Last days of Richard Ewell, who sparked Gettysburg furor

A December 2009 image of the farmhouse in Spring Hill, Tenn., where Richard Ewell lived after 
the Civil War with his wife, Lizinka. The couple died here within days of each other in winter 1872.
 (Hal Jespersen | Wikimedia Commons)

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In the final days of his life, Richard Stoddert Ewell sensed something terribly wrong. A "pall had fallen upon" his farmhouse in Spring Hill, Tenn., and "a feeling of depression ... was visible on every countenance." For nearly two weeks, his wife of nearly eight years had taken care of the former Confederate lieutenant general as he battled typhoid fever. But now she was nowhere to be found.

A historical marker in Spring Hill, Tenn.,
for the Ewell Farm, where Richard Ewell
died on Jan. 25, 1872. He was 54.

Soon, the man who endured criticism for not taking Cemetery Hill on the first day at Gettysburg learned the awful truth: Days earlier, Lizinka Ewell had died of the same disease killing "Old Bald Head."

"His senses had become so keenly susceptible to everything transpiring around him," a Nashville newspaper reported, "that even the thoughts of his attendants seemed laid bare to his perception." Because of Ewell's precarious health, the family delayed revealing the news.

Lizinka, who, according to her obituary, "constantly cultivated ... and stored valuable information," was the general's first cousin and Russian-born daughter of the former U.S. minister to the Court of Tsar Alexander. She was 51.

And so a grieving Ewell ordered preparations for his own death. A will was made; so were arrangements for disposition of his property. After the war, the Virginia-reared Ewell had settled on a farm in Spring Hill, 35 miles south of Nashville, with Lizinka, a wealthy heiress. (Her first husband, James Percy Brown, a notorious philanderer, died in 1844.) The Ewells raised Jersey cattle and sheep, bred harness-racing horses and turned the farm into one of the area's most prosperous.

Headlines in the Nashville Tennessean on
Jan. 26, 1872, the day after
Richard Ewell's death.

"I understand from some of his neighbors that he has been remarkably successful in managing his freed men employees," a Spring Hill man wrote about Ewell in 1867. "He is very liberal and kind to them; at the same time he is firm in support of his rights, and this is the secret of his success. 

"By the way, " the man added, "he has the best crop of wheat that I have seen."

In spring 1870, the Ewell's farm supplied the Maxwell House Hotel in Nashville with 100 pounds of butter a week. The general even became president of the Maury County Agricultural Society. "No man in Tennessee," an account noted, "ever exhibited more interest in improving the breeds of cattle and sheep."

Ewell wanted a simple funeral — no ostentation, no parade. Friends and comrades were to show their respect without fanfare. A plain headstone and footstone would do, he said, "like those over the graves of my father and my mother in Virginia."

"My rank while in the Confederate service might be inscribed upon one of the stones," the 54-year-old Confederate veteran reportedly told attendants at the farmhouse, "but I wish nothing in the inscription which will cast any reflection upon the Government of the United States."

The Ewells, who died of typhoid fever in the winter 1872, are buried in Nashville City Cemetery,
near downtown. (CLICK ON ALL IMAGES TO ENLARGE.)

Barely able to speak, Ewell even mulled a possible cause of his death: exposure to cold because he wore a thin pair of Federal blue military pants purchased before the Civil War. "After all my fighting against the United States so long," said Ewell, who lost his right leg at Brawner's Farm in August 1862, "it is strange that an old pair of infantry pantaloons should kill me at last."

Shortly before Ewell's death, attendants carried Lizinka's coffin to his room. Too weak to show much emotion, they raised him up from his pillow to view shrouded remains. Ewell whispered he wanted to be buried next to his wife, whose picture dangled from his neck.

On the brink of death and unable to accept many visitors, Ewell signaled what he needed with gestures. The end came at 2:30 in the morning on Jan. 25, 1872.  "His countenance wore a look of placid resignation and was more life-like in expression after than a short time before his death," the Nashville Tennessean reported the next day.

Close-up of inscription on the grave marker for Richard Ewell and
his wife Lizinka in Nashville City Cemetery.

