DEATH OF AN INNOCENT. (An Account of a Solitary Death During the Civil War). Pts. 1-3

My late father told the story of one of his ancient McDonald cousins; though this far along, I have long since forgotten his exact identity. However, having compiled a significant amount of family research, and since I feel reasonably sure of my findings, for the sake of this story I will assign him the name of the relative whom I believe to be the individual in question. Concerning the facts surrounding the story, however, nothing is left to doubt.

Benjamin McDonald was the eldest of Isham’s children, and was born in 1790 when his father was 43 years of age; (and who had only a decade earlier served in the Revolutionary War). Isham, a Scottish immigrant, had migrated to America sometime prior to that infamous war.

Benjamin, a resident of Lowndes County, Georgia, was the father of several children of whom David was the youngest; having been born in 1848. And if my readers know anything about American History, they are familiar with another war which began a little more than a decade after the birth of Benjamin’s son.

During the American Civil War it was common for military companies  of the separate southern states, known as the Home Guard, to deploy soldiers in search of young men who had not answered the call of duty, or who in the midst of war had deserted the cause, and returned home.

As several troops of the Georgia Home Guard were passing through the Cat Creek area during the first half of the war, having ‘gotten wind’ of one ‘strangler’ in particular, they drew their tired horses up next to the McDonald homestead, dismounted, and somehow made their presence known by word or deed.

While I cannot speak to the whereabouts of the 70 year old Benjamin, history records that Jane, his wife, was present, as was David, their youngest son; and who just happened to be the object of the Home Guard’s quest.

By this time the South was experiencing a dearth of goods and manpower, and though David had only just reached the tender age of 15, the Confederate officer was determined to locate him, and immediately enlist him in the service of the great State of Georgia.

Pt. 2

Jane, my 3x great aunt, heard them before she saw them, and peering out the kitchen window she intuitively understood why the Home Guard troops were outside her front door. And she had long since decided that she would have nothing to do with it.

She commanded her young son.

“David, go out the back door! Run to the barn and hide in the hay loft!”

His mother had raised the subject with him several times over the course of the past two years, and had known that they would eventually come looking for him. It scared her to death to think her teenage son would be conscripted into the army, and possibly be deprived of a long and fruitful life.

David ran ‘for all he was worth,’ being careful to hide behind first one tree and then another, as he made his way to the rear door of the barn. He correctly surmised that since he wasn’t able to see the soldiers that they, in turn, wouldn’t be able to see him.

Jane’s son hadn’t been gone more than ten seconds when she swung open the front door and was rudely confronted by Captain Matthews.

“We know who you are, Mrs. McDonald, and we know you have a son by the name of David. We also know that he just turned 15. And by G_ _ that’s plenty old to shoot a rifle, and to catch a bullet for his country.”

Jane sensed a wave of nausea creep upwards from her belly to her throat, but she found a way to control her nerves, and responded.

“My boy ain’t here. He’s been helping my father in Waycross harvest his tobacco the past couple of weeks.”

The captain had heard that sort of rehearsed monologue before. He knew the little lady was trying to protect her son, and that he was almost certainly hiding somewhere on the property.

Pt. 3

Captain Matthews smirked, and spat out a mouthful of the stuff Mrs. McDonald claimed her son had been harvesting.

“Well, Jane. May I call you, ‘Jane?’ I simply don’t believe you. He’s here. We can be sure of that. Let me see now. Where would young David be hiding? We played this game when I was a boy. Private Jensen, Private Smith, search the barn. Now!”

Mrs. McDonald screamed.

“My son is too young for your war! Leave him alone!”

The ‘good’ captain ignored her protestation, and a big grin spread across his face.

A century and a half later it is impossible to piece together the details of the event, but as David’s mother and the captain stood outside her front door a shot rang out, and then another.

Jane let out a blood-curdling shriek and fainted dead away at the Confederate officer’s feet. The surly man summarily grabbed her under both arms and propped her up against the wall of the house.

As her youngest son lay dying on the straw-covered floor, the two soldiers proceeded to toss him out of the second story loft door into the hay wagon below.

Captain Matthews let out a string of expletives the likes of which his troops had never heard in their young lives.

“What the bloody h_ _ _ were you thinking, Jim? I give you a simple task to do, and instead of bringing me back a fresh body, you give me a corpse!”

(and)

“Well, no matter. The boy was a coward, and I expect he would have come running back to mama in the space of a week. Pack up your rifles, and let’s get outta here.”

As the three men mounted their trusty steeds, Jane managed to stand, and tore out towards the hay wagon. Having reached her dear son’s side she could see the bloody holes in his chest and right arm.

And suddenly, the poor boy inhaled sharply, opened one eye, and recognizing his mother attempted to speak. Taking renewed courage that she might somehow extend his life, Jane climbed up in the hay wagon next to him, pulled his upper body into her lap, and stroked his hair.

“Hang on son. I’ll ride into town and get the doctor.”

David shook his head and whispered.

“No, mother. I’m done for. I cannot hope to live long enough for you to saddle Old Tom. Abide with me a while.”

And with that, young David gasped, and ‘gave up the ghost.’

Afterward

Something short of a million men died as the result of gunshot, grapeshot and disease during the Civil War. And this figure fails to take into account young men such as my cousin David. Children of the southern cause who were never properly registered, and whom their parents attempted to preserve from falling prey to a war which could not be won.

When I consider the untold multitude of young fellows such as my ancient cousin, I cannot help but reflect on the brevity of their lives, and the generations who would have sprung up, (some of whom would have been with us today) had they been allowed to go about their business, marry, fulfill whatever plan God planted in their hearts, and rear children.

Perhaps the ‘bean counters’ would respond with some trite excuse about these poor boys not having died under what might be regarded as ‘official circumstances.’ Perhaps they would respond with the worn out old phrase, “You understand, it’s not personal.”

Well, I can tell you it was personal to David’s mother, and a myriad of other mothers like her. And, though we are far removed from the circumstances of that day, I can tell you

… it’s personal to me.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 35. Copyright Pending. 2017.

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