Podcast: The Lower Battlefield, Antietam's forgotten front

In Episode 54, historian Robert Dunkerly joins co-hosts Tom McMillan and John Banks for a discussion about his book, The Lower Battlefield of Antietam: The Forgotten Front of America's Bloodiest Day. Dunkerly takes us to Burnside Bridge, the 40-Acre Cornfield and beyond. Plus, he dishes on John's favorite regiment (16th Connecticut) and recounts an epic hike to the battlefield.

Letters from Triune: 'No wish ... is too cruel for a traitor'

Photo illustration of newspaper clippings of accounts from wartime Triune.

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Third in an occasional series.

Writing from the Triune Hills in Middle Tennessee, "Harry D" of Battery C of the 1st Ohio Light Artillery opens with a moment of rare calm. Sundays along the Harpeth River, he says, can be almost peaceful — no inspections, no bustle — just enough quiet for soldiers to sit with a shingle or tin plate on their knees and write home. 

The Ashtabula (Ohio) Weekly Telegraph
published the letter from Harry D, either
Harry Dinhanan or Harry Dingman of
the 1st Ohio Light Artillery.

Harry D — probably Harry Dinhanan or Harry Dingman — also fumes over Northern politics, especially the nomination of Copperhead Democrats like Clement Vallandigham, reserving some of the letter’s harshest language for anyone he sees as disloyal to the Union. Soldiers, he warns, will remember — and vote. Loyalty, he makes clear, is the one unforgivable line to cross, and the army’s patience for traitors, whether in gray or in civvies, is long gone.

"No wish, however malignant, is too cruel for a traitor," Harry D writes in the letter published in the Ashtabula (Ohio) Weekly Telegraph on June 27, 1863. 

My recent visits to Triune — where the Union army built a network of redoubts, earthworks and rifle pits a 20-minute drive from Franklin, Tenn. — inspired this "Letters From Triune" series.

Union army-built earthworks at Triune, Tennessee

ARMY CORRESPONDENCE

Southwick's Battery, At the Triune Hills, June 14th, 1863

READERS OF THE TELEGRAPH: We have all heard of a "quiet on the Potomac," and many comments have been made upon it, by unthinking, misinformed, people. Here on the Harpeth there is not so much of quiet, although to day matters have assumed a Sabbath day quietude; not even an inspection to mar the tranquility of repose and season of reflection.

And better than all, these Sunday resting spells give the soldier an opportunity to write letters. Look which ever way you will there sits your lad with a shingle on his knee, perhaps an upturned plate, busily chalking down the talk on paper to the dear one perhaps, the one above all price inestimable. Or it may be to a mother whose all of hope and joy he is, and whose loss to her would make her evening of life a chilling blank, a woeful chaos of grief. 

On the face of another scribe you may note the glow of strong manly devotion for the wife in the far off northern home, and the tenderness and truth of filial love on the open page of still another face. Such is the study of faces, the lesson to be learned from the tablet of each one's heart is more difficult to get. Our private opinion is that many little romances could be read from the heart histories of these letter writers and receivers.

Clement Vallandigham
(Library of Congress)

Those readers of the Ashtabula Telegraph who feel an interest in the members of Southwick's Battery could not much better please them than by writing letters. Of course they should be kind and encouraging ones, not hissing with copperhead politics, or fault with the Administration, or any thing in the least degree tainted with treason. We're sure such will not come from Ashtabula, Lake, or Geauga counties, to this army. But in this day of our Nation's calamity, such strange things happen. We are never sure where the serpent will spring from.  

There is the envenomed hiss of corrupt politics on the winds that blow from the North as well as from the Sunny South land. And the keenest sting of all to us from Ohio is the recent nomination of [Clement] Vallandigham and [George] Pugh, by the Democratic party, or better named the snakes from the vomit of hell, sick by a surfeit of treason. Excuse such harsh terms; you would, if you could know how the soldiers in this army feel towards enemies at home. But friends if we are rightly informed, soldiers will vote, and woe betide any blasted home rebel who may be a nominee for office. He might as well crawl away into the inlet to perdition and draw the hole in after his nasty carcass, eternally hiding the filthy thing from the face of earth. No wish, however malignant, is too cruel for a traitor.

Be we ever so merciful to other evil doers, and forgiving to those who wroug us many wise else than by treason, we would even pray for the total and immediate extermination ot traitors from this Free America, that is to be. In this Battery, a unanimity of loyal sentiment and patriotic principle is our platform of politics.

While officers of regiments with which we come in contact show a disregard for the sacred cause of liberty, by fawning about traitors in women's garb, that attract [unreadable] by the witchery of womanly prettiness; the officers of our battery pass them by in silent contempt and perhaps regret, that the sweet creatures were not favor of Union. We feel an honest pride in such officers and in there [sic] example to us is invaluable.

An aerial view of the site of one of the three United States Army redoubts at Triune.

Here at Triune are fields so large that divisions can drill together, and Captain [Daniel K.] Southwick takes the three batteries of his command and drills them together. It is a splendid and exciting spectacle to witness. The command consists of our battery in the 2ud Brigade, the 4th Michigan in the 1st, and Co. I, 4th Regulars, in the 3d Brigade. 

To say that the Captain can handle the three Batteries and do it well is but giving him the due meed of praise; and he would not have been appointed chief of Artillery in the 3d Division if his military abilities were not of a high order. 

We are encamped in a beautiful grove of noble trees, on a slight eminence; the infantry being costly placed in regular rows of tents just down the slope of the hill and on the plain below. Setting under the wing of these lofty maples at night, and looking at the brightly illuminated city of tents, reminds us of a city lit up for the reception of some idol of the people, or for some festive sports.

Apart from all there is in war to sadden us, we have much to make us happy, if we only let contentment be our rule of life. As the eye turns involuntary upward at these silent preachers of the grove pointing Heavenward, the heart grows heavy with a sense of woe; — grows weary of a war we could not shun with honor. And as the sweet and ever present beauties in nations ministry, lead us homeward through the pleasant meads of memory and imagination; the fire of patriotic ardor is newly kindled in our souls.

We are ready for the bloody work of war, and when it comes to us, you will not be ashamed of Battery C.

