|
BY CAPT. GEO. B. FORBES,
ATLANTA, GA.
I had hoped that time would
have been so occupied that I might have escaped the ordeal of a speech
before this critical audience. Especially for myself do I deem it
unfortunate that I should follow our eminent friend, Rev. Dr. Bryson,
whose silver tongue has electrified his audience. My only hope to make
myself even tolerated is to speak to you about one who has not yet been
brought forward in any speech or paper read. It is the private soldier of
Scotch-Irish origin in our late family quarrel. While I may speak from my
standpoint as a Confederate soldier, I wish my friends who were on the
other side in this unpleasantness to apply to themselves all the good
things I may say.
In speaking to this
audience, composed of men who were on one or the other side, I feel I have
a peculiar right to be either impudent or liberal, for I was born and
reared under the genial clime of Southern sky, imbued with Southern
civilization and institutions, from a parentage of New York and
Connecticut.
Early in 1861 I donned my
suit of gray, then, as you may imagine, a mere youth, and went forth to
battle with the idea that I could whip a whole regiment of Yankees. How
quickly that illusion was dispelled it is hardly necessary for me to say,
for I soon learned that there was another fellow on the opposing side who
could shoot as well as I.
At this late day I have no
apologies to make and none to demand, for now, in the language of our
illustrious Hill, "We are in the house of our fathers, our brothers are
our companions, and we are at home to stay, thank God," for now whatever
side he may have taken, be he Scotch-Irish or from any other race, he is
to-day an American citizen, protected alike under the old flag which is
ours by right of inheritance. This commingling of our race, from all parts
of this broad land of ours, will eventually wipe out all animosity and
help keep forever green the sod over the graves of our fallen heroes,
whether they wore the blue or the gray.
As typical of the
characteristics of our race, I will mention a few things that concerned
the men in the lower ranks of our Southern army.
Early in June, 1862, six or
eight men of the Federal army conceived the idea of destroying telegraphic
communication and our railroad facilities in the rear of the army at
Chattanooga. They came down the Western and Atlantic railroad, stole an
engine, and started up the road for this purpose. It is due, I may say, to
one of our own citizens whom we delight to honor that an effort was made
to secure an engine and follow. They destroyed some of the telegraph
wires; but they were pressed so closely that they burned no bridges. Mr.
Anthony Murphy, of our city, was the man that conceived the idea of
pursuing the raiders. A part of them were captured and a part escaped; but
the pleasant feature of it is that two years ago the survivors of that
raid came to Atlanta. Whom do you suppose they sought? They did not seek
the Governor, nor did they seek the Mayor, but they sought Mr. Murphy and
made him a present of a handsome gold-headed cane.
To show how close we can
get together after such scenes as that, I will mention another incident. I
had the pleasure sometime since of showing the cyclorama of the battle of
Atlanta to our mutual friend, Col. John W. Echols. He said to me: "I was
too young to to be in the army, but now I would give anything in the world
if I had been there. I wouldn't care which side I was on, so that I would
now be able to talk to you old fellows." [Laughter.] Another pleasant
experience I had this morning: the Hon. Mr. Roper, of Pennsylvania, said
to me that he was glad the war had ended before the bullet had been molded
that would have killed me. I can here publicly say the same for him.
[Applause.] One other incident that might perhaps interest you, but as my
time is limited, I will make it short, was the last fight of the little
ship "Alabama.'' The second in command of that vessel was our Adjutant
General, an interesting Scotch-Irish character. I will tell only one
anecdote of him. The "Alabama" was in bad condition, and Capt. Semmes put
into the harbor of Cherbourg, on the north coast of France, for repairs.
He soon found out that the "Kearsarge" was just outside. He did not dare
to stop, for if he did he realized he would have more than one United
States war vessel to fight. So he took the chances, and one bright,
beautiful Sunday morning in June, 1864, he steamed out of port and gave
battle to the "Kearsarge," in that foreign water. The result was
disastrous, of course, but what I want to tell you about is connected with
John Mcintosh Kell, who commanded the batteries of that vessel. During the
hottest part of the fight, realizing that he was not moving fast enough,
he went to the skylight of the engine room and sung out to the engineer to
"give her more steam or we will be whipped." There was a Scotch-Irishman
down in the engine room by the name of O'Brien. Engineer Brooks, who had
heard Mr. Kell's order said to O'Brien: "Mr. Kell says give her more steam
or we will be whipped, but we have positive orders not to carry more than
fifteen pounds." O'Brien answered back: "Give her more steam; we had just
as well bo blown up as to be whipped." [Applause.] |
