UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES
 
 I
 
 SKETCHES OF THE WAR: 
 
 A SERIES Or 
 
 to % |tort|[ 
 
 tmt Sk|r00l 
 
 OF 
 
 YORK. 
 
 CHARLES C. NOTT, 
 
 CAPTAIN' IK THE FIFTH lOWi CAVALRY AND TRUSTEE OF PUBLIC SCHOOLS tit THB 
 CITT OF SEW YORK. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 NEW-YORK: 
 ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH 
 
 770 BROADWAY, CORNER OP 9TH ST. 
 
 1865.
 
 EirrXRKD according to Act of Congrem, in the yenr IS68, by 
 
 CHAKLES C. NOTT. 
 
 b tin Clerk'l Office of the Dintrict Court of the UiU<l SIMM for the Southern Dimct it Nw Ylk. 
 
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 WILLIAM B. EAGER, JR., 
 
 AH tTNWAVERISG T R I B U D AND FAITHFUL SCHOOL OFFlCCI. 
 
 TBKUK SKETCHES ARE INSCKIBKD. 
 
 2070S5
 
 C ONTEN TS. 
 
 I. THE HOSPITAL, ........ 7 
 
 II. DONELSON, . . . . . . " , , . 20 
 
 III. THE ASSAULT, . . . .. , , . 29 
 
 IV. FORAGING, . ~. 42 
 
 V. A FLAG OF TBTICB, B6 
 
 VI. THE HOLLT FOBK, . . , - , . .75 
 VII. SCOUTING, ......88 
 
 VIII. A SURPEISE, 109 
 
 IX. THE ESCAPE, 135 
 
 X. THE LAST Scour, . . . ... .154
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 TO SECOND EDITION 
 
 THE first edition of this little work was published during its 
 author's absence in the Department of the Gulf, and fought its 
 own way into public favor. The second edition is now pub- 
 lished for the exclusive benefit of disabled soldiers, and in the 
 expectation of opening for them a profitable field of employment. 
 As the first edition was soon exhausted, and no work has beea 
 offered to the public that fulfils the designs of this, it is hoped 
 that this edition may find an approval beyond the humane 
 object which calls it forth. 
 
 Written for readers whom I had been accustomed to address 
 familiarly, and among whom the most usefully happy moments 
 of my life had passed ; and composed for the most part amid 
 the scenes which they describe, these letters to the North Moore 
 Street School were never intended for adult readers, nor to 
 assume the shape and substance of a book. In composing them 
 I carefully avoided that " baby-talk " which some people think 
 simplicity, and that paltriness of subject which by many is
 
 Vlll PEEFACE. 
 
 thought to be alone within the grasp and comprehension of a 
 child. The greatest of children's stories are those which 
 were written for men. "Robinson Crusoe" and "Gulliver's 
 gravels," amid the annual wreck of a thousand "juvenile 
 publications," survive, and pass from generation to generation, 
 known to us best as the attractive reading of our early life. 
 This enviable lot is secured to them by the severe purity of their 
 English composition the simplicity of their style the natural 
 minuteness of their description, but above all by the real great- 
 ness of their authors, who in striving to be simple, never conde- 
 scend to be littk. The "Goody Two Shoes" of Goldsmith, 
 which was written for children, is hardly rescued by his charm- 
 ing style ; but the " Vicar of Wakefield," which was written for 
 men, has ascended to be a story-book for childhood, and is 
 speedily becoming the exclusive property of the young. 
 
 Therefore while I sought to instruct a few of the children of 
 the United States by carrying them unconsciously through the 
 details of military life, and unfolding to them some of the better 
 scenes in their country's great struggle, still I selected just such 
 incidents and topics as I would have chosen for their fathers and 
 mothers, only endeavoring, with greater strictness, to blend in 
 the narration simplicity with elegance.
 
 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 i. 
 
 THE HOSPITAL. 
 
 There was a young man in my squadron whom I 
 shall call FVank Giilman. He was the son of a Wis- 
 consin farmer, and had enlisted in the ranks as a 
 patriotic duty. Frank was young and handsome, a 
 fine horseman, and rode one of the handsomest horses 
 in the squadron. lie was just the person whom one 
 would suppose sure to rise from the ranks and perform 
 many a gallant feat during the war. A few weeks ago 
 the horse was reported sick. It had but a cold, and we 
 thought that a few days would find it well again. But 
 the cold grew worse and changed to pneumonia, a 
 disease of the lungs fearfully prevalent here among 
 both men and horses. 
 
 Frank nursed and watched his horse day and night, 
 counting the beatings of its pulse, consulting the far- 
 rier, administering the medicine as though the horse 
 were his best friend. It was fruitless labor; for the 
 
 1*
 
 10 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 jf 
 
 poor animal stood hour after hour panting with droop- 
 ing head, occasionally looking sadly up as if to soy. 
 " you can do me no good," until at last it died. We 
 all felt sorry for the poor horse, but did not think his 
 death was the forerunner of a greater loss. 
 
 In the middle of December, the surgeon reported 
 Frank sick with measles. The cold draughts through 
 the barracks are peculiarly dangerous to this disease, 
 and it is also contagious ; and hence it is an inflexible 
 rule to send patients at once to the hospital. The 
 ambulance came, Frank was helped in, and I bid him 
 good bye, expecting (for it was but a slight attack) that 
 he would return soon. 
 
 A fortnight passed, and lie was reported convalescent ; 
 the measles had gone, but there was a cough remain- 
 ing ; he had better wait awhile till quite restored. 
 
 Once or twice I tried to go to the hospital, which was 
 a mile distant from camp ; but there is a rule forbidding 
 officers to leave the camp except with a pass, and the 
 passes are limited in number and dealt out in turn my 
 turn had* not come. My last application for a pass 
 was made on Sunday ; unhappily it was refused. On 
 Monday, I sent some letters which had come for 
 Frank down to the hospital. An hour or two after- 
 wards the letters came back. I took them- they were 
 unopened there was a message : " Frank Gulman is 
 dead." 
 
 During the two or three preceding days, the cough 
 had run into pneumonia. The surgeons had not sent
 
 THE HOSPITAL. 11 
 
 word they had no one to send there were so many 
 <such cases. I had not been there, because it was con- 
 trary to camp regulations ; and thus, with a family 
 within the telegraph's call and some old friends within 
 the neighboring barracks, poor Frank had died alone 
 in the cheerless wards of a public hospital. 
 
 When it was too late to receive a last message or 
 soothe a dying hour, a pass could be obtained. I took 
 with me a corporal, an old friend of Frank's. As we 
 rode along, I made some inquiries and learned that 
 Frank was the eldest child, and the pride of his family. 
 There had doubtless been anxious forebodings when he 
 enlisted, and tears when he departed. " It will break 
 his father's heart when he hears of this," said the 
 corporal. 
 
 Ordinarily it would have been a great relief to ride 
 beyond the camp enclosure ; for the sense of confine- 
 ment and the constant sight of straight rows of men 
 going through their endless angular movements become 
 very irksome after a while, and awaken a strong desire 
 to be unrestrained yourself and to see people in their 
 natural, every day life. But now we felt too depressed 
 for enjoying our unexpected liberty, and except when I 
 was asking the questions I have spoken of, we rode in 
 dreary silence, thinking of the painful duty before us, 
 and of the distant family soon to be startled by the 
 fatal message, and informed that they had given a 
 victim to the guilty rebellion. 
 
 At length we reached the " Hospital of the Good
 
 12 SKETCHES OF THE WAK. 
 
 Samaritan." It is situated on the outskirts of the city, 
 and has been taken by the Government for soldiers 
 sick with contagious diseases. The building is large 
 and not unpleasant, the ceilings high, and the rooms 
 cheerfully lighted. There seemed to be such comforts 
 as can be bought and sold, and the attendants appeared 
 kind and diligent. But here I must stop on the favor- 
 able side. As I looked around, I learned why soldiers 
 dread the hospital. The cots were close together, with 
 just room enough to pass between, and on every cot 
 lay a sick man. At the sound of the opening door, 
 some looked eagerly toward us others turned their 
 eyes languidly and others again did not change their 
 vacant gaze, too weak to care who came or went 
 away. There were faces flushed with fever, others 
 pale and thin, and others with the pallor of death 
 settling upon them, the lips muttering unconsciously in 
 delirium, and the fingers nervously picking the bed 
 clothes. Here was a man who had just arrived, timid 
 and anxious ; and on the next cot was one who would 
 soon depart on the last march. 
 
 I went into the room where my lost soldier had taken 
 his farewell, hoping to gather from the other occupants 
 some last words or message for the dear ones of his 
 home. The cot was still empty. I went up to the 
 next patient and whispered my question, " Did you 
 know the young man who died this morning ?" Tho 
 man shook his head and said, " No, I was too sick ;" and 
 he glanced nervously at the empty cot so close besid?
 
 THE HOSPITAL. 13 
 
 him. I passed round and asked the next. He half 
 opened his closed eyes, but made no reply. It was too 
 plain he could not. I had not observed how soon ho 
 would follow Frank. I went to the night attendant, 
 who had come round about midnight, and had spoken to 
 Frank of the coming change. He had been resigned 
 and had expressed regrets only for his family and 
 country, and a wish to live for them. " He said this 
 with great energy," said the attendant, " and I wondered 
 how a dying man could feel so much. But after that 
 he became flighty ; and as there were only three of us 
 to over one hundred patients, I had to go and leave 
 him. He died about sunrise." Did he continue 
 delirious ? or was he conscious through those last 
 lonely hours ? and did he wish for some fond hand to 
 support his head, some kind ear to receive his parting 
 words ? I hoped the former. A crowded hospital is a 
 lonely place wherein to die. 
 
 " Will you see the body ?" said the superintendent. 
 "We all have a natural repugnance to death, but in 
 addition to this repugnance I remember the face of a 
 friend with such distinctness that it is painful for me to 
 impress on the living picture in my memory the marred 
 and broken image of the dead. I therefore seldom join 
 in the usual custom of viewing the corpse at funerals 
 never, if I can avoid it without giving pain to those 
 who do not understand my motives. It consequently 
 w r as with more than usual reluctance that I discharged 
 this duty of ascertaining that no terrible mistake had
 
 14 SKETCHES OF THE WAK. 
 
 occurred among the number coming and going, and 
 dying in the hospital. We went down-stairs to the base- 
 ment. Hitherto my experience with death had been 
 only that of funerals, in the calm, and quiet of peaceful 
 life, where all that is most painful is softened or hidden, 
 and death made to take the semblance of sleep. I can 
 hardly say that I expected to see, as usual, the solitary 
 coffin and its slumbering tenant, yet I certainly antici- 
 pated nothing different. " This is the dead-room," said 
 the superintendent, as he unlocked and threw open a 
 door. The name was the first intimation of something 
 different. It was a narrow, gloomy room, and on the 
 stone pavement, lay four white figures. They were 
 decently attired in the hospital shroud, but the accus- 
 tomed concealments of the undertaker's art were want- 
 ing. The staring eyes, the open mouth, the contracted 
 face left little of the usual sleep-like repose of death. 
 It was a ghastly sight. I felt like shrinking back to the 
 outer air, but had to enter the room. The superin- 
 tendent did not know Frank, so I was obliged to look 
 at each. I glanced at the first. He was a young man 
 with fair hair, and what had been bright blue eyes. 
 They seemed to return my look so consciously that for 
 a moment I could not avert my gaze. The look seemed 
 to say, " You do not know me : we are strangers who 
 have never met before, will never meet again." I 
 glanced at the second, at the third. All were strangers, 
 and all were young. The fourth I recognized. The 
 room was so narrow that, the figures reached from wall
 
 THE HOSPITAL. 15 
 
 to wall, and as we went forward we had to step over 
 each prostrate form. The corporal followed me, and 
 looked long and earnestly at his friend. There had 
 been no mistake. As we went out my eyes involun- 
 tarily turned to the others. It was probably the only 
 look of pity they received. " Did they die during the 
 night? 1 " I inquired. "Yes!" "And has no officer or 
 friend been with them?" " No !" " When will they be 
 buried ?" " In the afternoon." This, I fear, was all 
 their funeral service. " Did they anticipate such a 
 death and such a burial when they came from distant 
 pleasant homes to serve in the great army?" I asked 
 myself. And as I looked on them, thus neglected and 
 deserted, I thought of the families and friends who 
 would give much to stand as I stood beside them, to 
 weep over their coffins, and to go with them to the 
 grave. 
 
 The remains of my soldier it was determined should 
 be sent to his family. He was dressed in his uniform, 
 and on the following day the railroad swiftly carried 
 him back to his old home. 
 
 When all was over, I gathered together his few 
 effects. This the law makes the duty of an officer. 
 There were also some unanswered letters to be returned 
 pleasant letters, beginning, " Dear Frank, we wish 
 you merry Christmas!" and hoping he would have 
 happy holidays in camp. And there was one touch of 
 melancholy romance added ; for hidden in the recesses 
 of his pocket-book was a tress of hair, and on the
 
 16 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 wrapper a name ; a letter, too, with the same signature. 
 I determined that no curious eyes should run over 
 these, and that they should not be the subject foi 
 careless tongues ; so I carefully placed them iri a sepa- 
 rate package and sent them to one who perhaps will 
 grieve the most. 
 
