2. Frank Morgan, born November, 1861.
3. Columbus, born 1863.
The following biographical sketch of Columbus A. Peddicord is by his sister, Mrs. India P. Logan:
Columbus A. Peddicord was the oldest child in our family. Six feet tall at eighteen years of age, the idol of our family, he was a model of manly beauty, an image of our stately, beautiful mother. His chestnut, curling hair, and his hazel eyes, clear pale complexion, perfect form, and friendship with all classes made him a universal favorite. Impetuous tempered, he forgave any who affronted him at the first overture. He was a splendid shot at an early age, afraid of nothing in the world.
Columbus A. Peddicord
Capt. Independent Scouts, Morgan’s Cavalry
FACING [12]
After the first year of service in the “Silver Grays,” a company of Gallatin, Tennessee, in Colonel Bates’s regiment, Second Infantry, Company K., he was with J. H. Morgan, and was often sent on detached service. He was taken prisoner in 1863, and spent nineteen months starving and freezing at Johnson’s Island. Exchanged in November, 1864, he returned to find his wife in a Federal prison at Gallatin, Tennessee—a ruse to catch him. His father succeeded in getting her freed by going to Nashville to General Rosecrans, who banished her from Tennessee, where she owned one hundred and sixty acres of land, which was sold for taxes during reconstruction days. My brother Columbus was furious at his wife’s treatment, and he and his men were conspicuous for their daring until the close of the war.
He was farming near Glasgow Junction in Kentucky until August, 1867, when he attended a Democratic barbecue at Glasgow City. While riding in his carriage driven by the old faithful slave driver, he was approached by four men, and asked if he would take them to the grounds. He acquiesced. Three rode with him, and one with the driver. “You are Captain Peddicord,” said one. He smiled, saying, “The Captain is played out.” The man, using vile epithets, said, “A fine carriage for a d—d rebel to ride in.” Brother, thinking they were joking, replied, “Yes, but the rebel is played out, too.” After he found out they were antagonistic, he stepped out and said, “Get out of my vehicle.” The one who got out first went behind the carriage and shot at my brother, hitting him in the left arm, shattering the bone. My brother then pulled out his pistol, but, as he said afterward, it failed to go off for the first time. The man shot again and struck his spine. He fell, and the men ran, and as there were many old Confederates on the grounds the crew disappeared quickly. My brother lived thirteen days. He is buried in the old “Bell” family cemetery at Glasgow Junction, Kentucky. His wife and two sons—one seven, one five and a half years old—were left to mourn his loss.