Snapshots of hell: A visit to Nashville's Peach Orchard Hill

Few visit this out-of-the-way historical sign off busy Harding Place Road at Peach Orchard Hill. 

Like this blog on Facebook | Follow me on Twitter 
Bordered on three sides by traffic hell, the neighborhood seven miles south of downtown Nashville is like thousands of others in Anywhere, USA. Dotted with trees, it includes a mix of McMansions, circa-1950s ranch-style houses and two-story charmers. Most have large, well-manicured front yards.

In one driveway, a basketball hoops sits while two ornamental stone pigs guard another. At the dead end of Elysian Fields Road, an open space and a “No Dumping” sign await a visitor. Just beyond the chain-link fence along this strip of greenery, traffic on Interstate 65 roars. In the distance, a train whistle blows and a plane roars overhead, the background noise of life in a major city.

The entrance to a gated community on old Peach Orchard Hill,
anchor of the right flank of the Army of Tennessee
on Dec. 16, 1864.

Near the top of the incline of green space, next to the interstate, a wooden fence stands. Beyond it, a gated community thrives near the crest of old Peach Orchard Hill. An out-of-the way historical sign on Franklin Road and another nearby on Harding Place Road note what happened here in December 1864. But few stop to read them. All this neighborhood is built on hallowed ground.

On the afternoon of Dec. 16, 1864 — the second day of the Battle of Nashville — dead and dying soldiers blanketed Peach Orchard Hill, anchor of the right flank of the Army of Tennessee. Among those cut down by General Stephen D. Lee's infantry and artillery were 200 men in the 13th U.S. Colored Troops, including five color-bearers.

Here's the story of two Midwesterners who fell on Peach Orchard Hill. For them, this place was a special kind of hell.

13th U.S. Colored Troops formed up at this incline on Dec. 16, 1864.  This slice of land on
Elysian Fields Road  is managed  by the Tennessee Department of Transportation. 

---

Bristling with sharpened stakes firmly planted in the ground, Peach Orchard Hill proved to be a formidable defense against Union attack. But as the 51st Indiana ascended the steep slope, Sergeant William R. Hartpence's saw an even more worrisome sight: four Confederate cannon and lines of infantry.

Lieutenant Peter Gordon Tait, a native of Scotland, 
was killed at the Battle of Nashville. He was buried
in Scotch Cemetery in Victoria, Ill.
(Find A Grave | Leta Knauss)

"Our boys were exhausted," he recalled, "and under ordinary circumstances would have been glad to delay the battle a few hours. But they felt that the end was near; and were eager to begin the fray, and have it over."

When Confederate artillerists found their range with canister and solid shot, 51st Indiana soldiers hit the ground. Then an artillery shell crashed into Lieutenant Peter Gordon Tait of the 89th Illinois "near the center of his body, tearing a great hole" in his left side. He was standing nearby, in advance of his regiment.

The incident, Sergeant Hartpence wrote, "will haunt the writer as long as life remains."

Falling to the ground, Tait—a 26-year-old native of Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland— threw his right arm to his side. His heart and left lung fell out of his body.

"The heart continued to throb for twenty minutes," Hartpence recalled, "its pulsations being distinctly seen by his agonized comrades who stood there and saw the noble life fade out in heroic self sacrifice. The ball buried itself in a log immediately in the rear doubtless thereby saving the lives of others who were in direct range of the deadly missile."

The remains of Tate, a farmer, were returned to Victoria, Ill., where he was buried in Scotch Cemetery. Nearly seven months earlier, Peter's 29-year-old brother, John, also in the 89th Illinois, had been killed at New Hope Church in Georgia.

---

Mortally wounded at Peach Orchard Hill
 in a freak incident, George Scrogin is
buried in Nashville National Cemetery.
(Find A Grave)

As he advanced up the slope leading to the crest of well-defended Peach Orchard Hill, 51st Indiana Private George Scrogin may have thought of his older brother. More than two years earlier, Henry Scrogin of the 45th Indiana had died of typhoid fever at Hospital No. 9 on Market Street in Nashville.

When grapeshot struck a Union colonel's horse in the neck, the wounded animal wildly careened through Federal lines. "A livelier horse I never saw," 51st Indiana veteran W. P. McClure wrote in a letter published in The National Tribune, a veterans newspaper.

With the 51st Indiana within 70 yards of the Confederate works, the horse bounded through the regiment at an angle, the sergeant remembered, "dashing madly through Co. H."

"His movements were so rapid," McClure recalled, "that our boys had barely time to make a slight movement either way to avoid collision, and he passed by almost as quickly as the shot and shell which the enemy were just then pouring into our fast-depleting ranks."

Stunningly, as the horse passed through the ranks, a stirrup hit the lock of a 51st Indiana soldier's musket, discharging the weapon into the back of George Scrogin's head. The private "fell dead on the spot," McClure noted, although records indicate he died five days later. Only 22, Scrogin was later interred in Nashville National Cemetery in Madison, Tenn., under grave marker No. 2900.

---

— Have something to add (or correct) in this post? E-mail me here.

SOURCES

• Hartpence, William R., History of the Fifty-first Indiana Veteran Volunteer Infantry, Published by the author, The Robert Clarke Company, Printers and Binders, 1894.
• The National Tribune, July 21, 1887.

Hidden in plain sight: Battle of Nashville stone wall

A historical marker in Oak Hill, Tenn., a Nashville suburb, notes the significance of the stone wall. 
(CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE.)

Union-facing side of the historic stone wall, deep in a residential neighborhood.

Confederate troops fought from behind this stone wall on Dec. 16, 1864.

