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On August 2, 1862 there had been established in Chattanooga, Tennessee what was usually the only news source for Confederate soldiers, in the South, The Chattanooga Daily Rebel. Tod Carter became a War Correspondent from Middle Tennessee for this paper, writing under the name, "Mint Julep". Several issues containing the column by "Mint Julep" have been located at the Library of Congress in Washington. The earliest is dated November 20 and appeared in the issue for November 26, 1862. By grapevine and otherwise From Middle Tennessee Camp near Murfreesboro, Nov. 20, 1862 You will perhaps recollect the promise I made, when you gave the farewell grip, to drop in on you now and then, with a word from the camp, or, if at leisure some wet, gloomy evening to "call", and whilst chasing the weary hours with fits of gossip and scandal, draw a fragrant cork and mingle hopes and memories over the pure juice of the grain. This evening is surely wet enough, and as gloomy as a raven could have heart to wish. The cork is drawn, and the juice sparkles as brightly as of old! Here's to you! Rumors for a moment's chit-chat fly around me as leaves from the brave old oak, whose bare brawny limbs afford a break-wind to my sheeted wig-wam, but they are all from the mysterious old grape-vine. For several weeks our camp has presented the same treadmill routine, without a single new feature to break its lifeless monotony. The only orders of any particular interest that we have received are to cook two days' rations, which the boys, fearing a scarcity of transportation, generally eat before the skillets are cold. I haven't heard a joke since the unfortunate rise of the whiskey item in the report of "Prices Current". Haunted with stray memories of the many old days, as the wind sings its lullaby through the ragged tent cloth, I often peer through a hole into the moonlight to see if some restless ghost of an old joke is not paying solitary pilgrimage to its old haunts, but I turn in disappointment to the consolation of my blessed old pipe. I might if so disposed very briefly and eloquently say it is profoundly dull. Now and then a bevy of pretty girls pay us a strolling visit, but a handsome friend at my elbow, wreathed and glittering with gold lace, claims they have come to see him. At any rate I can always tell when they are about by his borrowing my white shirt. I never could persuade any of the dear creatures that I am handsome, and I don't know why. It is curious, very curious. Our Colonel (Thomas Benton Smith)who is young and who thinks he is good looking, has cut loose from the Commissary Department altogether. Baskets and pretty notes are daily occurrences around his quarters. Byron says women are stargazers. I believe they are. They are perfectly voracious in their fighting propensities, and have no use for a fellow who survives the first fight. An ugly mess-mate of mine says the reason they are so pugnacious is because they are all under conscript age. God bless them. I love them. The Conscript Fathers held a council of war at this place a few days ago. My invitation miscarried. Gen'l. Remark was there, and says they are resolved to make a stand during the winter season, somewhere in this section, perhaps at this place, as a number of turnpikes from the North country concentrate upon the railroad at this point. The rumor has at any rate dissipated much of the gloom that was gathering about the hearts of the desponding, and kindled a happy feeling of gratification in every quarter of the country. The valleys nestling along the Harpeth and Cumberland Rivers are the granaries and larders of the State, and should be held if possible. The news from about Nashville is meager. From the entire field I am unable to gather a single sheaf of interest.The place is besieged by guerrillas and bush-whackers, rendering ingress and egress rather uncertain. Now and then an adventurer makes the trip, and brings the stereotyped tale of Yankee insult and oppression. Their hearts are in a continual struggle of hope and fear. Rumors of a retrograde move on the part of the Southern forces reach them, and the night of hopelessness closes around them. Again the cracking of the guerrillas'guns is heard, and they catch at a gleam of hope, like the prisoners of Chillon at the struggling sunbeam that crept through a crevice of their dungeon. "Carthago delenda est!" The number of butter-nut gentlemen and burr-tailed filleys that throng the road to McMinnville revives many a memory torn from history I learned when a school-boy, of the faithful visiting Jerusalem. Their faces eclipse Webster and Cobb-Walker in their definition of devout and funeral. A new grave-yard is the only simile at hand that furnishes any idea of their sorrow-steeped countenances. I met a discharged soldier this morning who had ingenuity enough to find his way to the paymaster's office, and who had actually drawn his pay! If the poor fellow had health, he deserves promotion. He was complaining that he was denied the bounty of fifty dollars. He vainly imagined that the Confederate Government spoke authoritatively when it promised the bounty to all soldiers who re-enlisted. He had not learned that General Bragg had repealed the provision as concerns discharged soldiers. He was entitled to the bounty the moment he re-enlisted, and should have been paid then, but, after serving eighteen months he ought not to have been wounded and lost his health, and become unserviceable to the Government. I tried to convince him of this, but he was incorrigible. The poor fellow, thin and pale from a wound received at Shiloh, maintained that a soldier who had given up his home and health and everything, when cast off as utterly worthless, was entitled to the bounty to support him in his helpless exile, and should not be condemned like a mule and turned out upon the highway to die. I reminded him that General Bragg had repealed that provision of the law as far as discharged soldiers were concerned, and had so notified the paymasters. Well, I have written enough. You can read this in broken doses. With many compliments and much respect, Mint Julep, Fils. About December 1, 1862 the Twentieth Tennessee Regiment was ordered back to Murfreesboro, Tennessee, and here Tod spent another Christmas without the company of his two brothers. Lt. Colonel Moscow Carter was now a Prisoner of War and Pvt. Francis Watkins Carter had been wounded and given a medical discharge. In the following column written from Manchester, Tennessee, and dated January 4, 1863, Tod describes what he saw and heard during the Battle of Stones River or Murfreesboro, which occurred December 31-January 2 1863. Special Correspondence of the Rebel. [Pub. Jan 15, 1863] Dear Rebel--The entire South is at this time voraciously devouring every particle and incident of our bloody fight in front of Murfreesboro, and I suppose you too are under the influence of the prevailing portions of this bloody conflict, and in compliance with an old promise, I will briefly recount what I saw and heard. As you are aware, the opening forces, though skirmishing on a heavy scale for three or four days, were not regularly engaged until late tuesday, too late to be in any manner decisive but the plans had ripened, and when night closed upon the scene, the unwanted hush of the long dark lines in deadly proximity, like