Under the Stars and Bars / Or, Memories of Four Years Service with the Oglethorpes, of Augusta, Georgia

UNDER THE STARS AND BARS
OR,
Memories of Four Years Service
WITH THE
OGLETHORPES, OF AUGUSTA, GEORGIA.

BY
WALTER A. CLARK,
Orderly Sergeant.

Augusta, Ga
Chronicle Printing Company.
1900.

PREFACE.

For the gratification of my old comrades and in grateful memory of their constant kindness during all our years of comradeship these records have been written. The writer claims no special qualification for the task save as it may lie in the fact that no other survivor of the Company has so large a fund of material from which to draw for such a purpose. In addition to a war journal, whose entries cover all my four years service, nearly every letter written by me from camp in those eventful years has been preserved. Whatever lack, therefore, these pages may possess on other lines, they furnish at least a truthful portrait of what I saw and felt as a soldier. It has been my purpose to picture the lights rather than the shadows of our soldier life. War is a terribly serious business and yet camp life has its humor as well as its pathos, its comedy as well as its tragedy, its sunshine as well as its shadows.

As Co. B, of the Oglethorpes was an outgrowth of the original organization, its muster roll before and after reorganization, with a condensed sketch of its war service has been given. For this information I am indebted to the kindness of Mr. Frank H. Miller and Mr. Brad Merry, as I am to the former also for data pertaining to the early history of the Oglethorpes.

Aside from the motive already named, there is another which has had some influence in inducing me to publish these memories. In the generation that has grown up since the '60's, there is a disposition to undervalue the merits of the "Old South" and to discount the patriotism and the courage, the sacrifice and the suffering of those, who wore the grey. If these pages shall recall to my old comrades with any degree of pleasure, the lights and shadows of our soldier life, or shall bring to the younger generation, to whom the Old South is not even a memory, a truer conception of "the tender grace of a day that is dead" I shall be more than repaid for the labor involved in their preparation.

INDEX.

INTRODUCTORY.

EARLY HISTORY OF THE OGLETHORPES.

On a winter's day in '51, in the old Capital at Milledgeville, Ga., Howell Cobb, then Governor of Georgia, gave his official sanction to an Act of the General Assembly incorporating a new military organization in the City of Augusta. If he had been told that ten years from that date he would be wearing the wreath of a Brigadier General in actual war and that the Company, to which his signature had given legal existence would be camped on Virginia soil, attached to the command of an officer, who will go down into history as one of the greatest captains of the ages, he would have smiled at the statement as the outgrowth of a distempered fancy. And yet such a prophecy would have found literal fulfilment.

In honor of the founder of the Georgia Colony the Company was named the Oglethorpe Infantry. Hon. Andrew J. Miller, was its first commander. Representing some of the best blood of one of the most cultured cities of the Old South, the company, by its proficiency in drill and its military bearing soon gained a distinguished position among the citizen soldiery of the State. On the death of Capt. Miller in 1856, Judge Ebenezer Starnes was chosen to succeed him. He, in time, was followed by John K. Jackson, afterwards a Brigadier General in the Confederate Army. During the captaincy of the last named, the volunteer companies of the State were ordered into camp at Milledgeville, Ga., by Gov. Herschel V. Johnson. Capt. Jackson, on account of illness in his family, could not attend and the Oglethorpes were commanded by Lieut. J. O. Clark. In the military drill and review, that occurred during the encampment the Oglethorpes presented the best marching front of any company present. Mr. Frank H. Miller, then Orderly Sergeant, attributes their success on this line, in part at least to the fact that nature had failed to endow him with a full share of what my father was wont to term "legability," and his shortened step, as Company Guide, rendered it an easier task for his comrades marching in column of companies to preserve their alignment.

On the organization of the Independent Volunteer Battalion in 1857, Capt. Jackson was elected Lieut. Col., and Lieut. J. O. Clark succeeded to the captaincy, retaining the position until the Company was mustered into the Confederate service in 1861. Of the original roll as organized in 1851, if my information is correct, only Mr. William Richards now survives. Capt. Horton B. Adams, who died during the present year (1899) was the last surviving member of the original roll, who retained active connection with the Company from its organization until its enlistment in the Confederate Army.

OFF TO THE WAR.

Prof. Joseph T. Derry, who served with the Oglethorpes from their enlistment until his capture at Kennesaw Mountain; in July, 1864, has kindly furnished the following sketch of their war service prior to my connection with the Company:

"Following the lead of four of her sister States Georgia passed an ordinance of 'Secession,' Jan. 19, 1861. Gov. Brown ordered the seizure of all Federal property within the limits of the State, and on Jan. 24 the volunteer companies of Augusta, consisting of the Oglethorpe Infantry, Clinch Rifles, Irish Volunteers, Montgomery Guards, Washington Artillery, Richmond Hussars, and two companies of 'Minute Men,' afterwards organized into the Walker Light Infantry, with a company of infantry from Edgefield, So. Ca., and two hundred mounted men from Burke county, marched up to the Augusta Arsenal and demanded its surrender.

Capt. Elzey, afterwards a Brigadier General in the Confederate Army, was in command, and having only a small force in the barracks, he promptly complied with the demand.

ORGANIZATION OF FIRST GA. REGIMENT.

The efforts to secure a peaceable separation from the Union having failed, the Augusta companies promptly offered their services to the Confederacy. The Oglethorpes and Walker Light Infantry were the first two accepted. On March 18, 1861, the lists for the Oglethorpes were opened at their armory on Reynolds street. Sterling C. Eve was the first to enroll his name, and Virginius G. Hitt was the second.

As the Company had in its ranks a larger number than would be accepted, married men were excluded, except as commissioned officers. In the closing days of March, orders were received from the War Department for these two companies to rendezvous at Macon, Ga. On April 1st they were escorted to the Central R. R. Depot by all the volunteer companies of Augusta, while the entire city, apparently, turned out to witness their departure and to bid them God speed on their mission.

On April 3rd the First Volunteer Regiment of Ga. was organized with the following corps of field officers:

Colonel, James N. Ramsey, Columbus, Ga.
Lieut. Colonel, James O. Clark, Augusta, Ga.
Major, Geo. H. Thompson, Atlanta, Ga.
Adjutant, James W. Anderson, Newnan, Ga.
Quartermaster, Andrew Dunn, Forsythe, Ga.
Commissary, Geo. A. Cunningham, Augusta, Ga.

The enlistment dated from March 18, '61, and the regiment was composed of the following companies:

A. Newnan Guards, Capt. Geo. M. Hanvey.
B. Southern Guards, Capt. F. S. Wilkins.
C. Southern Right Guards, Capt. Jno. A. Hauser.
D. Oglethorpe Infantry, Capt. Horton B. Adams.
E. Washington Rifles, Capt. S. A. H. Jones.
F. Gate City Guards, Capt. W. L. Ezzard.
G. Bainbridge Independents, Capt. Jno. W. Evans.
H. Dahlonega Volunteers, Capt. Alfred Harris.
I. Walker Light Infantry, Capt. S. H. Crump.
K. Quitman Guards, Capt. J. S. Pinkard.

The patriotism of Augusta is evidenced by the fact that in this, the first regiment organized, she had larger representation than any city in the State. On the date of its organization Gov. Brown reviewed the regiment and delivered an address that aroused much enthusiasm. A few days later we left for Pensacola, via Montgomery, Ala., then the Capital of the new Confederacy. Between Garland and Evergreen, Ala., there was a gap of sixteen miles, over which the boys had to take the peoples' route as there was no railway connection. It was their first march and as their feet grew sore and their untried muscles wearied by the unaccustomed strain upon them, they began to ask the citizens they met: "How far to Evergreen?" "After you pass the next hill and reach the rise of another it will be five miles," said one. This point reached, another was asked the question. "Six miles," he said. Tramping along the dusty highway, another traveler was met, "How far to ——." "For the Lord's sake," said Tom Eve, "don't inquire again. The road gets longer every time you ask."

AN AMENDMENT TO THE TABLE OF LONG MEASURE.

While not germane to the matter under discussion my friend, Joe Derry will pardon I know a slight interruption in his story, suggested by the incident just related. Passing through the piney woods of Richmond county some years ago the writer stopped at a country home to secure proper direction as to his route. A lady came to the door and in answer to my questions, said she was unable to give the information, but suggested that I might be enlightened at the next house. "How far is the next house?" I asked. "About twict out o' sight," she replied, and I went on my way with at least the satisfaction of having secured for the "table of long measure," that had worried me in my school boy days, an amendment, that in originality if not in definiteness, was literally "out o' sight."

"Straggling into Evergreen, next morning, we reached Pensacola by rail that evening, spent a day in the town and then sailed down the beautiful bay, past the navy yard at Warrenton, and so close to Fort Pickens that its guns could have blown us out of the water. Landing near Fort Barrancas, we marched to our camping place, half a mile beyond and near the magazine. Our stay here was marked by no special incident, the time being spent in drilling, regimental and picket duty, unloading powder from a sloop and filling sand bags to strengthen the front of Fort Barrancas.

About the last of May, orders were received for the transfer of the regiment to Virginia. Steaming back to Pensacola, the Oglethorpes were met by a delegation from the Clinch Rifles, 5th Ga. Reg., by whom they were conducted to the quarters of that company and royally entertained until our departure next day. The pleasure of the occasion was marred, however, by the death of Bugler Parkins, of the Clinch, caused by the bite of a small ground-rattlesnake. On reaching Augusta the Company received an ovation as great as that accorded them on their departure for Pensacola. Three days in Augusta and then we were off for Richmond, where we met with a very hearty reception. At our camp we were reviewed by President Davis and Gov. Letcher, both of whom addressed the regiment. About the middle of June we were off for Staunton by rail, stopping at Waynesboro to partake of a bountiful feast prepared for us by the ladies and served on rough pine tables in picnic style."

(Col. C.H. Withrow, then a resident of Waynesboro, recalls the incident and says that he was strongly impressed with the appetite shown by the boys on that occasion, that the presence of beauty did not prevent them from doing ample justice to the spread.)

"At Staunton the regiment was entertained by a concert, in which the children of the Blind Asylum sang patriotic Southern airs. A few days later we were on the march to re-inforce Garnett at Laurel Hill. About midday of the first day's march the patriotism of the Virginia ladies manifested itself again in a bountiful feast prepared for us in a beautiful grove, while from a rock near by there gushed forth a bold spring of almost ice-cold water. A night or two afterward, we camped at the foot of Cheat Mountain, in a beautiful valley, at the Southern end of which some time later we were stationed for several months, confronting a Federal force under Gen. Reynolds on Cheat Mountain. A young lady living near our camping ground entertained us with Southern songs, with a melodeon accompaniment, some of the boys singing with her. Two nights later, at Beverly, we encountered a fearful storm, which blew down every tent and repeated that interesting performance every time we put them up.

Reaching Laurel Hill we found that service in West Virginia was far more serious business that at Pensacola. Picket duty was heavy and soon became dangerous. McLellan with 20,000 men, began his advance early in July. To oppose this force Garnett had only 4,500 men, many of whom were in the hospital. Exposure had produced much sickness and here occurred the first death among the Oglethorpes, that of Dillard Adams, a good soldier and a true man. On July 7th Gen. Morris took position in our front with 8,000 men, while McLellan, with the remainder of his force advanced on Rich Mountain, held by Col. Pegram with 1,300 of Garnett's command. On July 8th the 1st Ga. moved out in front of Laurel Hill to feel the enemy's position. We soon encountered their skirmishers, who after shelling woods, attempted to seize a small round hill in front of Belington. Lieut. Col. J. O. Clark quickly deployed his men and exclaiming, "Up the hill, boys, and remember you are Georgians," led a gallant charge, which drove the enemy back with some loss. Skirmishing continued until July 11th, when Garnett learned that Rich Mountain had been captured by Rosecranz.

THE LAUREL HILL RETREAT.

The capture of Pegram's position and of a large part of his force necessitated the evacuation of Laurel Hill, and Garnett began his retreat towards Beverly, sixteen miles distant. After two-thirds of the distance had been covered he was falsely informed that the enemy had already occupied that place, and retracing his steps almost to his abandoned camp, he turned off towards Beverly, crossing, by an almost impassable road, over Cheat Mountain into the Cheat River valley and intending by turning the mountains at their Northern end to regain his communications. On July 13th we were overtaken by the Federals between Kalers and Corricks fords. The 1st Ga. and 23rd Va., with a section of artillery under Lieut. Lanier, and a cavalry force under Capt. Smith, were formed into a rear guard to protect the wagon train. At Carrick's Ford the 23rd Va. suffered considerably and a part of the wagon train was captured. The larger part of six companies of the 1st Ga. and including the Oglethorpes, failed to hear the order to retire and held their position until the enemy had passed. Cut off from the main force and with no avenue of escape except the pathless mountains, that hemmed them in, they wandered for three days with nothing to appease their hunger except the inner bark of the laurel trees. On the third day, famished and worn out, they stopped to rest, when Evan Howell proposed that he and another member of the regiment would go forward and endeavor to find an outlet or a pilot to lead them to an inhabited section. He fortunately met with a mountaineer named Parsons, who took them to his home, called in his neighbors, killed a number of beeves to feed the famished men and then piloted them safely to Monterey.

Gen. Garnett, who was with the main column, had been killed, after passing Carrick's Ford, while withdrawing his rear guard and his force under Ramsey and Taliaferro marched all night and succeeded in passing the Red House and turning the mountain before Gen. Hill, who was sent by McLellan to intercept them, had reached that point. They were now on fairly good roads, in friendly country and at Petersburg, W. Va., the people turned out en masse to feed the exhausted Confederates. From this point they retired by easy marches to Monterey. The campaign, undertaken with a small force, to hold an unfriendly section, had proven an expensive failure."

CHAPTER I.

DONNING THE GREY.

About midday on Dec. 20, 1860, the writer sat in an audience room in Macon, Ga., listening to an address delivered by Hon. Howell Cobb to the Cotton Planters' Convention, then in session in that city. After all these years my memory retains no trace of that address in either theme or outline. I do recall, however, an interruption in its delivery, remembered, possibly, because it threw a crimson tint over the years that followed it, and for the further reason that if there had been no occasion for such an interruption, these records might never have been written. While Mr. Cobb was speaking, a messenger entered the hall and handed him a telegram. He broke the seal, glanced over its contents and then read the following message to the audience: "The South Carolina Convention has just passed the Ordinance of Secession from the Union." From that moment the "Cotton Planters' Convention" was no longer in it. The audience became a howling mob. That night there was a torchlight procession with brass band accompaniments. The streets were packed with a solid mass of excited, fevered, yelling humanity. The people were simply wild for Southern independence and the scene was probably duplicated in every Southern city.

