Trusting Wiley implicitly, he did not believe the silver would ever be found.
Several days passed, and Colonel Polk felt that all was secure. But one morning as he walked early in the garden he saw old John, the gardener, looking at him furtively and in a peculiar way. Wiley was also around, and the old negro showed plainly that he wished to say something to his master that he did not wish Wiley to hear. Knowing the negro nature as he did—that they never came out openly and said what they thought—and that the furtive glances which old John gave him now and then meant more than words, the Colonel waited until Wiley had left, and purposely entered into conversation with the old negro. He did not want to flush his game, as he would have done by a direct question, so he patiently waited until the old negro should speak in his own way, for he knew that the old negro has something important to tell him in his own negro way.
“Marster,” said the old man at last, “I had sich a quare dream las’ night, I thort I’d tell you, and maybe you could ’terprit it for de ole man. It’s hung onto me all day an’ pestered me so I can’t wuck, an’ I can’t do nothin’ till I tells you. I feels sho’ it means old John is gwineter go soon, fur I seed two angels as plain as I ever seed anybody, but I can’t jes zackly understan’ it all, an’ I thort maybe ef I’d tell you, you mout he’p me.”
“Go on, John,” said the Colonel; “I shall be glad to help you interpret the dream.”
“Wall, Marse George, I dreamed I wuz down at the ole church a wanderin’ among the tombs, out in the ole part, among the trees. An’ den I kinder fell into a trance, an’ den I heard a voice say: ‘John, git up an’ come wid me.’ I riz an’ looked, an’ I see a pale light shinin’ from de church winder, an’ bimeby I seed, two angels come out uv de church. One wuz er white angel an’ one wuz er black angel, an’ dey carried de corpse of er leetle chile in dey arms. Dey come out de church an’ put de coffin in er waggin an’ den dey move off solem. I foller de sperits, an’ dey carried de corpse of dat leetle chile to er ole tomb an’ tuck offen de top an dey put de leetle dead chile in de ole tomb an’ den dey vanished. It seem lak a long time went by—mebbe two nights—an’ den I seed, way in de night, ’twix’ midnight an’ day, other sperits ride inter de ole church yard—soldier sperits, mounted on steeds—an’ dey rid up to de tomb an’ broke it open an’ tuck de corpse of de leetle chile an’ went away. Now, Marse George, dat’s pesterin’ me mighty. Whut dem soldier sperits wanter pester de body uv dat leetle chile fur?”
The Colonel saw at once the application of the dream, and that it was the negro way of warning him without letting Wiley know that the warning had ever been given. He reassured the old darky, who walked off to his work satisfied. That night Colonel Polk went alone to the old tomb and took out the silver, burying it in his garden. About midnight, Wiley led the Federals to the tomb, only to find the silver gone. But Wiley never came home again. Knowing that his secret was out, he ran off with the soldiers.
For many years, as remarked above, St. John’s held the remains of Generals Cleburne, Strahl and Granbury, three of the five generals who fell around the breastworks of Franklin. But one by one, as the years went by, the remains of these brave men were removed and carried to their native States—Cleburne to Arkansas, Granbury to Texas—and finally, after nearly forty years of rest among the trees and under the beautiful bluegrass of St. John’s the gallant young soldier, Strahl, was taken to his old home in West Tennessee. Above them all, the people of their native soil have erected suitable monuments.
Only a few years ago were the ashes of Strahl removed. A brave, handsome young fellow he had been, daring as a soldier and true and self-poised, one of the recognized great soldiers of Hood’s ill-fated army. He led his men up to the side of the Federal entrenchments and down in the trenches. With those who had not been killed or wounded, he stood, and “keep firing” was the word he passed up and down the thin line, hugging one side of the breastwork while their enemies held the other, not six feet away. Mr. Cunningham, editor of The Confederate Veteran, who stood near the general, tells it: “The trench was filled with the dead and the dying. Standing with one foot on the bodies of my comrades and the other on the bank, I rested my rifle upon the top of the breastwork and kept firing at the enemy on the other side. The line had been so thinned that only a solitary fellow soldier stood near me, and now he was shot and fell heavily against me and tumbled over in the mass of dead men. This left me alone, and I asked General Strahl, who had stood for a long while in the trenches and passed up loaded guns to men above: ‘What shall I do, General?’ ‘Keep firing,’ came back, and almost with the word the general himself was shot, and while being carried to the rear was struck again and instantly killed.”
This was the brave young soldier who had lain for nearly forty years in his grave, and whom we were going to disinter and send back his ashes to his old home. It was a raw March day, some three years ago, when the committee from his State came for his remains, and as I stood by the grave and saw the muddy soil upturned beneath which, many years ago, had been laid the form of a handsome, brave and gallant man, cut down in the hey-day of his life and hope, I could but wonder at the changes the forty years had made. These men, who gave their lives for the cause, believing as truly as did their sires of old, that they were fighting for the right of self-government, could they awake to-day would wonder at the turn in the tide of affairs. A nation, the greatest in the world—the leader of thought and action, the champion of the defenseless and the power that stands for the real advancement of humanity; a people so thoroughly reunited that many of the very men who fought by the side of this one, who died, had fought since in the old uniform, under the old flag against the foes of their country. And, strangest of all, not one of the two things that this brave life died for would be accepted by his sons if given them to-day—the institution of slavery and the right of a State to secede.
These, if offered to the South to-day, would be unanimously rejected. Alas, what is our boasted wisdom but the wisdom of babes? And our bravery, what more than that of the unthinking school-boy who fights for a ring of marbles which he afterward throws at the birds?