Like this blog on Facebook
Hidden in plain sight, stacks of stone form a lengthy wall that slices through Oak Hill, a wealthy Nashville suburb. From our vantage point on Stonewall Drive, the wall slips in and out of view, past a tennis court, construction of another million-dollar home and through backyards. Several feet from a section of the historic divider that once separated two estates, a massive oak hangs onto to life despite missing a huge section of its top. Now in the front yard of a residence, the "witness" tree was a cannon fire victim on Dec. 16, 1864, the second day of the  Battle of Nashville.

Soldiers under General William Loring, a division commander, fought desperately behind the wall -- the center of the Confederate line -- before a Union onslaught forced their retreat. "The division retreated south through the hills toward Brentwood," reads a historical marker, undoubtedly ignored by most drivers along busy Lealand Drive.

Pieces of the Civil War past remain in the ground here, an expert who lives in the neighborhood tells me.

No telling how many stories could be found here, too.

During the Battle of Nashville on Dec. 16, 1864, a Confederate battery was positioned here, behind
a stone wall that forms a right angle (left distance). Now this is the yard  of a residence in a 
Nashville suburb. A "witness" tree with its top missing -- an apparent victim of artillery fire -- is to
 the left of the large tree in foreground.  (CLICK ON IMAGE TO ENLARGE.)

---

-- Have something to add (or correct) in this post? E-mail me here.

Spring Hill (Tenn.) video: While Rebels slept, Yankees escaped

Like this blog on Facebook
On the night of Nov. 29, 1864, the bulk of John Schofield’s Army of the Cumberland slipped past the Confederates’ Army of Tennessee camped in these fields in Spring Hill, Tenn. Follow along with me for a walk at the old Rippavilla Plantation.

Preview: Through 'Window,' view 'afflicted' Georgia 'prodigy'

Sixth-plate ambrotype of LeRoy Wiley Gresham, circa 1856. Gresham died on June 18, 1865, in Macon, Ga. 
He was 17.  (Library of Congress)

Like this blog on Facebook | More Civil War Q&As on my blog
In a journal he kept from 1860-65, fatally ill LeRoy Wiley Gresham of Macon, Ga., suggested drastic treatment for a crippled limb.

"Saw off my leg," the teenager wrote in pencil.

ORDERING INFO:
From Savas Beatie (signed) | Amazon.com

From our vantage point 153 years after his death at 17, we may wince at the physical decline of LeRoy, who suffered from crippling effects of spinal tuberculosis and other maladies. The articulate and well-educated young man may have barely weighed 50 pounds when he died. But thanks to his remarkable journals -- a unique window into daily life during the Civil War -- we have so much to celebrate, too.

In his diary, Gresham, an avid reader of newspapers and literature, wrote of aiding Confederates ("this morning the ladies gave the soldiers flowers"), advancing Yankees ("Gen. Toombs advises all ladies and children to get away if they can") and other war news. And, of course, he recorded entries on his declining health ("I am weaker and more helpless than I ever was"). For his health woes, he was given whiskey, morphine and other remedies, none of which apparently eased his pain.

Edited and annotated by Janet Croon, Gresham's diaries have been published by Savas Beatie as The War Outside My Window: The Civil War Journals of LeRoy Wiley Gresham, 1860-1865. Available since June, the book has already generated considerable buzz -- the first edition sold out in less than a month.

"LeRoy’s is the only account that allows readers to slip into the very household of a wealthy slave-holding family in the Deep South, and stay as a guest from secession (1860) through collapse and the death of the protagonist," publisher Ted Savas, managing director of Savas Beatie, told me.

In this Q&A with the blog, Savas tells us more about why he believes the book is important, the moment he knew the diary was special and more. Croon, meanwhile, gives an example of Gresham's humorous side and speculates on how he would have reacted had he known his words were shared with the public. And each has one question for "Loy," who, as the book's subtitle says, led a "privileged, but afflicted, life."

---

Publisher Ted Savas: '... the adrenaline coursed through me.'

Why is this book important?

Savas: Because nothing else like it exists, anywhere, in any genre.

No other male teenage noncombatant male of whom I am aware left a diary of any length, let alone one that covers nearly five years. And this one spilled from the pen of a highly intelligent, educated — you could call him a prodigy — and well-read young man uniquely positioned to play his role on history’s stage.

LeRoy’s is the only account that allows readers to slip into the very household of a wealthy slave-holding family in the Deep South, and stay as a guest from secession (1860) through collapse and the death of the protagonist (LeRoy, in June 1865). From this we get the longest, most detailed, sustained, and personal account of Southern family life in existence.

Ted Savas with Joanne Dillard, who works at
 1842 Inn in Macon, Ga. It was the home
 of  LeRoy Wiley Gresham during the Civil War. 

LeRoy’s diary is also the only full-length detailed account in the world of a spinal tuberculosis patient. He writes about his symptoms, his mental state, his doctor conversations, the remedies they plied him with and how it made him feel, and his steady deterioration, day by day, week by week, as he transitioned from a mobile but sick young man of 12, to an emaciated skin-and-bones teen of 17 who weighed perhaps all of 50 pounds and was so weak he could no longer hold his pen.

One reviewer, who believes this will be a book of the year award-winner, described it this way:

 “If you are an environmental historian, you should read the diary for the droughts and floods that interrupt the agriculture practices of the plantations and the fluctuating prices of food. If you are a social historian, you should read this for his description of his family’s extended relative connections, his education, the family’s parlor games, and the diets of a plantation household that live in a city. If you are drawn to communications and journalism, you will find how fast news and newspapers travel between the United States and the Confederate States. LeRoy had his favorite Northern and Southern newspapers, and he comes to an understanding of ‘fake news’ and how and why it exists. If you are a medical historian, you will discover how doctors understand and treat Gresham’s coughs, back pains, headaches, nerve damage to his leg and hips. Readers will come to learn that a belladonna plaster on the spine really, really itches."       -- Rea Redd, Civil War Librarian 

Crippled by a broken leg, Leroy Wiley Gresham suggested drastic treatment in his diary.