In the early months in '61, when all hope of a peaceful separation had passed, the war fever attacked first the towns and cities where the people were in constant touch with each other and where the daily press kept the public pulse at more than normal beat. As the demand for troops increased, the infection spread to quiet country places with their monthly church service and their weekly mail. And so in due time it reached the community in which I lived, a community of quiet, well-to-do farmers, whose knowledge of Jomini and the art of war was decidedly limited. A military organization of thirty of forty men was, however, effected and Mr. John D. Mongin, the only member who knew the difference between "shoulder arms" and "charge bayonet," was elected captain. Our weekly drills at the academy grounds were confined largely to marching in single rank to the music of a rustic drummer and fifer, who seemed in blissful ignorance of anything but "slow time." There was a short-legged Frenchman in the company, whose number was "32" and, who in counting off, always responded with "dirty too." A year or two later those of us, who had seen actual service, could probably have made the same response without impairing in the least our reputation for veracity. As there was not sufficient material in the community to form a full company, my brother and myself, with D. W. Mongin, A. J. and J. H. Rhodes, made application to the Oglethorpe Infantry, 1st Ga. Regiment, then at Laurel Hill, Va., for admission into its ranks, and were accepted. Leaving Augusta July 31, 1861, in company with George Pournelle and Ginnie Hitt, who were returning from a ten days' furlough, we stopped over in Richmond a day and visited the Confederate Congress then in session. Sitting in the gallery of the Senate Chamber looking down upon Alex Stephens in the chair and Bob Toombs, Ben Hill, E. A. Nisbet R. M. T. Hunter and other worthies in the Hall, Luke Lane, an old college classmate, wrote on the fly leaf of the pocket diary, from which these records are partly taken a sort of preface, closing it with these words: "Here's hoping that every Yankee may find a bloody grave;" and Ginnie Hitt, sitting by, wrote beneath it: "Amen, say I." Luke appended my initials to the sentiment, but as it was stronger than my inclinations prompted me to endorse, I erased them. We visited also the prison hospital where the Federals wounded at Manassas, were being cared for. It was my first contact with "grim visaged war."

To a stripling boy, reared in a quiet country home and in a community in which there had never occurred a serious personal difficulty, I had neither inherited nor acquired any taste for carnage or bloodshed, and the scene was not a pleasant one. And yet the battlefield unfortunately soon dulls our natural sensibilities and begets an indifference to suffering that would shock us in civil life.

On reaching Monterey, Va., where the Oglethorpes were recuperating from the hardships of the "Laurel Hill Retreat," we found every tent occupied and we remained at the village inn until quarters could be provided. I remember that I slept, or tried to sleep, on the bare floor of our room as a sort of preparation for the life on which I was entering. In this connection I recall another fact, a peculiarity of this tavern, and that was its capacity for the utilization of green apples as an article of public diet. My experience with hostelries is not claimed to be at all extensive, but among those whose hospitality I have had the good or bad fortune to enjoy, or endure, this particular inn, on the line named, certainly "took the dilapidated linen from the lonely shrub." We were treated to apples baked and stewed and fried, to apple tarts and custards and dumplings, to apple butter and it would probably be no exaggeration to say, "there were others." After paying our bill Dan Mongin remarked, "When green apple season plays out this hotel is going to suspend." In verification of his prophecy, when we passed through Monterey en route to join Stonewall Jackson in December, its doors were closed, its lights were gone and all its halls deserted. Whether its demise was due to the green apple theory, I am unable to say.

My first month in camp was devoid of incident, its monotony being varied only by squad drill, guard duty, foraging for maple syrup and other edibles among the Dutch farmers of that section and digging graves for the unfortunate victims of the campaign just ended. One of the graves which the writer helped to dig in very hard clay, was appropriated by a burial squad from another regiment for one of their own dead. I am not lawyer enough to say whether the act was petty larceny, forcible entry and detainer, or what an old colored friend of mine once diagnosed as "legal mischievous" with the accent on the second syllable.

MY FIRST MARCH.

On Sept. 7, '61, Sterling Eve, Ginnie Hitt, Dan Mongin and the writer, not having been favored with the confidence of Gen. Lee as to his military plans, went into the country on a foraging expedition. This trip was probably inspired by a triumph in the culinary line achieved by Dr. Hitt and George Pournelle in supplying our table with two varieties of dumpling, apple and huckleberry, on the same day. We had no bag, in which to boil the dumpling and were forced to use the mess towel as a substitute. How long it had been subjected to its ordinary uses before being utilized in this way I do not now recall. Dr. Hitt remembers, however, or says he does, that the entire outer surface of the dumplings was towel-marked. The nature of the mark referred to is left without further discussion to the imagination of the reader. In this connection I recall another incident in the culinary line, which may be as well recorded here as elsewhere. About twenty years after the war I met Dr. Hitt in Augusta and taking something from my pocket, I handed it to him and asked if he could give me any information as to its character. He examined it very carefully by sight, touch and smell, and then said very confidently: "Oh, yes, I know what that is. It is a stone taken from a deer's liver." His diagnosis was not "reasonably" correct. The article under examination was a Confederate biscuit baked in our camp at Jacksonboro, Tenn., in 1863, sent to my father's family as a specimen and preserved during all those years. If I had taken the precaution to have immersed it in insect powder it would probably at this date have been still in the ring, though possibly a little disfigured. A few years after Dr. Hitt's examination, I found that it had—

"Like an insubstantial pageant faded
Leaving not a wrack"—

but only a little dust behind.

On our return from the foraging tour with a good supply of potatoes, onions and maple syrup, we found the camp deserted—a camp favored with the purest mountain air and the finest spring water, and yet where Dan Mongin wrote to his father for brandy to counteract the effects of malaria. The entire force at Monterey had been ordered to report to Gen. Henry R. Jackson on Green Brier River, and had broken camp two hours before our arrival. After resting an hour we began the tramp, trudging over the mountain roads for eight miles in the mud and rain and stopping for the night at the residence of a Col. Campbell in Crab Bottom. Here we had the pleasure of meeting the first two heroines of the war, Miss McLeod and Miss Kerr. They had ridden seventy miles on horseback without an escort to notify Gen. Garnett of McLellan's approach. My first day's march, though a short one, had broken me down so thoroughly that I was compelled to tax the kindness of a 3rd Arkansas Regiment wagoner for a ride next day. The entry in my journal for that date begins with these words: "Took the road with a heavy heart and a heavier load." Three years later, under the hardening process of camp life I was enabled to march, on Hood's tramp to Nashville and back to Corinth, Miss., twenty miles a day continuously and rode only one of the eight hundred miles covered in that campaign. During my two days experience as an "Arkansas Traveler" I think I heard more expletive, unadulterated "cussin" from the driver of that wagon than it has ever been my misfortune to listen to. His capacity in this line seemed to be not only double barreled, but of the magazine gun variety. If he had failed to pass his examination in the school of profanity I have never seen a man who was entitled to a diploma. I appreciated the ride, but was glad to reach our new camp, since it relieved me of his presence.

MY FIRST SKIRMISH.

Gen. Jackson's force on the Green Brier consisted of the 1st and 12th Ga., the 3rd Ark. and the 23rd and 37th Va. Regiments. Ten or twelve miles northwest of us, on Cheat Mountain, lay a Federal force of 5,000 men under Gen. Reynolds. Gen. Lee had planned an attack to be made on this force on the morning of Sept. 12th, two days after our arrival at the Green Brier. On the evening of the 11th an advance guard of ninety men from the 1st and 12th Ga. under command of Lieut. Dawson was formed with instructions to flank, by a night march, the Federal picket, secure a position in their rear, capture them and thus prevent notice to Gen. Reynolds of the intended attack. For this guard there were detailed from the Oglethorpes, Wilberforce Daniel, Joe Derry, Tom Burgess, W. H. Clark and the writer. Leaving camp at 7:30 p. m., under the pilotage of a citizen of that section we reached a position within half a mile of the Federal camp about sunrise, after a fatiguing march in the rain and mud, being compelled to draw ourselves up the slippery mountain side by the undergrowth that lay in our route. Soon after reaching our place of ambush we heard the drums beat for "Guard Mount" and then the bands began to play "Annie Laurie," "Run, Nigger Run," and "Jordan is a Hard Road to Trabble," were three of the selections rendered. The first suggested pleasant memories of our far away homes; the second, the possibility that in a little while there might be a practical illustration of the refrain, while the tramp we had just taken satisfied us that "Jordan" was not the only hard road to travel. The selection of these airs recalls the singular fact that in actual service military bands do not as a rule play national or military music. The writer had other opportunities than the one named of hearing Federal bands during his term of service, but does not recall a single instance in which a national air was rendered. Lulled by the music and overcome by fatigue and loss of sleep, I fell into a doze, from which I was awakened by the accidental discharge of a gun in the hands of one of the guard. A Federal sergeant from the picket post, hearing the noise, came down the road to investigate. On reaching a point opposite the left of our line he heard the ominous click of the rifle hammers and started in full run for his camp. Six or eight balls crashed through him and the poor fellow fell dead in the road. Attracted by the firing, about twenty-five of the Federal pickets came hurriedly down the road and on seeing their dead comrade fired a volley into the woods, which concealed us, but failed to do any execution. "Charge!" sang out our commander, and we broke for the road. Before reaching it, the pickets had scattered into the woods beyond. Tom Burgess, as he leaped into the road saw one of them rise from a stump behind which he had been hiding, and run. Tom raised his rifle, took deliberate aim and fired. As he fell, Tom pointed his finger at him and said, "Got you." I was standing only a few feet from Tom and it has always been a matter of gratification to me that my gun had been fired before reaching the road and that I had no opportunity to reload. At such close range it would have been almost impossible to have missed my man, and whatever my feeling at the time may have been it would have been a source of life-long regret to me to know positively that "some mother's boy" had fallen by my hand, even in war. Several others were killed as they ran through the woods. No member of the guard received even a scratch, and the affair had more the appearance of a rabbit hunt than a skirmish. After the firing had ceased, Lieut. Dawson, feeling that it was unsafe to remain so near the Federal camp with so small a force, reformed the guard and we began our march down the mountain. We were expecting to meet the reserve picket of the enemy and in a sharp curve in the road were confronted by a column of troops marching in fours and only a hundred yards away. One of the guard sang out, "Here they are boys," and the firing began. Three men were shot down and seeing that we were outnumbered, Dawson gave the command: "Fall below the road." Believing that implicit obedience to orders was the first requisite of a soldier, I responded with considerable promptness. The fire slackened a moment and then came the order: "Charge 'em." Up into the road we clambered again, when we discovered that we were fighting our own regiment, and "Cease firing, we are Georgians," rang out from nearly a hundred throats. Ed Johnson, then in command of the 12th Ga., afterwards a Major General, was riding towards the head of the column and hearing our cry, sang out: "They are liars, boys. Pop it to 'em! Pop it to 'em." The mistake was soon discovered, however, and the firing ceased. Three men had been killed and a number wounded by this mutual and unfortunate error. After the skirmish had ended and order had been restored, Dr. Hitt told me that he had drawn a bead, squirrel or otherwise, on my anatomy, and was in the act of firing when Col. Ed Johnson, in his anxiety to reach the front, rode directly between us and possibly saved him the horror of having killed a comrade and messmate. One of the victims of that encounter, Felder, of the Houston Guards, told his mess on leaving camp that he would be killed, a presentiment that was unfortunately too true. Another poor fellow was shot through the thigh, the ball cutting an artery. He lay there until the blood ran down the road for a distance of fifteen feet. The sight caused another soldier to have a nervous chill and he begged piteously to be moved away.

After the wounded had been cared for, the guard was reformed in front of the brigade and we were marched back to a position in front of the Federal camp to await the attack on its rear by the 3rd Ark. and the 23rd Va. Why this attack was never made seems to be a sort of unsolved problem. Gen. Lee is said to have made a verbal explanation to President Davis, but if there has been any published statement of the reason I have failed to see it. As the attack on the rear had for some reason failed to materialize, Gen. Jackson, after remaining on the mountain for four days, returned to his old camp.

In connection with this, my first skirmish I am glad to have the opportunity of paying deserved tribute to a comrade, who has since passed over the river, but who, on that day, as on every other in which I had the honor to serve with him in time of peril, was conspicuous for his courage and his cool indifference to danger. When the order was given to fall below the road in order to secure some protection from the rocks and trees, Will Daniel refused to do so and kept his exposed position, coolly loading and firing until the skirmish was over. In devotion to the cause, for which he fought, in readiness to accept the gravest personal risks, in apparently absolute unconsciousness of danger, he was every inch a soldier.

And now what were my own sensations in this, my first baptism of fire? A candid confession is said to be good for the soul, but whether it would be good for the reputation in this particular case is another matter. Under the law of testimony a witness is not compelled to incriminate himself. Besides, after the lapse of nearly forty years, my memory can not be expected to retain very accurately such minor details. I will only say, therefore, that while the excitement produced by the crack of the rifles and the hiss of the minies did in some degree lessen the sense of personal danger, I have been able, even in my limited experience as a traveler, to find quite a number of places that were to me equally as pleasant as being under fire even for the first time. I speak, of course, only for myself. Men's tastes differ in this as widely perhaps as in other matters, and I do not claim that mine was a universal or even a common experience. I only claim that while I had been curious to know how I would feel under such circumstances, my curiosity was satisfied in a little while, in a very little while. This may have been due to the fact that my temperament is conservative and that I did not care to be an extremist even in a little matter of this kind—possibly, ah, yes, possibly.

MY FIRST PICKET DUTY.

For several miles in our front, the road leading towards Cheat Mountain ran through a narrow valley and then crossing the river, wound up the mountain side. On an outpost near this road my first picket service was rendered. From an aesthetic, rather than a military point of view the scenery from this post was really enchanting. Just beyond the river lay a range of mountains broken in its contour by a partial gap. In its rear and forming a background, rose a loftier range, the whole constituting in appearance a mammoth alcove. The foliage of the forest growth, that studded the slopes from base to summit, alchemized by the autumn frosts had changed its hues to gold and crimson and with its blended tints forming to the eye an immense bouquet, the picture was worthy an artist's brush and has lingered in my memory during all these years. But the scene changes. Night comes on cold and drizzly and starless. No fire is allowed by the officer of the guard. Standing alone on an outpost in Egyptian darkness and numbed with cold, while the muffled patter of the rain drops on the fallen leaves continually suggests the stealthy footfall of an approaching foe, I reach the conclusion that it subjects a man to some inconvenience to die for his country.

A few nights afterwards the picket at this post was attacked by the enemy and driven in. As they retired under fire Joe Derry was knocked down by a buck and ball cartridge that riddled his cap and grazed his scalp but inflicted no wound. When they had rallied on the reserve post and Joe had opportunity to take his bearings he found that while unwilling to remain and extend to his Northern friends any social courtesies, he had been kind enough to leave with them a lock of his hair. The clipping was made without pecuniary charge, but Joe has probably preferred since to patronize a professional barber even at the expense of his bank account.

MY FIRST BATTLE.

On Oct. 3rd, '61, Gen. Reynolds, thinking, possibly, that military etiquette required that he should return the call we had made him on Sept. 12th, came down, attended by his entire force and knocked at the door of our outer picket posts in the early morning hours with the evident purpose of making an informal visit to our camp. The knock was loud enough to arouse Col. Ed. Johnson, who went out and took command of the pickets in person in order that the reception given our visitors might be sufficiently warm and cordial. Under his personal direction every foot of the Federal advance was stubbornly contested. A little fellow belonging to our regiment finally grew tired of falling back and running up to Johnson said: "Colonel, let's charge 'em." Johnson, with that peculiar nervous twitching of the lip that characterized him in battle, commended the little fellow for his grit, but did not think it good military judgment to charge an entire army of five thousand men with a squad of fifty pickets. By 8 a. m. Gen. Reynolds had taken position in our front and his artillery had opened on our line. The main attack was expected on our right, and to its defence the 1st and 12th Ga. were assigned. Forming into line and lying down to escape the shot and shells from the Federal batteries, we awaited the attack. A nervous officer in the regiment kept walking up and down the line saying: "Keep cool, boys, keep cool," until Lieut. Ben Simmons of the Oglethorpes, suggested to him that he was wasting his breath, that the boys were cool. Gen. Jackson came down to our position to overlook the field, and while there a courier rode up and said: "General, the wagoners are cutting the traces and running off with the horses." The General grew very much excited and turning to his son, Harry Jackson, said, "Go up there, Henry and shoot the first wagoner that cuts a trace or leaves his team." Harry galloped off, trying to get his pistol from the holster. After the cannonade had lasted several hours an infantry attack was made on our left and was repulsed. Then Gen. Reynolds ordered an assault on our right. As the attacking column debouched from the woods on the further bank of the shallow Green Brier, we were double-quicked to the front to oppose their passage. Just then Shoemaker's Va. Battery began to throw grape shot into their ranks and the men refused to cross. The officers stormed at them and rode their horses into the ranks in the effort to force them to advance, but without avail. The column fell back to the road where they were joined by their right wing and by 1 p. m. the entire force was making tracks for Cheat Mountain. Thus ended my second lesson in "Jomini," or my first battle, if battle it can be called. The losses on both sides, probably, did not aggregate two hundred. The official report of the engagement was, however, so elaborate that it was subjected to criticism and ridicule by the merciless pen of Jno. M. Daniel, of the Richmond Examiner. It was reported that he said that there were more casualties from overwork and exhaustion in setting up type for that report than from shot and shell in the battle.

