- Joined
- Oct 17, 2012
- Location
- Middle Tennessee
INSIDE THE LINES AT FRANKLIN.
"Frances," a school girl of 1864, writes to the Veteran of that awful battle at Franklin, which was fought late into the night:
I was a pupil in the old Franklin Female Institute— the alma mater of so many brilliant, women, the mothers and grandmothers of the present generation. Nashville owes a debt of gratitude to at least two of its graduates, Misses Fannie and Martha O'Bryan.
At the time of these reminiscences. Miss Walker (now Mrs. J. P. Hanner), was the principal. The pupils numbered about 175, and as wide awake set of Southern girls as could be found.
While we were trying to concentrate our minds on our books one ear was always open to the varied sounds of the life and the rattle of drums, the clatter
of horses' hoofs, and the electrifying notes of the bugle. We were allowed always to run to the front gate to see soldiers pass. If they were "our boys," we waved our bonnets and handkerchiefs—if they were yankees, and we watched Buell's army of thousands pass, we looked and felt dismayed.
On an ever memorable day, the 30th of November, we assembled at school as usual. Our teachers' faces looked unusually serious that morning. The Federal couriers were dashing hither and thither. The officers were gathering in squads, and the cavalry, with swords and sabres clanking, were driving their spurs into their horses' flanks and galloping out to first one picket post and then another on the roads leading south and southwest of town. The bell called us in the chapel. We were told to take our books and go home, as there was every indication that we would be in the midst of a battle
that day.
At four o'clock that afternoon I stood in our front door and heard musketry in the neighborhood of Col. Carter's on the Columbia pike. To this day I can recall the feeling of sickening dread that came over me. As the evening wore on, the firing became more frequent, and nearer and louder; then the cannon began to roar from the fort.
My father realizing that we were in range of the guns from both armies told us to run down into the cellar. We hastily threw a change of clothing into a bundle and obeyed at once. My mother, who never knew what fear meant in her life, was a little reluctant to go and leave the upper part of the house to the tender mercies (?) of soldiers, but she finally joined us in the basement. A few minutes later there was a crash! and down came a deluge of dust and gravel. The usually placid face of our old black mammy, now thoroughly frightened, appeared on the scene. She said a cannon ball had torn a hole in the side of the meat house and broken her wash kettle to pieces. She left the supper
on the stove and fled precipitately into the cellar.
After that, the only way we could get anything to eat was by sending a guard, who was in the yard, to the kitchen after it. The patter of the bullets on the blinds was anything but soothing. The incessant booming of cannon and the rattle of the guns continued until midnight, then the tiring gradually ceased; we, of course, were in ignorance of
who was in possession of the place, but all the while hoping and praying that it might be our boys.
About one o'clock we thought the town was being reduced to ashes, but it turned out to be the burning of the Odd Fellows Hall on the square. About four o'clock we heard the tramping of feet and the sound of voices. Our hearts jumped into our mouths, and what joy when we learned that our own soldiers were in possession of the town! We first learned it from the men who carried Col. Sam Shannon, who had been wounded, to his sister's house, our next door neighbor. Our men were in possession of the town! We didn't "stand on ceremonies" getting out of the cellar. Our doors were thrown wide open, and in a few minutes a big tire was burning in the parlor. The first man to enter
was Gen. Wm. Bate, all bespattered with mud and blackened with powder, but a grand and glorious soldier under it all. I will not attempt to picture the meeting between him and my father, who had been a life-long friend. Next came Gen. Tom Benton Smith, with the impersonation of a chivalric, gallant soldier, wearing under the mud and dirt his recent hard-earned honors. Poor fellow, how short lived were his joys! A cruel sabre cut at Nashville forever dethroned his reason, and he is now in a Tennessee Asylum for the insane.
Space fails me to mention the long list of friends who came that day and received our warmest welcome. I shall mention what a reproof my sisters received from some of their soldier sweethearts. An uncle of ours, who made his home in New York city, during the previous summer had my sisters to visit him, and, of course, they replenished their wardrobes while there. On the morning after the battle they wanted to compliment their soldier friends by "looking their best," so they put on their prettiest dresses. The soldiers were so unaccustomed to seeing stylish new dresses, that they actually doubted their loyalty, thought they should have on homespun dresses instead of "store clothes."
