Old Casey, the FiferByHenry Ewell Hord
ByHenry Ewell Hord
[NOTE.—The Editor of Trotwood’s believes this is one of the best descriptions of Franklin’s bloody and needless fight ever written, and a pathetic pen picture never to be forgotten. Its author is an inmate of the Old Soldiers’ Home, Nashville, and was one of the bravest soldiers of the Lost Cause. We are told by an old comrade of the writer that in one of the fiercest fights of the war, a large shell bursted in a foot of Mr. Hord’s head, knocking him down and completely destroying his hearing, killing two men behind him and one at his side. The historic value of this pathetic story is great. It has been said and denied that Forrest, with his wonderful foresight, went to Hood just before he ordered his army to the holocaust of Franklin and begged him for permission to flank the Yankee army out, saying he would do it in fifteen minutes, and there need be no battle. “No,” exclaimed Hood, “no, charge them out.” Forrest rode off in disgust. In studying the battle of Franklin for a chapter in the writer’s new novel, “The Bishop of Cottontown,” we read all the Records of the Rebellion pertaining to the fight, endeavoring, among other things, to find some evidence of the truth of this. In Gen. J. D. Cox’ report we found it corroborated, that General saying in the afternoon he saw evidence of Forrest’s Cavalry preparing to flank him, and he prepared immediately to evacuate Franklin! And thus was Forrest’s military genius corroborated by the other side. But here is the man who carried the despatch, and the thrilling picture of the brave boys going into that veritable mouth of hell so gallantly, and of old Fifer leading them on till his tune ceased beneath a clubbed musket, caused the writer to lay down the graphic story of this old, maimed soldier and use his handkerchief. And no more graphic story of Franklin was ever written.]
[NOTE.—The Editor of Trotwood’s believes this is one of the best descriptions of Franklin’s bloody and needless fight ever written, and a pathetic pen picture never to be forgotten. Its author is an inmate of the Old Soldiers’ Home, Nashville, and was one of the bravest soldiers of the Lost Cause. We are told by an old comrade of the writer that in one of the fiercest fights of the war, a large shell bursted in a foot of Mr. Hord’s head, knocking him down and completely destroying his hearing, killing two men behind him and one at his side. The historic value of this pathetic story is great. It has been said and denied that Forrest, with his wonderful foresight, went to Hood just before he ordered his army to the holocaust of Franklin and begged him for permission to flank the Yankee army out, saying he would do it in fifteen minutes, and there need be no battle. “No,” exclaimed Hood, “no, charge them out.” Forrest rode off in disgust. In studying the battle of Franklin for a chapter in the writer’s new novel, “The Bishop of Cottontown,” we read all the Records of the Rebellion pertaining to the fight, endeavoring, among other things, to find some evidence of the truth of this. In Gen. J. D. Cox’ report we found it corroborated, that General saying in the afternoon he saw evidence of Forrest’s Cavalry preparing to flank him, and he prepared immediately to evacuate Franklin! And thus was Forrest’s military genius corroborated by the other side. But here is the man who carried the despatch, and the thrilling picture of the brave boys going into that veritable mouth of hell so gallantly, and of old Fifer leading them on till his tune ceased beneath a clubbed musket, caused the writer to lay down the graphic story of this old, maimed soldier and use his handkerchief. And no more graphic story of Franklin was ever written.]
The following characteristic letter accompanied the story:
Dear Mr. Moore: I send you the enclosed yarn of Fifer. If you think it worth publishing in Trotwood you can do so. I am, as you see, not much of a writer like Ben Hord. I get the facts all O. K., but, to tell it so somebody will be interested, that’s the rub. The trouble about writing a war yarn, no two soldiers see things alike, and some fellow is liable to make you out a liar before you know it. I once wrote an account of a drill we had against the 15th Mississippi for a flag offered by the ladies, of Canton, Miss. I gave, as I thought, and what some of my old regiment had written, the exact facts. The colonel of the 15th Mississippi is still living. He answered my article, and made me out seventeen kinds of liars. I felt left. Not long after that the last ex-Confederate Reunion was held at Nashville. One day I was standing in front of the Tulane Hotel watching the big crowd going by, and a man passed with a metal badge with “15th Miss.” on it. I stopped him, and asked him if he remembered that drill, and when he found out I was in the other regiment, he was delighted. He had a crowd of Mississippi boys with him, but none of them had been members of the 15th, so he stood there and gave them an account of the drill, and corroborated every word I had written, though he had never seen it. Well, I believe you literary fellows say it is misquoted, but we privates have another name for it.Respectfully yours,HENRY EWELL HORD.Hermitage, Tenn., Soldiers’ Home.