Among the wounded that day was a member of the Bainbridge company of our regiment, who had been shot down in the early morning as the pickets were retiring before the Federal advance and, whose comrades were forced to leave him where he fell. As the Union troops passed him again on their return a surgeon was asked as to the propriety of taking him along as a prisoner. "No," said he. "Give him a canteen of water. He'll be dead in a few hours." The wounded man looked up at him and quoting, as Dr. McIntyre would say, very liberally from profane history, told him that he didn't intend to die. They left him, nevertheless, and when, at 3 o'clock next morning, he was brought into camp, both of our surgeons pronounced his wound fatal. He dissented very strongly from their opinions, was sent to the hospital and came out a well man, saved largely, as I believe, by his dogged determination not to die.

A NIGHT STAMPEDE.

There are panics commercial and panics military, bearing no special relation to each other and yet produced possibly by similar causes. One is attributed to a lack of confidence in others; the other is possibly due to a want of the same mental condition in regard to ourselves. In war fear as well as courage is contagious. The conspicuous bravery of a single soldier has sometimes steadied a wavering line, while one man's inability to face the music has begun a rearward movement that ended in a rout. Gen. Dick Taylor says that in Jackson's Valley Campaign he one day quieted the nervousness of his men under a heavy fire by standing on the breastworks and coolly striking a match on the heel of his boot to light a cigar. His apparent indifference to the danger was probably feigned but it produced the desired result. Heroism in battle and out of it is probably not so much the result of what is termed personal courage as it is the effect of lofty pride of character, backed and strengthened by a God-like sense of duty. Napoleon once ordered one of his colonels to charge a battery that was playing havoc with his lines. The officer turned pale as the order came from his commander's lips, but he went to his post promptly and led the charge and Napoleon said to his staff: "That's a brave man, he feels the danger, but is willing to face it." There are times, however, in war, when men, from some cause, real or imaginary, lose their self-control and give way to an unreasonable and unreasoning fear, when the instinct of self-preservation is uppermost and patriotism and pride alike lose their power. A few occasions of this kind I recall in my term of service. One of them occurred on the night of Oct. 26, '61, at Green Brier River. A picket from one of the outposts came in and reported the presence of a body of Federal troops near his post. Two companies from the 1st and 12th Ga. and 37th Va. each, were aroused from sleep and sent out to capture or disperse these disturbers of our dreams. Few occasions in war test a man's nerves more thoroughly than being suddenly awakened at night by an alarm. I have known men at such a time to suffer from nervous chills and on one occasion it brought on a member of the regiment an attack of cholera morbus. As this was the only instance within my observation when such a result was produced, I am not prepared, without further evidence, to recommend it to the medical profession either as an emetic or an aperient.

The six companies, including the Oglethorpes, had passed the last vidette post and crossing Green Brier River had begun the ascent of the mountain beyond. We had reached the point where the enemy had been seen and the location was an ideal one for an ambuscade. The dense forest growth overarching the road, shut out the starlight and we were unable to see six feet in our front. The head of the column had passed a sharp bend in the road and was doubling back, after the manner of mountain highways, when a soldier near the front stepped on a stick and it broke with a sharp snapping sound resembling the click of a rifle hammer. Some one in his rear, not knowing that the column had changed direction, and mistaking the sound for evidence of an ambush, said: "Look out boys," and stepped to the side of the road. The next file followed suit and the movement increased in volume and force as it came down the line, until the hurried tramp of feet sounded like a cavalry charge, as most of the men thought it was. For a few minutes everything was in confusion and panic reigned supreme. There was an undefined dread in every man's mind of a danger whose character and extent was hidden by the darkness. Several guns were fired, but fortunately there were no casualties save a few skinned noses from too sudden contact with the undergrowth that walled in the road. Order was finally restored and the command proceeded on its mission, but failed to locate an enemy, which had probably never existed except in the perverted vision of a nervous picket.

THREE LITTLE CONFEDERATES.

Thomas Nelson Page has written very charmingly of "Two Little Confederates," but an incident that occurred during our stay at Green Brier shows that "there were others." On Nov. 14, '61, three Virginia boys living in vicinity of our camp, and all under fifteen years of age, were out squirrel hunting on the Green Bank road, which led partly in the direction of the Federal camp on Cheat Mountain. Rambling through the woods in search of game, they came in sight of Yankee soldier, who was out on a similar errand, or possibly on an independent scouting expedition. As he was a "stranger" they decided to "take him in." He had laid aside his gun and cartridge box and was sitting by a tree eating his lunch. Slipping up noiselessly in his rear they captured his arms and then presenting their squirrel rifles they offered to serve as an honorary escort to our camp. He was rather loth to comply with the request of his youthful captors, but the muzzles of their guns were very persuasive, and with true Virginia pluck, they marched their mortified prisoner to Gen. Jackson's quarters. I regret that I failed to preserve the names of those three brave little Confederates.

But few other incidents worthy of record in these memories occurred during our stay on the Green Brier. On Nov. 17 there was a hotly contested snow ball fight between the 1st and 12th Ga. Regiments, resulting in a drawn battle. Two days later at 2 a. m., in response to the rattle of musketry at the picket post, we were aroused and marshalled into line in the wintry night air to repel an expected attack on our camp. It was on this occasion that the cholera morbus incident, to which allusion has been made, occurred. The alarm proved groundless, as the pickets had mistaken an old grey mare and her colt for a body of the enemy. As the animal was clothed in grey, the Confederate color, the mistake was all the less excusable.

CHAPTER II.

A CHANGE OF BASE.

For some weeks rumors, or "grape vine" bulletins, as they were called, had been afloat in camp that our regiment was to be transferred to coast service. To boys reared in the milder climate of Georgia the taste we were having of a Virginia winter rendered these rumors very palatable. And when, on Nov. 21, orders came to break camp we felt rather confident that we were bidding a long farewell to "Traveler's Repose" and Northwest Virginia, and were off for Georgia. The baggage wagons, of which the 1st Ga. had at that stage of the war, enough, in Gen. Loring's opinion, to equip a division, were loaded and went their way. All the afternoon we lay around the dismantled camp awaiting order to "follow pursuit," as a friend of mine once said, but they failed to come. Night settled down cold and cheerless, with our tents and blankets ten miles away, and we had to make the best of it. My bedfellow and I slept on an oilcloth, covered with an overcoat, and tied our four feet up together in a flannel shirt. Next day we crossed Allegheny Mountain and after three days' march, buoyed with the hope of spending the winter under a warmer sun, we reluctantly turned our faces Northward again, with the feeling in our hearts if not voiced upon our lips,

"O, ever thus from childhood's hour
I've seen my fondest hopes decay."

After a week's march my feet grew very sore and as I limped through Harrisonburg, a sweet-faced Virginia matron, with music in her voice and the light of heaven in her eye, beckoned to me from the window where she was sitting and gave me a nice pair of woollen socks. Passing through Newtown, Middletown, Kernstown and a number of other towns in a section made famous afterwards by Jackson's Valley Campaign, we reached Winchester Dec. 8, 1861. A few days later a supply of blankets contributed by the good ladies of Augusta, was received by the Oglethorpes. One of the contributors had no blankets, and in lieu of them, donated a handsome crumb-cloth, which like Joseph's coat, was of many colors, red and green being the prevailing tints. In the distribution this fell to Elmore Dunbar, the wag of the Company. Not needing it as a blanket he took it to a tailor in Winchester, had it transformed into a full suit, cap, coat and pants, and donning it had an innumerable company of gamins, white and black, following in his wake all over the town.

He and Harrison Foster were messmates. There was no discount on either of them as soldiers. Enlisting at the first call to arms, they were always among the first to toe the line at every beat of the longroll and in the closing months of the war, when hope of success had well nigh passed and so many were dropping by the wayside, they held out bravely and manfully to the end. But as cooks they were not a brilliant success. One evening Harrison had gathered a few brush to make a fire, when he called on Dunbar to assist in his preparations for the evening meal, an appeal, to which the latter failed to respond. "Well," said Harrison, "if you don't help, I'll swear I won't cook any supper." "All right," said Dunbar, "My supper's cooked," and fishing out of his coattail pocket an antiquated biscuit of uncertain age, he began to nibble. "Well," said Harrison, "I won't build any fire. You'll have to freeze," and Dunbar gently drew from his haversack an old-fashioned silk beaver hat, that he had worn in the march up the valley and quietly placed it on the fire as his contribution to the evening's comfort.

A SOLILOQUY—(NOT HAMLET'S.)

Among the original members enlisting with the Oglethorpes, was one H— H—, who, in civil life, was so scrupulously careful with his dress that in these latter days he would have passed a creditable examination as a dude. Camp life is not specially conducive to personal neatness and eight month's service had left to him on this line only the memory of better days. Returning from Winchester one night in a condition not promotive of mental equilibrium, he failed to find his tent and spent the night around the camp fire. He awoke next morning with his head in a camp kettle and his clothing soiled and blackened by contact with the cooking utensils, that had been his only bed-fellows. Running his hand through his matted locks and surveying his discolored uniform he was overheard to indulge in the following soliloquy: "Is this the gay and fascinating H— H—, that once perambulated the streets of Augusta in faultless attire? When I think of what I am and what I used to was, I feel myself blamed badly treated without sufficient cause."

"LIABLE TO DISAPPINTMENTS."

On a Saturday afternoon in my boyhood days, in company with a schoolmate, I was rambling through the woods in the enjoyment of the hebdomadal relief from the restraints of the school room and the unpalatable mysteries of the three R's taught with a hickory attachment. Reaching a country bathinghouse half-filled with water and used by a neighboring colored Baptist church for baptismal purposes, we proceeded to draw off the water in order to catch the tadpoles that were enjoying their otium cum dignitate on its mud-lined bottom. On the next day the preacher and congregation assembled at the place to administer the rite of baptism to a number of applicants for membership. Owing to our tadpole hunt of the preceding day, they found that unlike the place mentioned in the Scriptures, there was not "much water there," and they were compelled to defer the ceremony to a more convenient season. In dismissing the congregation the colored brother took occasion to remark that "We are liable, brethren, to disappintments in this life." On Christmas day in '61, in our camp, near Winchester, the mess to which the writer belonged found sad occasion to verify the truth if not the orthography of our dusky brother's observation. With a laudable desire to celebrate the day in appropriate style we had arranged with a colored caterer to supply our mess table with the proverbial turkey and such other adjuncts as the depleted condition of our financial bureau would permit. The day dawned and in the early morning hours our appetites for the coming feast were whetted by an eggnog kindly furnished the entire company by Lieut. J. V. H. Allen. The Christmas sun passed its meridian and traveled on toward its setting with no Joshua to stay its course. The appointed dinner hour came, as all appointed times do, but the proverbial turkey came not, with adjuncts or without. With our gastronomic hopes knocked finally into pi, but not mince pie, we sat down at last to our hardtack and bacon, lamenting in our hearts the uncertainty of "aught that wades, or soars, or shines beneath the stars." Whether the roost, from which our caterer expected to supply our larder was too well guarded on the preceding night, or whether the rating given our mess by the commercial agencies was unsatisfactory has remained through all these years an unsolved problem.

A TRAMP WITH STONEWALL JACKSON.

After our arrival in Winchester the "grape vine" service was again brought into requisition and rumors were current that we were going into winter quarters. But this was not "Stonewall Jackson's Way." His headquarters were in Winchester. Bath and Romney, in his department, were occupied by Federal troops and he determined to oust them. On Jan. 1, '62, our division, with Ashby's cavalry, began the march to Bath. It was a bright, warm day, with a touch of spring in the air. On the evening of the 3rd it began to snow and for thirty-one days the sun did not show his face again. If any reader of these memories should be disposed to question the accuracy of this statement, I can only say that it is so written in the chronicles of the First Georgia Regiment as recorded in my journal for the month named. That evening the wagons failed to reach our camp and our supper was confined to a single course—parched corn. Not relishing a repetition of the menu for breakfast, I dropped out of the ranks soon after the march began and tramping across the freshly fallen snow to a residence not far from the roadside, I found a trio of pretty Virginia girls engineering the first cooking stove I had ever seen. Reared in a country home and accustomed to rely for my daily bread on the culinary skill of old "Aunt Hannah," the presiding genius of an old-fashioned kitchen fire place six feet wide, where, with the tact born of long experience, she piled the ruddy coals on the biscuit oven lid, or fried in a skillet the home-made sausage and spare rib with home made lard, or broiled on a gridiron the juicy beefsteak, or piled the burning "chunks" under the mammoth kettle that hung from the crane, while from its cavernous depths the air was laden with the aroma of ham and cabbage, this innovation on old-time methods was something of a revelation. But its novelty did not diminish the relish with which I hid away in my empty anatomy the steaming pan cakes dished out by fair and shapely hands to a squad of hungry soldier, one of whom, as Bill Arp would say, I was glad to be which.

On the morning of Jan. 4th we were halted in front of Bath, while a portion of the division was deployed on the left of the road for an attack upon the enemy. As the line of battle advanced through the snow, over a mountain ridge, and in plain view of us, Capt. Sam Crump, who had seen service in Mexico, said: "Well, boys, the ball will open now in fifteen minutes." I was only a stripling boy, with but limited experience as a soldier, and I remember with what reverent respect and implicit faith I received the utterance. But the ball did not open. The Federals retired without resistance to Hancock, Md., six miles away, and we hurried forward in pursuit. Reaching the hills overlooking the Potomac and the town after dark, we were standing in the road awaiting orders when a sudden flash illuminated the heavens and the regiment sank as one man into the snow. We thought we had struck a masked battery, but it was our own guns throwing grape shot into the woods in front. After standing an hour or two in the snow without fire we bivouacked and I slept, or tried to sleep, on three rails with their ends resting on a stump. We had built a fire of rails, a favorite army fuel in those days. I do not remember from what species of timber they were made, but I do recall the fact that it was a popping variety when subjected to heat. All through the night our sleep was disturbed by the necessity of rising at frequent intervals to extinguish our burning blankets, and one man had his cap nearly burned from his head before it awoke him.

