[The St. Louis Globe-Democrat, 1893]

Passing, one by one, into the silent land, the heroic leaders who struggled desperately to save "the lost cause" have been dropping out of mortal ken during the past quarter of a century, until now a very small group is left. Very interesting are the figures which make up the little band, men of hoary hair and faltering step they are now, but their names recall memories of the days when they were active and alert, braving shot and shell on the field and cheerfully bearing privation and hardship in the camp or on the march. In those times, in the cities of the East and the farm houses and homes of the West, their names were execrated, and on the hotly contested border land their approach was dreaded with sinking heart. The new generation which has grown. up to manhood since that time has learned to look at them in a more kindly light. Their valor and their devotion are come into recognition; their disappointment and their failure plead for them, and we remember that they, too, are Americans whose prowess does honor to our race.

Busily occupied with business affairs in New Orleans, the last surviving general of the Confederacy, Gen. Pierre Gustave T. Beauregard, still exhibits the untiring, indomitable energy which characterized him during the four years of war. In spite of his seventy four years, he retains the old pugnacity of his youth and middle age. He does not wield the old weapons but the man who has the hardihood to cross the old general's path and oppose his plans speedily learns that he has an antagonist who can adapt himself to any mode of warfare, and has lost none of his strategic skill.

The general has a certain right to speak authoritatively, so far as experience can give the right, he having had the honor and the responsibility of opening the ball, by directing the attack on Fort Sumter, and of commanding, in conjunction with Gen. J. E. Johnston, at the battle of Bull Run. The general explains with graphic force how, if that battle had been fought as he planned it, and if he had been permitted, even after the battle had taken place, to add his later plans, he could have "crushed Patterson, liberated Maryland and captured Washington." He surrendered with Gen. J. E. Johnston to Gen. Sherman, in April, 1865.

Associated with Gen. Beauregard of late years is that other prominent soldier of the South, Gen. Jubal A. Early. The two men are congenial associates, having many characteristics in common. The same dash and impetuosity, the same impatience of contradiction or control, distinguish Early as they do Beauregard, and the same effects are seen in both their lives in numerous and bitter enemies. Gen. Early, who is seventy six years old, has been a soldier since boyhood, though more than once he has abandoned a martial career for law or business. He had a West Point training, and first smelled powder in the Florida War of 1837.

He quitted the army at the close of the war and commenced the practice of law; subsequently he sat in the Virginia Legislature for two years. The outbreak of the Mexican War lured him from the pursuits of peace. He served as a major of volunteers, and acted as Governor of Monterey the last two months of its occupation. He returned to the practice of law when the army was disbanded, and served for ten years as attorney of the commonwealth. He was appointed colonel on the outbreak of the Rebellion, and took part in the battles of Bull Run, Fredericksburg, and Gettysburg.

In 1864 he was sent to the Valley of the Shenandoah. There, after a few minor successes, he fought the disastrous battle of Cedar Creek. Six months later, in October, 1864, a still more severe disaster befell him at Waynesboro, where Gen. Custer almost annihilated his command. Lee, who still retained his faith in Early's capacity, was unable to resist the popular feeling in the army against the defeated general, and felt himself obliged to remove him from his command. In his letter relieving him from duty, Lee with the delicacy of the true gentleman, softened the blow by assuring Early of his own regard, but reminded him that the country and the army would naturally judge by results, and consequently there could be no doubt that his influence would increase the already serious difficulties accumulating in Southwest Virginia. Early at once quitted the army and spent some time in Europe.

