Yank,—“Don’t you belong to the 2nd Ohio?”
Reb,—“No, I belong to the 4th Mississippi. Give me yo’ah gun.”
At the same time pointing his gun point blank at my breast.
Yank,—“The devil you do.” At the same time handing him my gun for, you will remember, I had loaded my gun but had not capped it.
I think I hear some of my readers say “you was vulgar.” No, I was surprised and indignant and I submit that I expressed my feelings in as concise language as possible. Consider the situation, I was in the woods, it was nearly dark, I supposed I had found a friend but there was a good Enfield rifle pointing at me, not ten feet away, in that gun was an ounce ball, behind that ball was sufficient powder to blow it a mile, on the gun was a water-proof cap, warranted to explode every time, and behind the whole was a Johnny who understood the combination to a nicety. The fact was, he had the drop on me, I handed him my gun and he threw it into a clump of bushes.
While he was disposing of my case another Union soldier crossed his guard beat, for he was one of Longstreet’s pickets. He called to him to halt but the soldier paying no attention to him, he brought his gun to an aim and again called, “halt or I’ll shoot yo.” “Don’t shoot the man for God’s sake, he is in your lines,” said I, and while Johnny was paying his addresses to the other soldier, I gave a jump and ran like a frightened deer. Around the clump of brush I sped, thinking, “now for Chattanooga.” “Hello, Bill! Where you going?” “Oh, I had got started for Chattanooga, but I guess I will go with you,” and I ran plump into a squad of men of my company and regiment under guard.
Men, styling themselves statesmen, have stood up in their places in the halls of Congress and called prisoners of war “Coffee Coolers” and “Blackberry Pickers.” I give it up. I cannot express my opinion, adequately, of men who will so sneer at and belittle brave men who have fought through two days of terrible battle, and only yielded themselves prisoners of war because they were surrounded and overpowered, as did those men at Chickamauga.
The Battle of Chickamauga was ended and that Creek proved to be what its Indian name implies, a “river of death.” The losses on the Union side were over 17,000, and on the Confederate side over 22,000.