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MEMPHIS DAILY APPEAL, [MEMPHIS, TN], May 30, 1862, p. 1, c. 5
Gen. Sterling Price and the Missouri Army.
From the Correspondence of the Charleston Courier.]
Corinth, May 7.—I have lately seen and conversed with that "noblest roman of them all," Gen. Sterling Price, and in absence of other subjects more interesting, a portion of my letter today is devoted to facts connected with this battle-tried hero and his army.
There are some men who seem to have been born with the laurel upon their brows. Greatness is thrust upon them. A career uninterrupted by aught save glory and success, is their birthright, and the tribute which is their due, flows spontaneously from the hearts of their fellow men. Of such a type, Sterling Price is a fitting representative. Leaving his civil pursuits in Missouri at the commencement of our troubles, after having been the recipient of the highest honors in the gift of the State, he entered the service of his country as a general of the Missouri State Guard. Of troops he had comparatively none. Of arms there was a scantiness both in number and quality, yet, such was the magic of his name, that notwithstanding these disadvantages, a few weeks found gathered around his standard an array of rave men whose fame and prowess have become as "household words." The result of that small but glorious beginning is upon the records of the country. The handful of choice spirits has swelled to the dimensions of a cloud, and the partisan chief has become a major general in the Confederate army—the deserving peer of that noble cluster, Beauregard, Bragg, Hardee, Polk, Breckinridge and Johnston. He has been engaged in more battles, conquered more difficulties, turned aside more obstacles, and done more hard fighting and effective service than all the other generals since the war began, and to-day occupies a place in the affections of the people, from which envy, malice or detraction have not yet sought to dislodge him. The star of destiny that lighted up his perilous pathway at the beginning has followed his footsteps, and now rests smilingly in its zenith. Great achievements are yet in store for Sterling Price, and when the proper time comes, as I believe it will, a grateful nation will not forget the bestowal of that reward which is his due.
Some of your readers may think this admiration excessively warm, but the sentiments uttered above are the echo of every heart that has pulsated in the presence of the Missouri general. As few people have an idea of the character of the man, I will give you a hasty pen and ink sketch as he appeared to me during a brief interview. He is over six feet in hight [sic], with a frame to match, full, but not portly, and straight as an Indian. His carriage is marked with dignity, grace and gentleness, and every motion bespeaks the attitude and presence of the well-bred gentleman. He has a large Websterian head, covered with a growth of thick white hair, a high, broad, intellectual forehead, florid face, no beard, and a mouth among whose latent smiles you never fail to discover the iron will that surmounts all obstacles. His laugh, and it is not unfrequent, reveals a set of teeth, which, like Ethan Allen's, would serve to draw nails. The striking feature, however, is his eye—a calm, beautifully blue, soul's revealing orb which is at once a key to everemotion of the man. It is an eye which never blanched at danger, and it is the boast of his soldiers that he never looked unpityingly upon the sufferings of his followers.
A passionate lover of music, the same tender heart that broods over sweet sounds gives flow to the sympathy that is ever warm in his nature for suffering humanity. This was manifest during the masterly retreat from Elkhorn. Time and again did he dismount from his horse to give place to some sick or wounded soldier, and when it was suggested that it would be better to leave these invalids behind, his reply, as he threw a furious look at the individual, was—"No, sir, I'll sacrifice my whole army, before I desert my faithful wounded."
In conclusion, Price is a marked specimen of the "fine old English gentleman"—gentle, suavitable, well informed, and an admirable listener. He speaks quickly but with caution and his words are as laconic and decisive as his acts. He reads human nature intuitively, and possesses the rare faculty of readily adapting himself to every person with whom he is brought in contact. Accessible to all, he is as kindly democratic with his soldiers [as] he is courtly with his equals. No one can lay an affront at the door of Sterling Price. It is this careful consideration which has given him so firm a hold upon the hearts of his men.
Some idea of the attachment existing between the general and his army, may be had from the fact that he is everywhere known by the affectionate soubriquet of "Old Dad."
"Who do you belong to?" asked an officer of one of the passing soldiers in a regiment during its transit through Memphis.
"To the old man."
"Who's the old man?"
"Why, old Dad Price. Haint you heard of him yit?"
"Yes, I have, but where is he now?" continued the questioner.