 And since I commenced this addition to my letter, 
 there has been another interruption a second victim of 
 an unhealthy camp and crowded barracks. His death, 
 poor boy, possessed fewer circumstances of interest. 
 He was a German, with no family circle to be broken ; 
 a sister here, a brother there, and parents in a distant 
 laud. "When told of Frank's death he seemed anxious, 
 and whispered me that there were many dying in the 
 hospital. The surgeon said there was no danger, but I 
 saw it did not reassure him. On Sunday I got leave 
 to send down one of my men, who was his friend, to 
 the hospital, to be with him as a night nurse. On 
 Monday I rode down. "How is Leonard?" was the 
 first question to the surgeon. " He is very low," was 
 the answer. I went up to his room. His friend sat 
 by the cot, holding his hand. But the eyes were 
 glazed, the pulse had stopped, and all was over. He 
 had just died. 
 
 You may wish to know something of a soldier's 
 funeral, not such as we have in Broadway, with music 
 and processions, but such as are occurring here.
 
 THE HOSPITAL. 17 
 
 I asked leave for the squadron- to attend the funeral, 
 and the colonel said certainly, all who wished should 
 go. At the appointed time we mounted and rode 
 slowly to the hospital, accompanied by the chaplain of 
 the regiment. We reached it soon, and the men were 
 drawn up in line. Even in such scenes military disci- 
 pline enables us to move more easily and rapidly than 
 in ordinary life. A few commands in an unusually 
 subdued voice were given. "Prepare to dismount." 
 " Dismount !" " Ones and threes hold horses, twos and 
 fours forward." Half of the squadron then passed by 
 the coffin, and then relieved the others in holding the 
 horses. All was done so quietly and quickly that it 
 formed a contrast to a similar scene at an ordinary 
 funeral. The ambulance came to the door. The 
 ambulance carries the sick to the hospital, and the 
 dead to the grave : it is the soldier's litter and his 
 hearse. 
 
 About a mile from the hospital is the Wesleyan 
 cemetery. I had ridden by it during the soft summer 
 weather of the fall, and remarked how prettily it is 
 situated upon the brow of a hill, with the city in view 
 upon one side and the quiet country on the other, while 
 large trees and mournful evergreens give an air of 
 sadness and seclusion. It was a relief when the am- 
 bulance turned toward this peaceful resting place ; 
 though I wish that a soldiers' cemetery had been laid 
 out where the numbers who die in St. Louis and the 
 country around it, might rest together. We entered,
 
 18 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 and I quickly remarked a change since last I had 
 passed that way. On one side, where had been a 
 smooth, green lawn, there were straight rows and ranks 
 of mounds, so regular and close that the ground looked 
 as though it had been trenched by some thrifty gar- 
 dener. These were the soldiers' graves. There were 
 many many of them. Two grave diggers were at 
 work constant work for them. A grave was always 
 ready prepared, and one was ready for us. Our cere- 
 monies were few and simple the squadron drew up in 
 line the coffin was lifted out the chaplain made a 
 prayer and we returned. 
 
 But in the same ambulance were two other coffins. 
 No companion had been with them at the hospital, and 
 no friends followed them to the grave. Unknown and, 
 save by us chance strangers, unnoticed, they were laid 
 to rest. This loneliness of their burial was very sad. 
 We gave them all we could a sigh, and paid them 
 such respect as the circumstances allowed. "We did not 
 know them who they were, or whence they came 
 only this, that they were American soldiers, fallen for 
 their country. 
 
 I have heard it said that this war will make us a 
 very warlike people. It is a mistake. Those who are 
 engaged in it, while they will be ready again to rise in 
 a just cause, will never wish for another war. I under- 
 stand now why officers of real experience be they ever 
 BO brave always dread a war. There are too many 
 such scenes as I have described. Yet do not think that
 
 THE HOSPITAL. 19 
 
 any waver in their determination and, while you pity, 
 do not waver yourselves. We may blame mismanage- 
 ment and neglect ; and we must try to alleviate suffer- 
 ing and prevent needless disease and death, and only in 
 the restoration of our Union hope for peace.
 
 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 n. 
 
 DONELSON. 
 
 SOME letters from New York have said, " If you are 
 ever in battle, do describe it." In this curiosity I have 
 myself shared, and have always longed to know not 
 only how the scene appeared, but "how the spectator 
 felt. I am able now to answer the question, and in 
 BO doing I will try and describe to you precisely how 
 the attack appeared to me, without entering into an 
 account of anything but what I saw, and how I felt. 
 
 It was by accident that I was at Fort Donelson, and 
 with the attacking column. My regiment left me at 
 St. Louis attending a court-martial. The court adjourned 
 soon afterward, and then, with another member, an 
 officer of the Fourteenth Iowa, I started for Fort Henry. 
 
 We descended the Mississippi to the narrow point 
 where the Ohio joins it, and on which are the fortifica- 
 tions of Cairo. At Cairo there were no boats, save those 
 of the government, conveying troops, and on one of 
 these we went. It was the McGill, and on board was 
 the regiment which was to lead the assault at Fort 
 Donelson, the Second Iowa. 
 
 Up to the time of starting we supposed that the 
 destination of the boat was Fort Henry, on the Tennes- 
 see. It was then announced, Fort Donelson on the
 
 DONELSON. 21 
 
 Cumberland. "We glided slowly up the Ohio, against 
 its swollen current, and passed the mouth of the Ten- 
 nessee during the night. I arose with the first gleam 
 of light,. and went on deck to find that we had entered 
 the Cumberland. It seemed a narrow river, winding 
 amid wooded hills and banks covered with noble oaks. 
 The soldiers, who had passed the warm, moonlit night 
 on deck, were rising, one by one, folding blankets and 
 packing knapsacks. I turned from them to the river, 
 and looked curiously for the people who dwelt in this, 
 the rebel part of Kentucky. 
 
 For a short time there was nothing but woods. Then 
 a little log house appeared upon the bank, a shed 
 beside it, with its single horse and cow. It was a 
 humble home, and hardly worth a second glance, a 
 hundred such might be seen on the banks of any river ; 
 but in front of the door stood a sturdy little flag-staff, 
 and from it waved the stars and stripes. The family 
 had risen at the sound of the steamer. The mother 
 stood in the doorway, holding an infant, and wav- 
 ing an apron. A little girl near by timidly tossed 
 her hood around her head. Two ragged boys at the 
 water's edge swung their caps joyfully. The father 
 stood on a stump, hurrahing alone but lustily ; and over 
 thsm, in the dim grey light, fluttered their little flag. 
 " They mean it," " They are honest," " There's no make- 
 believe there," were the exclamations of the soldiers, as 
 they crowded to the side of the boat and answered the 
 father and his boys with their louder cheers. This waa
 
 22 SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 
 
 the first house we saw, and the warmest welcome wo 
 received ; for though many hats were waved to us 
 during the day, and a few flags shown, none equalled, 
 in their manifest sincerity, the inmates of the little log 
 house. 
 
 The day was soft and beautiful. "We passed it upon 
 the upper deck, laughing, chatting, and watching the 
 shifting scenery of the winding river. A pleasure 
 excursion it seemed to all ; and again and again some 
 one would remark, "We may be on the brink of battle, 
 yet it seems as though we were travelling for pleasure." 
 
 Among the rough exteriors which campaigning gives, 
 two officers of the Second were remarkable for their 
 neat appearance. Some jokes were made at their 
 expense, calling them the dandies of the regiment, and 
 their state-rooms the band-boxes ; and it was agreed 
 that they were too handsome to be spoilt by scars. 
 Two days afterward one of these, Captain Sleighmaker, 
 fell at the head of his company, heroically charging the 
 rebel breastworks. A little later, as I was galloping 
 for the surgeons, I passed a wounded officer, borne by 
 four soldiers in a blanket. As I rode by he called out, 
 " We have carried the day, Captain." I looked around 
 and saw it was the other, Major Chipman. " Are you 
 badly hurt, Major," I said, pulling up my horse. "No, 
 not badly," he answered. "Don't stop for me;" and 
 when the surgeon arrived he refused to have his wound 
 dressed, and sent him to his men. 
 
 In the afternoon we overtook twenty steamboats laden
 
 DONELSON. 23 
 
 with troops, and led by four black gunboats. They moved 
 slowly and kept together, as if they feared approaching 
 danger. Then came a change of weather, and night 
 closed in upon us, dark and dreary, with cold and snow. 
 
 "When the next morning broke I found we had 
 made fast to the western shore. On either bank were 
 high and wooded hills. The gunboats lay anchored 
 in the middle of the stream, all signs of life hidden 
 beneath their dark decks, save the white steam that 
 slowly issued from their pipes, and floated gracefully 
 away. Far down the river could be seen the troop- 
 laden transports, moored to the trees along the bank. 
 The sky was clear and bright ; the forest sparkled with 
 snow, and the warm waters of the river smoked in the 
 frosty air. Such a picture I have never seen never 
 shall see again. As the troops began to debark, the 
 band of the Second Iowa came out on the upper deck, 
 and the dear "Star-spangled" echoed along the river. 
 The men beat time, and hurrahed as the notes died 
 away. 
 
 The place of landing was about three miles below 
 Fort Donelson. I may here say that the fort itself is 
 about half as large as the Battery, but that it is only a 
 corner of a large square of earthworks stretching some 
 two miles on each side. To avoid the cannon on the 
 works it was necessary for us to make a circuit of 
 several miles. The country was woods, high hills, and 
 deep ravines. A glen that we entered after leaving the 
 river bore a strange resemblance to one on my father's
 
 24 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 farm. As I looked around I could almost believe it 
 was the same, through which, on just such bright 
 winter mornings, I had driven the wood-sleigh or wan- 
 dered with my gun. But the troops were marching, 
 and I had no time to grow homesick. We passed, in 
 the course of our march, a little log house. I went up 
 to the door and spoke to the people. They seemed sad 
 and dispirited. There had been firing between the 
 pickets a day or two before, and a shower of balls had 
 pattered around the house. The woman said she 
 wished she were forty miles away, and the man said 
 ke would not care if he were a hundred. 
 
 A little girl was near the door, and I asked her what 
 was her name, to which she replied, after a good deal 
 of embarrassment, "Nancy Ann." I let Nancy Ann 
 look through my spyglass ; and, as she had never seen 
 or even heard of one before, she was very much aston- 
 ished. Nancy Ann's mother thereupon became quite 
 hospitable, and invited me to come in and rest, but the 
 column was then well nigh over the hill and I had to 
 push on. 
 
 At last we reached the position assigned to us, and 
 here we found the Fourteenth Iowa, to which my friend 
 belonged, and with it I determined to remain until I 
 could find my own regiment. 
 
 Around us were thick woods. A deep glen ran in 
 front, and beyond this, along the brow of the opposite 
 hill, ran those earthworks of the rebels which we wero 
 to win.
 
 DONELSON. 25 
 
 It was less than half a mile across ; and occasionally 
 a rifle ball fell near us, but the distance was too great 
 for them to be effective. I looked through the trees 
 and examined the hill with my glass, but could see 
 nothing save the ridge of fresh-turned earth. Along 
 the side of the hill were our sharpshooters watching 
 the works. I could see them crawling up behind treed 
 and stumps, sometimes dragging themselves along the 
 ground, sometimes on their hands and knees. Their 
 shots were frequent, and sounded as though a sporting 
 party were below us. It was hard to believe that they 
 were shooting at men. It was wonderful, too, how 
 soon the mind accustomed itself to these strange cir- 
 cumstances. After the first half hour we took no 
 more notice of the rifle shots than though some boys 
 were there at play. Behind those earthworks were 
 cannon as well as men. We were completely within 
 range, and they could have sent their shot and shell 
 amongst us at any time. The night before no fires had 
 been allowed, as they would indicate our position to the 
 rebels ; but they were now burning, and around one of 
 them three or four of us gathered to dine. As we sat 
 down upon a log, we heard distant sounds of cannon 
 along the river. " There go the gunboats ; the fight 
 has begun; they are shelling the rascals out," said 
 everybody. "We had taken for granted all the time, 
 and, indeed, up to the last minute, that the gunboats 
 would dismantle the fort, and that all we should have 
 to do would be to prevent the escape of the rebels. In 
 
 2
 
 26 SKETCHES OF THE WAB. 
 
 this we were much mistaken. The cannonade lasted an 
 hour, and then stopped. "We hoped the fort was taken, 
 but no such news came to gladden us. 
 
 In watching the earthworks, in talking and warming 
 ourselves at the camp-fires, the afternoon wore away. 
 Evening came, and it was determined to risk the fires. 
 Again we sat down beside one for supper. It consisted 
 of hard pilot-bread, raw pork and coffee. The coffee 
 you probably would not recognize in New York. 
 Boiled in an open kettle, and about the color of a 
 brown stone front, it was nevertheless our greatest 
 comfort, and the only warm thing we had. The pork 
 was frozen, and the water in the canteens solid ice, so 
 that we had to hold them over the fire when we wanted 
 a drink. No one had plates or spoons, knives or forks, 
 cups or saucers. "We cut off the frozen pork with our 
 pocket knives, and one tin cup, from which each took a 
 drink in turn, served the coffee. 
 