Dear Mr. Moore: I send you the enclosed yarn of Fifer. If you think it worth publishing in Trotwood you can do so. I am, as you see, not much of a writer like Ben Hord. I get the facts all O. K., but, to tell it so somebody will be interested, that’s the rub. The trouble about writing a war yarn, no two soldiers see things alike, and some fellow is liable to make you out a liar before you know it. I once wrote an account of a drill we had against the 15th Mississippi for a flag offered by the ladies, of Canton, Miss. I gave, as I thought, and what some of my old regiment had written, the exact facts. The colonel of the 15th Mississippi is still living. He answered my article, and made me out seventeen kinds of liars. I felt left. Not long after that the last ex-Confederate Reunion was held at Nashville. One day I was standing in front of the Tulane Hotel watching the big crowd going by, and a man passed with a metal badge with “15th Miss.” on it. I stopped him, and asked him if he remembered that drill, and when he found out I was in the other regiment, he was delighted. He had a crowd of Mississippi boys with him, but none of them had been members of the 15th, so he stood there and gave them an account of the drill, and corroborated every word I had written, though he had never seen it. Well, I believe you literary fellows say it is misquoted, but we privates have another name for it.
Respectfully yours,
HENRY EWELL HORD.Hermitage, Tenn., Soldiers’ Home.
It was at Gainsville, Ala., we parted with our old Fifer Casey. He had been with us ever since the regiment was organized at Camp Boone, Tenn. He had fifed all through the Mexican War and nearly three years of the Civil War. At first he had lots to tell us about Cerro Gordo, Palo Alto and Chepultepec, but after we got down to business old Casey gave the Mexican War and Greasers a rest.
He was a tall, slim old fellow, carried himself as if steel ramrods were his regular diet, scorned to ride in an ambulance or wagon on a march, kept atthe head of the regiment all the time, and went into all battles playing his liveliest tunes.
At Shiloh, in the charge that broke up the “Hornet Nest,” old Casey was playing “Cheer, Boys, Cheer,” and the whole regiment singing it as they closed in with the Yanks.
At the tale end of many a long day’s march, when everybody was footsore and weary, thinking and wishing for camp, marching any kind of old way, Casey would notice it, and strike up “The Girl I Left Behind Me” or “The Stump-Tail Dog.” The boys would forget about their weariness, close up, catch the step, and before we had gone an hundred feet, without a word from any officer, we would be sailing along like we were “passing in review.”
Casey had a musical chum that belonged to the 9th Arkansas, of our brigade, who was just the opposite of Casey—short and stout built. The top of his head would scarcely reach old Casey’s shoulder. When those two got together with a canteen of whisky there would be little sleeping in that regiment that night. We used to call it “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” with variations, “Long Girl” and “Short Girl.”
Casey always refused to be mounted, saying he did not enlist in a cavalry regiment and did not propose to be killed by some fool horse. He did not condescend to ask for any papers, but coolly walked over and joined the 9th Arkansas, with his old chum.
Our only regret about being mounted was leaving the other regiments of our brigade—Buford Brigade, Loring Division. We had been together a long time, and many battles and long marches had formed many warm friendships. General Buford had drilled us till we were one of the best drilled and most soldierly-looking brigades in the C. S. A., and always gave a good account of ourselves in battle. The regiments were the 35th and 27th Alabama, 9th Arkansas and 12th Louisiana, nearly all young men, and as good soldiers as ever marched. After we left, Colonel Scott, of the 12th Louisiana, was ranking officer, and commanded the brigade. General Buford accepted an offer from General Forrest, and followed us to North Mississippi, where we joined General Forrest. The 3d, 7th, 8th and 12th Kentucky were brigaded, and Col. A. P. Thompson commanded. He was killed a short time after at Paducah, Ky., and General Lyon succeeded him. Lyon and Bell’s brigades formed the Buford Division.
We followed the “Wizard of the Saddle” till the surrender, and were engaged in every fight and raid in which he was.
