As I have said, however, Jim was a great boaster and blusterer, glorying in the marvelous and dangerous.  Had he lived in the heroic age, I have no doubt he would have regaled the ears of his listeners with blood curdling stories of his battles with giants, his fights with dragons and winged serpents.  He claimed to possess a charm.  He wore an amulet around his neck to protect him against the “bullets of lead, of copper, or of brass” of his enemies, through which, he said, nothing could penetrate but the mystic “balls of silver,” the same with which “witch rabbits” are killed.  He would fill his pockets, after battle, with spent and battered bullets, and exhibit them as specimens of his art in the catching of bullets on “the fly.”

He professed to be a very dangerous and blood-thirsty individual, but his comrades only laughed at his idiosyncrasies, knowing him as they did as being one of the best and most harmless soldiers in the army.  He often boasted, “No Yankee will ever kill me, but our own men will,” his companions little dreaming how prophetic his words would prove.

One night while Jim, in company with some companions, were on a “foraging expedition,” they came to a farm house on Missionary Ridge and ordered supper.  A cavalryman was there, also, waiting to be served.  A negro servant attending to the table gave some real or imaginary affront, and the soldiers, in a spirit of jest, pretended as if they were going to take the negro out and flog him.  Now Jim, as well as the cavalryman, thought the midnight revelers were in earnest, and Jim was in high glee at the prospect of a little adventure.  But nothing was further from the thoughts of the soldiers than doing harm to the negro.  When they had him in the yard the cavalryman came on the porch, and in an authoritative manner, ordered the negro turned loose.

This was a time Jim thought that he could get in some of his bullying, so going up on the steps where the cavalryman stood, jesticulating with his finger, said, “When we get through with the negro we will give you some of the same.”

In an instant the strange soldier’s pistol was whipped out—­a flash, a report, and Jim George fell dead at his feet, a victim to his own swagger and an innocent jest of his companions.  So dumbfounded were the innocent “foragers,” that they allowed the cavalryman to ride away unmolested and unquestioned.

The bones of the unfortunate Jim lie buried on the top of Missionary Ridge, and the name of his slayer remains a mystery to this day.

While in Tennessee our diet was somewhat changed.  In the East, flour, with beef and bacon, was issued to the troops; but here we got nothing but corn meal, with a little beef and half ration of bacon.  The troops were required to keep four days’ rations cooked on hand all the time.  Of the meal we made “cart wheels,” “dog heads,” “ash cakes,” and last, but not least, we had “cush.”  Now corn bread is not