I think I risk nothing in saying if Forrest had been in command of our army, General Schofield would never have marched by Spring Hill, and the disastrous battle of Franklin, where the gallant Cleburne and so many brave men fell, would never have been fought.
Poor Cleburne! he was a noble specimen of the Irish gentleman. I knew him as a promising young lawyer, and watched with interest his brilliant career in arms. He supplied my division with ammunition on the morning of Franklin, and we parted to meet no more. I shall never forget the solemn scene that occurred when his body passed through Memphis, after the surrender, to its final resting place in his adopted State of Arkansas. Like the burial of Sir John Moore, it was a sad and silent scene as we laid him down on the steamer's deck. Around him stood Jefferson Davis, Isham G. Harris, and the few Confederate generals then in Memphis. Respect for the prejudices of our recent captors prevented a greater demonstration. An Irishman approached, and in humble accents asked permission to kiss the coffin of his dead commander. Mr. Davis nodded a silent assent. Kneeling and making the sign of the cross on his breast, the humble soldier lingered a moment in prayer, and then pressed his lips with fervor on the head of the coffin. Not a word was said; but each hat was involuntarily lifted from the head and silent tears stole down the manly cheeks of those who were present.