A conspicuous figure among the survivors of the great struggle is Gen. Simon Bolivar Buckner, who a few years ago was elected Governor of Kentucky. He was one of the pall-bearers at the funeral of Gen. Grant, whom he always admired and honored. He was the general to whom Grant sent the dispatch which stirred so much enthusiasm in the North early in Grant's career, and which history has immortalized. The North thought it had the right ring, and that the man who wrote it was the man for the hour. The words, which soon became famous, were: "I propose to move immediately upon your works." This was at Fort Donelson. Buckner's two superiors, Officers Floyd and Pillow, had made their escape, when they found the position no longer tenable; but he declared that he would stay with his men and share their fate. He remained, and after the capitulation was sent as a prisoner of war to Boston, Mass., where he was kept until exchanged, six months later. On his return to the field he commanded under Bragg in Tennessee. He fought at Murfreesboro and Chickamauga, and surrendered with Edmund Kirby Smith at Baton Rouge, in May, 1865. Buckner was another of the West Point graduates, and had also, like so many of his comrades and foes, done gallant service in the Mexican War. He is now sixty nine years old.

Now sitting in the United States Senate for his native State of Georgia, is another brave officer of the southern army, Gen. John Brown Gordon, who has just passed his sixtieth birthday. He bears on his body evidence of his valor in the shape of eight wounds received in battle. He entered the Confederate Army as a captain of infantry, but before the close of the war had risen to the rank of lieutenant general. He was one of the officers who surrendered to Grant at Appomattox.

Last, but not least remembered, of the old chivalric guard of the Confederacy come those sturdy heroes, Stephen D. Lee and Ambrose P. Stewart. Gen. Lee now holds a position of responsibility in a university at Starkville, Miss., while Gen. Stewart, who is living quietly at Oxford, Miss., was recently appointed Confederate commissioner on the committee for the construction of a national cemetery on the site of the old battlefield of Chickamauga, where so many of the sons of the confederacy fell fighting for the stars and bars.

The animosities of the war have long since been buried, and by none more completely than by the men who fought most bravely and sacrificed most in the struggle. The North unites with the South in recognizing the heroism of the men who fought so gallantly for their convictions. In the closing years of their lives the chieftains of the old Confederacy enjoy the love and honor that is accorded to true soldiers, and when they finally pass away from the scenes of their struggles they will not be among those who are soon forgotten.

[Lampassas, Tex., Leader.]

It was the 2d day of April, 1865. I was acting Sergeant Major in Capt. Dale's Battalion of Sharpshooters, near Petersburg, Va. I had sat up nearly all the night before playing chess with a red-headed Captain of the First Tennessee. A little before day, firing was heard on the picket line, and the sharpshooters under Dale, Harris and Beaumont were ordered to the front. After going to the place where the picket line should have been, it was found that the enemy had broken it and that also, by a flank movement, they had broken the main line between our position on that line and Petersburg. There was nothing left for us to do but to make our way back to the breastworks and rejoin the brigade (Archer's) as quickly and as safely as possible. It was no very easy thing to do under the circumstances, as any body of men coming from the direction in which the soldiers thought the enemy were, would surely be fired on without stopping to ask any questions. But each minute was worth a million of dollars. If we remained a little longer the whole command would be surrounded and captured. Besides, our brigade needed our help. The writer was ordered to double-quick to the main line, take the chances of being shot by our own men, pass rapidly down on top of the breastworks causing our men to hold their fire until Capt. Day could oblique his sharpshooters into the main line or he breastworks.

After a hard run and escaping a number of bullets sent to meet us by the men in the works, the line was gained, and the sharpshooters were safely over the works, with but few wounded. We were not a moment two soon. The enemy had broken through and was reaching out in the rear, but when they struck our part of the line the old brigade, with a yell and a charge, retook some of the works in a regular devils' picnic.

While engaged in this movement, a tall, angular Federal, standing on the works more exposed to the fire than anyone, brought his gun to bear on my face at a point blank range of less than forty steps. A dodge behind a corner of a rude log hut built for winter quarters saved my life, for at that moment the bark spattered in my face as the ball grazed the log. With a prayer for the soul of the bravest Yankee I ever saw my trusty Sharpe's rifle was aimed at the tall man's breast, and at the crack of the gun he fell from the earth-works.