Tennessee newspapers published extensive obituaries of Ewell, a U.S. officer during the war against Mexico, lauding him as  a "great Confederate commander." The Nashville Banner only briefly mentioned Gettysburg, noting — erroneously — that Ewell "took 5,000 prisoners and 5 or 6 guns" there.

At the funeral service at Christ Church in Nashville, where Ewell's wife had lived for decades, hundreds of mourners gathered. Tennessee Gov. John Brown attended as did former Confederate generals Lucius Polk, William Bate, William Hicks Jackson, Richard Lilley and Edmund Kirby Smith. An escorted hearse bore took Ewell's remains a short distance to the city cemetery near old Fort Negley, key defense during the U.S. Army's' occupation. As he wished, Ewell was buried next to his wife.

"Before the fresh earth had time to settle on the grave of the wife of his bosom, the clods fell on his own coffin," a newspaper wrote in a lengthy tribute to the general. "The rays of the winter's sun that shimmered on the mound that marked her last resting-place cast their light in the newer-made grave, as if to welcome him once more to her side."

Richard Ewell wanted a plain headstone and footstone. He got a more elaborate marker.

Behind and iron fence, Richard and Lizinka Ewell rest for eternity. The couple died within days of each other.

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SOURCES

• Intimate Strategies of the Civil War: Military Commanders and Their Wives, edited by Carol K. Bleser and Lesley J Gordon, New York, Oxford University Press, 2001
• Memphis Avalanche, Jan. 27, 1872
• Nashville Tennessean, March 6, 1870. Jan, 26, 1872
• Nashville Union and American, Jan. 27, 1872
• The Home Journal, Winchester, Tenn., April 25, 1867

From Nutbush to state penitentiary, my Fort Pillow adventure

Nutbush, Tenn., population about 250, and birthplace of Anna Mae Bullock, aka Tina Turner!
(CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE.)

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The scouting report on Fort Pillow from friends, acquaintances and hangers-on was not encouraging:

"Hot and humid. Go in the fall."

"Snakes, bugs and mosquitoes."

"Be wary of creepy crawlies."

"Ticks."

"You’ll ride through a big prison farm to get there." (Well, I always was a big fan of Shawshank Redemption.)

And so early Saturday morning, I  courageously drove from Nashville through a rainstorm for my first visit to the fort in West Tennessee. It might as well be in the Far East. It's like another world there -- a very hot, humid, remote "another world." Distance: Approximately 200 miles. Your travel time (legally): 3 hours, 30 minutes. Mine? Let's quickly move along here.

In Tina Turner's birthplace, no one can take just one photo.

On a two-lane road outside Brownsville, I trail a barbecue smoker -- in the process of smoking -- for several miles. Smell is tremendous, but I'm wary of getting too close. Mull purchase of "I Break for Barbecue Smokers" bumper sticker. Pass through Nutbush (population about 250), which makes me little tense. Claim to fame: R&B legend Tina Turner's birthplace! Who's not a fan of "Proud Mary"? A sucker for historical signs and markers, I stop to take photos, drawing wary glances from passers-by. Perhaps it's because I shot images from middle of road. Nutbush is also birthplace for blues musicians "Hambone" Willie Newbern and "Sleepy" John Estes. Must be something in the water here. Sadly, absolutely no sign of Tina in the flesh, so I head on down the road ...

... passing by aforementioned state penitentiary farm. I do not wave. I stare straight ahead, desperately trying to make myself look as small as possible. On two-lane back roads in Tennessee, I always keep firm grip on steering wheel and close eye on what's behind me in rearview mirror. (Another movie in mind there.) Tally of dead animals spotted: one black cat — is that good luck? — one raccoon, one possum and one armadillo, per usual feet pointed to the heavens. Don’t ask me why, but that always makes me chuckle. Also see one live raccoon, a nocturnal beast strangely out for daytime sojourn.

Arrival at Fort Pillow, a Tennessee state park. Dang, it’s hot and humid here. Temperature: 89. Humidity: 1 billion percent. Shockingly, I spot a Civil War Trails sign here. They must be all over the planet. I believe a friend saw one in Bulgaria last week, too. Super-excited, I pull a "Van Gogh," slicing off my ear in a selfie taken in front of Civil War Trails sign. OMG! No cell service. I need a drink.