"I don't know where in h-ll he is now," was the veteran's answer, "but wait until we git into a scrimmage, and I'll show you 'Old Dad' right in the midst of the fire, where the lamp posts and small balls are flying the thickest. Look to the front and you kin always find him thar."
[Lamp posts, I should observe, is the name the boys of the West give to the long conical shells of the enemy.]
The army of Gen. Price is made up of extremes. It is a heterogenous [sic] mixture of all human compounds, and represents in its various elements every condition of western life. There are the old and the young, the rich and the poor, the high and the low, the grave and the gay, the planter and the laborer, farmer and clerk, hunter and boatman, merchant and woodsman—men, too, who have come from every State, and been bronzed in every latitude from the mountains of the Northwest to the pampas of Mexico. Americans, Indians, half-breeds, Mexicans, Frenchmen, Italians, Germans, Spaniards, Poles, and for ought I know, Hottentots,--all are mixed in the motley mass, who have rallied around the flag of their noble leader. It is a "gathering of the clans," as if they had heard and responded to the stirring battle call of my poetical friend Harry Timrod:
"Ho! Woodsmen by the mountain side,
Ho! Dwellers in the vales,
Ho! Ye who by the roaring tide,
Have roughened in the gales.
Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot,
Lay by the bloodless spade,
Let desk and case and counter rot,
And burn your books of trade."
Nor is this wonderful army less picturesque in point of personal attire and weapons.
Every man has come from his homestead fitted with the best and strongest that loving mothers, wives and sisters could put upon him. And the spectacle presented as they are drawn up in line, whether for marching or inspection, necessarily forms an arabesque pattern of the most parti-colored crowd of people upon which human eyes ever rested. Some are in black—full citizens dress, with beaver hats and frock coats; some in homespun drab; some in grey, blue and streaked; some in nothing but red shirts, pants, and big top boots; some attempt a display with the old fashioned militia uniforms of their forefathers; some have banners floating from their "outer walls" in the rear; some would pass for our friend, the Georgia Major, who used to wear nothing but his shirt collar and a pair of spurs.
"Some are in rags,
Some in bags,
And some in velvet gowns!"
Take them all in all, "they rival those fantastic shapes that hang upon the walls of memory in a poet's dream."
Aside from the dress, I have been forcibly struck by the remarkable personnel of a majority of the men. They are heavy, large headed, rough, brown faced fellows, who look as if in a fight they might weigh a ton apiece, or "whip their weight in wild cats." Fully over three-fifths of them are over six feet in hight [sic], and a very considerable portion of them are mere striplings, ranging in age from fourteen to eighteen. The health of the army is generally good, perhaps better than that of any other body of men in the field. Yet none have suffered more hardships, encountered more perils, or been more deprived of the necessaries of life.
Their weapons are not less miscellaneous than their personal appearance. At first few were armed with anything but ordinary shot guns and rifles, and to a considerable extent, such is the case at present, but it is a proud boast among them that 'Dad Price's men are the only ones who have yet been able to equip themselves generally from the spoils of the enemy." Missourians and Texans wont walk where they can ride. Consequently an unusual proportion of the army is cavalry, but these I learn are to be dismounted and turned to active account as infantry. A good move. Nearly every man in the division is a splendid shot. While at Memphis I heard a bet made that a certain boy, fifteen years old, in one of the regiments, could not at the distance of eight hundred yards hit the crown of a hat four times out of five with a Minnie musket. The bet was taken by an officer, the hat put up, and the lad, who was quietly standing by leaning on his gun, directed to fire. Ten times in succession he pierced the hat within two inches of the center. The wager was willingly paid, and considerately handed to the sharpshooter as a tribute to his skills. As the loser remarked, "it don't pay very well to bet on stock you know nothing about." The young man afterwards remarked to a bystander that he never missed anything he could see.
Such is a brief sketch of Price and his noble little army—the only organized body of men in the Confederacy who have thus far lived up to the inspired "droppings," a part of which I have already quoted:
"Come with the weapons at your call,
With musket, pike and knife;
He wields the deadliest blade of all
Who lightly holds his life!"
In conclusion I may add that "Dad Price and his boys" are now here, and in a position where the "hand writing upon the wall" of their future fame will go down to posterity inscribed with the crimson tide they will draw from the hearts of the enemy.
Personne.
