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HE Southern people, as a mass, never understood the Federal soldier. A majority of them looked upon the Federal soldiers as unprincipled hirelings, cowardly defamers of womanhood, thieves, and murderers!" said the old man, pausing in his whittling long enough to give his knife a vigorous strop upon a well-worn boot-leg. "I

G. H. BLAKESLEE.

tell you, sir, they never understood us. Now, I'm not saying that there were not some cases that fully deserved the execration of the Southern people, and the roughs of the service were abhorred, as they should have been, by all good and true comrades. It could hardly have been otherwise in gathering up two millions of men for an army in any age or any part of the world. But during nearly three years of service, I cannot call to mind a single instance of abuse to a Southern woman by a Union soldier, even when taunted and inflamed, as they sometimes were. It is possible that this was so, because our service was, from the beginning, mostly at the front. Of course, there were individual cases where the Southern people came to know

us as we were.

"One particular occurrence, as it comes to mind, makes me almost forget the months of pain I endured, and a limb crippled for life, but

I don't care to speak of it, because I got mixed up in that matter somewhat."

But, on my solemn pledge not to divulge his identity, the veteran told me this "ower true tale."

"You see," the old man commenced, "it happened on the Atlanta Campaign, in '64. We had been keeping things hot for nearly two months, and our ranks were sadly thinned by the fearful storms of lead and iron that had swept our lines all the way from Chattanooga. Day and night the roar of guns, without an hour's cessation, had kept up their fearful work, charging here, flanking there. The Confederates had been forced back a hundred miles through the mountains of northern Georgia, and in those last days of June

Kenesaw frowned in its glory,

Frowned down on the flag of the free,

and Uncle Billy' said we would go at that old mountain in front and quit flanking for awhile. Well, you know the results. Two thousand of as brave boys as ever followed 'Old Glory' went down into the cold shadows under the towering cliffs of Old Kenesaw.' Those boys, disciplined until they were actually machines, though not of brass and steel, could not accomplish impossibilities, and were swept back, down the steep declivity. Far above them, grand and sullen, were lifted the precipitous battlements of the foe. No bravery, no gallantry, no sacrifice of human victims could secure the prize for which 'Uncle Billy's' boys so grandly struggled.

"Then God let down a fold of his pavilion and darkness covered the mountain-a kindly mantle covering the dead and dying boys in blue and gray.

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Our wounded lay there all those weary hours of pain-unrepining and content. Our dead lay there, and surely they slept well. Some thousands of us stayed there helpless, yet alive, until near morning, when searching parties, under cover of darkness, moved us to the rear.

"Brought back with others was Fred W., a lad scarcely more than seventeen years of age, of the 79th Ohio (of our brigade), shot through the lungs. With us, also, was brought a young Confederate soldier, mortally wounded, for in such times there was no difference in the care

given to the suffering ones on account of the color of the uniform. This Confederate soldier was laid on a cot adjoining mine, and Fred W. on the other side.

"Fred died a glorious death about eleven o'clock A. M., the next day. The surgeon had just finished examining his wounds, and had informed him he had but a short time to live. Fred called his chum, a boy who had brought him off the field, and taking a letter and a picture from his pocket, he kissed them and gave them to his pard,' with the request that they be forwarded to his mother in Ohio. Then he said: 'Charlie, the doctor says I must die; that I have but a few moments to live. Now, before I go, I want to give three cheers once more for the old flag,' and raising himself upon one elbow, and swinging his old tattered cap around his head, his lips moved, as if forming a cheer, when the crimson tide burst in jets from those patriot lips, his head drooped upon his manly breast-the cheer was unspoken, he fell back upon his couch dead-great-grand-glorious! A boy in years, his last words, his last thoughts, were for the old flag.

"My other neighbor, the young Confederate, lying on my right, suffered untold agony. He He was evidently of good family, intelligent and educated. The long campaigns in which he had been engaged had reduced his wardrobe to a low ebb; but through the torn and tattered raiment shone the reflection of the gentleman.

"In mortal agony, low moans would now and again escape his faltering lips; recovering himself and turning to me he would apologize for having disturbed me. At every request I made for the attendant to bring him some relief, he turned gratefully to me with a gentle 'thank you'; every cup of water brought, or dose of medicine administered, the kindly thank you' followed.

