The Red Cavalier

By Brian K. Waite

September, 1863. The Confederacy has just won the Battle of Chickamauga. But in spite of this impressive victory, the treasury of the Confederacy is near empty and its economy is on the verge of collapse. General Braxton Bragg devises a plan to seize two million dollars in Union gold which is on board a train bound for Washington D.C. By employing the combined talents of three of his most skilled generals, Nathan Bedford Forrest, Joseph Wheeler, and British Army and Crimean War veteran Charles Tomlin, Bragg orders these men to destroy General Rosecrans supply lines, disrupt his communications, and capture the gold at all costs. Based on the actual event of Joseph Wheelers ride around General Rosecrans, this story takes the reader on a realistic adventure into Civil War era Middle Tennessee, complete with battles with not only the Army of The Cumberland but with marauders, rogue Union soldiers, and enemy spies, all trying to capture the gold as well.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 17, 2010
• ISBN: 9781469108995

Brian K. Waite

Born and raised in Middle Tennessee, Brian K. Waite has been a history buff since childhood. His interest came from a stack of old American History Illustrated and Civil War Times Illustrated that were given to him by an uncle who was a history teacher. From there, a whole new world opened up for him. Mr. Waites love for history has included over the years model building, reenacting, and eventually writing. The Red Cavalier is Mr. Waites first book and what started out as a hobby is now a published work. Mr. Waite is a World War Two reenactor and is a member of TSG also known as Tactical Studies Group at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. His professional background has been in teaching, real estate, and insurance. He resides in Ridgetop, Tennessee close to the spot where John Hunt Morgan camped in 1862. He and his wife Leah have three children.

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Copyright © 2010 by Brian K. Waite.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual

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Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 1

Sebastopol, Crimea

September 12, 1855

The early morning fog was slowly rising, dancing like ghosts as Corporal Davenport rode across the war-town field. The morning was cool and damp and there was an unusual quietness about that particular morning, except for the heavy breathing of Corporal Davenport’s horse.

I remember that morning well. I had been there when Sebastopol fell to the Allies the previous day. My name is Sir Charles Edward Tomlin of Her Majesty’s 93rd Highlanders stationed in Crimea. My rank while serving in Crimea was that of a colonel and I have come from a long line of soldiers who have served the British Crown.

As Corporal Davenport came closer, his horse started breathing heavier from exhaustion. The poor beast would have been going faster if it were not for the mud. After a while the horse, with considerable difficulty, made it through the mire. Corporal Davenport saluted me and handed me a telegram.

The young corporal was no more than 19 years old, fair skinned and freckled. I noticed a bandage around his young head of wispy, pumpkin orange hair and he was just as out of breath as his horse.

You have a message from headquarters my lord, said Davenport as he desperately tried to catch his breath.

I took the dispatch and noticed it was postmarked as an official priority parcel, which meant it was no more than a few hours old. I also noticed Her Majesty’s seal affixed at the corner, so I knew then it was important.

Thank you Corporal. You are dismissed.

Yes my lord, replied the young Scotsman as he raised his hand and saluted. With that, Davenport turned his horse around and rode away.

The content of the telegram was bittersweet. First I was being sent back to England up on the request of my father, Lord Nigel Greenway Tomlin, Earl of Strathmore. That would be considered good news except the telegram stated he was dying. That explained the urgency of the telegram and Queen Victoria’s seal on the top left corner. It even had General Simpson’s signature on it so it must have come through his headquarters.

Folding the dispatch in half, I put it in an inside pocket of my red battle tunic. Spurring my horse on down from the hill, my two aides, Majors Taylor and Reynolds, and myself rode to observe the carnage from the previous day’s battle. The field just outside of Sebastopol was littered with artillery pieces; some of which were barrel first into the mud, bodies of dead Russian, French and English soldiers, dead horses and military equipment of all types.

It had been a year since all of that insanity started. The first landing of Allied troops took place at Gallipoli in March 1854. The Allied landings in Crimea began in September that same year at Calamity Bay some 33 miles North of Sebastopol. The reason our army chose this area was because of its extensive sheltered beaches and its ability to be defended by a small number of troops. Why the Russians did not defend this area nobody knows. If they had, they could have severely hindered our shipping and our troop landings, but they did not. Perhaps they thought it was more trouble than it was worth, and that the only way to decisively defeat us was to let our armies land on Russian soil.

