“MY DEAR SISTER--As there is a probability of the mail courier leaving

here early in the morning, I hastily scratch you a few lines that you may

know that under the blessings of a kind Providence I am yet alive, and,

though somewhat wearied, enjoying good health. Yours of 28th of September

has been received, but under circumstances of hard marches, etc., there

has been but one opportunity of writing to you since leaving Palmetto, and

then had just finished one to Texas, and was fixing to write to you, when

the order came to ‘fall in.’

“Well, leaving camps near Palmetto on the 29th of September, we crossed

the Chattahoochee below, marched up to Powder Springs, threatened

Marietta, and at the same time threw Stewart’s corps around above Big

Shanty to cut the railroad, which was torn up for about thirteen miles,

French’s Division attacking Allatoona, where he sustained some loss,

having works to charge. Ector’s Texas Brigade, and some Missourians,

carried their part of the works, but A----’s Brigade failed to do their

part, hence the advantage gained was lost. By this time the enemy were

concentrating at Marietta, and General Hood’s object being accomplished,

he then marched rapidly towards Rome, flanking the place, and making a

heavy demonstration as if he intended crossing the river and attacking the

place. The enemy then commenced a concentration at Kingston and Rome. We

then moved around Rome and marched rapidly up the Oostanaula, and, on the

evening of the 11th inst., sent a division of infantry with some cavalry

across the river, and captured Calhoun with some stores. Moved on the next

morning by a forced march, flanking Resaca, and striking the railroad

immediately above, tearing it up to Tilton where there were about three

hundred Yankees in a block-house. A surrender was demanded. A reply was

returned: ‘If you want us come and take us.’ Our artillery was soon in

position and a few shots soon made them show the ‘white rag.’ We tore up

the road that night, and the next morning by nine o’clock, to Tunnel Hill,

burning every cross-tie and twisting the bars. Dalton surrendered without

a fight, with a full garrison of negroes and some white Yankees. The

block-house above, at a bridge, refused to surrender, and we had to bring

the artillery into requisition again, which made them succumb. They all

seemed to be taken by surprise and were hard to convince that it was a

cavalry raid. They evacuated Tunnel Hill. Thus after five months of

fighting and running, the Army of Tennessee re-occupied Dalton. Sherman

has been taken by surprise. He never dreamed of such a move. General

Hood’s plans all being carried out, so far as the State road was

concerned, we marched across the mountains to LaFayette, in the vicinity

of which we camped last night, and have marched twenty-three miles to-day.

To-morrow we cross the Lookout Mountain, and will, I suppose, make

directly for the Tennessee river, though of this I’m not certain. Hood has

shown himself a general in strategy, and has secured the confidence of the

troops. Wherever we go, may God’s blessing attend us. Pray for me. In

haste.

Your affectionate brother,

TOM STOKES.

“P. S.--Cherokee Co., Ala., Oct. 18, 1864.

“The courier not leaving this morning, I have a little more time left. We

did not travel so far to-day as I heard we would, having come only ten

miles, and have stopped to rest the balance of the evening. I find you

dislike to have your communications cut off, so I see you are below

Madison. Would to Heaven that, in one sense of the word my communication

was cut off forever; yea, that every channel leading me in contact with

_the world_, in any other character than as a minister of ‘the meek and

lowly Savior,’ was to me forever blocked up. I am tired of confusion and

disorder--tired of living a life of continual excitement * * *. You spoke

of passing through a dark cloud. ‘There is nothing true but Heaven,’ and

it is to that rest for the weary, alone, to which we are to look for

perfect enjoyment. We are to walk by faith, and though the clouds of

trouble thicken, yet we should know that if we do our duty we shall see

and feel the genial sunshine of a happier time. Yes, my sister, though we

knew our lives should be lengthened one hundred years, and every day

should be full of trouble; yet if we have a hope of Heaven, that hope

should buoy up the soul to be cheerful, even under earth’s saddest

calamities.

“I think we will cross the Tennessee river and make for Tennessee, where

it seems to be understood that we will have large accessions to our army,

both there and from Kentucky * * *.”

The next letter is enclosed in an envelope which came through no

postoffice, as it was furnished by my sister, and upon it she wrote: “This

letter was sent to me on the 27th of November, by some one who picked it

up upon the street in Madison. The postoffice had been rifled by the

Federals who (under command of Slocum) passed through Madison, November

18th and 19th. Though found without an envelope, and much stained, it has

reached me, because signed with his full name.”

This letter is dated “Near Decatur, Ala., October 28th, 1864.” We give a

few items:

“We invested this place yesterday, and there has been some skirmishing and

artillery firing until an hour ago, when it seems to have measurably

ceased. We are in line of battle southwest of Decatur, about one and a

quarter miles. I went out reconnoitering this morning and saw the enemy’s

position. They have a large fort immediately in the town, with the ‘stars

and stripes’ waving above. I hear occasional distant artillery firing

which I suppose is Forrest, near Huntsville. * * * We were several days

crossing Sand Mountain. Have had delightful weather until a day or two ago

it rained, making the roads very muddy, in consequence of which we have

been on small rations, the supply trains failing to get up. We had only

half rations yesterday, and have had none to-day (now nearly three

o’clock), but will get some to-night. We try to be cheerful. * * * No

letter from Texas yet. No one of our company has had any intelligence from

Johnson county since last May. I can’t see what’s the matter. I have been

absent nearly one year and have received but one letter.” (Of course the

dear loved ones in Texas wrote to their soldier braves on this side the

Mississippi river; but such are the misfortunes of war that these missives

were long delayed in their passage).

“Saturday, October 29th.--The condition of affairs this morning at sunrise

remains, so far as I know, unchanged. * * * Yesterday evening we drew two

ears of corn for a day’s ration; so parched corn was all we had yesterday;

but we will get plenty to-day.”

And now we come to the last of the letters ever received. It is probable

it was among the last he ever wrote. It is dated “Tuscumbia, Ala., Nov.

10, 1864.--... We arrived at this place the 31st of October, and have been

here since, though what we are waiting for I can’t tell. The pontoons are

across the river, and one corps on the other side at Florence. We have had

orders to be ready to move several times, but were countermanded. We were

to have moved to-day, and even our wagons started off, but for some cause

or other we have not gone. The river is rising very rapidly, which may

endanger the pontoons.

“November 12th.--I thought to send this off yesterday morning, but, on

account of the rain a few days ago, the mail carrier was delayed until

last night, which brought your dear letter of date October 31st. It was

handed me on my return from the graveyard, where I had been to perform the

funeral ceremony of a member of the 6th Texas, who was killed yesterday

morning by the fall of a tree. He had been in every battle in which this

brigade was ever engaged; an interesting young man, only nineteen years of

age.

“The scene at the graveyard was a solemn one, being some time in the night

before we arrived. The cold, pale moon shone down upon us, and the deep

stillness which pervaded the whole scene, with the rough, uncouth, though

tender-hearted soldiers with uncovered heads, forming a large circle

around the grave, made it, indeed, a scene solemnly impressive. The print

of my Bible being small, I could not read, but recited from memory a few

passages of Scripture suitable to the occasion, the one upon which I dwelt

chiefly being a declaration of Paul to the Corinthians, ‘For we must all

appear before the judgment seat of Christ.’ I then spoke of the certainty

of that change from life to death; that with the soldier, even, death is

not confined to the battlefield; spoke of our comrade, who but in the

morning bade as fair for long life as any of us, but within the space of a

few short hours was lying in the cold embrace of death; of another of our

brigade who was instantly killed a short time since by a stroke of

lightning; closed with an exhortation to all to live nearer to God, and be

prepared at all times to meet their God in peace. Oh, how sad! Far away

from his home to be buried in a land of strangers. How the hearts of his

father, mother and sisters must bleed when they receive the sad tidings.

“I expect we will leave here for Middle Tennessee next Monday, as the

river will be falling by that time. There is much talk of this brigade

being sent home after this campaign. Major Rankin has been exchanged, and

is with us. I gave Lieutenant Collins’ overcoat to his company to take

care of for him.

“Am so glad to hear from ma and sister. We get no letters from Texas; but

are continually sending some over, as all the disabled of the last

campaign are being retired and sent across. Poor Uncle James! His Joseph

is gone.... Write to me often.

Affectionately,

YOUR BROTHER.”

Ah, could the history of these brave men be written, what a record it

would be of endurance, of daring, of heroism, of sacrifice! And the

heart-breaking pathos of the last chapters of their experience, ere the

furling of the flag they followed! Pat Cleburne and his fallen braves--

“On fame’s eternal camping ground,

Their silent tents are spread,

And glory marks with solemn round

The bivouac of the dead.”

CHAPTER XXIII.

AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR.

Related to the writer by Hon. Roger Q. Mills, of Texas.

The night was black as Erebus. Not a scintillant of light from moon or

star penetrated the dense forest, and no eye save that of God discerned

the danger of the situation. Hill and dale, mountain and precipice, creek

and surging stream, presented barriers that none but men inured to

hardship, and unknown to fear, would have attempted to surmount.

Obedient to the command of the superior officer, the remnant of that

magnificent and intrepid army, once guided by the unerring wisdom of

Joseph E. Johnston, plodded their way uncomplainingly over these trying

difficulties. The Lord must have been amazed at their temerity, and shook

the very earth in rebuke, and ever and anon by the lightning’s flash

revealed glimpses of the peril to which they were exposed; and yet in

unbroken lines they groped their way, not knowing whither. At length

bewildered, and made aware of impending danger, the general in command

ordered a halt. The martial tread ceased, and all was still as death. In

the midst of this stillness a voice, sweet as that of a woman, was heard

repeating that grand old hymn, which has given comfort to many weary ones

treading the wine press:

“How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,

Is laid for your faith in His excellent Word!

What more can He say than to you He hath said,

You who unto Jesus for refuge have fled.

“In every condition, in sickness, in health,

In poverty’s vale, or abounding in wealth,

At home and abroad, on the land, on the sea,

As thy days may demand shall thy strength ever be.

“Fear not, I am with thee, O! be not dismayed,

I, I am thy God, and will still give thee aid;

I’ll strengthen thee, help thee and cause thee to stand,

Upheld by My righteous, omnipotent hand.

“When through the deep waters I call thee to go,

The rivers of woe shall not thee overflow;

For I will be with thee, thy troubles to bless,

And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.

“When through fiery trials thy pathway shall lie,

My grace all sufficient shall be thy supply;

The flame shall not hurt thee; I only design

Thy dross to consume, and thy gold to refine.

“E’en down to old age, all My people shall prove

My sovereign, eternal, unchangeable love;

And when hoary hairs shall their temples adorn,

Like lambs they shall still in My bosom be borne.

“The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose,

I will not, I will not desert to his foes;

That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake,

I’ll never, no never, no never, forsake.”

General Mills said that during the rendition of this beautiful hymn, not

even the breaking of a twig, or the changing of a footstep broke the

silence of the midnight tranquillity. The rain drops ceased to fall; the

electricity darted harmlessly through the tree tops; and the muttering of

the thunder lulled.

After a most impressive silence of several minutes, the same voice, which

had rendered the hymn so effectually, repeated from memory an appropriate

passage of Scripture and proceeded to expatiate upon it. He had not

uttered a dozen words before another flash of lightning revealed the

upturned heads and listening attitudes of the men composing that weird

congregation, and each one of them knew as if by instinct that he was

going to hear something that would help him on his journey to the Land of

Beulah. Strong in the faith, he carried many of the truths and promises of

the Holy Word within his mind, and now, as many times before, he opened

them by the magic key of memory and unfolded to view their unsearchable

riches. He begged his fellow-men and comrades in arms to accept them

without money and without price--to accept them that they might wear

kingly robes and royal diadems, and be with Jesus in His Father’s regal

mansions throughout the grand eternities. And as he told the old, old

story of divine love, it assumed a contemporaneous interest and seemed a

living present reality. Every man who heard it felt the living force and

energizing influence of the theme. And thus by earnest, aggressive

appeals, he exerted a wonderful power for good over the minds of his

hearers; and those men, even now with phantom hands pointing gaunt fingers

at them, by their deep interest testified to the warm suffusing purpose

which made itself felt in every word that he uttered, as he told of the

Fatherhood of God and the ever-present sympathy of a benignant and

infinite parent, who delighted not in the death of sinners, but rather

that all should come to Him and have eternal life. General Mills added

that, as the fine resonant voice of the speaker penetrated the dense

forest and found its way to his hearers in distinct enunciation of

well-chosen words, the deep-toned thunder emphasized the impressive

points, and made it a scene which for grandeur and sublimity has never

been surpassed, while the vivid flashes of lightning revealed again and

again the earnest face and solemn mien of my brother, Lieutenant Thomas J.