When did you realize that this was something special?

Savas: The moment I finished reading a 2012 article in the Washington Post about the diary, and that the Library of Congress was featuring it as one of its jewel holdings. It was unpublished, and the adrenaline coursed through me. I read the article in 2017, so I was sure someone had published it. Fortunately, no one had done so. How many people read that amazing article and it never occurred to publish this historical one-of-kind gem? I spent an hour or two reading through some of the diary entries at the LoC website and decided then and there I had to publish this journal.

Why were you interested in bringing this story to a wide audience?

Back cover of one of Leroy Wiley Gresham's journals.

Savas: For all the reasons noted above.

I knew it was extraordinarily important. In fact, I had no idea just how important it really was until Jan Croon and I went through the editing process and came to grips with its multiple layers of subject matter, and its many pathos. I read it dozens of times during the editing process, but you read it differently during that phase. Do you get a lot out of it? Sure. But since it has been published I have read it twice. Each time I lean back and think, “How did I miss X or Y the first time?”

It is so deep, so amazing, and so insightful. I pick it up almost everyday and read a half a dozen entries and the footnotes just to think about them. (The extensive notes, after all, contain information the family mostly would have known, and thus discussed at length around the dinner table or LeRoy’s sick bed. That adds to their value.)

Outside letters and other materials have added a lot of flesh to the Gresham story that fills in gaps, adding to the value of this young man’s work.

If you could go back in time and ask Leroy one question, what would you ask?

Savas: The issue really hinges on when in his life you asked him “the question.”

So I would go back to moment he learns he is dying, and ask something along the lines of, “LeRoy, if your parents had told you in 1860 that you had a fatal illness and they did not really know how long you had to live, would you have kept a diary at all? And if your answer is yes, how would that have changed what and how much you wrote?”

Let’s call that one and one-half questions. [laughs]

Nov. 16 and 17, 1864, entries in LeRoy Wiley Gresham's journal. (Library of Congress)

Editor Janet Croon: '... immense detail about everyday life'

What about LeRoy’s story is most compelling to you?

Croon: LeRoy’s story is compelling because it provides us with incredible insight into the era. We get immense detail about everyday life at a sustained depth over an extended period of time that exists no where else, period.

Keep in mind that LeRoy never set foot on a battlefield. He was fighting his own internal battle and was only partially aware of how serious it was. It’s an incredibly bittersweet story, and although you know how the story will eventually end, what he experiences and what one learns from LeRoy keeps you reading.

What do you think LeRoy’s reaction to his diary being shared with the public?

Croon: This is something we will never know, of course, but a great question to ponder. A journal, of course, is a private thing you write for yourself. So what would his reaction be?

LeRoy Gresham "wasn't a boastful young man," says 
Janet Croon, editor of  The War Outside My Window,
 "but I  think that knowing his words contributed
to the greater knowledge of mankind would make 
him happy."

Perhaps some shock and dismay, maybe some embarrassment because it was so detailed about his illness—at least at first. Keep in mind that even though he was very intelligent and farsighted, he had no idea that his daily observations on life in the Old South in the 19th century would have so much value 150 years later. So he would come to understand that. He didn’t know he was providing a first-hand account of what a TB patient goes through slowly dying for five long years — it’s a wholly unique piece of writing. LeRoy would also see the value in that, I am confident.

If he thought about it long enough, he would reach Ted’s conclusion that LeRoy gave his family immortality. They live nowhere else like this but in his journal. And this is especially true of his mother, Mary. Her dying son put flesh and a personality on her bones. She exists almost nowhere else but in his diary.

LeRoy loved his family. So I think after the shock sinks in, he would realize the value his journal provides to us today, and he would be pleased with it. He wasn’t a boastful young man, but I think that knowing his words contributed to the greater knowledge of mankind would make him happy. In fact, I believe he is happy.

Despite health issues, LeRoy had a great sense of humor. Give us an example that makes you smile.

Croon: The hot coals popping out of the fireplaces are one of my favorites! I laughed out loud when I first transcribed that section. His writing is so in-the-moment . . . little pieces of coal wreaking burning his mom’s knitting or a hole in the rug. Keep in mind flying hot coal in those days was quite dangerous and could catch the house on fire. He found humor in the event, despite the fact that he was unable to move much independently.

Another example is when he noted his right leg— his “good” leg — was drawing up like his left crippled leg. He adds that soon people would say LeRoy Gresham doesn’t have a leg to stand on. Given all he was going through — the pain, the vomiting, the coughing, the morphine — he could still joke. It’s enough to make you cry, really.

If you could go back in time and ask Leroy one question, what would you ask?

Croon: That’s a hard one. This may sound odd, but I always wonder how his parents explained to him that he could no longer go to school or attend church, most public functions, and so forth. He didn’t know the true state of his health, and that he was contagious, and so forth, but he also seems to have accepted the fact that he could not go many places outside the home. He was a smart boy. He never seemed bitter about it, but instead more resigned to accept it. I would like to know how that all came about.

---

-- Ordering information: Signed copy from Savas Beatie | Amazon.com

-- Have something to add (or correct) in this post? E-mail me here.

