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Thompson wasn't the Memphis Appeal's only war correspondent. Here's most of a letter from TEC--Thomas E. Coffee, with the 18th Mississippi:
MEMPHIS DAILY APPEAL [MEMPHIS, TN], December 12, 1861, p. 3, c. 1
Letter from Virginia.
Leesburg, December 4, 1861.
Editors Appeal: Cold, biting winds from the North are howling along the once green, pleasant vallies of Virginia—the woods bend and moan in the dark red sunlight of morning, while hill and mountain are frost-tipped, and stripped of the once luxuriant foliage that decked their variegated and solemn brows. Dense mists hang upon the river's bend, winding along in a silvery canopy far from West to East, which curls upon the morning sun beams in varied hues of brilliancy and splendor. Far away from the hights [sic] of Maryland, emerging from the mists of morning, while, save the challenge of a farm yard chanticleer, the surrounds slumber in the cold sunset glories of the country in winter. Standing on a rise in the road, the eye wanders over the frosty landscape—sentries half-hidden in the woods are seen from their glancing bayonets, watching the road and river; while, as the eye wanders eastward, columns of smoke behind wooded knolls tell of Federal camps in Maryland. Covered army-wagon trains are seen creeping along the edge of woods, as now and then can be faintly heard, the drums of infantry or the slight faint echo of the bugle call. Wrapped up in my blanket, with the all consoling "soldier's pipe," I turn down a bylane, full of philosophy and contented thought, and suddenly, if not unconsciously, come to "Trunnell's Wood," where the Federalists under Baker landed from Harrison's Island during the nights of the 19th and 20th of October. Entering the wood, solitary and thoughtful, the solemn stillness chills my very marrow! Once I rushed down this path with hundreds of others in the full tide and riot of battle, yelling and buoyant, and reckless, without a thought save a passing one of "mother, sweetheart and home!" Down came the 18th Mississippi fellows, laughing and smoking, and stumbling over brushwood, "cursing," too, sometimes, like Trojans—but as hungry and wicked-looking and determined, as ever a regiment was. Filing to the left they quickly formed into line of battle, and pushing through the wood, impatiently knocked over the fence in a twinkling, jumped into the "open" with a terrific yell, and with a withering volley, saluted the Yankees, and rushed to close quarters with the bayonet! Who can forget the excitement and scenes of a battle field? Yet, although used to in some sort, from custom, "Leesburg" will ever remain uneffaced on my memory, even more so than Bull Run, Manassas, or any other field; yet how changed is all things! Where is the accomplished and learned schoolmate, my companion, who was wont to walk with me over battle fields, or chat at midnight by the glowing embers of the camp-fire? Where are those whose merry tongues relieved the weary march with a story, witticism, or a joke? Some, alas! my friends, are gone, and while I muse thus lonely and sad, the woods around me sigh a melancholy requiem over the soldier's grave. Hardened as I am, and wicked too, in sight of heaven, my eyes will wander upward and heavenward, and as a single tear trickles down my cheek, my heart bounds consciously, that the heroic brave, fighting for all that is holy and dear, must find rest in the bosom of that All-seeing and just Almighty, who rules our destinies and grants us "victory."
Every way the eye may glance sees tokens here of that deadly conflict on this memorable spot—the very air seems charged with profound and mysterious silence, while broken branches, down-trodden underbrush, clotted grass, and tumbled fences, look as if ten thousand demons, escaped from Pandemonium, had held their Saturnalia here. Mounds of earth are here—fresh and brown they look—yet, not a blade of grass has overgrown them yet. Look closer, if inquisitive—a stray skull protruding from the mold, or those scraps of blue cloth with "eagle" buttons, speak eloquently of the brave but unfortunate foe. Brave they were. Bravely they fought—deluded fools—placed, as they were, between our fiery, dashing soldiery and the river. Mounds again! Go where you may, these mute and simple monuments tell where raged the battle fiercest, while even on the island, parallel rows of fresh-turned mold reveals the sad havoc made by our heroic southrons in the ranks of Lincoln's pet and favorite regiments. Over the bluff, and everywhere, are tokens of the enemy's rout—rags of different colors, useless equipments, cartridge papers, broken boats, rusty bayonets, and shattered gunstocks. All these, and many other mementoes of the struggle, still remain, despite the avarice and vitiated tastes of "sightseers" and "vulgarians." But while seated on the river bank, and meditating on the many trials of a soldier's life, and yet involuntarily laughing at the tricks Yankee pickets resort to for warmth on the opposite shore, I cannot but feel constrained to speak of the heroism of one in this brigade, whose modest demeanor, genuine chivalry, and honest heart, has won the admiration of every true soldier under Evans. I allude to Elijah White—commonly known here as "Lige" White—an "independent" in one of the Virginia cavalry companies. Since the war began, and even before, "Lige" has been a rampant Secessionist, and has vowed eternal vengeance against poor old Lincoln. As an "independent," his wild, roving spirit has been unchecked, so that