hilarity. Thus ended the chase.
Chapter IV
It was nearly 1863 at Jackson Port, AR. I extend to you to go with us to Helena, AR on the Mississippi River which we attacked about sunrise on the long to be remembered 4th of July, 1863. Command of the Army of the Trans-Mississippi trivial happenings incidental to this campaign would be of little interest to anyone except some comrades that may chance to see this chapter if indeed I may be able to say anything either instructive, interesting or disgusting.
The first thing I shall mention is the crossing of Cash River. That is always on a rampage at that season of the year, and when we reached it, it was at its old game of swamping the countryside. It surely is a swamp, too. The only way we could get across was to use another one of our improvised log bridges, which was constructed in three days of hard work! In this construction the pioneer corps was hindered greatly by cavalrymen riding on the bridge before it was securely put together, whereupon Ben Shelby ordered W.A. Cooper, the foreman of the gang (who afterward became the brother-in-law of the writer), to “Have the next damn man overboard who rides on this raft”. After this the boys were a little more careful where they rode, knowing Cooper would obey orders; after this the work went faster. By this time Shelby had gotten over his peeve and perhaps had forgotten his order, and he himself rode on to the bridge right by the side of Cooper where he was pinning down binders, whereupon Cooper threw his shoulder against the horse, throwing the horse and the rider overboard into the water that would float an oceanliner; out of sight they went beneath the filthy water. Shelby came up sputtering like a porpoise, and it was a question whether he was trying to laugh or swear, but when they struck shore, he looked back and yelled, “What in the hell did you do that for?” . “Just obeying orders, General!” (Cooper yelled back) “Yes, you are hell for orders”, said the General, and laughed under his breath, for he loved Cooper like a brother. There was no task too hard for that hardy boy to tackle with the zest of an Irish ditch digger.
Now, kind reader, if this rendition is not too nauseating, I think you may be able to survive another dose after your stomach has become quiet. We resume the march. Nothing of special interest occurred worth noting, except the crossing of lagoons and swamps, until we reached Helena on the morning of July 4th. At this place, the attack was made with a brisk artillery fire, which was returned with great energy from the guns of the forts, which began their work of slaughter in our ranks. The fire was so direct that it put the infantry corps to work removing wounded from the firing line to the field hospital; which soon became a burden to the surgeons. As the battle waxed hotter and the infantry was brought into closed action, the hospital grew larger.
Gen. Parsons advanced his line into the city and made an assault on one of their strongest forts, in which he lost a third of his men, suffering more in falling back than he did in the advance. This assault was made before Cabel’s men had been brought up; hence, being without the support he expected, [this] virtually defeated the purpose of battle at this place, its object being to relieve Gen. Pemberton, then besieged by Grant’s army at Vicksburg, Mississippi. If we had won at Helena, it would have been too late. On that same day Pemberton was forced to surrender. Our losses were heavy, and it seemed like a waste of life to attack strongly fortified places like that assisted by powerful gunboats — especially with such a small, poorly-equipped army — and with only one line of approach, there was no chance of a successful attack. Fortunately, the enemy was content to let us depart in peace.
I would be an unworthy ingrate should I fail in this article to tell, with my beggardly language, the grand exhibition of the glorious heroism of the heaven-inspired women of our dear old Southland in our field hospital. The scene was pathetic: aged mothers, devoted wives, gentle sisters, all on their missions of mercy with tender helping hands, some of them mute with grief on account of the loss of loved ones, others with faces of tears filled with joy that theirs were not numbered with the slain. I must not pass without mentioning one thing that those ministering angels did at this bloody scene. When our surgeons had used all of the bandage materials, those chaste, tender women, almost in a body, left the sickening scene, went behind a nearby hill, removed their linen undergarments, returned to the hospital, and laid them at the feet of the chief surgeon as an offering of love, continuing their painful, self-imposed task of soothing the suffering and caring for the dying. It seems that such self-sacrifice would challenge the respect and admiration of a savage. Indeed the noble, courageous women of the south made it [possible] for our depleted armies to maintain the struggle for four years with exhausted resources in the grip of the most terrible death struggle the United States has ever known.
We took up the line of march for Little Rock, AR, which we were forced to evacuate early in September, and [to] fall back to Arkadelphia, AR on the Ouachita River, from which Shelby’s brigade (ours) started on the cavalry raid into central Missouri. On this raid we had many minor engagements without serious loss from our ranks and reached Marshall, Mo. Here we were stopped by a heavy force of infantry cavalry and artillery, and became entirely surrounded by a cordon of gleaming bayonets. It looked bad, indeed, but Shelby at this crisis was, as usual, equal to the occasion. He drew all his strength to one point as though to make a dash south, thus causing the enemy to weaken their north line, leaving only a light line of cavalry to guard that point. That was their blunder! Our group rode out through that gap; we went out in a column, but their cavalry struck us in the center, our artillery being in the rear, and the ordinance way out in front. Lt. Col. Hooper was in command of the rear guard. He turned right with half our forces and artillery but with very little ammunition. Shelby was leading the front with two heavily laden ordinance wagons and nothing but cavalry arms to use, closely pursued by a large force of cavalry and field artillery.