Condolences to 'Stumpy': Sergeant Dunn's death at Franklin

Markers for unknown Mississippians in McGavock Confederate Cemetery in Franklin, Tenn. Perhaps
33rd Mississippi Sergeant Mathew A. Dunn rests beneath one of them. (CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE.)

Like this blog on Facebook | Read more condolence letters here.
The casualty lists from the Battle of Franklin tell us nearly 10,000 soldiers were killed, wounded and missing. But we can only guess the number of hearts broken in Northern and Southern families because of the carnage in Tennessee on Nov. 30, 1864. The family of 33rd Mississippi Sergeant Mathew Andrew Dunn undoubtedly was among those who were shattered.

Four months before his death at Franklin, Mathew aimed to prepare his wife Virginia -- he affectionately called her "Stumpy" -- for awful possibilities. "Oh my love," he wrote from Atlanta,  "if I could only See you and our dear little ones again what a pleasure it would be. But God only knows whether I will have that privilege or not. I want you to try and raise them up right. Train them while they are young.

"And if I am not Spared to See you I hope we will meet in a happier world. ... if I am killed I hope that I am prepared to go."

Route of attack of Featherston's Brigade, which included Mathew Dunn's 33rd Mississippi, is at far right. 
(Map by Hal Jespersen, www.cwmaps.com | CLICK ON MAP TO ENLARGE.)

On Jan. 11, 1865, Major C.P. Neilson provided details of  Dunn's death in Tennessee to "Stumpy," who lived in the hamlet of Liberty, Miss. After emerging through dense woods, Winfield S. Featherston's Brigade advanced toward Union breastworks. Ordered to charge, the 33rd Mississippi and six other regiments in the brigade fought their way near Federal lines, Neilson wrote, with hand-to-hand fighting briefly breaking out. But "... we were compelled to give way," the major recalled, "and fell back some two or three hundred yards and there remained until next morning."

Grave of unknown Mississippi soldier
at McGavock Confederate Cemetery.
Is this Mathew A. Dunn's gravesite?

Wounded four times, Dunn was believed to have been killed instantly. Later that night, Neilson discovered the 30-year-old father of two children lying on his back. "He appeared," the major wrote, "to be peacefully sleeping with a smile." Neilson informed Mrs. Dunn of her husband injuries -- he was struck by a bullet "directly in the front, just below the breast bone" and also suffered wounds in the right side, right cheek and left hand.

Neilson found Dunn's Bible on his chest, and planned to present the testament to "Stumpy" when he returned to Mississippi during the winter. Because he had duties elsewhere on the battlefield, Neilson left Dunn's body where he lay, but said the sergeant was decently buried later by friends and comrades. The soldier's knapsack and blanket had been stolen, Neilson noted, by "inhuman robbers of the dead." Another soldier in the 33rd Mississippi preserved a lock of Dunn's hair for his widow.

"It would certainly be a consolation to you to have received some last message from your loving one," added the officer, "but the unexpected mess of the battle and the circumstances of his death precluded the possibility of such a thing."

Concluded Neilson:

"You have two strong sources of consolation Mrs. Dunn. That your husband died as he had lived, a true Christian, and his death was such as becomes the true soldier on the battle field with his face to the foe and followed by love and regrets of all his comrades. Your loss is great and deeply so. I sympathize with you but you 'mourn not as one without hope.' '' 

Nearly three months after the battle, 33rd Mississippi Private John Cain Wilkinson, Dunn's messmate, also wrote his widow. Virginia's husband was among nine soldiers in Company K of the 33rd Mississippi, the Amite County Defenders, to die of wounds suffered at Franklin. The condolence letter -- dated Feb. 15, 1865, and presented in its entirety below -- is remarkable for its eloquence.

"I am incompetent to write a eulogy upon such a character," wrote the 40-year-old Wilkinson, who became a pastor at the Plymouth Primitive Baptist Church in Liberty after the war. To the contrary, the Mississippian's powerful words resonate through time.

---

McGavock Cemetery, where nearly 1,300 Confederate dead from the Battle of Franklin are buried.

Hamburg, Edgefield District, S.C.
February 15, 1865

Mrs. M.A. Dunn

My Dear Friend, I seat myself with a heart filed with sorrow to pen you a few lines to let you know that I do truly mourn and sympathize with you on account of you great irreparable loss.

Post-war image of
John C. Wilkinson
(Courtesy Pat Ezell)

On the 22nd____, I received the sad and heartrending intelligence that Mr. M. A. Dunn and L.L. Anderson of my mess and seven others of our Co. were killed at the Battle of Franklin, Tennessee on the 30th of November 1864.

Mr. Dunn and I were only slightly acquainted when our Co. organized, but before leaving our beloved homes, we agreed to be members of the same family in Camp and drew our first rations together and continued so until I was wounded in May last.

And to me, he proved to be a true friend under all circumstances, in sickness, in health, in trials, and under all the hardships we had to undergo, he was always a patient and cheerful friend.

I am incompetent to write a eulogy upon such a character, and will only say to you that M. A. Dunn was free from the influence of the many vices and evils so common in Camp which entice so many from the path of rectitude.

But he did by a well ordered walk and godly conversation make manifest to his comrades that he was a devoted Christian, true gentleman and patriotic soldier.

Being kind and obliging, he enjoyed the good will and confidence of all who had the pleasure of being acquainted with him.

Mississippi section of McGavock Confederate Cemetery in Franklin, Tenn.
Sergeant Mathew A. Dunn may be buried here beneath a marker
designated  "Unknown." He originally was buried on the battlefield.

By this sad bereavement our Co. lost one of its first members, Amite County a good citizen, Ebenezar a worthy member, and you and your dear little ones, a kind and dearly beloved husband and father.

