Then & Now in Columbia, Tennessee: Where the armies slept

Beechlawn Then & Now: The mansion stands on Pulaski Pike, south of Columbia, Tennessee.
The sketch was drawn by 7th Minnesota Chaplain Elijah Edwards, who stayed at Beechlawn.

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Just before dark in December 1864, in the aftermath of the Battle of Nashville, Union soldiers rode up to a house on Pulaski Pike (present-day U.S. Route 31) south of Columbia and asked for shelter.

Among them was Elijah Evan Edwards, the 33-year-old chaplain in the 7th Minnesota Infantry. He recorded the night in his diary and even sketched the house they made a temporary home: Beechlawn.

Chaplain Elijah Edwards
(Battle of Nashville
Trust)

Inside was the wife of a Confederate officer — her husband, Major Amos Wiley Warfield, apparently was off somewhere with John Bell Hood’s ragtag Army of Tennessee, retreating toward Alabama. She let them in.

"We accepted her hospitality as cheerfully as it was offered, posted a guard on the outside, and took our station within, where, for the first time in our campaigning, we were treated to the complete luxuries of civilized entertainment," Edwards wrote. 

Beechlawn had already served as headquarters for Hood during his advance on Nashville. Soon, Union General Andrew J. Smith would sleep here too.

Inside the circa 1853 home, a wounded Confederate told Edwards that Hood was a “butcher,” driving his men into slaughter at the Battle of Franklin. He had one leg left.

“[H]e could neither fight nor run away,” Edwards wrote. His war was over.

Here is the excerpt of Edwards' diary, as posted by the Huntsville [Ala.] Historical Review (April 1, 1973, Volume 3, No. 2).

---

Toward evening we reached Columbia and crossed the Duck River on a pontoon bridge. This is (at the present) a deep and rapid stream with high banks, and we had some difficulty in crossing. Columbia is an old town with a rather dilapidated appearance. There were many ornamental trees shading the streets, the most conspicuous being the holly and mimosa.

John Bell Hood made Beechlawn
his headquarters in the lead-up
to the Battle of Nashville.

As it was getting near evening, we began to look out for a camping place. All the dwellings in the town seemed to be inhabited, and we proceeded some distance into the country, hoping to find a deserted mansion like the one in which we had dined. But finding none, we drew up in front of a palatial brick home, the windows of which were already lighted, and applied for shelter. 

The tenant proved to be the wife of a Confederate Major Warfield, supposed to be somewhere in Hood’s scattered army. She received us most graciously, not only giving permission for us to remain, but cordially inviting us, assuring us that our presence would be a protection from the stragglers and robbers that were prowling in bands over the country.

We accepted her hospitality as cheerfully as it was offered, posted a guard on the outside, and took our station within, where, for the first time in our campaigning, we were treated to the complete luxuries of civilized entertainment. However, owing to the hard conditions of the war, the larder of our hostess was incomplete, we contributed liberally of our own, and spent a delightful evening in conversation.

U.S. Gen. Andrew J. Smith
slept in the Warfield mansion.

Facing page 41 is a hasty sketch of the Warfield Mansion. It has been well preserved from the fate that has been measured out to so many Southern homes, probably from the fact that, from its commodiousness, it has been generally selected as a headquarters for both armies. Thus, Hood, in his advance on Nashville, and retreat as well, made it his headquarters, and on the 24th Gen. A. J. Smith pillowed his weary head in the best bedroom.

Lastly came our squad of surgeons and chaplains. The building was thus protected from pillagers and from the torch. It has been used also in a small way as a hospital.

We found here a badly wounded Confederate soldier. He was quite friendly and communicative, and criticized his late commander Hood most unsparingly, pronouncing him a butcher for driving his men into the shambles at Franklin, where they were slaughtered like so many dumb animals. He believed for himself that the time for fighting was over. It certainly was for him, he musingly remarked, since he had but one leg left and could neither fight nor run away. He was a lieutenant.

There was a sick and badly disabled Confederate soldier in one of the outer buildings, that had been used as negro quarters (sic), whose feet were badly frozen. He told me that many of Hood’s soldiers were absolutely barefooted—and that, too, at a time when the temperature, a very unusual thing in the South, marked as low as 10 above zero. (I do not recall any such frosty weather as that, but can testify that while we were at Nashville it was frequently several degrees below freezing.) We left the Warfield home quite early this morning, with friendly adieus to the lady hostess and kind words to the wounded soldiers.