In the distance, behold the Mighty Mississippi -- or as it's better known on this day, the "Muggy Mississippi." Looks like steam rising from the river, which last century moved a mile farther west, toward Arkansas. Gosh, is the river insane? My gawd, why would anything want to move toward Arkansas? The course change means the Mississippi no longer flows directly below Fort Pillow.

OK, timeout on the schtick. Full disclosure: I am out of my depth discussing what happened at Fort Pillow on April 12, 1864. I'm here to educate myself. Facts: With the defenders nearly surrounded, Confederate commander Nathan Bedford Forrest demanded the garrison's surrender. Union command refused. Confederates stormed the fort, overwhelming nearly 600 Federals that included soldiers in the 2nd U.S. Colored Light Artillery, one battalion from the 6th U.S. Colored Heavy Artillery and the Unionist 13th West Tennessee Cavalry. Widespread reports said Confederates massacred troops who surrendered. Half the garrison was killed, including two-thirds of the Black soldieres. Was it a massacre? A congressional investigation said yes. Even today the battle remains controversial. Fort Pillow became a rallying cry for the North. My Fort Pillow museum report: Small but good. Nice exhibits, which include the image above. Friendly staff.

My motto: Refuse to schmooze and you lose. On the 2.5-mile loop that goes to Fort Pillow, I meet a couple from Louisiana, Carolyn and Mike Goss from Bossier City. Everyone has a story. Carolyn has a good one: Her great-grandfather George "Washie" Johnson, who served in a Louisiana regiment -- probably only a teenager, she says -- lost a leg at the Battle of Mansfield (La.) on April 8, 1864. After the war, "Washie" eventually turned to drinking and gambling. (He apparently had a fondness for slot machines.) Johnson also befriended a former slave named Dick Chaney, who was treated like a member of the family. When Chaney died, he was buried next to the Johnson family cemetery in Louisiana, outside the fence. Years later, Carolyn discovered the fence was extended around Chaney's grave.

Carolyn and Mike agree to hike with me over rugged terrain, toward a reconstruction of the 1864 Union fort, guaranteeing I won't pass out alone in the woods. Did I mention it was hot, muggy and buggy? From this position, Confederate troops attacked a Federal redoubt.

Lord, I hope my driver's license is in my wallet so my corpse can be ID'd.


Here's a 25-second video of the torture I put my body through. State should advertise summer walk at Fort Pillow as terrific weight-loss plan.

A fall here and my girls will lose their papa!

Arrival, about 1.25 miles into my journey. The re-built interior of the 1864 Fort Pillow, defended by U.S. Colored Troops and other Federal forces. A cannon lover's delight.

View absolutely no attacker wants.


It's impossible for me to walk away from Fort Pillow without shooting a pano. Here's a view of the exterior. (Click at upper right for full-screen experience.)

Subtract the trees, and this is the attacking Confederates' view of the fort.

Confederates used the ravine in background as cover to attack the fort.

In early January 1866, the U.S. War Department authorized the purchase of land near the fort for a cemetery for "the victims of the massacre." Only 34 of the 258 were identified. The next summer, the remains were removed to a national cemetery in Memphis. Deep respect.

Minus Carolyn and Mike Goss -- don't worry, they're OK -- I head back to the museum. One more mile.  I. Can. Do. This!

In the sweaty home stretch, my heart is pumping, perhaps not this high since I met my wife in 1990. Kidding! Visit complete, I purchase in the museum a Tennessee Walking Stick, crafted from real Tennessee wood. Price: 15 bucks, plus tax. Mrs. B will be pleased.

Before I leave the state park, I check out these earthworks, part of original fort built by Confederates in 1862. My daughters should be here!

Suckered in by one of those historical markers en route back to Nashville, I stop in tiny Henning at the boyhood home of Alex Haley, author of Roots.

And here's where Roots was born. "Summer after summer, as I grew up, my Grandmother and my great aunts told our family's treasured story all the way back to the African who said his name was Kinte," reads a quote from Haley on a marker in front of the modest home.

Life.

Enjoy the journey.

Always.

Until next time ...

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'When is papa coming home?': 1893 collapse of Ford's Theatre

An interior view of the damage on the first floor at Ford's Theatre.  (Library of Congress)
(CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE.)