Next morning Turner Ashby went over under flag of truce to demand the surrender of the town. During his absence on this mission it was rumored that he had been held as a prisoner and his cavalry were preparing to storm the town to secure his release. The report proved a fake and he returned, bringing Gen. Lander's refusal to comply. An artillery duel ensued. The Federal guns had to be elevated to reach our position and their balls striking the frozen ground would rebound. Some of the boys, who had played "town ball" at school would pretend to catch them, and would sing out: "Caught him out," when another would reply: "Don't count, 'twas second bounce." It seemed more like a frolic than a fight. That night I laid aside my shoes and found them next morning filled with snow, while my blanket was covered with an inch or two of the same white mantle. Water was scarce and I tried to secure enough for a cup of coffee by melting snow in a tin cup, but found it a tedious process.

On the morning of the 7th the force was withdrawn to operate against Romney. The weather at this time recalls an old rhyme learned in my boyhood, which fits the case better than any description I could give and which runs thus,

"First she blew,
Then she snew,
And then she thew,
And then she friz."

The roads were as slick as glass. The horses had to be rough-shod and the wheels rough-locked with chains to cut the frozen sleet and snow in descending the hills, and even with these precautions the horses would fall and be dragged to the bottom of the descent before a halt could be made. Twelve horses would be hitched to a single piece of artillery and details were made from each company to push the wagons up the hills. To men not inured to such hardships the experience was a pretty rough one and the criticisms of the winter campaign made by some of them would not look well in a Sunday school book. Osborne Stone's Presbyterian training would not allow him to use any cuss words, but I remember that his "dog-on-its" were frequent and emphatic. On January 8 we reached the "Cross Roads," and those who were pronounced by the surgeons unfit for further winter service were returned to Winchester. With them went the writer, to worry for four weeks with typhoid fever, while the command went on to Romney. Of the Romney trip I can not speak from personal knowledge, but from the accounts given by those who can, it was a repetition of the return from Hancock with its hardships, perhaps intensified.

Jackson accomplished his purpose, to drive the enemy from his department, though at the expense of a good deal of exposure and suffering to his men.

ASHBY AND JACKSON.

As hard as the service was, I am glad to have had the opportunity of sharing it with such a man as Turner Ashby. He was then a colonel of cavalry. Mounted on his milk white steed, with the form of an athlete; coal black hair, a silky brown beard reaching nearly to his waist and a velvety, steel-grey eye, he was, in soul as well as body, an ideal cavalier. His command embraced some of the best blood of Virginia and he and they were fit types of the Old South, worthy representatives of a civilization, that in culture, courtesy and courage, in honor and in honesty, the past had never equalled and the future will never repeat.

Jackson had not then developed the military genius that afterwards rendered him so famous. The campaign furnished but little field for generalship, but it gave evidence of one trait in his character—to halt at no obstacle in the accomplishment of a purpose to benefit the cause for which he fought. In personal appearance and bearing he and Ashby differed widely. Without grace as a rider, and indifferently mounted, there was nothing in his appearance to indicate or foreshadow the height to which he afterwards attained. And yet I can but cherish with pride the recollection that in this campaign I had the privilege of serving under one, who in the blood-stained years that followed "went down to a soldier's grave with the love of the whole world, and the name of Stonewall Jackson."

"AUNT HANNAH."

In this connection my heart prompts me to pay its earnest tribute to one, whose memory the sketch above recalls. Dear old Aunt Hannah. How her name brings back to my heart and life today the glamour of the old, old days, that will never come again—days when to me a barefoot boy, life seemed a long and happy holiday. I can see her now, her head crowned with a checkered handkerchief, her arms bared to the elbows, her spectacles set primly on her nose, while from her kindly eyes there shone the light of a pure white soul within. She was only an humble slave, and yet her love for me was scarcely less than that my father and mother bore me and when on a summer's day in '61 my brother and myself left the old homestead to take our humble places under a new born flag, there was not a dry eye on the whole plantation and old Aunt Hannah wept in grief as pure and deep as if the clods were falling on an only child.

Long years have come and gone since she was laid away in the narrow house appointed for all the living. No marble headstone marks the spot, yet I am sure the humble mound that lies above her sleeping dust, covers a heart as honest and as faithful, as patient and as gentle, as kindly and as true as any that rest beneath the proudest monument that art could fashion, or affection buy. She reared a large family of sons and daughters, Rev. Charles T. Walker, the "Black Spurgeon," among them, transmitting to them all a character for honesty and virtue marked even in those, the better days of the republic.

Wisely or otherwisely, in the order of Providence, or in the order of Napoleon's "heavier battalions," we have in this good year of our Lord not only a New South, but a new type of Aunt Hannah. The old is, I fear, a lost Pleiad, whose light will shine no more on land, or sea, or sky.

A RIDE WITH BELLE BOYD, THE CONFEDERATE SPY.

On a page of the writer's scrap book, underneath a roll of the Oglethorpes and in friendly contact with the parole granted me at Johnston's surrender, is a slip of paper pocket-worn, and yellow with age, which reads as follows: "Winchester, Va., Mar. 1, 1862. Pass W. A. Clark and brother today on Valley Road. By order Maj. Gen. T. J. Jackson. M. M. Sibert, Captain and Provost Marshall." Thereby hangs the following tale: On my return to Winchester, after the tramp to Hancock, I had secured lodgings at the home of a Mrs. Polk, where for nearly four weeks, I lay with my pulses throbbing with fever. From that sick bed two incidents come back vividly today over the waste of years that have intervened. My hostess, whose kindness I shall never forget, had a daughter, Nellie, who, as a rustic friend of mine would say, was something of a "musicianer." Patriotic songs were all the rage and one evening as I lay on my bed restless from fever and trying to sleep, she began in the parlor below to sing the "Bonnie Blue Flag." The copy used had, I think, eleven verses, and in my nervous condition the entertainment seemed endless. Just as I had congratulated myself on its conclusion, a young gentleman called and insisted on a repetition of the program with his vocal accompaniment, and she was kind enough to comply, without skipping a verse. I can not recall a musical entertainment that my condition forced me to appreciate less though cheerfully acquitting her of any malice aforethought in the matter.

As I lay on my bed during all those weeks and looked on the white-mantled hills that environed the town I remember distinctly how intensely my parched lips craved the cooling touch of the pure white snow. But like Tantalus, I was forced day after day to gaze on a luxury I could not enjoy, for the medical science of that day said nay. Tempora mutantur, and doctors change with them.

Before I had recovered sufficiently to leave my bed Stonewall Jackson decided to evacuate Winchester and ordered all the convalescent sick to be moved. Having no desire to complete my recovery in a Federal prison my brother secured the pass above referred to and seats in the hack to Strasburg. There were nine passengers and among them was Belle Boyd, the Confederate Spy. Her home was in Martinsburg and her father a Major in the Confederate army. Her mother had forced her to leave home on the approach of the Federal army. On its first visit to Martinsburg she had remained there. Having a soldier friend in the hospital and uncertain as to the treatment he would receive from the enemy, she had taken two of her father's servants to the hospital with a stretcher, had him placed upon it and walked by his side through the streets to her home with a loaded pistol in her hand to protect him from insult or injury at their hands. A few days later a Federal soldier attempted to place a Union flag over the door of her home and she persuaded him to desist by the use of a leaden argument from her pistol. Another attempt to remove a Confederate flag that waved over the mantel in her parlor met with a similar counter-irritant, and she was molested no further. Fortunately or unfortunately as the case may be, neither of her shots hit their mark. In view of these facts her mother thought it prudent to send her away before the Union forces occupied the town again, and she was en route to the home of a relative in Front Royal. To protect myself from the chilly air during the stage ride I was wearing a woollen visor knitted for my brother by Miss Lucy Meredith, of Winchester, and covering my head and throat, leaving only my eyes exposed. With a woman's instinct she saw that I was too weak to sit up and arranged to give me possession of an entire seat, improvised a pillow of a red scarf she was wearing on her shoulders and in every way possible contributed to my ease and comfort. On reaching Strasburg she aided my brother in getting me into the hotel, arranged a lounge in the parlor for me, brought my supper and entertained me during the meal, refusing to eat anything herself until I had finished. After supper she sat by me and talked to me for an hour, and then, thinking I was weary, she moved the lamp in a corner of the room shading it from my eyes with her scarf, so that I might sleep. After all these years my memory retains some incidents of that conversation. I remember that she told me something of her child life; that when a little girl she had been a member of Dave Strother's party in his tour through Virginia, which he described so charmingly in the early numbers of Harper's Magazine over the nom de plume of "Porte Crayon;" that Gen. Lander, who commanded the Federal troops, that we had driven from Bath into Maryland, was an old sweetheart of hers; that Dave Strother was a member of his staff, and she intended to cut his acquaintance.

I remember that she said further that she had been hurt by a remark made to her that day by a soldier about the seeming boldness of Virginia girls; that soldiers mistook kindness and the expression of a desire to serve them for boldness; that she intended coming to Georgia after the war to get married. She left on the next train for her destination, and I saw her no more. She had impressed me as one of kindest and gentlest of women and yet a year or two later she forded the Potomac alone in a storm at midnight to carry important information to her brother in Stuart's cavalry. Perhaps with woman as well as man

"The bravest are the tenderest,
The loving are the daring."

If necessity had required it I believe she would have led the charge of Pickett's Division at Gettysburg without a tremor.

In the years that followed she became a noted spy, going into the Federal lines and securing information, which she sent or carried to the Confederate army. She was finally arrested and sent to Washington as a prisoner. It was reported that she married the Federal officer, to whose oversight she had been entrusted and that he joined the Confederate army. Some of her methods as a spy subjected her to harsh and hostile criticism, but in grateful memory of her kindness to one, who was only a private soldier, without rank or social prestige, one who had no claim upon her service save that in an humble way he had tried to serve the cause she loved and in that service had grown sick and helpless, her name has never passed my lips except in tones of fervent gratitude and reverent respect.

VIRGINIA.

As my service as a soldier on Virginia soil was now about to end and as that service carried me afterwards into six other states of the Confederacy, in four of them lengthening into months or years, it may not be amiss to say in this connection that judged by that experience, Virginia stood above them all in kindly feeling and hospitable treatment to the Confederate soldier. Furnishing to the army perhaps a larger quota of her sons than any other State, her territory tracked by the tread of hostile armies for four bloody years, her homes destroyed and her fields laid waste, her generous kindness and her active sympathy for the suffering soldier never wavered to the end.

While the South as a whole gave to the world the highest type of civilization it had ever known, Virginia, as I believe, stood at its head, the capstone in the fairest structure the sun has gilded since the morning stars sang together, and garlanding its summit like a glistening coronal, bright with the light of immortality stands the name and fame of Robert Edward Lee.

HOME AGAIN.

The 1st Ga. Regiment was the only infantry organization from this State mustered out at the expiration of its first year's service. The Conscript Act became effective in the spring of '62, and succeeding regiments, whose terms expired later were under its provision retained in the service. On the return of the command from Romney the 1st Ga. was ordered to Tennessee. Going by rail to Lynchburg, a railroad accident occasioned some delay at that point and as their time would have expired in a few days they were sent to Augusta to be mustered out.

My brother, knowing that I would not be strong enough to rejoin the command before its term of service ended, decided to take me directly home. And so by stage and rail, with tiresome delays at every junction, in the deepening twilight of a fair spring day, weak and weary, I came in sight of the old homestead once more. Over the joy and gladness of such a meeting after an absence, every day of which had seemed to those I had left behind, an age of agony and dread, it is meet that the mantle of silence should fall. The halo that came to fathers and mothers hearts in those old days when their "boys" came home from the war, seemed like a breath from Heaven. It was sacred then and to me it is sacred still. Loving lips, that gave me glad welcome that spring day have long been cold and silent, and eyes that shone through misty tears are dim in death. Some time in the coming months or years, I know not when, and yet in God's good time, in weakness and in weariness at even-tide on some spring day again, it may be, I shall, I trust, go "home again;" not to the old homestead hallowed as it is by a mother's love and a father's prayers, and yet to find hard by the River of Life from lips long silent, a welcome just as loving in "a city, whose builder and maker is God."

ROSTER OF OGLETHORPE INFANTRY,

Co. D, 1st Ba. Regt.

Capt. J. O. Clarke, promoted Lieut. Col. 1st Ga. Reg.
Capt. Horton B. Adams.
1st Lieut. J. V. H. Allen.
2d Lieut. Geo. W. Crane.
3d Lieut. S. B. Simmons.
1st Serg. A. J. Setze.
2d Serg. W. S. Holmes.
3d Serg. S. C. Foreman.
4th Serg. L. A. Picquet.
1st Corp. O. M. Stone.
2d Corp. Jesse W. Rankin.
3d Corp. Chas H. Roberts.
4th Corp. Burt O. Miller.

PRIVATES.

Alfred M. Averill.
Dillard Adams.
A. E. Andrews.
A. W. Bailey.
F. A. Beall.
A. W. Blanchard.
R. M. Booker.
Jno. M. Bunch.
Thos. Burgess.
Milton A. Brown.
A. J. Burroughs.
Wm. Bryson.
Chas. Catlin.
H. A. Cherry.
H. B. Clark.
F. W. Clark.
Wm. H. Clark.
Walter A. Clark.
W. J. Cloyd.
Jno. R Coffin.
E. F. Clayton.
C. S. Crag.
Wm. Craig.
J. B. Crumpton.
Wilberforce Daniel.
Ed. Darby.
Joseph T. Derry.
J. J. Doughty.
C. W. Doughty.
W. R. Doyle.
B. B. Doyle.
Jno. P. Duncan.
S. H. Dye.
E. A. Dunbar.
Geo. W. Evans.
Robert C. Eve.
Sterling C. Eve.
L. F. Flming.
H. Clay Foster.
W. Harrison Foster.
John P. Foster.
Willie Goodrich.
J. P. Goodrich.
C. M. Goodwin.
W. A. Griffin.
A. G. Hall.
E. H. Hall.
Wm. Haight.
J. J. Harrell.
Frank M. Hight.
Jno. C. Hill.
Harry Hughes.
Jno. T. Hungerford.
V. G. Hitt.
H. B. Jackson.
W. F. Jackson.
A. M. Jackson.
Whit G. Johnson.
W. H. Jones.
W. E. Jones.
G. A. Jones.
Matt Kean.
W. H. Kennedy.
W. T. Lamar.
Jas. Lamar.
Geo. G. Leonhardt.
D. W. Little.
P. E. Love.
A. D. Marshall.
C. O. Marshall.
Geo. W. McLaughlin.
C. E. McCarthy.
J. T. McGran.
D. W. Mongin.
R. B. Morris.
W. B. Morris.
Z. B. Morris.
W. J. Miller.
Josiah Miller.
Geo. D. Mosher.
M. C. Murphey.
W. E. Peay.
A. Pilcher.
J. T. Newberry.
F. M. Pope.
Geo. P. Pournelle.
W. P. Ramsey.
J. T. Ratcriff.
J. H. Revill.
A. J. Rhodes.
J. A. Rhodes.
J. P. Roberts.
J. C. Roebuck.
W. A. Roll.
J. W. Rigsby.
S. H. Sheppard.
L. W. Shed.
L. W. Stroud.
Fred W. Stoy.
Jno. W. Stoy.
Alonzo Smith.
Miles Turpin.
Thomas J. Tutt.
J. E. Thomas.
Geo. J. Verdery.
R. W. Verdery.
G. F. Wing.
B. H. Watkins.
C. D. Wakins.
Jas. E. Wilson.
Jas. D. Wilson.
Walter A. Wiley.
Wm. T. Williams.
W. T. Winn.
Wm. Whiting.

CHAPTER III.

REORGANIZATION WITH 12th GA. BATTALION.