one day he has been heard of in Alexandria conferring with that celebrated guerrilla chief, Jackson, and four-and-twenty hours later was seen, cantering about on his "gray," sixty miles away, at "Harper's Ferry." Every hole and corner in Loudoun and Fairfax counties seem known to him, while not a creek exists on the river but what he could tell you its extent, depth, width, and, in fact, all about it. No one seems to know anything about him precisely, for he is here and there and everywhere in a few hours; yet silent and mysterious as are all his "independent" movements he always "turns up," so to speak, when a fight is "on hand," and more than that, is always in the thick of it. The Yankees know him of old, and well they may. Young as he is, "Lige" is far too old a soldier to be caught by any of the numerous traps laid for him. He has been known to take a notion to visit his old haunts in Maryland. The "gray" is saddled, and he swims the river, penetrates into the enemy's lines, and jogs along the Washington turnpike. One of McClellan's dispatch bearers may be sleeping or staying in a farm house, but "Lige" coolly walks in, "makes" the courier mount, cross the river, and, drenched as he is, trots him up to headquarters, dispatches and all. Other times there is a question of the enemy's force at certain points; without leave or license, White and his "gray" make a strict reconnoissance, and his information is usually "final." His exploits, indeed, are bold, and sometimes laughable. Nothing can deter him, and so well is he known to the Federals that they have more than a dozen times chronicled him in their journals, as Johnson, Beauregard, Evans, and a dozen other celebrities.
On the morning of "Leesburg," Mr. "Lige," in high glee, was first out of one thicket and into another—now on the Alexandria road, looking for the enemy on our flank, and an hour afterwards leading on the "pickets" to charge the New Englanders in "Trunnell's wood." Mistaken for an enemy, he was sometimes fired upon, but unscathed and good humored, he danced about on his "gray," as gallant as a general, and shouted, "come on, boys, I'll lead you!" And sure enough he would lead you right into the thickest of it. Hour after hour this gallant fellow worked like a Trojan; none knew the ground like he; and not an inch of the battlefield but seemed to be well known to him, and all appeared to defer to his good judgment. First the Mississippi "pickets" were his care; then the 8th Virginia came in and were "posted" by him; but when the 18th Mississippi came howling on the ground, he dashed about like mad, and in a perfect hail storm of bullets led them right at the main body of the enemy, always in front, and not to be restrained in his mad hilarity and reckless bravery. Everywhere, and doing everything, this gallant fellow seemed to bear a charmed life; and even when the battle was over, he led on a single company of the 18th to the river [illegible],in an awful shower of shot, that they might, as he said, "go in and finish!" Like Evans himself, White is restless, and in times of action does not know fatigue. Always on the move, and always prompt, he seems to instill new life in all around him, and his good example seems contagious even to some military drones, who, as aides or officers, do nothing and get extravagant praise. I, for one, however, delight in honoring those who deserve it, as much as you do in your excellent columns; and glad am I to hear that this noble and talented "white horseman" has been duly breveted by the discerning eye of the sound-judging Gen. Evans. There are few horsemen like White, and if we except some among the North Carolina and Mississippi cavalry under Beauregard, whose exploits around Fairfax are very daring and brilliant. "Lige" White may be classed with Col. Ashby and Capt. Price as the very beau ideal of dashing and chivalric horsemen.
But, when speaking of heroic deeds, I should be indeed remiss in duty were I to neglect or forget mentioning the admirable behavior, unparalleled self-sacrifice and kindness evinced by the ladies of Leesburg, in tending and comforting the sick and wounded. It is now some four months since the Mississippians entered this place, and from the first hour of arrival until now these good ladies have been unceasing both day and night in those thousand offices of kindness so dear and consoling to the homeless and friendless soldier. Poor as some are, they have given everything to the sick, while others again, whose wealth and station might have been of incalculable service, have not done proportionately as well, and as this community has been taxed in this manner more than any other in the Confederacy, justice demands, that ere we go, something should be publicly said to chronicle for all time, their disinterestedness, kindness and devotion. In this particular, then, let me mention the names of those who have been "constant and unremitting" in their daily, yea, thrice daily visits, among whom prominently are Mrs. Berkley, Mrs. Rupp, Miss Keppart and Mrs. Renidum. In a few days we may be, Heaven only knows where, and simple gratitude and justice demands I should say these few words before leaving, of those ladies who have been so prominent in their gentle ministrations at the hospital of the 18th Mississippi regiment. Modest as they are, and shrinking from publicity, this humble tribute to their worth, from an unpolished soldier, is genuine, and devoid of all that nonsensical "puffing" which those "who say much and do little" seem so much to beg or desire. . . .