Stokes, of the Tenth Texas Infantry of Cleburne’s Division.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Picking up minie balls around Atlanta--Exchanging them for bread.

After mingling renewed vows of allegiance to our cause, and expressions of

a willing submission to the consequences of defeat--privations and evil

dire, if need be--with my morning orison; yet I could not be oblivious to

the fact that I was hungry, very hungry. And there was another, whose

footsteps were becoming more and more feeble day by day, and whose voice,

when heard at all, was full of the pathos of despair, who needed

nourishment that could not be obtained, and consolation, which it seemed a

mockery to offer.

In vain did I look round for relief. There was nothing left in the country

to eat. Yea, a crow flying over it would have failed to discover a morsel

with which to appease its hunger; for a Sheridan by another name had been

there with his minions of destruction, and had ruthlessly destroyed every

vestige of food and every means of support. Every larder was empty, and

those with thousands and tens of thousands of dollars, were as poor as the

poorest, and as hungry too. Packing trunks, in every house to which

refugees had returned, contained large amounts of Confederate money. We

had invested all we possessed except our home, and land and negroes, in

Confederate bonds, and these were now inefficient for purchasing

purposes. Gold and silver had we none. A more favored few had a little of

those desirable mediums of purchase, and sent a great distance for

supplies; but they offered no relief to those who had stayed at home and

borne the brunt of battle, and saved their property from the destroyers’

torch.

What was I to do? Sit down and wait for the inevitable starvation? No; I

was not made of such stuff. I had heard that there had been a provision

store opened in Atlanta for the purpose of bartering provisions for

munitions of war--anything that could be utilized in warfare. Minie balls

were particularly desirable. I therefore took Telitha by the apron, and

had a little talk with her, and when I was through she understood that

something was up that would bring relief to certain organs that had become

quite troublesome in their demands, and she was anxious to take part in

the performance, whatever that might be. I went also to my mother, and

imparted to her my plans of operation, and she took that pathetic little

backward step peculiar to herself on occasions which tried her soul, and

with quivering lip she assented in approving, though almost inaudible

words.

With a basket in either hand, and accompanied by Telitha, who carried one

that would hold about a peck, and two old dull case-knives, I started to

the battle-fields around Atlanta to pick up the former missiles of death

to exchange for food to keep us from starving.

It was a cold day. The wind was very sharp, and over the ground, denuded

of forest trees and undergrowth, the wind was blowing a miniature gale.

Our wraps were inadequate, and how chilled we became in that rude November

blast! Mark you, it was the 30th of November, 1864. But the colder we

were, the faster we walked, and in an incredibly short time we were upon

the battle-field searching for lead.

I made it a point to keep very near the road in the direction of Atlanta,

and soon found myself on the very spot where the Confederate magazine

stood, the blowing up of which, by Confederate orders, shook the very

earth, and was distinctly heard thirty-five or forty miles distant. An

exclamation of glad surprise from Telitha carried me to her. She had found

a bonanza, and was rapidly filling her basket with that which was more

valuable to us than gold. In a marshy place, encrusted with ice,

innumerable bullets, minie balls, and pieces of lead seemed to have been

left by the irony of fate to supply sustenance to hungry ones, and

employment to the poor, as all the winter those without money to send to

more favored and distant points found sure returns from this lead mine. It

was so cold! our feet were almost frozen, and our hands had commenced to

bleed, and handling cold, rough lead cramped them so badly that I feared

we would have to desist from our work before filling the baskets.

Lead! Blood! Tears! O how suggestive! Lead, blood and tears, mingled and

commingled. In vain did I try to dash the tears away. They would assert

themselves and fall upon lead stained with blood. “God of mercy, if this

be Thy holy will, give me fortitude to bear it uncomplainingly,” was the

heart-felt invocation that went up to the throne of grace from over lead,

blood and tears, that fearful day. For relief, tears did not suffice. I

wanted to cry aloud; nature would not be satisfied with less, and I cried

like a baby, long and loud. Telitha caught the spirit of grief, and cried

too. This ebullition of feelings on her part brought me to a realization

of my duty to her, as well as to my poor patient mother to whom the day

must seem very long, and I tried to stifle my sobs and lamentations. I

wondered if she had the forebodings of coming bereavement that were

lacerating my own heart. I did not doubt but that she had, and I cried in

sympathy for her.

At length our baskets were filled, and we took up our line of march to the

desolated city. There were no labyrinths to tread, no streets to follow,

and an occasional question secured information that enabled us to find the

“commissary” without delay. Telitha was very ambitious that I should

appear a lady, and wanted me to deposit my load of lead behind some place

of concealment, while we went on to deliver hers, and then let her go back

for mine. But I was too much a Confederate soldier for that, and walked

bravely in with my heavy, precious load.

A courteous gentleman in a faded grey uniform, evidently discharged

because of wounds received in battle, approached and asked what he could

do for me. “I have heard that you give provisions for lead,” I replied,

“and I have brought some to exchange.” What seemed an interminable silence

ensued, and I felt without seeing that I was undergoing a sympathetic

scrutiny, and that I was recognized as a lady “to the manor born.”

“What would you like in exchange,” he asked. “If you have sugar, and

coffee, and meal, a little of each if you please,” I timidly said. “I left

nothing to eat at home.” The baskets of lead were removed to the rear and

weighed, and in due time returned to me filled to the brim with sugar,

coffee, flour, meal, lard, and the nicest meat I had seen in a long time.

“O, sir,” I said, “I did not expect so much.”

“You have not yet received what is due you,” this good man replied, and

handed me a certificate which he assured me would secure as much more on

presentation.

Joy had gone out of my life, and I felt no thrill of that kind; but I can

never describe the satisfaction I experienced as I lifted two of those

baskets, and saw Telitha grasp the other one, and turned my face

homeward.

CHAPTER XXV.

The Decatur women’s struggle for bread--Sweet singing in hard

places--Pleasant visitors--I make a trip to Alabama--The news of my

brother’s death.

The tug of war was upon us from the mountains to the sea-board, and

ingenious was the woman who devised means to keep the wolf, hungry and

ravenous, from the door. The depreciation of our currency, and its

constant diminution in value, had rendered it an unreliable purchasing

commodity, and we had nothing to give in exchange for food. I, therefore,

felt that I had literally rubbed against Aladdin’s lamp when I saw much

needed food, good and palatable, given in exchange for minie balls, and

for any kind of metal convertible into destructive missiles, and I was

anxious that others should share the benefit accruing from the lead mines

mentioned in a former sketch. In pursuance of this humane desire, I

proclaimed its discovery and results from house to house; for, mark you,

we had no “Daily Courier,” nor messenger boy to convey the glad tidings to

the half-famished women and children in and around Decatur. And if my

words could have been changed into diamonds by the magic wand of a fairy,

not one of those starving people would have accepted the change of

diamonds for bread.

It required only a short time to raise a large company of women, girls and

little boys, who were ready to do service for themselves and their

country by digging lead with case-knives from mines providentially

furnished them. And was it not serving the cause of the Confederacy? I

thought so; and never walked with more independent step than when acting

as generalissimo of that band of devoted, patriotic women, _en route_ to

the “lead mines” around Atlanta. Telitha, too, evidently felt that she was

an important adjunct in the mining enterprise, and a conspicuous personage

in the scenes being enacted, and emphasized her opinion by strong and

suggestive gesticulation. On this occasion she playfully wrenched from my

hand the small vessel with which I had supplied myself and which I carried

on the former trip, and substituted a larger one, while for herself she

got at least a half-bushel measure.

All who remember the month of December, 1864, know that it abounded in

clouds and rain and sleet, and was intensely cold in the Confederate

States of America; and in the latitude embracing Atlanta, such severity of

weather had never been known to the oldest inhabitant. But what mattered

it? Each one in that little band of women was connected by a bright link

to the illustrious armies that were enduring greater privation and

hardship than those to which she was exposed, and counted it a willing

oblation upon his country’s altar, and why should she not prove faithful

to the end, and suffer the pangs of hunger and privation too?

The work of picking up minie balls began as soon as we reached the

battle-field, and, consequently, we carried several pounds some distance

unnecessarily. The “mine” proper, I doubt not, could have filled several

wagons. As “a little fun now and then is relished by the wisest men,” I

found a grim smile asserting itself at the quaint and ready wit of those

estimable girls, the Misses Morton, whose Christian names I have forgotten

and who, alas! have long since joined the silent majority. One of them

assumed the character of a Confederate soldier and the other that of a

Federal, and the conversation carried on between them, as they “exchanged

coffee and tobacco,” was rich, rare and racy. The exchange having been

effected, the signal of combat was given. “Look out, Billy Yank!” “Look

out, Johnnie Reb!” were simultaneous warnings from opposing forces, and

minie balls whizzed through the air, much to the merriment of the little

boys who wished themselves men, that they might be with their fathers,

whizzing minie balls from musket mouths.

The sham battle over, the work of digging lead was resumed, and in an

amazingly short time our vessels were filled to overflowing. I watched

Telitha with interest. She was eager to fill her basket, and more than

once she said, “Me full!” and added a little gutteral laugh that always

indicated pleasure. Her attempt to raise the basket from the ground, and

her utter failure to do so surprised her amazingly, and her disappointment

was pathetic. With great reluctance she saw her treasure reduced to her

capacity of handling. Each member of the party experienced similar

disappointment on attempting to raise her burden, and we left more exhumed

lead and other valuables than we carried away.

We took up our line of march, and as there were no obstructions in the way

(for, be it remembered, Sherman had been there, and with torch and

explosive removed all obstructions save the standing chimneys and

carcasses of horses and cattle shot by his order to prevent the

possibility of use to the rebels), we struck a bee-line to the commissary.

As the first to take advantage of this industry, I took the lead, and the

vigor of young womanhood, and “a heart for every fate,” gave elasticity to

my steps, and I soon outdistanced even the girls. In due time we reached

the commissary, and in a short while a most satisfactory exchange was

made, thanks to one whose great heart beat in unison with ours, and in

lieu of the heavy burden which we laid down, we picked up food for the

nourishment of our tired bodies and those of our loved ones at home. Oh,

how light, comparatively, it seemed! I verily believe if it had weighed

the same number of pounds, it would have seemed lighter, and the change

would have seemed restful. “Good-bye, noble ladies and sisters in a

righteous cause,” was the parting salutation of our no less noble

benefactor.

With our respective packages of food we again turned our faces homeward,

solemn as a funeral march, for, strive against them as we would, we all

had forebodings of ill, and the swaying of our bodies and our footsteps

kept time with the pulsations of our sad hearts. I fancied as I approached

standing chimneys and other evidences of destroyed homes, that the spirit

of Sherman, in the guise of an evil spirit, was laughing over the

destruction his diabolism had wrought. In the midst of these reflections

a song, which for sweetness and tranquilizing melody I have seldom heard

equalled and never surpassed, broke the stillness of the scene and added

to the melancholy interest of the occasion. It was the well known ballad,

then familiar to every child in the Confederacy, “When this Cruel War is

Over,” and sung by those gifted sisters mentioned as a part of the lead

digging company. The pure, sweet soprano voice of one of the girls put to

flight the spirit of Sherman, and when it was joined by the flute-like

alto of the others, every evil spirit within and without was exorcised,

and the spirit of submission took its place. And yet as the words rang out

and found an echo in my own heart, I had to walk very straight, and turn

my head neither to the right nor to the left, lest I betray the copious

tears trickling down my cheeks. At length pent-up feelings burst the

fetters, and an audible sob removed restraint, and we cried as women

burdened with great sorrow. Precious tears! Nature’s kind alleviator in

time of trouble.

“The day was cold and dark and dreary,

And it rained and the winds were never weary,”

and yet I was nerved for its duties and toil by the consciousness of

having met, uncomplainingly, the work which the preservation of my own

principles made me willing to endure. Several days subsequent to this trip

to Atlanta, the Morton girls came running in and told me that we had some

delightful friends at the “Swanton place,” who requested to see us. My

mother was too much exhausted by anxiety and waiting for that which never

came, to go, but approved my doing so. I, therefore, donned my sun-bonnet

and went; and whom should I meet but Mrs. Trenholm and her sweet young

daughters, Essie and Lila? I was delighted to see them, and invited them

to go home with me. Ma received them in a spirit of cordial hospitality,

and they were invited to remain at her house. Without hesitation, Mrs.

Trenholm accepted the proffered kindness, and returned to her wayside

rendezvous only to send her trunks, bedding and other household goods. And

truly the coming of that saintly woman and those lovely girls was a rare

benediction, especially at that time. Day by day ma looked in vain for

tidings from “the front”--wherever that might be--and day by day her

health and strength was perceptibly weakened by disappointment. Mrs.