On May 1, 1862, the Oglethorpes were re-organized at Camp Jackson, on the Carnes Road, near Augusta, Ga., as an artillery company under Capt. J. V. H. Allen. Three other companies from the 1st Ga. Regiment, and the "DeKalb Rifles" from Stone Mountain, joined us and the 12th Ga. Battalion was formed, with Major Henry D. Capers as commander. We remained at this camp drilling for two months, and our parade ground became a favorite afternoon resort for the young ladies of Augusta.

A "LITTLE LONG."

Among the fair visitors, who honored us by their presence, were the Misses Long, two pretty and attractive girls, who were guests at the Savage Place, near our quarters. Miles Turpin, one of the company wits, fell a victim to the charms of the younger one, who in physical make-up was rather petite. When his attack had reached the acute stage, he was being joked about it one day and gave vent to his feelings in the following revised version of Goldsmith's familiar lines:

I want but little here below,
But want "that little Long."

Miles was not the only wit in the Company. Every branch in Phil Schley's family tree must have shed puns as an ordinary tree sheds leaves when touched by the breath of winter. Lon Fleming was crossing the grounds at Camp Jackson one day with a chair slung over his left shoulder, when he was hailed by Phil. "Lon, you are most cheerful man I've seen today." "Yes," said Lon, "over the left." Lest some of my readers may fail to see the point, it may be prudent to say that when Phil and I were boys, "chair" in the piney woods was pronounced "cheer." This was not one of Phil's best nor, perhaps, one of his worst. It would probably grade about "strict low middling." Aside from this hereditary punning propensity, from which my old comrade has reasonably recovered, I am glad to recall his unfailing good humor and his readiness to meet the dangers and hardships of the service bravely and without a murmur.

THE 12th GA. BATTALION FLAG.

On July 4th, '62, Miss Pinkie Evans, of Augusta, presented to the battalion a beautiful silk battle flag made, it was said, from her mother's wedding robe. Her patriotic address in making the presentation was responded to by Maj. Capers, who accepted the colors for the battalion.

As the Oglethorpes were transferred from the battalion in the fall of 1862, we had no opportunity of fighting under their banner save at the skirmish at Huntsville, Tennessee. It was afterwards bravely borne on many a bloody battlefield, under Evans and Gordon in Maryland and Virginia. Seven color-bearers were shot down under its silken folds. During the second heavy bombardment of Fort Sumter, lasting from Oct. 26 to Dec. 6, 1863, the 12th Ga. Battalion formed a part of its garrison. On Oct. 31st the flag of the fort was shot down and was replaced by Serg. Graham, Will Hitt and Bob Swain, of Augusta, then serving with the 12th Ga. Batt. It was shot down again on the same day and its staff so badly shattered that it could not be hoisted. The same brave men went up on the parapet, amid the storm of solid shot and shell and raised their own 12th Ga. flag. When the Confederate line was broken at Cedar Creek, Serg. Hopps of Crump's company, bore this flag, and disdaining to fly, he held his ground alone, waving his colors defiantly at the advancing line of blue until he was killed. Afred Wallen, of the same company, a beardless boy, but a brave one, saw him fall and running back at the risk of his own life, tore the flag from its staff and brought it in safety to his command. It is said these colors were not surrendered at Appomatox, but were returned to their fair donor unstained save by the blood of the gallant Baker and King and Stallings and Hopps, who in the shock of battle had gone down to death under their silken folds.

OFF TO THE FRONT

Buell was threatening Chattanooga, and Maj. Capers was ordered to report with his battalion to Gen. McCown at that point. Leaving Augusta July 5th in two special trains, we were detained at Ringgold, Ga., for a day or two by a collision with a freight train, which resulted in the death of ten or twelve men and fifteen or twenty horses, and in injuries more or less serious to a larger number. Reaching Chattanooga July 8, we remained there ten days and were then transferred by N. & C. R. R. to a point near Shell Mound, Ala. Picketing here for two weeks in front of Buell's army we returned to Chattanooga Aug. 1, and on the next day left for Knoxville with the intention, I suppose, of accompanying Kirby Smith's army into Kentucky. Two days at Knoxville and we are off for Clinton. En route a courier brings information that the enemy has attacked our forces at Tazewell, twenty miles away, and we are ordered to hurry forward to reinforce Gen. Stevenson at that point. An hour later another dispatch is received that the attack has been repulsed and we are sidetracked at Clinton to aid in the capture or dispersion of the 7th Tenn. Federal regiment, then occupying a fortified camp near Huntsville, Tenn.

COL. HOGELAND AND HIS WAR DIARY.

How strangely human events sometimes shape themselves without apparent effort to control them. Sitting in my home some weeks ago in the dreamy haze of an October Sunday afternoon, there chanced to fall under my eye in the editorial column of a Sunday school paper the statement that Col. Alexander Hogeland of Louisville, Ky., had visited Nashville, Tenn., in the interest of the "Curfew Law." Other items in the column caused a momentary disturbance of my brain cells, then passed away to be recalled no more. But this one lingered in my memory and would not down, for thereby hangs the following tale:

The expedition against the Federal force at Huntsville was commanded by Col. Gracie, of Alabama, and consisted of the 12th Ga. Battalion, a portion of an Alabama regiment, and a few cavalry. Leaving Clinton at 4 p. m., Aug. 12, we camped near Jacksonboro on the night of the 13th and on the morning of the 14th started for Huntsville by a rough mountain path that crossed a spur of the Cumberland range. After a toilsome tramp we halted at 9 p. m. and after an hour's rest were again on the march. The path is narrow and the overarching trees shut out every ray of starlight. Groping along in the dark we follow the tramp of the feet in front, reaching out occasionally to touch the file just ahead, lest our ears have deceived us. Our pathway passes on the edge of a precipitous bluff and my brother in Crump's company loses his footing and topples over it. The fall fails to disable him, but he loses his hat and in the darkness is unable to recover it. Hatless he rejoins the command and the procession moves on. Just before daylight we halt for another rest. At 5 a. m. we resume the march and in the early morning reach the vicinity of the Federal camp. Deploying into line of battle we advance through a belt of woodland and entering a cornfield beyond, our right is fired upon by the Federal pickets. As we drive them in a scattering fire is kept up until we come in sight of their camp and near it a rude log fort built upon the crest of a tall hill, over whose precipitous slope the forest trees have been felled, making an almost impassable abattis. While arrangements are being made for an attack upon the fort, Tom Tutt and the writer, who are both on the color guard, see a thin line four or five hundred yards to our right, near a church, and whom we take to be the pickets, who had been resisting our advance. Tom, whose rule is to shoot at everything in sight, selects his man and fires and the writer follows suit. We load and fire again. After a few rounds I become convinced that it is a portion of Capt. Crump's company, which had been detached and sent to the right and in which I have two brothers. As Tom raises his gun again I said, "Hold on, Tom, you are shooting at your own company." He made no reply and continued firing until the order to advance was given. A deep gully lay partially in our front and as its passage caused some confusion in the ranks, we halted to reform the line. Crump's company was hurrying forward to join us and before they had reached their position in line Col. Gracie gave the command, "Charge." From underneath the head logs of the fort the Belgian rifles were barking at us and the heavy balls they carried whistled by us like young shells. We were waiting for Crump, and Gracie, ignorant of the cause of the delay, shouted: "What is the matter with the 12th Ga. Battalion?" Just then a lone cavalryman passed the line on foot and with drawn sabre made his way towards the fort with the evident intention of capturing the whole business himself. Crump's company came up at a "double quick" and the whole line moved forward with a yell. Sergeant Harwell, our color-bearer, had never been under fire and the boys, uncertain as to his grit, had asked Tom Tutt, who did not know what fear meant, to take the colors when the charge began. Tom made the effort to seize them, but Harwell, a tall, gaunt man, and brother of two honored Methodist preachers, declined to give them up and bore them forward bravely. As we advanced the fire from the fort suddenly ceased and we thought they were waiting to see the whites of our eyes. Reaching the steep ascent we climbed up over logs and brush until the fort was gained. Lieut. Joe Taliaferro, of Augusta, was the first to enter, and with his sword cut down the floating flag. The fort was empty—not a Yankee to be seen. Under cover of the thick forest growth in their rear they had hid to other haunts, under the idea, perhaps, that

"He who fights and runs away,
Will live to fight another day."

Their camp, located just below the fort gave ample evidence of their hasty exit. Our attack was something of a "surprise party" and their unfinished morning meal was boiling, baking and frying on the camp fires. We were unexpected and uninvited guests and yet our reception was warm, although unfriendly. Our all-night tramp enabled us to do full justice to the breakfast they had prepared, as well as the sugar cured hams and other supplies their commissary had kindly left for our use. We appropriated an ample outfit of blankets, canteens, haversacks, etc., and burned what we could not carry away.

The skirmish on our side, and probably on theirs was almost bloodless. W. W. Bussey, of the Oglethorpes, and Garyhan, of Crump's company, were slightly wounded. I recall no other casualty except the killing of a nice horse ridden by Col. Gracie.

And now what has all this to do with the item I read in a Sunday school paper? Simply this: Among the assets and effects secured that day by the writer from the officer's tent and administered upon without "Letter's Testamentary" was a pocket diary belonging to Capt. Alexander Hogeland, of the 10th Indiana Regt. On reading the paragraph referred to, the coincidence in names suggested the possibility that Col. Alexander Hogeland, of Louisville, Ky., "Father of the Curfew," might have been Capt. Alexander Hogeland, of the 10th Ind. Regt., whose property had been in my possession for thirty-seven years. To test the matter, I wrote Col. Hogeland and from his reply the following extract is taken: "Your deeply interesting favor of the 4th inst received and for the information it contains accept my hearty thanks. I am the identical person referred to in your letter. Was first lieutenant Co. D, 10th Indiana Regiment in the West Virginia campaign and afterwards Captain of Co. G. In May, '62, was made lieutenant-colonel of 7th East Tennessee Regiment, commanded by Col. Wm. Cliff, and stationed at Huntsville, Tenn., in August, '62. We lost everything on the occasion you refer to and this is the first information I have received as to the whereabouts of my effects. I am very glad to avail myself of your proffer to return my diary and enclose herewith necessary postage." Col. Hogeland's diary was duly returned to him and in acknowledging its receipt he took occasion to thank me for looking him up after all these years and assured me that he would endeavor to return that kindness by visiting Augusta in the early future and giving the citizens of this goodly city the benefit of the "Curfew Law." It will furnish additional evidence of the truthfulness of the opening statement in this sketch if the capture of a war diary nearly forty years ago, should result in the adoption of a "Curfew" ordinance in Augusta.

In illustration of the adage that "Every dog has his day," it may not be amiss to say that Col. Hogeland's escapade from Fort Cliff at the instance of four companies of the old First Georgia Regiment, was only partial compensation for the 100-mile run made by those self-same companies from Laurel Hill, Va., in '61, with Capt. Hogeland's regiment as one of the exciting causes.

JACKSBORO.

On our return from Huntsville, Joe Derry and J. W. Lindsay, of the Oglethorpes, unable to keep pace with the command, straggled and were captured by "bush-whackers." Joe was exchanged a few days, later, Lindsay preferring to remain a prisoner. After a short stay at Clinton we moved up to Jacksboro and remained there until Oct. 9th, guarding Bragg's line of communications. Our service at this place was uneventful. Buell's army had retreated into Kentucky and there was nothing to disturb our "otium cum dignitate" save a moderate amount of picket duty and the one subject ever uppermost in the soldier's mind—"rations." The following incidents of our stay at this camp furnish some illustrations of this fact:

THE PARSON AND THE GRAVY.

A continuous diet of salt bacon had made the boys ravenous for fresh meat and as war has no tendency to strengthen respect for property rights where a soldier's appetite is involved, they were not, as a rule, very scrupulous as to the methods adopted to procure a supply. The means most in use at the date referred to were known in camp parlance as "flip ups." As no encyclopedia of my acquaintance describes this mechanical contrivance and its specifications have never encumbered the records of the patent office, it may not be amiss to say that it consisted of a bent sapling, a slip noose with a trigger attachment and a bait of corn. The unsuspecting porker, tempted by the bait, sprang the trigger and the sapling freed from its confinement, sought to resume its normal position, while the shote caught in the noose and partially suspended in the air gave noisy notice that the game was up.

On one occasion the catch, by right of discovery or otherwise, fell to a mess, of which Parson H——, a minister of the Presbyterian persuasion, was a member. When dinner was served that day a dish of smoking pork chops was passed to the Parson, but he declined with the remark that his conscience did not allow him to eat stolen meat. As the meal progressed the fragrant odor from the dish struck his olfactories with increasingly tempting force and he finally passed up his tin plate and said: "I'll take a little of the gravy if you please." He had made a brave fight for principle and his final compromise was probably due to the fact that Paul's vow, "If meat make my brother to offend I will eat no flesh while the world standth," failed to include gravy in its inhibition. He may have been further influenced by the reflection that his refusal to indulge could not possibly restore the porker to life again. As Jim Wilson said,

"'Twas Greece (grease), but living Greece no more."

This incident recalls the fact that Jim and the writer had on this subject the same scruples as the Parson, and in order to place ourselves on the line of strongest resistance we entered into an agreement with each other binding ourselves to total abstinence from all meat of questionable origin until mutually released from the obligation. The compact was religiously observed until Hood's campaign in Tennessee in the winter of '64. Transportation was scarce and rations were scarcer. On one occasion two ears of corn were issued to each soldier. Some wag in the company, probably Elmore Dunbar, seeing that horse rations were being furnished sang out, "come and get your fodder." On another occasion beef was issued but no bread. We had neither lard to fry nor salt to season, but our digestive apparatus was not then fastidious as to condiments. It was unimportant whether it was taken "cum grano salis" or without, so the void was filled.

A fire was built of dried limbs from a brush pile and the beef placed in a shallow frying pan to stew, Frank Stone being the chef de cuisine. The mess sat around with anxious faces and whetted appetites. Finally one of them, in shifting his position, struck the end of a limb on which the pan was resting and dumped the whole business into the dirt and ashes. The catastrophe placed us rather than the beef in a stew and we went to bed supperless.

Under such conditions it is, perhaps, but natural that the case should be re-opened, a new trial granted and a verdict rendered to follow Paul's other injunction, "Whatsoever is set before you, eat, asking no questions for conscience sake."

I can not recall positively that either of us ever indulged even as to gravy, but I think I can say that neither of us was particepts criminis in the act of impressment. If guilty, we were only accessories after the fact.

"THEM MOLASSES."

During our stay at Jacksboro the farmers in that section were making sorghum syrup, which most of them called "them molasses." Near one of our picket posts lived a Baptist minister named Lindsay, from whose better half we purchased vegetables and other edibles. On one occasion I was unable to make exact change and left owing her 12 1-2 cents in Confederate money. Two weeks later I was on picket again and paid her the balance due. She was so much surprised that a soldier should have the moral sense to recognize and meet such an obligation that she formed a very exalted estimate of my honesty and when I afterwards went to buy some of "them molasses" she requested her husband to take it from a barrel she had reserved for her own use "for," he said "she likes 'em powerful thick." I had occasion to regret her kindness, for it was so thick that it was with difficulty that I could get it either into or out of my canteen, and in view of her partiality I did not have the heart to suggest that a thinner grade would be preferred. She was a kind and motherly soul, and yet some of the soldiers would steal from her. To prevent or minimize their depredations she cooped a noisy rooster underneath her bedroom as a sort of watch dog to notify her of any midnight foragers. A few mornings afterwards she awoke to find, aside from other losses, that her feathered sentinel had been caught asleep upon his post by some soldier, who was chicken-mouthed, if he was not chicken-hearted.