T. E. C.
Vicki Betts
vbetts@gower.net
MEMPHIS DAILY APPEAL [MEMPHIS, TN], December 12, 1861, p. 3, c. 1
Letter from Virginia.
Leesburg, December 4, 1861.
Editors Appeal: Cold, biting winds from the North are howling along the once green, pleasant vallies of Virginia—the woods bend and moan in the dark red sunlight of morning, while hill and mountain are frost-tipped, and stripped of the once luxuriant foliage that decked their variegated and solemn brows. Dense mists hang upon the river's bend, winding along in a silvery canopy far from West to East, which curls upon the morning sun beams in varied hues of brilliancy and splendor. Far away from the hights [sic] of Maryland, emerging from the mists of morning, while, save the challenge of a farm yard chanticleer, the surrounds slumber in the cold sunset glories of the country in winter. Standing on a rise in the road, the eye wanders over the frosty landscape—sentries half-hidden in the woods are seen from their glancing bayonets, watching the road and river; while, as the eye wanders eastward, columns of smoke behind wooded knolls tell of Federal camps in Maryland. Covered army-wagon trains are seen creeping along the edge of woods, as now and then can be faintly heard, the drums of infantry or the slight faint echo of the bugle call. Wrapped up in my blanket, with the all consoling "soldier's pipe," I turn down a bylane, full of philosophy and contented thought, and suddenly, if not unconsciously, come to "Trunnell's Wood," where the Federalists under Baker landed from Harrison's Island during the nights of the 19th and 20th of October. Entering the wood, solitary and thoughtful, the solemn stillness chills my very marrow! Once I rushed down this path with hundreds of others in the full tide and riot of battle, yelling and buoyant, and reckless, without a thought save a passing one of "mother, sweetheart and home!" Down came the 18th Mississippi fellows, laughing and smoking, and stumbling over brushwood, "cursing," too, sometimes, like Trojans—but as hungry and wicked-looking and determined, as ever a regiment was. Filing to the left they quickly formed into line of battle, and pushing through the wood, impatiently knocked over the fence in a twinkling, jumped into the "open" with a terrific yell, and with a withering volley, saluted the Yankees, and rushed to close quarters with the bayonet! Who can forget the excitement and scenes of a battle field? Yet, although used to in some sort, from custom, "Leesburg" will ever remain uneffaced on my memory, even more so than Bull Run, Manassas, or any other field; yet how changed is all things! Where is the accomplished and learned schoolmate, my companion, who was wont to walk with me over battle fields, or chat at midnight by the glowing embers of the camp-fire? Where are those whose merry tongues relieved the weary march with a story, witticism, or a joke? Some, alas! my friends, are gone, and while I muse thus lonely and sad, the woods around me sigh a melancholy requiem over the soldier's grave. Hardened as I am, and wicked too, in sight of heaven, my eyes will wander upward and heavenward, and as a single tear trickles down my cheek, my heart bounds consciously, that the heroic brave, fighting for all that is holy and dear, must find rest in the bosom of that All-seeing and just Almighty, who rules our destinies and grants us "victory."
Every way the eye may glance sees tokens here of that deadly conflict on this memorable spot—the very air seems charged with profound and mysterious silence, while broken branches, down-trodden underbrush, clotted grass, and tumbled fences, look as if ten thousand demons, escaped from Pandemonium, had held their Saturnalia here. Mounds of earth are here—fresh and brown they look—yet, not a blade of grass has overgrown them yet. Look closer, if inquisitive—a stray skull protruding from the mold, or those scraps of blue cloth with "eagle" buttons, speak eloquently of the brave but unfortunate foe. Brave they were. Bravely they fought—deluded fools—placed, as they were, between our fiery, dashing soldiery and the river. Mounds again! Go where you may, these mute and simple monuments tell where raged the battle fiercest, while even on the island, parallel rows of fresh-turned mold reveals the sad havoc made by our heroic southrons in the ranks of Lincoln's pet and favorite regiments. Over the bluff, and everywhere, are tokens of the enemy's rout—rags of different colors, useless equipments, cartridge papers, broken boats, rusty bayonets, and shattered gunstocks. All these, and many other mementoes of the struggle, still remain, despite the avarice and vitiated tastes of "sightseers" and "vulgarians." But while seated on the river bank, and meditating on the many trials of a soldier's life, and yet involuntarily laughing at the tricks Yankee pickets resort to for warmth on the opposite shore, I cannot but feel constrained to speak of the heroism of one in this brigade, whose modest demeanor, genuine chivalry, and honest heart, has won the admiration of every true soldier under Evans. I allude to Elijah White—commonly known here as "Lige" White—an "independent" in one of the Virginia cavalry companies. Since the war began, and even before, "Lige" has been a rampant Secessionist, and has vowed eternal vengeance against poor old Lincoln. As an "independent," his wild, roving spirit has been unchecked, so that one day he has been heard of in Alexandria conferring with that celebrated guerrilla