The following account is a unified, compilation provided by Addison Lee Ewing, Company C, 63rd Indiana; based on his original letters and diary.
The Unified Narrative of A.L. Ewing, 63rd Indiana — Battle of Franklin
I will never forget how the morning of November 30, 1864 opened before us—gray, cold, and mournful—as our worn-out column began straggling into Franklin. For hours we had been stumbling up the pike from Spring Hill, half asleep on our feet. Just after we passed the town, our wagon train was struck by Rebel cavalry. They set several of the wagons on fire before the guard could drive them off. My own valise was in one of those wagons, so I count myself lucky that the rest of our rear—scattered troops, artillery, and a long, choking line of wagons—was not entirely captured.
It had been a terrible night march. The narrow road was jammed solid with horses, guns, supply trains, and infantry. In the dark confusion I was separated from my company and pushed along helplessly with the crowd. When Franklin finally came into view, my strength gave out. I slipped into a fence corner and let myself drop. I did not much care what happened just then—I was that worn down.
But after a few minutes I heard firing behind us, the sound of our rear guard falling back toward town. That stirred me. I rose, found a few of my men, and before long the whole company turned up from various directions, each one having fought his way through that night’s bedlam. We drew rations, made coffee, and were moved into position along the inner line. Our works curved like a horseshoe from the Harpeth above town to the river below. As we had done many times before, we began throwing up temporary breastworks and settled down to wait.
Around midday we felt some ease, though my company was ordered out on picket duty. We dug shallow rifle pits and expected to spend the night there—if the Rebs allowed it.
Between three and four in the afternoon they showed themselves. First our cavalry fell back past us, then the gray ranks appeared through the woods—two full lines of battle, well-dressed and steady, skirmishers out front.
There was no time for debate. I shouted to my skirmish line:
“Fall back to the works!”
I turned to run in myself and realized, with no little alarm, that to reach our lines I would have to cross directly in front of two Union guns firing at an angle. There was no help for it. I chose my moment, made a leap between them just as both pieces fired, and thanked Providence that I wasn’t torn apart.
I reached my company, grabbed cartridge boxes, and began loading rifles for the men as fast as I could. Then the gray line came within range—and the whole crest of our works erupted. It was as if the earth itself had burst into flame. A sheet of fire leapt forward, taking down hundreds of the brave but misguided men who fought for an unworthy cause.
Very soon the field was nothing but smoke—so thick we could see almost nothing of the details, only shadows and flashes. The Rebels charged again. And again. And again. I counted near a dozen attacks, each one made with heroic determination, many of their banners planted right upon our works. But each time we threw them back with equal resolve.
Over our heads, Rebel and Union batteries carried on their own duel. Some shells shrieked close enough to make us duck, and more than once I thought one would take my head off.
By nightfall, the battlefield was a horror beyond telling. There were acres—literal acres—covered with the dead. A man could walk across the ground stepping from body to body without touching soil. The slaughter was terrible.
Between their final charge and our later withdrawal, the quiet was broken only by the cries of the wounded lying out there in the dark:
“Water… water…”
Their moans carried across the field. I could not help feeling sympathy for them, though they would gladly have done all the harm they could to us and to the Union.
At eleven o’clock we were ordered to withdraw. We crossed the Harpeth on the pontoon and railroad bridges. The Rebels discovered our retreat and came crowding down the streets of Franklin, but our guns opened on them and must have punished them severely. Once we were over, the bridges were burned. Then began our third straight night march, aimed toward Nashville.
We reached Brentwood the next morning and stopped for breakfast. The 175th Ohio—poor new fellows—was scattered along the pike, panic-stricken and disordered. By afternoon we moved up under the guns of Fort Negley and received our mail, which lifted our spirits more than any ration could.
Later we learned the cost inflicted on the Confederates:
- General Adams killed in the ditch before our works
- General Patrick Cleburne, the pride of their army, among the slain
- Thousands dead and wounded
- And nearly 3,000 prisoners and eighteen captured battle flags in our hands
No one who stood behind our works that night could doubt the desperation of the Southern assault. Their officers rode right into our very faces, urging their men forward with the utmost bravery. But the “blue coats,” as they call us, did not give an inch. Their determination was answered by ours—and they fell in heaps along our line.
I have fought in many engagements, but I cannot begin to give you a true idea of the fierceness of that charge, nor of the gallantry with which the boys in blue met it.
Our Heavenly Father spared me through that firestorm, though many better men than I fell on that awful field.
Of one thing I am certain:
There is no quicker or surer way for the Rebels to suffer in this war
than by charging our works—
for they are certain to be whipped each time they try it.
The Battle of Franklin, November 30, 1864 