Trenholm’s sympathy with her in her suspense regarding the operations of

Hood’s army, and the fate of her beloved son, was both touching and

consoling. Seeing that my mother and myself were hoping almost against

hope, she endeavored to bring us to a realization of that fact, and a

complete submission to the will of God, even though that will deprived us

of our loved one. All of her Christian arguments and consolations had been

pondered over and over by mother and daughter, but they never seemed so

sweet and potent as when coming in the chaste and simple language of a

precious saintly woman.

With the tact peculiar to the refined of every clime and locality, Mrs.

Trenholm assumed management of the culinary department, and her dinner-pot

hung upon our crane several weeks, and daily sent forth appetizing odors

of bacon and peas. How we enjoyed those peas and that bacon, and the soup

seasoned with the only condiments at our command--salt and red pepper--and

the good hoe cakes! Mrs. Trenholm had a large sack of cow peas, and a sack

of dried fruit, and other articles of food which she had provided for

herself and her family before she left Southwest Georgia _en route_ to her

home in Marietta, which she left in obedience to the order of William

Tecumseh Sherman, and which she learned, before reaching Decatur, had

shared the fate of nearly all other homes which had to be thus abandoned.

Although magnanimously proffered, we were averse to sharing Mrs.

Trenholm’s well-prepared and ofttimes tempting _cuisine_, unless our

proportion of food equaled hers; and fearing even the appearance of scanty

supplies, I set about to gather up “the miners,” so that we might appoint

a day to again go lead digging, if that which we left in as many little

heaps as there were members of the company had been, in the interim,

gathered up by others.

On former occasions I had led my company to victory over that malignant

general left by Sherman to complete his work, and styled by him “General

Starvation,” and they were willing to go wherever I led. Now, I had two

recruits of whom I was very proud. Telitha, too, had gathered from

observation that the sweet young Trenholm girls were going with us, and

she set about to provide very small baskets for their use, which, with

gestures amusing and appropriate, she made us understand were large enough

to contain all the lead that girls so pretty and so ladylike ought to

carry. To their credit, however, they repudiated that idea, and carried

larger vessels. By appointment the “lead diggers” were to meet at the

tan-yard, those arriving first to wait until the entire number came. “Man

proposes and God disposes.” Just as my last glove was drawn on, Telitha,

ever on the alert, said “Morton, Morton,” and I looked and saw the girls

coming. “We needn’t go--the commissary has folded its tents, and silently

stolen away,” was the voluntary announcement. Imagine my consternation and

disappointment--the last hope of supply cut off! Ma saw the effect upon

me, and said in a more hopeful voice than was her wont, “The Lord is my

shepherd, I shall not want.” And good Mrs. Trenholm said her sack of peas

was like the cruse of oil that never seemed to diminish in quantity,

however much was taken out of it. An examination, too, of our own

resources was quite gratifying; but I knew I ought to be “providing for a

rainy day.”

I pass now over an interval which brings me to the latter part of January,

1865. My sister returned home from Madison and spent several weeks with

us, but had accepted an offer to teach at Grantville, on the LaGrange and

West Point Railroad. I had a precious aunt, my mother’s sister, Mrs. Annie

Watson, whom I loved dearly, and of whom I had not heard a word since the

interruption of the mail communication by the siege of Atlanta, and my

mother’s frequent mention of her determined me to go and see if this

beloved aunt was living, and, if so, in what condition. I knew she was one

of the favored ones of earth, viewed from a worldly standpoint, but I

knew not what changes had come over her or her worldly possessions. Rumor

conveyed startling accounts of the atrocious deeds of Wilson’s raiders,

and I knew that they were operating in that rich cotton belt of Alabama

which embraced my aunt’s plantation and beautiful home. I could scarcely

hope that that home and its valuable appointments had escaped the cupidity

of an organized band of robbers protected by the United States Government.

When I think of my mother’s fond affection for her children, and her

tender solicitude for their welfare, I am constrained to think that she

thought I was endowed with a sort of charmed existence not subject to the

perils which beset the pathway of ordinary mortals, and hence her ready

acquiescence to my proposition to undertake a journey of many miles, under

circumstances of imminent danger, inspired with confidence amounting to

certainty that I would be preserved by an All-wise Providence for future

usefulness. I had very little preparation to make for the contemplated

trip. A pretty, small-checked dress, which had done service through many a

changing scene, and was good for as many more, and a hat--well, I beg to

be excused from describing it--and gloves upon which I had expended skill

in darning until it was difficult to perceive where the darning ceased and

the glove began, completed my toilet, and I bade to all appearance a

cheerful good-bye to my mother and kind friends, and went by private

conveyance to Fairburn. There I took the train for Cowles’ Station,

Alabama.

Nothing of particular interest transpired on the way. My country was

prostrate and bleeding from many lacerations, and my tears flowed so

freely that by the time I reached my railroad destination I had a very

sick headache. That “there is a providence that shapes our ends” was again

illustrated. Some of my aunt’s neighbors, who knew me at least by name,

were at the station, and kindly offered to carry me to her residence, a

distance of ten miles. I found my aunt in feeble health, and all alone

save her usual dusky attendant. Her only child, Mrs. Mary E. Seaman, had

gone to Tuskeegee to see her little daughter, who was there going to

school in care of a friend and relative, Col. Smith Graham. My closest

scrutiny failed to detect any change in my aunt’s mode of living. The same

retinue of servants came into the house to see and shake hands with

mistress’ niece, and after many questions about “our white folks in

Georgia,” retired from my presence with the same courtesy that had marked

their demeanor towards me in ante-bellum days.

My aunt manifested her joy at seeing me in many ways, and wept and smiled

alternately, as I related my adventures with the Yankees. “And my sister,

what was their treatment of her?” My evasive answer, “It could have been

worse,” heightened her desire to learn particulars, and I told them to

her. She was grateful for all leniency shown by them, and affected to

tears by unkindness. As the day waned, and the middle of the afternoon

came on, my aunt proposed walking “to meet Mary.” I supported her fragile

form, and guided her footsteps in the best part of the road. How like her

beloved sister in Georgia she seemed! Accustomed to this little diversion,

for she always went to meet Mary, she had reckoned accurately regarding

the time of her daughter’s coming, and we had not gone far when we saw the

carriage descending a declivity in the distance. Nelson, the coachman, had

also recognized “Mistress and Miss Mary,” and announced his discovery to

my cousin. Increased speed in the gait of the horses soon brought us

together, and she opened the door and stepped to the ground. After kissing

her dear mother, she encircled me in her arms, and kissed me time and

again, and then assisted me into the carriage, and she and her mother

followed. I greeted the coachman in a cordial manner, because of past

service and present fidelity to “mistress and my white folks” generally.

With my rapidity in conversation, I could scarcely keep up with my

cousin’s questions. Happy woman! She had never seen any “Blue-coats,” or,

in the parlance of the times, “Yankees,” and she enjoyed my description of

them, especially when in answer to the question, “Do they look like our

men?” I attempted to define the difference. It was amusing to me to hear

her describe the preparations she made for the coming of Wilson and his

raiders.

After reaching home, she left her mother and myself only a few minutes. I

scarcely perceived her absence, and yet when she returned the disparity in

our dress was not so apparent. The elegant traveling suit had been

exchanged for her plainest home attire, and every article of jewelry had

disappeared. The brief period spent with these dear relatives was spent

in mutual efforts to entertain and amuse each other. My aunt’s

conversation was like sweet music in which minor chords abounded. Her love

for her sister, and apprehension of evil, gave a pathetic turn to every

conversation she attempted, and it was evident to me that she had given up

all hope of my brother’s safety, and her resignation under similar

circumstances was a great support to me.

Much as I enjoyed this luxurious home, and its refined appointments, there

was a controlling motive--a nearer tie--that made me willing to again take

up the hardships and perils of warfare, and battle for life with that

relentless enemy left by Sherman to complete his cruel work, the aforesaid

General Starvation.

After many farewell words were spoken, I left my aunt, accompanied by her

daughter, who went with me to the station for the purpose of seeing me on

the train bound for Fairburn, then the terminus of the railroad. It was

past noon when the train left the station, and in those days of slow

railroad locomotion, it was all the afternoon reaching West Point. I

learned before reaching there that I would have to remain over until the

next morning, and, therefore, as soon as I stepped from the cars, started

to hunt a place at which to spend the night. Wending my way, solitary and

alone, through the twilight, I saw Mr. John Pate, the depot agent at

Decatur, coming towards me.

“Oh, Mr. Pate, have you heard anything from ma in the last week?”

“Yes; it went very hard with her, but she was some better this morning.”

I did not have to ask another question. I knew it all, and was dumb with

grief. The thought that I would never see my darling brother again

paralyzed me. I saw him in the mirror of my soul, in all the periods of

his existence. The beautiful little baby boy, looking at me the first time

out of his heavenly blue eyes, and his second look, as if not satisfied

with the first, followed by the suggestion of a smile. Ah, that smile! It

had never failed me through successive years and varying scenes. The

boyhood and youth--honest, truthful and generous to a fault--and the

noble, genial boyhood, had all developed within my recollection, and I

loved him with an intensity bordering on idolatry. These scenes and many

others rushed through my mind with kaleidoscopic rapidity and made me so

dizzy that I had no knowledge of how I reached the “hotel.” My heart cried

and refused to be comforted. From the consolation of religion and

patriotism it recoiled and cried all the more. A great tie of nature had

been sundered, and the heart, bruised and crushed and bleeding, pulsated

still with vitality that would have flickered out but for the hope of

giving comfort to the poor bereaved mother and sister in our great sorrow.

Good ladies bathed my throbbing temples and kissed my cheeks and spoke

comforting words, for they were all drinking the bitter waters of Marah,

and knew how to reach the heart and speak of the balm of Gilead.

“Killed on the battle-field, thirty steps from the breastworks at

Franklin, Tennessee, November 30th, 1864,” was the definite information

regarding my brother’s death, left for me by Mr. Pate.

Interminable as the darkness of night appeared, it at length gave way to

the light of day, and I was ready with its dawn to take the train. But,

oh, the weight of this grief that was crushing me! Had the serpents which

attacked Laocoon, and crushed him to death by their dreadful strength,

reached out and embraced me in their complicated folds, I could not have

writhed in greater agony. I did not believe it was God’s will that my

brother should die, and I could not say to that Holy Being, “Thy will be

done.” In some way I felt a complicity in his death--a sort of personal

responsibility. When my brother wrote to me from his adopted home in Texas

that, having voted for secession, he believed it to be his duty to face

the danger involved by that step, and fight for the principles of

self-government vouchsafed by the Constitution of the United States, I

said nothing in reply to discourage him, but rather I indicated that if I

were eligible I should enter the contest. These, and such as these were

the harrowing reflections which accused me of personal responsibility for

the demon of war entering our household and carrying off the hope and prop

of a widowed mother.

I found my poor stricken mother almost prostrate. The tidings of her son’s

tragic death did the work apprehended by all who knew her nervous

temperament. Outwardly calm and resigned, yet almost paralyzed by the

blow, she was being tenderly cared for by our saintly neighbor, Mrs. Ammi

Williams and her family, who will always be held in grateful remembrance

by her daughters.

CHAPTER XXVI.

MY MOTHER’S DEATH.

Rev. Dr. John S. Wilson performs the funeral service

In sympathy with a disappointed people who had staked all and lost all in

the vain effort to defend the inherited rights of freemen, and had not yet

rallied from the depression occasioned by defeat, the spring of 1866 had

withheld her charms, and, instead of donning a mantle of green, decorated

with pansies, violets and primroses, hyacinths, bluebells and daffodils,

verbenas, phlox and geraniums, and bloom of vine and briar in endless

variety, the first day of April found her wounded, bleeding bosom wrapped

in the habiliments of sorrow and despondency. A few brave old apple trees,

as if to encourage the more timid, had budded and blossomed and sent forth

sweet fragrance as of yore, and a few daring sprigs of grass suggested

spring-time and sunny skies. Loneliness, oppressive and melancholy, and a

spirit of unrest, prompted me to go to the depot in quest of something

that never came, and my sister had stepped over to our neighbor, Mrs.

Williams’.

Our mother loved the spring-time. It had always been her favorite season

of the year. Fifty-nine vernal suns had brought inspiration and hope to

her sensitive, tender heart, and given impulse to a checkered life; but

now no day-star of hope shed its effulgence for her. As I mentioned in a

former sketch, her only son had fallen mortally wounded upon the

sanguinary battle-field of Franklin, and she had never recovered from the

shock.

After a few months of patient endurance, an attack of paralysis had

occurred, and during many days life and death contended for the victory.