A  view into Ford's Theatre shows rubble, chairs and desks in the ruins. (Library of Congress)

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When the first rescue workers arrived at Ford's Theatre after a section of the three-story building collapsed, they were struck by the eerie silence. Then they began a frenzied search for survivors and the grim task of removing the dead and grievously injured. In all, 23 workers inside the building, including Civil War veterans, died in the June 9, 1893, tragedy. Ramshackle Ford's Theatre, where President Lincoln was assassinated April 14, 1865, housed hundreds of clerks who worked for the War Department’s Records and Pensions Division.

The story of the awful day -- told in my lengthy feature in the August 2019 issue of Civil War Times -- is one of sublime courage, narrow escapes ... and a large, white cat that loitered in the building's nooks and crannies.

Newspaper coverage of the tragedy was extensive.

Reporters described harrowing scenes at the 10th Street site near the White House. A man whose arm was crushed used his other arm to drag a victim from the wreckage. Another man was discovered by rescue workers sticking head first in the debris.

"Soon they had uncovered his legs, which moved feebly, showing he was still alive," a newspaper reported. "As fast as human hands could work those rescuers did and soon they had the unfortunate out. He was alive when he was brought into the air, but he died before he reached the ambulance in the street."

Added the newspaper: "This was but one of the many scenes attending the most horrible and inexcusable accident that ever occurred in the city of Washington."

Businesses and homes in the immediate area became makeshift hospitals. People climbed atop rooftops to watch the rescue effort unfold. Onlookers included anguished relatives of those who worked in the building.

Coverage in the Washington Post included a diagram of the layout
of workers' desks on the third floor at Ford's Theatre.

Upper-floor survivors recalled  screams of co-workers, who plummeted into a “pit of chaos.” A third-floor witness said Civil War veterans who worked in the building were the “wildest and craziest.” They “seemed delirious,” he recalled, “and had to be held to keep them from jumping out.” One clerk thought the building had been dynamited. Dust lingered in the air, making it difficult to breath.

In a panic, some employees jumped from the second floor, apparently bracing their fall on a Ford’s Theatre awning. At least one man saved himself by leaping upon the awning of a tobacco store next door. Buried under debris, survivor James H. Howard prayed. “Such faith could not fail to impress the entire office,” a newspaper noted decades later, “with the earnestness of his belief in God as a ready help in a time of trouble.” Perhaps inspired by his good fortune, Howard eventually became a lay evangelist.

Shortly before the collapse, Jeremiah Daley left his desk to go to another part of the building. He was among those who fell into the chasm. He died on an operating table as surgeons dressed his wounds. The 22-year-old clerk’s desk remained where he left it, unmoved. Days earlier, Daley’s father had been fired from his job as watchman at the Department of the Interior. En route home to Pennsylvania, Mr. Daley instead rushed to the local hospital, where he identified his son’s body.

Newspapers published accounts of serendipitous escapes. A clerk from Maryland tumbled from the third floor to the first floor, miraculously avoiding a deluge of iron girders and bricks. After treatment for a broken left arm and lacerated leg, he “walked about the city congratulating himself on his escape from death.” A Texan on the second floor survived because he went to the third floor on an errand. Returning to his work space minutes later, he saw an abyss once occupied by a floor and his desk. Another clerk demonstrated the life-saving power of alcohol. He had left work earlier that morning for a cocktail, thus missing the calamity. Afterward, he returned to grab his coat in the ruins.

Damage to a brick arch on the building near the White House.
(Library of Congress)

The Washington Post published extensive coverage of the disaster, including an impressive diagram showing where clerks were stationed in the doomed building,

When a Post reporter visited the home of Dr. Burrows Nelson, whose body was the last one recovered, he was greeted by the man’s young son. “Say, mister, when is papa coming home?” asked the tearful boy. “He will come home tomorrow, won’t he?” A dentist, Nelson also worked as a clerk to make ends meet. His wife was pregnant with their sixth child. Nelson’s family thought he had taken the day off to go fishing.

An investigation determined the building collapsed because a pier had given way during excavation in the basement for an electric-light plant.

As for the large, white cat, a good Samaritan rescued the feline in the ruins and carried it to safety.