Vicki Betts
vbetts@gower.net
Gen. Sterling Price and the Missouri Army.
From the Correspondence of the Charleston Courier.]
Corinth, May 7.—I have lately seen and conversed with that "noblest roman of them all," Gen. Sterling Price, and in absence of other subjects more interesting, a portion of my letter today is devoted to facts connected with this battle-tried hero and his army.
There are some men who seem to have been born with the laurel upon their brows. Greatness is thrust upon them. A career uninterrupted by aught save glory and success, is their birthright, and the tribute which is their due, flows spontaneously from the hearts of their fellow men. Of such a type, Sterling Price is a fitting representative. Leaving his civil pursuits in Missouri at the commencement of our troubles, after having been the recipient of the highest honors in the gift of the State, he entered the service of his country as a general of the Missouri State Guard. Of troops he had comparatively none. Of arms there was a scantiness both in number and quality, yet, such was the magic of his name, that notwithstanding these disadvantages, a few weeks found gathered around his standard an array of rave men whose fame and prowess have become as "household words." The result of that small but glorious beginning is upon the records of the country. The handful of choice spirits has swelled to the dimensions of a cloud, and the partisan chief has become a major general in the Confederate army—the deserving peer of that noble cluster, Beauregard, Bragg, Hardee, Polk, Breckinridge and Johnston. He has been engaged in more battles, conquered more difficulties, turned aside more obstacles, and done more hard fighting and effective service than all the other generals since the war began, and to-day occupies a place in the affections of the people, from which envy, malice or detraction have not yet sought to dislodge him. The star of destiny that lighted up his perilous pathway at the beginning has followed his footsteps, and now rests smilingly in its zenith. Great achievements are yet in store for Sterling Price, and when the proper time comes, as I believe it will, a grateful nation will not forget the bestowal of that reward which is his due.
Some of your readers may think this admiration excessively warm, but the sentiments uttered above are the echo of every heart that has pulsated in the presence of the Missouri general. As few people have an idea of the character of the man, I will give you a hasty pen and ink sketch as he appeared to me during a brief interview. He is over six feet in hight [sic], with a frame to match, full, but not portly, and straight as an Indian. His carriage is marked with dignity, grace and gentleness, and every motion bespeaks the attitude and presence of the well-bred gentleman. He has a large Websterian head, covered with a growth of thick white hair, a high, broad, intellectual forehead, florid face, no beard, and a mouth among whose latent smiles you never fail to discover the iron will that surmounts all obstacles. His laugh, and it is not unfrequent, reveals a set of teeth, which, like Ethan Allen's, would serve to draw nails. The striking feature, however, is his eye—a calm, beautifully blue, soul's revealing orb which is at once a key to everemotion of the man. It is an eye which never blanched at danger, and it is the boast of his soldiers that he never looked unpityingly upon the sufferings of his followers.
A passionate lover of music, the same tender heart that broods over sweet sounds gives flow to the sympathy that is ever warm in his nature for suffering humanity. This was manifest during the masterly retreat from Elkhorn. Time and again did he dismount from his horse to give place to some sick or wounded soldier, and when it was suggested that it would be better to leave these invalids behind, his reply, as he threw a furious look at the individual, was—"No, sir, I'll sacrifice my whole army, before I desert my faithful wounded."
In conclusion, Price is a marked specimen of the "fine old English gentleman"—gentle, suavitable, well informed, and an admirable listener. He speaks quickly but with caution and his words are as laconic and decisive as his acts. He reads human nature intuitively, and possesses the rare faculty of readily adapting himself to every person with whom he is brought in contact. Accessible to all, he is as kindly democratic with his soldiers [as] he is courtly with his equals. No one can lay an affront at the door of Sterling Price. It is this careful consideration which has given him so firm a hold upon the hearts of his men.
Some idea of the attachment existing between the general and his army, may be had from the fact that he is everywhere known by the affectionate soubriquet of "Old Dad."
"Who do you belong to?" asked an officer of one of the passing soldiers in a regiment during its transit through Memphis.
"To the old man."
"Who's the old man?"
"Why, old Dad Price. Haint you heard of him yit?"
"Yes, I have, but where is he now?" continued the questioner.
