USA > Texas > Polk County > Historical Polk County, Texas : companies and soldiers organized in and enrolled from said county in Confederate States Army and Navy, 1861-1865 > Part 5
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They gazed into the red hell of battle like a boy on a laugh-
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ing girl, with powder begrimed faces, flashing eyes, tattered uniforms, and wild rebel yells they rushed on the foe's dark line where death shouted in the onset, with the joy of a bridegroom to the bridal bower.
No higher eulogium can be passed on them than that it took 2,874,272 enlisted men, perfectly armed, 700 war ves- sels clouding our coasts and rivers more than four years to overwhelm one-fifth of their number, with no war vessels and armed with shotguns, squirrel rifles and arms captured on the battlefield.
Senator Blaine wrote: "No army has ever been organized on earth with fighting qualities superior to that of the Con- federacy."
General Hooker, in Vol. 1, "Conduct of the War," writing of Lee's army, said: "That army has acquired a character for steadiness and efficiency, unsurpassed in my judgment, in ancient or modern times. We have not been able to rival it." "Fighting Joe" knew, for he was there.
After General Scott's futile attempts to take Richmond, Lincoln summoned him and said: "General Scott, will you explain why it is that you were able to take the City of Mexico in three months with 5000 men and have been un- able to take Richmond in six months with 100,000 men?" Scott replied: "Yes, I will. The men who took me into the City of Mexico are the same men who are keeping me out of Richmond."
U. S. Surgeon General Barnes computes 270,000 Federals in Southern prisons during the war, 220,000 Confederates in Northern prisons. The Confederates had 5000 more pris- oners, yet 400 less deaths in prison. Less than 9 per cent of Federals died in Southern prisons, while over 12 per cent Confederates in Northern prisons. This gives the lie to the damnable slander for which Captain Wurz died.
The War Records show 110,000 Federals killed and 74,500 Confederates. In other words, we killed 35,570 more of them
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than they did of us. Aye! For four blooming, blazing years we made it lively for them. The truth is, we outgeneraled and outfought them, for example:
In Johnson's retreat before the brute, Sherman, the great- est retreat either before or since that of Xenophon and his 10,000, Johnson riddled and wounded more of the brute's army than he, Johnson, had men.
Here we may remark, the British seek to justify their brutal atrocities in South Africa by citing the brute's march through Georgia as a precedent and well they may.
Aye, comrades! You well remember when two armies crouched like lions, ready to pounce upon each other, the skirmishers pressing well to the front, then a shot. another, what a graveyard sound! Then the rattle of rifles and hiss- ing balls, the solid column close up, the earth quivers un- der the roar of battle, a pitiless storm of shot, shell and canister fills the air, the wild yells of charging soldiers, an engagement terrific ; death rides on the sulphury breeze, red battle stamps his foot, the path passed over, strewn with dead and wounded, scores falling at every blinding flash of iron and leaden hail.
Aye, comrades! You were there. Now you shudder to think of that terrific rain of death. But then filled with en- thusiasm and blood hot, you heeded not the battle's roar, but with a maddening joy pressed on the foe. The batteries are taken with a wild rebel yell, and you hurl back the dark masses of blue. Exultant with the joy of battle flashing from your eyes you turn to a sad scene. Where are my mess mates? Here and there lies one wounded, another dead. Blood bespatters you, 'tis the blood of your bed-fellow, there he lies dead. Two of mine, St. McCormick and W. H. Mat- thews, fell on the battlefield.
Saddened and tearful, great waves of sorrow welling up from your soul, you forget the excitement of battle, and with heavy heart you bury them on their field of glory.
Aye, comrades! You were there. Viewing this monu- ment, our thoughts turn to those who sleep in distant fields,
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on the slopes up which they charged, on the hills once crowned with death-dealing artillery and flashing guns; in the lovely valley, red with their blood, sleeping peacefully under the green grass, under the silent stars and the shadow of the clouds, the gentle dews-like pitying tears-falling on their lonely graves, and flowers blooming above them-
They fell devoted, but undying,
The very gales their names are sighing.
It is usual on occasions like this to magnify the great lead- ers, and I can join you in all the praises that you may give them. You may take them for your heroes, but the man of the rifle is mine. As Judge Reagan says, "They were unin- fluenced by ambition or expectation of public honors, but by pure patriotism."