About this time Capt. Arch Norris ordered me to rally the sharpshooters and try to check the column on our left. At the rally call a handful of seven responded---seven men that would try anything---and they charged that column. Some were killed and others wounded. At the first volley I tumbled to the ground with a broken leg. I had hardly touched the ground when John Harlin, of Wilson county, Tenn., Jim Hearn, Coles, and another man, name forgotten, had me on a stretcher and were trying their best to get me to the rear. By this time the line was broken and the enemy had it all their own way.

They soon sent their bullets so thick around and into the litter-bearing party that the men were forced to leave me to my fate. Another minute found me in the hands of the advance skirmishers, and they proceeded to relieve me of my watch and money; but a big red-faced, thick-set Major made his way to me, and, after a friendly grasp of the hand, he had my valuables returned and four of his men detailed to take me back to the field hospital, and by no means to leave me until I was safely in charge of a certain surgeon, a Mason and the Major's friend. On the way back Jesse Cage, of Nashville, was picked up, with his leg broken, and placed in the same ambulance. About 4 o'clock that evening, as the wounded men lay on a bed of straw in a large hospital tent, Cage was carried out under the trees and, as the tent flap was thrown back, I could see him under the influence of chloroform while the surgeons took his leg off. He was soon brought back to his straw bed, and with a shudder I heard the litter-bearers say, "Your time next." I was placed on the table, chloroform was administered and, when I awoke from slumber, my dancing days were over and I was a hopeless cripple for life.

Two days after the above I saw the man I had fired at on the breastworks walk into the tent, but, to my astonishment, he was shot in the back part of his jaw. Calling him to my bed, I found that he was the same man, and his wounds were explained by himself thus: "I shot at a feller at the corner of a cabin, and missed him, when he shot me in the breast here," pulling pen his shirt, "the ball hitting in front on the collarbone and knocking me off the works. Some of our own cowardly fellows shot me in the jaw after I got up." I explained that I was the "feller that drew a bead" on him, and explained that the want of force in the ball was due to the inferior cartridges used.

These two soldiers ended their war here. The one that walked waited on the one that couldn't walk, and they two who had shot at each other would have risked their lives each in the other's defense. I cannot now remember this brave mans name. He belonged to a Pennsylvania regiment. The acquaintance lasted only three days, but that was long enough for God to teach two erring mortals that brave men bore no malice, and, as they grasped each others hand for a final separation, they each breathed a sigh of thankfulness that "I didn't kill you."

Reader, please pardon the apparent egotism. We can only write what came under our immediate observation. The death and wounding of great men, the victory and defeat of armies, have been and will be told by a thousand pens, but there are none to tell these little incidents except the actors themselves.

[S. A. CUNNINGHAM.]

The removal of Gen. Johnston, and the appointment of Hood to succeed him in command of the Army of Tennessee, was an astounding event. So devoted to Johnston were his men that the presence and immediate command of Gen. Lee would not have been accepted without complaint. They were so satisfied that even in retreat they did not lose their faith in ultimate success. They were not reconciled to the change until the day before the battle of Franklin. The successful crossing of Duck River that morning at an early hour, and the march to Spring Hill, where the Federal retreat was so nearly cut off (a failure for which it was understood Gen. Hood was not to blame), created an enthusiasm for him equal to that entertained for Stonewall Jackson after his extraordinary achievements. That night the extensive valley east of Spring Hill was lighted up by our thousands of camp fires, in plain view of, and close proximity to, the retreating lines of the enemy. The next morning, as we marched in quick time toward Franklin, we were confirmed in our impressions of Federal alarm. I counted on the way thirty-four wagons that had been abandoned on the smooth turnpike. In some instances whole teams of mules had been killed to prevent their capture. A few miles south of Franklin the Federal lines of infantry were deployed, and our progress was checked; but we pressed them without delay until they retired behind the outer works about the town. Soon after they withdrew-from the range of hills south, overlooking the place, and we were advanced to its crest. I happened, though in the line of battle (as I was "right guide" to my regiment), to be close to where Gen. Hood halted his staff and rode along to the top of the hill, and with his field glasses surveyed the situation. It was an extraordinary moment. Those of us who were near could see, as private soldiers rarely did, the position of both armies. Although Franklin was some two miles in the distance, the plain presented a scene of great commotion. But I was absorbed in the one man whose mind was deciding the fate of thousands. With an arm and a leg in the grave, and with the consciousness that he had not until within a couple of days won the confidence which his army had in his predecessor, he had now a very trying ordeal to pass through. It was all-important to act, if at all, at once. He rode to Stephen D. Lee, the nearest of his subordinate generals, and, shaking hands with him cordially, announced his decision to make an immediate charge.

