Co. Aytch - Maury Grays, First Tennessee Regiment | Page 8

so much the better. I always
looked upon officers as harmless personages. Colonel Field, I suppose,
was about the only Colonel of the war that did as much shooting as the
private soldier. If I shot at an officer, it was at long range, but when we
got down to close quarters I always tried to kill those that were trying
to kill me.
SEWELL MOUNTAIN
From Cheat Mountain we went by forced marches day and night, over
hill and everlasting mountains, and through lovely and smiling valleys,
sometimes the country rich and productive, sometimes rough and
broken, through towns and villages, the names of which I have
forgotten, crossing streams and rivers, but continuing our never ceasing,
unending march, passing through the Kanawha Valley and by the
salt-works, and nearly back to the Ohio river, when we at last reached
Sewell Mountain. Here we found General John B. Floyd strongly
entrenched and fortified and facing the advance of the Federal army.
Two days before our arrival he had charged and captured one line of
the enemy's works. I know nothing of the battle. See the histories for
that. I only write from memory, and that was twenty years ago, but I
remember reading in the newspapers at that time of some distinguished
man, whether he was captain, colonel or general, I have forgotten, but I

know the papers said "he sought the bauble, reputation, at the cannon's
mouth, and went to glory from the death-bed of fame." I remember it
sounded gloriously in print. Now, reader, this is all I know of this grand
battle. I only recollect what the newspapers said about it, and you know
that a newspaper always tells the truth. I also know that beef livers sold
for one dollar apiece in gold; and here is where we were first paid off in
Confederate money. Remaining here a few days, we commenced our
march again.
Sewell Mountain, Harrisonburg, Lewisburg, Kanawha Salt-works, first
four, forward and back, seemed to be the programme of that day.
Rosecrans, that wiley old fox, kept Lee and Jackson both busy trying to
catch him, but Rosey would not be caught. March, march, march;
tramp, tramp, tramp, back through the valley to Huntersville and Warm
Springs, and up through the most beautiful valley--the Shenandoah--in
the world, passing towns and elegant farms and beautiful residences,
rich pastures and abundant harvests, which a Federal General (Fighting
Joe Hooker), later in the war, ordered to be so sacked and destroyed
that a "crow passing over this valley would have to carry his rations."
Passing on, we arrived at Winchester. The first night we arrived at this
place, the wind blew a perfect hurricane, and every tent and marquee in
Lee's and Jackson's army was blown down. This is the first sight we
had of Stonewall Jackson, riding upon his old sorrel horse, his feet
drawn up as if his stirrups were much too short for him, and his old
dingy military cap hanging well forward over his head, and his nose
erected in the air, his old rusty sabre rattling by his side. This is the way
the grand old hero of a hundred battles looked. His spirit is yonder with
the blessed ones that have gone before, but his history is one that the
country will ever be proud of, and his memory will be cherished and
loved by the old soldiers who followed him through the war.
ROMNEY
Our march to and from Romney was in midwinter in the month of
January, 1862. It was the coldest winter known to the oldest inhabitant
of these regions. Situated in the most mountainous country in Virginia,
and away up near the Maryland and Pennsylvania line, the storm king

seemed to rule in all of his majesty and power. Snow and rain and sleet
and tempest seemed to ride and laugh and shriek and howl and moan
and groan in all their fury and wrath. The soldiers on this march got
very much discouraged and disheartened. As they marched along
icicles hung from their clothing, guns, and knapsacks; many were badly
frost bitten, and I heard of many freezing to death along the road side.
My feet peeled off like a peeled onion on that march, and I have not
recovered from its effects to this day. The snow and ice on the ground
being packed by the soldiers tramping, the horses hitched to the
artillery wagons were continually slipping and sliding and falling and
wounding themselves and sometimes killing their riders. The wind
whistling with a keen and piercing shriek, seemed as if they would
freeze the marrow in our bones. The soldiers in the whole army got
rebellious--almost mutinous--and would curse and abuse Stonewall
Jackson; in fact, they called him "Fool Tom Jackson." They blamed