Captain Gordon And The Raccoon Roughs


The outbreak of the Civil War, the most momentous conflict of recent

times, was marked by a wave of fervent enthusiasm in the States of the

South which swept with the swiftness of a prairie fire over the land.

Pouring in multitudes into the centres of enlistment, thousands and tens

of thousands of stalwart men offered their services in defence of their

cause, gathering into companies and regiments far more rapidly than they
<
r /> could be absorbed. This state of affairs, indeed, existed in the North

as well as in the South, but it is with the extraordinary fervor of

patriotism in the latter that we are here concerned, and especially with

the very interesting experience of General John B. Gordon, as related by

him in his "Reminiscences of the Civil War."



When the war began Gordon, as he tells us, was practically living in

three States. His house was in Alabama, his post-office in Tennessee,

and he was engaged in coal-mining enterprises in the mountains of

Georgia, the locality being where these three States meet in a point. No

sooner was the coming conflict in the air than the stalwart mountaineers

of the mining district became wild with eagerness to fight for the

Confederacy, and Gordon, in whom the war spirit burned as hotly as in

any of them, needed but a word to gather about him a company of

volunteers. They unanimously elected him their captain, and organized

themselves at once into a cavalry company, most of them, like so many of

the sons of the South, much preferring to travel on horseback than on

foot.



As yet the war was only a probability, and no volunteers had been called

for. But with the ardor that had brought them together, Gordon's company

hastened to offer their services, only to be met with the laconic and

disappointing reply, "No cavalry now needed."



What was to be done? They did not relish the idea of giving up their

horses, yet they wanted to fight still more than to ride, and the fear

came upon them that if they waited till cavalry was needed they might be

quite lost sight of in that mountain corner and the war end before they

could take a hand in it. This notion of a quick end to the war was

common enough at that early day, very few foreseeing the vastness of the

coming conflict; and, dreading that they might be left out in the cold,

the ardent mountaineers took a vote on the question, "Shall we dismount

and go as infantry?" This motion was carried with a shout of approval,

and away went the stalwart recruits without arms, without uniform,

without military training, with little beyond the thirst to fight, the

captain knowing hardly more of military tactics than his men. They had

courage and enthusiasm, and felt that all things besides would come to

them.



As for arms suitable for modern warfare, the South at that time was

sadly lacking in them. Men looked up their old double-barrelled

shot-guns and squirrel rifles, and Governor Brown, of Georgia, set men

at work making what were called "Joe Brown's pikes," being a sort of

steel-pointed lances or bayonets on poles, like those used by pikemen in

mediaeval warfare. In modern war they were about as useful as

knitting-needles would have been. Governor Brown knew this well enough,

but the volunteers were coming in such numbers and were so eager to

fight that the pikes were made more to satisfy them than with hope of

their being of any service in actual war.



Gordon's company was among the earliest of these volunteers. Reluctantly

leaving their horses, and not waiting for orders, they bade a quick

adieu to all they had held dear and set off cheerily for Milledgeville,

then the capital of Georgia. They were destined to a sad disappointment.

On reaching Atlanta they were met by a telegram from the governor, who

had been advised of their coming, telling them to go back home and wait

until advised that they were wanted.



This was like a shower of cold water poured on the ardor of the

volunteers. Go home? After they had cut loose from their homes and

started for the war? They would do nothing of the kind; they were on

foot to fight and would not consent to be turned back by Governor Brown

or any one else. The captain felt very much like his men. He too was an

eager Confederate patriot, but his position was one demanding obedience

to the constituted authorities, and by dint of much persuasion and a

cautious exercise of his new authority he induced his men to board the

train heading back for their homes.



But the repressed anger of the rebellious mountaineers broke forth again

when the engine-bell rang and the whistle gave its shrill starting

signal. Some of the men rushed forward and tore out the coupling of the

foremost car, and the engine was left in condition to make its journey

alone. While the trainmen looked on in astonishment the mountaineers

sprang from the train, gathered round their captain, and told him that

they had made up their minds on the matter and were not going back. They

had enlisted for the war and intended to go to it; if Governor Brown

would not take them, some other governor would.



There was nothing left for the young captain but to lead his

undisciplined and rebellious company through Atlanta in search of a

suitable camping-place. Their disregard of discipline did not trouble

him greatly, for in his heart he sympathized with them, and he knew well

that in their rude earnestness was the stuff of which good soldiers are

made.



Gordon gives an interesting and amusing description of the appearance

his men made and the interest they excited in Atlanta's streets. These

were filled with citizens, who looked upon the motley crew with a

feeling in which approval was tempered by mirth. The spectacle of the

march--or rather the straggle--of the mountaineers was one not soon to

be forgotten. Utterly untrained in marching, they walked at will, no two

keeping step, while no two were dressed alike. There were almost as many

different hues and cuts in their raiment as there were men in their

ranks. The nearest approach to a uniform was in their rough fur caps

made of raccoon skins, and with the streaked and bushy tail of the

raccoon hanging down behind.



The amusement of the people was mingled with curiosity. "Are you the

captain of this company?" some of them asked Gordon, who was rather

proud of his men and saw nothing of the grotesque in their appearance.



"I am, sir," he replied, in a satisfied tone.



"What company is it, captain?"



