Blood and gunpowder... gunpowder and lead.

This is going to be a very long entry. I started writing and realised no matter how much I edited it.. I just couldn't cut it down. So I'm going to publish it in two blogs, so save y'alls eyes.

Blood and Gunpowder

This morning I left Nashville, and headed South-West to a little town called Franklin. I only visited because my faithful Lonely Planet Guide had mentioned Franklin as being one of the areas where you could get a taste of the action from the Civil War, and I thought while I'm in the neighbourhood (relatively), I may as well check it out. Oh, how I wish I had known just how much I would fall in love with Franklin, because now I'm a bit pouty I didn't spend at least a full day and night there.

I decided to leave earlier than I had initially scheduled (shock! me changing plans mid-stream!) because intuitively I knew I wanted to get there as early as possible. I arrived into Franklin around 8:30am after battling the Nashville rush hour, and headed immediately for Carter House, one of the two suggested places in Lonely Planet Guide (herein referred to as LPG). Unfortunately for me, it was closed. But! Just across the road there were Civil War Trail Markers, and I got to see the Carlton Gin House, and read all about its importance; across the road from that was a battlefield of some import (more on that later), and, feeling rather overwhelmed and clueless, I ended up circling back towards 'downtown' to see the Visitor Center that was advertised on street sign posts.

I wasn't disappointed. The main street of Franklin is so quaint and utterly charming, I remember gasping from just how refreshingly 'real' it felt against the backdrop of bustling Nashville city. Gorgeous flower pots spilling over with several types of blooms; wrought iron benches lining the sidewalks just begging a weary traveler to sit, relax, refresh; ornate window and roof trimmings... the list goes on. Eventually I found the Visitor Center, which was "McPhail's Office" (McPhail was a doctor back in the 1900's, and this career choice continued down the line for many, many generations, all practicing out of the same tiny building). The lady in the Visitor Center was incredibly helpful, and after her sage advice on how tackle Franklin in the two hours I'd allocated (for SHAME!), I dusted myself off, and headed back to Carter House, which, by now, was open.

Carter House is, without a doubt, one of the best historic buildings I have ever entered. Please keep in mind before you go indignantly raving about some of the European buildings, such as Vatican etc, that Carlton House was just a house. Just a normal, typical, every day house, that just so happened to go through an extraordinary turn of events. No one built her thinking ‘generations will want to see this’. For it to be so well preserved and restored (in parts), is a testament to the curator and all her staff.

Let's start from the beginning.

Fountain Branch Carter was born in Virginia in 1797, and moved with his family to Tennessee as a young boy. He married Mary Armistead on June 29, 1823. In 1830 Fountain, Mary and their three children moved into their newly built house on a hill on the outskirts of town. The Carters had a total of twelve boys and four girls, so they extended the existing structure to include two more bedrooms. Unfortunately life was tough back in those days, and most of their children died far too young. Fountain was a farmer, and eventually he had 288 acres on which he grew corn, wheat, oats, cotton, and potatoes, and raised cattle and pigs. Fountain also owned another property, on which he processed the cotton - the Cotton Gin I mentioned earlier.

The Civil War was well underway by the time the Carter family got caught in the middle of it. On November 30, 1864, Union soldiers commanded by Gen. John Schofield marched into the Carter farm, and began to set up camp in the Carter home as part of a strategy to prevent the Confederates moving back up to reclaim Nashville. The only viable bridge in town had been destroyed months earlier (ironically, by the Union forces..) and so Schofield decided to rebuild the bridge, in an attempt to cross back over to reinforce the Union position in Nashville.

Confederate General John Bell Hood had sent Gen. Franklin Cheatman to get to the turnpike in advance of Schofield's forces; to set up a defensive position and prevent them from advancing. Instead of being a good soldier and following Gen. Hood's orders, Cheatman decided to set up camp, 200 yards off the turnpike. The advancing Union forces could see the campfires in the night sky, and in a feat of unbelievable stealth, Gen Schofield managed to sneak 23,000 men and seven supply wagons past the Confederate forces. The General tied whatever fabric they had on hand around the wagon wheels, to soften the noise they made, but it is absolutely amazing that Cheatman's Confederate forces did not hear TWENTY THREE THOUSAND MEN plus all their supplies rattling about, marching only 200 yards away, past them up into Franklin.