But the skill of good physicians, among them Dr. Joseph P. Logan, and

faithful, efficient nursing, aided in giving her a comfortable state of

health lasting through several months. But the fiat had gone forth, and

now after a pathetic survey of earth, mingled with thankfulness even then

to the God of the spring-time, she succumbed to the inevitable.

Returning from the depot, I espied in the distance the approaching figure

of Telitha. As she came up to me she was the very picture of despair. With

one hand clasped to her head, she fell on the ground and lay as if dead

for a moment. My worst apprehensions were more than realized. I found my

mother speechless, and never more heard her voice--never more heard any

sound emanating from her lips except labored, heavy breathing. It was all

so sudden and strange and sad, I cannot describe it. Neighbors and friends

came in by the score, and did all they could to mitigate our great sorrow.

“Johnnie” Hardeman stayed until all was over, and mother never received

from loving son kinder care or more unremitting attention. Paul Winn also

remained and manifested deep sympathy, and so did other neighbors. Oh, the

sorrow, the poignant sorrow, to see a mother in the embrace of death, and

to have no power over the monster! About thirty hours of unconsciousness,

and without a struggle, “life’s fitful dream was over,” about 9 o’clock p.

m., April 1st, 1866. The silent hush that ensued was sacred, and scarcely

broken by the sobs of those most deeply afflicted.

Loving hands fashioned a shroud, and a beautiful casket was obtained from

Atlanta. When all was done, and our mother arrayed for the tomb, she

looked like the bride of Heaven. I gazed long and earnestly upon her face

and figure, and went away and came back, and gazed again admiringly. For

every lineament was formed into a mold that compelled admiration.

During the two days that she lay there, I often lingered by her side; and

I recalled the many scenes, ofttimes perilous and sad, and ofttimes joyous

and gay, through which we had gone together. Although a wee bit girl,

scarcely turned in my fifth year at the time of my mother’s second

marriage, I remembered her as a bride. I remembered our journey by gig and

wagon to Cassville, then, paradoxical as it may sound now, situated in the

heart of a wilderness of beauty and savagery. The war-whoop of an

uncivilized race of Indians, justly angry and resentful, reverberated

though the impenetrable forest that belted the little settlement of white

people that had the hardihood and bravery to make their homes among them.

I remembered how she soon became a favorite, and was beloved by every one

in that sparsely-settled locality, and won even the hearts of the Indians,

by kindness towards them. She taught them how to make frocks and shirts,

and clothes for their children, for the Cherokees were an ambitious

people, and aspired to assimilation with the white race; and, to please

them, she learned to bead moccasins, and other articles, ornamental and

useful, just as they did. She also learned their alphabet, and became able

to instruct them in their own language.

I remembered how she had always worked for the poor; not so much in

societies (where the good that is accomplished in one way is often more

than counterbalanced by the harm that is done in others), as in the quiet

of her home, and in the humble habitations of God’s poor. I remembered,

with a melancholy thrill, how she had worked for our soldiers, and had not

withheld good deeds from an invading alien army. Reverently I took in mine

her little, symmetrical hand as it lay peacefully over the heart that had

ever beat in unison with all that was good. It was weather-beaten, and I

could feel the rough places on the palm through the pretty white silk

glove in which it was encased. Cold and stark in death, it gave no

responsive pressure to my own. I thought of its past service to me in

which it never tired. It had trained my own from the rudimentary “straight

lines” and “pot hooks,” through all the intricacies of skilled penmanship,

and from the picturesque letters on a sampler to the complete stitches of

advanced embroidery. The little motionless hand that I now held in my own

had picked corn from cracks and crevices in bureau drawers, which served

as troughs for Garrard’s cavalry horses, to make bread with which to

appease her hunger and mine. I gazed upon the pallid face and

finely-chiseled features. The nose never seemed so perfect, or the brow so

fair, or the snow-white hair so beautiful. The daintiest of mull caps

heightened the effect of the perfect combination of feature, placidity and

intellectual expression. I fancied I had never seen her look so beautiful,

and felt that it was meet that we should lay her away in a tomb where she

could rest undisturbed until the resurrection morn, not doubting that the

verdict of a great and good God would assign her a place among His chosen

ones.

Soothing to our bruised hearts was the sweet singing of those who watched

at night beside her lifeless form. With gratitude we remember them still:

Laura and Mary Williams, Emma and John Kirkpatrick, Josiah Willard and

John McKoy. One of the hymns they sang was “Jerusalem, My Happy Home.”

The hour for the funeral service came. Friends and neighbors and

fellow-citizens had been assembling for several hours, and now the house

was full, and the yard was thronged. Where did this concourse of people

come from--old men, war-stricken veterans, and a few young men who had

survived the bloody conflict that had decimated the youth of the South,

and boys and women and girls! All alike came to pay respect to the

deceased friend, and to show sympathy for the bereaved and lonely sisters.

That sainted man and friend of ours, Rev. John S. Wilson, took his stand

near the casket, and we sat near him, and those who loved us best got

very near to us. Ah, well do I remember them! I could call each by name

now, and the order in which they came. An impressive silence ensued,

broken by the man of God uttering in hopeful intonation and animated

manner, “She is not dead, but sleepeth,” and a sermon followed upon the

resurrection of God’s people, never surpassed in interest and pathos. All

felt the power of his theme, and the eloquence of his words. He also spoke

of the humble modesty of his friend, who had counted herself least in the

congregation of the righteous, and dispensed favors to others in an

unobtrusive manner, and who practically illustrated the divine command:

“Do unto others as ye would that others should do unto you.” This

beautiful funeral tribute was succeeded by the hymn--

“Rock of ages, cleft for me,”

which was sung with an unction which none but Christians can feel.

The last earthly look, solemn and earnest, was taken of our

long-suffering, patient, loving mother, and everybody in the house

followed our example and gazed reverently upon the pretty face, cold in

death. And then the pall-bearers, “Johnnie” Kirkpatrick, “Johnnie”

Hardeman, Virgil Wilson and Mr. G. W. Houston, bore her to the grave.

With uncovered head and grey locks fluttering in the vernal breeze, Dr.

Wilson repeated the beautiful burial service of the Presbyterian Church. I

can never describe the utter desolation of feeling I experienced as I

stood clasped in the arms of my sister, and heard the first spadeful of

earth fall over the remains of our loved one.

But we had heard above all the glorious words, “This mortal shall put on

immortality,” and “O, death, where is thy sting? O, grave, where is thy

victory?”

CHAPTER XXVII.

A REMINISCENCE.

“Sister, you are not paying any attention whatever to my reading, and you

are losing the most beautiful thoughts in this delightful book.”

“Yes, and I am sorry to do so; but I think I see one of Rachel’s

children--Madaline or Frances.”

My sister closed her book, and, looking in the direction indicated, agreed

with me that the negro woman, clothed in the habiliments of widowhood, who

was coming up the avenue with a little boy by her side and one in her

arms, was one of Rachel’s children; and, although she was scarcely in her

teens when she went away, she was a mother now, and traces of care were

visible in every lineament of her face. I recognized her, however, as

Rachel’s youngest daughter, Frances, and went to meet her.

“Is that you, Frances?” I asked.

“Yes, Miss Mary, this is me; your same nigger Frances, and these are my

children.”

“I am glad to see you and your children;” and I extended my hand in

genuine cordiality to her who had once been a slave in my mother’s family,

and I bade her welcome to her old home. Frances was too demonstrative to

be satisfied with simply hand-clasping, and putting her boy on the ground,

she threw her arms around me and literally overwhelmed me with kisses. My

hands, neck and face were covered with them, and she picked me up and

carried me in her arms to the house, her children following in amazed

astonishment. She now turned her attention to them, and, after

deliberately shaking the wrinkles out of their clothes, she as

deliberately introduced them to me. The older of the two she introduced as

“King by name,” and the younger as “Lewis by name.”

“You see, Miss Mary, I named my children King and Lewis ’cause my white

folks named my brothers King and Lewis.”

The ceremony of introducing her sons to _her_ old _white folks_ being

performed to her satisfaction, she again turned her attention to me, and

again literally overwhelmed me with caresses.

Entering the house, I asked Frances and her children to come in too.

“Miss Mary, whar’s Miss Polly?”

“Have you not heard, Frances, that ma is dead?”

“Seem to me I has heard somethin’ about it, but some how I didn’t believe

it. And my poor Miss Polly is dead! Well, she ain’t dead, but she’s gone

to heaven.”

And Frances became quite hysterical in demonstrations of grief.

“And Marse Thomie, what about him, Miss Mary?”

“He was killed by the enemy at Franklin, Tenn., the 30th of November,

1864.”

“Miss Mary, did them old Yankees kill him?”

“Yes, he was killed in battle.”

And again, whether sincere or affected, Frances became hysterical in

demonstrations of grief.

“Miss Mary, whar’s Miss Missouri? Is she dead too?”

“No; that was she who was sitting in the portico with me as you were

coming up the avenue. She always has to go off and compose herself before

meeting any of you--ma was that way, too--I suppose you remind her of

happier days, and the contrast is so sad that she is overcome by grief and

has to get relief in tears.”

“Yes’m, I have to cry, too, and it does me a monstous heap of good. I know

it’s mighty childish, but I jest can’t help it. Jest to think all my white

folks is done dead but Miss Mary and Miss Missouri!”

“Our brother left a dear little boy in Texas, and I am going after him

next winter. He and his mother are going to live with us, and then we will

not be so lonely.”

“That’s so, Miss Mary.”

Frances and her children having partaken of a bountiful supper, she

resumed, with renewed vigor, her erratic conversation, which consisted,

chiefly, of innumerable questions, interspersed with much miraculous

information regarding herself since she left her white folks and became a

wife, a mother, and a widow.

“Miss Mary, whar’s my children going to sleep tonight?”

“With your help I will provide a comfortable place for them, and, also,

for you.”

And taking a lantern and leading the way to the kitchen, I entered and

pointed to a light bedstead, and told her to carry a portion of it at a

time to my room, and we would put it up in there.

“Same old room, jest like it was when me and my mammy used to sleep in it.

“Well, things do look mighty nateral if it has been a long time since I

seed it.

“And Miss Mary is agoing to let me and my children sleep in her room.

Well!”

The bedstead having been placed in position, a mattress and bed clothing

were furnished. And soon the little negro children were soundly sleeping

under the protecting roof of their mother’s former young mistresses.

“Whar’s your teakettle, Miss Mary?” Having been told where to find it,

Frances took it to the well and filled it with water, and, by adding a

little more fuel to the fire, soon had it boiling.

“Whar’s your bath-tub, Miss Mary?”

That, too, was soon produced and supplied with hot water, reduced to

proper temperature. Memories of the past left no doubt in my mind as to

the use to which the water was to be applied, and I determined to gratify

every fancy that would give pleasure to our former handmaid, and,

therefore, I made no resistance when garters were unbuckled, shoes and

stockings removed, and feet tenderly lifted into the tub. She knew just

how long to keep them there, and how to manipulate them so as to give the

most satisfaction and enjoyment; and how to dry them--a very important

process. And then the shoes and stockings were again put on, and giving

me an affectionate pat on the head she told me to sit still until she told

me to move.

“Now, whar’s your comb and brush?”

The force of habit must have impelled her to ask this question, as,

without awaiting an answer, she went to the bureau and got the articles

about which she had asked, and in a few moments she had my long, luxuriant

black hair uncoiled and flowing over my shoulders. She was delighted; she

combed and braided it, and unbraided and combed it again and again, and

finally, as if reluctant to do so, arranged it for the night.

“Now, whar’s your gown?”

“You will find it hanging in the wardrobe.”

Having undressed me, Frances insisted upon putting the gown on me, and

then wanted to carry and put me in bed; this service, however, I declined

with thanks. All these gentle manipulations had a soporific effect upon

me, and I fain would have slept, but no such pleasure was in store for me.

Frances had an axe to grind, and I had to turn the grindstone, or incur

her displeasure. Mark her proposition:

“Miss Mary, I come to give you my children.”

“Your what?”

“My children, these smart little boys. I’ll go with you to the court-house

in the mornin’ and you can have the papers drawn up and I’ll sign ’em, and

these little niggers will belong to you ’til they’s of age to do for

theyselves; and all I’ll ever ask you to do for me for ’em is to raise

them like my Miss Polly raised me.”

“That you should be willing to give your children away, Frances, surprises

me exceedingly. If you are without a home, and would like to come here and

live, I will do all I can for you and your children. The kitchen is not

occupied, only as a lumber or baggage room, and you can have that without

paying rent; and you can take care of the cow and have all you can make

off of her milk and butter, except just enough for the table use of two;

and you can have a garden without paying rent, and many other

favors--indeed, I will favor you in every possible way.”