No event of the war, perhaps, showed a scene equal to this. The range of hills upon which he formed offered the best view of the battlefield, with but little exposure to danger, and there were hundreds collected there as spectators. Our ranks were being extended rapidly to the right and left. In Franklin there was the utmost confusion. The enemy were greatly excited. We could see them running to and fro. Wagon trains were being pressed across the Harpeth river, and on toward Nashville. Gen. Loring, of Cleburne's division, made a speech to his men. Our Brigadier General Strahl was quiet, and there was an expression of sadness on his face. The soldiers were full of ardor, and confident of success. They had unbounded faith in Gen. Hood, whom they believed would achieve a victory that would give us Nashville. Such was the spirit of the army as the signal was given which set it in motion. Our generals were ready, and some of them rode in front of our main line. With a quick step, we moved forward to the sound of stirring music. This is the only battle that I was in, and they were many, where bands of music were used. I was right guide to the Forty-first Tennessee, marching four paces to the front I had an opportunity of viewing my comrades, and I well remember the look of determination that was on every face. Our bold movement caused the enemy to give up, without much firing, its advance line. As they fell back at double-quick, our men rushed forward, even though they had to face the grim line of breastworks just at the edge of the town.

Before we were in proper distance for small arms the artillery opened on both sides. Our guns, firing over our heads from the hills in the rear, used ammunition without stint, while the enemy's batteries were at constant play upon our lines. When they withdrew to their main line of works it was as one even plain for a mile. About fifty yards in front of their breastworks we came in contact with formidable chevaux de frise , over or through which it was very difficult to pass. Why half of us were not killed yet remains a mystery, for after moving forward so great a distance, all the time under fire, the detention, immediately in their front, gave them a very great advantage. We arrived at the works and some of our men, after a club fight at the trenches, got over. The colors of my regiment were carried inside, and when the arm that held them was shot off they fell to the ground and remained until morning. Cleburne's men dashed at the works, but their gallant leader was shot dead, and they gave way, so that the enemy remained on our flank, and kept up a constant enfilading fire.

Our left also failed to hold the works, and for a short distance we remained and fought until the ditch was almost full of dead men. Night came on soon after the hard fighting began, and we fired at the flash of each other's guns. Holding the enemy's lines, as we continued to do on this part of them, we were terribly massacred by the enfilade firing. The works were so high that those who fired the guns were obliged to get a footing in the embankment, exposing themselves, in addition to their flank, to a fire by men in houses. One especially severe was that from Mr. Carter's, immediately in my front. I was near Gen. Strahl, who stood in the ditch and handed up guns to those posted to fire them. I had passed to him my short Enfield (noted in the regiment) about the sixth time. The man who kind been firing cocked it and was taking deliberate aim when he was shot and tumbled down dead into the ditch upon those killed before him. When the men so exposed were shot down their places were supplied by volunteers until these were exhausted, and it was necessary for Gen. Strahl to call upon others. He turned to me, and though I was several feet back from the ditch, I rose up immediately, and walking over to the wounded and dead, took position with one foot upon the pile of bodies of my dead fellows, and the other in the embankment, and fired guns which the General himelf handed up to me until he, too, was shot down. One other man had had position on my right, and assisted in the firing. The battle lasted until not an efficient man was left between us and the Columbia pike, about fifty yards to our right, and hardly enough behind us to hand up the guns. We could not hold out much longer, for indeed, but few of us were then left alive. It seemed as if we had no choice but to surrender or try to get away, and when I asked the General for counsel, he simply answered, "Keep firing." But just as the man to my right was shot, and fell against me with terrible groans, Gen. Strahl was shot. He threw up his hands, falling on his face, and I thought him dead, but in asking the dying man, who still lay against my shoulder as he sank forever, how he was wounded, the General, who had not been killed. Thinking my question was to him, raised up, saying that he was shot in the neck and called for Col. Stafford to turn over his command. He crawled over the dead, the ditch being three deep, about twenty feet to where Col. Stafford was. His staff officers started to carry him to the rear, but he received another shot, and directly the third, which killed him instantly Col. Stafford was dead in the pile as the morning light disclosed, with his feet wedged in at the bottom, with other dead across and under him after he fell, leaving his body half standing as if ready to give command to the dead!