the muffled stillness of the waters at the approach of the storm, bespoke the bloody carnival of the morrow. By the break of day-dawn Wednesday morning, the guns of the skirmishers began to crack, in straggling, scattering shots, gradually quickening into a fierce and brisk fire, on the extreme left of our lines near Triune, with now and then a field piece flinging in its thunder to the stormy prelude. By sun-up, the hoarse notes of regular battle were heard in that quarter. The game was up, and the pack in full cry. Steadily the surges swept from the left toward the centre and right, growing heavier, deeper, and stronger as they came, and when the hour of noon was past, almost the entire line was submerged in the fiery tempest. Four hours it raged with the wildest fury. Gen'l Breckinridge's division was on the right, stretching across and at right angles with the Murfreesboro and Nashville turnpike when it reached it. They had been stationed during the morning, on the Lebanon pike, to defeat a flank movement, should the enemy attempt it, in that quarter, but the increasing demonstrations made near the Nashville road, lulled every fear of such a move, and determined our leaders to dislodge them from their strong position. The division was drawn upacross a broad open stubble field, on the left of Stone's river. This field had been the theatre of a bloody conflict during the early part of the day. Fragments of shell, the torn and trampled ground, broken vehicles and other debris of battle, indicate a hard-bought field. It was to be again fought and won. The enemy in heavy force hovered darkly around the skirts of a scrubby growth of timber, just across this field. Their sharp-shooters as thick as locusts, were concealed in the grass, behind trees and fences, and in the clefts of the rock along the bank of the river. Gen'l Preston's Brigade extended from the river towards the ruins of McGowan's house in the centre of the old field. This brigade moved forward in solid column. Staff officers were galloping backwards and forwards, up and down the line giving orders, field officers giving commands and, with colours fluttering wildly in the wind, they reached the crest of a long ground swell, and saw the woods and fields bristling with blue coats and Yankee bayonets. Down went blankets and knapsacks, and giving an old-fashioned Tennessee yell, they closed in. What a roar and tempest of balls! The air screamed with hissing shot and bursting shells! Long strings of the wounded and bloody limped their way to the rear, thickly sprinkled with blue-coat captives. The Minnie sung its best and merriest Southern air. Our lines moved on. While leading gallantly his boys in a charge, Tom Smith, the popular young Colonel of the 20th Tennessee, fell, shot through the breast and arm. Orville Ewing, a son of Hon. Edwin H. Ewing, and volunteer aid to Gen'l Preston, was shot through the head and killed. A nobler man and braver soldier never fell in battle. Captains Anly and Whitfield of the same staff were also wounded. The field was thickly strewn with the killed and wounded, Southern and Yankee, laying side by side in ghastly confusion. When night closed around, the field was ours. Many of your old friends fell in the fight, among them were Captain Watkins and Lieutenant Crosswait. Although the two armies were in sight of each other and only three quarters of a mile apart, yet the entire day Thursday, and the greater portion of Friday were consumed in skirmishing and cannon duelling. Late in the evening of the latter day, Gen'l Breckinridge's division made one of the most brilliant charges of the war. The enemy had massed a heavy force in the cedar forest North of Stone's river, near Lebanon road, and were menacing this wing, which was held by this single division. Towards the close of the evening they left a large reserve in this strongly entrenched position, and advanced on us with a long heavy line of infantry, and artillery, over-lapping our command by a strong brigade. Gen'l Breckinridge charged them and a conflict ensued, bloody and desperate in the extreme. Their artillery opened upon us a most terrific fire, and our forces melted away like night shadows before the break of morning, but they struggled on in the face of the fiery sleet, like gods for their altars. For an hour the demons of hell seemed to have met in wild, blood-drunken revelry. The enemy finally gave way, and our boys dashed upon them like a tigress to her bloody banquet and drove them howling through wood and field, and over the cedar-girt hills to the river, and across the river to their den, and their reserve. And then, notwithstanding the statement of your correspondent, withdrew quietly and without opposition. The enemy fought bravely, but they met men fighting for their homes, and their little ones and notwithstanding their superior force were repulsed and driven back in slaughter. The ground was literally blue with their dead and dying. Our thinned ranks attest their courage with a melancholy eloquence. Many of our highest and best spirits fell upon that field. Lt. Col. Labenda, the very soul of gallantry is still there. Spring will bring her sweetest flowers to that sacred spot. Our loss was heavy. As an instance, the 20th Tennessee, (God bless her, a regiment without a coward!) with less than four hundred men in the fight, lost one hundred and fifty eight! We repulsed them, yes we whipped them every where and our boys were willing to settle the war in sight of Murfreesboro. Why we retreated some future Columbus must discover, Will live to fight another day." An amusing incident occured on the battlefield in the midst of a most galling fire. One of our soldiers, a regular "gay bird", was wounded in the leg, just as a captured Yankee passed him on the way to the rear. He mounted him and rode him without bridle or spur, but at double quicktime, to the hospital. Well good day, I must close. MINT JULEP After the Battle of Murfreesboro, the Confederates fell back to Shelbyville and Manchester Pikes, behind Duck River, and went into winter quarters at Shelbyville and Tullahoma, southeast of Murfreesboro, where they remained about six months. Cavalry raids were the only engagements. It was from Tullahoma that Tod wrote several columns for the Chattanooga Daily Rebel. Special Correspondence of the Daily Rebel. Camp Near Tullahoma, Tenn., Feb 2d, 1863 [Pub.,Feb. 6, 1863] Dear Rebel:--We have no camp news of especial interest. We have had rain, sleet, and snow in gloomy succession since my last letter with only an occasional fleeting spell of sun-shine. Both armies are mud bound, so you need expect no movement of importance in this quarter until this wet spell breaks away. Our calvary forces under their respective leaders were drifting towards a rallying point, a few days ago, and have since then mysteriously disappeared. You will doubtless hear from them ere the wax and wane of many moons. Another soldier, whose name I have not been able to learn, but I am informed, was a member of a Lousiana regiment, paid the penalty of desertion, day before yesterday. It is melancholy duty to take life, but imperatively necessary for the success of arms, at such a juncture as this. I had a stolen glimpse of several northern papers of a late date, last night, and I will give you such items as my memory may furnish from a hasty gleaning. They are all brimful of the