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Echoes from the battlefield : or,
Southern life during the war

by Noble C. Williams of Atlanta, Ga.

THE FRANKLIN PRINTING AND PUBLISHING COMPANY.
1902.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Before the rude blasts of war were sounded and the sister States of this Union had ceased to dwell in peace, there resided in the beautiful and thrifty little city of Atlanta, Ga., a truly Southern family, the father of which was a South Carolinian by birth and an inheritant of the best blood of that State. He removed to Georgia when quite a young man to practice his chosen profession, which was that of healing the sick. No man was ever better qualified to perform the duties of physician and surgeon than this noble doctor, for by hard study at the best of schools he had been pronounced one of the most classical of scholars. After he had finished school he attended Jefferson Medical College of Philadelphia, Pa., and became an M.D., and quite proud he must have been to know that he received the reward for which he had striven so hard, under such difficulties as riding all the way from his home on the banks of the Savannah river to Philadelphia and return on horseback, through a rough, broken, and sparsely settled country; where the Indians were still roaming around

Chapter 2

Arriving at home after a long and tiresome journey, where he was received with overflowing love and pride by his family, he felt fully repaid for the trials and hardships he had undergone and the diligence devoted to study. While at home he must make a decision as to a location where to begin his practice. After several trips and much thought on the subject he selected Elbert county, Georgia, as his future home. He soon made friends among the people and began to do some practice, and was frequently called on professionally to attend the sick of the adjoining county of Wilkes. Among the men of this county there was one who was greatly pleased with the young Doctor C. He was a quaint middle-aged Irishman by the name of Ned Malalley, who was exceedingly good-hearted, as most Irishmen are. It was he who first introduced Doctor C. to his future wife, which was performed in the following unique manner, "Miss Lucy, allow me the pleasure of introducing to you, my young, handsome, and greatly esteemed friend Doctor C., and it is a great pity he drinks,    water." Miss Lucy was greatly shocked at such a queer introduction, especially as it took the water so long to take. Doctor C. was at once completely charmed with the beautiful Miss Lucy at this their first meeting. Her lovely figure, tall and graceful, with eyes of exquisite blue, and a complexion of alabaster tinted with roses, formed as she stood before him,

Chapter 3

A short while before his marriage Dr. C. had taken a trip to the then busy little town of Decatur, Ga., and while there he decided to change his location from Elbert county to Decatur. He therefore purchased a beautiful large lot with a small plain cottage at a very low price, as his means were very limited, a fact which had been made known to Miss Lucy and her parents. Her family possessed ample means to have given the young people quite a nice start, which they freely offered, but was courteously but firmly declined by the proud-spirited young doctor, preferring love in a cottage, for which he had struggled, to affluence which came as a gift. After traveling half of one night and nearly one full day by private conveyance, they arrived in the little town of Decatur, and were very cordially received by the doctor's friends. They spent a few days at the pleasant little inn of the town, after which they furnished and moved into their little cottage, where love now reigned supreme. Soon after they commenced housekeeping the doctor was kept very busy answering calls, some of which carried him many miles from home; and sometimes he was detained for quite a while, owing to the serious condition of the patient.

It would seem that such an existing state of affairs could afford but little pleasure to the wife of but a few months, as she was so frequently unavoidably forced to remain

Chapter 4

Soon after the death of John C., the doctor moved with his small family to the little village of Atlanta, six miles northwest of Decatur, where he lived for many years, to watch its marvelous growth from a village to a very important city. He lived to behold the lighted torches of Gen. Wm. T. Sherman applied to its houses, from which the fiery flames leaped high in air, roaring and crackling until their venomous work of destruction was complete, and nothing was left but heaps of blackened ruins to mark the spot where the proud little city once stood. The doctor moved to Atlanta in the early fifties, and in 1860 he resided in the southern portion of the city in a well-appointed two-story house, containing a tall basement, situated on a beautiful two-acre lot, on which was a fine orchard, vineyard and garden spot, barn, smoke-house, servants' house, and beautiful flower yard. The barn contained its horses and cows, the fowl house was well filled with poultry, and the servants' house was occupied by a sufficient number of negroes to keep the place in perfect condition. The orchard was a prolific producer of every kind of fruit known to this section of the South; even the almond tree blossomed and matured its fruit, and the garden products were varied and plentiful, giving the family a supply of the most choice vegetables in their season. At this particular period in their lives Doctor C. and family had nothing to wish for,

Echoes from the battlefield : or, Southern life during the war / by Noble C. Williams of Atlanta, Ga.

Chapter 5

Soon after this, first one, and then another of the Southern States seceded, until at last his own State joined the alliance, all of which was displeasing to him. These States soon formed a compact known as the Confederate States of America. No sooner had this been accomplished than the bombardment of Fort Sumter took place, which ushered into existence one of the most terrible and destructive wars ever known to history,  a war in which brother fought against brother, and father was arrayed against son, and continued for nearly four long years; nor did it cease until it had left the South truly desolate. The shrill blast of the bugle, as it called for men good and true as volunteers to sustain its newly created government, did not fail, as it sounded, to penetrate the peaceful home of Doctor C., where it stirred up the warlike spirit of his two young sons, Edward Livingston and Pickens Noble. Edward at once hastened to obey the summons, and was one among the first in his city to enlist for military service, as did also a young Northern man, Robert Clingan by name, who had lived with the family of Doctor C. for more than a year, and was as much attached to them as if they had been his own blood kin. Pickens Noble, the younger son, also wanted to enlist, but as he had not reached his majority, he was by the stern command of his father forced to remain at home. How those days of the long ago, which have

His stay at home was destined to be of but short duration, for the government had issued another call for volunteers,

Chapter 6

Pickens Noble was a tall, strikingly handsome young man, well-formed, with large gray eagle eyes, and as brave as a lion; but camp life had not seemed to agree with him from the very first. His brother Edward could with his practiced eye discern that some serious disease was threatening to take away his life, and so solicitous was he for Pickens's welfare that he advised him to get a furlough, go home and take a much-needed rest; where, by the kindly attention of their dear mother and medical treatment of their father, he had hopes of his complete recovery. To all the entreaties of Edward he kindly but firmly turned a deaf ear; he flattered himself into believing that he did not feel so badly as might be supposed; and while he would be glad of the privilege of returning to the loved ones at home, yet as a true soldier he felt that his duty bade him stay at his post as long as he was permitted to sit in his saddle or raise a carbine to his shoulder in defense of his country; for nothing but bravery fired by an ambition to perform mighty deeds could have led him into such a serious error. He gradually but surely faded away, his strength failed, his vision grew dim, his cheeks were hollow, and his attenuated frame told only too truly of the near approach of that unchecked conqueror who was now on the way to transform a soldier of Hampton's Legion to a soldier of the cross. The well-trained eye of Edward had not

THE FADED GRAY JACKET.

