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[616] ending May 1st, 1866, the records show that nearly fifteen thousand white Tennesseeans were mustered out of the Union army and eighty-five Virginians! Why this vast difference in sentiment in communities of the same blood, institutions, habits, customs, and interests?

A detail of the exploits of the Tennessee troops in the Union army would fill volumes; but so far from a single volume on the subject, there has never been anything like a connected narrative. The Tennessee troops were fighters, rather than writers, and they left little record of their transactions. It was Tennessee troops who finally routed the famous cavalry command of John H. Morgan and killed that daring raider. He vanquished armies, and captured more prisoners on single raids than his own men numbered; yet a strange fate decreed that he should meet his fate at the hands of Tennessee Unionists — the Thirteenth and Ninth Tennessee Cavalry regiments, aided by the Tenth Michigan. This brigade killed the great raider, and effectually broke up and scattered his command. In the garden of Mrs. Williams, in Greenville, Tennessee, a plain stone is set on the spot where Morgan fell. After his marvelous escape from the Ohio Penitentiary, he reorganized his command and entered Kentucky again. The expedition was unfortunate, and he returned to Virginia, and from thence operated in East Tennessee. He formed a plan to attack a brigade of Tennessee and Michigan troops at Bull's gap, above Knoxville. On the 3d of September he arrived in Greenville, his command camping near by, and a portion of his staff taking up their quarters at the residence of Mrs. Williams. This is the finest residence in Greenville — a large double brick house, not far from that of the late Andrew Johnson, but much larger and finer than any Johnson ever lived in, except the White House. It was built by Dr. Alexander Williams, who died a few years before the war, and, at the time of the tragedy, was occupied by his widow and a few members of the family. Mrs. Williams is now dead, but the house stands just as it did, and the surroundings are almost precisely the same as on that moist and gloomy September morning, in the year 1864, when the roof sheltered John H. Morgan the last night he spent on earth. I have passed the house dozens of times, but never without casting my eyes on the spot where the great cavalryman fell, and also at the point in the road where Private Andrew Campbell stood, whose unerring bullet pierced the heart of Morgan.

Morgan is accused of carelessness in posting himself and command, for the night, so near the enemy, and with so little precaution. The prime cause of the calamity to his command and death

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