dissatisfaction, discontent, and rioting over the north, all growing out of the gloveless abuses and usurpations of the bob-tail dictatorship at Washington, culminating a desire for an immediate peace. But these peace dreams are based upon the idea of a restoration of the Union as it was, and are consequently wild, unreal vagaries. Notwithstanding their clamors for peace, if their hearts have even entertained the proposition of our separation in recognition, their lips, paralyzed with apprehensions of a berth in the bastiles, refuse to give it utterance. Let us not be deluded by these dreams of peace, however sweet their whisperings. Peace will come, but our Taxation of efforts and preparations will only stay its coming. Mr. Lincoln has rendered himself so ridiculously contemptible even to his "fools and victims", that when his message was read in the Senate they refused to accord him the poor courtesy of ordering the precious document to be printed-- " -Now lies he there, And none so poor as do him reverence." The legislature of Indiana tendered a vote of thanks to Gov. Horatio Seymour of New York, for "his able and patriotic defense of the Constitution, the Laws, and Liberties of American citizens". While it is in my memory, I will mention an expression of Mr. Sherman, in the Yankee Senate, a few days ago, dropped, when discussing a bill for the release of political prisoners: "Unless something is done on this subject at an early day, we will have collision between the States and the Federal Government. We have now almost civil war in two states of the Union". That comes in rather an authoritative shape, and though a straw it indicates a shifting of the winds. It seems that the Abolition Legislature purporting to reflect the sentiments of glorious old Missouri, are beginning to feel a little uneasy in their pilfered power as the vessel rocks to the storm. They have set up a plaintive howl and piteously implore Abraham to rescue his children. They have, eighty-four of them, affixed their autographs to a memorial addressed to the veiled Prophet, setting forth "that there is still underlying the surface of this State, a large substratum of disloyal, treasonable sentiments which may break out the first favorable opportunity". What an eloquent tribute to the gallant old State, this cry of her murderers for help! Mr. Allen of Illinois, in the Yankee House of Representatives, has made an able speech, protesting against the deportation of slaves in his State, in violation of her Constitution. He warned Mr. Lincoln that history furnishes instances of "the royal purple being spoiled by plebian hands". Rather "pert". The most gratifying oration to genius that my range of reading furnishes, was accorded to Mr. Lincoln, at Cincinnati on the occasion of his birthday. The negroes donned their Sunday duds, and poured through the streets in a brilliant profusion of sable "beauty and chivalry", swimming in smiles and coquetry upon the grand gala day! Napoleon had his monument of cannon in the place Vendome, Washington of hearts, and Abraham the Ist, the smiles of the sable belles! How widely men's taste differ. The northern papers published the report, said to be based upon good authority, that the Army of the Potomac is to be virtually disbanded, the greater portion to come out West, to co-operate in the campaign just inaugurated, and the remainder to protect the ditches around Washington. At any rate Burnside has bid his army an affectionate farewell, and turned over the command to Hooker. The Nashville Union announces with a good deal of twisted lightning flourish the arrival of Col. Bob Johnson and his regiment of Tennessee cavalry at Nashville. Just as they were about to cross the State line, the gallant Colonel rode to the head of the column of returning exiles and paused, like a "seedy" tippler before his once favorite doggery and indulged in eleguent recollections. The long sad past lisped to him in many a sweet memory. The Napoleonic future that spread before him, glittering with glory fired the mingled emotions of his soul, and like the throttled throes of the volcano, spurning all restraint, burst forth. In the frenzy of the moment he called up his orderly, who sang to soothe his struggling feelings, the touching lyric, commencing "Somebody's after Yancey I do know," &c. The dramatic effect of the scene was thrilling in the extreme. It is fondly hoped by their many anxious friends they all survived, but we sustain many serious apprehensions. Au Revoir, Mint Julep. P.S.--Since writing the above a friend read me a decidedly interesting rumor from a correspondent down South. I give it as I got it. A week or two ago, a lady from Ohio, a Mrs. Judge C- - - - who has a brother in the South, visited Gen. Price with letters purporting to have been written by some of the most eminent men of Ohio, Indiana and Illinois, proposing the admission of these States into the Southern Confederacy. They say they have secret organization embracing the three entire states and that they have been preparing this step for a year. That their interests are indentified with ours and they are tired of the war. They propose if they are received, upon a given day to rise en masse,seize the arms,ammunition stores, and property of the United States and declare themselves in rebellion. They promise to bind themselves forever to deliver up all fugitive slaves. Gen. Price knew Mrs. C., and was sufficiently familar with the writing of many of these men, to rest assured of its genuiness. He accompanied her to Jackson, Miss., called a council consisting of Gen's Loring, Reed, Pemberton, and Gov. Pettus, and introduced her. The result was, she was furnished transportation to Richmond for further action. M. J. FROM MINT JULEP. [Pub. Feb. 11, 1863] Dear Rebel: It is most emphatically dull here -- dull as a wet Sunday evening at a country cross-roads. There is no news, no gossip, no scandal, nothing. The smooth current of camp life has not been rippled for several days. We are compelled to resort to cards and the pipe to whittle time away. Occasionally a thrifty specimen of the dirty-face, snub-nosed, breeches and boots genus, too infantile for the polite attentions of the conscript officer, cries out, "Here's your pies!" upon the "perilous edge" of the guard line and collects around him forthwith an admiring audience, to whom he discourses with astonishing volubility upon the innumerable merits of the article in question. Many an "aching void" is stilled by the simple process of investing fifty cents and the snub-nosed cherub, without a tear or farewell, rings his "Here's your pies!" in other beats. The tread mill routine grinds slowly on. Generals Joseph E. Johnston and Preston, paid us a visit yesterday. I suppose they were on a tour of inspection. General Joseph E. looks fresh and vigorous. He promises to sojourn with us until our affairs wear a more pleasing prospect. The war in Middle and East Tennessee will assume a stirring interest before spring bursts her buds. Did you ever see Gen. Preston the distinguished Kentucky orator? I love to look at the motherly old creature. It stirs up a whole nest of baby-hood recollection. He reminds one so pleasantly of a benevolent old grandmother we used to see,when we wore,or rather didn't wear, breeches, with her bead reticule,a pair of silver spectacles perched majestically over her eagle-beak, affectionately