"I don't know where in h-ll he is now," was the veteran's answer, "but wait until we git into a scrimmage, and I'll show you 'Old Dad' right in the midst of the fire, where the lamp posts and small balls are flying the thickest. Look to the front and you kin always find him thar."
[Lamp posts, I should observe, is the name the boys of the West give to the long conical shells of the enemy.]
The army of Gen. Price is made up of extremes. It is a heterogenous [sic] mixture of all human compounds, and represents in its various elements every condition of western life. There are the old and the young, the rich and the poor, the high and the low, the grave and the gay, the planter and the laborer, farmer and clerk, hunter and boatman, merchant and woodsman—men, too, who have come from every State, and been bronzed in every latitude from the mountains of the Northwest to the pampas of Mexico. Americans, Indians, half-breeds, Mexicans, Frenchmen, Italians, Germans, Spaniards, Poles, and for ought I know, Hottentots,--all are mixed in the motley mass, who have rallied around the flag of their noble leader. It is a "gathering of the clans," as if they had heard and responded to the stirring battle call of my poetical friend Harry Timrod:
"Ho! Woodsmen by the mountain side,
Ho! Dwellers in the vales,
Ho! Ye who by the roaring tide,
Have roughened in the gales.
Leave barn and byre, leave kin and cot,
Lay by the bloodless spade,
Let desk and case and counter rot,
And burn your books of trade."
Nor is this wonderful army less picturesque in point of personal attire and weapons.
Every man has come from his homestead fitted with the best and strongest that loving mothers, wives and sisters could put upon him. And the spectacle presented as they are drawn up in line, whether for marching or inspection, necessarily forms an arabesque pattern of the most parti-colored crowd of people upon which human eyes ever rested. Some are in black—full citizens dress, with beaver hats and frock coats; some in homespun drab; some in grey, blue and streaked; some in nothing but red shirts, pants, and big top boots; some attempt a display with the old fashioned militia uniforms of their forefathers; some have banners floating from their "outer walls" in the rear; some would pass for our friend, the Georgia Major, who used to wear nothing but his shirt collar and a pair of spurs.
"Some are in rags,
Some in bags,
And some in velvet gowns!"
Take them all in all, "they rival those fantastic shapes that hang upon the walls of memory in a poet's dream."
Aside from the dress, I have been forcibly struck by the remarkable personnel of a majority of the men. They are heavy, large headed, rough, brown faced fellows, who look as if in a fight they might weigh a ton apiece, or "whip their weight in wild cats." Fully over three-fifths of them are over six feet in hight [sic], and a very considerable portion of them are mere striplings, ranging in age from fourteen to eighteen. The health of the army is generally good, perhaps better than that of any other body of men in the field. Yet none have suffered more hardships, encountered more perils, or been more deprived of the necessaries of life.
Their weapons are not less miscellaneous than their personal appearance. At first few were armed with anything but ordinary shot guns and rifles, and to a considerable extent, such is the case at present, but it is a proud boast among them that 'Dad Price's men are the only ones who have yet been able to equip themselves generally from the spoils of the enemy." Missourians and Texans wont walk where they can ride. Consequently an unusual proportion of the army is cavalry, but these I learn are to be dismounted and turned to active account as infantry. A good move. Nearly every man in the division is a splendid shot. While at Memphis I heard a bet made that a certain boy, fifteen years old, in one of the regiments, could not at the distance of eight hundred yards hit the crown of a hat four times out of five with a Minnie musket. The bet was taken by an officer, the hat put up, and the lad, who was quietly standing by leaning on his gun, directed to fire. Ten times in succession he pierced the hat within two inches of the center. The wager was willingly paid, and considerately handed to the sharpshooter as a tribute to his skills. As the loser remarked, "it don't pay very well to bet on stock you know nothing about." The young man afterwards remarked to a bystander that he never missed anything he could see.
Such is a brief sketch of Price and his noble little army—the only organized body of men in the Confederacy who have thus far lived up to the inspired "droppings," a part of which I have already quoted:
"Come with the weapons at your call,
With musket, pike and knife;
He wields the deadliest blade of all
Who lightly holds his life!"
In conclusion I may add that "Dad Price and his boys" are now here, and in a position where the "hand writing upon the wall" of their future fame will go down to posterity inscribed with the crimson tide they will draw from the hearts of the enemy.
Personne.
Vicki Betts
vbetts@gower.net
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