“Well, I tell you how it is, Miss Mary. You see, mammy wants to open up a

laundry, and she wants me to help her. She’s done ’gaged several womens to

help her, and she wants me to go in with her sorter as a partner, you see.

And I wants to get my children a good home, for you knows if I had to take

care of ’em I couldn’t do much in a laundry.”

“And you want me to take care of them?”

“Yes’m; just like you used to take care of your own little niggers before

freedom, and after I sign the papers they’ll belong to you, _don’t you

know_.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you, Frances, but I cannot accept your offer. If

slavery were restored and every negro on the American continent were

offered to me, I should spurn the offer, and prefer poverty rather than

assume the cares and perplexities of the ownership of a people who have

shown very little gratitude for what has been done for them.” Without

seeming to notice the last sentence, Frances exclaimed:

“Well, it’s mighty strange. White folks used to love little niggers, and

now they won’t have them as a gracious gift.”

Under the cover of night she had made her proposition and received her

disappointment, after which she lay down by her children and was soon

sleeping at the rate of 2:40 per hour, if computed by the snoring she kept

up. In due time morning, cheerful, sun-lighted morning, came, and with it

many benign influences and good resolutions for the day.

Frances asked where everything was, and having ascertained, went to work

and soon had a nice, appetizing breakfast for us, as well as for herself

and children. After that important meal had been enjoyed, she inquired

about the trains on the Georgia Railroad, and asked what time she could go

into Atlanta. I told her she could go at nine o’clock, but I preferred

that she should stay until twelve o’clock, m.

“Miss Mary, what was in that trunk I saw in the kitchen last night?”

“I scarcely know; odds and ends put there for safekeeping, I suppose.”

“May I have the trunk and the odds and ends in it? They can’t be much, or

they wouldn’t be put off there.”

“We will go and see.” Again I took the kitchen key, and the trunk key as

well, and having unlocked both receptacles, I told Frances to turn the

contents of the trunks out upon the floor. When she saw them I noticed her

disappointment, and I told her to remain there until I called her. I went

in the house and got a pair of sheets, a pair of blankets, a quilt,

several dresses and underclothing, and many things that she could make

useful for her children, and put them together, and then called her and

told her to take them and put them in the trunk.

“Look here, Miss Mary, you ain’t going to give me all them things, is

you?”

“Yes, put them in the trunk and lock it.”

A large sack of apples, a gift also, was soon gathered and a boy engaged

to carry it and the trunk over to the depot in a wheelbarrow. Promptly at

half-past eleven o’clock the trunk and apples, and Frances and her little

boys, were on the way to the depot, _en route_ to Atlanta, their future

home, and even a synopsis of the subsequent achievements of that woman and

her unlettered mother would be suggestive of Munchausen.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

HOW THE DECATUR WOMEN KEPT UP THE SABBATH SCHOOL.

A Brief Sketch of the Old Churches and the Union Sunday School--The

Resumption of Church Services.

Before the war there were in Decatur but two churches, the Methodist and

the Presbyterian; although Baptist and Episcopal services were

occasionally held. The churches first mentioned had been organized about

1825. The Presbyterians first worshipped in a log church, and afterwards

in a frame building, but in 1846 had erected a substantial brick church.

In this building was also taught the Decatur Union Sabbath School,

organized in 1831, and for twenty-five years preceding the summer of 1864

it had been superintended by that godly man, Mr. Levi Willard.

The Federals had now come in. The church had been rifled of all its

contents, including the pews. The faithful Sunday School superintendent

with his lovely family soon after went away. Being nearer to our house, I

remember more about the dismantling and refurnishing of the Presbyterian

church than of the Methodist. So far as can be ascertained, the last

sermon at the Presbyterian church had been preached by Rev. James C.

Patterson, who was then living at Griffin, but was the stated supply of

the pulpit here at that time. He will be remembered as a most godly man,

and as a sweet singer of sacred songs.

The Sabbath before the entrance of the Federals, no service was held in

the dear old church. The last prayer service had been held on Wednesday

afternoon, led by Mr. Levi Willard, who was an efficient elder.

In July, 1864, but few families remained in Decatur; but there was still a

goodly number of children and young people whose training must not be

neglected. On the southwest corner of the Courthouse stood, and still

stands, a long, narrow, two-story house. The lower story was occupied as a

residence--the upper story, for many years preceding and succeeding these

times, was the quarters of the Masonic Lodge. In the ante-room of this

lodge, Miss Lizzie Mortin taught a day school. The first story of the

building was now occupied by the family of Mr. John M. Hawkins. Mr.

Hawkins had enlisted in the army early in the war, but for some reason had

returned home and been elected clerk of the court, which position he held

until forced to leave before the advancing foe.

Mrs. Hawkins, whose maiden name was Valeria A. Perkins, the eldest

daughter of Reuben Perkins of Franklin county, gladly opened her house on

Sunday mornings that the children might be taught in the Sacred

Scriptures. And thus a Sunday School was begun, and Mrs. Hawkins was made

the superintendent.

Among the organizers and teachers may be mentioned Miss Cynthia Brown,

Mrs. H. H. Chivers, Mrs. Eddleman, Miss Lizzie Morton, and Miss Lizzie

McCrary. Mr. and Mrs. Buchanan, Mrs. Ammi Williams, and Mr. Fred Williams

acted as a sort of advisory board. Rev. Dr. Holmes and Rev. P. F. Hughes,

two elderly Baptist ministers, sometimes came; and Mr. R. J. Cooper, a

godly layman, came a few times.

The names of some of these Sabbath school pupils can yet be

re-called:--Charley, Guss and Lizzie Hawkins; their Cousins John, Sam,

Ellen and Lizzie Hawkins, the children of Mr. Sam Hawkins, who is still

living in Summerville, Georgia; the children of Mr. R. J. Cooper, and of

Mrs. Eddleman, Mrs. Chivers, and of Mr. Ed Morton. There were others whose

names I cannot recall.

The number of pupils increased to forty, and the school, having out-grown

its quarters, was moved to the Court House; but when the Federals chose to

occupy the Court House, the Sunday school was moved back to Mrs. Hawkins’s

home. The Bible was the text book; for there were no Sunday-school papers

or song books.

Imagine the scene, if you can. Says one of the participants, who was then

a young girl: “We were a peculiarly dressed lot. I had a stand-by suit,

the skirt made of a blanket shawl; with this I wore one of my brother’s

white shirts and a red flannel jacket. I had grown so fast that I was

taller than my mother, and there was literally nothing large enough in our

house or circle of friends to make me a whole suit. One of the ladies wore

a gray plaid silk, a pair of brown jeans shoes, and a woven straw bonnet.

She had nothing else to wear. Many of the children were rigged out in

clothes made from thrown-away uniforms, picked up, washed, and cut down

by the mothers.”

Mrs. Hawkins is still living near Decatur. She remembers that on several

occasions the soldiers came in while the school was in session, much to

the demoralizing of good order and comfort of mind. On one occasion the

raiders piled barrels one on top of another, near the house, and set them

afire, frightening the children very much.

When the war was over, the refugees began to return. Among the first were

the families of Mr. J. W. Kirkpatrick, Mr. Ezekiel Mason, Captain Milton

A. Candler, Dr. W. W. Durham, Dr. P. F. Hoyle, Mrs. Jane Morgan, Mrs.

Cynthia Stone, Mr. James Winn, Mr. Benjamin Swanton, Mr. Jonathan Wilson,

and Mr. J. N. Pate. But, alas! our faithful old Sunday-school

superintendent and his family returned not, but remained in Springfield,

Ohio, with the exception of Mr. Josiah J. Willard, who afterwards married

Miss Jessie Candler, a sister of Captain Candler.

These returning refugees were devoted to the Sunday-school. Mr. John C.

Kirkpatrick, just from the war, and scarce twenty-one, undertook the task

of re-seating the Presbyterian church. He went out to a saw-mill and had

puncheons sawed and carried to Mr. Kirkpatrick’s cabinet shop, where they

were fashioned into temporary seats. These were placed in the church, and

it was once more opened for the exercises of the union Sunday-school, and

also for divine worship. Who conducted those exercises, I can find no one

who now remembers. My mother had been stricken in July, 1865, with

paralysis, which confined her to her bed for many weeks. It was not to be

supposed that her daughters could leave her; so that neither one of them

can recollect these sessions of the resumed Sabbath-school.

There lies before me “the Sunday-school register and minute-book of 1866,”

kindly furnished for inspection by Mr. Hiram J. Williams, who had from

early youth been constantly identified with the Sunday-school and church.

The Superintendent was Mr. Ben T. Hunter; the librarian, Mr. John C.

Kirkpatrick; the treasurer, Mr. John J. McKoy. Mr. Kirkpatrick removed to

Atlanta in the August of that year, and Mr. Josiah Willard was elected to

fill his place, but resigned in December to go on to Ohio, from whence he

soon returned, and died a few years ago in Atlanta.

But I must not forget that I am not writing a history of the

Sabbath-school, yet I cannot leave the theme without mentioning the fact

that all the faithful ones who had taught in the stormy days of war still

came in time of peace, and many others whose hearts had not grown cold by

their enforced absence. Let me mention the teachers: Mr. J. W.

Kirkpatrick, Dr. P. F. Hoyle, Rev. A. T. Holmes, Mr. W. W. Brimm, Captain

Milton A. Candler, Mr. G. A. Ramspeck[4], Dr. John L. Hardman, Mr. H. H.

Puckett, Mr. W. A. Moore (afterwards a Superintendent), Miss Cynthia

Brown, Mrs. H. H. Chivers, Mrs. Eddleman, Mrs. Catharine Winn, Mrs. Jane

Morgan, Miss Lizzie Swanton, Mrs. E. A. Mason, Mrs. Valeria A. Hawkins,

Mrs. J. J. McKoy and Miss Lee Moore. Miss M. H. Stokes had been appointed

one of the teachers, but her mother’s feeble health, and the great shock

consequent upon her death, prevented this teacher from attending that year

with any regularity.

Among the names of “visitors” we notice those of Mr. Bryce, Rev. P. F.

Hughes, Mr. Cooper, and Mr. L. J. Winn.

The re-opening of the Sabbath school at the old church was doubtless a

great blessing to many. To one young man the joining of that school, and

the acceptance of a teacher’s place, meant the first public step to a

profession of faith in Christ. Captain Milton A. Candler was the child of

pious parents, but so far as he knew, was at this time an unconverted man.

He reluctantly and with great diffidence accepted a teacher’s place. Said

he quite recently: “I attribute my subsequent union with the church to the

study of the Bible which I made while teaching a class of little boys,

Sabbath after Sabbath, in the old church with its puncheon seats. I taught

my pupils, a class of little boys, to read from ‘the blue-back speller,’

and, when that lesson was over, read to them from the Bible, explaining it

to them as best I could in all humility.” In a few years he made a public

profession of his faith in Christ, and was elected to the Superintendency

of the Sabbath-school, (which office he still holds), and has labored for

its interests with a love and an unflagging zeal rarely ever equalled.

How sweet were the voices of many of the teachers and pupils! John C.

Kirkpatrick sang a fine tenor; and clear and soft and true were the tones

of Josiah Willard, sweet as the lovely character of this sainted one. All

who knew Rev. J. D. Burkhead remember his singing, and he often led the

music. A little later came Mrs. Mary Jane Wood with her magnificent voice,

and the grand bass of Joseph Morgan, the son of one of the pioneer

teachers, Mrs. Martha Morgan. From this Sunday-school, and from its

ex-Confederate soldiers, there went into the ministry W. W. Brimm, Paul P.

Winn and Sam K. Winn. Promoted to the Glory Land long ago was Mrs. Jane

Morgan; and, more recently, Mrs. Catherine Winn.

In the summer of 1866, a Sabbath-school was organized at the Methodist

church, which, while a step in the right direction, was the sundering, in

one sense, of ties that were very dear.

I cannot ascertain when the first sermon was preached in the church after

the war, but think it must have been in August, as there is this entry in

the journal of my sister, Miss Stokes, already quoted from in a former

part of this volume: “Sunday, August 27th, 1865.--Dr. Holmes preached in

the Presbyterian church, which has been re-opened for divine service,

being furnished with puncheon seats without backs. There are a few benches

with backs. Next Sabbath, Dr. Wilson will administer the communion of the

Lord’s supper.” This was done at the time appointed--the first communion

held in the church after the war. (The Dr. Wilson referred to was the

venerable Rev. John S. Wilson, D. D., who had organized the church forty

years before.)

So far as is known, the only part of the former church furnishings that

ever re-appeared was the melodeon (or “seraphine”), which Rosella Stone, a

negro woman, had preserved. She must have done this for the sake of Miss

Marian Stone, who had formerly played it in church, and who, if I remember

aright, played it again after the resumption of church services.

