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 a churchman of the straightest sect.  There was no cant superstitions or affectation in his make-up, and what he said he meant.  It was doubtful if he ever had an evil thought, and while his manners might have been at times blunt, he was always sincere and his language chosen and chaste, with the possible exception during battle.  The time of which I speak, the enemy was making a furious assault on the right wing of the Eighth, and as the Major would gently rise to his knees and see the enemy so stubbornly contesting the ground, he would call out to the men, “There they are, boys, give them hell!” Then in an under tone he would say, “May God, forgive me for that!” Still the Yankees did not yield, and again and again he shouted louder and louder, “Boys, give it to them; give them hell!” with his usual undertone, “May God, forgive me for that,” etc.  But they began closing on the right and the center, and his left was about to give way; the old soldier could stand it no longer.  Springing to his feet, his tall form towering above all around him, he shouted at the top of his voice, “Give them hell; give them hell, I tell you, boys; give them hell, G——­ souls” The Eighth must have given them what was wanting, or they received it from somewhere, for after this outburst they scampered back behind the ridge.