"In a jiffy the Federal army was coming in from right, left and front, while the bullets were whistling over our heads from every direction. They cried, "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" They jumped into the ditches with us, and when the bullets quit flying over us, an officer said to me, "Let me have your sword ; let's all get out of the ditches and go to the rear." We had gone but a little ways to the rear, when help, out of the woodland to our left. I knew the voice, it was my relative, my old schoolmate, one of Walton's soldiers from the 6th Regiment that fought to our left, on the slope of the mountain—Lieut. Archibald G. Morrison. I ran to him without thinking to ask permission. But the officer followed close by. He asked the officer to let me remain with him. He was asked, "Is he your brother?" He replied, "He is my relative, and I beg of you to leave him with me." He left me with him and went on with the rest. We were then alone for a little while, save the dead and dying. He was shot after he had surrendered his sword and had gone some distance to the rear—through mistake we hoped. He lay suffering with his head in my lap, with his hands pressed to the pit of his stomach—he thought he was struck in front. I examined and found no incision there at all, and felt encouraged and spoke encouraging words to him ; told him that I thought it was the contusion of a shell or a minnie ball that struck him and all would be well in a littlewhile. Then the captain of the provost guard came up with his band of men, a nice, genteel, courteous man, with a kind heart in him. He inquired into the whole situation, expressed regrets, especially at having been wounded by mistake, after he had surrendered. While he was with us I made a more thorough examination, and found that he had been shot in the right side, well to the back, and that it must have been the ball resting in his breast that caused the pain there. The captain left two of his men to guard us with instructions, "As soon as he is able to move on, take them to Nashville and deliver them to the command there," and then passed on to the front. In a little while, a part of the army which seemed to have had no part in the day's battle, came on, marching by the flank, and as they passed by, some of them said tormenting things to us, and asked truculent questions of us. One, I remember, said, "We got you piled up, ha? Just say the Lord's prayer and put your trust in Abraham Lincoln and you will come out all right." This brought a great laugh from his comrades he was the smart Alec of his band. How savage such advice to a dying man ! Not many months after this, Abraham Lincoln lay bleeding and dying from the hands of an assassin, with his head in the lap of a lady, as helpless as my friend lay with his in mine. Oh, how foolish it would have been for him to have put his trust in this great man—in any man! No, my friend had his trust stayed on a higher and better rock—the Rock of Ages. And as the smoky day died out of the skies, with declining hope, my friend, realizing fully his condition, spoke a few kind words of sweet remembrance for his mother and then said to me, "I had hoped that it might have been different with me in the end ; but it is all right." And with that dying day, there came to him from on high a voice saying, "You have stayed long enough in this mountain; come up higher." And he passed on higher up the mountain, even to the beautiful Mount of God. I had the guard to go with me to our breastworks to where I knew there were pick and spade and went to work digging the grave at once on that mountainside, head resting by one of the great mountain oaks that had withstood the storms for ages. I picked and dug in the rock all that cold, bleak December night before I got it deep enough ; neither of the guard offering to help, and I too proud to ask them. While it was yet dark in that early morning and the grave ready, I had to ask them to take hold of the corners of the blanket and help me to lower the body into the grave. They did this very readily and gently. I gathered the soft mould and then the rock over the grave, marked it, as best I could, rolling down a stone to the head, planting the mattock there by it at the head and the spade at the feet, and cut his initials on the tree ; and then my work was over. I had done all that I could. The sun was well up in the trees, so I stopped for a little rest. I shall never forget the stillness—the painful silence, that reigned supreme in that mountain forest—coming after the din of battle, the groans of the wounded and dying, the noise of the ambulances as they went rolling to and fro through the night, bearing away the wounded and the dying, and the commands of men moving the dead and wounded down a steep place in the mountain to reach the ambulance. I surveyed well the situation amid this silence, and thought then, if I were among the spared, and even had an opportunity, I could and would come to this sacred spot."
"_History of Walton County", _by John L. McKinnon, 1911, The Byrd Printing Co. Atlanta, Ga.