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"Knowing that his wound was mortal, that his time was short for this earth, he gave me his name, company, and regiment, and requested that should I ever have the opportunity to communicate with his people-but before I learned their address or names he became flighty in his speech, and his mind evidently wandered back to his home in Tennessee.

"Again, he lived over the old home life, among his kindred and friends. He walked along the shady paths, and over the old fields; again he tasted the cold water, which he dipped up with the old gourd, as it flowed over the rocks in the dear old spring-house. Once more he

romped with his sisters and talked with them of father and mother in heaven. Again his mind would revert to the war, would dwell upon the gathering gloom that was spreading over his dear Southland, would picture in feeling terms the loss of some brave comrade, and of the suffering borne by those who had been brought up in luxury; but for himself no sigh nor complaint ever escaped him.

"Again becoming a suppliant at the throne of grace, he thanked his Heavenly Father that it was his fortune to have fallen into the hands of those whom in prosperity he had looked upon as enemies, but in his adversity had proved to be friends. He fervently implored that God would be a father to his orphan sisters and protect them in the days to come. In feeling supplication, he asked the Great Ruler to bless his beloved land and the rulers thereof, and prayed that the days of danger and trouble would soon end in peace.

"Thus the moments slipped away, and during the dark hours of night his soul went back to his God, to join the father and mother on the shores of time. Thus passed from my presence through the portals of heaven the immortal spirit of William H. Parks, Co. K, 12th Tennesseè, C. S. A.

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At my request young Parks was buried in a shady nook in a grave separate and apart from all others and his lonely resting-place marked. I also mapped the vicinity so that his place of burial could be found in the future, should his friends be discovered.

"In 1869 his remains were disinterred, and now rest with his comrades, in the Confederate Cemetery at Marietta, Georgia.

"Time passed on-weary months in various hospitals. The spring of 1865 opened; the war was virtually over, and the government, regretfully acknowledging that they could not patch me up to be of any further use to them, turned me adrift, a physical wreck, to begin life anew. I endeavored to forget the scenes of those four dark years, and I put as far away from me as it was possible all remembrance of those sad times, till one day, several years after, I came across one of my war-time diaries. It brought to my mind my promise to the dying Confederate. "I wrote letters to a dozen post offices in Tennessee but could learn nothing. I resolved to try another method, and advertised in the newspapers of Memphis and Nashville. In

a few days letters began coming thick and fast, from comrades, friends, and relatives. No word

had ever reached them regarding his fate. From these letters I learned that young Parks's home had been at Humboldt, Gibson County, Tennessee, and that his two sisters lived there. A correspondence followed with one of these sisters, that continued through several months, and I received some of the most beautiful letters from her, all breathing the most devoted Christian spirit, and a gratitude for the small service I had done, but which they felt was of inestimable value to the sorrowing ones. Those letters I cherish to-day with greater pride than any other relics I have of those sad days. Here," said the captain, reaching down from a shelf a little box, "I keep my treasures. You have been so kind as to listen to my story, I will show you them; they are sacred memories, and so must ever remain.

"To idle curiosity seekers, they are never shown; they form one of the links of friendship that bind the blue and the gray in bonds that partisans of North or South shall never sunder.

"Sometimes when my heart is sickened by the hollowness of apparent friendships, I take them down and with dimming sight read over these mementos, and I wander back to that June night in '64, on the banks of Noses Creek in Georgia, under that old hospital tent, and recall the scenes enacted there. I feel that should it ever be my fortune to meet on earth the writers of these letters, the comrades of Willie Parks would be my comrades, and his sisters would be mine also."

The old captain's bowed form straightened up, and clasping his hands behind his back, he walked to a window to conceal his emotion, in his mind evidently living over again those exciting scenes. While thus engaged, I copied the closing sentence of one of the letters; it reads:

May the God of all grace bless you abundantly and make you perfectly happy through eternity, is the prayer of your Southern friend,

MRS.

HUMBOLDT, TENN.