Yours truly, Harry D

Letters From Triune: Tennessean grapples with 'monster Secesh'

Photo illustration of newspaper clippings of accounts from wartime Triune.

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Second in an occasional series.

My recent visits to Triune — where the Union army built a network of redoubts, earthworks and rifle pits 20 minutes east of Franklin, Tenn. — inspired this "Letters From Triune" series. 

The writer, an East Tennessee private who signed the letter “S.K.H.,” had to scout for months just to reach Federal lines. Writing as a common soldier, he believed a man risking his life for a pittance deserved as much respect as any general.

From Triune, his thoughts turned home. Loyal East Tennessee families, he wrote, were trapped behind Confederate lines, facing violence or slow starvation as rebels seized corn, wheat and bacon to feed their own ranks first. 

The letter, published in The Nashville Daily Union on April 26, 1863, closes with loyalty tempered by frustration and a clear sense of what mattered to him. Above all, he supported preserving the Union — even if that meant slavery remained. 

“We say give us the Government of our fathers and let the negro slide,” "S.K.H." wrote.

Earthworks at Triune, a Union Army complex near Franklin, Tennessee.

TRIUNE, April 21, 1863 | Mr. EDITOR: Dear Sir,

Allow me to write a short article for your most excellent paper, which has more, character in our camps than any other sheet. I claim no position in the army higher than a private, yet I know what East Tennesseans have suffered; having had to scout for four months before I could reach the Federal army. And I think a private soldier, if he demeans himself aright, deserves as much respect as a Major General. The one exposes his life for big pay, the other for a mere pitance; at least the private can claim as much unbought patriotism as the officer, and that is all that should command respect in a war like the present one. 

We, as East Tennesseans, are peculiarly situated. Our homes are in the hands of a bloody and cruel enemy. We know not how soon the fiends incarnate may murder our fathers, and brothers, and even our mothers and sisters, that we have left behind us. They have murdered the kind mother while attempting to save her beloved son, and why will they not do the same thing again? Let man commit murder once, and he can commit the same crime a second time with more ease. But if they do not abuse the persons of our friends, they will take their corn, wheat, and bacon, those things they must have, or perish, and leave them in a state of complete destitution--a condition more deplorable than death itself. 

Remains of Union earthworks at Triune

This is no overstrained picture, for the rebels are now in a starving condition, and every man of sense knows they will let their enemies suffer before they will suffer themselves. How much the poor soldier, cut off from all communication with his home, fears that his wife and little ones will suffer for the want of food, and how it gladens his heart to hear, through some poor refugee who may have made his escape, his friends still live, and have the common comforts of life. 

Our only hope is that the Government will immediately relieve our portion of the State. Oh! what hours of anxiety to the poor refugee soldier. We are all waiting to see if the authorities intend to send us back in the direction of our homes. If those who command us only knew how it would gladen our hearts, they would say, Go, join Gen. BURNSIDE, penetrate East Tennessee, whip the rebels, and liberate your homes.

I sometimes think that we as soldiers have been treated badly, yet I am not disposed to complain. When this rebellion first broke out, every public journal praised the noble hearted East Tennesseans, who, in spite of all opposition, held The Star-Spangled Banner aloft, and claimed that they were loyal. And those in power told us to hold out for a short time, and we will come, to your relief, if we have to come through a wall of living fire.

A road leading to one of the three redoubts at Triune

But how is it today? Two long years have passed away — and our people are still pressed beneath a despotism more cruel than that of Austria or Turkey. Rebel Middle and West Tennessce have been redeemed, at least to a great measure. The Government has spread the broad wing protection over the disloyal portion of the State; yet our people, who have ever been loyal, are left to grapple with the monster Secesh. 

We don't like to grim fight over Middle Tennessee soil, while the rebels are insulting friends and insulting our people. All we ask is, let us try our sabres with the traitors about Greenville, Knoxville and Chattanooga. If we fall in the contest, history's page will give us a spot upon which we will live, and in the agonies of death we will have this consolation, that we died trying to do our duty. 

But, on the other band, if we should be successful, no pen can tell the joy we will bring to our friends at home. And none can paint the visions of horror that will flit across the minds of the secesh that are there. They will have to cry out, let rocks and| mountains fall on us, and hide us from the wrath of the coming Yankees. We are for supporting the Administration at all hazards, as the only chance to save the Government; and if we have to give up the Union, or the institution of slavery, we say give us the Government of our fathers and let the negro slide.

No more at present, but remain yours, truly, S.K.H.

Letters From Triune: 'Fat,' 'lazy' and the high price of whiskey

Photo illustration of newspaper clippings of accounts from wartime Triune.

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First in an occasional series

For a journalist like me, there’s nothing quite like reading soldiers' letters home printed in hometown newspapers. After my recent visit to the Triune earthworks — the maze of rifle pits, trenches and redoubts built by the Union army a 20-minutes drive today from Franklin — a letter from a 96th Illinois soldier struck me in a way it might not have before. 

A pond among the earthworks at Triune.
Did soldiers use this?

Dated June 13, 1863, from “Camp at Triune,” Private Samuel F. Vose writes with a mix of humor and candor that pulls me right into camp life. The men are healthy but filthy, freshly paid but only moderately drunk thanks to the high price of whiskey, and settled into the peculiar boredom of waiting behind fortifications in a small yet strategically important Tennessee town 30 miles south of Nashville. 

Vose recounts a brush with Confederate forces — pickets fired on, batteries moved forward, shells sailing overhead — and notes "some killed" in his brigade. Reading it, I can almost hear the echoes of those guns across the fields, and I feel, just a little, what it was like to be there.

Camp at Triune, Tenn., June 13th, 1863

Dear Brother L.— 

As I had written you a few lines and got a few in return, I thought I would write you a letter so as to get one in return.

Well, the first thing is we are all well, fat and lazy, dirty, lousy and ragged, and in good fighting condition. We got our pay for two months yesterday, but did not get very drunk on account of whisky being so high — two dollars per bottle, and beer ten cents a thimble full. There was a few though who got so that they could lie on their backs a great deal easier than they could keep on their feet, so they preferred doing it but were interrupted occasionally by the rise of whisky which somewhat soiled their garments.