As yet the company had no name other than one which he had chosen as

fine sounding and suitable, but had not yet mentioned to the men.



"This company is the Mountain Rifles," said the captain, proudly.



His pride was destined to a fall. From a tall mountaineer in the ranks

came, in words not intended for his ears, but plainly audible, the

disconcerting words,--



"Mountain hell! We are no Mountain Rifles. We are the Raccoon Roughs."



And Raccoon Roughs they continued through all the war, Gordon's

fine-spun name being never heard of again. The feeble remnant of the

war-scarred company which was mustered out at Appomattox was still

known as Raccoon Roughs.



Who would have them, since Governor Brown would not, was now the

question. Telegrams sped out right and left to governors of other

States, begging a chance for the upland patriots. An answer came at

length from Governor Moore, of Alabama, who consented to incorporate the

Raccoon Roughs and their captain in one of the new regiments he was

organizing. Gordon gladly read the telegram to his eager company, and

from their hundred throats came the first example of the "rebel yell" he

had ever heard,--a wild and thrilling roar that was to form the

inspiration to many a mad charge in later years.



No time was lost by the gallant fellows in setting out on their journey

to Montgomery. As they went on they found the whole country in a blaze

of enthusiasm. No one who saw the scene would have doubted for a moment

that the South was an ardent unit in support of its cause. By day the

troop trains were wildly cheered as they passed; at night bonfires

blazed on the hills and torchlight processions paraded the streets of

the towns. As no cannon were at hand to salute the incoming volunteers,

blacksmith anvils took their place, ringing with the blows of hammers

swung by muscular arms. Every station was a throng of welcoming people,

filling the air with shouts and the lively sound of fife and drum, and

bearing banners of all sizes and shapes, on which Southern independence

was proclaimed and the last dollar and man pledged to the cause. The

women were out as enthusiastically as the men; staid matrons and ardent

maids springing upon the cars, pinning blue cockades on the lapels of

the new soldiers' coats, and singing the war-songs already in vogue, the

favorite "Dixie" and the "Bonnie Blue Flag," in whose chorus the harsh

voices of the Raccoon Boughs mingled with the musical tones of their

fair admirers.



Montgomery was at length reached to find it thronged with shouting

volunteers, every man of them burning with enthusiasm. Mingled with them

were visiting statesmen and patriotic citizens, for that city was the

cradle of the new-born Confederacy and the centre of Southern

enthusiasm. Every heart was full of hope, every face marked with energy,

a prayer for the success of the cause on every lip. Never had more

fervent and universal enthusiasm been seen. On the hills and around the

capital cannon boomed welcome to the inflowing volunteers, wagons

rumbled by carrying arms and ammunition to the camps, on every street

marched untrained but courageous recruits. As for the Raccoon Roughs,

Governor Moore kept his word, assigning them to a place in the Sixth

Alabama Regiment, of which Captain Gordon, unexpectedly and against his

wishes, was unanimously elected major.



Such were the scenes which the coming war excited in the far South, such

the fervid enthusiasm with which the coming conflict for Southern

independence was hailed. So vast was the number of volunteers, in

companies and in regiments, each eager to be accepted, that the Hon.

Leroy P. Walker, the first Secretary of War of the Confederacy, was

fairly overwhelmed by the flood of applicants that poured in on him day

and night. Their captains and colonels waylaid him on the streets to

urge the immediate acceptance of their services, and he was obliged to

seek his office by roundabout ways to avoid the flood of importunities.

It is said that before the Confederate government left Montgomery for

Richmond, about three hundred and sixty thousand volunteers, very many

of them from the best element of the Southern population, had offered to

devote their lives and fortunes to their country's cause.



Many striking examples of this outburst of enthusiasm and patriotic

devotion might be adduced, but we must content ourselves with one, cited

as an instance in point by General Gordon. This was the case of Mr. W.

C. Heyward, of South Carolina, a West Point graduate and a man of

fortune and position. The Confederate government was no sooner organized

than Mr. Heyward sought Montgomery, tendering his services and those of

a full regiment enlisted by him for the war. Such was the pressure upon

the authorities, and so far beyond the power of absorption at that time

the offers of volunteers, that Mr. Heyward sought long in vain for an

interview with the Secretary of War. When this was at last obtained he

found the ranks so filled that it was impossible to accept his

regiment. Returning home in deep disappointment, but with his patriotism

unquenched, this wealthy and trained soldier joined the Home Guards and

died in the war as a private in the ranks.



Such was the unanimity with which the sons of the South, hosts of them

armed with no better weapons than old-fashioned flint and steel muskets,

double-barrelled shot-guns, and long-barrelled squirrel rifles, rushed

to the defence of their States, with a spontaneous and burning

enthusiasm that has never been surpassed. The impulse of self-defence

was uppermost in their hearts. It was not the question of the

preservation of slavery that sustained them in the terrible conflict for

four years of desolating war. It was far more that of the sovereignty of

the States. The South maintained that the Union formed under the

Constitution was one of consent and not of force; that each State

retained the right to resume its independence on sufficient cause, and

that the Constitution gave no warrant for the attempt to invade and

coerce a sovereign State. It was for this, not to preserve slavery, that

the people sprang as one man to arms and fought as men had rarely fought

before.



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