A newspaper called the tragedy an "inexcusable accident."  (Library of Congress)

An image of the debris and brick supporting arch. (Library of Congress)

Twenty-three workers at Ford's Theatre died in the collapse of the building. (Library of Congress)

Among the dead were workers who plunged from the third floor "in a chasm of death." 
Here's another interior view. (Library of Congress)

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SOURCES USED IN CIVIL WAR TIMES FEATURE 

• Baltimore Sun, June 10, 1893
• Bucks County Gazette, Bristol, Pa., June 15, 1893
• New York Tribune, June 10, 1893
• The Brooklyn (N.Y.) Eagle, June 9, 1893
• The National Tribune, July 13, 1893, Oct. 12, 1893
• The New York Age, Jan. 25, 1936
• The Philadelphia Inquirer, June 10, 1893
• The Washington Evening Star, March 2, 1878, June 9, 12, 1893
• The Washington Post, June 10, 1893
• Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, June 10, 1893.

On this Civil War trip, The Rock rides shotgun

My dad, John Banks Sr., died on July 22, 2016. His spirit lives on in "The Rock."

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Eight years ago, on my way back home from a trip to Gettysburg, I stopped in Quakertown, Pa., at the house where my dad grew up with his mom and two aunts. The old place on South Main Street had a new owner, and my great-aunts Lena and Bonnie had long since passed on. I hadn't been there in decades.

Not knowing what to expect, I knocked on the door and was invited in. The brick house, built in the early 19th century, looked much smaller than I remember it as a kid. Of course, everything seems so much bigger when you're 10 years old.

There's a lot of our family history in that house, mostly great memories. The smell of Thanksgiving dinners and my great-aunts' molasses cookies. Unwrapping Christmas presents with my brother and sister in the living room next to that massive, ancient shortwave radio. Peering through the window the day my parents brought my sister home for the first time after she was born.

There was tangible stuff, too. One of the slats on the staircase still had a crack in it, courtesy of an 8-year-old me horsing around. Even some of the repair tape Mom and I used to fix it was still barely there. In the dining room, toy guns that my dad played with as a kid were hung on a wall. Jim Edwards, the current owner, found them in the attic. He offered to give me the old playthings, but my dad insisted they belonged with the house.

Before I left, Jim took me out to the small garden. He said he had something else that belonged to my dad. After searching for a few minutes, he pulled from the ground a square stone, about the size of a fist, with the initials "J.B." and "1948" carved into it. That was the handiwork of my dad and his brother when they were teenagers. I gladly took that back home with me.

Dad, our family’s rock, died three years ago. Stroke did him in at 80. He had a great run, but we miss him every day.

On Saturday afternoon, The Rock returned to my hands after an extended absence. (It’s a long story.) At 4:30 this morning, I couldn’t stop thinking about my Dad and The Rock. Before heading out to a battlefield here in the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia, I plopped the big stone on the front seat, letting it ride shotgun. It feels like my dad, who sparked my love of history, is riding right along with me, And so we're off -- to Cross Keys, Port Republic and Civil War points unknown.

Thanks for everything, Dad.

Here's hoping on this special day you have your Rock, too.

Enjoy the journey. Always.

And Happy Father’s Day!

Veteran Cunningham 'felt the heart throbs of the South'

The bronze plaque on the grave of  Sumner Cunningham, founder of Confederate Veteran magazine.
(CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE.)

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On Dec. 17, 1913, Sumner Cunningham, founder and publisher of the influential Confederate Veteran magazine, was sitting at his desk in Nashville, working on a proposal for a monument for the man who composed Dixie. It was the last work of a momentous life. Found slumped over, "insensible" and rocked by a "series of hemorrhages of the nose," Cunningham was rushed to a Nashville hospital, where he died days later. The longtime journalist, a Civil War veteran and Lost Cause proponent, was 70.

Sumner Cunningham died in 1913. He was 70.

"Friend to Man," read a Page 1 headline in the Nashville Tennessean the day after Cunningham's funeral. "Thank our God for letting Sumner A. Cunningham live in the south and do his fine work here," noted the United Daughters of the Confederacy, which passed resolutions praising "a most remarkable and unusual character."