The country around here is very good and all the old planters seem to be pretty well off, but I don’t think this war is helping them much. Triune is about as large as Hainesville, and a good deal such a looking place. The fortifications here are good and strong.

Union earthworks snake through the woods at Triune.

The report is that the rebels are within ten miles of us thirty thousand strong, and intend to make an attack on us soon, but I don’t think they will make much if they do. We had a little brush with them last Thursday, and came nearer getting into a fight than we ever have before. They commenced about ten o’clock in the morning by firing on the pickets. We were all got out in line of battle, the batteries in front. The rebels brought up one battery within a quarter of a mile and opened on the 12th Chicago Battery. They had it pretty lively for a while. 

We took all our tents down and sent them back of the intrenchments. The 18th Ohio battery then came into line and commenced firing, and our regiment supported it. Company A went out as skirmishers. The rebels then got some guns to play on us, and the shells whistled over us pretty lively for a while but all went too high to do us any damage. It made some of the boys dodge down their heads, but all in our regiment stood and did not get frightened.

Some of the boys in the 84th Indiana skedaddled and got behind the intrenchments. The first shell that went over scared the sutler’s clerks so that they grabbed up their money box, as they supposed, but it proved to be a box of matches, and ran for a safe place and left their goods. The boys pitched into the eatables and would have destroyed the whole if it had not been for the Quartermaster. He put their things on a wagon and sent them off. When Bingham found he had got the wrong box he mustered up courage enough to come back and get the right one which the boys had not found.

Just beyond Triune earthworks,
a mansion rises.

Wilson of Libertyville was one of the clerks, and had always said if the boys got into a fight he should take a gun and go in with them. He started for home yesterday morning, firm in the belief that he had had a barrel shot from under him. Bingham feels quite cheap about it, he says he supposes that the boys will write home a parcel of lies about it.

I saw a body of armed rebels for the first time; they were making a charge on the pickets at the time Gen. [George] Granger was at the 12th Chicago Battery. He turned a gun on them and sighted it himself, and when they stopped to fire he landed a shell in their midst, but they were not long in getting back to the woods again. The batteries and cavalry did most of the fighting. Company A got a few shots at them and so did some of the pickets. One Sergeant in Company K killed two rebels. They left about 3 P.M.

There was some killed in our brigade, and the cavalry lost some, I don’t know how many. We took some prisoners and killed some, but I don’t know the number. There was two spies hung at Franklin last week. They were passing themselves off as Inspecting Generals from Rosecrans, and had looked the works all over and were just going out of the lines when a cavalry boy recognized one of them, as an officer in the rebel army.

Yours truly, S. F. Yost

Postscript: Yost, a farmer, apparently was some kind of character. In the 96th Illinois' retreat at Resaca in May 1864, he suffered a dislocated arm. Then the Confederates compelled the regiment — Vose included — to withdraw again.

"Stripping off all of his clothing but his pants, the surgeon had just succeeded in pulling the dislocated  arm in place when the stampede begun," a regimental historian wrote. "Vose ran back without many clothes on, an object at once pitiable and laughable, as he made his way to the  rear," the regimental historian wrote. (Page 326.)

Vose mustered out in the summer of 1865. He died in Florida in 1924.

---

SOURCE: The Waukegan (Wis.) Weekly Gazette, June 27, 1863

Podcast: Inside 'Armies of Antietam' with the authors

In Episode 53, Jim Smith and Robert Gottschalk join co-hosts John Banks and Tom McMillan to discuss their new book, Armies of Antietam, a comprehensive look at the organization of both armies during the Maryland Campaign of September 1862. Their work focuses on each regiment of the Union and Confederate armies as well as biographical information on the regimental commanders. (John also sneaked in a question about Rush, Smith's favorite rock band.)

Nashville battle story: A soldiers' graveyard, war-torn mansion

Undated Bradford mansion image by an unknown photographer (Nashville Public Library Digital Collection)

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In the seven years we’ve lived in Nashville, the landmarks along busy two-lane Granny White Pike have become as familiar as an old sneaker. There’s the dry-stack wall where Union soldiers captured mud-spattered Confederate Gen. Henry Jackson. Across the pike in the near distance looms Shy’s Hill, where its namesake, Rebel Col. Bill Shy, was mortally wounded. Nearby stands a "witness" tree that locals say lost its crown to Union artillery fire. What’s missing from the picture is just as intriguing. 

7th Minnesota Pvt. Fred Fessenden
was killed at the Battle of Nashville.
(Minnesota Historical Society)

According to the diary of 7th Minnesota chaplain Elijah Evan Edwards, seven Union soldiers were buried on the battlefield in “a single wide grave,” perhaps on the grounds of the Bradford mansion that once stood between the opposing lines just off Granny White Pike. Used as a Union Army military hospital, the mansion is long gone, replaced by modern development. Among the dead buried by the chaplain was the 7th Minnesota’s Fred H. Fessenden, a 27-year-old private shot through the temple during fighting near Shy’s Hill.

“He could always be depended upon,” a 7th Minnesota comrade and friend named Edward wrote about Fessenden in this poignant letter. “He was recently offered a promotion, but declined to accept it, preferring to serve as a private the rest of his time. But now he is promoted to higher and more noble employment than earth can give, and although I shall miss him very much, I feel that what is my loss is his infinite gain.”

In his diary, Edwards described the return of the mansion’s owner, "Mrs. Bradford," who surveyed the damage to her home and accepted her losses with restraint, donating remaining provisions for the wounded. While she expressed frustration over earlier looting, Edwards noted that much of the plundering had occurred earlier and was carried out by irresponsible soldiers. Items stolen included family portraits, religious objects and household goods, some of which were later recovered. 

After the hospital closed, Edwards wrote, "Mrs. Bradford asked the surgeon in charge to have the floors cleaned of bloodstains, all rubbish removed, and the building put in good order, fumigated and swept."

But back to those burials. 

