Southern Historical Society Papers, Volume 11.
Reverend J. William Jones, Ed.

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[177] marked with the dead, wounded, and dying, knapsacks, blankets, guns, overcoats, and dead and wounded horses. For seven miles the road, woods, and fields were literally strewn with the dead bodies of the Federals. It was a glorious victory, but dearly bought. Our loss was about four hundred killed, wounded, and missing; that of the enemy will approximate one thousand. Their force was about seven thousand. We never had more than two thousand and five hundred engaged at one time, and our entire force did not amount to more than six thousand. The battle commenced at 9 o'clock in the morning, and lasted until 4 o'clock in the evening. We recaptured our battery, took two hundred prisoners, and an innumerable quantity of overcoats, knapsacks, blankets, &c. I brought off a fine overcoat as my property. After we returned to camp, I walked down to the ‘Prince’ to relieve the anxiety of my mother, and carried my ‘trophy’ on my back. My good mother must have mistaken me for a live Yankee, but on my assuring her that it was 1, myself, her veritable son, in propria persona, she exclaimed, ‘John, take off that coat! I would not be seen with such a thing on my back.’ General Cheatham who was present laughed heartily, and said, ‘Why madam, I have a fine Yankee overcoat myself in which I expect to keep warm this winter.’ But mother could not be convinced that it was the proper thing for a Confederate soldier to be seen in a Yankee coat. And so in deference to her wishes and in accordance with my own taste, I think that I will hang my ‘trophy’ on the wall, and stick to the ‘gray.’ I trust that I feel some gratitude for the kind Providential care that has been around me during the day.

November 8th.—This has been a gloomy day in camp. All day long our dead, wounded and dying were coming in by wagon loads. Many gallant men fell in the bloody action of yesterday, among whom from the list of my personal friends, were Captain J. Welby Armstrong and Lieutenant James Walker of the Second Tennessee regiment. This regiment suffered severely. I recognised the body of Captain Armstrong, as we passed over a part of the hotly contested field. There lay the gallant soldier stark dead with his face to the foe. He fell fifty yards in advance of his company. Strange emotions swept over my heart as I gazed for a moment upon the prostrate form of my friend, and then hurried on in pursuit of the retreating enemy. Then came my friend from childhood, Jimmie Walker, with a mortal wound, going back to die. I could only greet my dying friend with one word, and then on to the slaughter of men.