“Thang Gord, Marse John! thang Gord! I knew you—wouldn’t! You see I—wus—jes’ furagin’! The majuh knowed it—jes’ furagin’.” He was quiet a little and dozed some. Then he sprang half-way up in bed—a startled look in his eye:
“Lemme out! lemme out!” he cried. “Don’t you hear it, Marse John? Dat’s taps—de army ob de Tennessee am sleepin’—de lights mos’ out—I must hustle an’ git sumpin’ to eat—I mus’ furage—gwine on er long furage—but I’ll wait—on—you—foreber—in—de—camp—dar, Marse John——.” He broke off suddenly; a radiant light gleamed in his eyes; “Miss Mary, my mistis; O dar she am, beckinin’ an’ smilin’ to po’ ole Tom; beckinin’ an’ smilin’, ‘Gord will reward—you—sum—day!’ Oh, home, home, Marse John!”
Two hours later the old Judge came out of Tom’s cabin, crying like a boy. Tom had gone on his last “furage.”
Old Casey, the Fifer
By Henry Ewell Hord
[NOTE.—The Editor of Trotwood’s believes this is one of the best descriptions of Franklin’s bloody and needless fight ever written, and a pathetic pen picture never to be forgotten. Its author is an inmate of the Old Soldiers’ Home, Nashville, and was one of the bravest soldiers of the Lost Cause. We are told by an old comrade of the writer that in one of the fiercest fights of the war, a large shell bursted in a foot of Mr. Hord’s head, knocking him down and completely destroying his hearing, killing two men behind him and one at his side. The historic value of this pathetic story is great. It has been said and denied that Forrest, with his wonderful foresight, went to Hood just before he ordered his army to the holocaust of Franklin and begged him for permission to flank the Yankee army out, saying he would do it in fifteen minutes, and there need be no battle. “No,” exclaimed Hood, “no, charge them out.” Forrest rode off in disgust. In studying the battle of Franklin for a chapter in the writer’s new novel, “The Bishop of Cottontown,” we read all the Records of the Rebellion pertaining to the fight, endeavoring, among other things, to find some evidence of the truth of this. In Gen. J. D. Cox’ report we found it corroborated, that General saying in the afternoon he saw evidence of Forrest’s Cavalry preparing to flank him, and he prepared immediately to evacuate Franklin! And thus was Forrest’s military genius corroborated by the other side. But here is the man who carried the despatch, and the thrilling picture of the brave boys going into that veritable mouth of hell so gallantly, and of old Fifer leading them on till his tune ceased beneath a clubbed musket, caused the writer to lay down the graphic story of this old, maimed soldier and use his handkerchief. And no more graphic story of Franklin was ever written.]
The following characteristic letter accompanied the story:
Dear Mr. Moore: I send you the enclosed yarn of Fifer. If you think it worth publishing in Trotwood you can do so. I am, as you see, not much of a writer like Ben Hord. I get the facts all O. K., but, to tell it so somebody will be interested, that’s the rub. The trouble about writing a war yarn, no two soldiers see things alike, and some fellow is liable to make you out a liar before you know it. I once wrote an account of a drill we had against the 15th Mississippi for a flag offered by the ladies, of Canton, Miss. I gave, as I thought, and what some of my old regiment had written, the exact facts. The colonel of the 15th Mississippi is still living. He answered my article, and made me out seventeen kinds of liars. I felt left. Not long after that the last ex-Confederate Reunion was held at Nashville. One day I was standing in front of the Tulane Hotel watching the big crowd going by, and a man passed with a metal badge with “15th Miss.” on it. I stopped him, and asked him if he remembered that drill, and when he found out I was in the other regiment, he was delighted. He had a crowd of Mississippi boys with him, but none of them had been members of the 15th, so he stood there and gave them an account of the drill, and corroborated every word I had written, though he had never seen it. Well, I believe you literary fellows say it is misquoted, but we privates have another name for it.
Respectfully yours,
HENRY EWELL HORD.
Hermitage, Tenn., Soldiers’ Home.