Edwards sketched Nashville battle scenes and other sites in his diary, including perhaps the very graveyard for the 7th Minnesota dead. Shortly after the war, Fessenden's remains were removed to the Nashville National Cemetery. His 7th Minnesota comrades buried on the property — Napoleon Chamberlain, George Washington Simmons, Milton Burons, Sebastian Baulig and Archibald Savidge — also have marked graves in the national cemetery. Someday soon, I hope to pay my respects to them there. 

Today, the Bradford mansion is gone, its grounds swallowed by manicured lawns and upscale homes. Nothing on the surface hints at the graves once dug there. But through his diary (transcription below), Chaplain Edwards keeps Fred Fessenden and the memory of his 7th Minnesota comrades alive.

Below are excerpts from Chaplain Edwards’ diary (hat tip: Huntsville Historical Review), written on and near the Bradford property south of Nashville in December 1864. His words offer a firsthand glimpse of the soldiers’ original resting place, a makeshift battlefield hospital and the human cost in the aftermath of the Battle of Nashville (Dec. 15-16, 1864).

Chaplain Elijah Edwards' sketch of the Bradford mansion property. Graves, perhaps for those
 of the 7th Minnesota, appear in the middle background. 

This afternoon I buried the dead of the 7th [Minnesota] Regiment, side by side in a single wide grave in the field where they fell. There were seven Minnesotians and an unknown soldier found dead on the same field.* 

The lady owner of the Bradford mansion came, accompanied by two rather beautiful young ladies, presumably her daughters. She looked with surprise at the holes made in her fine mansion by shot and shell, and congratulated herself that she was not at home during the battle. She looked ruefully at the ruin wrought, but in the main took her losses philosophically.

She donated what delicacies might remain in the house to the use of the wounded. Her daughters were less discreet and forbearing in their manner and made some rather insulting remarks. 

Chaplain Elijah Evan Edwards,
7th Minnesota (Battle of 
Nashville Trust)

Our burly English first musician resented this in language more forceful than elegant. There was indeed some cause for the young ladies’ complaints. But for the wholesale plundering and looting that occurred on the first day of the battle, the present occupants were not to blame. I witnessed the looting and knew it to have been done by unprincipled and irresponsible parties. Some of the things stolen were the mother’s picture, an alabaster statue of Christ and the Virgin Mother, and an album of family pictures. A piously inclined pilferer stole the old family Bible. 

One of the robbers crammed a curiously enameled clock case into his satchel. The mansion is badly damaged by the cannonading but is still livable. Mrs. Bradford expressed to the surgeons very decided views as to damages, but it will be difficult to decide as to which army is responsible, the building occupying a position between the lines and being in fact damaged most by [John Bell] Hood’s artillery practice.

The Bradfords are very decided rebels in sentiment, and the husband is, I understand, a fugitive in Texas and had risen to the rank of General in the Southern service.

A curious diary was found in the house, purporting to be that of a Mr. Cantrell. Its last date was December 6, 1864, the time probably when the mansion had to be vacated. It is presumed that this diary, with other goods belonging to the Bradfords, was brought to the mansion for safekeeping. The diary was forwarded to headquarters for examination but contained no information worthy of note. The first date of the diary is 1835, and the writer was then a young man, affianced to an unnamed cousin of his, whom he spoke of as May. That part of the diary ends abruptly, but the presumption is that May and the Mrs. Cantrell mentioned in the entry of July 6 are one and the same. The entry reads: “Mrs. C. was delivered of a child this morning. Removed her for safekeeping to Mrs. Bradford’s.” 

The most audacious utterances in the modern part of the diary were the following melanges of the patriotic and commonplace: “The spirit of the South is unconquerable. Worked all day in the onion beds.” “The future looks dark and portentous. Had to whip Willie and Buddie.” “The Yanks have stolen all my sweet potatoes.” The last entry is significant: “In order to save my property, I have taken the oath of allegiance.” 

I hunted up the 23rd Corps this morning and found my brother Wes in robust health but dirty as two days’ fighting and wallowing in the mud could make him. I returned over our battle line and noted the traces of carnage in the rebel trenches. The trees on the summit of the high hill on our right were almost stripped of bark and branches by our missiles. The trenches were filled with dead that seemed already a portion of the earth in which they were partially imbedded. 

Halfway down, or a third of the way down, I came upon a heap of our dead laid out for burial. There were twenty of them, the fallen dead of the 10th Minnesota of McMillan’s Brigade (1st), which took part in the famous charge up this hill on the salient part of Hood’s lines. In one of the group I recognized the face of an old St. Paul acquaintance, Geo. L. Lumsden, a man with a singular and not unromantic history. 

Bradford Mansion, December 18

John Houston of 
the 5th Minnesota.

Captain John Houston of the 5th Minnesota, whom I found badly wounded on the field at the close of the first day’s battle, sent for me to call and see him at the shortest notice. I started immediately and soon reached him in the City Hospital. His wound had been a serious one involving, as the hospital surgeons thought, the necessity of amputation of his right arm close to the shoulder, the ball of the humerus being shattered by a Minnie bullet. 

Captain Houston refused to submit to an amputation, believing that with skillful treatment his arm could be saved. He wished me to go at once and interview his friend Dr. Vincent P. Kennedy, former surgeon of the 5th and now Brigade surgeon, and ask him to call at once. His object was to secure a transfer to the department in the care of Dr. Kennedy, believing that his old friend was able by his skill to save both his arm and his life. The surgeons have been severely criticized for their too-great readiness to perform amputations when with proper care the limb might be saved. Their only answer is that they have neither the time nor appliances for such care, and that the surest way to save life is to amputate. Surgeon Kennedy immediately responded to the call of his friend, but as to the success of the operation, if performed, I have not heard. 

Field Hospital, Bradford Mansion December 19, 1864 

The number in hospital is being very materially reduced each day by discharges and transfers to the city hospitals, and yet there is still quite an army of surgeons, chaplains, assistants, and hangers-on left. Our first camp in the suburbs beyond the Charlotte Pike has been entirely broken up. Nothing remains of the tent under the mistletoe but the debris of a chimney in the campsite style of architecture, shapeless in its ruins. We are beginning to grow weary of hospital life and to envy the part of the army now in its hurried chase after Hood. There are rumors that the Confederate force is utterly broken up and ruined, that they are not retreating in a body as beaten armies sometimes retreat, but have scattered and melted away until there is scarcely a corporal’s guard left anywhere. There is no longer a Hood’s army and never will be again.