In the winter of 1865 and 1866, there was preaching for a short while by

the Rev. Theodore Smith. Then followed Rev. J. D. Burkhead, and under his

preaching, in the early spring, there occurred a protracted meeting, at

which many persons were added to the church.

Gladly would I recall, if I could, the preachers who supplied the

Methodist church at that time, but my memory fails me as to the exact

details. I believe, however, that the Rev. William Henry Clarke, referred

to in a preceding sketch, was the first Methodist minister who preached

there after the war; and that Rev. Mr. Morgan and Rev. William A. Dodge

were the first ministers in charge appointed by Conference.

In ante-bellum times, on many of the large plantations, special services

were held for the negroes--some planters paying a regular salary for this

purpose. In pious families, members of the household often taught the

slaves, especially the house servants, the Bible and Catechism. So far as

I can recollect, certain seats were assigned to them in all churches at

all services, besides the special services usually held for them on

Sabbath afternoons.

After the war, the negroes of Decatur and surrounding country were

organized into a Sabbath-school at the Presbyterian Church, They came in

large numbers, and were faithfully taught by the people of Decatur. To the

kind courtesy of Mr. George A. Ramspeck I am indebted for the loan of the

Minute-book of this school, which seems to have been organized in 1867.

The pastor was the Superintendent. The Vice-Superintendent was Mr. Samuel

K. Winn, the Treasurer, Mr. George A. Ramspeck, and the Librarian, Mr.

Moses S. Brown. But after several months the negroes went off to

themselves, and eventually founded the African Methodist Episcopal Church.

They have also a Baptist Church. In these undertakings they were assisted

by the people of the village.

CHAPTER XXIX.

POSTAL AFFAIRS.

The Postmaster, Hiram J. Williams--A life that was a reality, but reads

like a romance.

The north side of the court-house square at Decatur is intersected by a

public road leading to North Decatur, Silver Lake, the Chattahoochee

River, and points beyond. On the eastern corner of this intersection

stands the well-known Bradbury House. The house itself is an unsightly

object, being almost untenable through age and neglect, but occupying a

most desirable location. From its site lovely views of the surrounding

country may be obtained, as the eye sweeps the circle of the horizon which

is bounded on the north by distant hills, and on the northwest by the blue

peaks of the Kennesaw. In the west is a near-by plateau, crowned with oaks

and pines, beautiful in the morning when covered with a filmy mantle of

faint purple mist--gorgeous at evening, when overhung by sunset clouds.

In 1860 the lower part of the Bradbury House was occupied as a store and

postoffice, the proprietor and postmaster being Mr. William Bradbury. His

assistant was Hiram J. Williams, then a lad of fourteen years. When Mr.

Bradbury enlisted in the DeKalb Light Infantry in 1861, Hiram became in

reality the postmaster. At that early age he manifested the same traits

which have characterized him to this day--unwearied attention to the

business before him, unvarying courtesy, beautiful modesty, calm unbroken

serenity of manner, and an unswerving honesty.

During the four years of the war, the mail received and sent out from

Decatur was enormous in its quantity, and all the while it was handled by

this youth; for when, in 1862, Mr. Bradbury resigned and Mr. John N. Pate

was appointed postmaster in his place, Hiram Williams was retained in the

office, Mr. Pate simply bringing over the mail from the depot. So great

was the quantity of mail matter that sometimes Hiram had to call to his

assistance his young friend, John Bowie.

During those war years, there were but few postoffices in DeKalb County,

and the people for miles around had their mail sent to Decatur. The

soldiers, unless writing to young ladies, rarely ever paid postage on

their letters, but left it to be done by their home folks. This unpaid

postage had to be collected and kept account of. Often a poor wife or

mother, after trudging weary miles to the postoffice, would receive a

letter from husband or son and, unwilling to return without answering it,

would request Hiram to answer it for her, which he always did. With every

package of letters sent out, a way-bill had to go, showing the number of

letters, how many were prepaid, how many unpaid, etc, etc. Imagine the

work this entailed! Imagine the great responsibility! Imagine the youth

who bore this labor and responsibility for four years! Small of stature,

quiet in manner, but with an undaunted spirit looking out from his steady

but softly bright brown eyes. How brave he must have been, and how his

good widowed mother and only sister must have doted on him.

In July, 1864, when the booming of the Federal guns is heard from the

banks of the Chattahoochee, the postoffice is closed and for several

months thereafter letters, if sent for at all, are sent by hand.

Our brave little postmaster now hies him away to Augusta, and there acts

as mailing clerk for “The Constitutionalist,” and, after the surrender,

for “The Evening Transcript.” In 1866 he returns to Decatur and engages in

mercantile business with Willard and McKoy, but soon after opens a store

of his own.

Early in 1867, Mr. Williams, now arrived at the age of twenty-one, is

appointed postmaster at Decatur by Samuel W. Randall, postmaster general

of the United States Government. In 1869 Mr. Williams was elected clerk of

the Superior Court of DeKalb County, still retaining the office of

postmaster, but having an assistant in each position.

In 1871, he was re-elected clerk of the court, and again in 1873. All this

time he continued to be postmaster, and was re-commissioned by Postmaster

General Jewell in 1875, holding the office up to 1880.

Mr. Williams continued to be Clerk of the Superior Court until 1884, when

Mr. Robert Russell, a Confederate veteran, was elected. Mr. Williams then

returned for a while to mercantile pursuits. But while pursuing the even

tenor of his way, was called to a responsible position in Atlanta (which

he still holds) with the G. W. Scott Manufacturing Company, now known as

the Southern Fertilizer Company.

From 1870 to 1886, Mr. Williams was a special correspondent of “The

Atlanta Constitution,” thus preserving the history of Decatur and of

DeKalb county during that period.

So much for a business career of remarkable success. But is this all? What

of the higher and nobler life? This has not been neglected. In 1866 Mr.

Williams united with the Decatur Presbyterian church. In 1868 he was

appointed Librarian of the Sabbath school, an office he still holds. In

1894 he was elected to the office of Deacon, and also appointed church

Treasurer. When the Agnes Scott Institute, for girls, was founded in 1891,

he was made Secretary and Treasurer.

Mr. Williams has been twice married--in his early manhood to Miss Jennie

Hughes, who lived but a short while. His present wife was Miss Belle

Steward, who has been a true help-meet. They have a lovely and hospitable

home on Sycamore street, where her sweet face, ever beaming with

cheerfulness and loving kindness and sympathy for all, must be to him as a

guiding star to lead and bless him with its light, as he returns at

evening from the city and its business cares and toils, to the rest and

peace of home.

If any one should say that this is not strictly a war sketch, I would

reply, “no, but who could resist following up at least the salient points

of such a life--a life that exemplifies the main elements of success.”

Dear young readers, have you not seen what they are:--perseverance,

fidelity to trusts reposed, punctuality, courtesy, honesty and

conscientiousness--in other words, adherence to right principles and to

Christian duty.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE TRAGIC DEATH OF SALLIE DURHAM.

The closing days of the war--A sketch of the Durham family--The death of

Sallie.

On the 9th of April, 1865, at Appomattox Court House, Lee had surrendered

his army of twenty-five thousand men to Grant with his four-fold forces.

One after another of the Confederate Generals had been forced to yield to

superior numbers, and by the last of May the war was over.

“The North had at the beginning of the strife a population of twenty-two

millions; the South had ten millions, four millions of whom were slaves.

The North had enlisted during the war two million six hundred thousand

troops--the South a little more than six hundred thousand. Now the North

had a million men to send home--the South but one hundred and fifty

thousand.”

Jefferson Davis had been captured, and imprisoned in Fortress Monroe. Our

worn and ragged soldiers had returned to a devastated country. Our entire

people were to begin life over again in the midst of poverty, uncertainty,

and under the watchful eye of the conqueror. The war was over, but

military rule was not.

It was in these transition days, between the fall of “the Lost Cause” and

the more stirring events of “Reconstruction,” that there occurred in our

little village a most appalling tragedy. To understand it fully, my

readers should know something of the young lady’s family. Let us pause

here and take a backward glance.

About a hundred years ago Lindsey Durham, a Georgia boy of English

descent, graduated from a Philadelphia Medical College and located in

Clarke county, in his native State. Drugs were expensive, as they could

not be obtained nearer than Savannah, Charleston or New York. Being

surrounded by frontiersmen and Indians, he could but notice the efficacy

of the native barks and roots used by them as medicines. He was thus led

to adopt to a large extent the theories of the Botanic School. He began to

cultivate his own medicinal plants, and to prosecute with much zeal his

botanical studies and researches. He even went to Europe and procured

seeds and plants of medicinal value, until finally his garden of medicinal

herbs and plants contained thirteen acres. So great was his fame that

patients began to come to him from adjoining States, and he had to build

cottages on his plantation in order to entertain them. His marvellous

success brought to him ample compensation. He became a millionaire, and

lived in all the old-time splendor. Once, by a loan of money, he rescued

the Athens bank from utter failure.

Dr. Lindsey Durham left several sons, all of whom were physicians. The

eldest of these, and the most eminent, was Dr. William W. Durham, who was

born on his father’s plantation in Clarke county, in 1823. After a

collegiate course at Mercer University, he graduated from the Jefferson

Medical College of Philadelphia, taking high honors, spending five years

in the hospital there, and perfecting himself in surgery. This talented

gentleman married Miss Sarah Lowe, of Clarke county, and, four years after

her death, he married Mrs. Georgia A. Allen, whose maiden name was Wood,

and who was a native of Franklin, Georgia.

With the children of his first marriage and their fair young step-mother,

Dr. Durham came to Decatur in 1859. Well do I remember the children; two

handsome sons, John and William--two pretty brown-eyed girls, Sarah and

Catherine. It is needless to say that a large practice awaited the

skillful physician, whose eclectic methods were then comparatively new.

William, the eldest son, went into the Confederate service at the age of

sixteen, remaining the entire four years, suffering severely at the siege

of Vicksburg, fighting valiantly at the Battle of Atlanta, and coming out

of the war the shadow of his former self, with nothing but an old army

mule and one silver dollar.

Sarah Durham, called Sallie by her family and friends, was a lovely girl

of seventeen. She was tall and graceful; bright, and full of enthusiasm;

kind, loving and generous. She had just returned from her grandmother’s

plantation, for her father had not sooner dared to have his daughters

return, such was the insolence of the straggling Federals.

On the morning of September 1st, 1865, this dear girl arose early and

noiselessly with a scheme in her kind heart. The former servants were all

gone; her mother was not well, and she would surprise the household by

preparing for them a nice breakfast. In fancy we see her, as she treads

lightly, and chats softly with her tiny half-sister Jennie, and with a

little negro girl who in some way had remained with the family.

The Durham residence, which was on Sycamore street, then stood just

eastward of where Col. G. W. Scott now lives. The rear of the house faced

the site where the depot had been before it was burned by the Federals,

the distance being about 350 yards. Hearing an incoming train, Sallie went

to the dining room window to look at the cars, as she had learned in some

way that they contained Federal troops. While standing at the window

resting against the sash, she was struck by a bullet fired from the train.

(It was afterwards learned that the cars were filled with negro troops on

their way to Savannah, who were firing off their guns in a random,

reckless manner.) The ball entered the left breast of this dear young

girl, ranging obliquely downward, coming out just below the waist, and

lodging in the door of a safe, or cupboard, which stood on the opposite

side of the room. (This old safe, with the mark of the ball, is still in

the village.)

The wounded girl fell, striking her head against the dining table, but

arose, and walking up a long hall she threw open the door of her father’s

room, calling to him in a voice of distress. Springing from bed, he said:

“What is it, my child?”

“Oh, father,” she exclaimed, “the Yankees have killed me!”

Laying her upon a small bed in the room, her father cut away from her

chest her homespun dress and made a hasty examination of the wound. Her

horror-stricken mother remembers to this day that awful scene in all its

details. But we will draw a veil over the grief of the smitten family, as

they stood half paralyzed at this sudden calamity, and looked upon the

loved one whom they were helpless to save. Mrs. Durham recalls the fact

that the first person who came in was Rev. Dr. Holmes, and that throughout

this great trial he and his family were very sympathetic and helpful.

Every physician in the village and city, and her father’s three brothers

were summoned, but nothing could be done except to alleviate her

sufferings. She could lie only on her right side, with her left arm in a

sling suspended from the ceiling. Every attention was given by relatives

and friends. Her grandmother Durham came and brought with her the old

family trained nurse. Sallie’s schoolmates and friends were untiring in

their attentions. Some names that have appeared in previous sketches, will

now appear again, for they watched with anxious, loving hearts by the

couch where the young sufferer lay. Tenderly let us mention their names,

as we tread softly in memory’s sacred halls. Among the constant attendants

at her bedside were Mrs. Martha Morgan, Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Morton, Miss

Laura Williams (Mrs. J. J. McKoy), Lizzie and Anna Morton, Mrs. H. H.

