“Who had done his work, and held his peace, and had no fear to die.”
Two men come riding out of the dusk of the June day.
For nearly ﬁfty years the reason has been sought— and never found. They came from out the dusk, tarried for a little in the twilight, then passed on into the great night, bearing with them the answer to a question that will never die as long as history tells their story.
If it might have been that they had lived, and that their completed work had been an answer to that ride up Figuer Hill, what might not the history of the Confederacy be to-day?—that Confederacy, passionate, hot-blooded, all-loving, all-sacriﬁcing Confederacy, struggling to slay a nation, travailing to bear a nation, and who died, her nation yet unborn. They, too, died, and with them passed the answer.
The 8th of June, 1863, was nearly done. Within the earthen bastions of Fort Granger, perched on the crest of Figuer Hill, the camp-ﬁres which had cooked the evening meal were dying to dull red heaps of embers; to the west, at the foot of the bluff, a hundred and ﬁfty feet beneath the muzzles of Fort Granger's guns, lay the little town of Franklin, the gray thread of the Harpeth River between. The Tennessee hills ringed the town; the enemy were somewhere beyond the hills, for the war had come the winter before to Tennessee. “Stone's River” had been fought at the coming of the new year, and the Confederate