On the campaign to Nashville in front of General Hood, I was detailed to act as courier for General Buford. The day of the battle of Franklin, Tenn., General Buford had the right wing of our army. There was nothing but General Wilson’s cavalry in front of us. We drove the Yankees back across Harpeth River, and at a crossing five miles above Franklin they dismounted and prepared to make a desperate resistance to our crossing. They formed their line on the north bank close to the edge, and across the river was an old field which we would be forced to cross to reach the ford. They could rake us fore and aft before we could get to the river. As soon as General Buford saw the situation, he dismounted two of Lyon’s regiments back of the field a half mile from the river, and with four guns of battery double-quicked them across the field up to the river. They then opened a rapid fire on the Yankee line across the river. The two lines made a dense smoke which hung like a fog over the river. Under cover of the smoke, General Buford with the balance of the command crossed, mounted, the smoke completely screening their movement, and the Yankees never fired on them while crossing. The boys had orders to cease firing after we got down the bank, which they did. The Yankees thinking they had gained a victory because the fire stopped, cheered lustily, and almost ceased firing. While they were still cheering, a long line of stern-faced men cleared the bank and fell onto them with carbine, pistol and saber.
I thought I would be smart, and got right behind General Buford, going up the bank at a place that I did not think a goat could climb. The General weighed 320 pounds, and rode a big, old horse.I did not think a ball could find me behind such good works. A moment after, when I saw old “Waggoner” and the General hanging right over me, I thought I had been a little too smart, but old “Waggoner” did not slip. He got his front feet on the top and sprang as lightly as a cat right into the Yankee line. One of them thought he had found a loose horse and grabbed him by the bit, but turned him loose with an awful howl. We actually surprised the Yankees as much as if we had ambuscaded them from a stone wall, got the first fire, which at such close range counts up. The boys who did the firing on the south bank, and the battery, mounted and came over and joined. The Yankees were of the very best brand—tall Westerners, could ride and shoot with the best. They put up a good fight, but we got away with them and scattered them. There was nothing between us and the Nashville and Franklin pike then.
General Buford made a report to General Forrest, and told him if he were backed up by Infantry he would swing on around and grab the Nashville pike, and that would force the Yankees out of their breastworks at Franklin. I was selected to carry that dispatch.
To my anxious inquiry where I would find General Forrest, “Damn if I know,” said old Abe. “About Franklin, I guess,” was all I could get.
The fight at Franklin was just commencing then. I recrossed the river. I had the choice of two routes. The one up the river was shorter, but as far as I could see it lay across soft fields that would force me to ride slowly or kill my horse. The other was a good, hard road that, from the course it ran, I knew must lead into the pike on which General Hood’s army was advancing, a few miles south of Franklin. I chose the latter.
I reached the pike just as Hood’s artillery was going to the front under whip and spur.
There is nothing more thrilling than to see a well-equipped battery going to the front. As far as I could see up and down the pike they were rushing forward, six horses to each gun, and on the Jump. Cannoneers sitting braced in their places, stripped to the waist, yelling and laughing at everything, as if it were the most joyous thing in the world—fighting. The guns followed each other so close, and were going at such a rapid gait, that I had to watch my chance and slip across the pike. Across the pike, and marching in the field parallel with the pike, was the head of General Stewart’s Corps, just passing, the General riding in front. I knew him by sight, and I thought he might be able to give me some information as to the whereabouts of General Forrest. I slipped across the pike, jumped a wall and saluted General Stewart. The General returned my salute as politely as if I were General Hood. I told him who I was, and asked him if he knew anything about General Forrest.
He said no, he had not been to the front yet, and did not know what they were doing.
I had turned, and was riding with him. He then inquired of me what the cavalry were doing. I told him about the fight at the river, and added that if we could get the infantry there would be no serious fight at Franklin. He seemed to be greatly interested.
Just then a staff officer came flying down the pike, jumped the wall in front of General Stewart, saluted, and said: “General Hood’s compliments; you will please move your command forward at double-quick.”
While he was talking to General Stewart, I was sizing him up. He was a young, handsome, dashing looking fellow, finely mounted, and a good rider, but he looked as proud and haughty as if he commanded the whole army. I hesitated some little time before I could muster courage to address such a magnificent creature. Poor couriers did not always get courteous treatment.
I think General Stewart noticed my slowness, for he turned to the staff officer, and said: “Here is a young man very anxious to find General Forrest. Can you inform him?” The fellow never even looked at me, but whirled his horse around and said, “Follow me!” He took the wall, into the pike.
There was something about that “follow me” and manner that got my backup. He had hardly got his horse straightened out down the pike before I was alongside of him. If my thoughts had been spoken there, they would have been something like: “D— you, I have always been used to riding beside better men than you are.”