Dear Friend, though I join you in shedding a tear of grief, let us not mourn as those who are without hope, for we feel assured that our loss is his Eternal gain, that his freed spirit is now singing praises to our Blessed Savior in the Paradis above where all is joy and peace.

Oh, that we could truly adopt the language of Paul under this heavy affliction - "And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose." Then, how consoling would be the language of our Saviour, "Let not your heart be troubled. Ye believe in God believe also in me. In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go to prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you unto myself, that where I am there you may be also. Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you, not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid. For because I live, ye shall live also." Then, my afflicted Sister, be admonished by the poorest of the poor to look to the fountain whence cometh all our help and strength; Jesus alone can comfort you in all your trails.

"For the eyes of the Lord are over the righteous, his ears are open unto their prayers." We have the promise of the comforter, and Paul says, "Likewise, the spirit also helpeth our infirmities for we know not what we should pray for as we ought, but the Spirit itself maketh intercession for us with groaning which cannot be uttered."

And to give us full assurance, our Blessed savior informs us that He maketh intercession for the Saints, that according to the will of God.

Close-up of the Mississippi monument at McGavock Confederate Cemetery.

And so, there remaineth therefore a rest to the people of God, and we have so many sweet and precious promises. Let us therefore come boldly into the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in each time of need.

I know that the ties of nature are such that you cannot refrain from weeping and though your dear husband cannot return to you, yet you have hope that you may go where he is, and join him in singing a song of deliverance.

And may God on tender mercy remember you and your dear Little Ones. May He lead, rule, guide, and direct you safely through this life, giving you that sweet consolation which He alone can give. And finally, through the merits of his dear Son, crown you His (with your dear husband) in his kingdom above where "God will wipe away all tears from your eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither shall there be any more pain, but where all is Joy and Peace is the desire of one who wished you well.

Sign on entrance gate to McGavock Confederate Cemetery.

You have no doubt seen a list of the killed, wounded and missing at the Battle of Franklin, Tenn. on the 30th November 1864. And many more must have fallen at the Battle of Nashville on the 15th of December from which I have no news from my company.

When I left Camp I left six messmates whom I loved, four of them, J.P. and C.C. Lea, L.L Anderson, and M. A. Dunn have poured out their life's blood in defense of their country. R.S. Capell is severely wounded and my dear son, W.H.W. reported captured. Truly, we have cause to mourn but I desire not to mourner.

Not wishing to weary you with my imperfection, I close; when at the throne of grace, remember me and mine and believe me to be your friend in deep affliction.

John C. Wilkinson

---

-- Have something to add (or correct) in this post? E-mail me here.

SOURCES

-- 33rd Mississippi Infanty web site, "To Live and Die in Dixie. We Are a Band of Brothers," accessed Aug. 18, 2018.
-- Pat Ezell genealogical research on John Cain Wilkinson.
-- The Ohio State University, eHistory, accessed Aug. 18, 2018.

A study in black and white: Confederate dead of Franklin

Frank Gray, 21, and his uncle, John Russell, are buried side by side. Both served with the 6th Arkansas. 
(CLICK ON ALL IMAGES TO ENLARGE.)

A row of 15 unknown dead from Mississippi, which has 424 soldiers buried in the cemetery, 
by far the most from any state.

Like this blog on Facebook
It's 6:38 a.m. in McGavock Cemetery, and Franklin, Tenn., begins to stir below gloomy skies. Just outside the black cemetery gate, joggers and walkers emerge from cars and an elderly man in a light-blue shirt and dark-blue slacks loudly chats on a phone. Birds announce their presence while a lone visitor slowly walks along the gravel path in the cemetery, where nearly 1,300 Confederate dead from the Battle of Franklin rest underneath ground covered thickly with dew.

Sergeant Major Charles Napoleon Batchelor Street, 33rd Mississippi, 20 or 21 when he died.

"A.M.N." .... and the marker for an unknown peeking through the grass.

Captain L.R. Townsend, 4th Mississippi, killed Nov. 30, 1864. He was 32.

One of the 558 unknowns buried at McGavock Confederate Cemetery.

The Missouri section, where 130 soldiers sleep for eternity.

Stones left by the grave of Lieutenant Thomas Benton Moncrief, 2nd Arkansas, 23 or 24 when he died.

A marker for the dead of Georgia, one of 10 Confederate states represented in the cemetery.

An aide to General Edward Walthall, Hobson Powell was mortally wounded at Franklin. His "courage 
and accomplishments had endeared him to my whole command," Walthall wrote of the Mississippian.

Monument for 51 dead from South Carolina.

16-year-old James Wilson Winn of the 25th Georgia rests with his comrades. His parents traveled 
from Georgia to place the ornate marker atop their son's grave.

His descendants remember: Two markers for Captain John Bryan Allen of the 29th Alabama.

A marker for unknowns rises to the heavens.

---

-- Have something to add (or correct) in this post? E-mail me here.

'The Breakfast Club': A slice of humanity at dreaded O'Hare

Meet Christian, bartender, college student and budding photographer.

Like this blog on Facebook 
We sat in dreaded Chicago O’Hare, five weary travelers with stories and a lot of time to kill. As we charged our phones, I jokingly offered to buy the table a round of beer (or two!) and complained about my terrible airport meal. Two-hour layovers can be awful; this one was magical.

