A Touching Incident of Union General McPherson
By
John Scruggs, Clerk & Master, Altamont TN
submitted by: Greg Curtis
Under the new law creating the War History Committee of TN, said John
Trotwood Moore, Chairman “ I am constantly receiving stories of the
Civil War as well as the World War, to be preserved in our dept of
Archives, some of which are to good and too full of human interest to
be filed away without first being published. Among them lately received
for our dept is the following vouched for as true in every particular
by Mr. John Scruggs, a gallant old Confederate Soldier and for many
years Clerk and Master of Altamont, TN. Mr. Scruggs is a very modest
man and it was only at the earnest solicitation of Hon. Foster V. Brown
of Chattanooga, TN, who heard Clerk an master Scruggs relate this
incident while Judge Brown was on legal business in Altamont, that I
was able to obtain it. At his request that it be submitted to me with
such pruning as I thought necessary for its permanent preservation. I
will ass that I found very little pruning necessary.”
I will state in the beginning however, that Mr. Scruggs was born in
Marion County, TN Feb 19, 1844 and when six years of age moved with his
father to Altamont, Grundy County, TN, his present home. He entered the
Civil War as a Confederate Soldier on Sept 6, 1861, when he was only7
1l7 years old, and became a private in the regiment of Col. BJ Hill,
known as the 35th TN Vol. Inf., serving throughout the entire war in
company D of Hill’s old regiment and surrendered together with his
command to Gen. Sherman at Greensboro, NC on Apr. 26,1865. Gen Joseph
N. Johnston commanding.
“After the Battle of Missionary Ridge,” writes Mr. Scruggs, “our army
fell back on Dalton and Tunnel Hill, GA. for the winter of 63-4. At the
reorganization of the army at the beginning of the year 1864 or the
latter part of 1863, Gen Joseph E. Johnston who succeeded Gen Braxton
Bragg as Commander, appointed our Colonel B J Hill Provost Marshal of
the Army which necessitated our regiment, the 35th to being detailed
for general Provost guard duty, I was especially detailed by Co. Hill
to assist Lt. Bright son of the late Hon. John M. Bright of
Fayetteville, TN, who was an officer of the passenger train guard form
Dalton to Atlanta. It was our duty to keep a complete registry of all
persons traveling on the train, all citizens being, required to exhibit
a Provost Marshal pass and soldiers a furlough or military order
showing train destination. I was engaged in this train guard duty
something like four months, our army leaving Dalton in May 1864, and
gradually retreating South toward Atlanta, We reached the south band of
the Chattahoochee River, six miles north of Atlanta, about the 7th or
8th of July, at which time General Johnston was succeeded in command in
the army by General John B. Hood. Our army at this time was occupying
the south bank of the Chattahoochee River while the Federal Army was on
the northern bank, and although the distance was short from Atlanta to
our front on the river, yet we made regular trips about every two hours
too the ----- and returned, and as I was still on my job on the
passenger train, I performed many trips to and fro.
“By some kind of prearranged understanding between the commander and
officers of both armies, it was understood on both sides that we be
permitted for recreation and diversion to visit each other across the
river, which was taken advantage of in a most liberal way by both yanks
and Johnny-rebs, and both sides always returning
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Unmolested to
there respective commands. The river at this point was only about
150-200 yards wide and shallow that it was easily waded without
trouble. There was a gentleman’s agreement that there should be no
firing on either side of the skirmish line, and the boys of both armies
could be constantly seen passing back and forth and friendly traffic
and friendly visits that at one time, to a stranger, looked like if it
went on, the two armies would make peace without consent of their
commanding Generals”
One morning when about to start on my regular trip to Atlanta, a
comrade came up to my train, and fishing out a Yankee canteen which
would hold about three pits of whisky Said: “ Say John you goin’ to
Atlanta now?” I told him I was.“ Well, I’ve got an awful sick comrade
down with fever and the Doctor wants this canteen full of whisky to mix
up some quinine for him. I believe they’ll bury him if he don’t get it,
and that quick. Buy it in Atlanta and rush it through to me and I’ll
refund you for whatever you pay out.”
