We were at Harrodsburg; the Yankees were approaching Perryville under
General Buell. The Yankees had been dogging our rear, picking up our
stragglers and capturing some of our wagon trains.
This good time that we were having was too good to last. We were in an
ecstasy akin to heaven. We were happy; the troops were jubilant; our
manhood blood pulsated more warmly; our patriotism was awakened; our
pride was renewed and stood ready for any emergency; we felt that one
Southern man could whip twenty Yankees. All was lovely and the goose
hung high. We went to dances and parties every night.
When General Chalmers marched to Perryville, in flanking and surrounding
Mumfordsville, we marched the whole night long. We, the private soldiers,
did not know what was going on among the generals. All that we had to do
was march, march, march. It mattered not how tired, hungry, or thirsty
we were. All that we had to do was to march that whole night long,
and every staff officer who would pass, some fellow would say, "Hey,
mister, how far is it to Mumfordsville?" He would answer, "five miles."
It seemed to me we traveled a hundred miles and were always within five
miles of Mumfordsville. That night we heard a volley of musketry in our
immediate front, and did not know what it meant, but soon we came to
where a few soldiers had lighted some candles and were holding them
over the body of a dead soldier.
Pages:
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80