Across from me sat Karen, a nurse from Minnesota, and beside me was Lauren. She trains horses outside Nashville. And then there was “Fargo Man” — I sadly never got his name — a longtime NBC-TV producer en route to North Dakota for an assignment. He sat next to Karen. Later, we were joined by Christian, a 27-year-old college student heading back home to Minnesota from Puerto Rico, where he tended bar, indulged his interest in photography (he’s good) and got to know the people of that forgotten island.

As we endured delay after delay, we swapped stories and laughed. We called ourselves “The Breakfast Club.” Unlike our planes, time flew. I asked “Fargo Man” about his most compelling story as a journalist. He told us of a woman with ALS who documented her life until her death. Karen told of a 4-year-old patient of hers who had a serious heart problem. The child died, taking a little piece of Karen’s heart, too.

Lauren had been visiting Chicago, where her dad, a dentist, worked on her teeth. (Free!) Divorced, he’s heading overseas to meet a Russian woman. Christian showed us his compelling black-and-white photos of the homeless in Puerto Rico. I talked of my own interest in the homeless of Nashville.

We became friends on Facebook, and then one by one, we left the charging table and headed into the night. “Fargo Man” was first. Then Karen — we never knew if she departed or spent the evening in the airport. Lauren and I were next, finally off on our long-delayed flight to Nashville. I gave Christian a firm handshake and wished him well. Two hours well spent in O’Hare. Who would have thought?

Enjoy the journey.

Always.

---

-- Have something to add (or correct) in this post? E-mail me here.

Signs of the times at a Battle of Nashville site

CLICK ON IMAGE TO ENLARGE.

Like this blog on Facebook 
During a reporting day for a column on the "hidden" Battle of Nashville, I found this interesting juxtaposition. The sign in the background is in front of the Unitarian Universalist Church on Woodmont Road. (See Google Street View image below.) The Confederates' position here was overrun on Dec. 15, 1864, and the Federals under George Thomas completed the rout the next day. Black troops saw significant action during the battle at Granbury's Lunette (Dec.15) and Peach Orchard Hill (Dec. 16).

---

-- Have something to add (or correct) in this post? E-mail me here.

We interrupt this Civil War blog with reflections of Nashville

A scene in Nashville, 2018. (CLICK ON IMAGE TO ENLARGE.)

Like this blog on Facebook 
Like scores of other American cities, Nashville eagerly erases the past and puts on a shiny, new face. Within yards of my apartment building, three hotels are quickly rising, the tatter of their construction  the background noise of life soon after sunrise. “They call it the ‘City of Cranes,’ " a Lyft driver told me as we glanced at the skyline one afternoon.

But amid honky-tonks and tourists on Broadway, the impressive Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum at the corner of 5th and Demonbreun and partiers chugging beer and swaying to music on the obnoxiously slow Pedal Taverns in the arts and entertainment district, another Nashville exists — a city hidden in plain sight.

Close up: The "Other" Nashville.

You’ll find the "Other” Nashville gathered in a small park, just down the street from the grand, old Hermitage Hotel; sitting on a bus stop bench opposite a Panera, wrapped in rags and garbage bags; and near the gloomy underpass at an I-40 exit, holding a plea for help. Impossible to miss but largely ignored, the many homeless of this booming city carry on with vacant stares or pleading eyes.

How can this be?

In America?

In 2018?

Each Wednesday morning about 11, the "Other" Nashville gathers outside the back door of a Lutheran church on 8th Street. “Good morning, brothers and sisters,” a volunteer says before entering the building. “God bless you.” The words are heartfelt but perhaps ignored. Marijuana smoke wafts through the air.

In the basement in the church kitchen, lunch is prepared for the "Other" Nashville” by volunteers. Chicken, cabbage, mashed potatoes and banana bread — all donated -- are the fare this day. Eager for a good meal and a cool place to rest, the city’s unfortunates sit at tables in the basement. Some shower in a small room or clean their clothes in the lone washing machine. Others stare at a TV playing a videotape of Forrest Gump. Each has a need — and a story.

A woman says she is pregnant with her ninth child and wants a ride to the doctor. (Sorry, no rides available here.) A man asks for a pair of pants. Another wants a plastic bag for his meager belongings. “I need some soap,” demands another. A small man with a gray beard and bedraggled clothing wants hot water put in a plastic cup for his cereal. Others ask for toothpaste.

Plates of food are scooped up by the "Other" Nashville as soon as they are served on a small table near the kitchen. Some ask for seconds, and they all are accommodated. A California native with long, slick hair — homeless for years, he insists — praises the volunteers. “What a meal,” he says after he's done eating. Asked what life is like on the streets, he says he has no worries. A prayer is offered for him anyway. A woman with interesting tattoos and a purple streak in her hair thanks a volunteer, who offers her a firm handshake, a blessing and good vibes. And so it goes ...

Obsessed with the scourge of poverty and hunger in the United States, Robert Kennedy visited the downtrodden of eastern Kentucky 50 years ago, months before he was assassinated. “They’re desperate and filled with despair,” RFK told a television reporter of his visit, according to the Washington Post. “It seems to me that in this country, as wealthy as we are, this is an intolerable condition. It reflects on all of us.”

And so, too, the "Other" Nashville reflects on all of us today. In America, in 2018, it shouldn’t be this way. The need is great. Do what you can to help.

---

-- Have something to add (or correct) in this post? E-mail me here.

BBQ & bloodstains: Tales from Civil War road trip in Tennessee

At a Civil War relics show in Dover, Tenn., a presentation cup for Winfield Scott Hancock.
 It's yours for $50,000. (CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE.)