RATIONS.

Rations as one of the sinews of war, deserve something more than incidental mention in these memories and as no more favorable opportunity may occur, it may be as well to give them more extended notice in connection with the incident just related.

Confederate rations during the early years of the war were as I recollect them, not only fair in quality but ample in quantity. As evidence of this fact I remember that the boys were sometimes so indifferent when rations hour arrived that it was difficult to induce them to draw their allowance promptly. Charles Catlin was our company commissary and I can hear now his clear, sharp tones as they rang out on the frosty evening air among the Virginia mountains in '61, "Come up and get your beef. Are you going to keep a man standing out here in the cold all night?"

As the war progressed the resources of the Confederacy, limited to its own production by the cordon of hostile gunboats that girded its ports, became more and more heavily taxed and its larder grew leaner and leaner. But little wheat was raised in the Gulf States and few beeves except in Texas. We were reduced largely to meal and bacon rations, and the supply of these sometimes recalled the instructions in regard to loading a squirrel rifle given by its owner to a friend to whom he had loaned it: "Put in very little powder, if any." Cooking squads were detailed from each company and once a day the wagons would drive up and issue three small corn pones to each man. Some of the boys, whose hunger was chronic, would begin on theirs and never stop until the last pone had been eaten.

Bob Winter belonged to this class and eight or ten hours after his daily rations had disappeared Dick Morris would draw a pone or half a pone from his haversack and say, "Bob, here's some bread if you want it," and Bob would reply, "Dick, I don't want to take it if you need it," and Dick would answer, "Bob, I've told you a thousand times that I wouldn't give you anything that I wanted," and Bob would succumb and so would the bread.

When our changes of base were rapid the squads would cook up two or three days' rations and in hot weather the bread would mould and when broken open the fungus growth looked very much like cobweb. Some of the pones had also the appearance of slow convalescence from chill and fever. Under such conditions it could hardly be considered very palatable except upon the idea of a rustic friend of mine, who, in commending the virtues of India Cholagogue, was asked as to its palatability. "O," said he, "it's very palatable, but the meanest stuff to take you ever saw."

Most of the boys had left well-to-do homes to enter the service and while they bore privation and hunger without a murmur, there would sometimes come into their hard lives a craving for the good things they had left behind. Gathered about the camp-fire, cold and tired and hungry, they would discuss the dish that each liked best and their lips would grow tremulous as they thought of the day when hope would become realization. Joe Derry, I remember, could never be weaned away from the memory of his mother's nice mince pies and black-berry jam. I can see his eyes dance now as he magnified their merits. Bob Winter's ultimate thule in the gastronomic line was sliced potato pie, while Jim Thomas would never tire of singing the praises of 'possum baked with potatoes. Louis Picquet said to him one day, "Jim, if I ever get home again I am going to have one dinner of 'possum and 'taters if it kills me." But it was left to the epicurean taste of John Henry Casey to reach the acme of these unsatisfied longings when, recognizing the value of quantity as well as quality he declared that nothing less would satisfy him than "a chicken pie big enough to trot a horse and buggy around on."

But for extending this ration sketch to an irrational length I might have said something of the May Pop leaves that we cooked for "greens" in North Georgia, of the half hardened corn transformed into meal by means of an improvised grater prepared by driving nails through the side of a tin canteen, of the pork issued to us in Tennessee with the hair still on it, of the hog skins that we ate at Inka, Miss., and of many other such things, but they would probably fail to interest the reader as they did the actors in those far off days.

CHAPTER IV.

TRANSFERRED TO THE COAST.

Our enlistment as artillery had so far proven a delusion and a snare. The Confederacy had no guns with which to equip us and we had found no opportunity to capture any. During our stay at Jacksboro Capt. Allen succeeded in securing from the War Department the transfer of the Oglethorpes to the 2nd South Carolina Artillery, then in service at Charleston. Oct. 9, '62, at 6 p. m. we fell into line, gave three cheers for our late companions in arms and as the setting sun crimsoned with its last rays the lofty summit of the Cumberland, we filed out of the village to the tune of

"We are sons of old Aunt Dinah,
And we go where we've amind to
And we stay where we're inclined to,
And we don't care a——cent."

and our sojourn in Jacksonboro was a thing of the past.

Reaching Augusta Oct. 13, we were dismissed until the 23rd, when we went into camp at the Bush Ground, near the city. Why we did not proceed at once to our command in Charleston has always been to the writer an unsolved problem. We remained in Augusta until Dec. 9, when orders were received to report to Gen. H. W. Mercer, at Savannah. Col. Geo. A. Gordon, in command of the 13th Ga. Battalion was endeavoring to raise it to a regiment. As he lacked two companies and as the Oglethorpes had 120 men on its roll an effort was made to divide the company. On Dec. 11 a vote was taken, the result showing a majority against division. Dec. 15 we were formally attached to the 63rd Ga. Regiment, ranking as Co. A. Our quarters were located just in the rear of Thunderbolt Battery and here we remained for more than twelve months in the discharge of semi-garrison duty.

A STUDY IN INSECT LIFE.

The period covered by our service on the coast formed a sort of oasis in our military life. The Federal gunboats were kind enough to extend social courtesies to us only at long range and longer intervals. We fought and bled, it is true, but not on the firing line. The foes that troubled us most, were the fleas and sand fleas and mosquitoes that infested that sections. They never failed to open the spring campaign promptly and from their attacks by night and day no vigilance on the picket line could furnish even slight immunity. If the old time practice of venesection as a therapeutic agent was correct in theory our hygienic condition ought to have been comparatively perfect. During the "flea season" it was not an unusual occurrence for the boys after fruitless efforts to reach the land of dreams, to rise from their couches, divest themselves of their hickory shirts and break the silence of the midnight air by vigorously threshing them against a convenient tree in the hope of finding temporary "surcease of sorrow" from this ever-present affliction. It was said that if a handful of sand were picked up half of it would jump away. I can not vouch for the absolute correctness of this statement, but I do know that I killed, by actual count, one hundred and twenty fleas in a single blanket on which I had slept the preceding night and I can not recall that the morning was specially favorable for that species of game either. I remember further that as we had in camp no "Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals," I corked up an average specimen of these insects to see how long he would live without his daily rations. At the end of two weeks he had grown a trifle thin, but was still a very lively corpse. But these were not the only "ills, that made calamity of so long a life," for as Moore might have said, if his environment had been different,

"Oft in the stilly night,
Ere slumber's chain had bound me,
I felt the awful bite
Of 'skeeters buzzing 'round me."

Their bills were presented on the first day of the day of the month and, unfortunately, on every other day. At our picket stations on Wilmington and White marsh Islands and at the "Spindles" on the river where the young alligators amused themselves by crawling up on the bank and stealing our rations, there was a larger variety known as gallinippers, from whose attacks the folds of a blanket thrown over our faces was not full protection.

But there were still others. On dress parade in the afternoons, while the regiment was standing at "parade rest" and no soldier was allowed to move hand or foot until Richter's band, playing Capt. Sheppards Quick step, had completed its daily tramp to the left of the line and back to its position on the right, the sandflies seemed to be aware of our helplessness and "in prejudice of good order and military discipline" were especially vicious in their attack upon every exposed part of our anatomy. Capt. C. W. Howard, I remember, was accustomed to fill his ears with cotton as a partial protection. I have seen Charlie Goetchius, while on the officers' line in front of the regiment, squirm and shiver in such apparent agony that the veins in his neck seemed ready to burst. Neither whistling minies, nor shrieking shells, nor forced marches with no meal in the barrel nor oil in the cruse ever seemed to disturb his equanimity in the slightest degree. Quietly and modestly and bravely he met them all. But the sandfly brigade was a little too much for him.

In addition to these discomforts, the salt water marsh, near which we were camped, never failed to produce a full crop of chills and fever as well as of that peculiar species of crabs known as "fiddlers." Gen. Early was once advised by one of his couriers that the Yankees were in his rear. "Rear the d—l," said old Jubal, "I've got no rear. I'm front all round." These fiddlers seemed to be in the same happy condition. Their physical conformation was such that no matter from what side they were approached, they retired in an exactly opposite direction without the necessity of changing front. But of the chills. Of the one hundred and fifteen men in our ranks only three escaped an attack of this disease. The writer was fortunately one of the three. One man had fifty-three chills before a furlough was allowed him. Quinine was scarce and boneset tea and flannel bandages saturated with turpentine were used as substitutes. Whiskey was sometimes issued as a preventative. In pursuance of a resolution formed on entering the service I never tasted the whiskey and as soon as my habit on this line became known, I was not subjected to the trouble of looking up applicants for the extra ration. The dearth in medical supplies recalls other facts showing the straits to which the Confederacy was reduced on other lines by the blockade of its ports. Letters written in '63, and now in my possession, show that my brother, then Assistant Surgeon at Tallahassee, Fla., could not purchase in that place a pair of suspenders nor a shirt collar—that my mess could not buy an oven in Savannah, though willing to pay $30 for it and that I ordered shoes for Capt. Picquet, and other members of the company from a Mr. Campbell at Richmond Factory, as no suitable ones could be had in Savannah.

Our service at Thunderbolt was entirely devoid of any exciting incident or episode in a martial way. If the company fired a single shot at a Yankee during our stay I can not recall it. On one occasion 8 or 10 volunteers from each regiment stationed there were wanted for "a secret and dangerous expedition," as it was termed in the order. There was a ready response from the Oglethorpes for the entire number wanted from the regiment. Among those volunteers I recall the names of W. J. Steed, J. E. Wilson, R. B. Morris, J. C. Kirkpatrick and F. I. Stone. We never knew whether it was a contemplated attack on Fort Pulaski or the capture of a Federal gunboat, as the expedition failed to materialize.

April 18, '63, Henry Wombke of the Oglethorpes, was drowned while bathing in Warsaw Sound, and on July 12, '63, John Quincy Adams, while returning from picket at the Spindles was accidentally shot by George Mosher, who had gone up on the boat to kill alligators.

Some official changes took place in the company during our stay at this camp. To fill the vacancy occasioned by the resignation of Lieut. W. G. Johnson, Charles T. Goetchius was elected, but I have no record of the date. On July 5, '63, the death of Major John R. Giles resulted in the promotion on July 12, of Capt. J. V. H. Allen to that field office in the regiment. Louis Picquet became captain of the company, and on July 14, Geo. W. McLaughlin was elected Jr. 2nd. Lieut.

As a part of the "res gestae" of our soldier life at Thunderbolt, the following incident may be of some interest:

SOAP AND WATER.

My earliest recollections of Thunderbolt is associated with a fruitless effort to mix turpentine soap and salt water. We had reached the place tired and dusty and dirty. As soon as the ranks were broken, the boys divested themselves of their clothing and soaping their bodies thoroughly plunged into the salt water for a bath. The result may be imagined. The dirt and dust accumulated in streaks, which no amount of scrubbing could dislodge for it stuck closer than a postage stamp.

A SUGARED TONGUE.

Col. Geo. A. Gordon was a pleasant, persuasive speaker and in his address to the company urging its division so as to complete the quota necessary for a regimental organization he held out to us a tempting array of promises as to our treatment if his wishes were complied with. An Irish member of his old company heard the speech and in commenting on it said, "Faith, the sugar on his tongue is an inch thick."

The Oglethorpes, though serving as infantry, had retained their artillery organization and Gordon in his plea for a division, said that the incorporation of such an organization into an infantry regiment would be an anomaly—that we would be "nyther fish, flesh nor fowl," giving the English pronunciation to the word "neither." Some time afterward the Colonel was making his Sunday morning inspection of quarters and had reached Elmore Dunbar's tent. As some of Dunbar's mess were sick, he had hoisted a yellow handkerchief over the tent and with a piece of charcoal had placed on its front the sign, "Wayside Home." Gordon saluted as he came up, and then noticing the sign said, "Sergeant, what is your bill of fare today," "Nyther fish, flesh nor fowl," said Dunbar, and the Colonel smiled and went his way.

FIRE AND FALL BACK

The monotony of garrison duty and our comparative exemption from danger during our stay at Thunderbolt, developed the spirit of mischief in the boys to an inordinate degree and no opportunity for its exercise was allowed to go unimproved. Bob Lassiter, while off duty one day, was taking a nap on a "bunk" in his cabin. His unhosed feet protruded from the window, probably with a view to fumigation by the salt sea breeze. Jim McLaughlin passed by and taking in the situation called Jim Thomas. Twisting and greasing a strip of paper they placed it gently between Bob's unsuspecting toes, fired the ends and then made themselves scarce in that locality. As the lambent flame "lipped the Southern strand" of Bob's pedal extremities, he, doubtless, felt in the language of Henry Timrod, "Strange tropic warmth and hints of summer seas" and probably dreamed of "A Hot Time in the Old Town" that day. But if so his dreams were short-lived. With a yell of pain he fell back on the floor of his cabin, and then,

He hotly hurried to and fro,
To find the author of his woe;
The search was vain for chance was slim
To fasten guilt on either Jim.

SKIRMISHING FOR PIE

Dessert was not a standing item on our army bill of fare, and when, by chance or otherwise, our menu culminated in such a course, moderation in our indulgence was one of the lost arts. One day in '63, W. J. Steed and I, with several other comrades chanced to be in Savannah at the dinner hour. Our rations for a long time had known no change from the daily round of corn bread and fat bacon, and we decided to vary this monotony by a meal at the Screven House. The first course was disposed of and dessert was laid before us. Steed finished his but his appetite for pie was still unsatisfied. Calling a waiter he said, "Bring me some more pie." "We furnish only one piece," said the waiter.

The first course plates had not been removed from the table, but simply shoved aside. The waiter passed on and Steed pushed the dessert plate from him and gently drawing the other back in his front, awaited results. Another waiter passed and thinking Steed had not been served, brought him another piece of pie. This being disposed of the program was again repeated and still another waiter supplied dessert. The shifting process was continued until his commissary department could hold no more and he was forced to retire upon the laurels he had won in the field of gastronomic diplomacy.

STEED AND THE SUGAR

My friend's penchant for pie may have had its influence in the origin of a problem in the company, which like the squaring of the circle has never received a satisfactory solution. He held during his term of service the office of commissary sergeant for the company, a position in which it was difficult at any time and impossible when rations were scarce, to give entire satisfaction. These difficulties in his case were, perhaps, enhanced by the peculiarities of his poetic temperament, which caused him to live among the stars and gave him a distaste for the bread and meat side of life, except possibly as to pie. Try as faithfully as he would to show strict impartiality in the distribution, there was sometimes a dim suspicion that the bone in the beef fell oftener to other messes than his own and that the scanty rations of sugar issued weekly were heaped a little higher when his mess had in contemplation a pie or pudding on the following day. These suspicions finally culminated in an inquiry, which became a proverb of daily use; an inquiry, which formed the concluding argument in every camp discussion, whether on a disputed point in military tactics or on the reconciliation of geological revelation with the Mosaic cosmogony; an inquiry with which Jim McLaughlin and Jim Fleming still salute their former commissary: "What has that to do with Steed and the sugar?"

