Reminiscences of Fighting in Kentucky, Confederate Veteran Magazine, Vol. 8, No 2
(February 1900), page 59.
L. S. Ferrell, Number One, Tenn., writes:A short time before the battle of Perryville our brigade (Wharton's) camped for a day or two at Mt. Washington, a small hamlet a dozen miles or more southwest of Louisville, Ky. Our company (K), afterwards a part of the Fourth Tennessee Cavalry, composed mostly of boys who had never been under fire, was serving as escort to Gen. Wharton, and occupied the village. Our commissary sergeant had purchased a wooden bucketful of nice yellow butter, and we were getting ready for a "good time," when the bugle call, "You'd better saddle up, you'd better saddle up, you'd better saddle up your hor-ses!" brought every man with his "quippages" to the side of his horse. Soon there was mounting in hot haste, and a dash was made to the front. Some Federal cavalry had driven in our pickets and retired. On our way to the front we met one of the Eighth Texas, who had a bullet hole in his forehead from which the blood flowed freely. He presented a ghastly sight to beginners. As he passed us, he pointed exultingly to his wound and wanted to know of Capt. (afterwards Col.) Paul Anderson if that would not entitled him to a furlough? It was only a scalp wound. We advanced some distance beyond our picket line and to a large brick house on the left of the pike. A splendid-looking old gentleman—I understood his name was Preston—and Gen. Wharton had a lengthy consultation. I overheard this remark distinctly: "I have just received this morning a note from my niece in Louisville saying that Buell will move early to-morrow morning with nearly a hundred thousand men."
As we started on the return I observed that my comrade and blanket mate, John Seawell, was suffering excruciating pains in his back, and that his rough-riding small horse, "Bald Hornet," did not help the situation. The sight of the wounded Texan, Gen. Wharton's interview revealing the vast horde that would soon be upon us, and John Seawell's sufferings all impressed me very seriously with the probabilities of the near future.
The "ball" opened next morning, and we began our retrograde movement. The usual tactics were observed—skirmishing, planting our guns in every available position to check the enemy. When within a mile or two of Bardstown a rumor reached us that a heavy force of Federal cavalry had slipped in between us and the town. Of citizens who passed us, some said there were no Federals between us and the town; and others reported "a Yankee line of battle across the pike at the fair grounds." To settle the question, Gen. Wharton directed Capt. Anderson to take his company and ascertain the facts. We went at a gallop, and soon found them in line and "ready for business." Sending a courier hurriedly back to Gen. Wharton, Capt. Anderson called at the top of his voice: "Form fours, my brave boys!" This was to mislead the enemy and gain a few precious moments of time. Meanwhile the Yankees began firing. They shot over our heads at first, but soon secured good range. The captain, knowing our threatened annihilation, ordered the fence on our right pulled down so we could pass into a growth of timber. I sprang from my horse and lowered the fence. As the boys rushed through one rode between me and my horse, and I was forced to turn him loose. The company kept right on and left me, striking the enemy's flank. Just then I wished that horse was somewhere else, and I honorably with my wife and babies. Forty kingdoms would I have given for a horse—for my own little roan. I secured him with nerve, and just as I caught him I heard the hoof beat and muttering roar of Wharton's column as it advanced down the pike in a headlong charge. "Rough riders" they were, sure enough.
Standing in his stirrups, bare-headed, his hair streaming behind, and whipping his gray mare, Fanny, across the withers with his hat, Gen. Wharton led the charge, shouting: "Charge 'em, boys!" I fell in with the Texans.
When the head of our column struck the enemy the rail fence on our left went down in a moment, and we charged through an open woodland. Capturing a prisoner, Col. afterwards Gen.) Tom Harrison ordered me to take him up behind me, and carry him to headquarters. As we had to retrace our steps and get on the pike to find headquarters, and as our forces had moved on the Yankees were expected every minute, I thought it foolhardy to risk my prisoner with the advantage he would have behind me, and for once disobeyed orders and made my prisoner double-quick. We had not proceeded very far when we encountered another Reb having charge of a prisoner. He asked me what I was going to do with my Yank. "Take him to headquarters," I replied. "Yes, and we will both be captured. I'm going to kill mine right here," he rejoined. At this the prisoner began begging for his life. I told Johnnie not to do so cowardly a deed as that, and requested him to turn his man over to me. "Take him, and go to h— with him!" he shouted, and, putting spurs to his horse, was quickly out of sight, leaving me with both prisoners, who readily ran until we were out of danger.
By this headlong charge of Wharton's the Federals were scattered like chaff, and I think they lost about fifteen in killed and wounded, and perhaps twenty-five of thirty prisoners. We had but one man wounded, and that was slight.
These and succeeding movements culminated in the bloody battle of Perryville, after which we moved on through Harrodsburg, and swinging to the east one day we rode in Stanford. As we drew up in front of the hotel there were a group of paroled Federals on the verandah. Soon one of them sprang up, exclaiming: "Yonder's my man!" He ran to me and, seizing my hand, seemed as glad as if he had found a long-lost brother. He was one of the Bardstown prisoners.
The appearance of the old gentleman at the brick house, the wounded Texan, John Seawell humped up on Bald Hornet, Gen. Wharton leading that charge, and the greeting of that Yank at Stanford form a series of pictures that will hang upon the walls of memory while life lasts.