courting the cooling breeze with an old turkey-wing, a relic of a venerable old family gobler. A friend just in from Williamson county informs me the Yankees were out there in force when he left. We suppose they are extending their lines for the purpose of foraging. The citizens of that county were plundered by the Yankees last summer, despoiled by the "irregular horse" under Wheeler and Forrest and are again to be robbed by the Federal hordes. We occasionally get a peep into affairs at Richmond, through the papers. Tennessee gets her Foote into everything. The sparring over the new Conscript is an amusing though rather serious play of ignorance. They play like desperate gamestersfor popularity. What ancient author made use of the expression, "Montes, parturiunt, et ridiculus mus nascetur?" Any how, it occurs to me just at this moment (the Army Regulations forbid a soldier speaking contemptuously of a member of Congress). And the Editors and Ministers are to be dragged into the service to increase our strength? Perhaps it would give us two, maybe three companies more to enroll the editorial corps. We would be perfectly irrestible with the addition of a small battalion of the Knights of the Quill. (This should not be spoken above a low-whisper for Rosencranz may overhear us.) Does the strength of the South consist alone in home, flesh, sinews, and muscle? If so, our cause then is surely hopeless, for beyond question the North outmeasures us in point of weight and bulk. Our superiority consists in the morale, the animus. Is this not the creation of intelligence? The Northern people submit tamely to usurpation, but at its first noiseless, stealthy approach the Southern spirits starts like a panther. The difference in intelligence and training accounts for this. Why cripple then the medium of supply for this peculiar strength of the South? Could the redoubled warriors, breathing fire along the corridors of the capitol, see the throng of ragged soldiers pressing eagerly around the news office at this place daily, for a paper, perhaps a change would come over the spirit of their dreams. These poorly clad soldiers, "foot sore and weary," are perhaps as sincerely devoted to the cause as these sweet smelling "Conscript Fathers." Are the people to be blindfolded in the midst of a revolution when all is at stake? Baron Munchausen tells us of a blind sow he saw upon one occasion that grasped her pig's tale with her teeth and was in this manner led from place to place. Do our friends at Richmond require this of us? I leave the farce. MINT JULEP. (From our own Correspondent.) Tullahoma, Tenn., Feb. 16, 1863 Dear Rebel: We are again in the midst of rumors as thick as"Autumn leaves in Ardennes' gloomy vale." They all spring from that mysterious intermitting source of so much good news, Kentucky, and are perhaps as airy and intangible as the thousands that have heretofore blown over the country. One says a Federal Kentucky regiment resisted the conscription of negroes into the Yankee service at Louisville, and a desperate fight ensued between it and an Iowa regiment sent down for the purpose of suppressing the disturbance. The Kentuckians proving rather stubborn, an entire brigade was brought into the ring to tame them, and an Indiana regiment crowded, whetted its gaffs, and leaped in to assist Kentucky. They were finally subdued and sent North for imprisonment. Here's another one that will do to string. A gentleman just from Kentucky admits that delegates properly accredited from Ohio, Indiana, Illinois and Kentucky, met in Convention at Louisville on the 18th of this month for the purpose of peremptorily demanding of the Rump Government a suspension of hostilities and an armistice, and in the event of a failure in this, will immediately form an alliance and make bids to the Southern Government for protection. I have a perfect fund of such shinplaster news, but I reckon these are almost as many as you can get off for awhile. I saw a batch of late Yankee newspapers this evening, but they contained nothing of unusual interest. They are all blubbering over the misguided policy of the "saints and wise men" at Washington, and whining for peace. Their consul at Monterey informs his government that smuggling operations are carried on extensively on the Texas frontier, and laments most bitterly that the Lord's annointed, blue-gill Puritans, are masters of the ceremonies. He states millions of dollars worth of cotton are exchanged at Monterey, monthly, for munitions of war, and that there is now an order on file for six hundred thousand blankets, at that place. Notwithstanding the strenuous efforts of the Administration to gag the people, and its rigid surveillance and censorship of the press, mischief will leak out here and there in spite of them. Do you recollect the story of the man who endeavored to employ his hat for a patch, when his garments were too badly torn for a satisfactory result? The image of the poor fellow, dodging and shifting his old beaver and perspiring freely at his unsuccessful labours, always occurs to me when I get hold of a Yankee paper. But to my story. What does this stray bit of humor mean? Mr. Roberts in the Indiana General Assembly, a few days ago, said: The Government has been secretly mysteriously placing arms in the hands of the Abolitionists of the State. The General Assembly should know for what purpose these arms are distributed. The people should demand of the military authorities an account of this matter. They might be driven by the unwise conduct of the authorities to force, to assert their rights. He hoped such a thing would not occur, but it might, and would, if the people's rights were continued to be trampled upon. Mr. Vandeever from the Committee on Federal Relations in the Illinois Senate, reported a long string of sulphurous resolutions, one of which, being peculiarly interesting, I quote for your perusal. It is rather a new style of literature to emanate from that body. "Resolved that while we condemn and denounce the flagrant and monstrous usurpations of the Administration and encroachments of Abolitionism, we equally condemn the heresy of Secession as unwaranted by the Constitution, and destructive alike to the security and perpetuity of our Government, and the peace and liberty of the people; and fearing as we do that it is the intention of the present Congress at no distant day, to acknowledge the Independence of the Southern Confederacy, and thereby sever the Union, we hereby solemnly declare that we are utterally opposed to any such severance of the Union, and we can never consent that the great Northwest shall be separated from the Southern States composing the Mississippi Valley. That river shall never water the soil of two nations, but from its confluence with the Gulf, shall belong to one great and united people". It was ordered to be printed and made the special order for next Tuesday. Well if Micawber will be patient, something will surely turn up before very long. In the mean time the furlough game is as obsolete as a last year's almanac. A friend of mine claims that the old doctrine that "a man can go home when he can go no where else", has been successfully exploded by Gen. Bragg. Occasionally a Conscript drops in on us from the more sequestered parts of the Lord's vinyard. Gen. Bragg has employed the cavalry to issue invitations. They are compelled to go into