Founded in 1893 by Cunningham, who  served in the 41st Tennessee during the war, Confederate Veteran was initially a fundraising newsletter for the construction of a monument in honor of Jefferson Davis in Richmond. Soon it became one of the most important publications in the South, the voice of Confederate veterans' organizations. In the magazine, Cunningham published everything of interest to veterans and their families -- battle accounts, book reviews, reunion information, death notices and much more. Unsurprisingly, the offerings were heavily pro-Confederate.

"For twenty years his only thought has been for our good and for our honor and the glory of our cause, keeping our history true and straight, and honoring those of our comrades, who, like [Stonewall] Jackson, have crossed over the river to rest in the shade of the trees," a North Carolina veteran wrote in Confederate Veteran in 1913.

Sometimes Cunningham published complaints.

Memorial for Sumner Cunningham, a "gallant 
Confederate soldier."

"History is a true narration of past events," wrote a Missouri member of the United Daughters of the Confederacy. "The correct sources for which a historian should write are the records of the people whom he is writing. We do not want the children of America misled by the falsehoods that some of the present-day histories contain."

Aha! An early-20th century version of "fake news."

Cunningham didn't work solely on behalf of Confederate veterans. Obituaries noted his campaign to raise funds for a bust in Indiana for Union Colonel Richard Owen, who aided Confederate prisoners at Camp Morton. "... it is the most satisfactory undertaking of a lifetime," wrote Cunningham, "and I have learned a lesson of profit by associating with Hoosiers."

In eulogizing Cunningham, Dr. James Vance referenced Confederate Veteran and the role it played "in giving to the world a fair and impartial account of the great struggle between the states." Added Vance: "Sumner Cunningham was first a southerner. The South was his passion, and he worshiped it."

Cunningham, "the historian of the South," was buried in Willow Mount Cemetery in Shelbyville, Tenn., his boyhood home. "He felt the heart throbs of the South," reads the inscription on the bronze plaque on his grave.

In 1932, 19 years after its founder's death, Confederate Veteran ceased publication. In the 21st century, it lives on digitally.

Sumner Cunningham served in the 41st Tennessee, rising to sergeant major. 

"He gathered the history of his people written in tears but radiant with glory," reads the inscription 
on Sumner Cunningham's memorial in Willow Mount Cemetery in Shelbyville, Tenn. 

Cunningham's memorial is about 25 yards from the Confederate section in Willow Mount Cemetery.

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SOURCES

-- Confederate Veteran, January 1913, February 1913.
-- Indianapolis Star, Dec. 21, 1913.
-- Nashville Tennessean, Dec. 21, 1913, Jan. 8, 1914.
-- Tennessee Encyclopedia, accessed online June 12, 2019.

Moon pies & Patrick Cleburne: A Tennessee Civil War adventure

Connie Smith holds a copy of a late-19th century or early-20th century image of Confederate veterans 
from Tennessee. Her great-great grandfather, who served under Nathan Bedford Forrest, appears
 directly in front of the flag. (CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE.)

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Overshadowed by Union victories at Gettysburg and Vicksburg, William Rosecrans' Tullahoma Campaign in summer 1863 gets stiff-armed in the history books. In a series of small battles east of Nashville and Murfreesboro, the 42-year-old Army of the Cumberland commander ejected Rebels from Middle Tennessee. "Brilliant," The New York Times called Rosecrans' maneuverings.

How did Bell Buckle gets its name? An account pasted on the 
window of a counter at a Bell Buckle antiques store/cafe 
offers possibilities.

Channel your inner David McCullough and let these Tullahoma Campaign place names roll off your tongue:

Hoover’s Gap.

Liberty Gap.

Duck River.

Wartrace.

Bell Buckle.

Ah, Bell Buckle, population about 500 and hometown of former "Hee Haw" star Molly Bee. (Use the Google machine.) To find my way there, I rely on finely honed backwoods instincts and lean on knowledge gleaned from  10 years at West Virginia University. Along the way, I make a left at a small church with a sign out front that reads (humorously): "Prayer. The Best Wireless Connection."

On June 24-26, 1863, at Liberty Gap, about 3 1/2 miles from Bell Buckle, Confederates under Army of Tennessee commander Braxton Bragg clashed with Federals under Rosecrans. Chased from the gap, the Rebels retreated to Tullahoma.

