On This Day

Tuesday 4th of February. Back at camp in Bowling Green. We have seen the elephant, as they say, and taken our first losses. Regretfully, Captain Jones is dead, killed by a bushwhacker.  We brought him back, tied across his saddle.  I would be dead myself but for my Bible.  Let me explain. The 2nd was cold and rainy, so the ride was pretty miserable.  We made perhaps 10 miles all morning, which meant we would never reach Beaver Creek unless we lengthened the scout to a third day. By 2:30, we had reached a tiny hamlet that someone said was named Hays or Hay. The rain had lightened to a drizzle but we were pretty wet and cold.  We had covered 19-20 miles and figured with luck, perhaps we would make our destination after all.

Nonetheless, we were surprised when Jones called a halt at 4:30 and pointed ahead.  There lay Beaver Creek, and the shallows that constituted the ford. We were all glad to have reached here before dark, and set about to finding whatever dry wood we might locate.  The clouds cleared away and the wind picked up a bit but that was all right.  To our south we saw a few distant lights, which we imagined might be Glasgow.  The map we were using was not terribly accurate about distances.

We posted sentries, and as I was exhausted, I did not read.  Next morning, we hastily ate and rather than ride back along the same road, decided to move northwest for about 5 miles and pick up the main road from Munfordville to Bowling Green.   That proved  to be a fatal mistake.

About an hour from where we had camped, a volley of shots suddenly rang out from our right side.  Jones was struck and slumped forward, his horse breaking into a gallop.  I felt a sudden impact in my chest and was knocked from Annabelle’s back.  In the momentary confusion, the sharpshooters escaped.  Half a dozen of our boys galloped toward the smoke which hung like a low cloud near a clump of bushes.  The bushwhacking Yankees had simply melted away into the woods and our boys could find no trace.

My chest hurt like I had been slammed with a brick and I was sure I was dying. Annabelle lowered her head and gently nuzzled me, trying to get me to stand up.  Captain Tyler rode over and screamed,

“R. J! Are you all right?”

“I think I’m hit,” I said as calmly as my pounding heart allowed. Looking down I saw a burned hole in my overcoat, still smoking a little. Gingerly, I unbuttoned the top several buttons and pulled back the lapel to reveal the shell jacket Melvina had made for me.  It had a similar hole!  Underneath that, was my Bible with a ¾ inch hole an inch deep and a flattened bullet.  Thank God, I had carried that Bible under my uniform jacket and coat to protect it from the weather.  I had slept with it and eaten with it, tucked away, paying it no mind at all.  It had literally saved my life and I determined to keep it there from now on! I am sure I will have two huge bruises: one from the spent bullet and the other from falling off Annabelle.

Several of the boys had ridden ahead to bring back Jones.  His horse had stopped about a half mile down the road.  Captain Jones was already dead, shot through his lung. We are now 37 and will miss him, sorely.  He was a good leader and commander.  We will make the arrangements to ship him home to his folks.

We were unmolested for the remainder of the scout and although we had been attacked, we had little to report in terms of actually seeing Yankees. Dick has gone over to headquarters to report, as he is now our only captain.  It is doubtful we will be sent out again until Thursday.