Of course there was never any foundation for such a feeling and probably never any real suspicion of favoritism in the matter. These things formed the minor key of our soldier life and served as they were intended, to enliven its sometimes dull monotony. My friend, and I am glad to have been honored so long by his friendship, will pardon, I know, in the gentleness of his heart a revival of these memories. Aside from the faithful discharge of the difficult duties of his position, it gives me pleasure to add my willing testimony to the silent witness of his armless sleeve, that on the firing line and in all the sphere of duty, to which the service called him, he was every inch a soldier.

"BUTTER ON MY GREENS."

For the convenience and comfort of the soldiers going to and returning from their commands, "Wayside Homes" were established at different points in the Confederacy where free lunches were served by the fair and willing hands of patriotic young ladies living in the vicinity. A uniform of grey was the only passport needed. One of these "Homes" was located at Millen, Ga. Detained there on one occasion, en route to my command at Thunderbolt I was glad to accept their hospitality. Seated at the table enjoying the spread they had prepared one of these fair waiting maids approached me and asked if I would take some butter on my "greens." My gastronomic record as a soldier had been like Joseph's coat, "of many colors." I had eaten almost everything from "cush" and "slapjacks" to raw corn and uncooked bacon. I had made up dough on the top of a stump for a tray and cooked it on a piece of split hickory for an oven. I had eaten salt meat to which the government had good title, and fresh meat to which neither I nor the government had any title, good or bad. But butter on "greens" was a combination new to my experience and as my digestive outfit had, during my school days, been troubled with a dyspeptic trend, I felt compelled to decline such an addition to a dish that had been boiled with fat bacon.

Notwithstanding the absence of my friend Steed the supply of pie that day was short, and with a degree of self-denial, for which I can not now account, I asked for none. A soldier next me at the table, however, filed his application and when our winsome waitress returned, she handed the desert to me and left my neighbor pieless. I could not recall her fair young face as one I had ever seen before, and I had always been noted for my lack of personal comeliness. I was at a loss therefore to understand why the unsolicited discrimination in my favor had been made. A few minutes later the problem was solved. Standing on the porch after the meal had ended, this self-same maiden approached me a little timidly and asked, "When did you hear from your brother Sammie?" She and my younger brother, it seemed, had been schoolmates, and, as I learned afterwards, "sweethearts" as well, and the pie business was no longer a mystery.

If she still lives as maid or matron and this sketch should meet her eye, it gives me pleasure to assure her that the fragrance of her kindly deed though based upon no merit of my own, still lingers lovingly in my memory, like the echo of "faint, fairy footfalls down blossoming ways."

OUR CAMP POET.

"Dropping into poetry" has not been a peculiarity confined to that singular creation of Dickens' fancy, "Silag Wegg." While not a contagious disease, it is said that a majority of men suffer from it at some period in life. Like measles and whooping cough it usually comes early, is rarely fatal and complete recovery, as a rule, furnishes exemption from further attacks, without vaccination. Under these conditions it is but natural that the Oglethorpes should have had a poet in their ranks. In fact we had two, James E. Wilson and W. J. Steed, who has already figured somewhat in these memories, and who was called Phunie, for short. The latter was, however, only an ex-poet, not ex-officio, nor ex-cathedra, but ex-post facto. His attack had been light, very light, a sort of poetical varioloid. He had recovered and so far as the record shows, there had been no relapse. On the first appearance of the symptoms he had mounted his "Pegasus," which consisted of a stack of barrels in rear of his father's barn, and after an hour's mental labor, he rose and reported progress, but did not ask leave to sit again. The results are summed up in the following poetic gem:

"Here sits Phunie on a barrel,
With his feet on another barrel."

He has always claimed that while the superficial reader might find in these lines an apparent lack of artistic finish, with some possible defects as to metre and an unfortunate blending of anapestic and iambic verse, the rhyme was absolutely perfect. I have been unable to discover in them the rhythmic and liquid cadence that marks Buchannan Reade's "Drifting," or the perfection in measure attributed by Poe to Byron's "Ode" to his sister, yet my tender regard for my old comrade disinclines me to take issue with him as to the merits of this, the sole offspring of his poetic genius. My inability to find it in any collection of poetical quotations has induced me to insert it here with the hope of rescuing it from a fate of possibly undeserved oblivion.

Jim Wilson's case was different. His was a chronic attack. "He lisped in numbers for the numbers came." As a poet he was not only a daisy, but, as Tom Pilcher would say, he was a regular geranium. I regret that my memory has retained, with a single exception, only fragments of his many wooings of the muse.

A young lady friend, Miss Eve, of Nashville, asked from Jim a christening contribution to an album she had just purchased. He was equal to the occasion. The man and the hour had met. He was in it from start to finish. He filled every page in the book with original verse. I recall now only the following stanza:

"Newton, the man of meditation,
The searcher after hidden cause,
Who first discovered gravitation
And ciphered out attractions laws,
Could not, with all his cogitation,
Find rules to govern woman's jaws."

But his special forte was parody. A competitive examination was ordered at Thunderbolt in '63 to fill the position of second sergeant in the company. After studying Hardee's Tactics for a week Jim relieved his feelings in the following impromptu effort:

Tell me not the mournful numbers
From a "shoulder" to a "prime,"
For I murmur in my slumbers
Make two "motions in one time."

The Oglethorpes, though serving as infantry had clung tenaciously to their artillery organization and to the red stripes and chevrons which marked the heavier arm of the service. On our assignment to Gordon's regiment, the Colonel had made a very strong appeal to us to divide the company and to discard our artillery trimmings. At the next Sunday morning inspection Jim's tent bore a placard with this inscription, intended for the Colonel's eye:

"You may cheat or bamboozle us as much as you will,
But the sign of artillery will hang round us still."

Probably his masterpiece was a parody on "Maryland," written at Jacksonboro, Tenn., on the eve of our transfer from the 12th Ga. Battalion. That the reader may understand the personal allusion in the verses it is necessary to say that Edgar Derry, Jim Russell, Ed Clayton and Alph Rogers had been detailed by Col. Capers to fill certain staff positions with the battalion; that Miles Turpin was company drummer and Stowe—whose camp sobriquet was "Calline," was fifer; that in the skirmish at Huntsville, Tenn., W. W. Bussey, who was known in camp as "Busky," had been shot in the temple; that before the final charge on the fort, Col. Capers in crossing a ditch had mired in its bottom and had found some difficulty in extricating himself; that the war horse of the male persuasion ridden by Col. Gracie had been killed in the skirmish and that Randolph was Secretary of War. When the transfer had been effected it was uncertain whether the detailed men would retain their position or would return to the company, and the following verses were written by Jim as an appeal to them to go with us:

Come 'tis the red dawn of the day,
Here's your mule,
Come, details, join our proud array,
Here's your mule.
With Clayton panting for the fray,
With Rogers urging on that bay,
With Derry bold and Russell gay,
Here's your mule. Oh! Here's your mule.

Come for your limbs are stout and strong,
Here's your mule,
Come for your loafing does you wrong,
Here's your mule,
Come with your muskets light and long,
Rejoin the crowd where you belong,
And help us sing this merry song,
Here's your mule, Oh! Here's your mule.

Dear fellows break your office chains,
Here's your mule,
The "Web-feet" should not call in vain,
Here's your mule,
But if it goes against the grain,
"Sick furlough" is the proud refrain,
By which you may get off again,
Here's your mule. Oh! Here's your mule.

We trust you will not from us scud,
Here's your mule,
And nip your glory in the bud,
Here's your mule,
Remember "Busky" bathed in blood,
Remember Capers stuck in mud,
And gallant Gracie's dying stud,
Here's your mule, Oh! Here's your mule.

Ah, though you may awhile stay mum,
Here's your mule,
To "Calline's" fife and Turpin's drum,
Here's your mule,
When orders come from Randolph grum,
You will not then be deaf nor dumb,
Ah, then we know you'll come, you'll come,
Here's your mule, Oh! Here's your mule.

And now in conclusion, I am unwilling that my friend, Jim Wilson should be judged solely by these rhymes. If any allusion in them sounds harshly to ears polite, it must be remembered that they were intended, only for soldiers eyes and ears. The son of a Presbyterian missionary to India, he was an educated Christian gentleman, one of the brightest and wittiest men I have ever known, as brave as Julius Caesar and as true to the flag for which he fought as any man who wore the grey.

CHAPTER V.

THE DALTON AND ATLANTA CAMPAIGN.

Our service on the coast ended April 28, 1864. On April 23 orders were received transferring our regiment to Gen. A. R. Wright's Brigade, Army of Northern Virginia. Gen. H. W. Mercer in command, had been ordered to report for duty to Gen. Johnston at Dalton, Ga. As Gordon and Mercer were both Savannah men and their war service to that date had thrown them together, they succeeded in inducing the War Department to change our orders and assign us to Johnston's Army. April 28 we left Savannah, reaching Dalton at 3 a. m. April 30, and on May 4 were attached to Gen. W. H. T. Walker's division, three miles east of Dalton. On May 7 Sherman opened his Atlanta campaign and for one hundred days the rattle of musketry, the roar of cannon, the shrieking of shells and the zip of minies, grew very familiar to us, if not very amusing. Our first sight of the enemy was at Rocky Face Ridge, May 9. Our pickets were driven in and our trenches shelled, causing some casualties in the regiment, but none in the Oglethorpes. Lieut. Reddick of Co. B, while reading a newspaper in rear of the trenches was killed by a Federal sharpshooter. No assault was made on our position, but at three other points in Johnston's line efforts were made to carry the trenches, though the attacks were all repulsed. On the same day Sherman, probably anticipating such a result, began his flanking plan of campaign by sending McPherson through Snake Creek Gap to threaten Johnston's line of communications at Resaca. The Federal superiority in numbers at a ratio of nearly two to one, enabled Sherman to cover Johnston's entire front and gave him besides a large force with which to conduct his flanking operations, a policy he pursued persistently and successfully to the end of the campaign. As it is not my purpose to give the general features of this campaign, but simply to record the share borne in it by the 63rd Ga. regiment, I can, perhaps best subserve that purpose by furnishing the following condensed extracts from my "War Diary" for that period, elaborating afterward any special features or incidents that may seem to merit more extended notice.

May 10. Left trenches 1 a. m., marched to a point 3 miles from Resaca. (11). Marched to Resaca and returned. (12). Marched to a position one mile above Calhoun. (13). Quiet. Being unwell, on invitation of Lieut. Daniel spent the night with Rev. I. S. Hopkins and himself at the house of his mother in Calhoun.

14. Battle of Resaca. Rejoined command on its way to the front. Walker's division held in reserve until 12 p. m. Then ordered up to reinforce Stewart's division. Exposed to heavy artillery fire while crossing pontoon bridge at Resaca. Heavy fighting in our front. Enemy repulsed. 10 p. m., marched back through Calhoun to Tanner's Ferry.

15. In line of battle. Jackson's brigade charged enemy's line at the Ferry but were repulsed. 10 p. m., returned to Calhoun.

16. Marched to Tanner's Ferry. Heavy skirmishing between Steven's brigade and the enemy. Junius T. Steed of the Oglethorpes, wounded. Slept on our arms.

17. At 1 a. m. aroused and ordered to fall back to Adairsville. Remained in line of battle until 12 p. m.

18. Fell back four miles below Kingston.

19. Advanced and took position 2 miles from Kingston. Under fire from sharpshooters and skirmishers H. L. Hill killed and T. F. Burbanks wounded. 12 or 15 casualties in regiment. Retired to Cass station and formed line of battle. Johnston's battle order issued.

20. At 1 a. m. crossed the Etowah and fell back to within two miles of Altoona.

21-22. Quiet. (23). Marched five miles in the direction of Dallas.

24. Aroused at daylight and marched 15 miles, camping near Powder Springs.

25. At 1 a. m. marched four miles back. At 2 p. m. moved forward a mile and formed line of battle. After night moved three miles and bivouacked.

26. At 3 a. m. went forward and took position in rear of Stewart's division. Skirmishing in front all day.

27. Moved to the left near Dallas and then a mile or two to the right. H. B. Jackson wounded. Oglethorpes and Co. I thrown out as skirmishers. At 11 p. m. brigade ordered away, leaving us on skirmish line without support.

28. Skirmishing all day. Capt. Picquet wounded in leg, A. W. McCurdy in head.

29. At 4 p. m. relieved from duty on skirmish line and rejoined regiment on Ellsbury Ridge.

30-June 1. Quiet. (2). Heavy rain. Division moved four miles to the right in rear of Stevenson, slippery march.

3. Quiet day. At 11 p. m. moved off to the right. Jackson's brigade and a portion of ours detached in the darkness, lost their way and forced to lie over till morning.

4. Rejoined division and built breastworks. Oglethorpes and Co. G on picket. Skirmishing with the enemy. At 12 p. m. relieved by Wheeler's cavalry and told to "git," as our army had fallen back. Overtook regiment after five mile tramp over muddiest road I ever saw. Moved 3 miles further and took position in rear of Gist's brigade. (6-7). Quiet.

8. Brigade on picket. 63d Ga. in reserve.

9-11. Quiet, and rain, rain, rain.

12. On picket. Wet time.

13. Brigade on picket. Skirmishing between the lines.

14. Quiet. (15). Brigade on picket. Shelled by Federal batteries. Lowry's pickets retired leaving our flank exposed. Took position on left of Cleburne's division. At 11 p. m. moved to the rear of Lowry's brigade.

16. Shelled by the enemy. Some casualties in regiment.

17. Moved several times. Built breastworks.

18. Six companies from regiment sent out to reinforce skirmishers. Heavy fighting between the lines all day. Carroll, Casey, Knox, Miller and Smith wounded. 25 casualties in other companies of the regiment. Relieved at 8 p. m. Moved 2 1-2 miles towards Marietta.

19. Moved up to the summit of a ridge as a picket reserve. At night moved down in rear of breastworks and then half mile to the right and had orders to fortify but slept.

20. Dug trenches on Kennesaw line of defence. Heavy skirmishing and artillery firing on our right.

21. Remained in the trenches. Skirmishing in our front.

22. Artillery duel between the enemy and our batteries on Kennesaw. Six companies from our regiment sent out on picket line.

23. Skirmishing on picket line all day. No casualties in Oglethorpes. Relieved at 8 p. m.

24-25. Artillery firing and skirmishing.

26. W. A. Dabney wounded last night in arm while asleep. Seven companies and a detail of 47 men from the Oglethorpes sent out from the regiment on picket line.

27. Battle of Kennesaw began at 8 a. m. and ended at 11:30. Enemy repulsed all along the line, with heavy loss. Oglethorpes lost twenty-three in killed, wounded and captured. Loss in regiment 88.

28-July 1. Quiet. (2) At 10 p. m. right wing of the army fell back to a position 5 miles below Marietta.

3. Federal army lined up in our front.

4. Some indication of a general engagement. Yankees seem disposed to celebrate the day with their artillery. Co. A with five other companies from the regiment on picket. Heard some excellent music by the Federal bands.

5. Army retired to a position near the Chattahoochee.

6. Entrenched and moved to the left.

7. Quiet. (8). Co. A with five others on picket.

9. Retired and crossed river to rejoin brigade.

10. Johnston's entire army crossed the Chattahoochee last night.

11. Having been quite unwell for several days, through advice of Lieut. Daniel and Dr. Cumming I went to Division Hospital. On the 15th was sent by Medical Board to Atlanta. On the 17th went to hospital at Oxford, Ga. I did not rejoin my command again until Aug. 18th. During my absence Gen. Johnston had been superseded by Gen. Hood as commander of the Army of Tennessee, the battles of Peach Tree Creek and Atlanta had been fought, Gen. W. H. T. Walker, our division commander had been killed and our brigade had been transferred to Pat Cleburne's division. In the battle of Peach Tree Creek July 20th, our regiment was only partially engaged and suffered but little loss. Eugene Verdery and Henry Booth of the Oglethorpes were wounded. The former had volunteered for service on the skirmish line that day and while driving in the enemy's picket line received a wound in the head, which caused him to spin around like a top.