By that time only a handful of us were left on that part of the line, and as I was sure that our condition was not known, I ran to the rear to report to Gen. John C. Brown, commanding the division. I met Maj. Hampton, of his staff, who told me that Gen. Brown was wounded and that Gen. Strahl was in command. This assured me that those in command did not know the real situation, so I went on the hunt for Gen. Cheatham. By and by relief was sent to the front. This done, nature gave way. My shoulder was black with bruises from firing, and it seemed that no moisture was left in my system. Utterly exhausted, I sank upon the ground and tried to sleep. The battle was over, and I could do no more; but animated still with concern for the fate of comrades, I returned to the awful spectacle in search of some who year after year had been at my side. Ah, the loyalty of faithful comrades in such a struggle!

These personal recollections are all that I can give, as the greater part of the battle was fought after nightfall, and once in the midst of it, with but the light of the flashing guns, I could see only what passed directly under my own eyes. True, the moon was shining, but the dense smoke and dust so filled the air as to weaken its benefits, like a heavy fog before the rising sun, only there was no promise of the fog disappearing. Our spirits were crushed. It was indeed the Valley of Death.

It is a matter of history that Mrs. Chas. J. Williams, of Columbus, Ga. instituted the beautiful custom of decorating soldiers' graves with flowers, a custom which has been adopted throughout the United States. Mrs. Williams was the daughter of Maj. John Howard, of Milledgeville, Ga., and was a superior woman. She married Maj. C. J. Williams on his return from the Mexican War. As Colonel of the First Georgia Regulars, of the army in Virginia, he contracted disease, from which he died in 1862, and was buried in Columbus, Ga.

Mrs. Williams and her little girl visited his grave every day, and often comforted themselves by wreathing it with flowers. While the mother sat abstractedly thinking of the loved and lost one, the little one would pluck the weeds from the unmarked soldiers' graves near her father's and cover them with flowers, calling them her soldiers' graves.

After a short while the dear little girl was summoned by the angels to join her father. The sorely bereaved mother then took charge of these unknown graves for the child's sake, and as she cared for them thought of the thousands of patriot graves throughout the South, far away from home and kindred, and in this way the plan was suggested to her of setting apart one day in each year, that love might pay tribute to valor throughout the Southern States. In March, 1866, she addressed a communication to the Columbus Times, an extract of which I give:

"We beg the assistance of the press and the ladies throughout the South to aid us in the effort to set apart a certain day to be observed from the Potomac to the Rio Grande, and to be handed down through time as a religious custom of the South, to wreathe the graves of our martyred dead with flowers, and we propose the 26th day of April as the day."

She then wrote to the Soldiers' Aid Societies in every Southern State, and they readily responded and reorganized under the name of Memorial Associations. She lived long enough to see her plan adopted all over the South, and in 1868 throughout the United States. Mrs. Williams died April 15, 1874, and was buried with military honors. On each returning Memorial Day the Columbus military march around her grave, and each deposits a floral offering.