“ I told him I was only too glad to do it, and as soon as I reached the
city I got it filled by a one-armed Texas soldier who had been wounded
at the first battle of Manassas, discharged from the army and was
making a living running a saloon in Atlanta. The one-armed soldier from
whom I bought it chipped in his part for the sick man also, giving me
three pints for which he only charged me for one quart at the rate of
$30 a quart. I took the canteen and hurried back with the whisky for
the sick man, but before I got there and army friend requested that I
take his gun and hold his position on the edge of the river in his
place, and permit him to make the trip back to Atlanta on equally as
important business. Here was the chance to help two friends, and not
thinking that I would be there over two hours, I took his gun and began
to watch the stream of blue and gray crossing and re crossing the
shallow river. To me this was a beautiful sight and indicative of what
I knew would have happened at the very beginning had these same brave
boys in blue and gray had a chance to mingle with and know each other,
and that they were all American and kindred and imbedded with the same
ideas of patriotism and loyalty.
While I was standing there enjoying the scene I saw a blue soldier
across the river waving and hailing me, and we soon got into a
bantering conversation.
“ What you got there in that canteen Johnny-reb?” he called out,
“Good rebel
whisky,” I called back, holding the canteen up to my mouth, and
pretending to take a long drink, smacking my lips and asking him “if he
wouldn’t like to have some.”
“ You bet I would,” he called back. “What state are you from, anyway?”
“ I’m from old Tennessee,” I called back, “and this is good old TN whisky.”
“ Say you come
over here,” he said “ an’ give me a good swig an I’ll give you some
late Nashville papers an throw in some coffee and sugar to boot.”
This was too much
for me, and I place my gun under a tree on the bank and waded across to
give my Yankee friend a good drink, and right here and where I dropped
my candy. ‘What state do you hail from?” I asked as soon as I reached
the bank.
“ O, I’m from
Michigan,’ He said seizing my canteen and taking such a swig, that I
began to fear there would be nothing left for the quinine and the sick
soldier. He was about twenty years old, a big square-looking rough
lumberjack of a fellow, and he drank like he
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had not had a
drink since the war began. I did not like the way his eyes looked and
the way he spoke to me, and almost immediately he picked up his gun
with bayonet on it, pushed me between me and my comrades on the other
side and said brutally “Now march you damn rebel, or I’ll run you
through.”
I tried to
remonstrate _____ _____ the whiskey was effecting his brain and he was
liable to commit murder of do any other crime.”
“Yes, damn you,”
he said as he pricked me in the back with his bayonet, “ I’ve captured
on damned rebel, and I’ll march you right in to General McPherson’s
tent, now march.”
“And that was one time I marched.”
“ I shall never
forget how General McPherson looked, I had never seen so handsome an
officer in my life. He was setting in an office chair beside a writing
table, in full dress uniform, the personification of dignity and
martial splendor, and yet with the kindest bearing and most gracious
smile on his handsome face. An army pistol lay on the desk before him.
He looked up with a smile as I entered and said: “ Take a seat, my son,
I shall be through writing in a few minutes and shall talk to you.” A
small boy, 6 or 7 years old, whom I took to be the General’s son, was
also in the tent, dressed in the uniform of an officer, and looked
almost as handsome as his father. He took great interest in all that
was going on. Finally, the General ceased writing, turned toward me and
asked in a soft, even voice: “What command do you belong to?”
“ The 35th TN Vol. Infantry, sir” I said “ commanded by Col. B.J. Hill”
“Who is your Brigade Commander?” he asked.
“General Polk” I said “And my Division commander is General Pat Cleburne,” I added.
“They are
splendid, brave officers,” he said, “I know them both, and your Corp
Commander is General W.J. Hardee, no more gallant soldier lives, and
our whole army will testify how well they can fight. I am proud to
claim all of these men as my friends. Now tell me, my son, how you
happened to be captured and why you were brought here?”
There was something so kindly and so fatherly in his voice that I was
not long telling him the whole story, all about my trip to Atlanta
after the whisky, how I had brought it across the river to give the
Michigan soldier a drink. When I had finished the General looked
quickly around for the soldier, but he had gone. He beckoned the little
boy to him and whispered something, which I did not hear. The little
fellow already every inch a soldier saluted and went hurriedly out,
soon returning in company with a staff officer whom I saw ranked as a
Lieutenant. The General conversed in a low tone with this officer for
several minutes and he also went out, but returned in a short while
with the Michigan soldier who had pretended to capture me. This fellow
slouched in and stood facing the General but unable to meet his eyes,
for had arisen and all the kindness and calmness was gone. His eyes
flashed in scorn and hatred.”
