A Thousand Words a Battle: Nashville
Battle of Nashville
December 15-16, 1864
Even after the defeat at Franklin, John Bell Hood marched the Army of Tennessee to the gates of Nashville. There he hoped to win a defensive victory and capitalize on it, however slim his chances were. For the men, seeing the city was the army’s last moment of hope and joy. Among them was Sam Watkins of the 1st Tennessee Infantry, who had fought in nearly every major western battle since Shiloh.
The next day we can see the fine old building of solid granite, looming up on Capitol Hill—the capitol of Tennessee. We can see the Stars and Stripes flying from the dome. Our pulse leaps with pride when we see the grand old architecture. We can hear the bugle call, and the playing of the bands of the different regiments in the Federal lines. Now and then a shell is thrown into our midst from Fort Negley, but no attack or demonstrations on either side. We bivouac on the cold and hard-frozen ground, and when we walk about, the echo of our footsteps sound like the echo of a tombstone. The earth is crusted with snow, and the wind from the northwest is piercing our very bones. We can see our ragged soldiers, with sunken cheeks and famine-glistening eyes. Where were our generals? Alas! there were none. Not one single general out of Cheatham’s division was left—not one. General B. F. Cheatham himself was the only surviving general of his old division. Nearly all our captains and colonels were gone. Companies mingled with companies, regiments with regiments, and brigades with brigades. A few raw-boned horses stood shivering under the ice-covered trees, nibbling the short, scanty grass. Being in range of the Federal guns from Fort Negley, we were not allowed to have fires at night, and our thin and ragged blankets were but poor protection against the cold, raw blasts of December weather—the coldest ever known. The cold stars seem to twinkle with unusual brilliancy, and the pale moon seems to be but one vast heap of frozen snow, which glimmers in the cold gray sky, and the air gets colder by its coming; our breath, forming in little rays, seems to make a thousand little coruscations that scintillate in the cold frosty air.[1]
After weeks in the cold, the Federals struck—commanded by George Thomas, one of the North’s best commanders. Watkins recalled, “We were anxious to flee, fight, or fortify. I have never seen an army so confused and demoralized. The whole thing seemed to be tottering and trembling.” In two days of battle, Thomas broke the army’s left flank. Hood later marveled, “I beheld for the first and only time a Confederate army abandon the field in confusion.” Among those streaming to the rear was Watkins, his middle finger bleeding from a wound, his coat pierced with eight bullet holes.
Such a scene I never saw. The army was panic-stricken. The woods everywhere were full of running soldiers. Our officers were crying, “Halt! halt!” and trying to rally and re-form their broken ranks. The Federals would dash their cavalry in amongst us, and even their cannon joined in the charge. One piece of Yankee artillery galloped past me, right on the road, unlimbered their gun, fired a few shots, and galloped ahead again.
Wagon trains, cannon, artillery, cavalry, and infantry were all blended in inextricable confusion. Broken down and jaded horses and mules refused to pull, and the badly-scared drivers looked like their eyes would pop out of their heads from fright. Wagon wheels, interlocking each other, soon clogged the road, and wagons, horses and provisions were left indiscriminately. The officers soon became effected with the demoralization of their troops, and rode on in dogged indifference. General Frank Cheatham and General Loring tried to form a line at Brentwood, but the line they formed was like trying to stop the current of Duck river with a fish net. I believe the army would have rallied, had there been any colors to rally to. And as the straggling army moves on down the road, every now and then we can hear the sullen roar of the Federal artillery booming in the distance. I saw a wagon and team abandoned, and I unhitched one of the horses and rode on horseback to Franklin, where a surgeon tied up my broken finger, and bandaged up my bleeding thigh. My boot was full of blood, and my clothing saturated with it.[2]
Writing years later, Watkins wrote of Nashville and the retreat to Mississippi. “Our country is gone, our cause is lost,” he said. “‘Actum est de Republica.’”[3]
In the Union army, John Schofield, Thomas’s second in command, asked a prisoner if the Rebels knew they were beaten. The Confederate replied, “Not till you routed us just now.” It was perhaps just a last boast, but Schofield was impressed and wrote, “I doubt if any soldiers in the world ever needed so much cumulative evidence to convince them that they were beaten.”[4] It was the ultimate tribute to the hapless Army of Tennessee.
— Sean Michael Chick
[1] Sam Watkins, Co. Aytch, (Chattanooga: Times Printing Company, 1900), 212-213.
[2] Watkins, 216-217.
[3] Watkins, 218.
[4] John M. Schofield, Forty-Six Years in the Army (New York: The Century Company, 1897), 248.
A Greek tragedy.
Great stuff. I feel Hood has been unfairly blamed – and attacked – over the decades. He was handed the unbelievably short end of an unbelievably weak stick – and then crucified for not succeeding. Oh well – his great grand-nephew fared better. He went to Memphis…and changed the world.
Baloney. Upon learning that Hood was taking over from Johnston, Sherman wrote to his wife that Hood “is reckless of the lives of his Men.” The proof is Franklin and Nashville where Hood destroyed his army as a fighting force. No better example of the Peter Principle in the Civil War.
Just mind-boggling