the "high-ways and hedges" in order that the table may be filled. Their modesty is equal to their valor, but merit is always modest. The country has long and lustily clamored for their services but being so sensitively retiring and unassuming in their disposition it become necessary to force their talent out. We always accord them an escort and other demonstrations of honor from the depot to the camp. But enough, MINT JULEP. FROM MIDDLE TENNESSEE From our Own Correspondent "Mint Julep." [Pub. Feb. 28, 1863] We have not had the refreshing pleasure of seeing you in several days, save on one occasion, and then we were indebted to a strolling friend for a glimpse. It is the impression among the boys that if another news agent were detailed, with extra duty pay, or appointed aid de camp, a generous rivalry might insure us a more plentiful supply of reading matter. As it is, we whittle away time over stale jokes and stray rumors. Toward the close of evening we are regaled with a piece of tombstone literature, in Gen. Bragg's happiest style; announcing that some fleet-footed lieutenant's gilt has been torn from his collar, for leaving the battle-field at Murfreesboro before the balance of us. Now and then the Provost Marshal, or as a friend calls him, the Provoke Marshal, perpetrates a practical joke, by conscripting a camp follower, and commanding him to the graces of a Springfield musket and knapsack. Our army is again in good fighting trim, and the ranks rapidly filling up by the influx of absentees. I suppose it is better clothed, equipped and fed than ever before. The country is bountifully supplied with game, but the boys are forbidden to shoot, for fear of hitting some General's aide. These sweet-smelling, kid-glovey band-boxy, tea cakey, attar-of-rose exquisites are as plentiful as gnats around a vinegar jug. But you must not construe my expression into any reflection upon the usefulness of this necessary appendage of our Gypsy-life. It is true they dangle a dress sword gracefully, run handsome horses in dashing style, and smile most daintily at the ladies, yet it is no less true, they can tell the ragged, weather-beaten fellow that foots it with his gun and heavy knapsack, exactly what he ought to be. You can thus very readily appreciate the field and scope of their usefulness, and the necessity of taking every precaution to protect them from the weather and disagreeable inconvenience of camp life, and to guard against the rudeness of bringing them in contact with unmannerly soldiers, and everything calculated to grate harshly upon their tender sensibilities. I have conversed with several intelligent and creditable gentlemen from Williamson county in the last few days, and they bring melancholy tidings of the fate of her gallant people. The country is being desolated. The abolitionists are burning and destroying houses, razing fences, stealing horses, shooting cattle and hauling off all the provisions in the county, not even leaving many families meat or bread enough for a single meal. They have broken up the wagons, hoes, and plows, destroyed the harness, and every thing that can be employed in cultivating the earth. The officers boldly proclaimed that the people shall not raise another crop. Citizens are robbed of their money, and their houses pillaged of every article of wearing apparel, and bed clothing, and their furniture and table ware broken and ruined by the heartless scoundrels. I was informed of three instances of my acquaintance, fair, modest, virtuous young women being ruthlessly violated by the hellish ruffians. These are not pictures woven by fancy, nor the creation of vague rumors, but facts attested by authorities that cannot be questioned. If retributive justice is no myth of fancy, it surely is time now for an exhibition of its power. When the men of the country are torn from their homes to fight for the Government, that Government should take some retaliatory steps to protect their helpless families from the hands of the incendiary and the ravisher. "Cry Havock, and let slip the dogs of war." MINT JULEP MIDDLE TENNESSEE Tullahoma, Tenn., March 4, 1863 [Pub. Mar. 6, 1863] I have still no news of material importance to report to you. Reports have been chasing each other over the country, that our cavalry made a dash into Franklin, on the 22d ultimo, and drove the abolitionists from the town. The entire story was decidedly refreshing for the peculiar felicity with which the details were given, yet it proved to be the veriest nothing. Early on the morning of the 22d, the abolitionists conceived the extremely happy and ludicrous farce of celebrating Washington's birthday, and artillery was called into requisition to fire a salute. As the salvos pealed over the country, conjecture caught the notes, strapped on the seven-leagued boots, and jumped to the conclusion that our irregular horse were giving the Yankees fits. Thus was broken a pleasing illusion. The spirit of extortion has grown so morbidly fierce in this section that the prices of the commonest commodities, climb during one night with the speed and agility of the fabled gourd. The striped sticks of candy that used to kindle such a bright smile, upon our dirty faces when we were little fellows, we could fill our pockets with, for a half dime, and then the sale yielded the retailer a profit of one hundred per cent. They now sell very readily for twenty-five cents. This is rather small text, but it sufficiently illustrates the grasping insatiable spirit of the vultures who are greedily devouring the very vitals of ourgovernment. Six months hence what will be the fate of the soldier's wife and child utterly dependent upon the poor pittance he recieves, and her own feeble exertions, for the means of subsistence? The prospect is a cheerless and bitter one. But the hearts of these bloodsuckers are so steeled with selfishness, that they are deaf even to a hungry babe's prattling plea for bread. But the heartless policy of these Shylocks will recoil with a crushing force. An individual haste will illustrate a general principle. Suppose one of your neighbors has one hundred dollars in Confederate money, the staple currency of the country, and goods worth in ordinary times, fifty dollars. lmpatient to become wealthy, he sells these goods for one hundred dollars, thus depreciating the currency, and doubling the price of his goods, the hundred dollars in his pocket have suffered a like depreciation, and his innocent haste to become rich, he awakes from his golden dream and finds that his goods are gone and he has only one hundred dollars in his pocket, according to the value he has fixed to the currency. He over reaches himself, and finds his profits like the fabled bag of gold at the end of the rainbow. There is a very suggestive legend connected with the settlement of a very interesting little village in Maury County popularly know as Kinderhook. There was for a long time only one piece of property in the settlement, and that was an old blind bridle, but the characteristic spirit of thriftiness, broke through all restraint for they stole from each other until they were rich. "I cannot say how true it may be I say you detail as it was said to me." Spring is again with us, and a bright soft spell of sunshine tells of buds and flowers not far distant. Just two years ago to-day, Mr. Lincoln assumed the reins of the executive athority. Perhaps