1 Fold it up carefully, and lay it aside;
Tenderly touch it, look on it with pride,
For dear must it be to our hearts evermore,
The jacket of gray our loved soldier-boy wore,
 

2 Can we ever forget when he joined the brave band,
Who rose in defense of our dear Southern land,
And in his bright youth hurried on to the fray?
How proudly he donned it    the jacket of the gray!
 

3 His fond mother blessed him, and looked up above,
Commending to Heaven the child of her love;
What anguish was her's mortal tongue cannot say,
When he passed from her sight in the jacket of gray!
 

4 But her country had called, and she could not repine,
Though costly the sacrifice placed on its shrine;
Her heart's dearest hopes on its altar she'd lay,
When she sent out her boy in the jacket of gray.
 

5 Months passed, and war's thunders rolled over the land;
Unsheathed was the sword and lighted the brand;
We heard in the distance the sounds of the fray,
And prayed for our boy in the jacket of gray.
 

6 All vain, all in vain, were our prayers and our tears;
The glad shout of victory rang in our ears;
But our treasured one on the red battle-field lay,
While the life-blood oozed out on the jacket of gray.
 

7 His young comrades found him, and tenderly bore
His cold, lifeless form to his home by the shore;
Oh! dark were our hearts on that terrible day,
When we saw our dead boy in the jacket of gray.
 

8 Ah! spotted, and tattered, and stained now with gore,
Was the garment which once he so proudly wore;
We bitterly wept as we took it away,
And replaced with death's white robe    the jacket of gray.
 

9 We laid him to rest, in his cold, narrow bed,
And 'graved on the marble we placed o'er his head,
As the proudest tribute our sad hearts could pay,
"He never disgraced the jacket of gray."
 

10 Then fold it up carefully, lay it aside,
Tenderly touch it, look on it with pride   
For dear to our hearts must it be evermore,
The Jacket of Gray our loved soldier-boy wore.
 

Chapter 7

But let digression here take place, and with our thoughts retrace so much of our story as shall carry us back to the place where Pickens had resolved to enter the army. While down in the city a few days before his departure he visited one of his merchant friends at his store, and while there noticed some duck eggs, and expressed a wish to take a few home and have his mother set them under a hen, and should they hatch he felt sure they would be a great pleasure to her, as she was fond of raising all kinds of fowls. His friend declined to receive any pay for them, but kindly presented them to him; he carried them home and gave them to his mother, who at once set them under a hen, and as a result two little ducks, a pair, were hatched, but not until Pickens was many miles away. The ducks grew nicely, and it was a custom of Mrs. C., once or twice weekly, in company with her little grandson, to take the ducks down into the orchard and dig earthworms for them, as they were very fond of them. The ducks were very tame and would readily follow her from the yard to the orchard in quest of their favorite food. On one of the usual foraging expeditions Mrs. C., accompanied by her grandson and the ducks, went to the orchard, and with a hoe began to dig up the worms. While thus engaged one of the ducks who seemed more greedy than the other, unfortunately shoved its bill down just as the hoe in the hands of Mrs.

Strange as it may seem to relate, in a few days there came by letter an announcement of Pickens's death, and from a comparison of dates it was found that about the time the accident occurred to the first duck Pickens was taken seriously sick, and passed away on the same day that the other duck died. He now sweetly sleeps his last long sleep 'neath the spreading holly trees on the grassy slope of the soldiers' plat, among many of his comrades who had given up their lives in defense of a common cause, in that most beautiful of cemeteries, Hollywood, situated in one of the most beautiful of Southern cities, Richmond, Virginia. The Lord had for a second time with His own hand wielded the chastening rod of correction, which fell upon the family with much greater force, if possible, than the former. He had removed from them by that fell-destroying angel the youngest of their boys, a tall, handsome, manly young fellow, just budding into a glorious manhood. But even

Chapter 8

We will now retrace our steps to the army of Virginia, where we find our Northern friend Robert Clingan of Connecticut doing excellent service. His reason for first coming South was to be freed from the galling yoke of bondage which his unkind step-father was, against his will, forcing him to wear. And it was while he was working with the Southern Express Company that he became acquainted with Doctor C. and his sons. To Pickens the younger he was devotedly attached, and when he unfortunately lost his position he removed to the doctor's house, where he was treated as a son and brother. He made himself very useful about the home, for life would have been burdensome to him had he not have been allowed the privilege of doing such things about the place as he thought necessary. He was but a few years older than Pickens, and was in stature of a medium height, stoutly knit frame, broad shoulders, a large, shapely head containing a face which could not be regarded as handsome, but one that bore the imprint of firmness combined with a sparkle of kindliness, which was almost equal to that of a woman; and his manner was one of gentleness, a trait that made for him any number of friends. Such a man was he when he donned his jacket of gray and went forth to battle for the homes and firesides of his adopted country    the one in which he had spent the most happy moments of his life, and for which he now

