The following is a story originally told by Wilburn Marion Randolph of his experiences in the Civil War.
TRUE STORY MANSCRIPT BY MADGE GIBBS, HORATIO, ARK.
The cry of war had come to our quiet country village in southern Missouri because the year was 1861, and the war was when brother fought against brother . My brother Wilson and I were going to wear the Blue, but there were other members of our family who were just as glad to wear Gray. Wilson was two years older than I and we were friends, as well as brothers though we loved the same girl.Margaret Jane Clark was the darling of our village and we didn’t know if either of us had an advantage over the other boys who were welcome in Margaret’s home. She lived in her grandfather’s home and there were several aunts who were only a few years older than Margaret so it was a happy place for young people to gather of evenings and make merry.
I talked to Margaret and tried to find if she would have a special welcome for me when I came marching home, and I had no doubt but what I would have decorations of honor, but she told me to wait until the last evening and then she would tell me. I didn’t know then that she had told Wilson and the other five boys the same thing, when like I, had asked
the same question.The last evening we seven boys were invited to Margaret’s home for one more happy time to carry with us the memory when we marched away. The time to go home drew near and we were all wondering when she would have that secret communication with us alone. Margaret stood up, and as memory goes back to that time, I will tell you how she looked.
She was small and dainty of stature, and with small hands and feet. She was dressed in white, her skin very fair and the dark eyes and hair almost black. She had our full attention when she said,” Boys, you have each asked me a question and wanted a personal, private answer, one that I couldn’t give now, but I will tell you this, the one of you who comes home with the highest honors, that one will I marry.” We told her good night and good bye. I felt sure with her waiting for me I would come home with the greatest honors, and I suppose every one of the other six thought the same.Two long weary years of war had dragged by and the thought of glory had faded, too. One by one our five neighbor boys had dropped by the way. Wilson and I fought on side by side with only the grim thought of duty to spur our tired bodies. So many changes during those long, dragging years, that Margaret was only a bright memory who came to us in dreams. The march of our company , the Tenth Missouri Cavalry, brought us nearer home than we had been in the two years and Wilson was given a
furlough. While he was gone I was made gun commander and when I received a sword a little of the glamour of war came back to my tired and weary vision. I wished to share it with Wilson.He came back and our friendship and regard for each other seemed greater and more worthwhile, but there was a difference, a restraint that I could not understand. He
told me of the homefolks, of the many changes that had taken place, of the hardships of our widowed mother was enduring with grim determination. No smiles now. I
wanted to know of Margaret and he looked away and answered,” She is sweeter and dearer than ever.” We never talked much of her, but I felt there was a difference, felt
farther away from both of them than ever before. From our Mother we had a portion of Indian blood and we couldn’t speak freely of our deepest and strongest feelings.For a while our part in the war seemed to be marking time. We were in the back waters of the great flood of war. It was the spring of the third year of the war. Our mother and brothers at home were needing help to put in the much needed crop on our little valley farm. I asked for and received my first furlough in order to go home and get the crop planted and things in shape that life might go on. Since I was commander of a gun I was permitted to use my horse for the trip home. Over and over the beat of the horses feet seemed to say,” I will see my Margaret.” I wondered if she would see anything more to me , any added dignity, more than I had when we marched away together.
You must remember I was only twenty-two years old at this time and on my own horse with my sword at my side, something of the glamour and glory came back to me.
The filth, hardships and bloodshed were left behind and forgotten. Margaret was glad to see me and her arms were thrown around my neck and the glad kiss of welcome was all that my heart could ask for then. My mother welcomed me in her own sedate quieter way. The quiet village had not seen any of the fighting that was going on not so many miles away, but privations had visited us. One was the lack of salt. Sugar and flour had long become luxuries, but salt was a necessity. It was impossible to buy it any more. So to obtain it the hard packed earth in every smoke house had become precious. It was dug up and boiled and the more prosperous years filtered out for use again. Time passed so swiftly for me during this furlough. The bright spring days were spent with my mother and younger brothers in the fields getting in the scanty crops that were to sustain life for another year. Each evening was spent with Margaret and she was kind and loving, a great comfort to me, the music of her voice, with the organ was far removed from the music of war. She talked to me often of Wilson and asked many questions of his health and welfare. The last evening came all too soon. Our last words had been said and I asked,” What shall I tell Wilson for you?” She said,” Give him this.” It was a large white handkerchief on which she had spent many hours in fine hemstitching. There was a pang in my heart that I had not received such a token, but without a word I put it in my pocket and left her then.When Wilson and I met again his first words were,” How is Margaret, did she send any word to me?” With a strange reluctance I handed the handkerchief to him. He looked long at it and without a word folded it carefully again in the same creases which her dear hands had made. He placed it in the pocket of his uniform, just above his heart and turned away from me. That evening in the quiet of camp life, when weary horses are at rest, we talked long of home and loved ones, but never a word of she who had a special place in our hearts.