    GOOGLE STREET VIEW: Bradford mansion stood near present-day Lipscomb Drive.

Field Hospital, December 20, 1864 

We are impatiently waiting for orders to transfer the patients to the city, close up the hospital, and proceed over the country following in the footsteps of the conquerors of the fugacious Hood until we overtake them. It does not appear reasonable that the 16th Corps should return to Nashville, where there is no longer need of a militant body bearing the peculiar stamp of the force known and respected as “Smith’s Guerrillas.” That we may be ordered back to Memphis is spoken of as a probability, though a remote one. It was the mission of A. J. Smith to threaten Tennessee and Mississippi, engage the attention of {Nathan Bedford} Forrest, and prevent his going eastward to join forces with Joseph Johnston. Forrest thought his mission was to intercept Smith and prevent his joining [William] Sherman. Now that these emergencies no longer exist, there is no motive for Smith to waylay Forrest or for Forrest to interfere with Smith. For the present, both are played out.

Field Hospital, December 21, 1864 — Last Day 

The last discharges and transfers have been made, and the Bradford mansion ceases this morning to be a hospital. It is again a private dwelling, though not yet in possession of its owners. Mrs. Bradford asked the surgeon in charge to have the floors cleaned of bloodstains, all rubbish removed, and the building put in good order, fumigated and swept. Some of her stolen household goods that had been found hidden about the premises were restored, though not all. Her mother’s picture and the family Bible had been returned. It seemed a hard and cruel thing that she should have been plundered of things precious to her and worthless to anyone else, but such are the caprices of warfare in an enemy’s land. Upon the whole she seemed a kindly woman and cheerfully surrendered all provisions and dainties in the house for the use of the wounded, and it was left unto her desolate.

December 22, 1864 

Yesterday the mud in Nashville was unfathomable, or at least of uncertain and dangerous depth. Today the mercury is below the freezing point, and a thin stratum of ice and frozen mud has formed on the surface of the slough. The appearance of Nashville is not inviting. The eye rests upon heaps of rubbish, with dead animals promiscuously scattered about. 

Nashville, December 23–24, 1864

Still detained by red tape and the necessity of procuring an outfit to provision us until we overtake our regiment. This is positively our last day in Nashville, as the red tape has at last been untied and we start tomorrow on our winding way in search of the 7th Minnesota Volunteer Infantry.

Franklin, Tennessee, December 25, 1864 

This day should be Christmas, but there is no sign of it here in this war-wasted land. No bells ring, no joyous gatherings of young and old. The country is desolate and looks as if it might never again have happiness.

* Names of the killed in battle, buried on the field near the Bradford mansion, Co. B: Corporal Napoleon C. Chamberlain Co. C: George W. Simons Co. E: Milton Burons Co. G: Sebastian Baulig Co. H: Fred H. Fessenden Co. K: Archibald Savidge, David Coolidge. Besides the above there are six mortally wounded and possibly 20 who are disqualified for further service.

---

SOURCE

Edwards, Elijah E. (1973) "Diary of Chaplain Elijah E. Edwards (Part II)," Huntsville Historical Review: Vol. 3: No. 2, Article 3

Who was he? Read a remarkable Battle of Nashville letter

Howard Pyle's painting depicts Minnesota troops fighting near Shy's Hill during 
the Battle of Nashville. (Read more.)

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The letter below, published in the Vermont Phoenix on Jan. 13, 1865, comes from a 7th Minnesota soldier who signs himself simply as "Edward," writing from Cumberland Hospital in Nashville. He wastes no time easing his mother’s fears: Yes, he was wounded in the Battle of Nashville, but it was a minor head wound and he’s recovering well. He knows she will have already seen newspaper reports of the fighting and possibly casualty lists, and he gently prepares her for the hardest news of all — the death of his close friend and comrade, 27-year-old Fred H. Fessenden. 

Edward's letter appeared in the 
Vermont Phoenix of Brattleboro
 on Jan. 13, 1865.

Edward then launches into a vivid, boots-on-the-ground account of the battle. On Thursday, Dec. 15, 1864, his regiment advanced under heavy artillery fire and spent hours lying flat on their stomachs while shells screamed overhead. When the order finally came to charge, they surged forward and captured the Confederate works in minutes. In the chaos, Edward saw their brigade commander Sylvester Hill killed instantly, with Fred catching him as he fell during the attack at Redoubt No. 3, south of today's downtown Nashville. 

Even in victory, death was everywhere, and the fighting didn’t slow down. The next day was even worse. 

Early Friday morning, Edward and Fred — "a fearless soldier of Jesus," according to an inscription on a CDV of him (below) — lay near each other before the final assault near Shy's Hill, calmly eating hardtack and talking, unaware of how little time they had left. During the charge, Edward was struck in the head and knocked down. Within minutes, Fred — after hearing that Edward had been wounded — was shot in the temple and killed. 

Between personal moments, Edward paints an unforgettable picture of the battle itself: charging across open fields under devastating fire, lying exposed between opposing artillery batteries, watching enemy lines crumble and finally storming breastworks bristling with cannon firing grape and canister at close range. He admits he cannot understand how anyone survived that final charge, yet survive they did — capturing guns, prisoners and a decisive victory for the Union, though at enormous cost.

So, who was Edward and what became of him? And why did this letter appear in a Vermont newspaper? Five soldiers named Edward — their surnames were Camirand, Wright, Klappenbach, Lightbourne and Schuetz — served in Company H with Fred H. Fessenden, who rests in Nashville National Cemetery. One of them probably is our letter writer.

I'm digging in.

U.S. hospital at University of Nashville | Library of Congress

A Soldier's Letter. Cumberland Hospital | NASHVILLE, TENN., Dec. 19th, 1864

You will doubtless be anxious to hear from me, for long before this reaches you, you will have heard of  this hard fought battle and glorious victory won near Nashville last Thursday and Friday and perhaps will see my name among wounded and the name of Fred H. Fessenden on the list of killed. To commence I will say I am slightly wounded in the head and am feeling very comfortable now, and if I do not get cold in my wound, I think I shall soon be able to return to my the regiment and to duty again.

