He was shipped down the Mississippi, at times so weak he could not stand. When they reached New Orleans the war ended and he was paroled from the hospital still to weak to go home. A family in the community took him in and nursed him until he could travel. He was given a cane by the family to assist him in walking. The only transportation available found him riding on an open railroad car across a desolate and destroyed south. The train moved so slowly that he could touch each railroad tie with the tip of his cane as it passed. The cane caught and he lost it. He came home as he had gone to war with nothing. The only difference being his lost health.

He corresponded regularly with the family in New Orleans until his death. The letters were destroyed two generations later in a fire that consumed the home he built as soon as he was able. Joseph Coleman's greatest gift to the world would not be known to him, for that gift was a generation or two removed. The two generations of doctors that have birthed our children and buried our dead that decended from him was his greatest gift... and that too is a southern story... as is the love and respect these men of medicine will always have in the dark corner. (Story from Dr. Stanley Coleman the younger, by way of Dr. Stanley Coleman the elder)

Private Jackson Burrell

Jackson Burrell is remembered for the ball that he carried in his head until he died. He would show the children the ball and tell them about the Yankees. He was a kind and gentle man and is still remembered as such. Probably because it stands in stark contrast to his kind nature the following story has been remembered as having been told by him. Jackson Burrell did not like the war and he said the best nights sleep he had the entire time he was in Confederate Service was the night he slept on a pile of bodies in the rain. Why he said this, where he was, or what prompted the repetition of the story I do not know.

Private W.D. Batson
Company G

Alex McCaulay, Virgil Hallums and W.D. Batson enlisted in the 16th S.C.V. Alex fell wounded, like so many others, and was captured. He was moved to prison. The wound and the prison experience would haunt his all too young life. He was shot through the Bible he carried in his pocket. W.D. Batson cared greatly for these two men and "llowed how the war just ruint Alex health. Starved him out, they just starved him out."

W.D. also remembered the time around Charleston when Brother Quilla died of sickness. "Brother Quilla was packed in salt and charcoal and shipped home to be buried with his people."

W.D. Batson spoke of being on a ridge overlooking a valley and "watching the Yankees play like the squirrels." Much later in life, he lowed, as people often do in the south, that he was watching something like baseball being played. I would speculate that this was probably at Missionary Ridge.*

W.D. also remembered that when he came across the hill at Franklin, "it was a mite scary, looking down at the valley below."

W.D. walked home, from where is no longer remembered, but it was probably Mississippi. He stopped off at the spring, which is now a cool lake at a large Country Club and cleaned up, "best as he could." He went to the door of the cabin and spoke to his mother, who asked, If she could help him, as she did not recognize him.

*"Base Ball" was certainly known to the Army of Tennessee, See A.M. Manigault's, A Carolinian Goes to War, During the Winter at Dalton, Ga., which is directly following the retreat from Missionary Ridge.

Sergeant J.D. Cooper
Company G
J.D. Cooper talked of being starved out and how good it was when poke salad came in and they could get something to eat.

Private John Wesley Brown
Company F
Related by Ruby Abercrombie (Granddaughter)
As a child, Ms. Abercrombie would go to her grandfather's home for meals and she remembers well being told not get "him" started on stories about the war. In the evening, around the fire, that is exactly what the children would do.

Private Brown spoke often of hunger and how it dominated the life of the confederate soldier. He told the children of the time they were so hungry that they got in a field of roasting ears of corn and got a wash pot full of water to boil the corn. All the men were waiting for it to cook save one, who said he simply could not wait. He ate and ate and ate and died in his sleep that night, victim of too much after so little.

On another occasion, they were marching down a road and spied a house with some turkeys in the front yard... quick thinking Private Brown had a fish hook and some line and a piece of corn... he baited his hook and cast it upon the "water". One of the turkeys spied the corn as it bounced down the road and took the bait... As the lady of the house was in the yard, Private Brown began to run as soon as he knew, "the hook was set." The lady gave chase saying, "Don't run, he will not hurt you." but a wise and knowing Private Brown set a fine pace that day and a good dinner was enjoyed by all.

