University of Virginia Library

THE BLOODY FLAG OF FORT PILLOW.

DARK and damning was the act performed by the
fierce partisan leader of rebels on the 14th of April,
1864. The names of Fort Pillow and Andersonville stand
out in lurid relief from the stormy background of a great
civil war, and stamp with perpetual infamy the authors of
these great crimes against humanity.

Fort Pillow is a strong fieldwork, erected under the
superintendence of Polk, and afterwards of Beauregard, on
the east bank of the Mississippi River, about fifty miles
above Memphis. It was designed as one of the defences
of the Upper Mississippi Valley, and in the spring of 1862
was virtually evacuated by the rebels, in consequence of
the Union victories at Donelson and Shiloh, the effect
of which was to flank all the rebel positions north of the
Memphis and Charleston Railroad, and concentrate all the
forces of that department at Corinth, in front of Grant.
For two years the fort had remained quietly in possession
of the Union forces; but in the winter and spring of 1864
the rebel partisan leader and cavalry general, Forrest, led
a force of some six or seven thousand into West Tennessee.
For some time he had his headquarters at Jackson, recruiting
and remounting his force. This was always with him
a favorite ranging ground. Before the war he had lived

at Memphis and on the river, following the cognate and
equally infamous branches of business, negro-trading and
river gambling. He was the last and most revolting specimen
of that style of man which is the combined effect of
a roving border life and of slavery — a man of powerful
frame and unflinching nerve, insensible to fatigue, incapable
alike of fear or of tenderness, an unequalled horseman, a
fatal shot, a successful speculator, and a lucky gambler.

To such a man the opportunity afforded by the outbreak
of the rebellion in 1861 was unlimited. A fierce champion
of slavery, a desperado, and a ruffian, war had charms for
him far beyond the milder horrors of the slave-yard and
the smaller risks of the gaming-table. He plunged into
the seething gulf of civil strife with a joy that only the
bold and the depraved can know, and by a series of almost
unbroken successes, rose from a private to the highest
position which it was possible for a cavalry officer to hold.

The men he had drawn around him were similar to him
in depravity, only not equal in strength and capacity for
command.

Such was the general, and such the force, that, on the
morning of the 14th of April, appeared before Fort Pillow.
Soon after daylight the fight began. The garrison consisted
of not quite six hundred, about two thirds of whom
were negroes, and one half the balance were loyal southerners,
or, as the rebels contemptuously called them,
"home-made Yankees." Major Booth, of the sixth United
States heavy artillery, was in command.

About nine o'clock in the morning, while at the breastwork
and directing the battle, Major Booth received a ball

directly through the heart, and fell dead. There was continuous
firing all day, but no charges, and the number of
the garrison who fell was not over twenty.

About three in the afternoon Forrest sent a flag of truce,
by which hostilities were suspended for near an hour.
The demand which was sent with the truce was for unconditional
surrender. Major Bradford, upon whom the command
had devolved after Major Booth fell, replied that he
could not surrender unconditionally. Forrest replied that
he would give him twenty minutes to leave the fort or
surrender.

Meantime the rebel force had been advanced furtively so
as now to surround the works on three sides; and the lines
awaiting the order for assault were but a few feet from
the parapet when the twenty minutes last given by Forrest
expired.

At this moment three thousand fierce ruffians sprang
forward, and, raising the hideous cry of "No quarter,"
climbed over the parapet, and rushed upon the garrison.

There was no more fighting, properly speaking. On the
river side there was a steep bluff, that rose directly from
the water, and the whole garrison rushed down this
hill towards the river, many plunging into the stream.
Then followed a relentless and indiscriminate butchery
of all ages, both sexes, and without reference to rank or
color.

The heart sickens, and we turn away in loathing from
the horrid recital. Of the negro troops hardly one escaped.
They were shot down like hogs. They were stabbed and
beaten when wounded. The sabre was often plunged into

the hole made by the pistol ball. Some were pinned to
the ground and burned. Some were buried alive.

Turn we now from this fearful scene of butchery to
another that followed a few days after, by no means cheerful,
but relieved by the play of nobler sentiments, and
by the presence and heroic words of a brave, though
heart-broken woman.

We enter Fort Pickering, situated on a high bluff, that
for miles commands a view of the mighty river that rolls,
broad, turbid, and swift, below. The ramparts all around
bristle with heavy guns. A regiment of United States
artillery is drawn up in perfect order. Every face is sober.
A high and firm resolve is burning in many a dark eye. Six
paces in front of the line are standing fourteen strong-built,
hardy-looking, brave-hearted men. They have no commander.
What wreck of war is this? What waif floating
on the stormy ocean of civil strife? We shall see in a
moment. A lady, clad in the deepest mourning, steps forward
in front of these fourteen survivors. The silence is
now full of solemnity and deep emotion. Many a brave
face shows, by the quivering lip and the moistening eye,
how the sight of that bereaved woman affects them; for she
is the widow of Major Booth, and these fourteen are all
that are left alive of the battalion he commanded at Fort
Pillow.

In her hand she bears a regimental flag, torn with balls,
stained with smoke, and clotted with human blood. Amid
a silence that is broken only by the hoarse roar of the river
chafing against the banks below, she commences to address
them in a voice low and sometimes broken with the heavings

of her mighty sorrow, but whose slightest cadence
reaches their hearts.

"Boys," she says, "I have just come from a visit to the
hospital at Mound City. There I saw your comrades
wounded at the bloody struggle at Fort Pillow. There I
found this flag — you recognize it. One of your comrades
saved it from the insulting touch of traitors at Fort Pillow.
I have given to my country all I had to give — my husband.
Such a gift! Yet I have freely given him for freedom and
my country. Next my husband's cold remains, the dearest
object left me in the world is this flag — the flag that once
waved in proud defiance over the works of Fort Pillow.
Soldiers, this flag I give you, knowing that you will ever
remember the last words of my noble husband — `Never
surrender the flag to traitors.'"

Colonel Jackson received from her hand the war-worn
and blood-stained flag. He called upon the regiment to
receive it as such a gift ought to be received. Then he and
the whole line fell upon their knees, and solemnly appealing
to the God of battles, each one swore to avenge their brave
and fallen comrades, and never, "never to surrender the
flag to traitors."

The scene was one the memory of which can never pass
from before the eyes of those who witnessed it. It was no
holiday presentation, no crowning of a May-queen. There
stood the widow of their former commander, fresh from the
grave of her hero-husband. Above them waved the old
flag, enriched by a thousand memories, and now consecrated
by the baptism of blood, while beside the spot where
they stood rolled the grand continental river, whose waters

a few days before had been reddened with the blood of
their comrades.

While that river rolls thus grandly to the far-off ocean
shall the deed of savage bloodshed that was enacted on its
banks be perpetuated in the memory of men, and stamp
infamy upon the name of the ruffian chief who thus dishonored
our common nature.