 It grew darker ; the camp-fires burned brightly, and 
 no threatening shot or shell had come from the Fort. 
 Our sharpshooters and sentinels were between us and 
 the rebels ; and it was determined that we might Bleep. 
 The men stacked their arms, and wrapped themselves 
 in their blankets around the fires. This was my first 
 night out. Hitherto my quarters had been in houses ; 
 I had not even passed a night in a tent. A life among 
 the comforts of New York is not a good preparative for 
 the field. I had looked forward to a tent at this season 
 with some little anxiety, but I was now to begin with-
 
 DONELSON. 27 
 
 out even that shelter. My water-proof blanket and 
 buffalo skin were also on board the steamer, so that I 
 had to trust to the better fortune of my friends for 
 these. We managed to find four blankets, two of them 
 were wet and frozen, and a buffalo skin. The snow 
 was scraped away from the windward side of the fire, 
 and the two frozen blankets were laid on the ground 
 a log was rolled up for a wind-break, and the buffalo 
 spread over the blankets. On thia four of us were 
 stretched, and very close and straight we had to lie. 
 It fared ill with the trappings of military life ; hand- 
 some great -coats were ignominiously rolled up like 
 horse-blankets, and my beautiful sabre (the gift of 
 North Moore street friends), ordinarily stained by no 
 speck of rust or drop of rain, was tossed out in the 
 snow, with pistols and spy-glasses, used in camp with 
 the same gentle treatment. 
 
 For a few minutes I kept awake ; the rebels were 
 but fifteen minutes distant, and if they chose to make a 
 night attack their shells might burst among us at any 
 moment. The snow-flakes began to fall faster and 
 faster. I slipt my head under the blanket and fell 
 asleep. I can imagine that you will say we were to be 
 pitied ; but never did I sleep more sweetly. Soon after 
 midnight the sound of cannon roused us. The snow 
 
 O 
 
 was three inches deep upon our blankets, yet we were 
 comfortable, and surprised to find it lying there. 
 The ground, however, had thawed beneath us ; and 
 when we rose, the snow crept in among our blankets
 
 28 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 and wet them. Lying down was out of the question ; 
 we bent down a couple of saplings and spread blankets 
 over them, making a little shed. Under this we crept, 
 after piling plenty of wood upon our fire. The soldier's 
 invariable comfort his pipe was at hand, and thus we 
 chatted, smoked and dozed till daylight.
 
 THE ASSAULT. 29 
 
 HI. 
 
 THE ASSAULT. 
 
 THE sun of Saturday rose bright and clear, and more 
 than one asked if it were an omen for us, or for the 
 foe. The morning passed as did the day before ; but 
 about noon, word came up that far down on our right 
 the rebels had attempted to cut their way out. They 
 were driven back, but the fight was bloody, and it was 
 said we had lost five hundred men. We were warned 
 to be watchful it was thought they might re-attempt 
 it near us. I have said we were in front of a large glen 
 or ravine ; on our right were numerous regiments, 
 making a chain which stretched to the river. On our 
 left was the Second Iowa. This was all that I had seen 
 of our position, and consequently is all that I shall 
 describe now, inasmuch as I am giving it to you 
 precisely as it appeared to me. Soon a mounted 
 orderly rode by, who told us. that a large body of 
 rebels were moving up opposite us. Our men were 
 called together, and stood near their stacked arms. A 
 little while and General Smith and his staff came up 
 they passed by in front of us, but said nothing. At 
 the same time the sharpshooters along the glen were 
 unusually active, and there were repeated shots by 
 them. We thought they saw the rebels mustering 
 behind the breastworks. Everything seemed to indi-
 
 30 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 cate a sally from the rebels, and that we were to drive 
 them back as they had been driven back in the morn- 
 ing. The men took their arms, officers loosened their 
 pistol holsters. I hooked up my cavalry sabre, unbut- 
 toned my great coat so that I could quickly throw it off, 
 and took my place beside the lieutenant-colonel with 
 whom I was to act. Then there came a painful, un- 
 pleasant pause ; we heard nothing saw nothing yet 
 knew that something was coming; what that some- 
 thing was no one could tell. A messenger came from 
 the general we were to move to the left and support 
 the Second Iowa. We supposed the rebels were crossing 
 a little higher up, and that the gap between us and the 
 Second was to be closed. The colonel gave the order 
 "left face," "forward march," and the regiment passed 
 along through the thick trees in a column of two abreast. 
 But the Second were not where they had been in the 
 morning ; we marched on, but did not come to them. 
 In a few moments we passed their camp fires a few 
 more, and we emerged on an open field. 
 
 At a glance, the real object of the movement was 
 apparent. It came upon us in an instant, like the 
 lifting of a curtain. The Fourteenth were hurrying 
 down through the field. The Second, in a long line, 
 were struggling up the opposite hill, where two glens 
 met and formed a ridge. It was high and steep, slippery 
 with mud and melted snow. At the top, the breast- 
 works of the rebels flashed and smoked, whilst to the 
 right and left, up either glen, cannon were thundering.
 
 THE ASSAULT. 31 
 
 The attempt seemed desperate. Down through the 
 field we went, and began to climb the hilL At the 
 very foot I found we were in the line of fire. Rifle 
 balls hissed over us, and bleeding men lay upon the 
 ground, or were dragging themselves down the hill. 
 From the foot to the breastworks the Second Iowa left a 
 long line of dead and wounded upon the ground. The 
 sight of these was the most appalling part of the 
 scene, and, for a moment, completely diverted my 
 attention from the firing. A third of the way up we 
 came under the fire of the batteries. The shot, and 
 more especially the shell, came with the rushing, 
 clashing of a locomotive on a railroad. You heard the 
 boom of the cannon up the ravine then the sound of 
 the shell and then felt it rushing at you. At the top 
 of the hill the firearms sounded like bundles of immense 
 powder crackers. They would go r-r-r-r-rap ; then 
 came the scattered shots, rap, rap rap-rap, rap ; then 
 some more fired together, rrrrrrap. This resemblance 
 \vas so striking that it impressed me at the moment. 
 
 The bursting of the shells produced much less effect 
 apparent effect, I mean than I anticipated. Their 
 explosion, too, was much like, a large powder cracker 
 thrown in the air. There wae a loud bang fragments 
 flew about, and all was over. It was so quickly done, 
 that you had no time to anticipate or think you were 
 killed or you were safe, and it was over. But the most 
 dispiriting thing was that we saw no enemy. The 
 batteries were out of sight, and at the breastworks
 
 32 SKETCHED OF THE WAR. 
 
 nothing could be seen but fire and smoke. It seemed 
 as though we were attacking some invisible power, and 
 that it was a simple question of time whether we 
 could climb that slippery steep before we were all shot 
 or not. But suddenly the firing at the summit ceased. 
 The Second Iowa had charged the works, and driven 
 out the regiments which held them. Then came the 
 fire of the Second upon our flying foes, and then loud 
 shouts along the line, " Hurrah, hurrah, the Second are 
 in hurry up, boys, and support them close up 
 forward forward." "We reached the top and scrambled 
 over the breastwork. I saw a second hill rising 
 gradually before us, and on the top of it a second 
 breastwork between us and it about four hundred 
 yards of broken ground. A second fire opened upon 
 us from these inner works. We were ordered back, 
 and, recrossing those we had taken, lay down upon the 
 outer side of the embankment. 
 
 The breastwork that Jiad sheltered the enemy now 
 sheltered us. It was about six feet high on our side, 
 and the men laid close against it. Occasionally a hat 
 was pushed up above it, and then a rifle ball would 
 come whistling over us from the second intrenchment. 
 The batteries also continued to fire, but the shot passed 
 lower down the hill, and did little execution. Havin^ 
 
 7 O 
 
 no specific duty to discharge, I turned, as soon as our 
 troops reached the breastworks, and gave my aid to 
 the wounded. 
 
 A singular fact for which I could not account was,
 
 THE ASSAULT. 33 
 
 that those near the foot of the hill were struck in the 
 legs ; higher up, the shots had gone through the body, 
 and near the breastworks, through the head. Indeed, 
 at the top of the hill I noticed no wounded ; all who 
 lay upon the ground there were dead. A little house 
 in the field was used as a hospital. I tore my handker- 
 chief into strips, and tied them round the wounds 
 which were bleeding badly, and made the men hold 
 snow upon them. I then took a poor fellow in my 
 arms to carry to the little house. "Throw down your 
 gun," I said, " you are too weak to carry it." " No, 
 no," he replied, "I will hold on to it as long as I am 
 alive." The house happened to be in the exact line of 
 one of the batteries, and as we approached it, the shot 
 flew over our path. Fortunately, the house was below 
 the range, but one came so low as to knock off a 
 shingle from the gable end. For a few minutes we 
 thought they were firing on the wounded. "We had no 
 red flag to display; but I found a man with a red 
 handkerchief, and tied it to a stick, and sent him on 
 the roof with it. "Within the house there were but 
 three surgeons at this time. One of them asked me to 
 take his horse and ride for the instruments, ambulances, 
 and assistants ; for no preparations had been made. It 
 was then I passed Major Chipman carried by his 
 soldiers. 
 
 When I returned, the ambulances were busy at their 
 work ; numerous couples of soldiers were supporting 
 off wounded friends, and occasionally came four, car- 
 
 2*
 
 34 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 rying one in a blanket. The wounded men generally 
 showed the greatest heroism. They hardly ever alluded 
 to themselves, but shouted to the artillery that we met 
 to hurry forward, and told stragglers that we had 
 carried the day. One poor boy, carried in the arms of 
 two soldiers, had his foot knocked off by a shell ; it 
 dangled horribly from his limb by a piece of skin, and 
 the bleeding stump was uncovered. I stopped to tell 
 the men to tie his stocking round the limb, and to 
 put snow upon the wound. " Never mind the foot, 
 captain," said he, " we drove the rebels out, and have 
 got their trench, that's the most I care about." Yet I 
 confess the sights and sounds were not as distressing as 
 I anticipated. The small round bullet holes, though 
 they might be mortal, looked no larger than a surgeon's 
 lancet might have made. Only once did I hear dis- 
 tressing groans. A poor wretch in an ambulance 
 shrieked whenever the wheels struck a stump. There 
 was no help for it. The road was through the wood, 
 the driver could only avoid the trees, and drive on 
 regardless of his agony. 
 
 You will perhaps ask how I felt in the fight. There 
 was nothing upon which I had had so much curiosity 
 as to what my feelings would be. Much to my surprise 
 I found myself unpleasantly cool. I did not get 
 excited, and felt a great want of something to do. I 
 thought if I only had something my own company to 
 lead on, or somebody to order, I should have much less 
 to think about. There seemed such a certainty of
 
 THE ASSAULT. 35 
 
 being hit that I felt certain I should be, and after a few 
 minutes had a vtfgue sort of wish that it would come if 
 it were coming, and be over with. The alarming effect 
 of the bullets and shells was less than I supposed it 
 would be, and my strongest sensation of danger was 
 produced by the sight of the dead and wounded. The 
 thing I was most afraid of was a panic among our men, 
 and when the Seventh Illinois was ordered to fall back 
 down the hill, I so much feared that the men might 
 deem it a retreat that I entirely forgot the firing, and 
 walked down in front of them talking to their major, 
 so that any frightened man in the ranks might be 
 reassured by our " matter of course " air. Take it 
 altogether, I think I felt and acted pretty much as I do 
 in any unusual and exciting affair, I know I found 
 myself looking for an illustration of the effect of the 
 shells, and wondering if there \vas no greater and 
 grander illustration of the musketry than a bunch of 
 powder crackers. I remember that I did little things 
 from habit, as usual ; when I threw off my overcoat, 
 for example, I took a pipe which a friend had given 
 me from the pocket, lest it should be lost ; and I 
 remember that I once corrected my grammar when I 
 inadvertently adopted the western style of telling the 
 men to lay down, and as I did so, I thought that one 
 or two people at North Moore street would have been 
 very apt to laugh if they had heard it. Yet for all 
 this, I was by no means unconscious of danger. Some 
 officers seemed utterly indifferent to it. Thus, in the
 
 36 SKETCHES OF THE WAB. 
 
 fight of Thursday, Colonel Shaw, of the Fourteenth, 
 after ordering his men to lie down, not only remained 
 on horseback, but crossed his legs over the pommel of 
 the saddle, sitting sidewise to be more comfortable. 
 The sharpshooters of the enemy concentrated their fire 
 on him, he being the only person visible. As the 
 bullets thickened about him, the colonel said indig- 
 nantly, " those rascals are firing at me, I shall have to 
 move," and he threw his leg back, and walked his 
 horse down to the other end of the line'. 
 
 Our men lay in the trench all night, exposed to the 
 western wind, which blew keenly round the summit of 
 the hill a large force of the enemy within a few yards, 
 able to rush upon them at any moment. 
 
 I had gone back just after dark, with the adjutant, 
 who had been hurt by the explosion of a shell, and my 
 return with him saved me this. When morning came, 
 we went back. As we reached the foot of the hill, wo 
 were told that a white flag had been displayed, and an 
 officer had gone into the fort, but that the time was 
 nearly up, and the attack was now to be renewed. 
 We hurried on, expecting in a few moments to be in a 
 second assault. We had nearly reached the trenches, 
 
 yhen the men sprang from tLe ditch to the top of tho 
 oreastwork, waving the colors and giving wild hurrahs. 
 The fort had surrendered. 
 