Chapter 9

Thus while these events were transpiring in the camps of the army of Northern Virginia, the great army of the Tennessee was pressing steadily forward under command of that skillful Union officer Gen. Wm. T. Sherman, who was using every means within his power to reach the Southern seacoast. He had passed through Chattanooga, Tennessee, and was planning to make the master stroke of all his achievements. Atlanta was to him the apple of his eye, a place long desired; for, from its situation as a railroad center, it was the key which, once in his possession and held, would unlock the entire Southern section and place it at his disposal. Doctor C. was at this time largely interested in one of the principal drug stores of the city, but devoted but little of his time to it until he was forced to, by the call made on his partner and clerks to enter the army. At this time none but professional men, boys under sixteen, and men over sixty were exempt from military duty; therefore he was compelled to employ an old and almost broken-down gentleman to manage, while the remainder of his force consisted of very young boys. The daily sales were immense and money plentiful, but prices were exceedingly high, and everybody seemed to have an abundance of money. The writer does not recollect the price of drugs at that time, but he was like most children, exceedingly fond of candy, and butter-scotch was one of

Chapter 10

We now return to the home of Dr. C., where we find him for the first time since his marriage lying sick, caused from drinking impure water on the island of Skidaway, where he had for some time served as surgeon to Colonel Stiles' regiment, ministering to the numerous sick soldiers, but was forced to retire on account of overwork and ill health. A few nights preceding the evacuation of the city a large number of the Confederate forces were being marched through the city from west to east, and following close at their heels came straggling bands of camp followers, robbers, wearing the garb of Confederate soldiers. The Union forces were expected momentarily to take possession of the city. The night was cool and starry. Dr. C. and family had retired early, but about midnight a loud knocking was heard at the back outer door. Mrs. C., who was very easily awakened, heard the noise and touched the doctor to see if he was awake, but, as she discovered, he was asleep, and as he was very sick, she did not desire to disturb him, so she quietly passed from her room into the rear one, at which door the knocking was heard; she crept cautiously to the door and demanded to know who was there. The response came, "Open the door and let us in." She then asked what was wanted, and the same voices still repeated, "Let us in or we will break the door down." As the Federals were momentarily expected and

Chapter 11

Around and even near the center of the city earthen fortifications and entrenchments had been constructed, and it was among them in the frequent and fiercely fought battles that many of the brave soldiers of the opposing armies laid down their lives. General Hood, who had succeeded General Johnston, was an intense fighter, and was constantly giving the enemy open battle with great loss of life, and by doing so he entertained strong hopes of being able to hold the city. But on the 22d day of July occurred the most terrific conflict which had ever taken place between these two opposing armies, and which terminated in the killing and wounding of thirty thousand soldiers, and the killing of two of their most distinguished officers. General McPherson, commanding the Federal army of the Tennessee, was killed while attempting to reach his troops after the assault had begun, having been with General Sherman when the assault was first made. He came upon a line of Confederates and, when wheeling to escape, was shot dead in a skirt of woods about midway between Atlanta and Decatur. Major-General Walker, of the Confederate forces, was killed near the same spot while leading his division into battle. The United States Government has erected a monument in honor of General McPherson on the same spot upon which he fell. It is constructed of cannon balls, fenced with

Soon after the boy came out from his place of concealment, a Federal officer and his staff were seen riding down the street in front of the house, a fact which assured all that the enemy had taken possession of the city. An hour later the tramp, tramp, tramp, of the greater portion of General Sherman's army could be heard as they passed down the street by the doctor's house. This continuous motion was kept up for several hours, when the command was given to halt and rest. No sooner had they broken ranks than hundreds of soldiers' faces could be seen peering through the fence, which separated the street from the garden, and as the grape arbor, filled with temptingly luscious grapes, appeared before their vision, their mouths fairly watered, and their stomachs seemed to contain an aching void that could only be filled by a speedy and vigorous assault upon them; which in less than five minutes was accomplished, greatly to the damage of both the grapes and the arbor. Perched as they were on every available inch of slat, they were reminders of a flock of hungry blue-birds, and, strange to relate, out of that vast number of men who enjoyed the privilege of feasting on those luscious grapes, all had taken them by force with the exception of one, whose gentlemanly instinct was so perfect that even the rough army life had failed to efface it. He came to the front door and gently knocked; some member of the family opened the door to

When the surgeons first called on him they found him in a very weak condition, and greatly in need of a stimulant daily, and as the doctor did not possess any, the surgeons, as long as they remained in the city, were very careful to see that he was supplied with the very best rye whiskey from the United States Dispensary. They showed him every possible kindness and consideration, and by so doing they received the very grateful attachment of the doctor and his family, who were truly sorry when the time for their final departure had arrived. No words of praise could adequately express the gentlemanly and Christian character of these two noble Union surgeons. At sunrise on the morning of the departure of the Federal army, the doctor's family awoke to gaze upon one of the most awful and sickening sights it had ever been their misfortune to witness    their own beloved city enveloped on all sides in a seething mass of smoke and flame, madly curling upward to the blue skies above, and leaving behind only blackened ruins and heaps of ashes. General Sherman's men had applied the match, and the flames completed the work which it had begun; but not until it had brought many innocent owners of property to the very verge of, and in many cases absolute poverty. Unfortunately for the doctor, his entire stock of drugs, notes, accounts and valuable papers all went up in smoke. Just opposite the doctor's residence stood the handsome home of Mr. H., which was one among the very last to be fired. Some Union soldiers

The few remaining people underwent many privations and greatly needed the necessities of life, as it took several days for the farmers who were so fortunate as to live in sections of the country not devastated by the armies to reach the city with supplies; many of them having traveled several hundred miles.

Gradually the citizens who had been forced to leave the city by order of General Sherman, began to return for the purpose of clearing away the ashes and mouldering ruins of their former homes, so as to rebuild them in such a manner as their limited means would permit. And many tearstained and saddened faces, as they gazed for the first time on their once happy homes, now blackened ruins, told only too plainly and truly of the completeness of the wreck left by General Sherman.

Doctor C. had now practically recovered his health, and soon began to go among the ruins and examine the extent of the destruction.