I remember our first battle against the Russians at the Alma River. In spite of superior numbers and a strategic position, the Russians were no match. The Russian generals were much too careless and overconfident as well as guilty of using poor judgment in some of the most basic military precautions. They didn’t even place sentries on the roads en route to the high places above the river. The one outstanding thing I remembered about our troops at Alma was the way we posted our red-coated Highlanders behind stone walls to systematically pick off the crews manning the Russian artillery. This alone was very effective in smashing the Russian morale.

In fact we did demoralize the retreating Russians but it would have been more complete if we had pursued them or taken advantage of attacking Sebastopol at the Northwest sector of the city where their defenses were their weakest. We did neither because our intelligence could not be supplied with the needed information about Sebastopol’s defenses. Instead we marched our soldiers around to the South side of the city. I was later told by my Sergeant-Major that it was a move to help supply both the French and British army by sea. The French took the harbor at Kamiesh while our troops took the one at Balaclava. This gave the Russian garrison under the command of General Menshikov a chance to build up the city’s defenses. Because of poor communication, unnecessary delays and lack of sensible decisions, we lost a chance to take Sebastopol in what would have taken two weeks.

The Russians were certainly plagued with problems, such as inferior weaponry, weak generals, and a breakdown in their chain of command. But our British army was certainly not without its own problems. First of all, our leadership, a major factor in causing the siege to drag on in the first place, was much to be desired. But much of the bungling in the High Command was a result of problems beyond their control, mainly the mistakes of bureaucrats and political leaders as well as the overall poor organization of the British military. Even in wartime there are those circumstances that military leaders are not responsible for; however, I must point out that the quality of the commanding generals on both sides was inadequate. Many of them lacked enterprise and imagination.

The British commander in Crimea, Lord Raglan, was a personal friend of my father’s. They fought together at Waterloo but when my father retired from the army, Lord Raglan continued his career as a military administrator and never gained much experience as a company commander, much less an entire army in the field. He was a trusting kindly gentleman and was the perfect bureaucrat. He was extremely courteous and conscientious with an undying devotion to duty, not only to his superiors and the Crown, but to his subordinates alike.

Even though these were admirable qualities for a noble gentleman of his status, these were probably his greatest weaknesses as a military leader. Lord Raglan’s problem was that he found it impossible to take any kind of stand that was needed in dealing with government ministers and bureaucrats, which were among several of the stumbling blocks in the British military system.

I heard a French general say one day after visiting our camp that he had never heard Lord Raglan express an opinion. When he did at all it didn’t make sense. His orders on the battlefield were muddled, unclear and imprecise. As a result, Raglan was made the scapegoat for all of the shortcomings in the British military system. But he was not the only one to blame. The British military system as a whole, whether it was the military government ministers or bureaucrats, was so archaic that it was a wonder it worked at all. Nothing had changed since the Napoleonic Wars.

Lord Ragland died in June, 1855 after an unsuccessful and costly attack on Sebastopol’s defenses. Overworked, exhausted and hounded unmercifully by the British press, he died a sad and defeated man. His replacement was General James Simpson, a 63-year-old veteran of the Napoleonic Wars. He had also seen action in India and even with this impressive record, his talents as a field general were as mediocre as Ragland’s. He gave no orders, he devised no plan, and what was worse, he left everything to a bunch of malcontent subordinates. He even said himself that they must indeed be hard up to appoint an old man like me.

This was one of the many examples why the war in Crimea was so badly fought. The one saving grace was our superior weaponry, above all the Minie’ rifle. I carried one myself and it proved to be far superior over the out-of-date musketry of the Russian army. But it was mainly the lack of leadership in the British military system that was the problem.

I remember back in September of 1854 the High Command delayed at least three times in reinforcing our positions and spent most of their energies in preparing for a bombardment of Sebastopol. It took our artillery almost a month to set up positions above the city. It was not until the 17th of October did the artillery began to bombard the city whose defenses had been built up enormously. It was this same force under General Menshikov that counterattacked our weak flank at Balaclava, which was scarcely defended by a small force of British and Turkish troops.

Lord Raglan dispatched me and the 93rd Highlanders to defend this area and it was this battle that later became celebrated in British military lore as the thin red line. Also from this battle was the charge of the Light Brigade, an action of pure foolhardiness that I would not see again until ten years later at the Battle of Franklin. This was a result of confused orders given to a confused private to an officer so devoted to duty that he did not have the common sense to confirm them as being correct. This was of no military significance whatsoever but was later to be celebrated as one of the most costly military disasters in British military history. That was on October 25, 1854. The following day I was among some of the officers surveying the damage. The loss of men and horses was appalling. Most of the six hundred in that charge perished and, unwittingly, I remarked, If someone wrote a poem about this on one would believe it.