The enemy outnumbered our forces many times but kept a respectful distance as we made it hot for them. We reached Muddy Creek, a name it certainly deserved. This slowed our speed and gave the Yankees a chance to use their artillery with some effect.
Companies E and F were formed to hold the bridge until the wagons could get across and away. The enemy kept up heavy shelling. I received the worst wound I got during the entire war! I was struck in the left arm by a fragment of shell, shattering the bone and causing an ugly laceration of the flesh. This is the largest certificate of graduation in the military experience this scribe carries!
Three days after, I fell into the hands of the Philistines, and that almost stopped my career on the firing line.
In my last reminiscence, I shall try to give a brief account of the treatment of the Confederate prisoners of war at the Yankee Camp Hospital.
Now since the kind reader has followed me almost four eventful years over the black prairies of Missouri, Kansas and Texas, through the rugged mountains and into the dismal swamps of Arkansas, and through all the privations, incidents of campaigning in a poorly-equipped Confederate army to witness the scene of carnage and honor on many bloody fields of mortal combat, I will now ask you to go with me to the gate of a Puritanic treatment (commonly called a Northern military prison), but known to its inmate as a bastille of murder. While I invite you to go with me to the gate, I warn you to be careful: shun those frowning portals as a Hindu does the deadly Upas tree, the shade of which strikes with death all animals that invade its shade. If you have strong nerves and enter this inferno of horror compared only [to] the Parisian Bastille during the reign of Louis the 14th, Enter Now!!!
It was October 1863. I entered the prison at Camp Morton, Indiana. Much has been written and said about the horror of Andersonville, Libby and Castle Thunder, but Dante’s Inferno is the only fitting comparison.
The humane treatment accorded Confederate prisoners of war by that great-hearted soldier, Major Owen, has been exalted to the pinnacle of Christian manhood, and justly so indeed! A memorial table has been placed in the [hall] of the Indiana statehouse by grateful Confederate soldiers. Major Owen was soon removed from that position; he was too pure a Christian patriot to fit that place.
After the Vicksburg surrender, the cartel was annulled by the U.S. Government, and a systematic method of the slow starvation of helpless Confederate prisoners was adopted at all the Northern prison pens under pretense that it was in retaliation for the treatment of Yankee prisoners in Southern prisons, at the same time refusing [honorable overtures] on the part of commissioners of the South to arrange another cartel. As was tauntingly said by E.M. Stanton, then Secretary of War of the United States Government, it was cheaper to kill them there on the firing line.
To paint a picture of the horrors of those Northern Bastilles would beggar the vocabulary of Patrick Henry, but still I shall try to give the reader a brief outline of the surroundings and conditions of this prison. Before the war, this plot of ground had been used as a fairground and afterwards re-arranged to hold southern cattle. There was a small creek running through this enclosure called the Potomac. Around the enclosure was a wall 16ft. high, made of 2X12 oak planks securely spiked to heavy framework with [a] parapet about three feet from the top of the wall. Sentry boxes were placed every 100 ft. around the entire wall. On the inside about 12ft. from the wall was a ditch 8ft. deep by 12ft. wide, and about 6ft. [inside] of this ditch was an imaginary line not marked in any way, styled the “deadline”; [this] alas only proved too true to its name, for many a poor starving victim, wandering aimlessly around, unwittingly strayed across the fatal line to receive the contents of the cruel rifle, [with] the savage expression from the guard on the parapet, “Now careless Rebel, take that”, for which heroism he would be promoted to Corporal. Many instances of similar murder can be [cited], but a few will suffice.
One outrage perpetrated upon a member of my barracks was the case of an old Irish artillery man by the name of Dan O’Brien, totally irresponsible, being crazed from a shell at the bombardment of Grand Gulf. He never again regained his reason. His old hat was blown off and carried past the deadline and, as he stepped over to [retrieve] it, without earning [it], the poor loon received a rifle ball through his thigh which, in a few days, put the old man out of his misery. May God rest his soul!
