I had this item on my old website 15 years ago, and thought some might find it of general interest. For some reason, I had a note at the end of the story saying that after a little research, I believed it should have been signed John Summerfield Davis. I have no idea how I arrived at that conclusion; Perhaps someone could shed some light on the situation. It should also be noted that John Summerfield was an early Methodist preacher of some renown who died in 1825, so the signature may just be a pseudonym honoring the early preacher.
Hoyt Cagle
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A TRUE WAR STORY
In the summer of 1864, seated on the front porch of the old homestead; which nested quietly at the foot of the Grimes Mountain, in the beautiful and picturesque portion of North Alabama known as the Courtland Valley, were my father and mother. They were discussing war in general. The old homestead refered [sic] to was located three miles from the old and aristocratic town of Courtland.
The big gate (which is still standing to day) opened from the beautiful grove of stately old trees into a public thoroughfare known then as now, as the Rusellville [sic] Road.
It was known that a command of Federal soldiers had camped along the line of this road, further down the valley, a day or two previous, but as nothing more had been learned of their movements up to this time, my parents were beginning to breathe a little easier; for they had had more than one experience with these passing armies, among whom, as is the case of every body of soldiers, were a number of pilfering raiders, who had taken everything from the place they could get their hands on; not being content with taking the horses they also took all the provisions they could find. So it was not strange that they were feeling more cheerful when they thought the danger about over.
Another most serious complication was, that my father, who was then a young man, about 22 years of age, was a Confederate soldier and was at home on a furlough; he well knew that the hated "Yankees" would make it exceedingly warm for him, should they in passing, find him there. As they were discussing these facts, the conversation was brought abruptly to a close by the appearance of faithful old Ben, the trusted old family servant (who bye the bye, died only a few months ago) announcing to "Mars Felix" that the "Yankees" had camped down the road about 25 miles distant in the vicinity of Tuscumbia the night before, and that they were marching up the valley and would more than likely pass the old place within a few hours.
As a natural result of this startling announcement, all was uneasiness and bustle again. Uncle Ben was at once put to work storing the provisions away to a hiding place of safety, which he did by tearing up the kitchen floor and burying them thereunder.
This having been accomplished, my father remembered that he had several hundred dollars in "Greenback" and also a large sum of Confederate money. There being a dense skirt of woods directly across the road from the homestead, a bright idea presented itself to him, he would quietly walk over into those woods, and when certain that he was out of the reach of any human eye he would safely hide that valuable roll of money; he proceeded among the trees and dense foliage until satisfied that all would be safe, he then took from his person a long leather pocket book, in which the money had previously been carefully placed, finding close by a hollow log, he placed the valuable little bundle therein, and after covering it with dead leaves, which were lying thick upon the ground, he meandered slowly homeward, feeling confident that he would at least have his little sum of money spared him, in case the unwelcome visitors did come. So confident was he that all would be well that he did not tell my mother what he had done, she all the time thinking he would either keep what money he had about his person or would make some safe disposition of it.
That night the army arrived and as others had done before it, halted at the gate, they came into the great grove, marched directly up to the house, which they ransacked from top to bottom. My father in the meantime was safely hid away somewhere about the premises. The "Yankees" having completed their search finally left, taking with them what they wanted.
My father did not impart to my mother the fact that he had hidden the money away safely in the woods, until after the raiders had taken their departure, he felt buoyant in that he outwitted them in saving his money. As soon as he deemed it prudent to venture to do so, he proceeded to the hiding place of his treasure, when he reached the spot he was almost dumbfounded, and no wonder, for lying all around the end of the log, torn into strips was his Confederate money, instinctively he felt in the pile of leaves within the hollow of the log for the pocket book, it was there, he opened it, but the valued “Greenback” was gone and in its place was a piece of brown paper, on which was written in a plain bold hand the inscription “You dam Reb, mind how you hide your money in hollow logs.”
Slowly and sadly he turned his face homeward. When he arrived at the gate, his young wife, my mother, was awaiting him there, as he approached nearer she discovered that something was wrong with him, and she queried, “Papa are you sick?” he answered her not, but simply handed to her the little piece of brown paper. Of course no other explanation was needed.
The subject of this sketch, which is one of the most eminent divines of the Southern Methodist Church, having occupied the pulpit of several of its most prominent churches, and is at present the pastor of the leading church in a western city.
Though all these years have passed, he still has in his possession that little piece of brown paper, which he occasionally looks at and then gives vent to a deep sigh.
JOHN SUMMERFIELD.
(Courtland Enterprise [Lawrence County, AL] 20 Aug 1897)
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