Schofield's men worked tirelessly to repair the bridge; but he was no idiot in battle. He set the other half of his men to digging great trenches in a strategic position outside the Carter home, and also made earth walls alternating with the trenches, upon which he put cannons facing down towards the Confederate forces, who would (eventually...) figure out that there was no longer an army of 23,000 men behind them. Imagine that penny dropping moment? Gods.

The Carter home saw more action than you can possibly imagine, and the bullet holes and one cannonball hole in the walls are testament to the bloody and terrible battle that occurred right in and around their otherwise peaceful home. By 4pm the battle was well underway, and it lasted five hours, with four of those hours being in the dark. Much of the battle was close – hand to hand combat and it was savage and bloody. The fighting resulted in 10,000 casualties – 2,500 dead, 6,500 wounded and 1000 missing. The ground around the Carter House and stretching for hundreds of yards both east and west was gruesome. One of Fountain Carter’s daughters remembers seeing the dead and dying (not to mention body pieces) across the property and saying that you could walk from one end to the other without ever stepping on the ground. The battle cost the lives of six Confederate generals.

In an attempt to avoid any kind of family slaughter, the Carters moved downstairs into the underground basement, and in a genius move by one of their daughters, dug a deep hole underneath the earthen floor, stuffed it full of the food from the smokehouse (soldiers were known to rob homeowners of any and all food they had, both forces did this), covered it back up with dirt, and then replaced the brickwork so it was indistinguishable from the rest of the floor. Genius.

The most sad story I heard today regarding the Carter Home was that of Captain Tod Carter. He was in active duty with the Confederate forces, but had been told he could stick to the back lines to avoid direct fire. When Tod heard they were headed for Franklin, he said 'hell no' to sticking behind, and lead a charge against the Federal works and was shot nine times. He was struck eight times in the body, and once over his left eye, where the bullet lodged in his brain. He was found the next day by his family (as this battle had occurred right outside their home), delirious, but alive. His sister with whom he was particularly close, brought him into the family home and tended to his wounds as best she could, in their parlor room (which is, by the way, GORGEOUS). He kept slipping in and out of consciousness, awaking at one point to tell them that he knew they were helping, but it hurt so much that he couldn’t bear to talk. On December 2, 1864, Tod Carter woke to look at his sister, still keeping vigil right next to him, looked at her and clearly said “home, home, home”, and passed away.

Tell me you didn’t just shed a tear or at least get a tight throat. These stories aren’t campfire Chinese whispers – the Carter family kept remarkable journals, and the people who run the Carter House and museum have them.

On a lighter note, after walking out of the Carter House, I spied a marmalade cat, who spied me in return, and I kid you not, made an absolute beeline to me, ignoring all the other tourists who were milling around. She came straight up to me, looked up at me with the most amazing ginger-spiced eyes, and stole my heart. I made the huge mistake of patting her, and within moments we were fast friends. She wandered around the grounds with me for the rest of my stay at Carter House; rolling around the grass wanting me to tickle her belly – chasing after me when I stopped and headed off to the next Carter building. She followed me nearly to the carpark, at which point I turned to her and said gently “I can’t take you with me back to Australia sweetheart” and she gave me one last leg rub, and then sat, and watched me walk down the path to my car. I kid you not. Half an hour she spends eagerly trotting by my side, but as soon as I tell her I can’t take her with me she stays put. She was absolutely beautiful. Perfect little face, sleek body, gentle purr, cute little paws batting at my camera cord. After I’d gotten myself back together emotionally from the overwhelming feelings I experienced standing in Carter House and on the battlefield, I decided to head across to Carnton Plantation.

In 1826 Randal and Sarah McGavock built their home in Williamson County, Tennessee, on 1420 acres. They named their home Carnton, as a throw-back to their Irish roots. Their son John inherited the property upon his father’s death, and in 1848 married Caroline (or Carrie, as she liked to be called) Winder. The couple had five children together, but again times were tough, and only two survived into adulthood. Their son died at only three months old; and his tombstone in the family cemetery is a haunting tale of just how young; a sleeping lamb lies across the top of the grave marker.