7th Minnesota battle flag

About ten o'clock last Wednesday night we received orders to be up at four o'clock and ready to march at six o'clock in the morning and move upon the enemy's works. We did so. But as I cannot write you a long letter now, I will send you this morning's paper which gives an account of our work. The correspondent must have been with the 4th corps most of the time I think, for he does not tell half what we (Gen. A. J. Smith's command) did.

Our regiment got into action about noon on Thursday, when we drove the rebs some two miles; then we saw they had two lines of breast-works with several cannons and a large force behind them. The artillery fire from both sides now was most rapid and deafening. Our infantry line of battle now double-quicked across an open field to the foot of the hill on which the rebel battery was planted and about 40 rods from their works. Here we lay down. flat on our stomachs two hours, while our batteries tried to shell the rebs out of their works. 

A wartime illustration depicts the Union attack on Redoubt No. 3 at Nashville and the moment
Col. Sylvester Hill (on horseback) was struck by Confederate fire. Below, Redoubt No. 3 today.

Rebels retreat like a 'flock of frightened sheep'

About 5 p.m. the order was given to fix bayonets and charge upon their works. With a shout and yell, we rushed up the hill, and in less than five minutes the works were ours. I cannot describe the scene that followed, as I scaled the walls of the rebel fort, Col. Hill commanding our brigade rode past me shouting to the men to cease firing and form a new line of battle. Just then a ball came whizzing over head and struck Col. Hill in the face, killing him instantly. Fred Fessenden caught him as he fell from his horse.

Colonel Sylvester Hill,
killed at Nashville.

I immediately informed Col. [William] Marshall of it. He said "Is that so ? then I have command of the brigade now." The excitement of the hour was so great that no one stopped to obey the order to cease firing but all rushed on and on, driving the rebs before us like a flock of frightened sheep, until we had captured the second and third line of breastworks with several cannon, and twelve hundred prisoners.

It was now night and darkness closed our work for that day. We formed three lines of battle and lay down on our arms in the rebel camp. We cooked our supper on the fire that the rebs built to get their supper by, and I slept on some straw that the rebs slept on the night before. About ten o'clock that night our regimental Postmaster brought us a mail. I received two letters which I was very glad to get, and it's the last mail I have received. 

Next morning about one hour before daylight we were routed up and marched about a mile where we lay in line of battle until 8 o'clock. While there we cooked our breakfast. At 8 o'clock the order to advance was given. We had to march through a thick lot of brush and then emerged into an open wheat field where the rebs had a full view of us, and they improved the time by opening upon us a hot and rapid fire of shot and shell. We double-quicked towards them across the wheat field and found they were intrenched behind a strong line of breastworks. We lay down in a ravine in a corn field about an hour, while our batteries which had got into position poured their shells upon the rebels. The firing from the batteries on both sides now was the most rapid and deafening I ever heard. [The] Tupelo [Miss.] battle I thought was dreadful. But that was small compared to this. 

'We had a full view of the rebel works'

We lay just about half way between the rebel batteries and our own; the shot and shell whizzed over us, sometimes bursting close to us, throwing the mud all over us, and now and then wounding some of us as we lay there hugging the ground. You can imagine it was anything but agreeable. I was glad when the order came to advance again. 

We marched a little to the right and then forward about forty rods on to a little rising ground and lay down behind a rail fence. Here we had a full view of the rebel works, which were not more than eighty rods in front of us. We lay flat on the ground behind the fence and watched the movements of the enemy and the effects of our shells as they burst behind their works and among the rebs. We could see the rebs as they massed their forces on our right and then on our left as occasion required.

Minnesota monument on Shy's Hill, from which the Confederates retreated "pell mell" 
on Dec. 16, 1864, according to letter writer Edward.

Once they sent a heavy force up a hill in front of our right, but less than half an hour we heard a tremendous volley of musketry firing and then a cheering, and very soon we saw our extreme right had flanked that force and they were rushing back down the hill pell mell, in the most demoralized condition. While we were lying behind the fence I indulged in considerable sharp shooting. We could see the rebel sharpshooters posted behind some trees firing at us every time any one raised a little from the ground, and I with several others of our company tried our best to drive them off or stop their work. One especially I fired at several times, and after the last charge was made he was found dead by the tree.

About four o'clock p.m. the order was given along the whole line to charge upon the breast-works. We all jumped up and with a yell and cheer we rushed towards them. Not till then did we think there was half as large a force of rebels there. Directly in front of our regiment the rebs had a battery of four guns which they had kept silent until the charge was made, and we had no idea they were there until they opened on us a most murdering fire of grape and cannister while thousands of muskets sent a tornado shower of bullets at our advancing columns, but it did not check the line in the least although I cannot imagine how it was possible for a single man to reach the breastworks alive. 

'How dearly we paid for it'

Private Fred H. Fessenden, killed 
at the Battle of Nashville.
"A fearless soldier of Jesus,"
reads an inscription on this CDV.
(Minnesota Historical Society)

But in less than ten minutes our flag was upon their works, and our boys were behind their intrenchments; our regiment captured the four cannon that played upon me so fearfully, (with their old rage of treason and rebellion) and over a thousand prisoners. The works along the whole line were carried and the victory won. But how dearly we paid for it. The loss of killed and wounded will tell.

Just as we commenced the charge, I was struck on the left side of my head by a bullet, which knocked me down, stunning me for a few seconds. I soon rallied, however, and told my Lieut. I was wounded. He helped me to take off my haversack, canteen and rubber blanket. (It was raining hard at the time) and told me to crawl to the rear if I could, my head face and whiskers were covered with blood by that time. I crawled back a few rods and lay down where I was not so much exposed to the storm of lead that was pouring upon us. 