As Private Brown advanced in years, new things beyond the scope of past experience sprang into view. The radio was one such device. Sitting one evening in his advanced years listening to "The Grand Old Opry" he chanced to like the music. "Play Dixie for me," he told the crystal set. To the astonishment of all around the radio that long ago evening, Uncle David Macon and Company complied immediately and broke into the song Private Brown knew and loved. When it was finished, he looked intently at the new fangled device and did as any good southern gentlemen would, he said, "Thank you."

So much is lost, but so much is gained. My sincere thanks to Ms. Abercrombie for sharing with me these wonderful stories of her grandfather and to Mr. Pittman for the introduction. Private Brown was born on Highway 11, near the old Hagood house and lived off of Ansel School Road. He died in 1937 well into his nineties... today, his stories are told to familiar young faces, once again.

Private William Peahuff and John Mcjunkin,
(Company G and Unknown Unit)
There are many different callings given to man, and each man is asked to follow only his own. The stories of William Peahuff and John Mcjunkin, are unique and deserve preservation. It is a story of the mountains. William Peahuff had enough by the time of the Big Black River. From the high mountains, he probably had very little stake in the war, political or otherwise. Like many men he had offered, probably reluctantly, to defend his state. He was carried far from home to a strange and dangerous land near Charleston and watched as his friends and neighbors died of bad food and bad water. Then he found himself conscripted into Confederate State Service and shipped far away to Mississippi. In this distant place, he was called upon to again watch as his friends and neighbors were dying from bad food and no water. All this death in defense of a land, a state, that was not his own. By July of 1863, following the black Fourth and the fall of Vickburg and the defeat of Lee at Gettysburg, William Peahuff could see the handwriting on the wall. He left Morton, Mississippi and came home.

His mother and, the stories tell us, a sister kept him in hiding in the mountains, one step ahead of the men like Lt. Kendrick who would take him back to his unit or worse. The cat and mouse game continued until cold weather when a patrol overtook Peahuff and Mcjunkin. The stories say his mother had carried him some warm clothes and they were found. Mcjunkin was captured and William Peahuff was killed. His body was left and his mother and sister buried him near the North Carolina line in upper Greenville County. The patrol returned and dug the grave up, perhaps to identify him. The mother and others tended the grave and carried the story to the next generation. Not all the men killed during the War Between the States died in great battles. Many like William Peahuff died in very small ones. William Peahuff is one of the few men of the Sixteenth carried forever on her rolls as a deserter - may he find peace as well. The location of his grave is still known. John Mcjunkin made good his escape from the patrol which was led by Augustus Ferguson. Ferguson was also from the northern end of Greenville County. He was unrelenting and unforgiving in his pursuit of the outlairs. A number of stories concerning Ferguson survive. (Story from James Babb and Mr. Hardin)

Additional Information from Mr. Babb

There was a Capt. Boykin sent here with 70 men to "clean up" the mountains, in the winter of 1863.

I have lost track of John Peahuff and his family before 1870. I know they were in the area but they're not on census records.

The family story also says that Malissa Jones (wife of Robert Jones that was living in Oil Camp area in 1860) helped William Peahuff's mother slip food to him. They said she would fix food and hide it in her apron then go out in the woods gathering firewood and leave the food in a certain place for William to find. One of her sons, Abram Bee Jones married Williams sister, Mary (Polly) Peahuff.

Old man John Peahuff was mad at William for deserting and wouldn't let his mother help him if he knew about it. Williams mother, Mary, had made him a pair of heavy wool pants and she had to sew on them a while and sew on a pair for her husband so he wouldn't know she was making a pair for William.