his drivelling soul shrinks abashed at the ruin, the desolation, the new grave bills of his half-spent term. Like the mischievous boy who turned the sluice upon the mill in reckless experiment, powerless to restrain it, he turns and gazes helpless and terror stricken upon its mad plunging. In the spasmodic effort of approaching dissolution, his truculent minions have enacted a sweeping "conscript law" embracing all men between the ages of eighteen and forty-five, save the functionaries of the executive, and judical departments. What a harvest for the battle field. A not distant future will decide whether the Northwestern people will submit tamely to its execution. Good night. Very respectfully yours, MINT JULEP, Tullahoma, Tenn., March 14, 1863. [Pub. Mar. 20, 1863] The trite expression, in status quo, is a faithful and graphic history of the war machinery hereabouts since my last letter. Time hangs as awkwardly about us as a badly fitting coat. There is emphatiently nothing astir. Tullahoma is as chill-inspiring as the swamps about Corinth. The town itself looks like it was convalescent from a long spell of chills. A man who doesn't shake every other day is looked upon as eccentric. We hav'nt reduced it to a system yet, but in the course of a few days we will have reliefs regulated to shake at the tap of the drum. Little baby earthquakes! The ills of my flesh are so far confined to an interesting case of the Confederate itch. It differs materially from the old United States seven-year itch, and is regarded quite a luxury. The scratching is extremely refreshing. Without it, I would "Have no delight to pass away the time." You ought to come up and catch it. Yesterday I donned a citizens suite for old memory's sake, and took a rural jaunt on my favorite steed, Rozencrantz, to sound the depth of the roads, and procure a mess of turnip salad. The roads are falling. You know my experience as deck hand was rather brief, and not very instructive; but I give it as my opinion that only very light draught gunboats can pass over the roads from here to Shelbyville. But March has strung her wind harp, and the waters and mud will soon subside and leave a wide berth to the bullfrog in his lullaby. But being in quest of turnip salad, I plunged my rowels into Rozencrantz's side, and he groaned and floundered on through the wind. Rozencrantz is my review nag. Perhaps you have seen him. He is old now, and his bones sadly protrude, but occasionally a spark kindles in the old fellow's frame. He imagines he is a colt again, and gives way to a youthful propensity to indulge in an old fashion jog-trot, but the stumbling denouement reassures him that the buzzards are awaiting impatiently for their feast. He has seen better days. He is of a heroic dappled grey, and is a lineal descendent of the royal steed that bore Mazeppa so bravely through the wolf chase. Forage being scarce the other night, the mules ate his tale off, and he is now a spectacle, only. "Fit to point a moral or adorn a tale." Well we floundered on after the turnip salad. After a hard ride of two hours I reined up in front of a very impressive but unpicturesque log structure of a style of architecture rather medieval, nestling in a clump of black-jacks in the midst of a sequestered valley. I was confident that here I would find my turnip salad; so, no one telling me I should not dismount, I dismounted. It is unnecessary to mention what I did, or how long I remained there. The fact is I have only an indistinct recollection of black eyes, and blue eyes, and turnip salad, and a canteen (which I inadvertently carried with me) all dancing in confusion around me. The time swept by sweetly and obliviously, and I felt like Tam O' Shanter, that I was "O'er the ills of life victorious." Toward the close of the evening, consciousness awoke, and while indulging in a little dramatic scene with my breeches legs thrust in my socks, a party of cavalry dashed furiously up in convergent lines, myself seeming to be the center of attraction. After an exchange of the usual courtesies and civilities, they proffered me a polite invitation to join them in a ride, and, not having any pressing engagements for the evening, I willingly accepted, and we started. We passed the time away very merrily for a half dozen miles or so, and it struck me that the road began to wear a very familiar aspect, but I said nothing and rode on. Presently I caught a glimpse of white tents in the distance, and discovering that a mysterious masonry of winks, and nods, and smiles was passing between my companions and affording a fund of merriment, I modestly insinuated that an explanation of this strange conduct would be agreeable. The secret leaked out. They had mistaken me for a woods bird, had conscripted me and were tolling me back to camp! The joke was a good one; I unslung my canteen and proposed a "smile" to General Bragg's health. I reached my regiment just in time to hear the orders read at evening parade. A portion of it smacks of the "decidedly rich." Lt. Dulin, Ass't. Insp't. General on Gen. Liddel's staff, was arraigned before the court for assuming command of an Arkansas company on the battle field at Murfreesboro, and executing a maneuver unauthorized by modern rules of warfare. It was said that he ordered a charge on a hospital and a whisky barrel which was done in a dashing style, but the redoubled leaders, as many a brave man has done, fell by the wayside like the seed sown by the man in the parable. Our military authorities, cramped and dwarfed ingenious by a too steady adherence to moss-grown formulas, were utterly unable to appreciate the untrained dash and daring of this feat and ordered the arrest. The proof was insufficient and the Lieutenant was aquitted. MINT JULEP Tullahoma, Tenn., March 20, 1863 [Pub. Mar. 25, 1863] Dear Rebel: We have had a perfect floodtide of soft Spring sunshine for many days. Blue-birds are beginning to carol and now and then we see green tender blades of grass peeping timidly out of the earth. This spirit of reanimation has touched the hearts of our boys and full of the fresh inspiration they listen eagerly for the first notes of the Spring campaign. Yesterday was grand gala day with us. General Johnston having assumed immediate command of the forces in Middle Tennessee, announced a review of the entire army at this point yesterday. It was a novelty to nearly all of us, and full of delight and interest. The day broke brightly and beautifully for the occasion and long ere the sun had swept the mists from the broad open field near town. For two hours the various long dark flowing streams were unbroken until the review ground bristled like a stubble-field with sturdy warriors. Orders rang and rattled over the field, Babel fashion. Sabres and spurs clanked as gaily caparisoned chargers, blazing with loads of lace, champed their bits and pranced and curvetted, impatient for the rising of the curtain. Curious citizens in gingerbread jeans stern-visaged soldiers, and colored people of African persuasion, greeted the eye in every direction. It seemed "As if the yawning hills to heaven, A subterranean host had given." The trees and house-tops were filled with ragged dirty-faced boys, like a pigeon-roost. Your handsome correspondent perched himself not gracefully but very securely in the fork of a stubborn black jack in the midst of the Falstaffian recruits, to secure