I had seen enough death and destruction for one morning so I turned my horse around and started back toward our camp sight. The September sun started beating down and I began to sweat in my red tunic. The smell of fall was in the air but it was mixed with the melancholy scent of death. When one looks at a living breathing human being one sees a magnificent creation of God. When life leaves that body it is nothing more than rotting flesh that is not any better than the flesh of a dead dog. I hoped then that my descendants would never have to see anything of this magnitude.

Arriving to my tent my Sergeant-major, named Leeds took the reins of my two-year-old gray Arabian and saluted.

Congratulations, my lord, I understand you are being sent home.

Leeds had no idea of my situation at home and to accommodate him I replied, Thank you.

I turned up the tent flaps and I had only one thing on my mind. I must pack immediately and go home to England. I boiled some tea and started packing and within a matter of hours, I was on a ship bound for home.

The trip was long and tiring but seeing home again lifted my spirits some. The British telegraph services were keeping me informed about my father’s condition so I would know how much time I had. Seeing the lush green English countryside made me feel serene but it also made matters rather bittersweet. The transition of the English summer into autumn was not the only change that was about to take place. It was my father’s second son and in England there was an ancient custom that dated back to Medieval times called primogeniture. This was where the oldest son inherited the father’s whole estate and the father had the option of leaving large sums of money for the younger sons or leaving them nothing at all. Upon my father’s death, I stood the chance of being left with nothing. My brother Richard stood to inherit everything and become the next Earl of Strathmore.

The history of my family dates back to the time before William the Conqueror invaded England in 1066. We Tomlins were originally Normans and the first Lord Tomlin of recorded history was Sir Henry of Tommlynn, who served as a vassal under William the Conqueror. Sir Henry fought at the Battle of Hastings and, because of his loyal service, William gave him a considerable portion of land. In 1080 my ancestral home Strathmore Castle was built on that land.

It was October when I arrived to Strathmore, gratefully in time to tend to my father’s last wishes and spend time with him during his final days. Our last days together were sweet and tender and as his time drew near, he gathered my brother Richard and myself to his bedside and disbursed the remainder of his estate between us.

My brother Richard was a greedy and ungrateful man who had an unmanageable lust for power. Already a member of the House of Lords, he was then completing his quest by gaining his title as the new Earl of Strathmore. For some bizarre reason, he was insanely jealous of me which meant we were never very close as brothers. He was a politician and I was a military man, which in the case of the Crimea issue put us at odds even further. He was physically different as well. Heavy and balding his appearance was rather unimpressive, but in spite of that he was a formidable and powerful voice in Parliament.

Upon the dispersion of my father’s estate, Richard inherited the castle, the grounds, the money, the title, everything. But I was not forgotten. My father’s inheritance to me was the sum of three million pounds to be used in starting out a new life for myself somewhere else. In addition, I was given the services of father’s personal steward, Geoffrey.

Geoffrey had been with my father for over 20 years. Tall, with thinning white wisps of hair on his head and a thin stiff face, he looked as if his face was hewn out of granite. In spite of his stiff and stern demeanor, he was a welcomed gift as well as a most trusted servant and friend.

I remained with my father until one gray, cold and gusty day in November of 1855, my father, a hero who fought with Wellington at Waterloo, died very quietly in the peace of his own bed, and in the company of those who loved him. The following morning I packed up all of my personal belonging and left the home of my childhood to board a clipper ship in Plymouth. From there I departed from my homeland to sail away to a new life and fortune in America.

CHAPTER 2

Heather Glen Plantation

April 11, 1861

Six years have passed since I left my native England. The day I left was cold and damp and as I stood on the deck of the ship I watched the shores of my homeland fade away over the horizon. In a few short months after arriving to the harbor of Savanna, Georgia, Geoffrey and I grew quite fond of Georgia’s clear, warm climate and decided to remain there for a short time. It was there in Savannah that I learned about a three thousand acre tract of land located just a few miles south of Atlanta that was up for sale. I bought that land and was ready to settle on it in just a few short months.

Within that time I managed to find a wife–a beautiful, golden-haired lass named Melanie Russell. She came from a very prominent English stock family who owned a large cotton plantation in Marietta. From that union were produced two children, a daughter, Mary Abigail Tomlin and a son, Nigel Greenway Tomlin II, who was named for my late father.