Like this blog on Facebook | Follow me on Twitter
It's 9 a.m. on Saturday in Nashville, Skinny State of Tenn., and boredom quickly has set in. What should I do? Well, there is never a bad time for a Civil War road trip. I know of a relic show in Dover, site of Fort Donelson, where a guy named Grant made a name for himself. I am a massive sucker for relics. Our 20-year-old daughter could use an artillery shell. My wife loves when I spend money on photos of people who have been dead for 150 years. Hey, that's how the Banks family rolls. Let's go!

11:45 a.m.: After a 90-minute drive from Nashville, I arrive at the relic show. And I feel so ... young ... and "Northern." (I'm originally from Pa.) It's time to show intense interest in the stack of Nathan Bedford Forrest books at a front table. Dealers discuss purchases for thousands of dollars. Jealous. I glance at my wallet. Yup, no cash. Thankfully, show admission was free. On a long table, next to the display case with Adolf Hitler and Hermann Goering cufflinks (true!), rests a large, silver presentation cup. Once belonged to Winfield Scott Hancock. Asking price: $50K. Perhaps worthy of a phone call to ...? Ah, no. No! Thirty minutes after arrival, I'm done. Attention span of gnat.

Barge with military equipment glides down river past Confederate battery position at Fort Donelson.

12:15 p.m.: Because I am the nook-and-crannies, backroads-loving type, I take a roundabout way to Fort Donelson. Near the fort, off National Park Service property, I find the site of U.S. Grant's HQ. Of course, I get out of the car and look. Dang, I'd love to sweep a metal detector over this yard. Wouldn't it be great if I found, say, a couple circa-1862 nails? Text to self: Wife. Would. Not. Appreciate.

Who wouldn't stop to take a photo of site
 of U.S. Grant's headquarters?

I take a photo of the large, metal Grant HQ sign. (Who wouldn't?) Finally, I make it to the parking lot near the Confederate batteries at Fort Donelson on the Cumberland. Uh-oh, there's is a large group of bikers here. Look menacing, so I park a good distance away. Must bulk up. I take a detour around bikers, scampering down a hill to the Upper River Battery. Suckered by sign into taking photo of long-gone powder magazine. (Picture massive mounds of dirt.) A huge barge jammed with military vehicles glides into view on the river. Photo op! After scrambling for the perfect angle, I shoot a few images from behind one of the large cannons. Gotta go, but where? Well, I always wanted to see inside Rippavilla Plantation mansion in Spring Hill.

Chicken, pork, ribs and brisket and a little history: What a great combo!

1:30 p.m.: Curses to you, Google Maps! The app takes me on every blasted one-lane, winding country road in the state. Hey, why’s that car tailgating me here in Tennessee? I think dark thoughts. And then ... a Civil War Trails sign! You know you're a history geek when you always stop at one of those wayside markers. I park. I feel guilty when I don't read all the text. Every. Damn. Time. Curses to you, too, Drew Gruber! Back to the sign: Forrest’s cavalry and Confederate guerillas put a scare into the Yankees in this area in '62-63. Thankfully, here in off-the-beaten path Yellow Creek Valley I'm also in a parking lot for place called Family BBQ. I'm hungry, and I love barbecue. After all, I'm 18.8 percent Texan, according to my AncestryDNA test. Locals eye me warily as I tiptoe through the front door into a barren, gray room. It feels like a scene out of Marathon Man. Is it safe? A man sporting a ponytail is chopping at the carcass of something. Perhaps it's a hog. Hey, I grew up in the suburbs. I ask if he accepts a credit card. All cash, all the time, he says in a friendly, I have zero-intention-of-slicing-you-with this-meat cleaver type of way. But there's a place down the road several miles that will take my credit card and ... WWFD. (What Would Forrest Do?) Too complicated. Math’s not my thing. I'm back on the road...

Rippavilla Plantation mansion: Lots of beauty and history. But no bloodstains.

3 p.m.: Spring Hill, Tenn., and Rippavilla. At last! In the bookstore, once used as a garage, a late-60s-ish man named Spence sits in a chair. He's wearing a fine pair of cowboy boots. They look uncomfortable, but he insists they aren't. Heck, my feet would hurt in bathroom slippers. Achy wheels today. I blame the bikers. A native of Franklin, Tenn. Spence hates the way the Civil War-rich area has grown. Used to grow crops in this area, he says, now they grow rooftops. I sympathize. Bulldozers are pitiless in these parts.

The impressive, original columns at Rippavilla.

I buy a book, purchase a house tour ticket. 33 bucks. This better be good. I want to see three things: bloodstains, where John Bell Hood supposedly chewed out his generals after the Yankees slipped past his army on Nov. 29, 1864, and bloodstains. (Told you I wasn't good at math.) The place was used as a field hospital during the War of Northern Aggression. Gotta see some blood on the floors. Our small tour group enters the house. Carpeting throughout first floor. No blood. Bummed. We see the Hood room. Spence points to breakfast table used by JBH and his generals for their long-ago morning chit-chat. (Newsflash: As I craft this report, local TV station reports 39,000 pounds of chicken nuggets spilled onto Tennessee road. "Chicken nuggets for blocks!" Must regain train of thought.) Back to Rippavilla: We go upstairs. Little carpeting, but original poplar floors covered by newer wood floors. Hmmm ... perhaps I can distract Spence and ... oh, never mind. Stuffed with knowledge,  our group departs, but a docent named Chuck allows me to take a few more photos. Although I am a Yankee, we all part friends.