In the battle of Atlanta, July 22, the regiment was in the thick of the fight and lost more heavily. Of the Oglethorpes, S. M. Guy was killed. Ob. Rooks was mortally wounded, M. H. Crowder lost a leg, R. W. Lassiter an arm, Jim McLaughlin the bridge of his nose, while George Leonhardt, John Bynum, Clay Foster, Hugh Ogilby, John Quinn and J. O. Wiley were otherwise wounded. After my return to the company, near East Point, on the 18th the regiment was sent to the picket line on the 19th and when relieved on the morning of the 20th, was placed on the reserve line, where we remained until the 30th. At 2 a. m. that day we were aroused and ordered to "fall in," but did not move until daylight, when we shifted position 3 or 4 miles to the left. At 11 p. m. we were again on the march and after a fatiguing night tramp reached Jonesboro about daylight on the 31st.

BATTLE OF JONESBORO.

After investing and bombarding Atlanta for a month, Sherman had begun his flanking tactics again by sending five of his corps to seize the M. & W. Road at Jonesboro, and Hardee, with his own and Lee's corps, had been sent down to checkmate the movement. After resting a few hours we were formed in line of battle across an old field with only Lowry's brigade on our left. For the only time in my experience as a soldier, the plan of battle was read to our command. Lee's corps and two divisions of Hardee's were to attack the enemy in front while Cleburne's division, to which we belonged, were to advance, then wheel to the right and attack in flank. Lying for several hours under a hot August sun awaiting orders to advance, I remember that, being uncertain as to my fate in the coming fight, and unwilling to allow the letters in my possession to fall into the enemy's hands, I tore them up, leaving only one for the identification of my body in case of my death. At 2 p. m. we were ordered forward. Crossing the open field and advancing through a piece of woodland, a battery of artillery opened on us but their shot flew high. Sol Foreman of the Oglethorpes, was struck by a piece of shell, but there was no other casualty in the company. After advancing nearly a mile we struck a boggy swamp and on its farthest edge Flint river. Will Daniel plunged in and turning to me said, "Come on sergeant." He had gone but a little way when the water reached his arm pits and sword in hand he swam across. Knowing that my cartridges would be useless if I followed suit, I ran up the stream and found dry passage on a log that lay across it. Reaching the crest of the hill beyond, we halted to reform the line. The horse ridden by Col. Olmstead, our brigade commander, had mired in the swamp, our regiment was without a field officer and Will Daniel offered to take command of the brigade in the final charge, which we all felt to be ahead of us. The hill on which we stood had been occupied by Federal cavalry and artillery, who had retired as we approached. The roar of battle giving evidence of a fierce engagement on our right, came to us over the hills and valleys; Capt. Dickson of Cleburne's staff, with his horse all afoam, his coat and vest discarded and the perspiration trickling from his face, was riding from point to point in the line giving his final orders and the sultry summer air smelled viciously of powder and lead. At this juncture a courier from Cleburne dashed up with orders for us to retire. We had gone some distance beyond the point intended and had become entirely detached from the line on our right. The attack in the enemy's front had failed to dislodge them and our two brigades could hardly have accomplished much against five corps of the enemy. By dusk we had resumed our original position and our regiment was placed on the picket line. On Sept. 1, Lee's corps returned to Atlanta and Hardee was left with his two divisions to face an enemy whose strength was five times his own. Relieved from picket by a detail of Cheatham's division, we were placed in the trenches vacated by Lee's corps. At 3 p. m. the enemy massed heavily in front of Lewis' Ky., and Govans' Ark. brigades and assaulted in three lines of battle, but were repulsed. They then formed in column of companies, making ten lines of battle, and renewed the attack. Our breastworks at this point were inferior and were manned only by a line in single rank.

With such odds the issue could not long remain in doubt. Govans' line was broken and a part of his brigade was captured. No assault was made on the line held by us, though we were subjected to a heavy fire from their skirmish line. At 10 p. m., Hardee evacuated his position and at daylight on the 2nd, occupied another, near Lovejoy Station. Sherman secured a foothold on the M. & W. Road and Hood, compelled to give up Atlanta, formed a junction with Hardee on the 3rd.

The enemy had again taken position in our front and skirmishing was kept up until the 8th, when they were recalled by Sherman and the Dalton and Atlanta campaign was ended.

FURTHER MEMORIES OF THE CAMPAIGN.

The following incidents oscillating as they do "from grave to gay," and marked perhaps as much by comedy as by tragedy, will probably be of more interest to the reader of these records than the details just ended:

"TWO AND A DOG."

At the date of our transfer from the coast to Johnston's army, our uniforms were in fairly good condition and bore in almost every case the insignia of rank held by the wearer. The writer's jacket had on its sleeves the regulation chevrons of an orderly sergeant, three bars or stripes with lozenge or diamond above them. The troops who had followed the fortunes of the Western army from Shiloh to Chickamauga were not so well clad and had, to a large extent discarded their official insignia. For this reason they were disposed to guy us as bandbox soldiers. Passing some of these veterans one day on the march one of them noticed my chevrons and sang out to his comrades: "Look there, boys. I've often hearn of "two and a dog" but I'll be blamed if there ain't "three and a dog." I reckon that's the way they play kyards on the coast." The laugh that followed convinced me that my lack of familiarity with the mysteries of the card table was not shared by those who heard the jest.

STRIPES ON THE WRONG SIDE.

While we suffered from deficiencies on other lines in the summer of '64, there was certainly no lack of rainy weather during that campaign. The roads over which we tramped were composed largely of a red, adhesive clay. The writer's physical conformation gave him some right to be classed with the knock-kneed species of the genus homo, and in marching over the wet clay hills, the red pigment began at his ankles and by successive contact, traveled gradually up the inside seams of his grey trousers until those seams and an inch-wide space on either side were covered for almost their entire length. Passing one day a division resting by the roadside, one of them noticed the peculiar condition of my bifurcated garment, and sang out to me: "Hello, my friend; you've got the stripe on the wrong side of your pants." I could not deny the soft impeachment and enjoyed the laugh raised at my expense as much as did my comrades.

A CLOSE SHAVE.

The battle of Resaca began May 14, '64. Walker's division, to which we belonged, was held in reserve during the morning and at 12 p. m., as the fighting grew fiercer, we were ordered up to reinforce Stewart's division in our front. A pontoon bridge had been laid across the Oostenaula river and a courier stationed on its bank to hurry the men across, as the railroad embankment on the other side would protect them from the fire of a Federal battery, which had secured the exact range of the road over which we were passing. As we approached the bridge Capt. Martin, commanding the company next in our front, halted the column a moment to hear what the courier was saying. As the march was resumed, a solid shot from the battery struck directly in a file of fours in Martin's company killing two and wounding a third, not more than ten feet from where I stood. The time occupied in the halt would have about sufficed to have covered the intervening distance, and certainly saved the lives of some of the Oglethorpes and possibly my own. Crossing the river, Gen. W. H. T. Walker passed us going to the front and as he rode by, another shot from the battery struck immediately behind him, barely missing his horse. Glancing around at the dust it had raised and turning to us with a smile on his face, he said, "Go it boots," and galloped on to the head of the division. On this, as well as on every other occasion when under fire, he seemed not only absolutely indifferent to danger, but really to enjoy its presence. Gen. Cabell, in recalling his association with Gen. Walker in the '60's, said that battle always brought to his eyes an unusual glitter and that he thought him the bravest man he had ever known.

A hero in three wars, severely wounded at Okeechobee, Fla., and at Molino Del Rey and Chapultpec, Mex., he fell at last gallantly leading his division at the battle of Atlanta, July 22, '64, and I am sure no battle soil on God's green earth in all the ages was ever stained by braver or by nobler blood than William Henry Walker's.

A TWILIGHT PRAYER MEETING.

On May 19, '64, Sherman and Johnston were fronting each other near Kingston, Ga. In the skirmishing that day the Oglethorpes had suffered some casualties, among them one that saddened all the company. Hugh Legare Hill, son of Hon. Joshua Hill, a beardless boy, had been shot through the head and instantly killed. He had joined us some months before at Thunderbolt and becoming restive under the inaction of coast service, had applied for a transfer to Johnston's army. Chafing under the delay brought on by military red tape in such matters, and anxious to secure a place on the firing line he had urged the officers to press the matter as he wanted to reach his new command in time for the opening of the spring campaign. Before the papers were returned our regiment was ordered to Dalton and the transfer was abandoned.

Poor Legare! The spring campaign had not yet drifted into summer before his bright young life, that knew no other season, but its spring, had found its sad and sudden ending on the firing line, a place for which he longed so ardently and met so bravely.

In the evening of that day we occupied a line near Cass Station, a line chosen by Johnston for a general and decisive engagement with Sherman's army. The Fabian policy, that had marked the campaign from its opening, was to be ended. The gage of battle was thrown down and Atlanta's fate was to be settled before another sunset. Every arrangement for the coming conflict was made and the men ready and anxious for the fray were resting on their arms. At the twilight hour two members of the Oglethorpes left their places in the ranks and retired to a quiet spot in the forest not far away to talk with God. No church spire raised its lofty summit heavenward. Under the open sky in one of "God's first temples," as dusk was deepening into night, they kneeled together and each in turn, in tones of earnest supplication, asked for God's protecting care upon themselves and on their comrades in the coming battle and for His blessing on the flag for which they fought and prayed. And when their prayers were ended, they pledged each other that if it was the fate of either one to fall, the other would act a brother's part and give such aid and comfort as he could.

Returning to their places in the line, they wrapped their worn, grey blankets around them and lay down under the starlight to pass in calm and quiet sleep, the night before the battle. I have attended many larger prayer meetings since that day; I have heard many petitions to a Throne of Grace, clothed in more cultured phrase, and yet but few that seemed more earnest or filled with simpler trust in God.

Under the urgent protest of Hood and Polk, Joe Johnston's plans were changed and the promised battle beside the Etowah was never fought. I know not what the issue would have been, personal or national. I know that if the hundred and fifty thousand men marshalled upon that field on that May day had met in deadly strife, the shadows would have fallen on many a Northern and many a Southern home. And yet somehow I can but feel that if that evening's bloody promise had been fulfilled and in the gathering twilight at its close our company roll was called to mark the living and the dead, my friend and comrade, Steed, and I, whose humble prayers had broken the silence of the evening air to reach no other ears but ours and God's, would in His kindly providence have answered, "Here."

TOM HOWARD'S SQUIRREL BEAD.

On May 28, '64, we were on skirmish line near Dallas, Ga. The remainder of the brigade had left the trenches in our rear to reinforce some other point in the line and the pickets were holding the fort alone. A Federal sharpshooter had secured a concealed position at short range and was picking off the men in a way highly satisfactory to himself, perhaps, but decidedly unpleasant to us. We had been on duty all the night before and worn out from loss of sleep. I sat down with my back to a tree as a protection from careless bullets and fell asleep. Will Daniel, in a similar position and for like reasons, was dozing at the next tree twenty feet away. A courier came down the line and waking me asked for the officer in command. I pointed to Will and as the courier laid his hand on Will's shoulder to wake him, a ball crashed through his knee, causing him to scream with pain. A little while before Louis Picquet had received the wound that cost him his leg, and a little later McCurdy of our company, fell with a ball through his head.

Tom Howard had been watching the progress of events and they seemed to him entirely too one-sided. Gripping his rifle more tightly and with the peculiar flash that came to his eyes when excited, he said, "Boys if I can get a squirrel bead on that fellow I can stop his racket." Slipping from tree to tree until he located the picket by the smoke of his gun, he drew his squirrel bead and fired. This time the yell of pain came from the other side, and Tom, with his eyes dancing and his face all aglow, turned to us and said, "Boys, I got him. I heard him holler." Tom's bead had stopped the racket.

"WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS OVER."

Tom was one of the "characters" in the company. Brave and generous, full of life and humor and always ready for duty, he would sometimes grow a little homesick. One day, Ab Mitchell, sitting on the edge of the trenches, began to sing, "When this cruel war is over." So far as I know, Ab had never taken first prize at a singing school, but as Tom listened, the plaintive melody of the air and the undertone of sadness in the verses carried him back to his old home in Oglethorpe. Every feature of the old plantation life rose vividly before him. He heard the "watch dog's honest bark bay deep-mouthed welcome" as he drew near home. He slaked his thirst from the "old oaken bucket that hung in the well." He heard the lowing cows and saw the playful gambol of his blooded stock cantering across the barn yard. He saw the blooming cotton fields and heard the rustling of the waving corn. But last and best of all, he felt the pressure of tiny arms about his neck, the touch of loving lips upon his own and then his dream was over. With tears in the heart if not in his eye, he thought of the life that lay before him; of the weary months or years that would come and go before these old familiar scenes would gladden his eyes again, and he could stand it no longer. Rising suddenly he seized his old rifle and turning to the singer, he said, "Ab Mitchell, if you sing another line of that song, I'll blow your blamed head off." And the concert ended without an encore.

"JIM, TOUCH OFF NO. 1."

During this campaign, Major Bledsoe of Missouri, commanded a battalion of artillery in Cleburne's division. A veteran of two wars, combining in his personality both the Southern and Western types, tall and gaunt, with no trace of Beau Brummellism in his physical or mental make-up, he was as stubborn a fighter as the struggle produced on either side, and yet away from the battlefield he was as gentle and as genial as a woman. So accurate were his gunners and so effective their fire, that it was said that no Federal battery had ever planted itself in range of his guns, when they were once unlimbered.

As he sat by his battery one day in May, '64, reading a newspaper, a stranger approached him and said, "Major, where are the Yankees?" Raising his eyes from the paper a moment he turned to one of his gunners and said: "Jim, touch off No. 1," and resumed his reading. "Jim" pulled the lanyard, there was a puff of smoke, the earth trembled from the concussion and the six-pound messenger sped on its mission of death. As it reached its mark, which had been hidden by the undergrowth in front, the "blue coats" were seen scattering in every direction. The stranger was answered.

As I may have no further occasion to refer to Major Bledsoe in these records, an incident or two occurring some months later may not be amiss in this connection. On October 29, '64, near Courtland, Ala., on our trip to Nashville, a grey fox crossed our line of march, passing between two of the regiments. The Major was riding by and spurring his horse to full speed, he gave chase, trying at every step to disengage his pistol from the holster for a shot at the animal. I think he failed to secure the "brush." The Reynard tribe must have been numerous in that section, for on reaching our camping place that evening, we found Pat Cleburne and his entire staff chasing another fox through an old field.

After the retreat from Nashville our division was ordered to North Carolina and in the transfer the trip from Selma to Montgomery, Ala., was made by steamer. The boat was old and slow, and the voyage monotonous. To enliven it, the boys, for lack of better game, would try their marksmanship on every buzzard that in silent dignity sat perched on the tall dead pines that lined the river bank. Major Bledsoe was with us, and constituting himself a "lookout" for the game, he entered into the sport with all the zest and ardor of a boy. He was probably no blood kin to "Jim Bludsoe" of Prairie Belle fame, but under similar conditions I believe that like "Jim" he would, regardless of his own fate, have

"Held her nozzle to the bank,
Till the last galoot was ashore."

ANOTHER STAMPEDE.