The Legislature of Georgia, in 1866, set apart the 26th day of April as a legal holiday in obedience to her request. Would that every Southern State observed the same day.

It is the eve before the great battle. The sun is low in the west. A death-like stillness has settled over the two armies-one on Seminary Ridge, the other on Cemetery Hill. It is the Battle of Gettysburg. The fight of the first day is over. The Confederates are hopeful, for Gen. Lee's small army has held in check Gen. Mead's vast forces. The sun goes down, the hush deepens, the armies slumber, the golden stars come out in the violet skies above. They shine down upon the pale, sweet face of a young soldier. The night is sultry, and the youth sleeps on the uncovered ground. The delicate face has the innocence and infantile purity of a baby's holy countenance. All day the dreaming boy has fought with tiger fearlessness, now he sleeps quietly under the watching stars and his weary limbs rest in the careless grace of slumber. Beside the sleeping boy is a strong manly warrior. He does not sleep but guards the resting youth. A thickly foliaged tree shelters them.

This fair young soldier is the man's wife, but their comrades deem the two father and son. Sleep on, weary soldier, take your brief, unconscious rest, tomorrow's night will find you in eternity! The Gettysburg of your life will have been fought, and you and hundreds of your comrades will have pitched your tents on the camp fields of the great beyond. Ah, child-woman! you have no equal in your heroic devotion. The perils of battle are joys when shared with your heart's idol.

With the first dim streak of light that crosses the blood-stained hilltops commences the cannon's boom. The hollow roar echos down the valley between Seminary Ridge and Cemetery Hill, then dies far away like the roll of distant thunder. The great battle of Gettysburg rages in fierce fury. In this battle Pickett and his division make their charge that that renders their names immortal, and gives the historian a chapter of unparalleled heroism. In the fiercest shriek and wildest roar of battle, suddenly the cannon's thunder dies over the hilltops, the smoke rolls down the valley, a hush solemn as death falls over the vast armies. A small band in confederate gray goes down the opposite hillside, slowly and calmly. Orderly and straight into the teeth of death they march. They reach the foot of the hill, and are crossing the valley. The silence is yet unbroken. Stern Federal warriors stand awe-stricken, and are thrilled with wonder at sight of this unequalled heroism.

At length the silence is broken. The roar of cannons shake the earth. The boom dies, the smoke clears, and shows a wide gap in the moving wall, but in good order the broken ranks come togather. Steadily the brave immortal Pickett and his men march forward, and again the cannons thunder. The smoke clears away and reveals a wide, wide gap. The ranks move together again, closing the gap. A long line of their gray-clad comrades crosses the valley behind, and the little band moves unfalteringly forward. The cannons boom again. The smoke clears. A wider gap than ever this time, but once more it is closed, and the heroic few move onward. The hearts of brave Federal soldiers grow sick at such slaughter. At last Pickett and his survivors reach the hill on which is stationed Gen. Mead's great army. Up the steep side they charge, over the breastworks they go, and back goes the Federal army, but it is only for a time. Pickett's division is slaughtered charging the vast Federal army.

In that charge a flag-bearer in the Confederate ranks is shot. A fair, sweet-faced young soldier raises the old standard. For a moment it floats above the storm of battle. Thick the bayonets gleam, but the youthful hero, with a rigid countenance and unflinching bravery, keeps an eagle eye fixed on the silken banner as it waves in the smoke, A stream of sunlight floods it for a moment, and hallows the gastly upturned face of the girl soldier as she holds aloft the silken emblem. A sword pierces her, and she falls beside her husband. Both surrender life in this wonderful charge.

The world has heard of Gettysburg and its slaughter, but it has never been told the thrilling but sad story of the young wife who fell beside her husband that day when Pickett's immortal division attempted the impossible.

