BATTLE OF PILOT KNOB

Baldwin, MO., Oct. 21. - As well as I remember, it was on the evening of the 24th of September, 1864, that Gen. Joe Shelby, with his brigade, struck the enemy a short distance east of Ironton and south of Pilot Knob.

After a spirited and somewhat prolonged engagement he drove them from some unfinished works into their strongly fortified position at Pilot Knob.

The fort, as I remember it, was an eight square work, with two salley ports. A parapet 12 feet high by 12 in depth, with a ditch surrounding the whole work 12 feet deep and 12 feet wide, making a distance of 24 feet from the bottom of the ditch to the top of the parapet. The armament of this work was about as follows: Seven 64--pound guns, three 100--pounders and four heavy howitzers, besides a number of smaller field guns; but 14 heavy guns were mounted on the works. The fort sits in an open valley, once a farm, surrounded on all sides by mountains and high hills. Cedar mountain is on the south and about 300 yards to its foot, around which winds a small branch.

Shepherd’s mountain is on the east, and in the gorge between Shepherd and Cedar mountains nestles the little village of Ironton. Through this gorge ran the road and approaches to the fort. Farther to the north and east is Iron mountain. Then a range of high hills completes the circle to the north and west.

The morning of the 25th finds us in position on the crest of Cedar mountain. Maj. Pratt’s Battery opened the engagement by shelling the enemy at long range. The enemy responds with murderous effect. Dark, heavy clouds swing near the ground; heavy fog and rifts of rain complete the picture of a dark and lowering day. Under foot the ground is wet and oozy from the heavy rain of last night.

The fort nestling below us in the valley does not appear much larger than a good sized barn. With the naked eye you can tell scarcely anything of its construction. We seem to be doing literally nothing. The heavy guns of the enemy seem to completely drown us out, but we keep pounding away. And now the enemy’s position is hid from view. A cloud of white sulphurous smoke hangs over the fortress.

Suddenly the order comes, “Attention! Right dress! Guide center! March!”

Then over the crest of the mountain we step, and began to descend its rugged side. The line widens, and the men slip and slide and jump from rock to rock, or shrub to shrub, or scoot down feet first with a bushel of dirt, small rocks pouring over their heads.

At the foot of the mountain the line reforms and we step upon the level plain in a trim straight line. As we near the works our battery on the crest of the mountain stops firing. Now the enemy’s guns boom out louder than ever. Minnie balls hiss spitefully near our ears. Cannon shot, of all sizes and descriptions, whir and shriek through the air. A storm of iron hail - a panorama, ghastly, horrible, yet sublime.

Braving the terrific blasts from the federal batteries we gain the edge of the ditch. Here we gain our breath and exchange shots with the enemy as he shows himself above the parapet. Finding the ditch impassible the order is given to retreat. Fifteen steps from the edge of the ditch we pass the silent form of Fredrick Muhm, then William Farnsworth, G Co., both shot through the neck (messmates).

At last we reach cover in the run of the small branch mentioned above. At this moment Gen. Fagan’s brigade deploys on the plain from the foot of Shepherd’s mountain. They step over the ground as though they were on parade battalion drill. How our hearts bleed for the brave fellows as we see them pass under the withering fire from the fort. With the retirement of Fagan’s brigade, our battery on the crest of Cedar mountain again opens fire. From every available place our sharpshooters reply to the discharges from the fort. During this sharp practice Maj. Bennett, Ben F. Wheatly, and a few others from “G” company are sharp--shooting from a small log located some thirty steps in advance of our line. Maj. Bennett is standing at the corner looking through his field--glass. A large cannon shot tears through the house and cuts the brave major’s leg in two at the knee. How we missed our gallant little major! Stubbornly the fight went on until dark, which put a stop to the showers of iron hail which had filled the air all day. Scaling ladders were ordered for the morrow, and we slept on our arms that night. About four o’clock the next morning a terrific explosion shook the very earth where we lay. “There,” exclaims Ben F. Wheatly, jumping up, “there, they have busted Long Tom as sure as hell!” Long Tom was a monster big, black gun that had heaped dust and dust upon us the evening before, seemingly trying to bury us alive. Turning our eyes, we see the flame and cloud of debris as they fly heavenward. In a moment a buzz runs along the line. “The enemy has flown! The works are blown up!” Men who looked sober and stern a moment ago are smiling now. Detachments are sent out in hot haste. The enemy has gone in the direction of Caledonia, but Shelby is supposed to be there by this time, and no extra haste is made to overtake him.

Burial squads are now passing over the field, gathering up the dead for interment. When I reach the fort most of our dead had been gathered up. I asked an officer: “How many of the old 10th do you find?” “Twenty five,” was his reply. As to our entire loss, I don’t know, for I never heard anyone who had a chance to know, say what it was. We were precipitated into so many fights and battles immediately afterwards that all interest in the battle of Pilot Knob died out or was swallowed up by other more exciting events.

The next day we drove the enemy into another fortified position at Leasburgh, or Steelville, on the railroad, where we left him in peace, and continued our journey down the railroad to Union.

According to my notion at the time, the battle of Pilot Knob was a drawback to the expedition. It is true we demolished a strong post of the enemy, but the time and material it took to reduce it, ripped our force and delayed the expedition. I certainly saw nothing to compensate us for the brave men that were sacrificed. But perhaps the officers of the army could show it up in a different light. Would be glad if they could do so.

Henry C. Luttrell

Gen. Hindman’s Escort
Co. G, 10th Missouri Cavalry, CSA

Missouri Republican, St. Louis, MO, October 24, 1885.