man, braved the vengeance of Wigfall, and tore the degrading challenge from the court house door in spite of the warning and threats of the Knight of the Code.  A pistol shot rang out, and the young champion of Brooks fell dead at his feet.  Preston Brooks, hearing of the indignity placed upon his father, the death of his kinsman and defender of his family honor, now entered the list, and challenged the slayer of his father’s protector.  Wigfall accepted the challenge with eagerness, for now the hot Southern blood was thoroughly aroused, and party feelings had sprung up and ran high.  The gauge of battle was to be settled at Sand Bar Ferry, on the Savannah River near Augusta, Ga., the noted duelling ground of the high tempered sons of Georgia and the Carolinas.  It was fought with dueling pistols of the old school, and at the first fire Brooks was severely wounded.  Wigfall had kindled a feeling against himself in the State that his sensitive nature could not endure.  He left for the rising and new born State of Texas.  Years rolled by, and the next meeting of those fiery antagonists was at the Capital of the United States—­Brooks in Congress, and Wigfall in the Senate.

* * * * *

CHAPTER III

Reorganization or the Troops—­Volunteers for Confederate Service—­Call from Virginia.  Troops Leave the State.

Incidents on the way.

There was much discussion at the time as to who really fired the first gun at Sumter.  Great importance was attached to the episode, and as there were different opinions, and it was never satisfactorily settled, it is not expected that any new light can be thrown on it at this late day.  It was first said to have been General Edmond Ruffin, a venerable octogenarian from Virginia, who at the secession of South Carolina came to this State and offered his services as a volunteer.  He had at one time been a citizen of South Carolina, connected with a geological survey, and had written several works on the resources and possibilities of the State, which created quite an interest at that day and time.  He was one of the noblest types of elderly men it has ever been my fortune to look upon.  He could not be called venerable, but picturesque.  His hair hung in long silvery locks, tied in a queue in the fashions of the past centuries.  His height was very near six feet, slender and straight as an Indian brave, and his piercing black eyes seemed to flash fire and impressed one as being able to look into your very soul.  He joined the “Palmetto Guards,” donned the uniform of that company, and his pictures were sold all over the entire South, taken, as they were, in the habiliments of a soldier.  These showed him in an easy pose, his rifle between his knees, coat adorned with palmetto buttons closely buttoned up to his chin, his hair combed straight from his brow and tied up with a bow of ribbon that streamed down his back, his cap placed upon his knee bearing the monogram “P.G.,” the emblem of his company, worked in with palmetto.