Chivers, Dr. Jim Brown and John Hardeman. During the week that her life

slowly ebbed away, there was another who ever lingered near her, a

sleepless and tireless watcher, a young man of a well-known family, to

whom this sweet young girl was engaged to be married.

Writes Mrs. P. W. Corr, of Hampton, Florida, (formerly Miss Lizzie

Morton): “Never can I forget the dreary night when Willie Durham, Kitty

Durham and Warren Morton left Decatur with Sallie’s body, which was to be

buried in the old family cemetery in Clarke county. Mrs. Durham, who was

in delicate health, was utterly prostrated and the doctor could not leave

her.” So Dr. Charles Durham managed the funeral arrangements, chartering

the car, and Sallie was buried from the old church her grandfather Lowe

had built on his own plantation in Clarke county, and laid to rest in the

Durham cemetery near by.

Sallie was shot on Friday at 7:30 A. M., and died the following Friday at

3:30 A. M. While she had suffered untold agony, she was conscious to the

last. Throughout her illness she manifested a thoughtful consideration for

the comfort of others. Especially did she show tender solicitude for her

step-mother, insisting that she should not fatigue herself. While anxious

to live, she said she was not afraid to die. In her closing hours she told

her friends that she saw her own mother, her grandfather Durham, and her

uncle Henry Durham (who had died in the Confederate service), all of whom

she expected to meet in the bright beyond.

General Stephenson was in command of the Federal Post at Atlanta. He was

notified of this tragedy, and sent an officer to investigate. This officer

refused to take anybody’s word that Sallie had been shot by a United

States soldier from the train; but, dressed in full uniform, with spur and

sabre rattling upon the bare floor, he advanced to the bed where the

dying girl lay, and threw back the covering “to see if she had really been

shot.” This intrusion almost threw her into a spasm. This officer and the

others at Atlanta promised to do all in their power to bring the guilty

party to justice, but nothing ever came of the promise, so far as we know.

As a singular coincidence, as well as an illustration of the lovely

character of Sallie, I will relate a brief incident given by the gifted

pen already quoted from: “One of the most vivid pictures of the past in my

memory is that of Sallie Durham emptying her pail of blackberries into the

hands of Federal prisoners on a train that had just stopped for a moment

at Decatur, in 1863. We had all been gathering berries at Moss’s Hill, and

stopped on our way home for the train to pass.”

Dr. W. W. Durham lived for nearly twenty years after Sallie’s death.

During the war he had enlisted as a soldier, but was commissioned by Dr.

George S. Blackie, a Medical Director in the Western Division of the

Confederate Army, to the position of Inspector of Medicines for the Fifth

Depot. This position was given him because of his remarkable botanical

knowledge and power of identifying medicines. After the war he was

prominent in the reorganization of the Georgia Medical Eclectic College,

but refused to take a professorship on account of an almost overwhelming

practice. He was a quiet, earnest, thoughtful man; and highly sympathetic

and benevolent in his disposition. His widow, Mrs. Georgia A. Durham, and

their daughter, Mrs. Jennie Findley, still reside in Decatur.

Dr. W. M. Durham is a successful physician in Atlanta. He holds a

professorship in the Georgia Eclectic Medical College, and edits the

Georgia Eclectic Medical Journal. Kitty is Mrs. W. P. Smith, of Maxey’s;

and John L. Durham is a physician with a large practice, and a large

family, living at Woodville, Georgia.

The Durham residence still stands in Decatur, though not upon the same

spot. For years a great stain of blood remained upon the floor, as a grim

and silent reminder of this most awful tragedy which so closely followed

the horrible and cruel war.

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE DEATH OF MELVILLE CLARK.

The lamented death of Miss Durham was not the only one in our community to

be traced to the results of the war.

The period of reconstruction, forcing upon the Southern states the

obnoxious Fourteenth Amendment, so humiliating and so unjust, especially

at that time, had intensified the prejudices of the negroes against the

white people--prejudices already sufficiently aroused by previous

abolition teachings and the results of the war.

Several times in this little volume mention has been made of Rev. William

Henry Clarke, the staunch patriot and well known Methodist preacher. At

this period he had become a resident of Decatur. His son, Melville Clarke,

a noble, promising boy, while attempting to rescue a small white child

from the abuse of an overgrown negro youth, received wounds from which he

died. Memory recalls many other instances of like character, perpetrated

at this period, the most disgraceful in the annals of American history.

The subjoined resolutions, passed by the Methodist Sabbath school of which

Melville was a beloved scholar, attest the many good traits of his

character, and the affection accorded him in the community:

“The committee appointed to draft resolutions on the death of Melville

Clarke, one of our scholars, beg leave to submit the following:

“In the wise dispensation of Him that doeth all things well, we are called

to pay the last tribute to departed worth. Melville Clark is no more. The

vacant seat says he is no more. The hushed voice says he is no more. Yes,

the impressive, solemn silence of this moment whispers that another light

which shone brightly the brief space allotted it here has flickered out.

The body which encased the spirit of the noble Christian boy has been laid

away in the silence of the grave, and his spirit, as we trust, escorted by

a convoy of angels, has gone to that bright and better world above.

“_Therefore, Resolved_, That as we gather around the new-made grave and

drop a sympathetic tear (which speaks more eloquently than any words

mortal lips can utter), we deeply feel the loss of one so full of promise

and usefulness--that noble spirit just bursting into manhood, with a mind

that would grasp in a moment things that men have passed through life and

never comprehended--and a heart lit up with the love of God, and drawn out

by the tenderest cords of affection to do little acts of kindness.

Language fails us to give utterance to the anguish we feel at sustaining

so great a loss. But he has gone. No more shall we hang upon the eloquence

of his gentle, kind words, or see that face which was so often lit up with

an expressive sweetness that we could but recognize as the reflex of the

lamb-like Christian spirit that reigned within. He has gone, and as we

turn from the sad, solemn scene in that faith which ‘hopeth all things,

believeth all things, endureth all things,’ we can but exclaim: ‘The Lord

gave--the Lord hath taken away--blessed be the name of the Lord!’

“_Resolved_, That in the death of one of our members, so young, we

recognize an admonition that the young, as well as the old, are swiftly

passing away, and that we should pause and reflect seriously upon this

important subject.

“_Resolved_, That as a school, our warmest sympathy and condolence be

tendered to the family of our dear deceased friend in this, their great

bereavement, and that a copy of these resolutions be furnished them.”

DR. AVERY, }

JOHN N. PATE, }

CAPTAIN RANDALL, } Committee

J. R. HAMPTON, }

August 30th, 1868.

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE MORTON FAMILY.

Incidents thrilling and affecting.

In several previous sketches references have been made to the Misses

Morton. Not only they, but the whole family, bore an interesting and

heroic part in the scenes of the war. Mr. Edward L. Morton hoisted the

first Confederate flag that ever floated on the breeze in DeKalb county.

This he did as soon as he heard that Georgia had passed the ordinance of

secession. A few miles from Decatur there was a large mill known as

Williams’s Mill, situated on Peachtree Creek. At the terminus of the

bridge that spanned the creek, near the little hamlet, there grew a tall,

graceful Lombardy poplar tree. The flag had been made by Mrs. Morton, Mrs.

James Hunter, and other ladies who lived in the neighborhood, and was

hoisted by Mr. Morton from the top of the lofty poplar. When the Federals

came in they cut down the tree, but another has grown from its roots.

Mr. Morton enlisted with the first company that went from DeKalb, but

returned and organized one of his own--Company F, 36th Georgia. From this

command he was sent home on account of lung trouble, and placed on special

duty. When Hood fell back to Atlanta, Captain Morton joined White’s

Scouts, a picked band of men. He was also at one time Morgan’s guide.

After Mr. J. W. Kirkpatrick refugeed, his home on Atlanta street was

occupied by Captain Morton’s family. Here some stirring incidents

occurred. Says one of his daughters: “Pa tried to avoid coming within the

Yankee lines, but did several times get caught at home, owing to his

extreme weakness. Finally, after the 23d Army Corps was sent back to

Tennessee, a raiding party of Federals went out toward Stone Mountain,

were fired on a few miles from Decatur, and several killed. They were

furious when they got to our house (on their return). Here they found one

of ‘White’s Men’ (Pa) ill in bed. They held a court-martial and sentenced

him to be hanged as soon as they finished eating dinner. Meanwhile they

left a guard in his bed-room. Ma asked the guard to sit in the parlor and

leave them alone the short time he had to live. The guard was a

kind-hearted man, the house surrounded, the whole detachment eating and

feeding their horses on all sides, and Pa was very feeble; so the guard

sat in the parlor.” Captain Morton then disguised himself, armed himself,

and, passing out a side door, went unchallenged through the crowd of

soldiers, by Woodall’s tan-yard and out into the woods. Continues his

daughter: “But when the guard thought he had better see the prisoner, it

was discovered that he was gone. They talked of burning the house and made

many other threats. For a long time we did not know whether he had escaped

or died in the woods. * * * No man that served in the Confederate army

more truly laid down his life for the cause than did my father. He never

recovered from the lung trouble brought on and aggravated by the exposure

and hardships he endured between ’61 and ’65.”

Warren Morton went into the army at the tender age of fifteen, as a

private in his father’s company. He was in the siege of Vicksburg--was

paroled, and re-entered the army in Cumming’s Brigade--and was shot at

Kennesaw, near Marietta, while acting as Sergeant-Major on Hood’s retreat.

The ball struck the bone of the outer angle of the left eye, cutting away

the temple plate, and came out just over the ear, cutting off the upper

half of the ear. The torn nerves and arteries have always caused him pain.

The bullet, while it did not touch his eye-ball, paralyzed the optic nerve

on that side. The hardships endured when a growing boy, the long marches

in Kentucky, the starvation rations in Vicksburg, and the horrible wound,

ruined his constitution. Yet he has been an energetic man, and is living

now on a farm near Newnan.

The young ladies--girls they all were at the time of which I write--were

Lizzie, Anna, Kelly, Fannie and Eddie.

On the day that Wheeler’s Cavalry routed the Federal wagon train at

Decatur, Lieutenant Farrar of the 63d Ohio Regiment was killed on a meadow

near Mrs. Swanton’s residence, just opposite Mrs. Morton’s. There was also

another Federal, a mere lad, who was mortally wounded. In some way I

discovered the dying boy, and, after carrying him some water, I left him

to the care of the nearer neighbors. Mrs. James Hunter, Mrs. Morton and

her daughters cared for him as best they could, and sat by him until he

died. Miss Lizzie Morton cut from his head a lock of hair and wrote some

verses, which Mrs. Swanton kindly sent to his people in Dayton, Ohio. In

some way this became known to the Federal officers, and future

developments showed that this tender act was much appreciated by them.

On the morning of the 22nd of July, 1864, Mrs. Morton sat on the front

steps watching for an officer to whom she might appeal for protection.

“Very early General McPherson and his staff rode by. Mrs. Morton ran out

and called. General McPherson alighted from his horse, heard her story,

bare-headed, with his hat in hand, wrote an order and dispatched it, and

then mounting, rode away to his death.” That order was to station a guard

at the house, and it was never disregarded as long as the Federal line was

near. This the family have always attributed to their caring for the dead,

and to the kind order of General McPherson.

On the night of the 21st, Mrs. Morton had been badly frightened by some

Federal soldiers coming to her house with the accusation that her young

daughter “had given information that had led to the capture of their wagon

train.” Threats of burning the residence were made by the Federals on

several occasions. The family feel persuaded that Bill Pittman, a faithful

negro, a sawyer who had lived many years at Williams’s Mill, prevented

these threats from being put into execution.

Soon after the close of the war Captain Morton and his family went to

Mississippi. Here he died, and one after another four of the girls, Anna,

Kelly, Fanny, and Eddie. Most touchingly Lizzie (Mrs. P. W. Corr) writes:

“When my sister and I were little girls in Decatur, we were very fond of

private literary entertainments. Anna’s favorite declamation (which always

brought down the house) was:

‘They grew in beauty side by side

Around one parent knee;

Their graves are scattered far and wide

O’er mountain, plain, and sea.’

“Anna sleeps alone near an old church in Scott county, Mississippi; Kelly,

alone at Pickens; Pa, Fanny and Eddie side by side at Shiloh, in Holmes

county.” Anna married Mr. Kearney; Kelly, Mr. W. S. Cole. Mrs. Morton is

still living in the home of her daughter Lizzie, who married Rev. P. W.