The 10th Missouri Cavalry began to see more action, more fighting and there were very few quiet evenings and much less time for brothers to talk together. I wonder if there had ever been two brothers, who in love with the same girl, have been able to talk to each other of her. After a long hard day we were camped on the banks of a creek. Strange to think about it now, but that little creek was called Wilson creek. A small school house stood there , and though it was unused as a school, it gave grateful shelter to the men that night. A drizzling rain was falling, and after scant rations Wilson and I lay down side by side to rest.. A surprise attack came that night, just when our bodies and minds were heaviest with sleep. Wilson and I were leaving the school house when he was hit.. I caught him in my arms as he fell and got him back inside the building. I sought a sheltered place to leave him and found it under one of the benches. As I lowered him to the floor, and before he left my arms, he said,” Wilber! Margaret!” and died there in my arms.
I had to leave him and go on with the grim, horrible business of war. When the weary daylight had dawned the tide of battle had passed on and left the weary men and horses. But some of them at last found rest from battle and life. I went back to Wilson to see how it had come to him, this long rest in the guise of death. It had come with one bullet in his heart, and that bullet had passed through the many folds of the silk handkerchief that Margaret’s loving hands had made for him. “Death robs the living, not the dead. He sweetly sleeps whose tasks are done; but we are weaker than before who still must live and labor on.”
My captain gave me permission and the use of a gun carriage and a team of mules to take Wilson’s body home for burial. With his body in a rude coffin, draped in the Stars and Stripes fastened to a gun carriage, I set out on that lonely trip over the same narrow, rocky road where my horses feet a short time before had said,”I will see margaret.”
With bowed head I rolled along unseeing until the tramp of horses feet and the clank of arms made me raise my head. Coming down that narrow road was a company of men and their uniforms were gray. At the head proudly born was the confederate flag. I couldn’t turn, I couldn’t fight, I couldn’t run. I could only drive on to meet them knowing that I would be taken prisoner and sent to one of the dread prisons, the horror of which I had heard of many times. When almost face to face I halted and waited for them to come up. Their leader, a gray haired man of distinguished bearing, looked familiar to me. I knew I had seen his picture, though never before he gave a command, but not the one I expected. Tne entire company stepped out of the road and presented arms. General Robert E. Lee said to me,”Soldier, drive on with your dead.” With a feeling that seldom comes to a human being I drove on. It was too great a thing to make known then.Several years later I told Margaret and we named our first little boy Wilson Lee. I took the dead Wilson home and we buried him with dry eyes and aching hearts. That evening I took the silk handkerchief to Margaret and told her how his life ended with my name and hers upon his lips. She sat so still and white and then she told me how that she and Wilson discovered their love for each other when he was home on furlough. She said they remembered what she had laughingly said about marrying the one who returned with the greatest honors, and of that seven only two were left, and they were brothers. She said,” Now Wilburn, only you are left.” With a heavy heart I reminded her that the war wasn’t ended yet. She kissed me goodbye and I returned to my company the next morning.
We were now in the fourth year of war and we’re seeing much fighting. One day in the thick of battle one of my gunners were shot down. The gun was needed in a new position, and I sprang from my horse to bring it up. There was great confusion, the screams of the wounded, the whine of the Minnie-balls. One of the mules kicked me on the knee and in that awful confusion and chaos it went almost unnoticed. Days passed and it grew more painful, but as long as I could ride there was no time for hospital attention. Our hospitals and doctors were crowded beyond their limit. But at last the day came when I had to give up.. My knee and leg were badly swollen and I couldn’t move any more. I was taken back to a base hospital and after long, painful months of treatment the leg was taken off close to my hip. The war ended while I was in the hospital. I was glad to go home, and to Margaret, even though I went on crutches. The stub of my leg remained sore for years. So I was unable to wear a artificial limb.
I went to Margaret on my crutches and asked her if she could learn to love me. I had no medals of honor, had lost one leg, but deep in my heart I felt that I had been greatly honored when one of the greatest men of the south called me “soldier. Margaret and I were married and my mother and youngest brother made their home with us until she died. After awhile the government paid me a pension of thirty six dollars every three months. I hewed ties, split rails and did everything a one legged man could do and with my small pension we got along and raised our two sons and five daughters. Margaret died when she was only forty seven years old, and five of our sons and daughters are dead. A son that we called Wilson Lee is dead and a son of his was in the great World War so long ago. I have two granddaughters named Margaret. One of them is writing this story for me. After the Civil War feeling was so bitter between the North and South for many years and I did not tell how I felt about General Lee. But now that I am an old man I give my story as tribute and memory of a great man and soldier.
***I want to add that the sword that Wilburn carried was given to my father because he was in the service of the United States.
(last statement made by: Betty Erikson) when she sent this to us.
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Per Jasper County Genweb http://www.rootsweb.com/~mocivwar/Jasper.html
Co. A, 10th MO Cav