Mrs. Beers, an angel of charity in our hospital, said : them: "The private soldiers of the Confederacy, God bless them! Every man of them bore in his bosom a heart of oak ; they bore the brunt of the battles, the heat and burden of the day. Their blood nourished the laurels -- which other- wise had never bloomed -to grace the brows of our great leaders."
After the battle of the Wilderness, General Hill said to Colonel Stone: "You have won laurels today, and I hope to see you a major general." Stone replied: "The glory be- longs to the men standing here and their comrades left on the field. They did the fighting; they deserve the laurels."
This monument, in the words of Governor Ross, "Sends our thoughts trooping back along the vanished years, re- calling a long series of brilliant exploits, wild adventures by day and by night, a generous unwavering ardor, that never found any peril too hazardous, any suffering too un- endurable in the toil and watch of that four years' fearful holocaust."
Well the records at Washington show that for four bloom- ing, blazing years we made it lively for them.
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Now, Daughters of the Confederacy, a word for you, Oh, woman, dear woman, whose form and whose soul Are the light and the life of each spell we pursue,
Whether sunned at the tropics or chilled at the poles; If woman be there, there is happiness for two. For 'tis woman's charms that lull our cases to rest, Dear woman's smiles that give to life its zest.
In the days when the earth was young, there stood a man sad and dreary. He gazed upon the mountains capped with iridescent snow glittering in the sunlight. Its beauty touched not his soul. He viewed the sky, like an ocean hung on high, bespangled with isles of light; the stars, the poetry of hea- ven, yet is he sad. The rosy-fingered morn, in dazzling beau- ty, opens the gates of day, and up rises her glorious king re- joicing in the east, driving darkness away, still is he sad. All the beauties of nature spread out before him, but awak- eth no joy in his soul. He looks around in startled amaze- ment, gazes upon a lovely vision, gazes spellbound, his pulses throb, his heart beats wildly, a wilderness of beautiful curls -in lengthened coils-stray over the well-rounded shoul- ders, a brow of alabaster, teeth like pearls, cheeks like the petals of a fresh rose, eyes like dew drops in the morning sun, a rosebud mouth-made to kiss, little loves nestling in every dimple. The vision beckons him with a lovely smile. With a joyous heart he springs forward, with a warm em- brace presses the lovely vision to his throbbing heart and rains kisses to mouth, hair and cheeks. Ah! He has found his mate. How sweetly the poet expresses the idea :
The world was sad, the garden was a wild,
And man, the hermit, sighed, 'till woman smiled.
Comrades, grand as the Confederate soldier was in all the attributes of heroism, his glory fades before the sublimer devotion, steadfastness and faith of the women of the South in the days of wrath that poured out their desolation on our Southland.
Mothers of the South, language is dumb, and thought im- potent to pay just tribute to all they did, suffered and en- dured, the deep fountains of their souls, welled over with
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tears. Their bosoms heaved with anguish and womanly ten- derness, but they never let the loved ones fighting at the front know what their grief and sufferings were,
What they endured is traced in gold, Across a cloudless sky; The honor of our women true In records now on high.
And when the roll on high is called, And justice claims its worth; In foremost ranks will peerless stand The women of the South.
When the war closed the few of us that were left came home, weary-worn, bare-footed and in rags. They met us with open arms and pressed us to their loving hearts.
At the bugle's first call they gave up their dearest and best; sent their fathers, sons, husbands, brothers and lovers to join the army of patriots following the stars and bars.
We had heroes many, but heroines more; 'Twas the fair, lovely woman of Dixie who bore Half the sorrows that came o'er
Our land in that terrible fray. Gold help them, we love them, as when they were fair,
Before the frosts of winter had whitened their hair: Not a record of history with theirs will compare,
When they cherished the boys in gray.
As for an example :
A noble wife standing on her porch, with her infant in her arms, to bid farewell to her husband, said: "Go, God bless you, and when this war is over let not this boy be ashamed to call you father." The door closed, overcome with emotion she fell insensible to the floor, and being re- stored to consciousness, her first inquiry was, "Did he see me faint?" Such was the Spartan heroism with which the women of the South were possessed, to walk the earth with bleeding feet yet smile.
THE WAR CEASED.