When William was killed, the soldiers had left him laying there to take McJunken back to Saluda Hill Church. Williams mother, Mary, and his sister, Mallissa, were the ones that buried him.
E-Mail Descendant

Private Wilson H. Stewart
(Listed as H.W. Stewart)
(Company D)
Recently, I received a story that is so much like my story that it touched me deeply. The War Between the States, why is it so important to you, that is a question I am often asked. I cannot articulate the ebb and flow the question causes in my mind but if I could, it would be a story not unlike the one related by Mr. Bell about Wilson H. Stewart. If you would really know us in the south, hearken to its telling.... If it means nothing to you or in today's terms if you don't get it... more is the pity.

Private Wilson H. Stewart was born at the base of Glassy, in the heart of the Dark Corner. This was the heart and soul of those who supported staying in the Union but he went and he served and he was sent home with pneumonia where he died.... Here is the story…. Come back with me when we knew who we were in this nation, and we were touched by it and proud of it. A place where, Honor your father and mother were not just words, they were a commandment. This is the soul of the South, hear it, for the voice is fading....

“One thing that I remember when I was a small boy was one day my grandmother told me about how her grandfather got very sick in the war and was sent home and there he died. I didn’t know which war she actually meant so I asked her "which war?" She replied "the war 'twixt the states, son?!" That was my first introduction into my family history. She then got up out of her chair and walked into her bedroom. She came out with a book and opened it. She pulled out a Confederate bill and gave it to me. My father gave me the rest later. What is so sad is that my grandmother remembered that her father, Burrell Jackson Stewart, lost his dad when Burrell was only 9 years old. They are all buried in Glassy Mountain Baptist cemetery.”

Thank you, Mr. Bell
E-Mail Descendant

General Gist Milch Cow
Provided by Tom Cartwright

Confederate Veteran, Vol and Date Unknown
From Tennessee, A Grave or A Free Home
H.K. Nelson, Adairville Kentucky

.... After crossing the river, we camped a few days, waiting for the artillery and wagon trains to cross. One night some the boys killed General Gist's milch cow and after dividing out the beef put the cow's head on a pole and stood it up in front of the General's tent. I heard this.... We were forbidden to straggle, forage, kill any hogs, or visit any henhhouses, yet some such things were done. Two boys who killed a hog which they said "tried" to "bite" them were overtaken by one of our generals who made them carry the hog suspended from a fence rail all day.... Another night in desperation some of the boys went to "Marse Frank's" headquarters and took a barrel of "hard-tack" from his tent and also a nicely cooked ham of fresh pork.... One day we heard cheering in front of us; and when we got to the State line, we found suspended from one tree to another across the road a canvas with the inscription; Tennessee, a Grave or a Free Home." Then we knew what the cheering meant.

...Another incident, The poem, "O No! He'll not need them again," was written of General Pat Cleburne, who had a presentiment of this his death. While riding along his line he noticed a Captain, an old friend of his, marching barefoot with his feet bleeding. The General got down from his horse and asked the Captain to please pull off his boots. On his doing so, the General told him to put them on, that he would not need them again, and , bidding the Captain good-by rode away, and was soon killed in that condition.



