I ran across this in my Grandmothers papers and thought it would be of interest to some on the list. It includes several names that are listed on the McDonough Co web page as being researched. I have listed the surnames at the beginning. Although there is no authors name on the copy I have, I am sure it was written by Henry Albert Maxwell. It may have appeared in a local paper since he did some publishing. VAIL, VANCE, BEGHTOL, REED, STEEL, BROWN, MILLER, MCKINNEY, TUGGLE, MCKAMEY, BUTCHER, CREEL Boyish recollections of the Early 60’s Memorial Day is again at hand with its flood of memories. To the young the events which gave birth to this anniversary are a matter of history; to the old they are a matter of recollection- to many a matter of bitter experience. Almost 40 years have elapsed since the word flashed throughout the land that Fort Sumpter had been fired upon! The writer was then an Industry lad of fifteen. How vivid the recollections of that exciting period! The notes of the fife and the roll of the drum calling for volunteers; sons and fathers stepping forward pledging their lives for their country’s defense; wives and mothers with blanched faces and tearful eyes bidding a last- yes in many cases the very last- adieu. And later on when the deadly carnage was at its greatest, O the cruel suspense! How the few newspapers of that day were scanned with the sickening fear that among the list of the slain would be found the name of a husband or a son! The newspaper received but two or three times a week was an oracle of life of death to scores and its arrival was the signal for the gathering of the entire community. The reading of its contents was eagerly listened to by the anxious crowd in a silence only broken by a “God help us!” when the death or injury of some dear one was announced or a fervent “Thank God!” when there was an absence of ill news. But the post office was perhaps the point of greatest interest. In these days the mails were few. Besides, the soldiers were far in the South where mail facilities were few and uncertain. Week after week would elapse without word from the absent ones. Day after day would the post office be thronged by wives and mothers and gray-haired fathers. Joseph Vail was the Postmaster at the time. It was his custom when mail was received to call aloud the names of those to whom letters were addressed. No roll-call after a hard fought battle was ever listened to with more anxious expectancy. The name of a wife or mother was called. It had come at lat after days and nights and weeks of weary waitng! The sympathizing crowd made way and the eager recipient crowded forward and with trembling hands received her treasure. Yet she knew not whether to glad or sad. The cherished missive might inform her that her loved one was ill or wounded. But she soon should know. She hastens to her home; ‘tis too sacred a thing for public perusal. Her eyes must first learn the truth; her heart must feel the weight of sorrow or experience the gladness of joy. Another name is called. The missive is eagerly grasped. A glance at the superscription, “It’s not John’s writing!” No, John’s hand is forever stilled. A strangers hand has traced the superscription. But the roll call is ended. Only a few of th scores of names in waiting have been called. In the departing crowd are women with tearful eyes. There are some whose expression cannot be observed for the aprons at their faces. Talk about “hard times”. If you wish to learn something about hard times just coax some of the ‘war widows” of the early 60’s into a talkative mood. If you are not furnished a sample of the genuine article it will be because she wishes to avoid a subject which recalls painful memories. Very many of the soldiers who enlisted were in moderate or even poor circumstances and their families were dependent upon their own efforts for a living to a great extent. The pittance paid by the government, $13 per month – after the soldier had provide for his own necessities – did not go far towards supporting his family at home. In fact, owing to the enormous prices at the time his entire monthly wages would not purchase a barrel of flour and a calico dress. But the brave hearted wives and mothers were equal to the occasion. They got along, somehow. And while we honor the brave young men who went forth at their county’s call, the wives and mothers who fought the battles with poverty and want at home are not less entitled to praise. The war spirit was not wholly monopolized by the men. The boys who were too young for service in the field were fully pervaded with the martial spirit- perhaps all the more so on account of their lack of eligibility. The writer well remembers how eager he was, upon hearing stories of valor and glorious acts upon the battlefield, to go forth and