I named my new estate Heather Glen because the surrounding countryside grew the beautiful purple flower that reminded me so much of home. The house itself was nothing as common as most of the plantation houses throughout Georgia. It was a red brick Williamsburg style house with a circular carriage path. The house did boast a fine white-columned front porch with very large windows to help bring in the cool breezes that accompany the balmy Georgia spring weather.

Heather Glen produced cotton, corn and tobacco, but mostly cotton which was harvested by about one hundred Negroes. I owned slaves but I did not necessarily agree with that institution. As a matter of fact, I even went as far as to pay my slaves a small wage. Once I was ridiculed by a neighbor of mine, a boisterous loud-mouthed bore named Avery Gardner.

It was when Melanie and I were hosting a formal dinner party that this contemptuous form of a man made an issue of it. I was never sure if it was because he was part Irish and I was an English immigrant or what, but it was quite obvious he had some sort of dislike for me. In spite of that I tried to extend my hand of friendship by inviting him to this party.

It was after dinner that the men were in the smoking parlor having an after dinner coffee that the heated discussions began.

War talk is in the air gentlemen, said Gardner in a manner that made him look more like a politician than a planter. That’s right. The government wants to take away as much of our voice here I in the South just so they can take our slaves away from us, said Gardner as he lit up a fresh cigar.

Why do you think there’s going to be a war? I asked. President Lincoln is trying his best to avoid one.

There’s one thing you must remember, said Paul North, a banker friend in Atlanta. Lincoln is not our concern anymore.

That’s right! Gardner butted in. Georgia as well as the rest of the South is on her own. We are not part of a union who likewise wants to avoid war.

Avery Gardner was the son of an Irish smuggler and a Creek Indian squaw. He was rather tall and slender with a medium build. He had a of head straight salt and pepper hair which meant he was somewhat older than I was. He was not from money but somehow he was able to accumulate quite a fortune and no one, including his wife, knew how he got it. It was probably by dishonest means because he was really not the saintly type. Since he was a few years older than me he took the liberty to call me son. Of course this was his way of being condescending toward me.

I’ll tell ya’ll what, Gardner went on. If the abolitionists want a war in order to control expansion in the territories and to free our slaves, then we’ll give them a war they won’t forget.

Don’t you mean a war we won’t forget? I stepped in. If the agrarian South tried to take on the industrial North in an all-out war, the South could not stand a chance.

Hey son, are you saying that you would rather see us cower down like cowards than to stand up to them Yankees? asked Gardner.

No, I replied. I’m saying as a professional soldier and as a veteran from the Crimean War that the South must make sure she is prepared for war before taking on a force more formidable.

With that I poured another coffee and walked toward a leather chair on the other side of the room.

It’s a funny thing, I said as I sat down adjusting myself to get comfortable. I came to a new country to make good use of my inheritance and take advantage of the opportunities here just to have the talk of war make me consider going back to England and live under the shadow of my arrogant brother.

Tugging at his cravat, Tom Wilmington, a business associate of mine, sensed there was going to be some trouble. With a toasting gesture of his china cup, he quietly left the room.

Does this mean you will not take up arms against the North? Gardner sneered, blowing a big puff of cigar smoke in the air.

There was no reply from me, and after a bit he said, If you call yourself a slave owner, why do you pay your slaves a small wage? Why do you house them in brick quarters? I’ve heard that fancy English butler of yours has taught most of your slaves to read and write. Aren’t you afraid they will become too smart and comfortable?

There was still silence, and looking straight into his eyes I let him continue.

By the way Tomlin, before you came to this country there was a free black named Denmark Vesey, who by the way was educated. He led an insurrection in South Carolina that resulted in the deaths of several whites.

Do you have any trouble with runaway slaves? I asked, hoping this would end the conversation.

Well . . . yeah, but what’s it to you, stammered Gardner.

Leaning forward in my chair and still holding my coffee, I continued questioning, Do you beat your slaves?

Well, yeah! How do you think I keep ’em working? said Gardner. I beat the mud out of ’em. Keeps them in line ya know.

"Let me make it simple for you Irishman. Heather Glen has never had a single slave to run off. The reason being is that they are treated in such a manner that they don’t want to leave. I give them more than adequate food to eat, good clothes, warm and dry shelter that is better than any of the slave quarters I have seen in other places and most of all I consider them human beings.

Well then why do you pay them and educate them? asked Gardner.