Corr, of Hampton, Florida. Mrs. Corr is very happily married, being fond

and proud of her husband, and her children filling her heart with comfort

and pleasure. To crown her earthly blessings, her mother has been spared

to her in all life’s changing scenes.

Here in her happy Florida home we leave our erstwhile lassie of the war

times--now an earnest wife and mother, busy ever with home duties, and

also a true helpmeet to her husband in his ministerial and editorial

labors.

This sketch, with its incidents, both heroic and pathetic, cannot be more

appropriately concluded than by the touching words of Mrs. Corr in a

recent letter: “What you say of the ‘empty places’ is full of

suggestiveness. I think I never could have borne my losses and still have

moved about among the ‘empty places.’ But going always among strangers

after every loss, being removed at once from the scene of death and not

passing that way again, my sisters live in memory as part of the past,

always merry, happy girls, never to grow heart-weary, never to fade. We,

wandering among strangers in strange and unfamiliar scenes, have kept the

memory of our old Decatur home and friends intact. There are no empty

places there for us.

“It seems sweet to me to think that in that home to which we are all

traveling, we shall find that those dear ones who have preceded us have

carried with them that same bright and precious picture, which, however,

is not there a picture of memory, but a reality of which the earthly

circle was only a shadow or prophecy; and the only empty places there are

those which shall be filled when we get home. Something there is in the

friendships, even, of other days, that has never died--something that will

live again--a root planted here that there blossoms and fruits eternally.

How much more true is this--it must be so--of those who were heart of our

hearts, our own loved ones. I doubt not that for one sad longing thought

of ‘brother, mother, nephew,’ all that you have loved and lost, they have

had many sweet and loving thoughts of you, and joyful anticipations of

your coming home ‘Some Sweet Day.’”

CHAPTER XXXIII.

HON. JOSEPH E. BROWN’S PIKES AND GUNS.

(This chapter, and the succeeding one, were not placed in the

chronological order of events, because they would have broken the

continuity of personal experiences).

After an appeal to physical force, as the only means of redressing our

wrongs, was fully determined upon, we made many important discoveries,

chief of which was that we were not prepared for war. This fact had often

been impressively and earnestly set forth by our greatest statesmen,

Alexander Hamilton Stephens and Benjamin Harvey Hill, who, though reared

in different schools of politics, were fully agreed upon this point, and

who urged, with all the eloquence of patriotism and profound understanding

of existing facts, the importance of delaying the act of seceding from the

United States until we were better prepared for the mighty

consequences--either beneficial or disastrous. In no way was the wisdom of

this advice made more apparent than by our utter want of the appliances of

warfare on land and on sea.

The ordinance of secession having been enacted, Georgia found itself

confronted by the scarcity of guns and other munitions of warfare. Hon.

Joseph E. Brown, our war Governor, finding it impossible to secure even

shot-guns to equip the many regiments eager for the fray, conceived the

idea of arming them with pikes; and, undaunted by the Herculean

undertaking, put a large force of the best blacksmiths at the W. & A. R.

R. shops to making these primitive weapons. To whose fertile brain belongs

the honor of evolving the plan or diagram by which they were to be made,

has never been revealed to the writer. The blade of the pike was to be

about 16 inches long and 2 inches wide, with a spur of about 3 inches on

either side, all of which was to be ground to a sharp edge. The shank was

to be about 12 inches long, and arranged to rivet in a staff 6 feet long.

In the memorable year, 1861, J. C. Peck owned a planing mill and general

wood-working shop on Decatur street, Atlanta, Ga., on the grounds now

occupied by the Southern (old Richmond and Danville) R. R. freight depot.

There being no machinery at the railroad shops suitable for turning the

handles nor grinding the pikes, Mr. Peck contracted to grind and supply

with handles the entire number--he thinks ten thousand. Before he finished

this work, Governor Brown called a meeting of the mechanics of Atlanta for

the purpose of ascertaining if some arrangement could be made for the

manufacture of guns for the army. This meeting was adjourned two or three

times, and no one seemed willing to undertake the job. At the last meeting

a letter was received from the Ordnance Department of the Confederate

States, containing a “drawing” of a short heavy rifle to be supplied with

a Tripod rest, and an urgent request that the Governor would encourage the

making of twenty-five guns after this pattern, as soon as possible. A

liberal premium for the sample was offered by the Confederate Ordnance

Department. The barrels were to be thirty inches long with one inch bore,

and rifled with three grooves, so as to make one complete revolution in

the thirty inches. As no one else would undertake this complicated job,

Mr. Peck asked for the “drawing,” and announced his willingness to do so.

He discovered that it would require iron ¾ by 4½ or 5 inches to make the

barrels, and for this purpose he procured enough Swede iron at a hardware

store on Whitehall street to make thirty barrels. He also discovered that

the common Smith bellows would not yield a blast sufficient to secure

welding heat on so large a piece, and it was suggested that it could be

done at W. & A. R. R. shops; he therefore secured an order from Governor

Brown authorizing this important work to be done there under his

instruction. An old German smith, whom Mr. Peck found at the shops,

rendered him valuable aid in the accomplishment of this portion of the

work. As rapidly as the welding was done he had them carried to his shop,

and a wood-turner, Mr. W. L. Smith, bored them on a wood turning lath.

This was a difficult job, as the boring bits caught in the irregular hole

and broke; finally he devised a sort of rose bit which steadied itself,

and he had no further trouble. After successfully accomplishing this

portion of the work, Mr. Peck found himself confronted by another

difficulty. He had no way of turning iron, but his indomitable will shrank

not from the task, and he threw out a search-light which enabled him to

discern a Savage, who had been superintendent of Pitts & Cook’s gin

factory, and he engaged him to turn it. Mr. Peck then employed an

ingenious blacksmith, who did to his satisfaction all the smith work he

wanted. He made his own taps and dies for fitting the breech pieces,

putting in the nipples, etc., and forged the hammers, triggers, ramrods,

etc. The brass mountings were cast by Gullatte Brothers, who at that time

were running a brass foundry. The locks were purchased by Mr. Peck in

Macon, but, as already intimated, had to be supplied with new hammers and

triggers. As the plan called for the barrels to be rifled with three

grooves, and to make one complete revolution in the length of the barrel,

there was none in the employ of Mr. Peck who had any idea how it was to be

done. Much perplexed he went to Mr. Charles Heinz, the gunsmith on

Whitehall street, who explained the process of rifling done by hand. On

this idea Mr. Peck constructed a machine which he attached to a Daniels

planer. This was a wood machine, with a bed which traveled backward and

forward, similar to the bed of an iron planer--in such a manner that the

backward and forward motion of the bed gave, also, a rotary motion to the

cutters. By this process each barrel was rifled precisely alike. Mr. Peck

had thirty barrels forged, but some of them were defective and would not

bore through without breaking, and some were burnt in testing. Only

twenty-five of them were finished. He had an abundance of walnut lumber

and did not have to contend with any obstacle in making the stocks, but

some in clamping them to the barrels. The plan also showed the usual screw

in the extension of the breech pin, and two bands similar to those on the

old style musket. Mr. Peck forged iron bands, but with his best effort at

finishing them they appeared clumsy. Opportunely he chanced to see a wagon

on Pryor street containing a lot of hardware and other things, among which

was a large brass kettle. Thinking he could make bands out of this vessel,

he purchased it and cut it up into those indispensable parts of his famous

job, but another obstacle to success presented itself to his patient

vision. He could find no one to braze the joints. By reference to his

“Mechanic’s Companion” he learned the art, and brazed the bands in a

skillful style. This being, done, he gave his finishing touches to the

rifles.

The balls were like minie-balls, one inch in diameter, and two and

one-fourth inches long, and weighed four ounces. Mr. Peck made only one

set of bullet moulds, which run two bullets at the same time, and he

thinks he made only six of the tripod rests. They were--every lock, stock

and barrel--tested by several persons expert in the handling of muskets,

rifles, shot-guns, etc., among whom was Mr. Charles Heinz, still living in

Atlanta, and who will vouch for the accuracy of this important item of

Confederate history, and the utility of the shot emanating from these

wonderful guns. To put it mildly, the effect was almost equal to that of a

six-pounder. And the recoil! Well! Wonderful to relate! They must have had

infused into their mechanism supernatural or national prescience, and

peering through the dim vista of the future saw the beacon light of a

re-united country, and disdained partiality in the Fratricidal Contest,

for every time one of them was shot at a “Yankee,” it kicked a “Rebel”

down.

P. S.--Mr. Peck has the original “drawing” sent on from the Ordnance

Department at Richmond, and also the receipt for the payment for the

barrels. He also has a letter from the Chief of Ordnance at Washington, D.

C., informing him that the identical guns described in the above sketch

had been found in his department, and that two of them would be exhibited

in the Government Building of the Piedmont Exposition, Atlanta, Georgia,

in 1895.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE PURSUIT AND CAPTURE OF THE ANDREWS RAIDERS.

Captain William A. Fuller and his comrades of the pursuit.--The race of

the engines, “The General” and “The Texas.”

In the early part of 1862 the army of the Cumberland and also that of the

Tennessee had grown to gigantic proportions. The history of that memorable

era establishes the fact that in the month of February of that year the

army of the Cumberland, commanded by General Buell, had captured Fort

Donaldson and several other strong strategic points on the Tennessee and

Mississippi Rivers. Numerically the Federal Army was so much stronger than

the Confederate that large detachments could easily be made for incursions

into the interior and unprotected sections of middle and West Tennessee,

while the main army steadily advanced down the Mississippi Valley. By the

first of April, General Mitchell had occupied Shelbyville and other

cities, including Nashville; and the larger towns and railroad stations in

the neighborhood South and East of Nashville had been occupied by the

Federals.

Recognizing the importance of saving to the Confederate cause everything

necessary to sustain life both of man and beast, all that could be brought

out of Kentucky and Tennessee had been sent South--to Atlanta and other

important points--so that those States were literally stripped of all

surplus food.

The army of the Tennessee, under the command of General Albert Sidney

Johnston, sought to meet General Buell and dispute his further advance.

Corinth, Mississippi, was selected by General Johnston as a point beyond

which the army of the Cumberland should not go. This position commanded

the Memphis and Charleston Railroad, as well as others running south of

that point. By the fifth of April General Buell’s army had massed at

Pittsburg Landing, and along a line reaching south and parallel to that of

General Johnston. Relatively the armies stood about five to eight, the

Confederate of course being the smaller. They met in battle on the 6th day

of April at Shiloh, so-called by the Federals, but Southern historians

call it the battle of Corinth. The fight was a long and disastrous

one--disastrous to both armies--but the Federals, having an unbounded

supply of everything needed in war, and being immediately strengthened by

large reinforcements which literally poured in, were enabled to rapidly

recuperate. The Confederates lost heavily in killed and wounded, and

suffered irreparably by the death of General Albert Sidney Johnston. The

loss of this noble man was deeply felt and regretted by the entire South.

The week following this horrible carnage was mainly taken up by both

armies in burying the dead, caring for the wounded, fortifying, receiving

reinforcements and maneuvering for advantageous positions.

General Mitchell, as already stated, had occupied Shelbyville, and had a

considerable force. Some cavalry had penetrated as far south-east as

Chattanooga, and had several times dropped a few shell into that town.

After the death of General Johnston the Confederate Army at Corinth was

put under the command of General Beauregard. There were small detachments

of Confederate troops distributed along the Memphis and Charleston

Railroad to Stephenson, and from there to Chattanooga; also from

Chattanooga to Bristol, on the East Tennessee and Georgia Railroad, and on

the Virginia and Tennessee. These were to guard the railroad bridges,

depots, and government stores, etc. General Ledbetter was stationed at

Chattanooga with about three thousand men. There was a tolerably strong

guard at London bridge, where the East Tennessee railroad crosses the

Tennessee river; and General E. Kirby Smith occupied Knoxville, with a

sufficient force to protect that important point as against General Morgan

in his immediate front with a strong force. East Tennessee was very nearly

evenly divided between Federals and Confederate sympathizers. Neither side

was safe from betrayal. Those who were true to the Southern cause

distinguished themselves as officials and soldiers, and those who were

recreant to it were a source of great annoyance and disaster; and this

applies to Kentucky and West Virginia as well. During the month of April,

1862, Brownlow, and those of his opinion, were arrested, and imprisoned in

Knoxville.

The strict rules of the passport system had not yet been adopted by

southern army commanders, and it was no difficult matter for friend or foe

to pass the lines.

Thus matters stood at that time. The reader, therefore, may be prepared to

appreciate one of the most exciting, thrilling and interesting stories of

the Civil Contest.