a more extended view of the scene. Upon the far side of the field, women of conscript ages had gathered in a vastly delighted profusion. What a battery of bright eyes were pouring their plunging fire into our ranks! But our boys stood it like heroes. Not a man budged. Many of them, suffering from an attack of the calico proclivity, recklessly approached within a short distance of the breastworks. (I am not punning, I am religiously opposed to it.) These were chiefly officers of a high grade, for under the present regime a soldier with less than three stars can't shine. Where did this sudden apparition of beauty spring from? Our encampment, like the enchanted garden spoken of in Eastern tales, at the close of evening was a joyless wilderness, but at the first burst of morning was blooming with sweet flowers. The low-laughing eyes and foot-racing smiles made the occasion as merry as Christmas bells. I was just reflecting how very provoking it would have been if, our reverend grand-mother Eve, in her coy girlish days, when her lips pouted prettily for kissing, had coquetted our grand-sire Adam, and he in his boyish awkwardness and verdancy had sworn never to marry! I had just reached this stage of my cogitations when the bass and kettle-drums began to war and rattle like a bunch of thunder bolts, set off squib fashion among the crags of a mountain, and the fifes screamed as if they were bent on blowing out their last note. What a rattle of sounding hoofs! Yonder they come at the top of their speed! Colonels shout out to their men, "eyes front!" and square themselves as bolt upright in their saddles, and look as stiff and grim as if by mistake, they had swallowed a lightning rod. Company officers, confident that the attention of the Generals and their cortege will be aimed directly at them, plant themselves like corn-stalks in front of their companies and gruffly mutter command to their men withoutturning their heads. But the curious unmannerly soldiers will steal an opportunity and peep slyly down the line to see the fun. Whoop! Hurrah! Here they come with steeds foaming and smoking. What a glitter of uniforms and trappings! Here comes Gen. Joseph E. Johnston with his pensive, reflective cast of countenance, astride a beautiful black stallion; Lt. Gen. Hardee, stern and severe, yet a sly twinkling of his merry blue eye reveals a bold, romping, rollicking spirit; General Breckinridge, a very beam of chivalry, and the host of gaudy aids. But they are gone. Drums thunder along the dark line and flags stoop in graceful salute. Well, this is a grand review and the first I ever saw. If it should occur every day in the week it would still be interesting. Every soul would be spurred for the conflict. I strutted along the line to look at the flags. Some of them were of rich, beautiful silk, the work of our glorious women, confided by them to their brothers, husbands and sweethearts when the bugle first gathered the clans, but now they are weather-stained, faded and bullet-torn. Many of them were blue Confederate battleflags, full of death's harvest-home. Ah! but these thousand freshly made gravemounds in every State are pledges of our freedom. Every heart in the South makes a weary pilgrimage to some of these sacred spots. The hand of man can never blot them out. I strolled on. The troops shift position and clear the arena. The field is transformed. A mimic battle is being fought. Long serried lines of cold steel sweep steadily forward. The sight almost chills the blood. The command "double-quick, charge!" rings out, and with wild furious yells they dashed forward upon the imaginary foe. Frantic shouts break from the vast multitude of spectators. Officers, generals and all, fired with memories of Shiloh, Perryville and Murfreesboro, are submerged in the excitement, and rush forward, waving their caps and swords in the air, shouting onward! I could almost hear the villainous bullets plough the earth and splinter the twigs about me, and I instinctively looked around for a conservative tree. What a glorious thing fighting would be if nobody was hurt. Perhaps the inventive faculties of the blue lip puritans will trump up some pleasant little device as a substitute for steel and saltpetre before they deal the cards for another war. But the masses are drifting toward another part of the field, and like Paul Pry, "I will just drop in to see what's going on". A hollow square is formed; Gen'ls Johnston, Hardee, Breckinridge and Preston are there with their respective staffs; carriages filled with bright-eyed girls have drawn near; Gov. Harris is there and his face brightens into a smile like old times. I edged my way through the crowd like a small boy with a basket of pies. A flag is being presented to the 20th Tennessee Regiment by Col. O'Hara, General Breckinridge's Chief of Staff, and I will furnish you with such portions of his remarks as my memory reserved as a pleasant little reminiscence of the war. The flag was formed of beautiful white and red silk, made in triangles, the points meeting in the centre and clasping a large shield:-- "I have a duty devolving upon me to-day, which I esteem an honor, and perform with pleasure. I am deputied to present to you a flag wrought by the hands of a lady of Kentucky. The inquiry may suggest itself: Why the distinguished gentlemen charged to bestow this banner, has not chosen to present to a regiment from his own State? The answer I think is too obvious to need expression. I might add that the noble Kentuckians who have relinquished all the ties, and almost all the hopes of home to devote their lives and their all to this cause, are contented with the assured appreciation of their illustrious commander and countrymen, and with proud consciousness of having nobly done their duty, and their constant and equal devotion to the common cause leaves no criterion by which their General might distinguish among them. He and they feel that it is a regiment of some other state that the honor of bearing this flag will be more appropriately confided. And the General has felt the delicacy and difficulty of making a selection amoung the various regiments which constitute his command, many of which have won his admiration by their gallant conduct under his own eye in many a stricken field. After mature consideration, however, in view of its uniform gallantry and length of service under his command, he has concluded that it is upon the 20th Tennessee Regiment that these colors will be most properly bestowed. In the first memorable battle on the soil of Kentucky, in this war, the 20th Tennessee was signalized by its devoted patriotism and disciplined valor. At Fishing Creek when the sternest were dismayed, and the timid yielded to the panic, the gallantry of the 20th Tennessee shone forth with conspicuous lustre. At Shiloh, when the reeling battalions of the enemy confessed the superiority of the Southern valor, the banners of the 20th Tennessee were among the foremost in that bloody struggle. At the bombardment of Vicksburg throughout the sulphurous carnival that raged so many days and nights around that heroic city, the 20th Tennessee stood, baring its scarred front to the storm of shot and shell. At Baton Rouge when our Southern chivalry rushed upon the insolent invader of their country, the 20th Tennessee was again seen in the van of the battle. At Murfreesboro, whether on the left of Stone