We passed the guns as if they were standing still. Never a word or look did that fellow give me. He kept on till I thought he was surely going to charge the town. After I had about given him up as crazy, he suddenly pulled up, and I, not expecting it, shot on by, but stopped in almost a bound and rode back. Pointing to the right of the pike, he said: “I saw General Forrest up there a few moments ago, and guess he is there yet.”
I looked in the direction he pointed, but could make out nothing for the smoke. The lines seemed to be close together and engaged in a fearful conflict. This was my first and lasting sight of the fearful fight at Franklin. I turned toward the staff officer to get more definite directions, and found he had disappeared. I never saw him any more. I left the pike and rode in the direction he had pointed. The ground was strewn with dead and wounded men. I had to ride slowly. I worked my way along in the rear of the Confederate lines a long ways to the right, but could not find General Forrest. Then I concluded I was too close in. I knew he had no command there. I did not think he would go up so close to the firing line if he were only looking on, so rode further off and then turned towards the pike again.
I had almost reached the pike when I heard someone swearing at a fearful rate. I could not see very far for the smoke and gloom.
I thought, “If that is not the General, it’s his twin brother, for nobody could swear that way but he.”
It proved to be the old boy himself. By that time our lines were giving way, and men were going to the rear in squads. The General was trying to rally them. He had worked himself into a terrible rage, had his saber drawn, and I expected to see him use it on some of them, and they would probably have shot the stuffing out of him. They did not know him, and seemed to resent his interference. Their own officers rallied them and charged those impregnable breastworks nine times, they say.
I rode up to General Forrest, stuck my dispatch under his nose and told him it was very important. He glared at me a moment like he could not make up his mind whether to cut my head off or shoot me. Finally he called, “Major!”
Out of the smoke rode the major and took the dispatch and read it to the General. I don’t recollect now whether it was Major Strange or Anderson. Both were nice men to do business with. Before he got through reading the report all signs of anger and passion had disappeared from the General’s face. It was always my private opinion that most of it was “put on,” though I did not tell him so for various reasons.
“Bully for old Abe,” says General Forrest, after hearing the report. “Major, tell him to hold what he’s got, and I will be with him as soon as I see General Hood and get the infantry.”
He went off on the jump. We were standing then on the side of the pike. The major was dismounted, stooping down writing on his knee, and I was holding his horse.
Out of the gloom and smoke came the sound of drum and fife. I looked back down the pike and saw a long line of bayonets coming at a double-quick with “trailing arms.” They were not yelling, their line as straight as a string, and perfect time. Though they were leaving a broad trail of dead behind, they kept the ranks closed up. From the stern, set face and fierce light of battle in their eyes, I could see they meant business. In front of them was our old fifer, Casey, and his Arkansas chum, playing “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” They had two kettle-drums and a bass. They passed within ten feet of me.
I yelled at old Casey as he recognized me, and nodded as he flashed past. I knew then that was our old infantry brigade. I saw General Scott further down the line. It enthused me so to see our comrades going in so gallantly that I yelled to beat the band. My horse thought hell had broken loose somewhere and wanted to go, too. The Yankees weresending a perfect storm of shot and shell down the pike. Two lines of breastworks, two solid sheets of flame above them, the batteries looked like the whole top of the hill was ablaze, but into that hell our old boys charged, over the first line like a flash, and a race with the Yankees for the second line. I watched old Casey. All the musicians were killed or wounded before they reached the second line, but Casey, above the roar of the guns and the bursting of shells, still marched, playing on, and I could hear that old fife screaming “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” At last, for one short moment, I saw old Casey’s tall, slim form mount the second line of Yankee works, and then “The Girl I Left Behind Me” came to a sudden end. His music suddenly ceased. A Yankee knocked him over the head with a gun. Casey was captured and sent to prison. I have never seen him since, but the last I heard of him he was living in Cadiz, Ky.
I was called back to my own business by a gentle tap on my knee and heard the major say, with a very superior smile: “You seem to be a little excited.”
“Don’t get that way often, Major,” I replied, “that’s our old infantry brigade. Look how they go in.”
He looked across my horse, and I could see his face light up. “By God, those are gallant fellows,” he says.
“Yes, old Abe trained them,” was my answer.
The major gave me the dispatch, and I was obliged to leave at once.
Hood would not give Forrest the infantry nor allow him to flank and follow up our victory.
Twice in twenty-four hours had Forrest let the bars down to the Yankee rear, and Hood would not take advantage of it. Things were changing every moment, and I had to make several trips between Buford and Forrest, just how many I don’t remember. I was riding long after the fight was over.
The education which is worth while is the one we learn in making a living.