Because someday slavery is going to be abolished from this country. Whether it is through a civil war or through changes in the law, there is going to come a day that they are going to be on their own and they will need some money saved up and an education to help them function as responsible members of society.

Members of society! laughed Gardner. They can’t function unless us white people are around to tell them what to do! Tell me son, did you know that all of the great ancient civilizations had slaves and slavery is even mentioned in the Bible?

Sitting back in my chair I looked at him and answered him with a calm but firm voice. Even the slaves in the ancient times and in the Bible were educated. Aristotle tutored Alexander the Great while serving as a slave for Philip of Macedonia."

They’re just property, Gardner said. They’re no better than horses or cows.

Quickly I rose to my feet. I straightened the tails of my frock coat and walked toward the chair he was seated in.

They’re not vermin; they’re human beings and someday they will have to be recognized as such!

At that moment I could feel my blood starting to boil and it was becoming quite obvious the only reason why he came to my dinner party was to start some trouble. Ever since I have known this man, it has always seemed to me that he thrived on the anger of others.

"Charles, Avery, why don’t we break this up and go into the billiards room for a game. Maybe that will help us forge . . .

Shut up North! snapped Gardner. No one asked for your opinion!

Paul North rose to his feet, his cup still in his hand and his face red with fury. Paul was a short-tempered gentleman who wanted so much at that time to take a swing at Gardner, but there was a healthy streak of caution in him. So instead he just stood back anxious to see what was to happen.

Also present to witness the confrontation were four other business associates as well as a houseguest of Gardner’s whom I invited as a matter of protocol. There were plantation owner Victor Cain, Atlanta banker Cornelius Black, ship line owners Tiberius and Galen Reed and Representative Preston Brooks of South Carolina, who was a childhood friend of Gardner’s.

You think you are so much better than the rest of us, said Gardner. At least I got my money by working for it.

At least I got my money honestly, I snapped back.

Gardner’s face turned ugly. I could make you draw a dueling pistol for that, he said taking another gulp of coffee. Don’t push me, Englishman! Don’t push me!

You seem to have it turned around. I replied mildly as I set my coffee cup on a nearby table. I’m the one who is being pushed. You have the gall to come to my dinner party, eat my food, dance with my wife, smoke my cigars and on top of that insult me. You will leave my house now!"

With that, Gardner took his coffee and with the quickness of lightning splashed it in my face. Without thinking, I quickly drove my fist square into his face, instantly knocking him to the floor. On his way down his head struck the edge of the divan, thus rendering him unconscious.

Preston Brooks stared in amazement and for a moment I thought I was going to meet the same fate as Senator Charles Sumner of Massachusetts, who in May of 1855 gave a long philippic called The Crime Against Kansas. This speech made references to Brooks’ cousin, Senator Andrew Butler of South Carolina, which were abusive and inflammatory. Two days later it was said that Preston Brooks entered the Senate chambers after adjournment, walked over to Sumner’s desk and beat him unconscious with his cane. This act caused much stir in Washington to such a degree that senators and representatives were going to the nation’s capitol armed.

But even though he was a friend of Gardner’s he wanted no part of this.

Hey, I’m sorry, said Brooks. I would like to apologize for my host’s behavior.

Resting my arm on the mantle above the fireplace, I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and started to wipe the steaming hot liquid off my face. At that moment, Asa, one of my house slaves entered the room.

Asa, go get Geoffrey and have him help you show Mr. Gardner the door.

Yes, suh, Marse Charles, said Asa, leaving quickly.

Preston Brooks started across the room. Putting his hand on my shoulder he said, You must excuse Avery for his behavior. You see, it was the English who forced his father off his land in Ireland and it was in South Carolina where his father, brother and sister were killed during a slave revolt. The poor man just has a lot of hatred built up inside him.

Don’t let him bother you, spoke up Cornelius Black. Some people are just bent and determined to be mean and ornery.

There was still silence. Brooks with a sheepish grin quietly excused himself while Geoffrey and Asa picked up the unconscious Mr. Gardner and took him to his carriage.

Darling, what has happened here?

I turned around only to see Melanie staring at me with a puzzled look on her face.

Nothing to worry dear, I said, bending forward to kiss her. It was just Mr. Gardner behaving like a child.

Well forget about it, Love, and come into the drawing room. Galen Reed is going to play some Mozart on the piano, said Melanie.

She took me by the hand. Her pink evening gown made a rustling sound across the floor as we walked toward the drawing room. Maybe she was right. A little Mozart will help me forget about what has happened tonight. But not all of the Mozart ever written could make me forget about what was to transpire for the next four years.

