In the school of the officer, I remember his attempt at recitation that ran something like this: "The ordly sagint thin advances tin paces, surrur! nah!—two paces—I don't know, surrur." The big-hearted Irishman, that did the fine work on the Perry monument, cutting the guard chain of his watch out of the solid marble, at last learned that he was not intended for an officer, though brave and patriotic, tendered his resignation, and that was the last we ever saw or heard of Lieutenant John O'Brien.
But while instructions in the movements of the company and regiment were necessary, and we all tried to profit by the same, facility in recitation did not necessarily make the valuable officer. As an instance, our Methodist minister, Captain Daniel Stratton, was Wonderfully fluent at the recitations, and became quite well drilled, but at our first great battle, Chickamauga, he deserted his company, as we were coming into the action, in the face of the enemy, and was saved from the fate of his conduct by the great heart of Colonel Pickands. He said to the colonel, "when I thought of my wife and dear children at home I could not advance a single step towards the front." But he advanced pretty well towards the rear, for after two days of dreadful fighting and the third day in offering battle to an enemy, nominally victors, but thoroughly whipped (save the magazine writers), we came to Chattanooga and found our preacher in very comfortable quarters, with his resignation ready written out, which was accepted by our regimental commandant. Could our Irish lieutenant have done worse? The march, the campaign, the skirmish line, the picket duty, the battle, after all, were the true tests of soldierly qualities. Many a man, many an officer, arose in our estimation, after we saw him tried in the ordeal of battle, for whom we entertained but very little respect before.
At Franklin we had to do picket duty by company out south of the village, our line running along near the residence of one of the high-toned families of the town, by the name of Atkinson. At his residence our reserve post was established, and we posted a guard to protect the family, which consisted of the old gentleman, quite aged, his wife and a beautiful daughter, bearing the common but genial name of Sally. There were two sons, but both were serving in General Frank Cheatham's division of the rebel army. Sally was quite an expert singer, and played the piano reasonably well, and, to entertain us, she was kind enough to sing some of the war songs of the confederacy. I remember pieces of those songs to this day; one went like this:
"Hurrah, hurrah, for southern rights hurrah,
Hurrah for the bonny blue flag, that bears the single star."
And another:
"No northern flag shall ever wave
O'er southern soil and southern graves,
Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land,
In Dixie land we'll take our stand,