chief, Jackson, and four-and-twenty hours later was seen, cantering about on his "gray," sixty miles away, at "Harper's Ferry." Every hole and corner in Loudoun and Fairfax counties seem known to him, while not a creek exists on the river but what he could tell you its extent, depth, width, and, in fact, all about it. No one seems to know anything about him precisely, for he is here and there and everywhere in a few hours; yet silent and mysterious as are all his "independent" movements he always "turns up," so to speak, when a fight is "on hand," and more than that, is always in the thick of it. The Yankees know him of old, and well they may. Young as he is, "Lige" is far too old a soldier to be caught by any of the numerous traps laid for him. He has been known to take a notion to visit his old haunts in Maryland. The "gray" is saddled, and he swims the river, penetrates into the enemy's lines, and jogs along the Washington turnpike. One of McClellan's dispatch bearers may be sleeping or staying in a farm house, but "Lige" coolly walks in, "makes" the courier mount, cross the river, and, drenched as he is, trots him up to headquarters, dispatches and all. Other times there is a question of the enemy's force at certain points; without leave or license, White and his "gray" make a strict reconnoissance, and his information is usually "final." His exploits, indeed, are bold, and sometimes laughable. Nothing can deter him, and so well is he known to the Federals that they have more than a dozen times chronicled him in their journals, as Johnson, Beauregard, Evans, and a dozen other celebrities.
On the morning of "Leesburg," Mr. "Lige," in high glee, was first out of one thicket and into another—now on the Alexandria road, looking for the enemy on our flank, and an hour afterwards leading on the "pickets" to charge the New Englanders in "Trunnell's wood." Mistaken for an enemy, he was sometimes fired upon, but unscathed and good humored, he danced about on his "gray," as gallant as a general, and shouted, "come on, boys, I'll lead you!" And sure enough he would lead you right into the thickest of it. Hour after hour this gallant fellow worked like a Trojan; none knew the ground like he; and not an inch of the battlefield but seemed to be well known to him, and all appeared to defer to his good judgment. First the Mississippi "pickets" were his care; then the 8th Virginia came in and were "posted" by him; but when the 18th Mississippi came howling on the ground, he dashed about like mad, and in a perfect hail storm of bullets led them right at the main body of the enemy, always in front, and not to be restrained in his mad hilarity and reckless bravery. Everywhere, and doing everything, this gallant fellow seemed to bear a charmed life; and even when the battle was over, he led on a single company of the 18th to the river [illegible],in an awful shower of shot, that they might, as he said, "go in and finish!" Like Evans himself, White is restless, and in times of action does not know fatigue. Always on the move, and always prompt, he seems to instill new life in all around him, and his good example seems contagious even to some military drones, who, as aides or officers, do nothing and get extravagant praise. I, for one, however, delight in honoring those who deserve it, as much as you do in your excellent columns; and glad am I to hear that this noble and talented "white horseman" has been duly breveted by the discerning eye of the sound-judging Gen. Evans. There are few horsemen like White, and if we except some among the North Carolina and Mississippi cavalry under Beauregard, whose exploits around Fairfax are very daring and brilliant. "Lige" White may be classed with Col. Ashby and Capt. Price as the very beau ideal of dashing and chivalric horsemen.
But, when speaking of heroic deeds, I should be indeed remiss in duty were I to neglect or forget mentioning the admirable behavior, unparalleled self-sacrifice and kindness evinced by the ladies of Leesburg, in tending and comforting the sick and wounded. It is now some four months since the Mississippians entered this place, and from the first hour of arrival until now these good ladies have been unceasing both day and night in those thousand offices of kindness so dear and consoling to the homeless and friendless soldier. Poor as some are, they have given everything to the sick, while others again, whose wealth and station might have been of incalculable service, have not done proportionately as well, and as this community has been taxed in this manner more than any other in the Confederacy, justice demands, that ere we go, something should be publicly said to chronicle for all time, their disinterestedness, kindness and devotion. In this particular, then, let me mention the names of those who have been "constant and unremitting" in their daily, yea, thrice daily visits, among whom prominently are Mrs. Berkley, Mrs. Rupp, Miss Keppart and Mrs. Renidum. In a few days we may be, Heaven only knows where, and simple gratitude and justice demands I should say these few words before leaving, of those ladies who have been so prominent in their gentle ministrations at the hospital of the 18th Mississippi regiment. Modest as they are, and shrinking from publicity, this humble tribute to their worth, from an unpolished soldier, is genuine, and devoid of all that nonsensical "puffing" which those "who say much and do little" seem so much to beg or desire. . . .
T. E. C.
Vicki Betts
vbetts@gower.net