Gone like a meteor through the cloudless skies,
The hopes with which we fought the stubborn fray.
Think of the foot-sore comrade as he turned his face
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homeward in '65, after four years of unparalleled hardships and heroism, ragged, half starved, heavy-hearted, enfeebled by want and wounds! This hero in rags with a heart of gold, having fought to exhaustion, stacks his gun, wrings the hands of his comrades, and lifting his tear-stained and sorrowful face for the last time at the graves of his fallen comrades, begins his slow and painful journey home to his loved ones.
Honor those matchless heroes, whose bloody footsteps marked the path of patriotic valor-from Sumter to Appo- matox-whose flaming swords and stainless characters wrote the deathless record of a nation doomed to die. 1
They returned when the stars and bars were shriveled at the cannon's mouth, all their hopes desolate, but with proud memories of valor and endurance, unparalleled in the his- tory of war.
They were not conquered. To show their spirit, a lady standing by her ruined home, sad and disheartened, saw a ragged soldier approaching, singing. Jed Stewart's army song, "Old Joe Hooker." She said to him, "How can you be so light-hearted, singing when all is lost and ruined?" "Cheer up, fair lady," quoth he, "we are overcome, but not dis- mayed; overpowered, but not conquered; I am going home, kiss my wife, Sally, raise a crop and if the Yanks fool with me I'll whip 'em again," and he went on singing.
Again, all honor to the glorious women of this Southland; who, when all was lost save honor and glorious women, rags and brave men, cheered and aided us as we took up the tan- gled threads that war had left and aided us to revivify this Southland.
Sons and daughters, you should be proud that you are the children of these glorious women, proud of their heroic virtues of the Confederate soldier.
Comrades, the goal is just ahead of us. How rapidly we are approaching it! 'Tis a slab of gray or white stone. We
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are old men standing in the gateway of the great hereafter. We are nearing the sunset of life. Beyond the pulses' fever beatings we shall be soon. Let us remember all the paths of life lead but to the grave.
Life is real, life is earnest, And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
Death cannot destroy us. We shall live when the stars shall fade away, the sun grows dim with age and nature sinks in years.
Tell me, my secret soul. O. tell me faith and hope.
Is there no resting place from sorrow, sin and death;
Is there no happy spot where mortals may be blest, Where grief may find a balm and weariness a rest ! Faith, hope and love-best boon to mortal given ---
Waved their bright wings and whispered. Yes, in heaven.
Shall we rise to that beautiful city where the poet sings-
I have read of a beautiful city, Far away in the Kingdom of God; I have heard how its walls are of jasper, How its streets are all golden and broad. In the midst of the street is life's river, Clear as a crystal and pure to behold, But not half of that city's bright glory To mortals has ever been told.
Comrades, enlist in immanuel's army and you shall reach that city, and receive a victor's crown in an eternal home.
In the words of Prentice: "There is a home where the rainbow never fades, where the stars will spread out before you like the islands that slumber in the ocean; where the beautiful things that pass before you like shadows will stay in your presence forever."
Think of it-come! No sorrows, no sighing, no tears, no death, but home! Sweet home! Beautiful home! Everlast- ing home! Glorious home! Home with each other! Home
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with the Good! Home with the angels! Home with God! Home! Home !! Home !!!
May each of us rise to that beautiful home, and rest under the shade of the trees.
In conclusion : This monument is dedicated to the brave and true; it stands for the organic principles of human free- dom, for the historic past in which we were participants; it commemorates memories that are glorious in spite of defeat.
The Confederates were never conquered. They fell glori- ously overpowered by numbers, but not dishonored.
In the language of the Charles-Confederate monument :
Whom power could not corrupt, Whom death could not terrify,
Whom defeat could not dishonor,
They were faithful to the teachings of their fathers-
Died in the performance of duty, And have glorified a fallen cause.
Comrades, our birthright is the possession of the bright- est land, the bravest men, loveliest women, the truest hearts, the finest military record on earth.
Keeping these things in mind, God grant that we may be true to the principles of your fallen heroes and may we never forget them, nor the grandest land on earth-
Dear "Dixie" Land.
By J. E. Hill, J. M. Alexander, T. F. Meece. Committee on Publication.
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THE POLK COUNTY ENTERPRISE -PRINTERS LIVINGSTON. TEXAS
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