Many months have passed since then. Burning suns and purple skies have kept their silent watch over the spot where the girl-soldier fell.

Again it is sunset. An old man and his little boy walk over the field where once was fought the great battle. The old man had fought in that battle. He shows his child the area over which Pickett's old brigade had charged. He tells the boy of the sweet faced flag-bearer, and searching for the place where the young hero fell they find an old flag. Tattered it is and dropping to pieces. It has been embroidered by the fair hands of Virginia women with their own hair. As the young boy raised it he saw underneath two skulls. Through long silent days and the solemn hush of nights it had been their winding sheet; under burning suns and golden stars it had been their blood-drenched and battle-rent shroud. Digging a hole in the hillside, the Federal veteran wrapped the shulls in the flag and buried them in the calm, sweet hour of the sunset stillness. He had lost two sons in that battle. They had fallen repulsing Pickett's division, but this evening the bitterness dies in the breast of the old Federal soldier. He stands, and watching the sunset his thoughts drift back to that day when he saw the young girl-hero, calm and serene, with her large blue eyes fixed upon the silken banner, unflinching in the shriek and storm of battle. His sword had pierced her. There was no bitterness in his heart now.

Europe has her Joan of Arc, her Charlotte Corday, America her Mollie Pitcher, but the Confederacy has her sweet girl-hero who fell in the charge of Pickett's men at Gettysburg.

Eli Perkins

Gen. Sherman, before he died, was a neighbor of mine. One night I took the General up to the Kilpatrick Grand Army Post. On the way back I asked him if he didn't think "Kil " was a good fighter.

"Splendid," said Sherman, and then he said, " but he was a great boaster, too.' Well, he had a right to boast, for he could never boast stronger than he fought."

"One day," continued the General, "Kilpatrick was recounting at Willard's Hotel in Washington his experience in driving back rebel reinforcements at Chancellorsville. Listening to him was a crowd of old soldiers, among whom was Moseby.

"'Why,' said Kilpatrick, 'the woods swarmed with rebels. I had two horses shot under me and ____.'

"'What did you do then, Kil?' asked Custer.

"'Why I jumped on to a Government mule; a ball knocked me off, but the mule charged right ahead into the rebel ranks. I never knew what became of that mule.'

" 'Why, General,' said Moseby, ' I saw that mule. He came right into our lines.'

"'Well, I'm glad to see my words confirmed,' said Kilpatrick, seriously. 'Then you really saw him?'

"'Yes, sure.'

"'Head shot off ?'

"'No. died from mortification.' "

Gen. Sherman always said with pride that the Army of the Tennessee never retreated. They started in at Memphis and came out at Charleston and Wilmington in a fourth of the time that it took the Army of the Potomac to see-saw back and forth between Washington and Richmond. One day after the war the General said he was talking with a veteran from the Army of the Potomac. The soldier was describing the big fight of Hooker at Chancellorsville.

"Did the rebels run?" asked Sherman.

"Did they run?" repeated the soldier. "Did the rebels run? Great Scott! I should say they did run. Why, General, they run so like thunder that we had to run three miles to keep out of their way; and if we hadn't thrown away our guns they'd run all over us, sure!"

