Chapter 2

Continuing my reading of my ancestor's diary, Colonel Thomas Macfarlane

Of the 3^rd Tennessee Cavalry in the army of Nathan Bedford Forrest during the War Between the States.

Lieutenant Elijah Briggs was from an old family traditionally associated with mine. We all hailed from Chester County NY but my father, becoming alarmed at the growing overcrowding and poverty he saw in eastern cities, emigrated west.

We were a rich mill-owning family and the Briggs had been our managers. My father had bought the Pine Estate and bred the finest horses in the State. The Briggs had assumed their old role on the estate as managers, this time in the breeding of horses. Elijah was the third son and had enlisted in the Tennessee militia, like myself.

The South's society is more like 17^th century pastoral England in it's manners. The emphasis on breeding and bloodlines, it's codes and ethics, and the Cavalier spirit of it's young men. To sit on a thoroughbred horse is to raise one's standing in society, and my father produced the means.

Elijah Briggs died on active service on the 30^th January 1863, somewhere among the swamps along the Wabash river in Southern Illinois. Killed by an old flintlock blunderbuss with the lock-cam bearing so worn it jumped free from the trigger-release at the slightest movement. Standing a mere pace away from the muzzle, the blast and birdshot took most of his head off. A pointless death at the hands of a stupid, frightened woman living way out in the swamplands with her two young daughters.

The Federal conscriptors had taken Rosemary McCaskill's husband into the Infantry. Some sharp jokester had sold them the swamp as a farm. They did their best, augmenting their meager living with trapping and fishing.

All this she tearfully related to me in between bursts of remorse for the terrible accident. The gun barrel of my Colt had raised a good bruise across her face and I bid the lady an apology. She offered to show me the way south providing I escort herself and her family from that god-forsaken place to some fair-sized town along the way.

31st January 1863, Southern Ill.

Rosemary was true to her word and escorted me free of the marshes. I led the horses while she and her children rode along behind on their dray. We were barely free of the swamp when I called a halt to the party.

One develops a sixth sense when at war in the forest. I became aware of an unnatural quiet about us. No birds, animals and even the sound of the wind through the trees died away. I drew my Colt and motioned my companions to hush. Just then there was a click followed by a whispered voice.

"Colonel"?

Suddenly around fifty southerners lifted up from the surrounding foliage, grinning and flinging their arms wide in greeting. Although joyous in finding me they made hardly a sound, true hunters. They were mostly Arkansas boys and a few from my regiment tasked with gathering survivors and looking for me. They told me that some 600 or so of my command were at the meeting place although stragglers were still coming in. It was not more than 7 miles away.

Evening.

Oh the joy of our reunion. There was much hugging and renewal of acquaintances. I resolved to leave straight away lest we attract unwanted attention. We thus headed south for the Ohio.

2^nd February 1863 North bank of the Ohio River.

We are encamped 3 miles from the river. There is heard the dull booming of a cannonade from somewhere along the riverbank. I have sent Captain Harris and a sergeant to reconnoiter the ground and to establish the state of affairs. Stragglers have been catching us up all the time and I have established lookouts down the way to guide them to our location.

Capt. Harris reported that there is a battery emplaced on the riverbank engaged with one of ours on the southern bank. A regiment of infantry distributed somewhat haphazardly along the river protects it. Most appear to have eyes only for the southern bank. We are all agreed that we should attack it and relieve our friends.

Evening.

Oh what a glorious day it has been! The Roughriders charged in on horseback from along the bank, taking their infantry and Artillery people by surprise. A stiff fight ensued, which was more of a fighting retreat for the Federals. They re-grouped some distance away and formed close-ranks to meet a Cavalry charge, or so they thought.

Our men had no intention of charging a hedge of bayonets, indeed, the horses would have refused to do so, intelligent creatures that they are.

At the signal, the pennant-bearer threw the spike of the staff into the ground, the Roughriders dismounted, dropped to their knees, and commenced a rapid fire into the close ranked infantry, all in one fluid movement.

The Union troops quickly dissolved into chaos. At that point The Tennessee Cavalry erupted on their flank and charged headlong into the fray.

Simultaneously, as if by design and quite unexpectedly, the river crossing suddenly filled with whooping troopers from General Forrest's army.

Beset on all sides, and with the help of some enterprise from our boys, who discovered some of the 9-pounders were charged and ready and began to turn them towards the enemy, the union infantry fled.

Later we learnt that the General had taken advantage of the enemy's dispatch of large numbers of men north of the Ohio and commenced his own operations. This was in part to facilitate our return to Tennessee via Kentucky and additionally to throw the Union off-balance and so relieve Vicksburg, then under siege.

Their General Grant was proving himself a pest in that part of the world because of his engineering expertise and unusual tenacity.

By nightfall we were all safely making our way south on the snowy Kentucky roads.

Rosemary and her daughters had resolved to follow us, as by then she was feeling safe in the company of our gallant troopers. Indeed, our boys behaved most respectfully towards them. I felt also that she was taking a shine towards me in particular and seemed to delight in the smallest courtesy.

In wartime one can't afford to give oneself over to grief for long for it is a constant presence. You become almost blasé about death, blasé but never indifferent. To preoccupy yourself with death would only hasten your own demise, or so we thought. Poor Briggs I deliberately put to one side. To do otherwise would not serve the dead, or the living.

Upon reporting the account of our operations to the General I was warmly praised and received a field commission of Brigadier. Indeed it was slightly unusual for a mere Colonel to have command of several Regiments, in fact a small Brigade. Unusual but not unheard of in these chaotic times. Additionally I was given three weeks leave.

During my time off I was expected to raise more recruits from the Chattanooga area and acquire horses and equipment.

I suggested I escort Rosemary and her family to some such peaceful area to which she readily agreed.

4^th February 1863, Tennessee.

We have taken the Nashville and Central RR to Chattanooga. A Lieutenant-aide and a Color Sergeant as befitting my rank escort me. I fear my servant Samuel has disappeared somewhere up north. He has probably run off, ungrateful fellow.

I find it strange to be called 'Brigadier' and find the deference shown somewhat off-putting. In my grubby campaign uniform, still with its Colonel's insignia on my collar, I don't feel the part and resolve to have a proper uniform made at my tailors in Chattanooga. I need a dress jacket, pelisse, sash and cape to go with my new position. I have in my pocket a Brigadier's star and a new dress saber hangs at my waist, both the gift of General Nathaniel Bedford Forrest.

Across the compartment sits my female companions. They are reveling in the attention afforded them as part of the party of a Brigadier General. People have assumed that they are my family, an assumption I have not disabused them of as it saves awkward, and lengthy explanations.