Chapter 12

Plunderers who lived some miles from the city began to come in large numbers for the purpose of stealing such furniture as still remained in the few houses that were left standing. Their depredations were so frequent that the few remaining citizens held a meeting to organize a city government for their mutual protection. Doctor C. was elected mayor to serve until the return of the mayor who had gone south after surrendering the city. One of the doctor's first official acts was to appoint every able-bodied man a police officer. Trinity Methodist Church was filled with pianos and handsome furniture of every description, belonging to the best class of Atlanta's citizens, who, when ordered away by General Sherman, had been permitted to place them there for safe keeping. While the plunderers might not have seen any moral wrong in taking that which did not belong to them, believing all things taken during war was fair, nevertheless their mistaken views did not obliterate the fact that they were thieves. Some of these people soon discovered that all they had to do was to go to the church and get a choice load of furniture and haul it home; several loads had been taken when a citizen happened to make the discovery. The writer was present on one occasion when one of the thieves was attempting to haul off a load of elegant furniture, but was forced to replace it at the point of a police officer's pistol.

Within a few months the greater portion of Atlanta's absent citizens had returned, and the sound of the hammer, saw and trowel could be heard in every portion of the city. All was now life and activity, and each and every one was striving to rebuild on the ruins, of what in the future was to be a great and magnificent city. Many years ago when it was not a city but simply a railroad terminus, the doctor's relative, that greatest of Southern statesmen, John C. Calhoun, predicted that it would in the years to come become the greatest inland city of the South. How nearly correct were his views cannot only be substantiated by its one hundred and twenty thousand citizens of to-day, but by the vast number of visitors who have entered and passed through its portals, and partaken of its hospitalities, during the three magnificent expositions held here in the past twenty years.

Chapter 13

A night or two before the evacuation of the city, the Confederate forces had many car-loads of explosive munitions of war, which it would be impossible to take with them, and lest it should fall into the enemies' hands they lined the railroad tracks east of the passenger depot with them and set them on fire, the lurid flames of which as they sped upward lighted up the whole city, and the continuous noise of the exploding ammunition was more terrible and intense as a terrorizer than the greatest battle which ever occurred. Its effect upon the sleeping citizens who had no knowledge of what was to transpire was extremely startling, as the noise was as that of a near-by, fiercely-fought battle, and the brilliancy of the illumination was such as the burning of a city in the distance would produce. After the departure of the Federals, the country for miles around presented a scene of almost unequaled desolation. Many trees had fallen by the army-woodman's ax, and those left standing were but the shattered remnants of their former selves, for cannonball, shell and Minie had vied with each other in their attempts at relieving the mighty oaks and pines of their limbs and trunks. The woods and fields were strewn with the carcasses of dead and decaying animals, most of which had performed valuable service, but becoming disabled were shot or left to die of starvation, and the sickening stench of their dead bodies attracted numbers of buzzards which fattened

Chapter 14

While the war was in progress, Virginia, who had married a Northern gentleman before its commencement, had moved to the State of New Jersey and was very comfortably situated, and her happiness was well-nigh complete; but as the war clouds began to hover over this land, her mind was greatly disturbed, and her constant prayer was that it might be averted; but when the declaration of war came, it found her drooping spirits completely shattered, for all that life held dear to her, with the exception of her husband, were living in her dear old Southland. Father, mother, brothers, sisters and kindred were now to be separated from her by a line which to cross meant death, and she was even to be denied the pleasure of the weekly exchange of letters which had been such a source of pleasure to her since leaving the old homestead, and then the awful thought that her father and brothers might be slain, and the mother and sisters left desolate; and that perhaps she might never be permitted to look upon their dear faces again, filled her young heart with grief which was almost unbearable.

While it had been determined that it would only be a few months before General Sherman would be knocking at the very gates of Atlanta, two of Doctor C.'s daughters, Georgia and Florida, in company with a negro slave woman, refugeed to Columbia county, near Augusta, Ga.,

After finishing this work he resumed the practice of medicine, but not in the city, as formerly, as he preferred

He had been in Decatur but a short time when his cough assumed a serious condition, and it was feared that consumption was slowly making serious inroads upon his once vigorous constitution. Some years prior to the war, while he was a student studying medicine, it was his nightly custom to go to his father's office and seat himself in a very strongly built and comfortable office chair, which had an arm large enough to accommodate a book and lighted candle. On this occasion he was sitting in the chair, his mind deeply absorbed in study, when suddenly, without any warning, the floor sank down one story,

Chapter 15

A reunion of the doctor's family had been planned to take place the year following the war. And Missouri, who had removed from Atlanta during the latter part of the war to Mobile, Ala., was to attend in company with her husband and little son James, as was also Virginia with her husband and three lovely little girls, Virginia, Lucy and Bertha. The grandparents, aunts, and uncle were very anxious to meet the little girls whom they had never seen. Virginia, with her little family, arrived promptly at the appointed time, and the doctor's family was completely overjoyed while receiving them, for it had been ten years since they had seen Virginia, and now they were not only to have the pleasure of her company again, but an additional one in looking after the three cunning little Yankee girls. Just here a divine providence intervened, which once more turned this household of joy into one of sorrow; for their much-loved daughter Missouri had contracted a severe case of bilious fever which did not yield to the treatment of the skillful physician, but lay claim to her precious life. She was laid to rest in a magnificent vault in one of the most beautiful cemeteries of the Southland, situated in that lovely gulf city, Mobile, Ala., where the magnolia trees flourish in all their beauty summer and winter, and where the odors of the sweetly perfumed cape-jessamines are wafted by the gentle gulf breeze, and the

The doctor had been physician to Fulton county prison for over seven years, between the years of 1865 and 1874, and had attended every sick prisoner contained within its walls, both county, State and United States, and there was a vast number of them; nine-tenths of which he treated with a liver pill of his own make. But strange as it may seem, although he treated almost every disease incident to this climate, not a solitary death occurred under his treatment. This is a stubborn fact which remains uncontroverted by the medical profession of the world, that the doctor's record as well as his pills have never been equaled. His pills made him locally famous, but in doing so ruined his general practice, as his patrons, after using them one time, found that by sending to the doctor for a box of his pills they could, by using them in time, ward off disease, and save the necessity as well as the expense of the attention of a physician.

