Southern Historical Society Papers, Volume 14.
Reverend J. William Jones, Ed.

‘One of the batteries of our own battalion was composed chiefly of Irishmen from a Southern city—gallant fellows, but wild and reckless. The captaincy becoming vacant, a backwoods Georgia preacher named C. was sent to command them. The men, at first half amused, half insulted, soon learned to idolize as well as fear their preacher captain, who proved to be, all in all, such a man as one seldom sees, a combination of Praise-God Barebones and Sir Philip Sidney, with a dash of Hedley Vicars about him. He had all the stern grit of the Puritan, with much of the chivalry of the Cavalier, and the zeal of the Apostle. There was at this time but one other Christian in his battery, a gunner named Allan Moore, also a backwoods Georgian, and a noble, enthusiastic man and soldier. The only other living member of Moore's family was with him, a boy of not more than twelve or thirteen years, and the devotion of the elder brother to the younger was as tender as a mother's. The little fellow was a strange, sad, prematurely old child, who seldom talked and never smiled. He used to wear a red zouave fez that ill befitted that peculiar sallow, pallid complexion of the Piney-woods Georgian; but he was a perfect hero in a fight. 'Twas at Cold Harbor in ‘64. We had been all day shelling a working party of the enemy, and about sunset, as adjutant of the battalion, I was visiting the batteries, to arrange the guns for night-firing. As I approached C.'s position, the sharpshooting had almost ceased, and down the line I could see the figures of the cannoneers standing out boldly against the sky. Moore was at the trail, adjusting his piece for the night's work. His gunnery had been superb during the evening, and his blood was up. I descended into a little valley and lost sight of the group, but heard C.'s stern voice: “Sit down, Moore, your gun is well enough; the sharpshooting isn't over yet. Get down.” I rose to the hill. “One moment, Captain. My trail's a hair's breadth too much to the right;” and the gunner bent eagerly over the handspike. A sharp report—that unmistakable crash of the bullet against the skull, and all was over. 'Twas the last rifle shot on the lines that night The rushing together of the detachment obstructed my view; but as I came up, the sergeant stepped aside and said, “Look there, Adjutant.” Moore had fallen over on the trail, the blood gushing from his wound all over his face. His little brother was at his side instantly. No wildness, no tumult of grief. He knelt on the earth, and lifting ’