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GOOD story is told of Bishop (then Lieutenant General) Polk, of the Confederate army, and another general, whom we will call "Blank," who now resides in Alabama. We cannot vouch for its accuracy, further than to say that we have full confidence in the veracity of the gentleman who related it:

During the Georgia campaign, and not long before General Polk was killed at Pine Mountain, he requested General Blank to accompany him to a hill in front of the lines which commanded an excellent view of the position of the opposing Federal forces. The figures of the two officers outlined upon the sky as they stood upon this eminence, offered a tempting mark for some Federal gunners, and in a few moments both lay on the ground stunned and senseless from the effect of Federal shells. The fortunes of war had brought together a most distinguished churchman and one of the bravest and most trusted of Forrest's officers. The latter, how

ever, was not at the time noted for extreme piety, but was rather given to the use of vigorous language and forcible expletives, which fact the good bishop knew and regretted; he also knew that his present companion was one of the very best and bravest men in the Confederate service.

The two officers lay stunned for several minutes. General Blank was the first to recover. Looking about him in a dazed way, he soon discovered the burly form of his companion, who was breathing heavily but evidently coming around all right. In a few moments he heard General Polk mutter: "Oh, Lord! where am I, where am I?" General Blank, keenly alive to a sense of grim humor, whispered gently: "In hell, general." "Impossible," murmured the semi-conscious Polk. "Who is it that tells me "It is I-General Blank," solemnly responded that practical joker. "Oh, Lord," groaned the good bishop, "have mercy on me! If Blank is here, I know it must be true!"

so?"

E

JOHN F. MACKIE.

ARLY in the morning, May 15, 1862, a small fleet of Federal gunboats appeared before the Confederate Fort Darling, on the James River, a few miles. below Richmond, Virginia. It consisted of the "Galena," the "Aroostook," the "Naugatuck," thePort Royal," and the "Monitor," which a few days before had battled successfully with the dreaded "Merrimac" in front of Newport News. Fort Darling was a very strong fortification, situated on a bluff nearly 200 feet above the river, which at this time was swollen to an unusual height. The bombardment commenced early in the morning, and it soon became apparent that the Federal vessels were at a serious disadvantage from inability to get sufficient elevation for their guns, and most of their shots were wasted. Besides, the Confederate gunners sent in the shot and shell too rapidly and accurately for the wooden vessels; and so, in a short time, all the boats had retired except the "Galena,"-Captain John Rodgers. This gallant commander held his position and maintained the fight as long as his ammunition lasted.

During this engagement the "Galena's" crew displayed great heroism, and several of the seamen and marines won the much-coveted

"Medal of Honor." John F. Mackie, whose portrait is here shown, was one of the heroes of the occasion, as will appear later. He was a corporal in the marine guard aboard the "Galena." To him we are indebted for the following account of the engagement.

The "Galena" dropped anchor under the guns of the fort, about 400 yards distant. Above her were ten heavy guns in casemate, and a water battery mounting two more of large calibre. Owing to the narrowness of the channel, the "Galena" was forced to remain nearly stationary, which accounts for the great damage she sustained. Early in the engagement, Captain Rodgers was severely wounded, but he stuck to his post all day.

The "Galena" opened with her port battery of six 9-inch guns and two 100-pounder Parrotts, doing considerable execution and actually silencing the enemy's fire for a time. From the first, however, the Confederate gunners had her range, and poured down shot and shell without stint upon the gallant craft. About ten o'clock the fort reopened fire with great energy. Reinforcements of trained gunners said to be the crew from the destroyed "Merrimac," had arrived, and with a cheer that echoed across the James, resumed the battle, which now waxed hot and furious. Nearly every shot struck the "Galena" with terrible effect, and her decks were soon slippery with human blood and covered with the dead and dying and the splintered fragments from her sides. A solid teninch shot struck the after 100-pounder, killing and wounding a score of men. At the same instant an eight-inch shot struck her amidships, followed immediately by another which killed a gunner and several men. This same shot struck and exploded a nine-inch shell that was standing on the deck, the fragments of which killed a powder boy who was "passing" a ten-pound cartridge, which in turn was exploded, killing and maiming another score of men, and filling the ship with smoke so that it created the idea that the "Galena" was on fire.

Confusion reigned, and when the smoke drifted away the sight was appalling. The after 100pounder was all right, but its entire crew of twenty-three men were hors du combat. This was Corporal Mackie's opportunity, and he was