The death of the doctor brought to a close, a noble, generous, sympathetic and well-spent life, and although he had passed the allotted three-score years and ten, he was no idler, his talent had not been laid aside to rust, and when the call, come higher to thine everlasting home, sounded in his ears, he was actively engaged in giving medical attention not only to those living in affluence by whom his daily bread came; but he bestowed the same watchful care and attention upon the humblest negro in his rude cabin as upon the most favored ones, recognizing the scriptural injunction of love one another, be kind one to another, and thus fulfill the law of Christ. A large concourse of friends as well as patients, many of whom had been by his skillful treatment through the mercy of God, as it were, almost raised from the dead and restored to health, gathered around the bier to pay their last respects to one whose kindly face and gentle voice would never more be seen or heard on earth, and as they consigned his body to the grave and his spirit to the God who gave it, many were the tears that mingled with the earth of that city of the dead    beautiful Oakland cemetery of Atlanta, Ga., where he is now peacefully resting from his labors.

The removal of the good old doctor from this busy world, left the faithful wife who had started out on life's pilgrimage with him, to climb the steep and rugged pathways alone, and his helpful companionship for over forty years was now brought to a close, until they meet in paradise. Life to Mrs. C. was now very desolate, and but for the

Oakland cemetery, situated on an eminence which overlooks the city to the westward and the beautiful farming country for miles around to the south and east, is picturesquely beautiful with its trees and shrubbery, lawns, flowers, driveways, vaults, and marble shafts. One especially noticeable stands as a monument to the many Confederate heroes who are buried near its base. And not far from this sacred spot, side by side, rest the bodies of Doctor C., his wife and son Edward, together with grandchildren and great-grandchildren. The intervening space between the spot where the doctor and his bonny bride first made their home nest is but five miles from where they now peacefully slumber, and all their living descendants, with the

Copy of a letter from one of the Union surgeons who so skillfully treated the doctor during his illness:"

Danbury, Conn., Jan. 21st, 1866.

Dear Doctor.    I have some anxiety to hear from the friends I left in the Confederacy when we began our march to the Sea. Mrs. Holbrook was here last summer, from whom I learned that you were all alive and had a house to shelter you. I was glad to learn that much. She also gave me some messages you sent me, showing that I had not been forgotten. I assure you it was most pleasant to hear from all of you after so long an absence, and especially after seeing the heavy cloud of smoke hang over the city when we left. I suppose you lost the store; this is why I wished you to take as many as possible of the goods to the house, for fear of some such thing, though I had no knowledge; yet I had learned in war to prepare for the worst. But we won't talk longer on this subject, it is pleasant neither to you nor me. We have come out of it with our lives, and let us be thankful for this good. I intended to call and see you the morning I left, but I was behind the rest of my staff and had to hurry. I would have liked to bid you good-bye though. We had a very pleasant

Yours truly,
Wm. C. Bennett, M.D.
 

Just as the closing lines of this story were being written, a speck at first, but gathering strength until it becomes of such magnitude, as it floats from Spain to our peaceful shores, as to be pronounced a war cloud, is being viewed by seventy-two millions of patriots, who are no longer divided by the bloody chasm of thirty-five years ago, but who have shaken hands across it, and as brothers, standing side by side, not in blue nor in gray, but in a mingled blue and gray, they offer to place upon the altar of their country any sacrifice, even life itself.

Part 1

Let me go to my home    I am weary of earth,
Not a friend have I left in the land of my birth;
Let me go where the bright waters chime as they flow
With the songs of the angels    O there let me go.
 

Let me go to my father    I remember the day
When the bell sadly tolled as they bore him away;
And I watched for his coming, when the sunlight grew low,
But he came to me never    to him let me go.
 

Let me go to my mother    she calls me away
To the bower that is green with the garlands of May,
And I know that her heart doth with love overflow
For the last of her household    to her let me go.
 

Let me go to my sisters    I'm fading like them,
And dark on my forehead is growing life's gem;
And I shall love them above as I loved them below,
Their sweet voices call me    O world, let me go.
 

Let me go to my brother    I wept when he died,
And I longed to be laid in the grave by his side;
It's been night in my heart since they laid him so low,
Earth's last tie was broken    to him let me go.
 

Let me go to my home    as the lone mountain bird,
To a sunnier clime when the bleak winds are heard;
Let me go where the bright waters chime as they flow
With the songs of the angels    O there let me go.
 

Part 2

Thanks be to God that peace and prosperity now reign in its stead, and every section of this great country is now peaceful and happy, with nothing to mar. Phoenix like the proud little city of Atlanta has arisen in its might and floated the ashes of 1864 out on the breezes of each passing year, until now not a vestige of the old scar remains as a reminder of the unpleasant past. But in its stead, standing peacefully serene, are magnificent residences, churches, schools, factories and towering office buildings, whose flags as they float out upon the winds, are beckoning to the many good citizens of other climes who are looking for something better to come and lend their aid in the further development of this now grand and growing city; the destiny of which is now considered by all who have taken the pains to watch its past progression, to be specially suited by location, climate and healthfulness, to become the most important as well as largest city in the Southland. There can be no doubt of its becoming the educational and financial center from the character of its present inhabitants as well as those who are constantly being added to its numbers. Its citizens are most certainly to be classed among the best on earth, and yet they come from almost every tribe and nation, and scarcely is there ever the slightest note of discord among them, they are so perfectly blended

Accompanying the following note, addressed to "Cavlier," was the beautiful poem from the pen of Maj. J. R. Barrick, entitled "The Monument Oak and Pine," which we take great pleasure in laying before our readers of the Intelligencer, it having at our earnest request been handed us by "Cavalier" for that purpose. The poem itself is one of the finest that has emanated from the pen of the gifted author, and this is saying much for it. It is a compliment, too, to "Cavalier" that his Christmas story, published in this paper, had the effect of giving inspiration to one whose poetic genius is recognized far and wide in his beloved South, and from whose graceful pen have flowed so many beautiful tributes to the virtues of her daughters and the valor of her sons. "The Monument Oak and Pine," which we now present to our readers, will be received by them with delight, and will add largely to the fame of the author.