 There was a load lifted off my mind, and I stopped 
 to look around. The first glance fell on the blue coats 
 scattered through the felled trees and stumps. The
 
 THE ASSAULT. 37 
 
 march of our troops up the hill had been somewhat 
 in the form of a broom. Until near the top they had 
 been in column, leaving a long, narrow line like the 
 handle, and, as they rushed at the breastwork, they had 
 spread out like the broom. This ground was plainly 
 marked by the dead. Now that my attention was 
 given, I was surprised to find how many were strewn 
 upon the narrow strip. Here was one close to me; 
 about the width of a class-room beyond was another ; a 
 little further on two had fallen, side by side. In a little 
 triangle I counted eighteen bodies, and many I knew 
 had been carried off during the night. Still the scene 
 was not so painful as the dead-room of the hospital at 
 St. Louis. The attitudes were peaceful. The arms were 
 in all but one case thrown naturally over the breast, aa 
 in sleep ; and no face gave any indication of a painful 
 death. I "\issed on and entered the breastwork. It was 
 about '/lie height of a man. On top was a large log, 
 and between the log and the earthwork a narrow slit. 
 Through this they had fired on us. The log had hidden 
 their heads, so that, while we were in plain view, they 
 were to us an invisible foe. Immediately within were 
 six more bodies of the Second Iowa, and one in simple 
 homespun. He was the only one of the enemy upon 
 the ground. The soldiers, gathering around him, looked^ 
 as I did myself, with some curiosity upon one M'ho 
 had thus met the punishment of his treason. He had 
 been shot through the back of the head while running, 
 and his face expressed only wonderment and fright. It 
 
 207025
 
 38 SKETCHES OF THE WAK. 
 
 showed him a country-bred youth, illiterate, unculti- 
 vated a contrast to the still intelligent faces that lay 
 around him. 
 
 Meanwhile our troops were forming along the hill to 
 take possession of the fort. All voices declared that 
 the Second Iowa should lead. As it moved past the 
 other regiments to the head of the column, the men 
 cheered them, and the officers uncovered ; but they 
 seemed sad and wearied. I looked along their line, 
 and found of the officers I knew hardly one was there. 
 
 It was a beautiful sight to see regiment after regi- 
 ment mount the second breastwork, and watch them 
 successively halt and cheer, and wave their colors as 
 they crossed. I pushed on, scrambled over it, and 
 found myself in the midst of five hundred of the pri- 
 soners. They were strange figures, in white blanket or 
 carpet coats, having the same unintelligent faces as the 
 one who had been killed outside. I stared at them, and 
 they at me. They looked crestfallen and confused, but 
 showed little feeling; and during the day I saw but 
 few faces of common soldiers that awakened any pity. 
 They, poor fellows, sat sadly looking at the scene. To 
 one of them I spoke. He said he had done nothing to 
 bring on the war ; he had been for the Union, and had 
 only enlisted a month Before to avoid being impressed. 
 His family lived, or had lived (he did not know where 
 they were now), within a mile, and he would give a 
 great, great deal to see them for only a minute. " Will 
 your officers let me write to tell them I am alive ?"
 
 THE ASSAULT. 39 
 
 "To bo sure they will." "And will we be furnished 
 with food?" "Yes, the same as our own soldiers." 
 "Most of our men expected, if we surrendered un- 
 conditionally, that you would kill us." " You see we 
 have not done so." " No, they have treated us very 
 kindly : we have been deceived." Such was the tenor 
 of our conversation. I may here say that our men 
 behaved admirably ; and I did not hear of a single 
 indignity being offered to any of our prisoners. A few 
 sentinels were placed around a regiment of prisoners, 
 and, so far as appearances went, half of them might 
 have escaped. But the woods around the fort contained 
 regiments of our troops, and they knew the attempt 
 would be hopeless. "We were assigned the quarters of 
 the Fiftieth Tennessee, and I slept in what had been 
 the colonel's. It was a nice little house of oak blocks, 
 laid up so that the wood and bark alternated, giving a 
 very pretty tesselate'd appearance. They had all sorts 
 of comforts, which we had never even hoped for at 
 Camp Benton ; and while we supposed they had been 
 roughing it, found we had been roughing it ourselves. 
 
 We invited the colonel and some of his officers to 
 spend the night with us. I confess they behaved with 
 dignity. They made no complaints, and submitted 
 with quiet resignation to their changed circumstances ; 
 but they were Tennesseans, and though they made no 
 professions in words, convinced us that they had been 
 Union men at heart and wished the Union back again. 
 One of us remarked, that if those who had been released
 
 40 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 Ik 
 
 heretofore had not abused it, and violated their pledges 
 and oaths, the prisoners at Fort Donelson would pro- 
 bably be released in th-e same way. The lieutenant- 
 colonel said he wished it could be so ; he was confident 
 none of his men would be thus guilty. " But," he 
 added, " I don't blame the Government for sending us 
 North ; I acknowledge that I am a rebel taken in arms, 
 and it is fully justified in treating me accordingly." 
 -It was a novelty indeed, thus spending the evening 
 with our late opponents. "We made no allusions that 
 could hurt their feelings, but talked over the events of 
 the siege until a late hour. They told us the surrender 
 was a thunder-clap to all. The men, and most of the 
 officers, had not seen how completely they were sur- 
 rounded, and had been made to believe that they were 
 successful. The evening before they were told this, 
 and in the morning it was announced that their gene- 
 rals had run away, and they were prisoners of war. 
 
 I now began to look about me and feel a little of the 
 confusion that follows a battle. My trunk had been 
 left on the steamer, and the steamer had moved ; my 
 blankets had been left in a hospital tent, and the 
 hospital tent had disappeared ; my regiment was 
 fourteen miles off, at Fort Henry ; the biscuit and 
 coffee on which we had lived were gone, and provisions 
 had not followed us into the fort. I procured a cap- 
 tured horse, and the next morning started at daylight 
 for Fort Henry. As I passed a regiment in the woods, 
 the commissary was dealing out a biscuit and a handful
 
 THE ASSAULT. 41 
 
 of sugar to each man for breakfast. He good naturedly 
 said lie would give me my share. After a long ride, 
 I found my men camped in some woods, all well and 
 bitterly disappointed at not having been at Fort 
 Donelson.
 
 42 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 IV. 
 
 FORAGING 
 
 IN this military life, I .find there is much quiet time, 
 when the hours pass slowly and the men yawn and 
 wish for something to do. With every change of 
 camp, reading matter is lost or left behind ; orders, too, 
 have been given that the quantity of baggage be 
 reduced ; and here, in Tennessee, newspapers and letters 
 hardly ever come. It is pleasant, then, to sit as I do 
 now, under a tree in the warm sun, and talk with 
 pencil and paper to your distant friends. 
 
 My previous letters have had so much in them 
 gloomy or painful, that this time I will choose a more- 
 pleasant subject, and give you an account of my First 
 Foraging. 
 
 Gipsy is the prettiest of horses. I should fail to 
 describe my excursion, if I failed to describe Gipsy. 
 Gipsy is one of those happy beings that everybody 
 likes. ~No one ever quarrels with her. She has never 
 been struck with a whip or touched by the spur, and 
 knows not what either means. The soldiers all know 
 Gipsy, and the Germans, who are always sociably 
 inclined, generally say as they pass her, " Good morn- 
 ing, Shipsy;" at which Shipsy looks as pleased as 
 anybody could. Gipsy is a small specimen of the
 
 FORAGING. 4:3 
 
 Black Hawk race, jet black in color, and almost as 
 delicate and agile in form as a greyhound, with the 
 mischievous, restless eyes of a bright terrier. 
 
 Gipsy has several feminine traits of character a 
 good deal of vanity with a little affectation, and is 
 withal something of a flirt. Put on a common soldier's 
 bridle, and she goes very quietly ; but change it for a 
 handsome brass- mounted one, and Gipsy tosses her 
 head as though the bridle were a new bonnet. If you 
 say, " Come here, Gipsy," Gipsy walks off the other 
 way ; if you call her very loudly, Gipsy pricks up her 
 ears, and seems completely absorbed in some object 
 half a mile off; but walk away, and Gipsy puts up a 
 piteous whinny, for you to come back and make it up. 
 When I am riding alone, Gipsy generally does pretty 
 much as she pleases now trotting, now cantering, now 
 dashing up hill on a gallop, her ears always pricked 
 up, and her bright eyes examining every object on the 
 road. When we come suddenly out of the woods 
 upon a fine prospect, Gipsy stops and looks it over, 
 with as much interest as though she were a landscape 
 painter. If we come to a narrow stream, Gipsy (who 
 greatly dislikes to wet her feet) stops again, looks 
 deliberately up and down, selects the narrowest place, 
 and then, without asking anybody's leave, proceeds 
 there and bounds over. When thus riding without a 
 companion, I find it very interesting to watch the 
 beautiful intelligence of my little mare. 
 
 On her arrival at Fort Henry, Gipsy was greatly dis-
 
 44 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 gusted with Tennessee. For the clear, prairie fields of 
 Missouri, she found nothing but thick woods, steep hills 
 and muddy roads no chance for her to run races or 
 frolic here. For a week, the rain has fallen steadily on 
 Gipsy ; her water-proof blanket has kept her dry ; but 
 she is knee deep in mud, and has not lain down for 
 three nights. ]STo wonder she puts her ears back, and 
 tries to look sulky. But an order has come for me to 
 go with half the squadron and search for forage. The 
 saddle and bridle are brought from the tent, and Gipsy 
 brightens up at the sight. The men are soon ready ; the 
 clouds break away ; the sun comes out ; Gipsy takes her 
 place at the head of the column, and throws her heels 
 joyously in the air, champing the bit and tossing the 
 white foam over her jetty coat. 
 
 The road is but a bridle-path through woods. The 
 path is narrow, and the men must ride " by file." Per- 
 haps you do not know that " by file," means one behind 
 the other ; " by twos," two side by side ; and " by 
 fours," four side by side. The next formation is " by 
 platoon," or a quarter of a company; and the next 
 " by squadron," or an entire company. We emerge 
 on a small farm, waste and desolate. Straggling sol- 
 diers have broken into the house, and scattered about 
 what few effects the rebel owner left. It is the first 
 deserted house I have seen, and the sight is rather sad. 
 Our road leads us again into the woods, and then brings 
 us into the valley of the Tennessee, and follows the 
 windings of the river. "We pass several farms, small
 
 FOKAGING. 45 
 
 and poorlj cultivated, with rude timber houses, by 
 which I mean houses of squared logs. The chimneys are 
 always built entirely on the outside, and are generally 
 of sticks and mud, instead of tri2\s and mortar. Occa- 
 sionally we halt to ask questions. The people are not 
 surly, but they do not smile. This is the worst part of 
 Tennessee, and it is plain they have sons and brothers 
 among the prisoners of Fort Donelson. But at one 
 house the man comes eagerly forward and his face 
 lights ; his wife, too, comes out, and says she almost 
 hopes to see some face she knows. They have lived 
 long here, but the man is from Eastern Tennessee, and 
 thei woman from Northern Alabama those two rem- 
 nants of the South that hung to the Union till the last. 
 He tells us that the country produces little besides pigs 
 and corn. . " It is pork and corn dodger," lie says, " at 
 breakfast, dinner and tea all the year round." I ask 
 wliere they grind the corn, and he mentions a large 
 mill now despoiled by its owner, who took himself off 
 to Memphis, and a little mill some three miles distant, 
 owned by the " Widow Williams." It is an object to 
 have some corn meal, so I determine to visit the 
 Widow Williams' mill. The road to the mill turns 
 abruptly from the river, and goes up a brook. We pass 
 a few houses, scattered at intervals in the woods. The 
 road is so much better than the other, that the men ride 
 " by twos ;" and so it should be, for it is the. road from 
 Dover to Paris. We pass one or two houses, whose 
 owners are suspiciously young widows ; in other words,
 
 46 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 we suspect that their deceased husbands are fighting 
 with the rebels. At last we come to the Widow "Wil- 
 liams, whom we do not suspect ; for she is a grey-haired 
 matron, who has seen sorrow, and she sits on the rude 
 piazza with a family around her. The girls look ner- 
 vously at us, for we are the first troop of soldiers they 
 have had halt. The widow rises as I ride up, and says, 
 with a good deal of dignity, " Please to alight, gentle- 
 men;" and I take her at her word, and order, "dis- 
 mount." I ask her if she can grind us some meal, and 
 she rises in our good opinion by saying, " Not to-day, 
 this is Sunday." It is indeed ; but very little like one 
 to us ; we had almost forgotten the day. I then buy a 
 bushel of meal for my own men, and go down with the 
 widow's eldest son, who is a lad of fifteen, to get the 
 meal and view the mill a tiny little affair, and two of 
 the men, who are millers, laugh when they see it. On 
 coming back to the house, I find a group of the men 
 have made themselves quite agreeable. They have 
 come from the city, and doubtless are more refined and 
 polished than any men these country girls have seen 
 before. The youngest is some ten years old, named 
 Martha, and I ask her if she is not afraid of us Northern 
 mercenaries. Martha says no ! and laughs at the idea ; 
 but when I ask her if we have not been called all sorts 
 of names, and if she has not been told that we would 
 burn her mother's house down, and cut her head off, 
 Martha blushes, and the older sisters look confused. It 
 is evident that we have had a very bad name here, and
 
 FORAGING. 47 
 
 that they are now ashamed to own it. But we have a 
 long circuit to make ; the meal is stowed away in the 
 haversacks ; Widow Williams invites us to call again, 
 and assures us we shall be welcome ; I pretend to 
 arrest Martha, and carry her off as prisoner ; at which 
 she is a little frightened and the rest a good deal 
 amused; and then "fall in," "mount," "march," and 
 off we go. 
 
