The last battle of the western army was fought at
Bentonville, N. C., March 19, 1865, between
General Sherman and
General Joseph E. Johnston, who had again assumed command of our army.
On the 18th of April,
Sherman and
Johnston agreed to a truce, and it was as late as May 26th before
Kirby Smith surrendered out
West.
Some skirmishing and small engagements occurred between detached troops belonging to our army and the enemy, which could hardly be called battles; therefore
Bentonville, N. C., is named as the last battle of the western army, and it is of this hotly contested fight between giants—our two most conspicuous and gallant officers of the western army—Sherman on the
Federal side and
Johnston on the
Confederate side, that I want to speak, as it brought face to face for the last time these two old war veterans who had so often met each other before on the gory field of battle.
These two, who had marched and countermarched over the desolate fields of
Georgia and the Carolinas, who had so often thrown out their brave soldiers in battle lines confronting each other, were now, on the 19th day of March, 1865, to confront each other in battle array, fighting for mastery, for the last time.
It is not within the scope of my knowledge, nor is it my intention, to write fully of the history of this battle, as the official records will, no doubt, give each and all the divisions, brigades, and regiments all the honors gained that day, but to mention from personal observation some of the Confederate brigades most conspicuous in this battle, who covered themselves with glory on this fiercely contested battle-field—viz:
Stovall's and
Cummings's brigades, and part of
Hoke's division.
We were marching along the main road leading from
Smithfield Station toward
Bentonville, and had just crossed a small stream.
Firing could be heard in the distance, and the movements of couriers and aides rushing here and there indicated a battle on hand.
We filed to the right of the road, and rapidly took position in line of battle; the Forty-second Georgia being on the right, and constituting
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one half of
Stovall's brigade, which had been marched and fought down to an alarmingly small number, but those who were still in line were true and tried.
Our position was taken only a short distance from the main road, and now we were on the battle-field of
Bentonville, where we were to fight our last battle; no time to throw up breastworks, but the boys availed themselves of time to cut down small pine limbs, which, to some extent, hid them from the view of the approaching enemy.
The small pine trees growing at intervals apart gave our men an opportunity to see the approaching line of battle several hundred yards from where they were hugging the ground closely, hid to some extent by the pine limbs cut from the near-by trees.
It was a grand sight to see them moving on us, ‘Old Glory’ floating in the breeze so proudly.
Here they came, our skirmish line gradually giving way and falling back into our line of battle.
I never was more particular and careful in giving officers and men orders to hold their fire.
My orders had gone up and down my line repeatedly, instructing the men and officers to keep down-hold fire, and await a sign, or orders; even threatening those who should first disobey.
'Tis not strange, then, that men who had fought twenty-one battles carried out my orders to the letter.
The other day an old veteran walked into my office and asked for me—I raised up to shake his hand, for I saw at a glance that I had known him in other days, and as we were grasping hands and looking at each other in the eyes, trying to trace some remembrance of the bygone times, he said: ‘
Colonel, I remember the last order you gave us at
Bentonville: “Attention, Forty-second Georgia, hold your fire for my orders, and when you fire, give the rebel yell.”
Those who yet survive, and were present that day, can tell you how well the order was obeyed.’
Well, here they came.
Our line had absorbed our skirmishers, and the way was clear in front for the music of the battle to commence—but not a gun was fired, and bravely onward the enemy marched in grand style—nearer and nearer they came.
When not over forty or fifty paces from us, the order so anxiously awaited was given, and a sheet of fire blazed out from the hidden battle line of the Forty-second Georgia that was demoralizing and fatal to the enemy.
They halted, reeled, and staggered, while we poured volley after volley into them, and great gaps were made in their line, as brave Federals fell everywhere—their colors would rise and fall just a few feet from us, and many a gallant boy in blue is buried there in
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those pines who held ‘Old Glory’ up for a brief moment.
Their battle line was driven back in grand style that day, and the arms secured from the fallen foe immediately in our front equipped an entire regiment of our
North Carolina soldiers who had inferior guns.
The enemy, repulsed and forced to retreat, reformed their battle line again, not far away.
While the battle-field was being cleared of the wounded just in front, and our boys were picking up guns thrown down by the enemy,
Major-General D. H. Hill and staff rode down the line from the centre, and seeing what we had done, complimented us for our work, and orders soon followed to hold ourselves in readiness to move forward.
We knew what that meant, and then came the ‘tug of war.’
We were to ‘lead the charge.’
The order came, and the movement all along the line of the brigade, conforming to the right, was in splendid order, and the first line of the
Federals was soon in view; over which we passed without a battle, sweeping all before us. It was grand to behold.
Onward we moved for perhaps half a mile or so, carrying everything before us. At this point, where there were converging roads, we came to a halt, and were ordered to rearrange our lines, which were somewhat scattered by the charge just made, and here at this point, while laying on our arms resting, for we were then informed that we had done enough that day, I saw the grandest sight I ever witnessed on the battlefield.
Hoke's division was put into the charge and bringing up the centre.
Resting there on the pine-covered ground, as we were, the firing of small arms having ceased for a time, with only now and then the boom of cannon to remind us that the fight was still on, and yet to be decided, it was a picture that would be worthy of portrayal on canvas by some great artist; the sun was slowly sinking in the west, and the slanting rays were penetrating the green forest of small pines.