Atlanta, Ga., January 6, 1867.

Dear Sir:    Whilst reading last evening "The Morning Ride," by John Randolph etc., which is accredited to your ready and graceful pen, I chanced upon what I fancied to be a pretty theme for a little poem. The result is herewith enclosed, with many misgivings as to the success with which the subject is handled.

Very truly yours,
J. R. Barrick.
 

Part 3

He did not ask the marble slab
Above his dust should rise,
Nor the gilded shaft with its story point
To the blue Virginia skies;
A land to its high-born idols wed,
He knew would his memory shrine,
Long as he slept in the classic shade
Of the mighty Oak and Pine.
 

The sculptured stone and sacred urn
May tell of the dying name,
And the monument to the ages bear
The record of its Fame;
Yet vain were such to his piercing eye,
As he scanned the shadowy years,
And his name on the royal roll,
The brightest among its peers.
 

His eye in its fervid glances set
On Fame's eternal sun,
His star in the zenith of glory rose
With that of Washington;
And scornful of all worldly pomp   
Of the hollow sound of praise,
He traced the scroll of his cenotaph,
In the light of the after-days.
 

He sleeps as the sons of genius sleep,
On a consecrated spot;
While the trump of fame to the world proclaims,
He shall never be forgot;
For ages still will Virginia's heart
Over the spot recline,
Its grief with the mournful requiem blend
Of the sentry Oak and Pine.
 

Keen as the clear Damascan blade
Each quick, sarcastic word,
His thoughts in a gush of eloquence
That the coldest bosom stirred,
As the nervous glance of his flashing eye
Through the council chamber ran,
When armed with the Jael-sword of truth,
He led in the Roman van.
 

Blent with the dust of their kindred soil
His ashes of renown,
With his memory like a jewel set
In Virginia's casket-crown;
And as the seasons come and go,
And the passing years decline,
No greener spot will the sleeper mark
Than the sturdy Oak and Pine.
 

On the highest elevation within his rail enclosure, or yard, stood an Oak of great size, facing the east, and twelve

Part 4

A very aged man in an almshouse was asked what he was doing now. He replied: "Only waiting."

Only waiting till the shadows
Are a little longer grown;
Only waiting till the glimmer
Of the day's last beam is flown;
Till the night of earth is faded
From the heart once full of day;
Till the stars of heaven are breaking
Through the twilight soft and gray.
 

Only waiting till the reapers
Have the last sheaf gathered home;
For the summer-time is faded,
And the autumn winds have come.
Quickly reapers, gather quickly
The last ripe hours of my heart,
For the bloom of life is withered,
And I hasten to depart.
 

Only waiting till the angels
Open wide the mystic gate,
At whose feet I long have lingered,
Weary, poor, and desolate.
 

 

        page 75        Even now I hear their footsteps,
And their voices far away;
If they call me, I am waiting,
Only waiting to obey.
 

Only waiting till the shadows
Are a little longer grown;
Only waiting till the glimmer
Of the day's last beam is flown;
Then from out the gathering darkness
Holy, deathless stars shall rise,
By whose light my soul shall gladly
Tread its pathway to the skies.
 

Part 5

In a clime where no cloud ever shadows the sky,
And no storm-burst of sorrow can roll,
Nor a murmur of sadness mar ever its peace,
Is the Beautiful Home of the Soul.
 

When the tumults of earth shall forever subside,
And I fathom the ultimate goal,
Through the portals of pearl may I entrance obtain
To the Beautiful Home of the Soul.
 

To my rest would I glide as a child to its dreams:
As the beams of the morning unroll,
Wing upward my flight from this cheerless abode
To the Beautiful Home of the Soul.
 

What is there to bind these affections below?
Where vain lusts and wild passions control:
When there's peace to be found that is lasting and sweet
In the Beautiful Home of the Soul.
 

As into the night wanes the evening of life,
May no billows of doubt o'er me roll:
The valley of shadows let me traverse in faith,
To the Beautiful Home of the Soul.
 

From the fetters that gall 'twould be sweet to be free,
And the chains which enslave    from the dole
Which embitters life's dream with the pangs that will fade
In the Beautiful Home of the Soul.
 

During the spring of 1902 our highly esteemed and faithful friend, French Strange, Christian, poet, and author; a gentleman of the old school, endowed with many sterling virtues, both of the head and heart; a man who was possessed with a very strong intellect and a resolute will; as a writer wielded his pen with great force, especially when bent on correcting some public error, where ever he found the columns of the papers open to his uses. His was a gentle, yet courageous nature. As a husband, father and friend, he was next to incomparable; while as a citizen he was one of the few whose lives were for the betterment of the world. His frail and tired body was suddenly and without warning brought to its rest while his spirit winged its flight to the "Beautiful Home of the Soul."

His devoted friend,
Noble C. Williams.

(This poem was written in loving memory of our darling little son, LeRoy Livingston, who for six short years was one of earth's fairest angels, then in the sweet spring-time, "when the arrows of noon-day lodged in the tree-tops bright, he fell in his saint-like beauty asleep by the Gates of Light.")Father.

VISIONS. Beautiful the visions that are borne to me,
Down on the misty sea of Time,
Sweeter far than the bloom of the lotus-tree,
Or the breeze from the whispering lime:
And I live in the days of the long ago,
While a child's dear face I see:
For our little Roy we have loved    not lost,
Is standing again at my knee.
 

But the vision is past    it is gone   
And it fades from my sight away:
Like soft rose-tinted clouds are lost
At the close of a sun-lit day:
And another is passing by   
A picture, wondrous, sweet and fair,
For on our Roy's angel face
Is resting a smile, from "over there."
 