 Gipsy is the smallest horse in the regiment, but to-day 
 her feelings have been immense. She has borne herself 
 as much like Gen. Washington's great charger as pos- 
 sible, and lias champed the bit more fiercely and pranced 
 more proudly than even he did. Her front is white 
 with foam, and every look shows that she deems the 
 head of the column her proper place. Whenever any 
 horse has come within a respectful distance, Gipsy's 
 heels have flown higher than his head, admonishing 
 him, that whatever happens, she must be first. But the 
 road, which has followed the bank, now crosses the 
 brook. There is no friendly bridge to lift us over the 
 road leads down the bank, straight into the water. 
 That water is wider than Sixth Avenue, and the recent 
 rain has made it a roaring torrent no one knows how 
 deep, and it splashes and dashes fearfully. Gipsy looks 
 up looks down ; no narrow place appears for her to 
 bound over. Half of her airs and graces drop off at the 
 sight. She hesitates a moment the tramp of the horses 
 behind tells her that she must decide quickly. She 
 screws her courage up, and marches heroically down
 
 48 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 the bank. The first plunge, and the water dashes up on 
 her breast it is a foot higher on one side than the 
 other, so swift is the current. It is cold and very wet 
 it roars louder than ever, and who can tell how deep it 
 is ahead. Poor Gipsy ! the last of the airs and graces 
 are gone ; so is her resolution. She wheels ingloriously 
 round, and throws herself submissively behind the lead- 
 ing sergeant's horse. Him she follows meekly through 
 the stream ; on the other side, she continues so for a few 
 yards; then she steals a glance ahead. There is no 
 more water with its horrid noise in sight. She gives a 
 slight champ on the bit, and moves up beside the 
 sergeant's horse. A good, long look assures her of a 
 dry road ahead. She bounds past, the airs and graces 
 fly back as swiftly as they flew away; and in five 
 minutes she is as vain a little Gipsy as ever she 
 was before. 
 
 But it is one o'clock horses and men are hungry, 
 and just beyond us is a house. We see chickens, cows, 
 sheep and pigs, but no smoke rises from the chimney. 
 We halt ; the sergeant enters the open door ; comes 
 back and reports it just what we want a deserted 
 house. In a few minutes the horses are unsaddled and 
 tied to the fence, munching the corn we find in two 
 large cribs. The poor cows welcome us, for they have 
 not been fed since their owner ran away, and are almost 
 starved. My order to the men is to take nothing but 
 food, and to injure nothing needlessly. The sheep are 
 caught, pronounced too thin, and let loose. But the
 
 FORAGING. 4:9 
 
 chickens and pigs after them there is a chase. There 
 are shouts of excitement, intermingled with roars of 
 laughter, us sonic brave pig charges between his pur- 
 suer's feet, and trips him up, and with the squeals and 
 cacklings of the victims as they are caught Within 
 the house, we find a few things left, which the poor 
 creatures probably overlooked as they hurried away. 
 There is a jar of molasses on the shelf; a bag of dried 
 peaches in the closet ; a haunch of smoked venison, and 
 a barrel of black walnuts in the garret. These last are 
 a source of great entertainment for the men, who not 
 only enjoy the most unusual luxury, but exult in the 
 thought of a run-away rebel gathering nuts for them, 
 and crack many jokes as they crack the shells. But the 
 poor children, who picked them for their winter treat, 
 now wandering homeless, and countryless, wlro can 
 guess where ! We have been so bred to respect private 
 rights, that as I sit watching the men gather up the 
 pigs and poultry, and fill their sacks with corn, I have 
 a slight fear that the former owner may appear and 
 charge us with stealing the property which his treason 
 has forfeited to the Government. But no owner appears. 
 The horses have done their corn and the men their 
 biscuit ; the molasses has been emptied into canteens, 
 and a large bundle of corn leaves tied to every saddle 
 we must start. 
 
 * 
 
 Down the Dover road we go a mile or two, then 
 turn up another bridle-path, which crosses and recrosses 
 a little rill some thirty times. Two men ride before 
 
 3
 
 50 SKETCHES OF THE WAK. 
 
 us, partly to accustom themselves to the duties of 
 advance guard, partly to point out the intricate road. 
 As we come round a turn, there are a farmer and his 
 daughter (a young girl) on horseback before us. They 
 have met the advance guard, and have stopped, and 
 are looking back at them with fearful interest, com- 
 pletely absorbed in the sight. They do not even hear 
 our approach, and I get near enough to hear the girl 
 asking her father about these two Federal soldiers. 
 The squadron is marching " by twos," and there is not 
 room enough to pass. Ordinarily, private persons 
 would have to get out of the way ; but I think this a 
 beautiful opportunity to be very polite, so I command 
 " by file." Man and girl turn their heads as though a 
 gun had gone off close to their ears. Such a look of 
 , fear and surprise I have never seen as in the poor girl's 
 face. They are so hemmed in that they have to stand 
 still until the whole column passes one by one, and the 
 last we see of them they continue to stand there, look- 
 ing back at us. It must seem like a vision, and they 
 will have a tremendous tale to tell when they reach 
 home. This road is so secluded that none of our sol- 
 diers have found it, and we cause a great stir in the 
 few houses we pass. My men march silently, more 
 like regulars than volunteers, and the inhabitants con- 
 fess that they find in us an unexpected contrast to the 
 noisy, yelling rascals, who a few weeks before were 
 plundering them, for the good of the Southern Con- 
 federacy.
 
 FOK AGING. 51 
 
 The sun has gone down, and the moon has risen, and 
 we are on the main road from Fort Donelson, and will 
 reach our camp soon, and have a good supper, and rest 
 sweetly in our tents after our day's ride. We think 
 over what we will have for supper, and debate whether 
 the pigs, or chickens, or corn-meal can be added to the 
 rations we shall find in camp. "We are reckoning like 
 inexperienced soldiers. The uncertainty of legal, is 
 nothing to the uncertainty of military life. In the law 
 you can at least calculate on your breakfast, and a part 
 of your bed ; but in camp you can calculate on nothing. 
 We approach Fort Henry, and plunge into the mud 
 that environs our camp. We struggle through till we 
 come to the trees where the horses should be tied, and 
 to the little knoll where the tents should be pitched. 
 We look around in vague astonishment horses, and 
 men, and tents have vanished ; all is darkness and 
 silence ; our camp has gone. To come home and find 
 your home absconded, to leave your house in the 
 morning and find it has walked away at the evening, is 
 something new. Searching in the- darkness for the new 
 camp is folly; there is nothing to be done but wait till 
 to-morrow. It is very easy to say wait, but how are 
 we to wait f If we had some beds to wait in, and 
 some supper to wait for, it M*ould be tolerable ; but \ve 
 were only going for a little while, so we left our 
 blankets, and it was such a fine day that we did not 
 take our overcoats. Who would have dreamt of the 
 colonel playing us such a trick ? At Fort Donelson I
 
 52 SKETCHES OP THE WAE. 
 
 learned the first lesson " do not trust to your trunk ;" 
 now I have to learn the second " do not trust to your 
 camp." Hereafter I will not leave for half an hour 
 without having my blanket rolled behind, and my over- 
 coat strapped before. If I only had them now ! But 
 lamenting will do no good ; something must be done. 
 " Who has got any matches ?" " Smith and Jones." 
 "Then Smith and Jones light a fire." The fire soon 
 blazes up and discloses a small pile, which the wagons 
 have overlooked. There are a few blankets and over- 
 coats, three plates, a couple of mess-pans, and one 
 camp-kettle. A new discovery is made some coifee and 
 a sack of meat. "What kind?" "Pork." "Hurrah! 
 we're all right now." " No, salt beef." " Pshaw ! 
 What do they send salt beef to the army for ? If it 
 had only been pork, we could have toasted it on sticks, 
 and fried it on plates, and broiled it on the coals, and 
 have greased the pans with it ; but this beef, we can do 
 nothing with." But we have the bushel of meal I 
 fortunately bought, and the chickens. Pick the chick- 
 ens, and cut them up ; mix' some meal and water, and 
 make corn dodgers, as the Tennessians do. There are 
 the plates to bake it on, and we can try baking it in the 
 ashes. But the coflfee everybody looks forward to it 
 no matter if it is poor and weak. Without milk, 
 without sugar, and full of grounds, it is always the 
 tired soldier's great restorative, his particular comfort. 
 Our camp-kettle is set apart for it. The chickens must 
 be stewed in pans and roasted on sticks. The camp-
 
 FORAGING. 53 
 
 kettle is sacred for tlie coffee. " Captain," says some- 
 body, " tills coffee is not ground, and we have no mill. 
 What shall we do?" "What indeed shall we do?" 
 We must have coffee, and some one hits on the remedy ; 
 we take the tough linen bag of a haversack, put the 
 coffee in it, and pound it on a log. Somewhat to our 
 surprise, we find that it is soon well ground, and in the 
 course of half an hour we have as good coffee as usual. 
 Chicken and corn dodgers come along more slowly, but 
 after awhile we sit around the fire to eat them ; and 
 everybody declares that he has had enough, and that it 
 is very good. From supper to bed. The corn forage 
 that we brought for the horses must be used for blan- 
 kets. Spread on the ground, it makes a comfortable 
 mattress. I have said that we had left our blankets ; 
 but, nevertheless, every man has one. Some years ago, 
 a young cavalry captain, named McClellan, who (in my 
 opinion) does all things quietly but well, observed that 
 the padding of a saddle frequently got out of order, 
 causing the poor horse a sore back, and requiring a 
 saddler to put it in order again. He also remarked 
 that the pad was of no other use than to play the part 
 of cushion between the saddle and the horse's back. 
 He thereupon introduced into the army what is now 
 known as the, McClellan saddle. It is made of wood, 
 hollowed out so that on the one side it makes a com- 
 fortable seat for the man, and on the other conforms to 
 the shape of the horse. A narrow slit is cut out over 
 the backbone, which not only saves the horse's spine,
 
 54: SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 * 
 
 but makes it much more cool and comfortable for him. 
 And, -finally, the padding consists of a horse blanket 
 folded up. Thus, to the wise, judicious foresight of 
 General McClellan, each of us is indebted for a blanket. 
 
 Lying on my cornleaf couch, and looking up at the 
 clear sky, within the glow of our fire, is as pleasant a 
 situation after a long ride as one could desire. I think 
 it delightful, and while thinking so, drop asleep. But 
 there is one more lesson in store for us before daylight. 
 After some hours, I am awoke by a tremendous noise. 
 There are no stars now. The sky is black as ink the 
 darkness is such that we can see nothing but the half- 
 burnt brands of the fires. The wind howls through 
 the trees like a pack of wolves, and scatters our fires so 
 that the coals fly over our heads, and fall on our 
 blankets and beds. The rain is not come yet, but is 
 coming we shall be drenched, and then have to sit up 
 in the darkness and shiver till daylight. It is a dismal 
 prospect. Fitter, patter on the leaves. Now we are 
 in for it : the drops thicken ; in a minute we shall be 
 as wet as water. But Nature only means to give us a 
 fright. The rain does not increase the drops stop 
 the wind howls less loudly. Soon, through a rent in 
 the clouds is seen a star, and then another. The rent, 
 grows larger, and every one takes a long breath, and 
 says, "The storm has passed round." AVe lie down 
 again, and wake up to find it a bright, frosty morning. 
 
 After an hour's ride, We have found the new camp. 
 It is on a beautiful wooded slope, overlooking the river
 
 FORAGING. 55 
 
 and the fort, and on either side a clear, little rill trickles 
 through the trees. Our tents are pitched on one, and 
 the horses picketed on the other. None of us have 
 ever seen so beautiful a camp before ; and, as wo dis- 
 mount, the bugles blow the breakfast call.
 
 56 SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 
 
 V. 
 
 A FLAG OF TRUCE. 
 
 OFR regiment has left its pleasant camp near Fort 
 Henry, and has crossed the Tennessee and encamped in 
 a small field about three miles above the fort. I 
 happened to be in command when we halted here, and 
 named the camp after our colonel. 
 
 It is a rainy day in camp since morning it has been 
 rain, rain, rain. The camp seems deserted ; save here 
 and there you see a man, with blanket drawn close 
 over head and shoulders, plod heavily and slowly 
 through the mud. The horses stand with heads down, 
 and drooping ears, stock still nothing moves but the 
 rain, and that straight down. There is no light 
 umbrella, nor rattling omnibus in camp; nor dry 
 stockings, nor warm fire to find, at home. The tents 
 are tired of shedding rain, and it oozes through; there 
 were no spades to trench them, "and it runs under. 
 There is water above, and mud beneath, and wet 
 everywhere. No fun in soldiering now. 
 
 An officer says, " Captain, you will report immedi- 
 ately for orders." So I wrap my blanket round me, 
 and toil over to the colonel's tent. The colonel is a 
 young man, but an old soldier, and has the only fire in 
 camp. It is close to the tent door no danger on such
 
 A FLAG OF TEUCE. 57 
 
 a day of the canvas catching fire the smoke occa- 
 sionally blows in, but so does the heat, and the colonel 
 says he will keep it up all night. He pitched his tent, 
 too, the moment he arrived, not waiting for the clouds, 
 and did it well. His alone is comfortable so much 
 for being a " regular," and learning your lessons from 
 experience. 
 
 The colonel hands me the order, which runs thus 
 "To-morrow, Captain N. will proceed with a flag of 
 truce to Paris, and remove our wounded, left there at 
 the recent engagement. Should they be held as pri- 
 soners of war, he is authorized to make an exchange, 
 and will take with him the surgeon and an ambulance, 
 and four of his own men." 
 
 The colonel then advises me to see the officer who 
 commanded the late expedition to Paris, and learn 
 from him the names of the wounded, and the roads. I 
 go to his tent and find that he is sick, and has secured a 
 little hospital stove, which puifs and blows like a loco- 
 motive baby. There is also an old gentleman there ; 
 whose son \vas taken prisoner by us at Paris. He has 
 brought in the body of an officer who died of his 
 wounds, and he hopes to procure the release of his son, 
 now on his way to St. Louis. Mr. Clokes lives on the 
 Paris road, and it is arranged that he ride back with 
 the surgeon in our ambulance. 
 