As I grew weak and faint from the loss of blood, I fell back a little further to a running brook where I could drink some water and bathe my wound. I lay there about an hour when two of my comrades came after me and helped me into a house which was near by, and about nine o'clock in the evening the surgeon got round to dress my wound. Over one hundred wounded were brought into that house that night. Soon after I was taken to the house my Lieut. came in and found me laying on a matress in the parlor. He said he got through without a scratch and 29 of our company with him, some five or six were missing and among that number was Fred. Fessenden, and he asked me if I had seen anything of him. I told him I had not. Soon afterwards one of our boys came in to tell me that Fred. was killed.

7th Minnesota soldier Fred Fessenden: 'Tell my friends I die trusting in God'

He said that when we had nearly reached the breastworks some of the boys told Fred that Ed was wounded. He asked if I was badly wounded, and they told him they thought I was. Just then a ball struck him in the temple and he sung out "Good bye" and fell dead upon the field. Soon after we left camp on Thursday morning and as we were forming in line of battle, Fred said to me, "Well, Edward, if I fall in the battle, tell my friends I die trusting in God." How little we knew that within 36 hours he would be called to be with his Saviour, whom he loved. He died about 4 o'clock Friday afternoon, Dec. 16th, 1864, and probably in less than five minutes after I was wounded. When I fell he was about six feet from me, but such was the excitement at that time he did not notice me. Just before the charge was ordered, we were lying down near each other eating our dinner of hardtack, and talking in the best of spirits.  

Fred was a good soldier, ever ready to do his duty, and always in the front rank and at his post in time of danger. He could always be depended upon. He was recently offered a promotion, but declined to accept it, preferring to serve as a private the rest of his time. But now he is promoted to higher and more noble employment than earth can give, and although I shall miss him very much, I feel that what is my loss is his infinite gain.

General George Thomas

Fred's body, with all the others who were killed in our regiment, were brought to the house in which I lay, and were all laid out in a row in the front yard. By order of Gen. [George] Thomas they were to be taken to the cemetery in the city and buried; each grave will have a head board, with name, company and regiment upon it. As soon as I am able, I shall try to find his grave. 

I lay in the house near the battle-field until Sunday afternoon, when most all the wounded who could ride in hacks were taken to this hospital. As I rode out of the yard I saw the row of dead, and was told which was Fred's body. He had his overcoat on, and his cap lay on his face. The boys said he looked very natural. I wanted to go to it, but the hack could not get nearer than two or three rods. 

I would like to write considerable more, but must stop and write to Jennie. I wrote this lying on my back, as I must keep my head as quiet as possible. Now, mother, don't worry about me, for I am in one of the best hospitals in the country, and am doing as well as I can expect. May God sustain you in this sad hour, and bring us all at last to our Heavenly home, is the sincere prayer of your bereaved, sympathizing and affectionate son, EDWARD.

Podcast: The Irish at Antietam, from Ireland to the battlefield

In Episode 52, Irishman and historian Cóilín Ó Coigligh of County Cavan gives co-hosts Tom McMillan and John Banks the lowdown on Irish soldiers who fought at Antietam, including the famous Irish Brigade commander Thomas Meagher. Plus, John and Coilin dish on their American Civil War-focused trip in August on the Emerald Isle. (Pssst: They stayed at Meagher's birthplace in Waterford — it's now a four-star hotel.)

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Can these cabins for enslaved linked to a Rebel general be saved?

A slave cabin in "The Quarters," near downtown Columbia, Tenn. It is one of four.

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A version of this column originally appeared in Civil War Times in 2024.

On a cloudless, deep-blue afternoon, I drive 45 miles south of Nashville to Columbia for a visit with one of my favorite people, Campbell Ridley. He’s an 80-year-old semi-retired farmer, U.S. Army veteran, rock-and-roll devotee and storyteller with a wit as sharp as the tip of a new bayonet.

Gideon Pillow,
circa 1870.

“How are you feeling?” I ask moments after stepping into his farm office.

Aside from mourning the recent death of Barney — his nine-year-old barn cat — Ridley says he feels fine, a state he attributes to “clean living and cheap beer.” He’s wearing tan Carhartts, brown work boots, a blue-checkered shirt, and, appropriately, a ballcap that reads “Life Is Good.”

Ridley’s roots run deep in Maury County, once one of the wealthiest counties in the state before the Civil War. He’s the great-great-grandnephew of Gideon Pillow, the Confederate brigadier general, Mexican War veteran, lawyer, politician and before the war one of the county’s foremost slaveholders. Ridley’s paternal great-grandfather, a leading citizen who farmed with mules, earned the nickname “Mule King” — fitting enough in Columbia, long known as the “Mule Capital of the World.”

When I need a history fix and a good laugh, I visit Ridley. We’ve sat together inside magnificent St. John’s Church — the slave-constructed plantation church built under the direction of Leonidas Polk and his brothers. It stands roughly a mile and a half southwest along Mount Pleasant Pike, just across from the field where the Episcopalian bishop and future Confederate lieutenant general once lived in a mansion called Ashwood Hall. There, we’ve admired the two massive gingko trees Polk imported from Japan and poked around the brick remnants of the kitchen of the mansion, destroyed by fire in 1874 and never rebuilt.

Irish visitor Liam McAlister, Campbell Ridley and I during a recent visit to "The Quarters."

'The Quarters' on Gideon Pillow plantation: Time capsules in Maury County, Tennessee

Today, though, we’re exploring far humbler construction. Near Ridley’s office and the east fork of Greenlick Creek stand four ramshackle cabins for the enslaved. “The Quarters,” he calls the property. His daughter, who lives in New Mexico, owns it along with a friend.

“I’ll take care of this until she puts me in a nursing home,” he says, half-joking.

Campbell Ridley explores a
cabin for the enslaved in
 "The Quarters."

In a way, these cabins are as much a part of Ridley as the land he has farmed for decades. As late as the 1990s, he tells me, these structures served as homes for poor Black farmhands and others — many of whom worked for the Ridleys.

“The woman who raised me lived here,” he says as we step inside one of the rickety cabins. Her name was Katie, a “wonderful” lady with a gift for frying chicken. The Ridley family employed her for more than three decades.

At the next cabin, ancient white paint clings to exposed exterior logs. Four modern wooden posts prop up the porch overhang above two large, well-worn walkway stones. On an exterior wall, a half-dozen old hangers dangle from a rusty nail. Above us, a corrugated-tin roof keeps nature at bay.