But this one, too, fades from my sight,
While another is passing by:
And I almost touch our darling's hands,
As in snowy grace they lie:
 

 

        page 79        O, Vision: I would bid you stay
Forever in my heart to keep:
So saint-like is our Roy's face,
So beautiful his sleep.
 

Then comes the last    the fairest one   
A child's dear form in white I see:
And close beside the Gates of Pearl
Our Roy stands, and waits for me.
O, Visions fair! O, Visions bright!
Thou needs't not tell thou art Christ-given:
For scenes so beautiful and pure,
Can only come to us from Heaven.
 

Mother.

Part 6

(The Poet Priest.)

Furl that banner! for 'tis weary;
'Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary;
Furl it, fold it; it is best;
For there's not a man to wave it,
And there's not a sword to save it!
And there's not one left to lave it
In the blood which heroes gave it;
And its foes now scorn and brave it   
Furl it, hide it; let it rest!
 

Take that banner down! 'Tis tattered!
Broken is its staff and shattered;
And the valiant hosts are scattered,
O'er whom it floated high;
Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it   
Hard to think there's none to hold it!
Hard that those who once unrolled it,
Now must furl it with a sigh!
 

Furl that banner! furl it sadly!
Once six millions hailed it gladly,
And ten thousand wildly, madly,
Swore it should forever wave!
 

 

        page 81        Swore that foeman's sword should never
Hearts entwined like theirs dissever;
And upheld by brave endeavor,
That dear flag should float forever
O'er their freedom or their grave.
 

Furl it! for the hands that grasped it,
And the hearts that fondly clasped it,
Cold and dead are lying low;
And that banner prone is trailing,
While around it sounds are wailing
Of its people in their woe!
 

For, though conquered, they adore it,
Love the cold dead hands that bore it,
Weep for those that fell before it   
Pardon those who trailed and tore it;
And, oh, wildly they deplore it,
Now to furl and fold it so!
 

Furl that banner! True 'tis gory,
But 'tis wreathed around with glory,
And 'twill live in song and story,
Though its folds are in the dust!
For its fame on brightest pages,
Penned by poets and by sages,
Shall go sounding down the ages,
Furl its folds though now we must.
 

Furl that banner! sadly, slowly!
Treat it gently    it is holy,
For it waves above the dead;
Touch it not    unfold it never!
Let it lie there, furled forever,
For its people's hopes are dead!
 

Part 7

Ye batteries of Beauregard!
Pour hail from Moultrie's wall;
Bid the shock of your deep thunder
On their fleet in terror fall;
Rain your storm of leaden fury
On the black invading hosts   
Teach them that their step shall never
Press on Carolina's coast.
 

Ye batteries of Beauregard!
Sound the story of our wrong!
Let your tocsin wake the spirit
Of a people brave and strong;
The proud names of old remember   
Marion, Sumter, Pinckney, Green;
Swell the roll whose deeds of glory,
Side by side with theirs are seen.
 

Ye batteries of Beauregard!
From Savannah on them frown;
By the majesty of Heaven
Strike their grand "Armada" down;
By the blood of many a freeman,
By each dear-bought battle-field,
 

 

        page 84        By the hopes we fondly cherish,
Never ye the victory yield!
 

Ye batteries of Beauregard!
All along our Southern coast,
Let, in after-time, your triumphs
Be a nation's pride and boast;
Send each missile with a greeting
To the vile, ungodly crew;
Make them feel they ne'er can conquer
People to themselves so true.
 

Ye batteries of Beauregard!
By the glories of the past,
By the memory of old Sumter,
Whose renown will ever last,
Speed upon their vaunted legions
Volleys thick of shot and shell;
Bid them welcome, in your glory,
To their own appointed hell.
 

Part 8

We are indebted to Rev. A. J. Ryan, the gifted Southern poet, for a manuscript copy of lines on the death of his brother, a Confederate soldier, who died on one of the battle-fields of Kentucky. It was one of the pieces read at the entertainment for the benefit of the Catholic orphans, and Father Ryan's introduction to the reading of it was thrillingly pathetic and eloquent, and was received by the audience attentively and with the most impressive silence. The speaker stated that he had a brother, at the breaking out of the war, who applied to him for advice regarding the army. He referred him to their mother, to whom the young patriot wrote an appeal. Like many a Southern mother, she told him to go and defend the cause of his people. He died under the Confederate flag; but the speaker would rather have him there under the soil of Kentucky, in a soldier's grave, than living in a down-trodden land. The lines cannot be read without emotion by any capable of appreciating the sensations so poetically expressed.

IN MEMORIAM    D. J. R. Thou art sleeping, brother, sleeping
In the lonely battle grave;
Shadows o'er the path are creeping   
Death, the reaper, still is reaping   
 

 

        page 86        Years are swept, and years are sweeping,
Many a memory from my keeping,
But I am waiting still and weeping
For my beautiful and brave.
 

When the battle-songs were chanted,
And war's stirring tocsin pealed,
By whose songs their heart was haunted
And thy spirit, proved, undaunted,
Clamored wildly    wildly panted   
"Mother, let my wish be granted,
I will ne'er be mocked and taunted
That I fear to meet our vaunted
Foeman on the bloody field."
 

"They are thronging, mother, thronging
To a thousand fields of fame;
Let me go    'tis wrong, and wronging
God and thee to crush this longing;
On the muster-roll of glory
In my country's future story,
On the field of battle gory,
I must consecrate my name."
 

"Mother, gird my sword around me;
Kiss thy soldier-boy 'good-bye'."
In her arms she wildly wound thee,
To thy birthland's cause she bound thee,
 

 

        page 87        With fond prayers and blessings crowned thee,
And she sobbed: "When foes surround thee
If you fall, I know they found thee
Where the bravest love to die."
 

At the altar of their nation
Stood that mother and her son;
He    the victim of oblation,
Panting for his immolation;
She in priestess' holy station,
Weeping words of consecration
While God smiled his approbation,
Blessed the boy's self-abnegation,
Cheered the mother's desolation,
When the sacrifice was done.
 

