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. From (McDonald's Daily Diary. Vol. 40. Copyright pending)
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