“And you pretend
to be a soldier.” He said with raethering sarcasm,” you wear the
uniform of a federal soldier and so a dishonorable, dastardly and
cowardly trick like this!”
His eyes fairly blazed, He towered over 6’ high a giant in his strength
and to me he looked like he were ready to hurl a thunderbolt.
Deliberately reaching over, he picked up his revolver, cocked it turned
on the man, and I could see he was biting his lips to hold
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down his wrath.
The next instant I believe he would have shot the man dead in his
tracks.” I rose up quickly and said, “ Don’t kill him, General. I hold
no grudge against him.”
“ No, Not you, my son,” he said. “You are an honorable enemy, but this
dastardly coward is a dishonor to our whole army. He has disgraced us
and humiliated me, as I have never been before. My firs impulse was to
kill him on the spot.” He lowered his pistol point, and for, twenty
minutes he stood and talked as I had never heard a man talk. It was the
greatest talk on honor, courage, patriotism and standing to one’s word
to the death, even if it were an enemy, that I ever heard fall from the
lips of a man.
“ You have betrayed the confidence of our entire army.” He said, “and
you ought to be shot like any dog that would do it. You knew both the
officers and the whole army understood this agreement that we had it
and yet you have violated it in the most ignorable way of all the
betraying of a confidence and friendship!” As I said, I never before
heard such a withering, eloquent talk, and thought he was very angry
and excited, yet in it all, he did not use one profane word.
In the end, he called in two soldiers from Indiana and gave orders, in
my presence, that the erring soldier be bicled and gagged for six hours
every day for four days, at the end of which time he ordered that he
should be drummed out of the army to receive a dishonorable discharge.
“ And now, take him out of my sight before I kill him,” he said as he
waved him out.
By this time a considerable number of soldiers had gathered around the
tent listening to the talk. He picked out two young soldiers whom I
subsequently learned were from Indiana, and he said to them: “ Take a
flag of truce and carry this soldier back to the Confederate lines, and
bring me receipt from the Confederate officer that he has been
delivered faithfully.”
He was standing in full uniform, his fine face shining, his long hair
falling like a like a lions mane. He turned and with a most captivating
smile, said to me. “Now go, my boy, and God be with you.”
I was too overpowered to speak. I grasped his hand and under the
influence of his kindly smile, I remembered my whisky. “ General” I
said, “if you will excuse me, but that Michigan fellow took my canteen
and drunk up nearly all my whisky and I wont have a drop for that sick
friend that I promised it to.”
“ Ah I see,” and he laughed heartily, “now wait a minute, and he strode
quickly out of the tent. In a few minutes he came back with a bright
new canteen which afterwards turned out so said the sick man to be a
whole lot better than any he had ever got in Atlanta.
With another hearty handshake, I left this great man and great General
and saw him no more alive, for in the battle of Atlanta, July 22nd,
1864, this greatest, handsomest, most gallant and most beloved of all
of Sherman’s army fell in a desperate fight in which he led his men
against our line, and becoming separated charged into our line alone,
mistaking them for his own, and when ordered to surrender wheeled his
charges, threw himself flat in the saddle and made a dash for safety
only to meet his death.
It looked like all our army had heard how he had treated me, as well as
his gallantry and bravery on all other occasions and there was down
right mourning in the
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rebel army when
they heard that McPherson was dead. No one mourned his departure more
than the little Tennessee rebel boy whom he had graciously defended and
sent back in honor to his own friends.”
November 1895, while attending the cotton state Exposition in Atlanta,
I went out on the old battlefield to go roam again over the ground on
which we had fought, and if possible to see the marker which I heard
had been place where General McPherson had been killed. For all these
years I had remembered my thrilling experience with him, and I wished
to do honor at his grave. Instead of a marker, I found on the spot
where he had fallen, a stately and magnificent monument before which I
bowed my head in humble reverence. Returning to the city, I purchased a
large bouquet of beautiful flowers and placed them, on the monument
with the following inscription:
In memory of Gen. J.B. McPherson of New Jersey
An Person, Peerless, In Battle, Brave, In Honor,
Impregnable, In Life, Noble, From A Rebel Soldier
Whom He Befriended.
“ No more shall the war cry sever, or the winding rivers be rid;
We Banish our hatred forever When we laurel the graves of our dead
Under the sod and the dew Waiting the Judgment day Tanne? And love for
the Blue, Love and tears for the Gray.”
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