rers found him late at night, he was leaning against the
tree, calmly puffing away at his clay pipe. When asked why he did not
call for assistance, he replied: "Oh, no; I thought my turn would come
after awhile to be cared for, so I just concluded to quietly wait and
try and smoke away some of my misery." Before morning he was dead. One
might ask the question. What did such men of the South have to fight
for--no negroes, no property, not even a home that they could call
their own? What was it that caused them to make such sacrifices--to
even give their lives to the cause? It was a principle, and as dear to
the poorest of the poor as to him who counted his broad acres by the
thousands and his slaves by the hundreds. Of such mettle were made the
soldiers of the South--unyielding, unconquerable, invincible!

An old man in Captain Watts' Company, from Laurens, Uncle Johny Owens,
a veteran of the Florida War, and one who gave much merriment to the
soldiers by his frequent comparisons of war, "fighting Indians" and
the one "fighting Yankees," was found on the slope, just in front of
the enemy's breastworks, leaning against a tree, resting on his left
knee, his loaded rifle across the other. In his right hand, between
his forefinger and thumb, in the act of being placed upon the nipple
of the gun, was a percussion cap. His frame was rigid, cold, and
stiff, while his glossy eyes seemed to be peering in the front as
looking for a lurking foe. He was stone dead, a bullet having pierced
his heart, not leaving the least sign of the twitching of a muscle
to tell of the shock he had received. He had fought his last battle,
fired his last gun, and was now waiting for the last great drum-beat.

A story is told at the expense of Major Stackhouse, afterwards the
Colonel of the Eighth, during this battle. I cannot vouch for its
truthfulness, but give it as it was given to me by Captain Harllee, of
the same regiment. The Eighth was being particularly hard-pressed, and
had it not been for the unflinching stoicism of the officers and the
valor of the men, the ranks not yet recruited from the results of the
battle at Gettysburg, the little band would have been forced to yield.
Major Stackhouse was in command of the right wing of the regiment,
and all who knew the old farmer soldier knew him to be one of the most
stubborn fighters in the army, and at the same time a "Methodist of
the Methodists." He was moreover a pure Christian gentleman and