Co. Aytch - Maury Grays, First Tennessee Regiment | Page 3

north and a south.
Well, reader, let me whisper in your ear. I was in the row, and the
following pages will tell what part I took in the little unpleasant
misconception of there being such a thing as a north and south.
THE BLOODY CHASM
In these memoirs, after the lapse of twenty years, we propose to fight
our "battles o'er again."
To do this is but a pastime and pleasure, as there is nothing that so
much delights the old soldier as to revisit the scenes and battlefields
with which he was once so familiar, and to recall the incidents, though
trifling they may have been at the time.
The histories of the Lost Cause are all written out by "big bugs,"
generals and renowned historians, and like the fellow who called a
turtle a "cooter," being told that no such word as cooter was in
Webster's dictionary, remarked that he had as much right to make a
dictionary as Mr. Webster or any other man; so have I to write a
history.
But in these pages I do not pretend to write the history of the war. I
only give a few sketches and incidents that came under the observation
of a "high private" in the rear ranks of the rebel army. Of course, the
histories are all correct. They tell of great achievements of great men,
who wear the laurels of victory; have grand presents given them; high
positions in civil life; presidents of corporations; governors of states;
official positions, etc., and when they die, long obituaries are published,
telling their many virtues, their distinguished victories, etc., and when
they are buried, the whole country goes in mourning and is called upon
to buy an elegant monument to erect over the remains of so
distinguished and brave a general, etc. But in the following pages I
propose to tell of the fellows who did the shooting and killing, the
fortifying and ditching, the sweeping of the streets, the drilling, the
standing guard, picket and videt, and who drew (or were to draw)

eleven dollars per month and rations, and also drew the ramrod and tore
the cartridge. Pardon me should I use the personal pronoun "I" too
frequently, as I do not wish to be called egotistical, for I only write of
what I saw as an humble private in the rear rank in an infantry regiment,
commonly called "webfoot." Neither do I propose to make this a
connected journal, for I write entirely from memory, and you must
remember, kind reader, that these things happened twenty years ago,
and twenty years is a long time in the life of any individual.
I was twenty-one years old then, and at that time I was not married.
Now I have a house full of young "rebels," clustering around my knees
and bumping against my elbow, while I write these reminiscences of
the war of secession, rebellion, state rights, slavery, or our rights in the
territories, or by whatever other name it may be called. These are all
with the past now, and the North and South have long ago "shaken
hands across the bloody chasm." The flag of the Southern cause has
been furled never to be again unfurled; gone like a dream of yesterday,
and lives only in the memory of those who lived through those bloody
days and times.
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY-ONE
Reader mine, did you live in that stormy period? In the year of our
Lord eighteen hundred and sixty-one, do you remember those stirring
times? Do you recollect in that year, for the first time in your life, of
hearing Dixie and the Bonnie Blue Flag? Fort Sumter was fired upon
from Charleston by troops under General Beauregard, and Major
Anderson, of the Federal army, surrendered. The die was cast; war was
declared; Lincoln called for troops from Tennessee and all the Southern
states, but Tennessee, loyal to her Southern sister states, passed the
ordinance of secession, and enlisted under the Stars and Bars. From
that day on, every person, almost, was eager for the war, and we were
all afraid it would be over and we not be in the fight. Companies were
made up, regiments organized; left, left, left, was heard from morning
till night. By the right flank, file left, march, were familiar sounds.
Everywhere could be seen Southern cockades made by the ladies and
our sweethearts. And some who afterwards became Union men made

the most fiery secession speeches. Flags made by the ladies were
presented to companies, and to hear the young orators tell of how they
would protect that flag, and that they would come back with the flag or
come not at all, and if they fell they would fall with their backs to the
field and