So much has happened since I arrived to this country six years ago. The American newspapers were full of stories such as the Dred Scott Case, the Lincoln-Douglass debates. John Brown’s raid and the election of Lincoln in 1860. Probably the most celebrated event here in Georgia was when she seceded from the United States on January 19, 1861. In my thirty-three years and upon this earth I have managed to become a citizen of three different countries. Being part of this new country–the Confederate States of America, made no difference to me at all except for the fact that I felt loyalty to my state, my community and my home. I never realized that night that the very next day would change the lives for many of us forever.

CHAPTER 3

Chickamauga, Georgia

September 20, 1863

The night following our dinner party, I received the news of the attack on Fort Sumter. Many Southerners, as well as myself, knew that this was inevitable. In May of 1861, I received a letter that was signed by Jefferson Davis, President of the Confederate States of America, as well as the governor of Georgia, requesting my services based on my past career as a professional soldier. Also, to entice me out of retirement, I was offered the rank of brigadier general with the freedom to organize my own brigade. I accepted this new position with pride and, against the many protests of my family. I came out of retirement and ended my career as a gentleman farmer. In May 1861, I replaced my services to the Crown and donned the uniform of a general of the Confederacy.

Early in the war, the uniforms of both sides, Union and Confederate, were a hodgepodge of styles, colors, and personal tastes. The uniforms of the Confederate officers, especially those of the general, were homespun or tailor-made. Most, if not all, were made of wool-dyed cadet gray, the official color for the Confederate army. But the enlisted men, if they had a uniform at all, had to fend for themselves.

The beginning of the war there were few factories that produced our uniforms, so many of the enlisted men resorted to wearing a brownish-gray or butter-nut colored uniform produced by a dye made from butternut bark or walnut hulls. Because supply and demand played a major factor on the production of our uniforms as well as the ability to replace those that were destroyed as a casualty of war, the rule of normality was that there was no norm.

For the Federal officers and generals, rank was usually identified by shoulder tabs or epaulets. As for their Confederate counterparts, rank was usually identified by collar tabs, gold braid patterns on the sleeves and as for the generals, the arrangements of the button patterns down the front of their frock coats. But because it was quite common for a tunic or frockcoat to become worn or lost, in which replacement was quite difficult, many in our ranks re-equipped themselves with anything possible. Once again, the norm was that there was no norm.

As for myself, I brought my old British army uniform out of the trunk in our bedroom and out of retirement. My wife Melanie was an excellent seamstress and after a few minor alterations, she was able to change the bright red tunic into a Confederate general’s uniform. The brilliant red tunic with all of its gold buttons and braids stayed primarily British except for the collar tabs and the sleeves.

Melanie replaced the crown emblems on the collar tabs with three gold starts embroidered in gold thread in addition to the stars, were embroidered gold olive branches. Though it was customary to identify a Confederate general’s rank by the button patterns on his frockcoat, the button pattern on my British tunic remained the same because of the fact it was pre-made.

In keeping with the styles of many of the confederate officers, I had the gold braiding added to the sleeves. I replaced the British issue battle trousers with the Confederate gray ones but I kept the British issue battle trousers for sentimental reasons. My headgear was a gray wide-brimmed officer’s hat with a gold band with acorns and a brass CSA hatpin on the front. Along with my uniform, I packed my new colt revolver, my Minie’ rifle, a British army officer’s saber and a few personal belongings. Then in early June of 1861, I said my good-byes to my family, slaves, and personal staff and climbed upon my gray Arabian stallion named Sultan, and rode away to join my brigade with the Army of Tennessee. A little over two years had passed since I had left home. By 1863, the tide of war had turned bitterly against us. In July, Lee marched into Pennsylvania only to be defeated at a little town called Gettysburg. Falling back and retreating had certainly been nothing new to me ever since I have been serving with the Army of Tennessee. Last year in Kentucky we retreated after the battle at Perryville and we haven’t stopped, so it seems, until we arrived here at Chickamauga in northern Georgia.

Chickamauga, the Indian name for the lazy winding stream running though northern Georgia and into the Tennessee River above Chattanooga, was said by some residents to mean river of death. Perhaps there was some dark hellish event that took place in the forgotten pages of Indian lore that we will never know about. But it was certainly evident that this area was living up to its name.

It was near eleven o’clock in the morning on Sunday, September 20, 1863. It was Indian summer and the sun was high and the day was hot. The Union Army had its back to the wall in the deep