It is the blackest page in the history
of the war of the Lost Cause. It was the bloodiest battle of modern
times in any war. It was the finishing stroke to the independence of
the Southern Confederacy. I was there. I saw it. My flesh trembles,
and creeps, and crawls when I think of it today. My heart almost ceases
to beat at the horrid recollection. Would to God that I had never
witnessed such a scene!
I cannot describe it. It beggars description. I will not attempt to
describe it. I could not. The death-angel was there to gather its last
harvest. It was the grand coronation of death. Would that I could turn
the page. But I feel, though I did so, that page would still be there,
teeming with its scenes of horror and blood. I can only tell of what I
saw.
Our regiment was resting in the gap of a range of hills in plain view of
the city of Franklin. We could see the battle-flags of the enemy waving
in the breeze. Our army had been depleted of its strength by a forced
march from Spring Hill, and stragglers lined the road. Our artillery had
not yet come up, and could not be brought into action. Our cavalry was
across Harpeth river, and our army was but in poor condition to make an
assault.
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