CHAPTER XXXIII.

John B. Gordon: The Hero of Appomattox.

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OON after the news of Georgia's action in withdrawing from the Union on January 19, 1861, had reached the remote angle of the mountains where Georgia, Tennessee and Alabama meet, there appeared upon the streets of Atlanta a company of raw recruits who had just emerged from this picturesque region, full of the new-born ardor of enlistment. However, the animating spirit of this rough mountaineer band was not the characteristic which was most patent to the eye. The ludicrous fact which struck the observer at the first glance was that no two members of the company were dressed in the same kind of regimentals. Moreover, they arose to very irregular heights; and, while it may have been partly the fault of the music, they seemed to have no idea of keeping step. They had never been in camp for even so much as one day; but this fact was sufficiently well advertised to dispense with statement.

It is not trifling with the truth to say that if the areas of three continents, instead of the tips of three States, had been laid under tribute to produce an assortment of extremes the result could hardly have been more grotesque or nondescript. The variegated garment which an ancient Hebrew patriarch is said to have made for his favor

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ite offspring, without the much-needed help no doubt of the lady of the household, was vividly suggested by the fantastic anarchy of colors which occupied the field of vision. But if the unseasoned troops which now appeared on the streets of Atlanta were like the mountains from which they had so recently emerged in being somewhat efflorescent and irregular, they deserve the full benefit of the metaphor; for, they were soon to show that, like the mountains, they were fashioned out of sturdy material and were built to breast the lightnings. The rough edges would disappear eventually on the grind-stone of the training-camp, but the staying qualities would remain unaffected even by the sulphur of battle. Indeed the mountaineers had already quietly resolved among themselves that if the mountains which they had just left ever saw them again in life they would at least bring back an autograph of Mars traced upon parchment which no critic dare question and which only death could erase.

To prevent the inference from being drawn too hastily that the company possessed nothing in common to suggest the idea of uniformity, it may be said that each mountaineer was the owner of an odd-looking coon-skin cap, provided with an appendage which ran down from behind like an oriental pigtail. But this uniform feature only tended to heighten the flavor of oddity produced by the amusing variations. Altogether it was decidedly the most mixed aggregation which the little metropolis of the foothills had ever witnessed.

Unheralded by any announcement in the newspaper prints, it was only natural that curiosity should ask leading questions.

"What company is this?" inquired one of the bystand

ers, addressing the modest captain, who seemed to be as proud of the awkward mountaineers as the famous Roman general who wrote the Commentaries must have been of the Tenth Legion. But, strange to say, the question had not been anticipated. So eager were the mountain boys to get to the front that they had not stopped to think of such an unimportant detail. But the resourceful officer was always ready and, after the briefest pause, he answered:

"The Mountain Rifles.”

Suggestive of stout timber and crack markmanship as this name was, it was not sufficiently descriptive to suit the taste of one burly member of the company at least; and he promptly demurred, with as little regard for military discipline as for chaste speech.

"Mountain hell," said he. "We are no Mountain Rifles. We are the Raccoon Roughs.'

Overruled by the profane powers the young captain accepted the correction. Though dressed in the wardrobe of the lower world it was nevertheless inspirational; and all through the devious paths and varied experiences of the war it followed the rapidly thinning ranks of the mountain boys until the last bare remnant of the company stood in the surrender at Appomattox.

But who is this sturdy young captain who seems barely to have turned the corner of thirty? Look at him carefully, for he invites the most scrutinizing gaze. Those firmly-set features make it unnecessary to consult the oracles. That eye is full of the fire of battle. That beard which is not much older than the corn-silk on the uplands can not conceal the lines of rigid purpose which lie locked beneath. If the precise future can not be read to the ex