 I plod back to our tent ; the water has run in, and it 
 is ankle-deep in mud. Though the sun is hardly down, 
 my two lieutenants have gone to bed, for there is no 
 
 2*
 
 58 8KETC1IKS OF THE WAR. 
 
 place to sit up, and nothing to see, or hear, or do. I 
 may as well turn in, too; but there rises a serious ques- 
 tion. My boots are mud from top to bottom, and 
 wringing wet. If I pull them off, I may not be able to 
 pull them on, and a man cannot carry a flag of truce 
 without boots. If I leave them on, I shall have to 
 go to bed without my feet, for it will never do to put 
 that mass of mud into your blankets, and they feel like 
 lumps of ice now. What shall I do ? I will pull them 
 off, and will get up before reveille (an hour, if neces- 
 sary) and pull them on again. So I pull off the boots, 
 and lie down in my wet clothes, and wrap myself in 
 my wet blanket, and remember that I have not had 
 anything since a scant noonday dinner. 
 
 You get hungry in camp, and must be fed. Our 
 camp chest is packed up under a tree, but on the 
 other side of the tent is a pan with some stewed goose 
 and corn bread. I cannot step into the mud unless I 
 struggle into those boots again ; but near me is an axe. 
 I slip down to the end of the cot, and, with the axe, 
 fish the pan of goose out of the little lake it stands in. 
 The unhappy bird swims in a gravy of rainwater, and 
 the corn bread is soaking wet ; plates and forks are in 
 the camp chest ; but I have my pocket-knife, and with 
 it eat a saltless supper. 
 
 My little German orderly comes in after awhile, and, 
 giving a soldier's salute with great ceremony notwith- 
 standing the rain, says : 
 
 " Captain, fot orders."
 
 A FLAG OF TRUCE. 59 
 
 ' t 
 
 " BischofF, we must have some coffee. Tell Anderson 
 (our contraband) to bring it." 
 
 " But, captain," says Bischoff, " the tent, he blow 
 down the cook, he go away to a barn the fire, he go 
 out the w r ood. he is wet and will no burn." 
 
 " But, Bischoff, we must have some coffee, we shall 
 die if we don't. There is the coffeepot, with a package 
 of ground coffee inside get some water, and go up to 
 Captain K.'s tent, and ask him to let you make it on 
 the stove." 
 
 " Yes, captain," and Bischoff departs. 
 
 By and by he comes back with the coffee ; we sit up 
 and drink it scalding hot, and, quite revived, say, "now 
 for^a smoke." My pipe and tobacco bag are always in 
 my pocket those North Moore street bags are much 
 more useful than their makers ever dreamt they would 
 be a dry match is at last induced to go, the wet 
 blankets grow warmer, and we express the opinion that 
 " this is really comfortable." 
 
 "Well, captain, any more order?" says Bischoff, who 
 is also revived by his share of the coffee. 
 
 " Yes, Bischoff, tell Sergeant Starleigh to be ready, with 
 two men, to go with me in the morning you will be the 
 fourth ; and mind and have the horses ready by seven." 
 
 " Yes, captain." 
 
 Bischoff goes out, draws the tent opening closely 
 together, holds his hand over his pipe to keep it dry ; 
 and then we hear his steps slowly receding sqush 
 sqush sqush through the mud.
 
 60 SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 
 
 My dreams are entirely of boots, and they wake me 
 early. Then commences a struggle for (outside) exist- 
 ence. Twice I take out my knife and meditate the last 
 resort, and twice my hand is stayed by the thought that 
 there may be no shoemaker in all Tennessee. It grows 
 later and lighter, and I shall miss the morning roll-call 
 for the first time since I have been in service. But the 
 colonel saves me from breaking my rule. He thinks it 
 too bad to make the men stand out in the wet, and has 
 ordered the buglers not to sound the reveille. While 
 resting, I betake myself to the goose now truly a water- 
 fowl and wetter than he ever was in his life and 
 manage to breakfast between the struggles. At last I 
 am victorious, and have the boots beneath my feet, 'and 
 go out to look around. 
 
 The poetry most appropriate to the occasion would 
 be a verse of that little infant school hymn, 
 
 " The Lord, he makes the rain come down, 
 The rain come down, the rain come down, 
 Afternoon and morning." 
 
 But poetry is the last thing I think of, for my 
 thoughts run on the roads ; and some drenched pickets, 
 who look as though they wanted to be hung on a fence 
 to dry, inform me that I will have hard work to get 
 through, and that it has rained all night as it is raining 
 now. At home, what a hardship, what an outrage it 
 would be to send us off in such weather and on such 
 roads. Now, we fear something may prevent, and
 
 A FLAG OF TKTTCE. 61 
 
 hurry lest it come, for the road is not more uncomfort- 
 able than the camp, or the rain wetter elsewhere than it 
 is here. The doctor is a grey-headed, prudent, experi- 
 enced man, and is something of an invalid ; but he 
 stoutly discredits a rumor that the wounded men have 
 died, and whispers to me that we had better be off, 
 before any more such stories come in. 
 
 A flag of truce is not kept ready-made in camp, and 
 we are rather puzzled of what to make one now. " I'd 
 lend you my white handkerchief" (says a man who 
 has been listening with great gravity to various sug- 
 gestions) " I'd lend you my white handkerchief, only 
 I'm afeard if you put it up, the rebels 'ud think you'd 
 histe-tud the black flag, and give you no quarter." We 
 do not borrow the white handkerchief. But at length 
 we remember the hospital tent, and the hospital steward 
 produces a piece of white something from his stores, 
 which is bound around a stick and made into a flag. 
 
 Under circumstances such as these, the doctor climbs 
 into the ambulance, I mount my horse, and we start. 
 The rain somewhat abates, and diminishes to a drizzle, 
 which is a great relief; but the ambulance drags along 
 snail-like through the mud. We, who are mounted, do 
 not ride faster than a walk, yet repeatedly have to wait, 
 aud watch it crawling after us among the trees. This 
 slow movement gives little exercise, and when one 
 starts wet, he soon becomes cold and stiff, sitting thus 
 motionless in a damp saddle. ISTor can we trot off a 
 mi|e or two, and then wait for the ambulance to catch
 
 62 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 up, for some straggling rebel soldiers may be on any 
 cross-road, or in any thicket, and pounce upon the 
 ambulance as so much plunder, and shoot. the doctor 
 before they inquire into the facts. A surgeon is a non- 
 combatant, and not required to be shot at, and we 
 must stay near by and shield him, if nothing more. 
 
 Our road is the first object of interest a wagon 
 track running along high forest ridges, parallel to the 
 Tennessee. We soon pass a little timber house, with its 
 scanty field and scantier garden ; and then go on, on, 
 two, three miles, without seeing a sign of life ; and then 
 we turn into the main road from the river to Paris. 
 There is now a railroad passing through Paris, from 
 Nashville to Memphis, yet a year ago the road we are 
 now travelling was its main avenue. We are, therefore, 
 disappointed in finding that although the forms are 
 frequent, they are poor and neglected, and the dwell- 
 ings are the same backwoods, timber houses we have 
 so often seen. 
 
 We have now travelled seven or eight miles, and 
 have passed the " line of onr pickets" In point of fact, 
 there is no line, real or imaginary, and we do not see a 
 single picket; yet, inasmuch as our cavalry is con- 
 stantly passing through and examining, by night and 
 by day, a belt of country from six to eight miles wide, 
 it is customary to speak of that belt as within our 
 picket lines. Hitherto I have ridden at the head of the 
 party, and the ambulance has followed close behind- 
 Now some additional precaution is necessary. A man
 
 . A FLAG OF TEUCE. 63 
 
 rides about the width of a city block, ahead of us car- 
 rying the flag, and the ambulance falls back about 
 the same distance in the rear. The object of these 
 changes is, first, that a man riding alone in advance 
 indicates that it is not an ordinary scouting party ; and 
 second, if shots are fired, the doctor and his man will be 
 out of danger. The chief risks we run are, first, that 
 our object may not be perceived, and we be fired into 
 before w 7 e can explain ; and second, that lung's cavalry, 
 who are said to have suffered in the late fight, and to 
 be a wild, marauding set, may never have heard of the 
 laws of war, and utterly disregard the flag of truce. 
 
 Five hours have passed, and we have just reached 
 Mr. Clokes'. How delightful is a wood fire, roaring 
 and crackling in a wide, old-fashionod fire-place, and 
 how comforting is a dry board floor in a rainy day ! 
 Chairs and a table, too, are articles of luxury, if one but 
 knew it ; and when you have dined and breakfasted, 
 seated on logs or saddles, or such like conveniences, for 
 a few weeks, you appreciate them properly. I might 
 add a paragraph on plates and knives and forks ; but 
 of those I have not been deprived more than a week at 
 a time, and hence they do not fall within the class 
 of novelties. 
 
 This dinner I shall always fondly remember. I can- 
 not call to mind any other dinner that at all rivals it. 
 "We are so hungry, and cold, and wet, and it is so 
 pleasant to " *it down to dinner" once more. And 
 then this dinner is so nice, and neat, and plentiful,
 
 61 SKETCHES OF THE WAR; 
 
 showing, for a soldier's cooking, a good housewife's care! 
 If that bewatered goose could see it, he would feel 
 ashamed of himself, and request leave to be cooked over 
 again. I was about to begin with the tablecloth, and 
 enumerate all that was on it ; but it occurs to me that 
 what is a feast to -us is an every-day affair to you, and 
 that you will shrug your shoulders, and say, " Not 
 much of a dinner after all." And I must confess that 
 Mrs. Clokes' apologies called my attention to certain 
 wants, which show that our blockade has been effective 
 in disturbing the serenity of Southern housewives. 
 
 " I have nothing but rye coffee to offer you, gentle- 
 men : it is impossible for us to get coffee now." 
 
 " What does coffee cost down here, Mrs. Clokes?" 
 
 " The last we bought was a dollar a pound, but now 
 we cannot get it at any price. Everything is dreadfully 
 scarce. I'm sorry we have no fresh meat, but the 
 soldiers [rebels, she means] have taken a great many of 
 our pigs, and we lost some which we killed, for want 
 of good salt." Salt, I find, was fourteen dollars a sack 
 when last heard from, and, like coffee, has gone entirely 
 out of the market. 
 
 In the corner is a colored girl carding cotton by 
 hand. I look at the operation with some interest, 
 and Mrs. Clokes goes on with the story of her wants: 
 " There is no calico to be had, and we have to spin 
 and weave by hand. Do you know, sir, whether trade 
 will be opened soon with the North : our hand-cards 
 are nearly worn out, and I do not know where to look
 
 A FLAG OF TRUCE. 65 
 
 for others ? A neighbor of ours paid ten dollars for a 
 pair the other day, and I don't suppose I could buy them 
 at any price now." 
 
 But there is a heavier grief in poor Mrs. Clokes' breast. 
 She talks of her son : " He is so ill and so young, he will 
 die if kept a prisoner at the North, and he did not 
 enlist till they threatened the drafting. Oh ! why did 
 we ever go to war, we were so prosperous and happy ! 
 Gentlemen, can't you do any thing for my son ?" And 
 poor Mrs. Clokes' voice fails her, and she bursts into 
 tears. 
 
 But, dinner done, we must resume our journey. It is 
 nine miles now to Paris. "We have seen no rebel pickets ; 
 but our friends, the contrabands, tell us, that they have 
 gone along a little while ago, and it will be dangerous 
 meeting in the dark. 
 
 Thirty years ago two brothers came from Massachu- 
 setts and put up their little spinning-mill near Paris. 
 The mill has grown larger as they have grown older, 
 and they are now among the wealthy men of the place. 
 Situated as they are from the North from hated 
 Massachusetts ; for years employing free labor, and 
 owning slaves only through their Southern wives; they 
 have had to be most circumspect in every word and act, 
 giving no sign of loyalty, but, I doubt not, secretly 
 exulting at each success of the national arms. When 
 our troops retreated from Paris, leaving their dead on 
 the neighboring field, the one brother had the bodies of 
 our fallen soldiers carefully brought in, and buried
 
 6C SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 them, as if they were liis own kinsmen, in the town 
 cemetery; and the other took the dying captain of our 
 artillery corps into his own house, and nursed him ten- 
 derly through his last hours. It is in the gloom of 
 evening that we reach the factory, standing close to the 
 track of the Memphis railroad, neat and unadorned, 
 New England reflected from every one of its plain 
 white boards. A gentleman comes forward as we halt, 
 and I introduce myself. He steps up close, and asks, in 
 a low voice, if we think we are safe. A train was up 
 an hour ago taking down the telegraph wires ; pickets 
 have galloped past, and are now in Paris, and he thinks 
 it dangerous for us to go there to-night. He also says, 
 that he dare not ask us to stop ; he came near being 
 arrested for taking in poor Captain Bullis. If he should 
 ask us, he would be arrested and on his way to Mem- 
 phis within twelve hours. 
 
 There is a house beyond, where we can stay ; but it is 
 a rule with me to advance, and then fall back to my 
 camping ground. So we retrace our steps for a mile, 
 and halt at the farm house of a Mr. Horton, who does 
 not keep a tavern, but does entertain travellers. The 
 sergeant, with one man, has ridden on to break the sub- 
 ject and make arrangements, and when we come up, 
 everything is ready. Our weary horses are soon unsad- 
 dled and rolling in straw, and I follow the doctor into 
 the house. 
 
