YEARS after these events, when white-winged peace hovered o’er all the
land, while conning my geography lesson at school, and trying to fix in
my mind that the city of Constantinople is situated on the Sea of
Marmora, that night of hunger came back to me vividly, and the
stern-wheel steamer Marmora, with her lights reflected in the broad
bosom of the Ohio, loomed up before me with a reality never to be
forgotten.
The dear mother who made that long, and in those days perilous, journey,
with the care of two little children, has gone to her reward, borne to
her last resting place by six honored and respected soldiers of the
community. The father for whose sake the journey was made still lingers
on the shores of Time. “Little Rosebud,” the pet of the hospital, is a
happy wife and mother, while the writer fills an humble sphere at home,
and writes her name today just as she did thirty-seven years ago.
My little story is done. It is but a faint and feeble outline of those
far off-days, and but a slender thread that connects me with The Great
Rebellion. But such as it is, I dedicate it to the G. A. R. in general
and the “boys” of Corinth in particular, and to my dear sister who as an
infant in arms, could know nothing of this period in her life and mine.
Boys who wore the blue, you have long been gray. Many of your ranks have
already “crossed the river, and are resting under the trees,” not in
wall tents or Sibleys, but
“In those low green tents
Whose curtain never outward swings.”
And when for them and you the “long roll” is sounded, commanding all the
vast armies to “turn out” and “fall in” for the last Grand Review, and
you stand in serried ranks before the Great Commander, Oh! may you all
be able to sing as in one grand chorus,
“Just as I am, without one plea,
But that Thy blood was shed for me
And that Thou bidds’t me come to Thee,
Oh! Lamb of God! I come, I come.”
Nathan W. Crooks, prominently identified with the early portion of this
history, died at Washington C. H., O., on May 6, 1900.
Wesley Jackman, one of the four hungry “boys from home” whom I fed at
the Manassas House, Jackson, answered the final call on August 6, 1901,
just three days before the last pages of this book went to press.
[Illustration]