“I would rather give my life than betray a friend or my country.”
Sam Davis
[The following text is taken from Valor in Gray -- The Recipients of The Confederate Medal of Honor by Gregg S. Clemmer. This material is copyrighted, with all rights reserved, by Hearthside Publishing Company, P.O. Box 2773, Staunton, Virginia 24402, and is reproduced here with their kind permission.]
The heavy spring-wagon attracted little notice as it rumbled into Columbia, Tennessee, in early December of 1863. Pulled by two mules, the conveyance carried but two passengers, a man and boy. Their journey was a sad one and it was readily explained in a single glance. Behind them --on the bed of the wagon-- lay a coffin.
With the reins in his hands, John C. Kennedy guided the wagon through the busy streets. He wanted no trouble and when a picket ordered him to a halt on the southern outskirts of town, he swallowed hard, told little Oscar to say nothing, and then hoped for the best.Identification? Kennedy nodded and dug nervously into his pocket, producing a pass. But for some reason, the sentry hardly glanced at the paper, his curiosity drawn first to the coffin and then to the young boy. With hardly a word, he waved them through.
The same thing happened a day later when the coffin-laden wagon approached the town of Pulaski. Puzzled by this lack of asserted Federal authority, Kennedy and Oscar entered the town and parked the wagon near the square. It was the next move that would be the hardest.
John Kennedy had come to Pulaski at the request of Oscar's family. No longer could they deny the rumors that it might be their 21-year-old son who had been hung as a spy in the last week of November. At first it seemed impossible and they had discounted the talk. But the report persisted. Unwilling to believe yet hopelessly drawn to free themselves of this torment, they had asked Kennedy to go and find out. And if it was true, they'd be forever obliged if he'd bring the body of their boy back home for burial.
The father had advised Kennedy that once he got to Pulaski, he should contact an old family acquaintance, a Mr. Richardson, who was clerk of the county court there. To identify the remains, the mother, her voice breaking, described her son's boots and gave Kennedy a piece of the plaid linsey that she had sewn as a lining for her son's jacket. And in case there was any question, well, their youngest son, Oscar, could ride along. Then with a meal sack containing a boiled ham and a half bushel of corn pones to see them through, the twosome departed.
They reached Nashville that evening. Unable to get an audience with the Federal authorities, Kennedy procured a coffin, a "metallic case and box" as he described it. The next morning, after first denying their request for a pass, Gen. Lovell Rousseau reluctantly issued Kennedy--a boyhood friend from old Kentucky--the necessary paper to clear the city. But he warned his old friend that his authority did not extend into Columbia.
Now, thinking back on the events of the last several days, Kennedy could only marvel at how easily they had gotten into Pulaski. Yet he did not relish meeting the executioners of his friend and as he got out of the wagon, he steeled himself for trouble. Instructing Oscar to hold the mules, he headed for the courthouse to see the provost marshal for a pass and, as he remembered years later, to "find out what he would do with us."
The Federal official eyed Kennedy then gruffly demanded to know how he got into Pulaski. Kennedy meekly handed him the pass.
"This is no account here," stated the officer bluntly, then as he narrowed his eyes on Kennedy, he demanded, "What do you want?"
John Kennedy replied forthrightly that he had come at the request of the family for the body of the young man who had been hanged. The parents simply wanted him brought home.
Instantly, the officer's whole attitude softened and he rose and offered his hand in welcome. With emotion in his voice, he put Kennedy at ease, assuring him he would do everything in his power to facilitate the request. For a moment there was an awkward silence as both men reassessed each other. Finally, not knowing what else to say, the officer spoke. "Tell them, for me, that he died the bravest of the brave, an honor to them and with the respect of every man in this command."
Kennedy was stunned as the officer handed him return passes and signed a permit for them to take up the body. This was far more cooperation than he had expected and, still unsure of his reception, he inquired if he would encounter any trouble or interference at the graveyard.
The officer was adamant. "No sir. If you do, I'll give you a company--yes, a regiment if necessary."
Bewildered by this unexpected cordiality, Kennedy returned to the wagon to find Oscar surrounded by soldiers inquiring if he was there to claim the body of the young man just hung. Oscar could only nod, no doubt frightened by all of this attention, whereupon several of the soldiers, moved by the scene of the somber lad and coffin, choked back that the dead man "ought not to have been hung," while others, fearful of retribution from the Confederates or perhaps even a Higher Power, felt they would certainly "suffer for it sooner or later."
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