River among the bloody cedars or on the right in the fearful charge of the 2d of January which laid low many a noble spirit,the 2Oth Tennessee maintained its bright renown and plucked new laurels from the jaws of death. In view of this record of its heroic service and patriotic devotion, it has been decided I feel assured with no offensive discriminations, to confer upon the 20th Tennessee regiment this beautiful banner wrought by the fair hands of the most distinguished women of Kentucky. I feel that I may safely undertake to declare it is the opinion of those ladies that to no more deserving and loyal custody could this emblem of our cause be confided, let me, fellow-soldiers, assure you that the men of Kentucky share their opinions, and endorse their award: They feel also, that it is to no alien hands that this trust is confided. While there is a pulse in the heart of a member of the 20th Tennessee, they feel assured that this emblem will be cherished and guarded as more precious than life. In this confidence, I as their representative commit this banner to your keeping. I believe that this history has already determined the common political fate of Kentucky and Tennessee, and that this simple ceremony here to-day, is but the symbol of the affiliation of two millions of people with the fortunes and destiny of the Southern Confederacy!" Col. Smith, the boy Colonel of the 20th Tennessee, received the flag, and turning his eye upon its fluttering folds said:-- "Colonel: In behalf of the officers and soldiers of my regiment, I accept this beautiful flag. My language does not permit me to express my feeling on this occasion. This compliment, unexpected as it is, is doubly pleasing, coming as it does from Kentucky, the land of chivalry and from the noblest of her daughters. A State whose name is linked with the brightest jewels of American history, her woman are as lovely as her mountain flowers. For my officers and soldiers, I thank you. When the storm of battle rages fiercest amid the wildest conflict, we will think of the fair donors, and cling to this banner. For the complimentary manner, Sir, in which you have presented it, I thank you. Soldiers! To you I commit this gift. In its folds rests your honor. Let it never be contaminated by foemen's hand. Let the Confederacy and the world see that in the hour of her darkest trials, Tennessee will stand by the colors of Kentucky, as they would by the standard of their native State. They feel that their honor, their glory, their safety, their people are one!" Thus closed the review. Asking a thousand pardons for trespassing so long upon your patience, I will close. Accept a renewed assurance of my most distinguished consideration. MINT JULEP. The last of the columns which were obtained was written from Fairfield, Tennessee, on May 13, 1863: Fairfield, Tenn., May 13, 1863 [Pub. May 29, 1863] The prospect of a speedy engagement here has blown away, and our troops are dozing and snoozing in the waited quiet and laziness of camp routine along the entire line. But on account of our proximity to the enemy, and our constant readiness, a fight may occur any day. I met a friend just from Nashville yesterday, from whom I gleaned some interesting information. He was confined in the State Penitentiary three or four weeks, and preemptorily refusing to take the odious oath, he was, in company with a half dozen others, furnished an escort to the outposts on the Charlotte turnpike, and turned loose with parental admonition that his presence in the Federal lines again would insure a hempen necktie. Once more breathing pure, free southern air, he bent his footsteps this way with the silent promise never to enter the Union cage again. To each of the prisoners a copy of the following questions was addressed: Nashville, May 1, 1863. Sir: I am directed by the General commanding to ask of you answers to the following questions: Are you friendly to the Constitution and Goverment of the United States? If released, will you support and defend the Constitution and Government of the United States constantly hereafter? Are you willing to take the oath of allegiance to the United States Goverment, and file bond for the faithful observance of your pledge? Support of the Constitution does not mean neutrality. Will you, if released, give your active and hearty cooperation to the Government in its efforts to put down the present rebellion and restore peace? An immediate answer is requested. Very Respectfully, John A. Martin, Colonel and Provost Marshal. To such as refuse to subscribe to this oath of treason, a copy of the following is given: Outside of Picket Lines, Near Nashville, May 8, 1863. You are hereby notified, in accordance with instructions from Headquarters Department of the Cumberland, that you are to remain South during the war, under penalty, in case of return, of arrest and trial as a spy. John Corcoran, Captain 8th Kansas Regiment. But before his departure South, quite a number of these citizens, were sent to Northern prisons, among whom are many names familiar to the exiled citizens of Nashville. One batch consisted of D.H. Allison, J.Andrew, J. Brantley, B. Buckner, E. Driver, Dr. Dupree, W.H. Ewin, W. Higgins, J.W. Horton, A.J. McClure, J.S. Ramage and J.D. Stevens. Captain Driver, infamously notorious and notoriously infamous for his frenzied devotion to the Union, was loud-mouthed in urging the arrest of Southern men until his religion penetrated his own household and his son was shipped North, like a felon, to an imperial bastile, when a change came over the spirit of the old man's dreams. A throng of friends and kindred gathered around the prisoners to bid them farewell, and he mounted a stand and denounced the Government as more outrageously tyrannical than the policed despotism of Australia. His virtuous indignation bubbled and effervesced to the edification of his listeners for half an hour. When his treason is no longer profitable they despise and scorn the traitor. Gen. Rosecrans has evinced great skill and shrewdness in disguising the strength of his force. He practiced a handsome deception on the citizens for weeks by stealthily marching troops in various directions toward Kentucky during the night and marching them to the city in the daytime with an air of weariness and a parade of transportation, and by constantly shifting encampments, to induce the belief that he was being heavily reinforced. This ruse succeeded like a charm and gave birth to the many extravagant rumors of troops pouring into Nashville. Upon careful inquiry my informant was confident that, in addition to the accessions of small parties of stragglers, the army at Nashville had received only one body of reinforcements known as Cox's Division. The stength of this did not exceed an ordinary brigade. The Louisville Journal dubs the little affair at Fredericksburg the most disastrous and disgraceful defeat of the war. From various sources I learn this defeat had a very depressing influence upon the spirits of the enemy. Gen. Lee is a skillful diplomatist. It is the only dignified and profitable means to negotiation for us. Their honor is the instincts of policy, and their patriotism, the romantic affection of a buzzard for his carcass. We fight them with shot and steel and they fight us with shot and stealing. MINT JULEP. |
On to the conclusion...
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