About three weeks earlier, Bell Buckle was site of a Grand Review of nearly the entire Army of Tennessee. Among the attendees was British army Colonel Arthur Freemantle, who sadly witnessed the very worst of America: a speech by a politician from Arkansas.

"Of vulgar appearance," the Britisher recalled, he delivered a "long and uninteresting political oration, and ended by announcing himself as a candidate for re-election. This speech seemed to me (and to others) particularly ill-timed, out of place, and ridiculous, addressed as it was to soldiers in front of the enemy. But this was one of the results of universal suffrage."

Boxes of moon pies in the popular Bell Buckle Cafe in Bell Buckle, Tenn.

Present-day Bell Buckle apparently is a bivouac for Moon Pies -- graham cracker cookies with a marshmallow center dipped in either chocolate, vanilla or who knows what else. They sell the things everywhere in town. In mid-June, the Chamber of Commerce holds its 25th annual Moon Pie Festival, which includes a Moon Pie parade, the crowning of a Moon Pie king and queen and the unveiling of the world's largest Moon Pie. At the popular Bell Buckle Cafe, boxes of the tasty treats -- in regular and mini size --  are stacked just steps from the front door. The highlight of my restaurant visit, however, isn't Moon Pies. Instead it's a sign near the cashier: "Don't try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time and annoys the pig."

One of the great mysteries of life, right up there with why Abraham Lincoln named Ambrose Burnside commander of the Army of the Potomac, is how Bell Buckle got its name. A local account speculates it's because Indians "carved a bell and a buckle on a tree as a warning to settlers about their cows." Let's go with that.

But this trip isn't about cows, bells, buckles or Moon Pies. My aim is to explore this area's rich Civil War history, so I drive down two-lane Bell Buckle Road toward Wartrace. In the winter of 1863, one of the greatest commanders of the war made his headquarters there.

At the Blockade Runner Civil War Sutlery you'll find re-enacting gear mixed in with some patriotism.

On the road to Wartrace, population slightly north of Bell Buckle, a sign for a Civil War shop compels me to hit the brakes and stop. In a nondescript, gray building near an old barn, Connie Smith and her husband Jerry, a former blacksmith, operate Blockade Runner Civil War Sutlery. The couple sells everything from replica brogans to officers' uniforms.

The  ghost of James F. Anthony can get a little bit horsey at the
 Blockade Runner Civil War Sutlery in Wartrace, Tenn.

The Smiths receive orders from foreign lands as far away as Russia, Denmark, Australia and California. They have supplied actors in movies The Free State of Jones, The Last Confederate and others. A vintage baseball team from Franklin, Tenn., wears shirts purchased at Smith's shop. Connie even has outfitted the daughters of country music legend Loretta Lynn.

Clearly, Blockade Runner is nirvana for the re-enactor.

It also may be haunted.

"This place," Connie tells me in a hushed tone, "is spooked."

Smith has discovered books moved overnight and felt a strange presence in the business she and her husband have run since 1993. The culprit, she believes, may be the ghost of James F. Anthony of the 28th Tennessee Cavalry, Company G. She points to a horse bit, once owned by Anthony, in a display case. Making me slightly wary of my surroundings, she tells a brief story about the Confederate, who's buried in Hollywood Cemetery in Wartrace. Both my kids were born in Texas, I tell her, so no Rebel ghost will intimidate me. I remain strong.

Displayed in a Sutlery case, a relic of the December 1864
 Battle of Nashville. Connie Smith collects period Civil War dresses.
 Her husband Jerry collects Civil War artifacts.

Connie also has a more direct connection to the war: Her great-great grandfather William Daniel Chrisman served in the 4th Tennessee Cavalry under Nathan Bedford Forrest. Chrisman, who enlisted at 16, fought at Shiloh, Stones River, Lookout Mountain and Missionary Ridge. In November 1864, he was captured before the Battle of Franklin, a clash that resulted in nearly 6,300 Confederate casualties. In an image of Confederate veterans, Smith proudly points to her ancestor near the back row.

