of a romance, while in the gigantic and overwhelming results which it sought, and was likely to accomplish, it was absolutely sublime."

They scattered in all directions and some of them well-nigh succeeded in eluding their pursuers, but in time all were hunted down, captured and taken before the military authorities at Chattanooga, to whom they fully disclosed that they were soldiers, giving their names, companies and regiments accurately, together with full information as to the character of their service and how, by the orders of their superiors, they had been sent upon it. This should have secured for them that decent and honorable treatment to which prisoners of war are always entitled. That they had gone into the enemy's country in citizen's clothing did not alter the case, since they had not gone as spies, and had not acted as such, but had gone by commands they were bound to obey, not to depredate and rob or steal, but to strike and destroy a quasi public property, the destruction of which had become a military necessity in the work immediately contemplated. Their mission was not different in nature from many upon which Confederate soldiers had come within our lines, and the disguise of citizens' clothing for such a purpose was justified by scores of precedents the enemy had given. In no instance during the whole war, from its beginning to its ending, was any Confederate soldier, similarly captured, treated otherwise than as a prisoner of war; but no such good fortune awaited this hapless band. On the contrary, they were treated worse than the vilest and most dangerous of felons should ever be treated in any civilized country. They were promptly and rudely consigned to an imprisonment so atrociously barbarous as to disgrace even the passions of both slavery and secession. Their prison was the half underground basement of what was then known as the old negro jail. It was a room exactly thirteen feet square, with no entrance whatever, except on a ladder, by a trap door, through the ceiling. It had no furniture, or conveniences of any kind or description, except only four buckets for water and slops. No light nor air was admitted, except through two grated and barred holes in the

wall, each of which was about twelve inches square. Into this dungeon twenty-two men were crowded, chained together in pairs and threes. There was barely room for all to stand within the space. They could sleep only on the naked floor, and in only the most cramped and tiresome positions. Here they were kept for more than three weeks, wearing their chains all the while; fed on the scantiest and poorest of rations, denied the most necessary accommodations, and only sparingly and grudgingly furnished with an insufficient supply of a poor quality of water to drink. What they suffered during this time no language can describe. If you would stake off a space thirteen feet square upon the green sward, in the open air, and compel twenty-two men to occupy it for only one week, during the most pleasant weather, with good water, good food, and every relief consistent with their remaining within lines, their lot would become shockingly miserable, but manifestly it would give only the faintest idea of the heartless brutality to which these young heroes were subjected. Death itself on the field of battle would have been far preferable.

Finally Andrews was tried by court martial and sentenced to be hanged as a spy. He was taken to Atlanta and there executed on the 7th day of June, 1862. He met his fate bravely and uncomplainingly and was buried, without shroud or coffin, with his feet still chained together. In 1877 his remains were removed to this spot.

The next step was to take twelve of the party to Knoxville and there put them on trial one at a time. When seven of them the seven who lie buried here had been tried, the proceedings of the court were interrupted by the approach of the Union troops, and all, including those left at Chattanooga, were hurried away to Atlanta for safe-keeping.

Those who were tried were ably defended, but fruitlessly. From the beginning their fate was sealed, and sealed literally and cruelly. They were led to believe they would be acquitted and held only as prisoners of war, for parole or exchange, as they should have been. But on the 18th of June, 1862, without a note of warning of any kind, they were taken from their imprisonment and hanged by the neck until dead.

Nothing in all that bloody chapter of war was more revolting or less excusable. They had committed no crime. They were not spies. They were only soldiers who had obeyed orders with a bravery and daring that should have excited the admiration of the enemy, but instead these qualities appeared only to excite bitterness, hatred and malice, and death in its most appalling and ignominious form was the penalty.