Forth, like many a noble other,
Went he, whispering soft and low,
"Good-bye; pray for me, my mother;
Sister, kiss me; farewell, brother;"
And he strove his grief to smother;
Forth, with spirit proud and peerless   
Forth, with footsteps firm and fearless   
And his parting gaze was tearless,
Though his heart was lone and cheerless,
Thus from all he loved, to go.
 

Lo, you flag of freedom flashing
In the sunny Southern sky!
 

 

        page 88        On    to death and glory dashing   
On    where swords are clanging    clashing   
On    where balls are crushing    crashing   
On    'mid perils, dread, appalling   
On    they're falling    falling    falling   
On    they're growing fewer    fewer   
On    their hearts beat all the truer   
On    on    on    no fear    no falter   
On    though 'round the battle-altar
There were wounded victims groaning   
There were dying victims moaning   
On    right on    death    danger braving   
Warring where their flag was waving,
And baptismal blood was laving
With a tide of crimson water
All that field of death and slaughter;
On    still on    the bloody laver
Made them brave and made then braver;
On    with never a halt or waver   
On    they're battling    bleeding    bounding,
While the glorious shout is sounding,
"We will win the day or die."
 

And they won it    routed    riven,
Reeled the foeman's proud array,
They had struggled long and striven.
Blood in torrents they had given,
But their ranks, dispersed and driven,
Fled disgracefully away.
 

 

        page 89        Many a heart was lonely lying
There that would not throb again;
Some were dead and some were dying;
Some were silent, some were sighing;
Thus to die    lone    unattended   
Unbewept and unbefriended   
On that bloody plain.
When the twilight, sadly, slowly,
Wrapped its mantle o'er them all;
O'er these thousands lying lowly   
Hushed in silence deep and holy   
There was one,    his blood was flowing
And his last of life was going   
And his pulse faint    fainter beating
Told his hours were few and fleeting;
And his brow grew white and whiter
And his eyes grew bright and brighter   
There he lay    like infant dreaming,
With his sword beside him gleaming;
For the hand in life that grasped it,
True to death    still fondly clasped it.
There his comrades found him lying,
'Mid the heaps of dead and dying;
And the sternest there bent weeping,
O'er that lonely sleeper sleeping,
'Twas the midnight    stars shone 'round him   
In a shroud of glory bound him;
 

 

        page 90        And they told us how they found him
Where the bravest love to fall.
 

Where the woods like banners bending,
Drooped in glory and in gloom   
There, when that sad night was ending,
And the faint, far dawn was blending
With the stars now fast descending   
There    they mute and mournful bore him   
With the stars and shadows o'er him   
There    they laid him down so tender,
And the next day's sun and splendor
Flashed upon my brother's tomb.
 

Part 9

We miss you and our hearts are sad and lonely,
We miss you and the void is never filled,
It calls your name forever and yours only,
As one great need, love-born and life-enstilled.
 

We miss you, as the captive shut forever
Within blank walls of ever-living gloom,
Must miss the song of birds, the shining river,
God's best sunshine and all earth's joy and bloom.
 

We miss you as life's sweet and pleasant hours
Are missed when through long care, jar and fret,
And bitter loss, our tears wet withered flowers,
And all life holds forevermore-regrets.
 

Your pictured face in memory's jeweled setting
(A clearer view than genius ever threw
On painted canvass) leaves us no forgetting,
Even though our hearts were less bereaved and true.
 

We miss you with our single balm for sorrow,
Else greater than our burdened hearts could bear;
Our souls sometimes, in God's fair to-morrow,
May meet and greet each other "over there."
 

Vivien Castane.

Brunswick, Georgia.

Part 10

How thick the mem'ries come to mind,
Of many a tented plain,
Of fading lines, of faded grey
And gastly heaps of slain,
Of bugles blaring through the night
In tones that stir the soul,
The days of '62 come back
When Rucker calls the roll.
 

Full many a roll call comes to mind,
Full many a sad parade
Of muskets glinting down the line
And gleam of saber blade,
Though few they be who do not sleep
Beneath some grassy knoll,
In vivid visions all come back
When Rucker calls the roll.
 

Then here's to Rucker    loyal heart,
Faithful and tried and true   
And when death's bugle sounds for taps
Our prayers shall go with you.
May many years pass o'er your head
Ere the last sad bell shall toll
To tell that faithful Rucker
No more shall call the roll.
 

The foregoing beautiful poem written by a white comrade in honor of a colored man, who can as perfectly call the roll of his company to-day, as he did during the war, is but an expression of the true feeling as it to-day exists between the whites and blacks who were companions during the war; one as master, the other as slave, yet their love was and still continues strong for each other. Uncle Amos, as he is familiarly called, is a well known colored citizen of Atlanta and has been a familiar figure upon its streets ever since the close of the war, and the man, woman, or child, who has for any length of time been a citizen and has not the honor of this grand old man's acquaintance, has certainly missed something; for the genial happy smile on his face as it beams over with good nature, when he politely raises his hat and at the same time speaks some pleasant and cheering words, would almost touch a heart of stone.

Amos Rucker entered the army with his young master, Sergeant Cornelius Samples, who was sergeant of Company C. 63rd Ga. Regiment, and in every manner proved himself loyal and true to the Southern cause. He is now a member of Camp Walker Confederate Veterans of Atlanta. His friends, and they are many, all hope and believe that the Georgia State Legislature, now in session, will substantially reward him for his services in the past, and his loyalty of the present. It would be but a fitting tribute to show to the world that the great State of Georgia is as ready to grant pensions to its worthy colored soldiers as it is to their former masters, whom they so faithfully served.

Amos, who is now 74 years old, would greatly appreciate this little token of recognition, and his prayers would no doubt follow the generous doners. A word to a wise legislature is sufficient. And now dear old friend, may the closing days of your life be spent surrounded with peace and plenty, and when the time comes for you to withdraw from the battles of earth, may you be fully prepared to answer the call of the roll when the Master shall call your name at the heavenly gate.

Your friend,
Noble C. Williams.