 It is an old house, with old trees in front, and an old 
 couple within. They sit on each side of the wide wood
 
 A FLAG OF TRUCE. 67 
 
 fire, and each comfortably puffs a pipe of home-grown 
 tobacco. We sit down and join thorn, and talk Union 
 for an hour or two. 
 
 Our host is a hale, hearty old man. He glories in the 
 past, laments the present, and hopes for the future. 
 The old lady listens with great gravity, and occasionally 
 puts in a word between the puffs of her pipe. 
 
 " They would not let us vote for the Union at the 
 second election," says the old man, " and I hadn't time 
 to vote against it. So I stayed at home and told 'em 
 that one election was enough in one year, and I couldn't 
 spare time for more." 
 
 " Yes," says the old lady, " quite enough, and I 
 thought something would happen when I found wo 
 were having two." 
 
 " I don't believe in Mr. Davis' doctrine," says the old 
 man, " of fighting in the last ditch till everybody's 
 dead. We were the most prosperous, happy people on 
 the earth, and we had better go back and be so again 
 than be killed." 
 
 " Yes, indeed!" says the old lady; "we had better 
 not ; and if we were, there would be nobody left for 
 our girls to marry but northerners ; so the South would 
 get to be the North in no time." 
 
 Our room is a large one, with another large fire and 
 three beds. The doctor takes one, and I hand the 
 others over to the men ; it will not do for me to undress, 
 so I take my buffalo, and lie down by the fire. 
 
 I was beginning to doze, and thinking I never was so
 
 68 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 comfortable in my life it was so delightful to shut yonr 
 eyes and stretch yourself out, and feel the pleasant 
 warmth of this glowing, flickering fire, when the open- 
 ing of the door startles me, and I see the sergeant, who 
 is " on guard," come in. 
 
 He reports that two men on horseback came up from 
 Paris; one of them stopped and called out our host. 
 They had a long conversation in a low voice, and then 
 the man turned and rode back on a gallop. " And the 
 contrabands say that the old man is secesh," pursues the 
 sergeant, " and when the rebel troops went by, he made 
 them come out and hurrah." This is agreeable. Was 
 the man on horseback a picket, and will there be a troop 
 clattering down on us in a few minutes ? or has he gone 
 to raise a crowd of irresponsible countrymen, who will 
 think it fine fun to kill us and capture our horses, and 
 of whom Gen. Beauregard will say, he really knows 
 nothing, they were not soldiers, and acted without 
 authority ? Is our old friend false to us ? 
 
 " Sergeant, what do you think of it ?" 
 
 The sergeant is a shrewd judge of character, and 
 there is no one in the squadron whose opinion I would 
 regard more highly on such a point as this. He comes 
 up close to the fire, and I see his face has a very anxious 
 expression, and he says, after a long pause : " I don't 
 know what to think of it." 
 
 " "Well, go back and pick out a place where you can 
 see up the Paris road, and call me the instant you see 
 any object moving. Doctor, I say, did you hear that?"
 
 A FLAG OF TRUCE. 69 
 
 " Yes, and I don't know what to think of it," says 
 the doctor. " Can anything be done ?" 
 
 " The worst of it is, doctor, that the flag prevents our 
 doing anything till actually attacked. "We must now 
 go in the character of guests, professing entire faith. 
 If we were on ordinary duty, our sergeant would have 
 stopped that man, and I should keep him here till we 
 leave. As it is, we can neither fight nor run away 
 though it is hardly fair, as you are a non-combatant, to 
 make you risk it." 
 
 <! I think I will risk it if you do," says the doctor; 
 and he turns over and goes to sleep. 
 
 1 lie by the fire this time without dozing. The men 
 are all sleeping heavily and undisturbed. The hovering 
 danger does not trouble them. Soon it is time to 
 ohunge guard. I rouse the next man, and the sergeant 
 comes in and takes his place on the bed. I wonder if 
 otlier people find a weight in responsibility. Many 
 talked to me of the danger of the cavalry service only 
 ono ever named this other word, which, is much the 
 heavier. The men have no responsibility, and are at 
 rest; the sergeant, lately so anxious, has made his 
 report, performed his duty, and has no more responsi- 
 bility : he now sleeps as soundly as the others. 
 
 The man on guard will be relieved of his in an hour 
 or two, and he will lie down and slumber too. But I 
 hear the distant barking of dogs, and start up at the 
 Bound, for we have learnt to observe the movements of 
 our own cavalry at night by this sign. Every house
 
 70 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 keeps half a dozen curs, and they yelp frantically when 
 a body of horse is passing. I open the door softly and 
 peer out. The moon sheds a dim light through the 
 clouds, disclosing the long line of road and distant 
 woods toward Paris. The sentinel stands motionless 
 under a tree by the road side. "Allen, do you see any- 
 thing?" "No, sir." "Did you hear that barking?" 
 " Yes, sir." " Watch whether it sounds again at any 
 other house, and if it is coming toward us." ~\Ve listen 
 long but hear nothing. It must have been a chance 
 disturbance there. I lie down again, consoling myself 
 with the thought, that I am at least warm and dry 
 The geese make a tremendous cackling behind the 
 house. Rome was saved by a flock of geese, and why 
 shouldn't we be. The sentinel is watching the road in 
 front; it will be better if I go out and inspect the 
 rear. 
 
 Thus the time passes till I post the next man on 
 guard, and thus the night wears away, till at 4 A.M. ] 
 rouse the last one. Soon after I hear sounds about the 
 house, for the contrabands rise early, then come signs 
 of breakfast, then the grey light of morning, and with 
 it the voice of our old host and a warning that his wife 
 is up and breakfast almost ready. It is a right good 
 breakfast, and we start as soon as it is done, repass the 
 factory, travel over a couple of miles of muddy road, 
 and come in sight of Paris. 
 
 There are brick houses in view, four church spires, 
 large trees and a court house ; but we discover no Con-
 
 A FLAG OF TRUCE. 71 
 
 federate flag. In another moment we Lave entered, 
 and are going up the main street. The first man stops 
 and looks at ns, so does the second and the third. The 
 moment a man catches a glimpse of us he seems to 
 freeze fast to the sidewalk and lose all power over him- 
 self, save that of staring vacantly at the Yankee cavalry. 
 "We seem to be riding up an avenue of these staring, 
 frozen images. The red brick court house has a little 
 square around it and forms a natural halting place. I 
 ride up and ask one of the frozen if there is any Confe- 
 derate officer in town. He says " No," in a frightened 
 way ; " they all retired this morning, a couple of hours 
 ago." This relieves me of my flag of truce. "We find 
 that two of our wounded men have been removed to 
 Memphis, and the third is too low to bear moving. The 
 doctor, and the physician who has been attending him, 
 start off to see him, and I draw my men up to the 
 fence and let them dismount. My North Moore street 
 education has made me much more particular in 
 "deportment" than volunteer officers generally are, 
 and my squadron, when on duty, generally bears the 
 same appearance to some other squadrons that North 
 Moore street does to some other schools. These towns- 
 people are therefore very much astonished to see a man 
 left on guard with the horses, and perfectly amazed 
 when he draws hia sabre and marches steadily up and 
 down his beat, and I hear one whisper, " Perhaps they 
 be United States reg'lars." 
 
 In a few minutes there is quite a crowd of congealed
 
 72 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 citizens around us, all staring solemnly in icy silence. 
 They say nothing to us or to each, other, but steadily 
 stare. I feel their looks crawling down my back and 
 round my sides, and turn which way I will, there is no 
 shaking them off. I have faced the eyes of many an 
 audience, but never such as. this. They neither smile 
 nor frown, nor agree nor disagree ; but have a vague, 
 stupid look of frightened wonder, as though we were 
 dangerous serpents escaped from a travelling menagerie, 
 which they can see for nothing at the risk of being 
 swallowed alive. 
 
 It is best to be cool and comfortable under all sorts 
 of circumstances, so I take out my pipe, exhibit a 
 North Moore street bag to these gay Parisians, and 
 strike a light. Picking out the most sensible man near 
 me, I commence a conversation complimenting them on 
 the appearance of their little town, which is more 
 northernly neat than I expected to find. Some men 
 then come up and hand to me the little effects of our 
 dead soldiers, and give many assurances of their kind- 
 ness to our wounded. The doctor about this time 
 comes back, and we start immediately on our return. 
 For some miles I march rapidly, urging the ambulance 
 horses to their utmost, for there is no saying but the 
 rebel cavalry may return and amuse themselves by a 
 pursuit. Then we drop in to our previous slow gait, 
 and calculate that we shall reach, camp by sunset. 
 
 There is a long bridge on this road crossing a stream, 
 with the pretty name of " The Holly Fork j" on our
 
 A FLAG OF TRUCE. T3 
 
 way out, it struck me that our road to Paris might be 
 very easily barred by a little bridge-burning, and at 
 Paris some qucsLiuns were asked which indicated that 
 it was to have been burned ere this. I measure it as 
 we recross, and finding that it is 255 feet long, and that 
 the stream cannot be forded, send on two men with a 
 report to the colonel. 
 
 It is now five o'clock, and we are two miles from 
 camp. My horse has been going almost uninterruptedly 
 for ten hours, and I am promising him a good bed of 
 leaves and a long night's rest, when, through the trees, 
 come two troopers riding on a gallop. They pull up, 
 and hand me a letter from the colonel : " Captain (it 
 says), your squadron is detailed to guard the bridge at 
 Holly Fork; yoil will take all proper measures to 
 defend it if attacked, and will remain there until 
 relieved by some other squadron." 
 
 " Did you see anything of my men ?" I say to the 
 messengers. " Yes ; they were saddling up, and will be 
 along soon." I may as well keep on ; they may be 
 bringing me a fresh horse, and then I can send this one 
 back by these men. In half an hour I find the man 
 who leads has lead us on to a wrong road. He tries a 
 cross-cut, and the cross-cut leads to a field. "We must 
 turn the ambulance round and retrace both errors. It 
 is vexatious in the extreme, to have this additional 
 load put on my willing horse after two such days' work 
 and besides, the squadron may have passed while we 
 were wandering about here. I curb my impatience ao 
 4
 
 74 SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 
 
 well as 1 can, and at length, we reach the road. There, 
 
 plain enough, is a cavalry trail, freshly made since wo 
 
 turned off, and it tells its own story the squadron has 
 
 gone by. 
 
 "Captain," says the doctor from the ambulance, 
 
 " must you go back ?" 
 " Yes, doctor, I suppose 1 must." 
 " "Well, if you must, here is your haversack." 
 "Thank you, doctor; is there anything left in yours?" 
 " Yes ; some hard biscuit and dry beef. I will put 
 
 them in for you." And the doctor transfers them from 
 
 his haversack to mine. 
 
 " Now, Bischoff, roll up the buffalo ; quick's the 
 
 word ; we must go back to within seven miles of Paris, 
 
 and the sun is setting." 
 
 " Good-bye, captain," calls the doctor as I start. " I 
 
 hope you won't be hurt to-night." 
 
 " I hope not, doctor ; good-bye. And now, Bischoff, 
 
 for the squadron and Holly Fork."
 
 TIIE HOLLY FOKK. 75 
 
 vi 
 
 
 
 I 
 
 THE HOLLY FORK. 
 
 rode rapidly along the wooded ridges. The 
 fading daylight told us that the sun had set behind his 
 cloudy screen, and when we reached the main road, 
 there was light enough to show dimly the trail turning 
 toward Paris. In this cavalry service, one becomes so 
 attached to his constant companions by day and by 
 night, that you must forgive me for describing mine. 
 Bischoff's horse is a beautiful sorrel blood, high 
 spirited, yet quiet and gentle as a lamb. My own 
 horse is a prisoner from Fort Donelson. On the event- 
 ful Sunday morning, I found him tied in a yard, near 
 where General Floyd took to his boat, and have no 
 doubt lie was left by the runaway part of the garrison. 
 At first I was rather disposed not to buy him from the 
 government, and it was more the desire to retain a 
 trophy of Fort Donelson, than his merits, that decided 
 the question. He is a fine Kentucky blood, but had 
 too many Southern traits snorting when there was 
 nothing to snort at, quiet when alone, but full of fuss 
 when anybody was by, and, once, seceding from the 
 emooth and travelled way, only to be brought back by a 
 good thrashing, which, indeed, was the basis of our good 
 understanding. But in this Paris journey, his Arabian
 
 76 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 blood atoned for his Southern education. It was 
 refreshing to feel these high bred horses rousing them- 
 selves for their new march, as though it were the 
 beginning of a new day, breaking into a gallop where- 
 erer the road allowed, and dashing along without word 
 or spur as though just out of the stable. 
 
 On the summit of a long hill is a farm house, 
 and as we thus approached it on a gallop, I saw a 
 group of men, and rows of cavalry horses tied to the 
 fences. For a moment I thought my pursuit was over, 
 but a closer glance through the dim twilight told me 
 these were too few for the squadron it was the picket 
 guard taking their last rest before going out on their 
 posts for the night. " Your men are about two miles 
 ahead of you, captain," said the officer of the picket, 
 and we rode on. As we descended the next hill, the 
 last glimmer of daylight left us, and the darkness of a 
 gloomy, cloudy night shrouded the road. I had been 
 riding rapidly while the daylight lasted, but so had the 
 squadron. Ordinarily, there would have been a halt 
 before this, to re-adjust saddles and examine pistols, 
 but it was now evident that while I was making every 
 exertion to overtake them, they were making every 
 exertion to meet me. I knew their orders must have 
 been to proceed till they should meet me, and I could 
 imagine that they supposed I was alone at the bridge, 
 and were urging their horses to my relief. " Confound 
 that blockhead," I was inclined to mutter ; but there 
 was no help for his blunder, save to hurry on.
 