I shall not dwell upon the details of that horrible hour, except only to snatch from them their one single bright feature. Just as they were about to be swung into eternity, George D. Wilson, acting as spokesman for his comrades, craved permission to speak a few words. The favor was granted, and thereupon he made a speech that deserves to live as long as the history of that Rebellion is read of men. There were no stenographers present, but universal account from all who heard it confirms the following, as a substantially correct published report of what he said:

"He began by telling them that he was condemned to death as a spy, but he was no spy. That he was simply a soldier in the performance of duty; he said he did not regret dying for his country, for that was a soldier's duty, but only the manner of death which was unbecoming to a soldier. Even those who condemned them well knew that they were not spies. Then leaving the personal question, he declared that he had no hard feeling toward the South or her people; that they were fighting for what they believed to be right; but they were terribly deceived. Their leaders had not permitted them to know the facts and they were bringing blood and destruction upon their section of the Nation for a mere delusion. He declared that the people of the North loved the whole Nation and the flag, and were fighting to uphold them, not to do any injury to the South, and that when victory came the South would reap the benefit as well as the North. The guilt of the war would rest upon those who had misled the Southern people, and induced them to engage in a causeless and hopeless Rebellion. He told them that all, whose lives were spared for but a short time, would regret the part

they had taken in the Rebellion, and that the old Union would yet be restored, and the flag of our common country wave over the very ground occupied by his scaffold."

Another moment and that brave, patriotic, truthful and prophetic tongue was forever hushed in death. A published account of the tragedy concludes as follows:

"No coffins had been provided. The bodies were laid in a shallow trench, just wide enough for their length and long enough for all the seven to lie close together, and then the earth was filled in upon them."

Thus it was that eight of the ill-fated party perished. After several months further imprisonment, eight others broke guard and escaped, and still later the remaining six were exchanged. All who survived returned to their regiments. Some were so disabled by the hardships through which they passed that they were soon discharged, but most of them continued to render good service until the end of the war. All were given medals of honor and most of them were promoted to the rank of commissioned officers.

General Rufus R. Dawes, Member of Congress from Marietta, Ohio, himself a gallant soldier, who knew how to appreciate such services and hardships, labored zealously to secure a special and suitable pension for them. It passed the House, but failed in the Senate. It is to be hoped this appropriate act of justice will yet be done.

It would be interesting to recount the daring exploits of those who escaped, and set forth the eventful experiences of those who remained prisoners, but time, and my particular duty, admonish me to confine myself to the dead. When the war ended and the Stars and Stripes did once more wave over the spot occupied by that loathsome scaffold, and the great Nation, for which they had given their lives, cast about for her broken and scattered jewels, that trench was remembered, and with loving hands its occupants were taken up and gently borne to this spot, that they might here sleep in honor with that Nation's dead.

Under all the circumstances that act might well have been the last tribute. But now, after the lapse of twenty-nine years, comes this day's work. And what years they have been! Since these men died the greatest part of that which is best, most brilliant and most glorious in our history has been written.

At that time Lincoln had not yet issued his Emancipation Proclamation, Vicksburg, Gettysburg, Chickamauga, Lookout Mountain, Mission Ridge, Atlanta, The March to the Sea, The Wilderness, Appomattox, Reconstruction, Universal Liberty and Political Equality for all men were yet to come. It would not have been strange if these great deeds had forever diverted attention from the event under consideration, or had destroyed appreciation for it by contrast and comparison.

If these men had been great commanders, great scholars, great statesmen, or great citizens, in any ordinary sense of the term, our presence here would need no explanation. But they were the very opposite. They were simply typical, volunteer, Ohio boys, hardly out of their teens, without name, family, influence, or station, to cause them to be remembered and honored, as they are remembered and honored today.

Why is it, then, that we are here? What purposes are we seeking to promote? Why should the General Assembly of a great State turn aside from its ordinary cares and duties to take such action as has been mentioned? Why should a Justice of the Supreme Court and the two distinguished and honored citizens, who are his associates on the commission, labor, as they have, with zealous pride to discharge the duties that have been entrusted to them?

The answer is plain and simple.

In the first place, there is no bitterness, vain glory, or unworthy spirit of any kind involved. It is but stating the exact truth to repeat, as fairly applicable to the whole of that great army, who wore the blue, the dying words of Wilson, "that he had no hard feelings toward the South or her people. That he loved the Union and the Flag, and was fighting to uphold them, and not to do unnecessary injury to any one." Even in the midst of that great struggle they did not want to kill anybody, except only as it became necessary to kill