“That’s been there as long as I can remember,” Ridley says.

These antebellum cabins stand in stark contrast to Clifton Place, the brick manor house on the hill about 750 yards away. In the late-fall sunlight, the mansion almost seems to glow. Through the trees along the road to Ridley’s office, its imposing Ionic columns and limestone porch come into view.

From 1839 until the early Civil War years — when the U.S. Army confiscated the property — Clifton Place served as the centerpiece of Pillow’s vast plantation. The enslaved who lived in cabins at “The Quarters” produced his wealth by planting and harvesting cotton, hemp, corn and other crops and tending his cattle, sheep and hogs.

As one of Tennessee’s leading citizens, Pillow moved in elite circles. He counted James K. Polk, the 11th U.S. president, among his friends. After Polk left the presidency in 1849, he dined at Clifton Place with Pillow and his wife, Mary. Pillow dabbled in national politics himself, opposing secession at first in 1861 before relenting.

As a military man, however, Pillow consistently disappointed. During the Mexican War, he irritated superiors — including Winfield Scott — with his relentless self-promotion. No surprise, perhaps, given the massive painting of a heroic Pillow in uniform that greeted visitors in the entrance hall at Clifton Place.

In the Civil War, Pillow abandoned his post at Fort Donelson in February 1862, slipping away under cover of darkness before Ulysses Grant accepted the Confederates’ surrender. At Stones River nearly 10 months later, he led a brigade with mixed results. True or not, a story of the 55-year-old officer cowering behind a tree during the fight has stained his record ever since.

Scott — overall commander of the U.S. Army when the war broke out — certainly wasn’t a fan. In his 1864 memoirs, “Old Fuss and Feathers” described Pillow as “amiable, and possessed of some acuteness, but the only person I have ever known who was wholly indifferent in the choice between truth and falsehood, honesty and dishonesty… habitually boastful… at the total sacrifice of moral character.”

Inside cabins for the enslaved: A window into the past (Video)

Apparently used to keep the weather out, ancient newspapers cling to the walls of a slave cabin.

As we move from cabin to cabin (see video), Ridley reflects only briefly on his ancestor and the enslaved people who toiled for him.

“Just part of history,” he says.

We step gingerly into a cabin once home to field slaves. More than a year ago, Ridley had brush cleared from around these structures, making access easier. Each cabin is roughly 15 by 15 feet, with a small loft reached by a rickety ladder. Each has a post–Civil War room added to the rear. I’ve visited the site half a dozen times, yet I always see something new.

Ridley shines a flashlight beam onto a fireplace, revealing bricks and small dirt piles in an otherwise barren room. Fragments of newspaper — used as insulation by post-war inhabitants — speckle the walls. A dour-looking baseball player stares out from a March 1937 sports page. Beneath my feet, a decrepit floor, victimized by time and weather, crunches softly.

An interior view of one of the four remaining 
slave cabins that were occupied well
into the 20th century.

In another cabin, we find more traces of the 20th century: a swinging blade, peeling wallpaper decorated with blue-and-aqua flowers, a chipped ax handle, a single clothes hook on a door. Pasted to a back wall is a fragment of The New York Times from decades ago.

“Life in America,” the partial headline reads.

From the era of slavery, though, there is nothing visible: no pottery fragments, no glass shards, no etchings on the walls, no privy to mine for clues. Much is left to imagination.

So I wonder: Who were these men, women, and children?

What treatment did they receive from Pillow?

What were their names?

The 1870 census offers hints. “Sarah” and “Randall,” listed as farmhands for the Pillow family, appear in deeds from as far back as the 1840s.

I wonder what became of the people enslaved at Clifton Place. Are they buried in the cemetery in the woods at the base of Ginger Hill — the remote graveyard Ridley showed me months ago? Or in the rear section of St. John’s Church Cemetery, away from the graves of white parishioners? Or perhaps in one of the countless family plots scattered across the county.

And I wonder what will become of these cabins near the east fork of Greenlick Creek. Ridley wants to save them, but doing so would require expertise and probably hundreds of thousands of dollars.

What might a professional archaeologist uncover here?

'The most complete 19th-century plantation complex anywhere'

I also wonder about the future of Clifton Place, where Ridley’s paternal grandfather lived until 1949. The family held onto it for years afterward.

“I watched television in there for the first time in my life,” Ridley says, recalling family gatherings under 16-foot-high ceilings in the 12-room Greek Revival mansion.

In 1972, a Kentucky Fried Chicken magnate named John R. Neal bought the property from the Ridley family. He and his wife, Linda, attempted a restoration, but the project proved daunting. “We saw the white columns, the Gone With the Wind atmosphere,” she told a reporter in 1986. “We didn’t see the cracks, the structural problems.”

A view of the long-unoccupied Clifton Place
estate of Gideon Pillow. This is private
property. Do not trespass.

The estate includes the original detached kitchen, carriage house, ice house, law office, spring house, blacksmith shop and quarters for “house” slaves. Inside the Pillow-era smokehouse stand the original poplar chopping block and “ham logs” — hollowed poplar logs once used for salting hams. The smoky aroma still lingers.

A researcher once called Clifton Place “the most complete 19th-century plantation complex anywhere.”

Neal died in 2018, but his family still owns the property. The mansion, however, has stood unoccupied — and inaccessible to the public — for more than a decade. Like the nearby slave cabins, it could vanish without major preservation efforts.

Time may not be on our side. Across Mount Pleasant Pike from Clifton Place, developers plan a massive subdivision: “Seven hundred fifty houses on 450 acres,” Ridley says.

Oh my. What will I see here a decade from now?

Places like these don’t disappear all at once — they vanish slowly, board by board, memory by memory, until all that’s left is what someone bothered to write down. I suppose that’s why I keep returning to them. To witness what remains. And to remember what shouldn’t be forgotten.

---

SOURCES

— Scott, Winfield, Memoirs of Lieut.-General Scott, New York, Sheldon and Company, 1864, Vol. II

— The Tennesseean, Aug. 10, 1986, Page 113