W. GART JOHNSON - Orlando, Fla., July 18,1893

It was on the morning of the 3rd of July, 1863, at Gettysburg. On the evening before Hood and McLaw's divisions of Longstreet's corps, on the right wing, had driven the enemy from all his positions on the open plain to the stronghold of Cemetery Ridge. My company (C, 18th Mississippi), with others, was occupying the extreme front picket line in direct range of the sharpshooters. We were in the edge of an apple orchard. Adjutant Harmon, of the 13th Mississippi, and I were hugging a pile of rubbish, anything to hide behind, that we had thrown together, when Gens. Lee and Longstreet—on foot, no aids, orderlies or couriers, fifteen or twenty steps apart, field glasses in hand—came walking past us, stopping now and then to take observations. They were arranging, as we soon found out, for the famous charge of Pickett's division. As Gen. Lee halted in a few feet of us, knowing the imminent danger he was in, one of us said, "Gen. Lee, you are running a very great risk." At that moment the searching minnie was cutting close to him, showing that he was the mark aimed at. He went on with his observations as calm and serene as if he was viewing a landscape. A few minutes afterward we heard him say to Longstreet, in substance, "Mass your artillery behind that hill," pointing to a ridge just in our rear "and at the signal bring your guns to the top of the ridge and turn them loose." It put us to thinking of what would become of us—the picket line. We could not leave our posts; we were in plain view of the enemy, without protection except from small arms; we had no utensils with which to throw up earthworks. We knew the shells from our guns would go over us, but those of the enemy! Well, spades or no spades, we went into that ground quicker than you would think. We were like the fellow after the ground hog, it had to be done. Bayonets, pieces of board, any thing to get out of sight. Two or three to a hole, and we went in like gophers.

That was the grandest and at the same time the most terrible artillery duel I ever witnessed. Think of it. There were sixty-five (I was told) of our of our own pieces on that one spot, and more on another portion of our line, all firing as fast as they could, and the cannon of the enemy replying. I don't know how long it lasted. When it stopped on our side Pickett's division charged! They had to march over us. Doing nothing myself, I had time to look. It was one of the grandest sights ever mortal eyes looked upon. It makes me shudder now, as I see the shells plow through the ranks of that gallant band.

It was in the spring of 1864, about the 22nd of March, a heavy snow had fallen during the night, the hills and valleys were covered with the flakey white. Joe Johnston's army was in winter quarters at Dalton. Two regiments of infantry being camped near each other, in a spirit of fun, began in somewhat military order to throw snow balls at each other. The effect was electric, boyhood frolics were renewed and the air was full of flying snow balls. Brigades and divisions were soon involved, and such a scene was never before witnessed on earth. Many thousands of men were engaged in a snow ball battle. It begun early in the morning; generals, colonels, captains and privates were all mixed up. Private soldiers became commanders and the generals were simply privates, and the usual conditions were reversed. The boys had captured the generals' horses and swords and were galloping through the flying snow balls giving orders and whooping things up generally. Verbal orders to different portions of the field were sent on flying steeds. Gen. Patrick Cleburne was noted for his strict discipline, and whenever he caught a straggler from any regiment in the army he would make him carry a fence rail. Well, the boys had captured " old Pat," when some fellow yelled out, "Arrest that soldier and make him carry a fence rail." The surgeon of our regiment was calm and even-tempered, but would get out of patience with a lot of whining fellows who would report on the sick list day after day. The doctor would look at his tongue, feel his pulse and say, " Well, there is not much the matter with him, just put him on light duty." They captured the old doctor, and a soldier had hold of each leg, another his head and others his arms, and as he was brought in as terribly wounded, Fred Domin ran to him, felt of his pulse, looked wise and said, "Well, there is not much the matter with him, just put him on light duty." This same doctor was noted for having had the same affliction as the soldier who complained. If a man went to him with the toothache, he would say, "Shucks, that's nothing, I've had the toothache a thousand times." If a man went to him with the rheumatism or any complaint whatever, f the doctor would say, "Shucks, I've had that a thousand times." One day Kenan Hill got a bug in his ear and went to the doctor hallowing, in great agony. The doctor said, "Oh, shucks, that's nothing, I've had a thousand bugs in my ears." One day a soldier got a nail in his foot, and the doctor said, "Oh, shucks, that's nothing, I've had a nail in my foot a thousand times." When the small-pox broke out at Shelbyville, a soldier went to him all broke out with the small-pox, but the doctor consoled him by saying, "Shucks, that's nothing, I've had the small-pox a thousand times." After this the doctor had one of his eyes nearly knocked out by a snow ball, when Fred Domin ran up to him again and said, "Oh, shucks, that's nothing, I've had my eye knocked out a thousand times."