Another instance was that of a private soldier, Baker by name, being I think, an Ohio soldier. He said he had a brother killed at Shiloh. In policing the prison, they used a garbage wagon requiring a detail of eight men, every morning, to haul the loaded wagon out to the dumping ground. When the wagon was empty, four could easily haul it back while the other four walked behind. This bloody brute (Oh, I think I owe the foulest beast an apology for the comparison) was one of the two guards usually sent out with the detail, the guards walking behind. Baker deliberately shot and killed two of these unsuspecting, unoffensive prisoners and, for his patriotism, was made a first sergeant.
I will not be able to completely describe all the horrors of this hellhole. It would take too long. I will simply say that extreme distress was brought on by the cunning character of the Yankee brain worked overtime. Personal abuse upon helpless victims by brutal petty officers, such as scourging with iron ramrods and anything they could lay their hands upon, was a frequent practice. Starvation, freezing and filth was [at] every hand! At rollcall we were forced to stand in line in the position of a soldier on dress parade for one half hour, regardless of weather conditions, with heads uncovered and if the line was not kept dressed, the Yankee sergeant would dash down the line and prod anyone the least bit out of line in the most cruel manner. When “break rank” was sounded, many a poor boy was so numb with cold that he could barely drag his body to the barracks. This is another example of America’s boasted observance of the higher law doctrine and Christian civilization. Indeed, reader, it seems that all nations forget God in wartimes and treat Christ as a back number. Starvation was extreme in this prison, and men would eat the most [repulsive] garbage; a muskrat was greedily devoured.
On Christmas Day in 1864, Gov. Morton of Indiana, with a delegation of state officials, was escorted through our prison, with a large Newfoundland dog following them. A prisoner by the name of Alonzo Chin in barracks #12, coaxed him into the barracks, making for those poor fellows a royal Christmas feast. Your humble scribe had the good fortune to feast at that luxuriant board, and it was good, but poor Chin, on the day, paid dearly for his canine dinner. They took him up to headquarters and tied him up by his thumbs for six hours, which came near killing the poor fellow.
In order to escape this deathtrap (I say deathtrap, for indeed it was little less than that, there being hardly a morning that the pale horse failed to have his load of dead), many schemes were thought about and awful hazards were taken, such as tunneling out, scaling the walls in the face of the guards on the parapets and the inside patrols, and running the gauntlet through the gate when it was opened to admit supply wagons.
On one occasion in Indianapolis there was an organization of two whole regiments affected with the intention of rushing the guards, seizing their arms and scattering fire. In the confusion, some of us at least could escape but, alas, a traitor got initiated into it and, on the evening set to make the break, five hundred patrols were turned loose in the camp. We were driven into barracks and not allowed to come out until rollcall was sounded the next morning. K.C. Scott, of Baltimore, MD. and Joseph Whitehead of Jackson, TN., the two main leaders of the plot, were put in irons. The poor boys were still wearing those jewels when I left there on March 4th, 1865.
Our barracks were the old stock sheds that were used when this was a fairground. Our beds, or bunks, were just shelves wide enough for two men to sleep stretched out straight as a gun barrel (you know that was comfortable).
On another occasion, fifty of the boys from my barracks made an attempt to scale the wall that evening with ladders made from 16ft. planks ripped from the bottom of the bunks, but alas, as we approached the ditch, we were met by a volley of musketry from the parapet (catwalk). One of the boys was killed before we reached the ditch; my partner was killed on our plank as we crossed; ten of us got over the ditch, one a Kentucky boy got away; the rest fled when they opened fire on us. Nine of us were captured at the wall by the prison patrol, and we were marched up to headquarters, where we were tied up with cords looped around our thumbs, almost suspending our weight for about eight hours. No one can have any conception of this torture until they have been subjected to it. Indeed, it is wonderful that any of us survived. I reckon all that kept us alive was the hatred of the Yankees which, with yours truly, has never cooled.
The names of most of those boys I have forgotten, but their noble faces are indelibly photographed upon the table of my memory. Most [of] them were French boys from Lousiana; two with whom I was most intimately associated were James Bowers of Texas and George Marr of Tennessee, both being men of above the ordinary in intelligence and influence. Mr. Marr owned a large block of stock in the Famous Tennessee Iron Works in which Mr. Roosevelt figured so conspicuously.
Finally in March of 1865 I, with 100 others, was sent on a parole to Richmond, VA.
I could write a large volume and yet this gruesome story would only be half-told. Ever since that experience, my heart has been singing in the language of poor George Marr.
- Oh, the scene of a life in a guardhouse,
- A dismal dirty cell,
- Oh, may you never feel the gloom
- of a putrified hell !!!
Kathryn Thornton and Robert Keeter did some mild editing, mostly to spelling and syntax. We tried to avoid changing the writer’s phrasing and let him tell his story his own way. Jacob Harris Rockwell was our great-grandfather on my mother’s father’s side of the family. He was born October 25, 1837 and died March 2, 1920.