4:30 p.m.: Civil War nerd heaven! I walk Rippavilla Plantation fields where the Rebs camped the night the Yankees snuck past them. Union boys were so close they could see campfires of enemy and hear 'em chatting. Wonder what it smelled like? Lots of grimy soldiers, you know. Thank you, Civil War Trust for saving this land. It’s so easy to envision 1864 from here today — if you can ignore the steady stream (and hum) of traffic on Columbia Pike and the massive GM plant in the near-distance. Just noticed I'm hungry again. Thank gawd there's a PeiWei over the hill, built atop core Spring Hill battlefield. I shoot a video, take some pics. It’s time for this Civil War nerd to roll home. Elapsed time: 8 hours. Miles traveled: 200-plus.

Now about those chicken nuggets ...

---

-- Have something to add (or correct) in this post? E-mail me here.

Parting shot: Rebels' battle cry like 'school girls at recess'

"J.H.E." said the Rebel yell was unmanly, like "school girls at recess." (Library of Congress)

Like this blog on Facebook 
In a richly detailed letter published in the Lewiston (Pa.) Gazette on Oct. 15, 1862, a Union soldier told of his experiences in the recently fought Battle of Antietam. (Transcript below.)

"About 4 o'clock in the morning we heard the rebel drums beating and every man was then ready," wrote "J.H.E," probably John Ely, of Company G of the 5th Pennsylvania Reserves. "Before long they began; first a crack, then two or three, and then a whole volley from us through the woods, and the great ball of Wednesday opened."

According to the former printer at the Lewiston newspaper, Rebel sharpshooters aggressively (and unsuccessfully) tried to pick off a Union officer. But Orderly Sergeant Thomas Given wasn't as fortunate. Wounded in the head, Given died the following Saturday, after he "lost his mind and speech."

J.H.E recalled spending about an hour on the "firing line," undoubtedly at David R. Miller's Cornfield, near where Henry Couch [Couts] was killed by a bullet to the head. And in a biting parting shot, J.H.E. also took a figurative shot at the enemy.

---

We publish below an extract from a letter of a young "typo" of this place, in which he gives a graphic description of the part taken by the regiment in which he is serving in the battle of Antietam:

Camp, Near Sharpsburg, Md.
Oct. 6, 1862

We are still in camp by that beautiful and winding stream -- the Potomac. While in camp we are at a loss to know how to put in the time, and for a change this beautiful afternoon I have retreated to the cover of a towering oak to pen you a few promised lines.

My narrative begins on Tuesday morning, Sept. 16th. On that eventful evening we were marched across Antietam creek, and shortly after were formed in line of battle in a woods, and while in this place were made acquainted of the close proximity of our South Mountain acquaintances, who had been largely reinforced just after leaving the mountain, and who now disputed our further advance by shelling us in the woods.

Truman Seymour: During the battle
"J.H.E" delivered a message
to the Union general (above).

It  was fast growing dark, and we were ordered forward through a cornfield and also through a ploughed one. But, after going half the distance, were ordered to halt and lay down, which order we obeyed instantly, as the shell began to come in close proximity with that important member to human existence -- the head. While here I had a good opportunity to see a pretty sight. One of our batteries, which had been placed to our right, on a slight elevation, kept up a continual fire, throwing shell promiscuously through the woods in our advance. It was far prettier than any fireworks ever displayed in the old Diamond.

We remain here about half an hour when Gen. [Truman] Seymour ordered us forward. We started, and when we next halted it was within fifteen feet of the fence. Our Colonel here ordered us to halt and stack arms, which we did; and after making supper on a cracker I laid myself down to rest. In about fifteen minutes we were surprised by the rebels who poured a volley at us, which, as soon as we could recover our guns, we returned and kept up a fire for a short time and then ceased, the rebs having retreated. We then advanced to the fence (where we should have been at first) and lay down once more, not for sleep  however but to watch and wait. Nothing of importance occurred other than an occasional shot or two during the night. From prisoners captured the following day we learned they had a brigade in the woods, who heard our Colonel give the command to "stack arms," and only waited a sufficient length of time for us to be in the "land of nod," when they expected to capture our guns. The prisoners expressed some surprise when they learned we had but one regiment, and it only numbering about 300 guns. That night they did not touch a man; but our fire was far different. Our General, speaking of it, says they lay there there by dozens.

About 4 o'clock in the morning we heard the rebel drums beating and every man was then ready. Before long they began; first a crack, then two or three, and then a whole volley from us through the woods, and the great ball of Wednesday opened.

The sharpshooters, who had been placed on the trees in the dark, began their work early. They tried hard to pick off our Major, but were unsuccessful. One ball grazed his shoulder strap. They wounded our Orderly Sergeant in the head, however, who has since died. On the Friday following he lost his mind and speech, and remained so until Saturday night, when he was relieved from this world of misery and strife. His remains were sent home to his friends. We lose a good and brave soldier in him.

                   PANORAMA: David R. Miller's cornfield, "The Bloody Cornfield."
                                     (Click at upper right for full-screen experience.)

About 7 o'clock our regiment was ordered to cross through the woods, and there, the boys say, lay pools of blood all round. I was there when they advanced. A few moments before our Major had sent me with a message to General Seymour, and when I endeavored to return I became bewildered and came to a halt in a large field for which the two contending parties were fighting. I soon came to the conclusion I had no business there, and accordingly sought protection of the woods, and here I met my regiment as it advanced to where I was. We stood firing across this field about an hour, when we were ordered to cease by our officers and stood there doing nothing. It was here Henry Couch [Couts] fell pierced through the forehead.

We fell back and the rebels, thinking we were whipped, advanced with a cheer, but were driven back by a flank movement. You would be surprised to hear about them cheer. It resembles a lot of school girls at recess. It is far different from the manly voice of the men of the north.

-- J.H.E.
Co. G, 5th Pa. Reserve

---

-- Have something to add (or correct) in this post? E-mail me here.