In the afternoon, December 1st, some of us went to the battlefield, to give water and wine to the wounded. All of us carried cups from which to refresh the thirsty. Horrors! what sights that met our girlish eyes! The dead and wounded lined the Columbia pike for the distance of a mile. In Mrs. Sykes' yard. Gen. Hood sat talking with some of his staff officers. I didn't look upon him as a hero, because nothing had been accomplished that could benefit us.
As we approached Col. Carter's house, we could scarcely walk without stepping on dead or dying men. We could hear the cries of the wounded, of which Col. Carter's house was full to overflowing. As I entered the front door, I heard a poor fellow giving his sympathetic comrades a dying message for his loved ones at home. We went through the hall, and were shown into a little room where a soft light revealed all that was mortal of the gifted young genius, Theo Carter, who under the pseudonym of "Mint Julep," wrote such delightful letters to the Chattanooga Rebel. Bending over him, begging for just one word of recognition, was his faithful and heartbroken sister. The night before the battle he had taken supper at Mr. Green Neely's
(the father of our postmaster), and was in a perfect ecstacy of joy at the thought of seeing his family on the morrow, from whom he had been separated so long. But alas! when the morrow came, that active, brilliant brain had been pierced by one of the enemy's bullets; he was carried home and ministered to by those faithful sisters, and died, I think, without ever having spoken a word.
From this sad scene, we passed on to a locust thicket, and men in every conceivable position could be seen, some with their fingers on the triggers, and death struck them so suddenly they didn't move. Past the thicket we saw trenches dug to receive as many as ten bodies. On the left of the pike, around the old gin house, men and horses were lying so thick that we could not walk. Gen. Adam's horse was lying stark and stiff upon the breastworks. Ambulances were being tilled with the wounded as fast as possible, and the whole town was turned into a hospital.
Instead of saying lessons at school the day after the battle. I watched the wounded men being carried in.
Our house was full as could be; from morning until night we made bandages and scraped linen lint with which to dress the wounds, besides making jellies and soups with which to nourish them.
The times were not without their romances. Only a short time afterward a handsome young Missouri surgeon, in charge of one of the hospitals, married one of our most prominent young ladies. Another Missourian, who was wounded here, and was so popular with the girls, married also. A young soldier who was an artist, met on the field one of our young ladies, who was also of an artistic turn of mind, and the year following they were married.
Confederate Veteran, 1895
"Frances," a school girl of 1864, writes to the Veteran of that awful battle at Franklin, which was fought late into the night:
I was a pupil in the old Franklin Female Institute— the alma mater of so many brilliant, women, the mothers and grandmothers of the present generation. Nashville owes a debt of gratitude to at least two of its graduates, Misses Fannie and Martha O'Bryan.
At the time of these reminiscences. Miss Walker (now Mrs. J. P. Hanner), was the principal. The pupils numbered about 175, and as wide awake set of Southern girls as could be found.
While we were trying to concentrate our minds on our books one ear was always open to the varied sounds of the life and the rattle of drums, the clatter
of horses' hoofs, and the electrifying notes of the bugle. We were allowed always to run to the front gate to see soldiers pass. If they were "our boys," we waved our bonnets and handkerchiefs—if they were yankees, and we watched Buell's army of thousands pass, we looked and felt dismayed.
On an ever memorable day, the 30th of November, we assembled at school as usual. Our teachers' faces looked unusually serious that morning. The Federal couriers were dashing hither and thither. The officers were gathering in squads, and the cavalry, with swords and sabres clanking, were driving their spurs into their horses' flanks and galloping out to first one picket post and then another on the roads leading south and southwest of town. The bell called us in the chapel. We were told to take our books and go home, as there was every indication that we would be in the midst of a battle
that day.
At four o'clock that afternoon I stood in our front door and heard musketry in the neighborhood of Col. Carter's on the Columbia pike. To this day I can recall the feeling of sickening dread that came over me. As the evening wore on, the firing became more frequent, and nearer and louder; then the cannon began to roar from the fort.
My father realizing that we were in range of the guns from both armies told us to run down into the cellar. We hastily threw a change of clothing into a bundle and obeyed at once. My mother, who never knew what fear meant in her life, was a little reluctant to go and leave the upper part of the house to the tender mercies (?) of soldiers, but she finally joined us in the basement. A few minutes later there was a crash! and down came a deluge of dust and gravel. The usually placid face of our old black mammy, now thoroughly frightened, appeared on the scene. She said a cannon ball had torn a hole in the side of the meat house and broken her wash kettle to pieces. She left the supper
on the stove and fled precipitately into the cellar.