After the war, Chrisman was active in Confederate veterans' organizations and attended the last Civil War reunion at Gettysburg in 1938. He died at age 92 in 1939, the last surviving Confederate veteran in Williamson County, Tenn.

"He told my momma stories of the Battle of Franklin," Smith says. "She loved to hear his stories."

Once at stage coach stop and inn, the circa-1852 Chockley Tavern is now a private residence. 
After the Battle of Stones River,  Patrick Cleburne MAY have visited here in 1863. 

A marker near the Chockley Inn explains the Battle of Liberty Gap, a Tullahoma Campaign clash.

I finally pull into Wartrace, home of the Tennessee Walking Horse National Museum and final resting place of Strolling Jim, a champion show breed horse. "Jim died in 1957 in the pasture where he spent his last years," reads the historical sign in front of the Walking Horse Hotel, which contains the Strolling Jim Restaurant. Naturally, the hotel may be haunted. Does this have anything to do with James F. Anthony?

A vintage Texaco pump in Wartrace, Tenn.

Before I inspect my objective, I tool around town, stopping to admire a vintage Texaco gas pump. I wave to a gentleman wearing a gray Alabama T-shirt. "Roll Tide," I say after rolling down the window. He eyes me warily, like I'm some kind of outsider. Perhaps it's my Connecticut license plate.

Directly across from train tracks and a large, red caboose stands a two-story, circa-1852 building that needs a little TLC. Wooden chairs and debris clutter the front-porch area. A maroon shirt hangs from a hook. "Welcome," reads a small sign near the front door of the private residence. This is the place.

Really?

In early 1863, after the Battle of Stones River, Confederate General Patrick Cleburne, the “Stonewall of the West,” may have met with fellow officers at the Chockley Tavern, a stage coach stop and inn. He had a headquarters elsewhere in the small town, but the directionally challenged are never able to find it. Killed at Franklin, Cleburne was once buried among oaks and magnolias in a beautiful church cemetery near Columbia, Tenn. (In 1870, his remains were removed to his adopted state of Arkansas.)

After a brief brush with history, I head east, about a mile outside town. A historical sign there denotes the site of the long-gone Beechwood Plantation house, where Southern sympathizers lavishly entertained Confederate officers during the war, Cleburne probably among them. Confederate General William Hardee made his headquarters at Beechwood during the Tullahoma Campaign, and his troops camped in the surrounding fields, still largely open today. On the high ground nearby, private property, the remains of Confederate trenches may be found.

Before I depart Wartrace, I visit Hollywood Cemetery, hoping to find the grave of one James Anthony. Like our gray ghost, the marker proves elusive.

Tullahoma Campaign dead from battles at Beech Grove and Hoover's Gap are buried
 in Beech Grove Confederate Cemetery, atop a knoll near Interstate 24.

A marker for the 18th Indiana Battery in Beech Grove Confederate Cemetery. 

The drone of traffic from nearby Interstate 24 fails to spoil the final stop on a Middle Tennessee Civil War adventure. In neat rows atop a knoll, unknown Confederates from Tullahoma Campaign battles at Beech Grove and Hoover's Gap rest in a small cemetery. In 1866, their remains were collected from isolated areas nearby. Did burial crews get them all?

At the end of Beech Grove Confederate Cemetery, a large slab of gray granite -- the Nathan Bedford Forrest Farewell Order Memorial, erected in 1954 -- is inscribed with words from the general's address to his troops in Alabama following his surrender:

"Civil War, such as you have passed, naturally engenders feelings of animosity, hatred and revenge. It is our duty to divest ourselves of all such feelings and, so far as it is in our power to do so, to cultivate friendly feelings toward those with whom we have so long contested and heretofore so widely but honestly differed. Neighborhood feuds, personal animosities and private differences should be blotted out and when you return home a manly straightforward course of conduct will secure you the respect even of your enemies."

 After the war, Forrest became Grand Wizard in the Ku Klux Klan.

    PANORAMA: Beech Grove Confederate Cemetery, where unknowns rest in a former                        pioneer graveyard. (Click at upper right for full-screen experience.)

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

SOURCES

-- The New York Times, July 1, 1863.

-- Freemantle, Arthur James Lyon, Three Months In The Southern States: April-June, 1863, Published by John Bradburn, New York, 1864.