Carrie and John lived at Carnton through the Federal occupation of Franklin in 1862, but late on the afternoon of November 30 1864, Carrie stood at the end of the garden path and watched part of the Army of Tennessee, around 19,000 men (Cheatman’s men, the observant ones..) pass around her home, and up towards Schofield’s deeply entrenched army of equal size. Carrie recognized one of the soldiers in a completely magical twist of fate – Rev Thomas Markham was a childhood friend and part of Cheatman’s army. She called to him because she knew he would give it to her straight. He advised her that Confederates were marching straight into the full frontal assault against the Union forces, against advice from other senior offices in the company, and that there would a high number of casualties. Upon hearing this, Carrie decided to turn the family home into a division field hospital for Confederate forces. Carnton took in hundreds of wounded and dying men, and at least six surgeons operated out of the home. In those days, surgeons believed that the best way to ‘cure’ a wounded limb was to amputate it, and so two (at least) of the upstairs bedrooms were used as makeshift theatres. The blood from these amputations and other wounds was so vast, it soaked through the carpeted floor and into the floorboards – in some parts seeping underneath the walls and into cupboards. In three of the rooms you can see several blood stains – one hundred and fifty years after the blood was spilt.

It is a haunting kind of beauty, being able to identify where the surgeon was set up, and what each blood stain most likely represents. Perhaps the most disturbing (at least to me.. and if you’re squeamish – skip this paragraph) blood stain is that in the south-east bedroom, in the far north-east corner. The blood was so great that it pooled in the corner, and soaked underneath the wall into the next bedroom, and into the cupboards next to it in both rooms. The curator’s guess is that this was where the surgeons threw the amputated limbs until they could be taken down to the yard to be buried.

One can only imagine the smell and the horror the McGavock children felt witnessing such brutal and violent battle. At age 76, Carrie’s surviving daughter gave an interview, and she told of how she could remember it all like it was yesterday, despite her being only nine at the time. She said “all of Franklin smelled like blood and gunpowder”.

Carrie McGavock was hailed as an angel by the Confederate soldiers – not only did she offer up her linens when the surgeons ran out of bandages, once they were gone, she offered up John’s shirts, and then eventually her petticoats and undergarments.

John and Carrie’s legacy is none greater than the Confederate Army graveyard located on their property. The Confederate forces were given the task of burying the dead, and as a rule, they piled up the Union men four to five deep in the trenches they had dug, and then filled them in; whereas for their own men they lay them shoulder to shoulder in the shallow two feet trenches, and then filled them over with the earthen mounds created by digging the trenches. Well the Union forces came back for their men to give them proper burials; being buried on top of each other is hardly a fitting end to men giving their lives for their cause. But as the Confederate men were already one by one in graves, with wooden grave markers given to them by their burier's, there seemed to be no need to move them. Until, that is, in 1865 due to the ground settling, and the farm animals grazing, bits started sticking out of the ground where they really should be peacefully down below. According to diaries dated from the time, it wasn’t unusual to be traveling down the road and see an arm poking out of the ground. Well, John and Carrie couldn’t have that, and John used his considerable influence to start a Committee to raise enough money to give each soldier a proper burial. To ensure there would be land enough for this graveyard, John and Carrie donated two acres of their own property. They kept a meticulous cemetery journal, noting each man’s identify and all known information (where possible), and this graveyard is the final resting place for 1481 men killed in the Battle of Franklin.

I left Franklin on schedule more or less, and headed South to Chattanooga. My instinct told me to stay in Franklin and explore the other Civil War sites, but I thought “no, Chattanooga is another place you wanted to visit..” so I begrudgingly left Franklin behind in the hopes that Chattanooga’s Civil War trail would be every bit as interesting.

It wasn’t. Chickamunga and Chattanooga Military Park was outright boring. Yeah the views from up on the mountain looking down at the river and valley were lovely, but I feel I was mislead by LPG. I wish I had stayed in Franklin and not driven two hours out of my way just to feel ripped off by the mediocre park. No stories here. No blood stains here! Oh well. Life goes on I suppose? I ended up spending all of an hour in Chattanooga before driving straight through to Pigeon Forge.. by the time I arrived I was so exhausted I went to Bennett’s Bar-B-Que for dinner, was served by a lovely waitress called Cat, who called me nearly every term of endearment you can imagine.. the ones I caught were “hun”, “honey”, “darlin’”, “love” and “doll”.

After eating the healthiest option I could find I threw myself into bed and reset my alarm from 6am to 8am - all this driving is wearin' me out!

Chat soon,
M x