Lt. B.V. Thompson
(Company E)
It was a long road home for all of the men of the Sixteenth, but for some the journey home was the most remembered part of the war. Faced with uncertainty, they came on toward South Carolina having been scattered to the far limits of the four winds. The hardest journeys were those that began in the north. Lt. B.V. Thompson’s journey is typical. Wounded terribly in the leg at Franklin, gangrene set in and the leg was taken above the knee. At home, his wife had heard nothing and had no idea if he had lived or died. He was transported across the north to Fort Delaware where he was imprisoned. When the war ended, like most Confederate prisoners, he was simply sent on his way. No effort was made to assist him in finding an artificial limb or even a cane or crutch. So like so many others, he set out for home from Delaware with no food, no money, and one leg. The only possible consolation being the fact that perhaps Lt. Friday (B) and Lt. Traynham (F), might have been with him. Two men with one leg and one with one arm on an exodus to nowhere. What we know is that Lt. Thompson cut a tree limb and began to hobble down the long distant road toward South Carolina. On he came day after day. After many weeks, if not months, of hitching and limping toward home, he too arrived in Fork Shoals. One can well imagine how his wife and those who loved him felt on learning of his great journey. Life would never be the same for these men again, how could it be? One wonders today, how many know the story that lies just six feet away from the humble tombstone at Fork Shoals Baptist Church. Do they know or understand that he was a school teacher as well as a soldier, can they see him as a Commissioner of the Schools, or dying of consumption on his return from Alabama in 1890? Listen for the old ones, for all too soon we shall join them. That melody, that beautiful fading song, is indeed the song of the South… of lives spent behind mules… a song of one-legged men without crutches on their never-ending exodus to Home, a journey that seems will never end… but end it does, for Lt. B.V. Thompson, his friends from Fort Delaware, and for you and I. (Thanks to James Tollison)
E-Mail Descendant

Corporal James Harvey
(Company D)
Corporal Harvey related to his descendants that he took his rifle by the barrel and beat it against a tree to destroy it so that no enemy could in turn use it. Corporal Harvey is buried in the Tallulah Falls Cemetery on Rock Mountain in Rabun County, Georgia.
E-mail Descendant

Sergeant James T. Williams
(Company A)
As related by Ms. Betty Adams
Granddaughter

I am happy that the letter was helpful to you. James T. Williams is buried in Lincolnton, N. C. next to his wife, in St. Luke's cemetery. An interesting story about my grandfather, one he told me when I was a small child. He had a large wart at the base of his thumb. I asked him why he didn't have it removed. He told me that when he was wounded at the battle of Franklin, his body was piled under other bodies. Apparently, his hand with the wart on it was extended and visible. Someone came along and saw his hand and pulled him out from underneath the pile of bodies. That saved his life. Therefore, he carried the wart to his death at the age of 91. You will be interested to know that he served as mayor of Greenville for several terms. He fathered 6 children, my mother was the youngest. He had l4 grandchildren, and uncountable great grandchildren, one of whom was a former Governor of South Carolina.

Other than the story I told you about the wart, I remember very little. I was only eleven years old when he died, and he really didn't talk much about the war at that time. One other story I remember was about stealing watermelons. He spoke about being in a field of watermelons with his buddies, and all of a sudden the owner of the field came to them and said "Hey, boys, the best ones are over here." The other thing I remember is his talk about sharing cigarettes with the Yankees when they were not actually fighting each other.

After my mother died, when I was 6, my sister and I lived with grandfather and my Aunt Lizzie, my mother's sister, in Greenville. This was in l930, and we lived there for several years. Unfortunately, at that age I was not particularly interested in the War, and by this time, Grandfather was way up in his 80's. How I wish I had taken the opportunity to talk with him about his experiences. I recently came across a picture of him, which was taken in Allegheney , Pa. His mother had moved there after she married a second time--her first husband, Grandfather’s father, had died when he was quite young. Grandfather did not get along with his stepfather, so he returned to Greenville and shortly after that he joined the Confederate forces. I believe he enlisted in April, l86l, probably shortly after the attack on Fort Sumter. The picture was taken either before or after the war, there is no date on it. Judging from his appearance, I suspect it was taken after the war, when he visited his mother. In any case, he was born in l845, so he must have been l5, turning l6 on June 28, l861 when he enlisted. He was a great old man, and I have many fond memories of him. I often think how lucky I am to be alive, judging from the dangers he survived during his 4 years with the l6th South Carolina Volunteers. Sorry I have no more stories to tell you.

Thank you, Betty, you will never know how much you have already told us... that we would never have known. Please, keep talking people, they live only because we remember them... and we do remember them... pass the torch.

Steve