After that, the only way we could get anything to eat was by sending a guard, who was in the yard, to the kitchen after it. The patter of the bullets on the blinds was anything but soothing. The incessant booming of cannon and the rattle of the guns continued until midnight, then the tiring gradually ceased; we, of course, were in ignorance of
who was in possession of the place, but all the while hoping and praying that it might be our boys.
About one o'clock we thought the town was being reduced to ashes, but it turned out to be the burning of the Odd Fellows Hall on the square. About four o'clock we heard the tramping of feet and the sound of voices. Our hearts jumped into our mouths, and what joy when we learned that our own soldiers were in possession of the town! We first learned it from the men who carried Col. Sam Shannon, who had been wounded, to his sister's house, our next door neighbor. Our men were in possession of the town! We didn't "stand on ceremonies" getting out of the cellar. Our doors were thrown wide open, and in a few minutes a big tire was burning in the parlor. The first man to enter
was Gen. Wm. Bate, all bespattered with mud and blackened with powder, but a grand and glorious soldier under it all. I will not attempt to picture the meeting between him and my father, who had been a life-long friend. Next came Gen. Tom Benton Smith, with the impersonation of a chivalric, gallant soldier, wearing under the mud and dirt his recent hard-earned honors. Poor fellow, how short lived were his joys! A cruel sabre cut at Nashville forever dethroned his reason, and he is now in a Tennessee Asylum for the insane.
Space fails me to mention the long list of friends who came that day and received our warmest welcome. I shall mention what a reproof my sisters received from some of their soldier sweethearts. An uncle of ours, who made his home in New York city, during the previous summer had my sisters to visit him, and, of course, they replenished their wardrobes while there. On the morning after the battle they wanted to compliment their soldier friends by "looking their best," so they put on their prettiest dresses. The soldiers were so unaccustomed to seeing stylish new dresses, that they actually doubted their loyalty, thought they should have on homespun dresses instead of "store clothes."
In the afternoon, December 1st, some of us went to the battlefield, to give water and wine to the wounded. All of us carried cups from which to refresh the thirsty. Horrors! what sights that met our girlish eyes! The dead and wounded lined the Columbia pike for the distance of a mile. In Mrs. Sykes' yard. Gen. Hood sat talking with some of his staff officers. I didn't look upon him as a hero, because nothing had been accomplished that could benefit us.
As we approached Col. Carter's house, we could scarcely walk without stepping on dead or dying men. We could hear the cries of the wounded, of which Col. Carter's house was full to overflowing. As I entered the front door, I heard a poor fellow giving his sympathetic comrades a dying message for his loved ones at home. We went through the hall, and were shown into a little room where a soft light revealed all that was mortal of the gifted young genius, Theo Carter, who under the pseudonym of "Mint Julep," wrote such delightful letters to the Chattanooga Rebel. Bending over him, begging for just one word of recognition, was his faithful and heartbroken sister. The night before the battle he had taken supper at Mr. Green Neely's
(the father of our postmaster), and was in a perfect ecstacy of joy at the thought of seeing his family on the morrow, from whom he had been separated so long. But alas! when the morrow came, that active, brilliant brain had been pierced by one of the enemy's bullets; he was carried home and ministered to by those faithful sisters, and died, I think, without ever having spoken a word.
From this sad scene, we passed on to a locust thicket, and men in every conceivable position could be seen, some with their fingers on the triggers, and death struck them so suddenly they didn't move. Past the thicket we saw trenches dug to receive as many as ten bodies. On the left of the pike, around the old gin house, men and horses were lying so thick that we could not walk. Gen. Adam's horse was lying stark and stiff upon the breastworks. Ambulances were being tilled with the wounded as fast as possible, and the whole town was turned into a hospital.
Instead of saying lessons at school the day after the battle. I watched the wounded men being carried in.
Our house was full as could be; from morning until night we made bandages and scraped linen lint with which to dress the wounds, besides making jellies and soups with which to nourish them.
The times were not without their romances. Only a short time afterward a handsome young Missouri surgeon, in charge of one of the hospitals, married one of our most prominent young ladies. Another Missourian, who was wounded here, and was so popular with the girls, married also. A young soldier who was an artist, met on the field one of our young ladies, who was also of an artistic turn of mind, and the year following they were married.
Confederate Veteran, 1895
Bringing the