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Civil War Memoir of Philip Daingerfield Stephenson, D. D.: Private, Company K, 13th Arkansas Volunteer Infantry, Loader, Piece No. 4, 5th C
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Written in 1865, when he was 20-years-old, Stephenson's diary relates his observations and reminiscences in detail. A private who became a veteran infantryman and artilleryman, Stephenson witnessed the death of Leonidas Polk and shared a blanket with General Breckinridge.
- Sales Rank: #2347307 in Books
- Brand: Brand: Louisiana State Univ Pr
- Published on: 1998-04-01
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 9.03" h x .86" w x 6.08" l, 1.25 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 411 pages
- Used Book in Good Condition
About the Author
Nathaniel Cheairs Hughes, Jr., is the author or editor of many books on the Civil War, including The Pride of the Confederate Artillery: The Washington Artillery in the Army of Tennessee.
Most helpful customer reviews
17 of 17 people found the following review helpful.
A moving and important memoir of the Army of Tennessee.
By A Customer
Anyone who has done research on the Civil War approaches veteran's memoirs with a degree of caution. Memoirs are always self serving to some extent and often take too much advantage of hindsight. This work is remarkably free of such justifications. Rather it is the honest work of a soldier coming to terms with his war experiences. Philip Stephenson was a mere boy from St. Louis, age 15, when he followed his brother, Hammett, to Memphis to join the Confederat army. Hammett enlisted in the 13th Ark. and the underage Philip tagged along. He served as something of a mascot to his brother's company until he enlisted in the 5th Co. Washington Artillery. Until then he seemed to be free to come and go. Stephenson was present at or near most of the actions of the Army of Tennessee. He relates what he observed in great detail particularly in the last year of the war. Through his memoirs we see what he saw on the march, on the field and in camp. His descriptions of various Arkansans from officers to enlisted men offer rare insights to the boys which can be found in no other place. His observations on the men of the 13th Ark. are somewhat condescending, but he says, "All of them made as fine fighting material as the world could produce." The first one-third of his text covers the years 61-63. The greatest part of his memoirs discuss affairs that took place from 64 to the end of the war. From the Atlanta campaign until the war ends, his writing seems much more personal, more expressive of his emotions at the time. This coincides with the period when he served in the 5th Co. of the Washington Artillery and marked the first period of the war that he was not under his older brother's wing. From the moment Sherman attacked the Rebs at Dalton in early May until the Battle of Jonesboro on Sept. 1st, the men were in constant danger. Stephenson notes the horrors of trench warfare and the stress that it put on the men. The pressure became too great for some and he describes some of those who cracked. One member of his battery horrified the other members by taking his bayonet and jabbing out the eys of a dead yankee. Another deliberately walked between the lines to relieve himself as everyone watched in disbelief and the man was killed by a sharpshooter. Clearly this campaign had pushed many of the men to the breaking point. Perhaps no other participant has been as effective and honest in telling this story. Stephenson's account of the Battle of Franklin is very moving. His unit had been guarding a bridge some 30 miles away from Franklin and by forced march had arrived on the field between 9 o'clock at night just as the battle was dying down. Stephenson's one thought was the welfare of his brother and friends in the 13th Ark and he went among the wounded crying out "Where's Govan's Brigade." He finds his 3 best friends badly wounded and there on the battlefield they break into tears to find each other still alive. If there had been any thought of winning the war, it ended there. After Franklin, surviving would replace winning as the ultimate goal. Stephenson's memoirs are very personal. Through them we see how one survivor deals with his memories of both the best times and the worst times of his life.
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
Personalized Civil War
By TAG
Personalized histories are always interesting, an 'I was there and this is what I saw' perspective.
Small details are often not available unless you've been there.
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
ranks among the best accounts of the war experience by the Confederate soldier
By Nathan Knight
This book, (along with William Fletcher's "Rebel Private: Front and Rear" and Sam Watkins' "Co. Aytch"), ranks among the best accounts of the war experience by the Confederate soldier. Stephenson, an excellent and vivid writer, practically transports the reader to the 1860s to share in his joys and sorrows. He literally brings the reader to tears as he shares the horrendous tragedies which befell him and his comrades. Following is one of my favorite excerpts:
"The next morning I felt desperate. Unless I could get more covering, I would die. The orders were not to leave the command, but I disobeyed them. I knew that I would be of no service whatever in the condition in which I was. So starting off early I left the road and struck across country with the hope of striking some section less visited by soldiers and of finding some woman at one of the many farm houses whose heart and hand both would open to my destitute condition. I suppose I walked eight or ten miles without meeting any encouragement whatever. The people universally talked as if they were stripped of everything.
About 3 p. m. I turned my steps in despair toward Nashville. For the first time I began to experience the feeling of actual demoralization. The idea of going back to the command without a blanket, to endure indefinitely the rigors of the previous night and that too in the face of the prospective horrors then threatening the army, or an an alternative the unspeakable misery of a Yankee prison, this was unsupportable. Shoeless, hatless, blanketless, ragged to nakedness, was I. How could I do a soldier's duties? Still, what else was before me?
With such thoughts I was gloomily wending my way along the Nolansville Pike, when a turn in the road brought before me a handsome brick residence. After hesitating, I moodily determined to try once more. The Negroes, as I passed through the front yard, looked from their comfortable side cabins with evident contempt upon my pitiful attire, and it was not until they saw I was not to be trifled with, that any one of them moved forward to attend to me. With ill concealed feelings of dejection and shame, I followed a house servant into the cozy sitting room of the home. My wretched appearance and my beggar's errand humiliated me and sent the hot blush to my cheek. I was nothing more nor less than a ragged beggar, and in all probability about to be turned away another time from the door.
I have never forgot those feelings! They have been the cause of the sympathy and the help I have always tried to give ever since to the tramp of modern days.
A sweet faced, gentle looking lady of middle age in deep mourning was sitting by the fire in the room where I was taken, to whom I was introduced by my pert usher as 'a soldier Ma'am!' She arose and placed a seat beside her own chair by the glowing flame and began to talk to me in a kindly tone that made my heart leap to my throat and the tears start to my eyes in spite of all efforts at suppression. I excused my coming in by saying, 'I wished to warm.' The true reason choked me and would not come up. She kept me in conversation until long after I was comfortably warm. Then I ought to have gone, I suppose, but I didn't, or I ought to have asked for my blanket, but I didn't, for I couldn't. Then dinner was announced! It was with unfeigned regret that I heard it. I had not come for that and did not want to be so understood. I had supposed from the lateness of the hour that they had dined sometime before. I arose to leave. The lady, however, pressed me to stay, and so I went, rags, dirt and all, into the dining room. An old gentleman [Enoch Ensley] was there, tall, slender, whitehaired, fine looking. He received me with courtesy and regard. After dinner I sat with them conversing on the all overshadowing subject, the War, and it was five o'clock when I arose to go! Then the lady pressed me to tell her my needs, and I told her I had no blanket. She left the room and in a minute returned with one in her hands, a large double brown blanket, a mackinaw I think, a fine fellow such as very few of our men could boast! A perfect treasure. 'It belonged to my Yankee guard,' she said, and was one he had bought just prior to the arrival of our troops. She did not think her giving it to me would bring her any trouble, so with a heart full of thanksgiving I took it and departed. An altogether different man I was. That Yankee blanket saved my life. Or rather, that sweet lady. Her name was Mrs. [Mary] Ensley. Only once since then have I been in that region, and then I was too sick to go and see if she was still alive. Indeed I am sure I was told she was dead many years, but the memory of her and her deed, will never die."
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