mix in the fray, but lack of years prevented him. It is but frank to add, however, that upon reaching and age when the obstacle no longer existed- when the glamour of glory became replaced with the hard facts of deprivation, suffering, rebel prisons and bones bleaching upon battlefields, he fully as eager to remain at home. The boy who was the sole stay of his home in that day and who was approaching the age when his services would be accepted in the ranks was a veritable autocrat. Any parental interference with his inclinations was speedily withdrawn upon his intimation that he felt an inclination to “volunteer”. One of the greatest difficulties experienced by the “war widows” was that in connection with obtaining fuel. The plucky women could meet all other exingencies. Wood was the fuel of that locality at the time. Here was the opportunity for the boys to show their patriotism. A “Woodchopper’s Brigade” was formed. One day or more of each week was devoted to getting up chopping wood for the “war widows”. The obligation was not altogether on one side however, as the brigade was generously dines by one or the other of the recipients of its service on the day of their labor; and in view of the stinted larder of the former and the generous appetites of the former, the writer still haunted by the conviction that the “war widows” had the worst of the bargain. But the chopping wood and drilling, with axes for weapons, did not serve to give full vent to youthful patriotism. From the ax brigade grew a military organization. Time almost obliterated the memory of the “muster roll”, but we recall that M.F. Vance was Captain, the writer was First Lieutenant; E.W. Beghtol was Second Lieutenant. Memory fails to recall the remaining roster. Among the number, either as officers or privates were Henry Reed, C.F. Vance, Joseph Steel, Marion Brown, Chris Brown, Charley Miller, Frank McKinney, the Tuggles, the Vails, the McKameys, the Butchers- but it is so long ago. There were thirty or forty in all. Regular drills were held with wooden swords and guns. But these soon grew tame. Real guns, - old shot guns, rifles and pistols were gathered up and the company was growing not only brave but bloodthirsty; anf had not an unforeseen accident occurred the services of the company were shortly to have been tendered to the government. One Saturday evening after the wood-chopping task of the day had been completed, the "brigade" exchanged their axes for the more soldierly weapons and repaired to the old railroad grade west of town for drill exercise. The squad had reached a good degree of proficiency in the ordinary evolutionary tactics and was to take a step in advance by practice firing. Capt. Vance had his men in position. "Make ready!" "Take aim!" - "Bang!" "Boys, I'm shot!" cried the first lieutenant, holding up his hand which was torn and bleeding. Panic seized the brigade and its members, which with two or three exceptions vanished in the brush and quietly sought their homes. The wounded officer who was armed with an old pistol, had held the muzzle in his left hand and while attempting to cock with his right, his thumb slipped off the half raised hammer and the charge of hickory leaves and gravel with which he expected to awake echoes in "Bear holler" tore through the "heel" of his hand making a very ugly but not serious wound. A few of the braver boys assisted the wounded boy to the office of Dr. D. M. Creel where his wound was dressed. He still carries a reminder of the occasion in form of a scar. This was the first and the last blood shed by the "Woddchopper Brigade". The old guns and pistols were not brought out again. The was spirit evaporated. Peace soon came and such absent ones as had been spared returned to their homes. Some are yet among the living; some have since answered the final roll-call. Living or dead, love and honor for the living, - love honor and tears for the dead. But the "boys"? Some have long been sleeping to be awakened only at the sound of the last reveille. Some are in the far west, others are stillin the vicinity of their early experience. Capt Vance went to the remote west soon after the war and was never again heard from. Others had doubtless joined the silent caravan. The heads of those living are tinged with gray. They soon will be the "veterans". And boys though they were at the exciting period referred to, their part in the affair was not wholly insignificant. They were in many cases the almost sole support and protection of mothers who were temporarily at least deprived of their natural protectors. When it is remembered that more than three-forths of the able bodied male population of the community was in the field the significance of the above statement may be appreciated. "Peace hath her victories, no less renowned than War."