"He sleeps all quietly and cold
Beneath the soil that gave him birth,
Then brake his battle-brand in twain
And lay it with him in the earth."
A word to the survivors of the Guilford Grays, and I close these reminiscences. From the period of the outbreak of the war in April, 1861, to the surrender of the Confederate army in April, 1865, the muster-rolls of the Grays have contained one hundred and eighty names. Of this number, some were transferred to other commands, some were discharged for physical disabilities and other causes. A large proportion sleep, unmindful of the rude farmer's ploughshare upon the fields made memorable by their deeds. Some rest under the shades of the trees in the quiet cemeteries of your forest-green city, and some in the sacred churchyards of your historic country. Oh! they suffered a sad, dark fate—fallen in unsuccessful war!
On each return of Spring, come and bring flowers, nature's choicest, and scatter them on their graves. So long as tears fall, come and shed them there, and show to the world that we, of all men, are not ashamed of their memories or afraid to vindicate their motives.
And as we stand upon this hallowed ground, let us bury all animosities engendered by the war. In the grave there can be no rancorous hates; between the sleepers there is perpetual truce. Shall the living have less? Savages, only, perpetuate immortal hates. Then permit no "barbarian memory of wrong" to lodge in our breasts while we keep vigils over these graves of our illustrious dead.
To you who stood by me through all these eventful scenes, and came up out of the great tribulation, I pray Heaven's choicest blessings ever attend you—and now—adieu.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE ROLL.
Captain John Sloan.—Elected Lieutenant-Colonel of the 27th North Carolina Regiment, September, 1861; promoted to colonelcy December, 1861; resigned April, 1862; died since war.