 THE HOLLY FORK. 77 
 
 A couple of miles beyond the picket guard, the road 
 descends into a dreary swamp. It seems too dreary for 
 any creature to live in ; bushes and trees have died, 
 and the tall, spectral trunks stand, like ghosts of a 
 departed forest. Deep holes and fallen trees had made 
 the crossing no easy task in daytime, and I now 
 approached it with some misgivings, and many wishes 
 that we were well over. 
 
 Tennessee led bravely down the bank, on a trot, 
 crossing the rickety bridge and plunging into the sub- 
 merged road, without abating his speed. Here Bischoff 
 fell behind. His beautiful Ida had galloped since we 
 turned back, as though running a.race; but this was a 
 slough of despond, through which she had to pick her 
 way with care. The instinct of my horse was wonder- 
 ful. Too dark for me to guide him, I threw the reins 
 on his neck and trusted everything to him. With his 
 head stretched out, he crossed and re-crossed the 
 invisible road, avoiding its dangers, as it seemed to me, 
 by precisely the same path he had picked out by day- 
 light. Several times branches dashed in my face, and 
 once my cap was nearly swept off; but with no other 
 mishaps, I found we were approaching the opposite 
 bank, and soon felt his tread again on firm ground. I 
 stopped for a moment and listened, but could heai 
 nothing of the squadron before, or of Bischoff behind. I 
 was alone with my good horse. Yet, as I reached the 
 top of the next hill, I was greeted with a cheering sound 
 for from a house in the distance came the yelps of its
 
 78 SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 
 
 half dozen dogs, and in a moment the yelp was repeated 
 from the house beyond. I knew then where my men 
 were. At the same time, Tennessee, who had been 
 disposed to linger for Ida, started forward, showing 
 that by sight, or sound, or smell, he recognized his 
 friends ahead, and was greatly disposed to try whether 
 they were fresher than he. The swamp had brought 
 the squadron to a walk, and, for a few moments, to a 
 halt ; and it was these few moments of delay that had 
 enabled me to close up the distance between us. 
 
 As I approached, I was somewhat soothed, to find 
 the men were deserving a very big mark in "deport- 
 ment /" No sound came from the silent column, save 
 the trampling of the horses and the clanking of the 
 sabres. A night march in an enemy's country requires 
 secrecy, and the ordinary recreation of talk and song then 
 has to be laid aside. I was now close upon them, and, 
 stealing up to the rearmost man, I announced myself 
 by the command, " Column halt." The long line of 
 horses stopped. Habit is a strong master. The unex- 
 pected command, coming from the rear, and in the 
 darkness, was obeyed as promptly as on parade. There 
 was some surprise, a few questions and explanations, 
 a few minutes' rest (during which BischofF arrived), a 
 general unslinging of canteens, and a great drinking 
 of water; and then we pushed forward to finish the 
 ten miles which lay between us and the Holly Fork. 
 
 It was not so late but that the eyes of many little 
 folk I know were theii open. Yet with the Tennes-
 
 THE HOLLY FORK. 79 
 
 seans it is early to bed and early to rise (though truth 
 compels me to add, they are neither healthy, wealthy, 
 nor wise), and every frouse was as still and dark as 
 though it were midnight. That morning in Paris, I 
 had observed the shutters upon the shops. It puzzled 
 me at first ; then I whispered to the sergeant, " Is this 
 Sunday ?" and he answered, " I really believe it is." 
 This was indeed Sunday evening ! and yet I could 
 hardly bring myself to believe that at the same hour, 
 and while we were passing these lightless houses, 
 whose undisturbed inmates slept, unconscious that their 
 dreaded enemies were passing before their doors,, in 
 New York, the evening churches were not yet out, and 
 the great city was probably more wide awake than at 
 any other time of the preceding day. It was a con- 
 trast, too, those crowded streets and this lonely road. 
 
 At last I recognized the houses near the Fork. On the 
 top of the hill, which overlooks the bridge, a cross road 
 runs parallel to the brook. The road then descends the 
 hill, and is carried, upon a long and narrow causeway, 
 to the bridge. A second causeway leads to the opposite 
 bank, and on this bank a timber tobacco-barn com- 
 mands the road beyond. We were then within seven 
 miles of Paris, where six hundred of King's cavalry had 
 been but two days before. It was possible th,ey had 
 returned possible, indeed, that the Memphis railroad 
 had brought up five thousand troops since I left there 
 in the morning. I halted, therefore, a moment for pre- 
 paration. The fourth (being the last) platoon was
 
 80 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 ordered to stop at the cross-road, and guard against 
 our being surprised in the rear. With the remaining 
 three I descended the hill. The second and third stayed 
 at the beginning of the causeway, and the first, under 
 command of the second-lieutenant, was ordered to cross 
 the bridge, and take possession of the tobacco-barn on 
 the bank. 
 
 A dense wood covers the bridge and the causeway ; 
 and the beautiful evergreen that gives its name to the 
 stream, added much to the darkness of the night ; so 
 much that the road looked almost like the entrance of a 
 cavern, the branches overarching above, and shading 
 the dark passage-way below. Into this woodland tunnel 
 the first platoon slowly rode. We watched them as they 
 disappeared, and then listened to the sound of their 
 horses rumbling and clattering on the bridge. In a 
 minute more they had crossed ; and then, about as long 
 as it would reasonably take to give an alarm, there 
 came, or seemed to come, from the other side, perhaps 
 half a mile distant, the long roll of a drum. I was at 
 the head of the column, and heard it distinctly ; and 
 the men behind me instantly whispered, "There's a 
 drum." Our immediate inference was that the enemy 
 were on the other side, and, hearing our horses tramp- 
 ling on the bridge, were beating to nrms. Thinking it 
 would not do to crowd more troops on the narrow cause- 
 way until the first platoon had gained the opposite 
 bank, I ordered them to follow if I fired my pistol, and 
 rode forward to join the first. The galloping of my
 
 THE HOLLY FORK. 81 
 
 horse roused the brill-frogs, and they bellowed so loudly 
 that I thought I might hereafter believe the stories often 
 told of their frightening armies into a retreat. But above 
 them came, from different points, five or six hideous 
 half-human yells, as though sentinels were giving sig- 
 nals of our approach. They were, however, too near 
 and too irregular for that, and evidently came from the 
 trees ; so that I quickly concluded that some night birds 
 were the callers, and afterward ascertained them to be 
 a species of Southern owl. In less time than I am 
 writing this I had crossed, and found the platoon quietly 
 examining the tobacco-barn. I asked about the drum. 
 They had not heard it, and stoutly insisted there could 
 have been none. I waited until some men who had 
 been sent on returned, and reported the road was empty 
 and quiet for a mile ahead ; and then, directing the 
 lieutenant to place videttes in advance, and if attacked 
 to draw up his horses in the rear of the barn and let his 
 men fire through the logs until the main body should 
 arrive, I recrossed the bridge. The men were still 
 mounted, and waiting for the signal to advance. I 
 informed them of what the first platoon had said, and 
 they as stoutly insisted that there was a drum, because 
 they had heard it. "Whether it was indeed some small 
 party of rebels beating an alarm, or the footfalls of our 
 own horses rolling from the bridge, and echoed back 
 from some distant hill, I leave you to determine. 
 
 I now turned my attention to preparations for the 
 
 night. At the foot of the hill, and near the beginning 
 
 4*
 
 82 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 of the causeway, a little country store stood empty and 
 deserted. A fire was soon kindled, and its counter and 
 shelves moved out of the way. All of the horses were 
 kept saddled, and the men divided into two watches. 
 One platoon, during the first half the night, stood by 
 their horses, ready to mount in a moment, and then 
 changed with the other for such rest as they could 
 gather from the floor of the little building. The lirsf 
 platoon remained across the creek as a picket-guard 
 toward Paris, and the fourth in the rear as a picket for 
 the cross-roads. I have been thus minute in order that 
 you may have a clear idea of the manner in which such 
 affairs are managed, and because I have never observed 
 in the newspapers any narrative or statement which 
 explains these details to friends at home. Perhaps you 
 will ask, "What is a picket?" The papers constantly 
 speak of our pickets being "thrown out," or the enemy's 
 being " driven in," but never tell what sort of creatures 
 these pickets are. The pickets are sentinels beyond the 
 camp guard, and toward the enemy. There may be a 
 chain of pickets stretching over the country ; and the 
 picket guard may be very large, or it may consist of a 
 sergeant and six men. These are divided into three 
 " relieves," which constitute the " videttes," or " look- 
 out/' as we might translate it. Toward evening they 
 pass out several miles upon the road they are to guard, 
 and then select a place for the night, but this they do 
 not occupy till after dark ; the sergeant then goes out 
 with the first "relief," and "posts" them, selecting a
 
 THE HOLLY FORK. 83 
 
 place where they can see without being seen. The two 
 on duty must remain mounted, and silent ; the others 
 may dismount, but not unsaddle ; nor can they build a 
 camp fire, nor indulge in any noise. After an hour the 
 sergeant takes out the second "relief" and relieves the 
 first, and then the third to relieve the second. 
 
 After visiting the videttes, I agreed to relieve my 
 lieutenant at three in the morning, and then returned 
 to the little store, unbuckled my buffalo, and was soon 
 stretched with the men on the floor. It seemed as 
 though I had been there but a few seconds, when I was 
 roused by some one laying his hand on my shoulder 
 and saying " Captain !" in a low voice. You wake 
 quickly under such circumstances, and I was on my 
 feet in an instant, demanding what was the matter. 
 " Nothing ; it's a quarter to three." " Indeed ! that's a 
 very soft floor." And I went out and remounted. The 
 clouds were gone and the moon shone brilliant in the 
 clear sky. At the tobacco-barn I found all quiet. The 
 sentinel paced up and down in front, watching lest 
 there should be an alarm from the videttes; and the 
 men were stretched on some tobacco stalks within, 
 sleeping as soundly without blankets as though on beds 
 of down. It was time to relieve the videttes. " Call 
 up the next relief." The sentinel goes in, shakes the 
 next three, drops down himself, and in a minute is 
 sound asleep. Of the three men who come out, one 
 takes his place and the other two mount their horses. 
 I had not personally relieved guard since at Camp
 
 84 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 Asboth last October, and was struck with the difference 
 which practice and discipline had made. Then the 
 men came out, one by one, half asleep, growling and 
 yawning ; now they were up at the first touch, wide 
 awake, and apparently as willing as though called to 
 breakfast. 
 
 On the crest of a hill, about a mile up the road, the 
 videttes were posted. Seated, silent and motionless, on 
 their horses, in front of a house, they looked in the 
 moonlight like equestrian statues placed at the gateway. 
 " Have you seen or heard anything ?" " No, sir." 
 " Has everything been quiet in this house ?" " Yes, 
 sir." " Well, you are relieved, and may cross the 
 bridge ; there is a fire in the store, and it is quite comfort- 
 able." Sitting thus motionless for hours in the chill 
 night air, when the white frost is settling like snow on 
 field and road, is no pleasant duty, and the mention of 
 the fire was an unexpected gleam of comfort to the 
 men. As they hastened back, we rode slowly on, 
 partly to see if the road was clear, partly that the new 
 relief might the better understand the ground they had 
 to watch ; and then I returned to the barn, where, 
 fastening my horse, I paced up and down, and resorted 
 to the usual methods of keeping warm. I glanced at 
 my watch ; but half an hour had gone, and two and a 
 half remained. Time passes very slowly under such 
 circumstances. Relieving the videttes broke in upon 
 the monotony. " The people are stirring in the house, 
 they have just started a fire," was the report. " Don't
 
 THE HOLLY FORK. 85 
 
 let any of them go up the road on any pretext ;" and I 
 rode back to the barn. How surprised they will be, I 
 thought, when they come out and find two " armed 
 invaders" have been watching over them while they 
 slept. When I next came my round, the man of the 
 house had just come out. He merely glanced at us, 
 walked by, giving a sulky nod, and proceeded to feed 
 his pigs, with as much indifference as though it were 
 nothing to him whether a whole regiment of Yankees 
 were in front of his door, or a hundred miles off. 
 
 So passed the time till a bright light gleamed through 
 the trees toward the east. The sentinel saw it first. 
 "Is that a fire, captain?" he asked. No; it was the 
 morning star. Slowly it seemed to climb the trees, 
 moving steadily from branch to branch, till it beamed 
 from the clear sky above. Then came a belt of pale 
 silver light, which grew brighter and brighter, until it 
 turned to crimson ; and then rose the sun. Our watch 
 is over. " Call up the men, sergeant ; order the second 
 platoon across ; and take a man and go two miles up the 
 road, and see if there are any rebels there." 
 
 We passed a busy day. Parties were sent out, up 
 and down the brook, to see if there were bridges or 
 fords near us, and to ascertain where the cross-roads 
 ran ; others for forage ; and one toward Paris, to watch 
 any movement there. Guards were placed to stop per- 
 sons on the road, so that no information might be 
 carried to the enemy. I explored the banks of the 
 brook near us, to make sure that no party could cross
 
 86 SKETCHES OF TIIK WAR. 
 
 and attack us unexpectedly during the coming night. 
 Late in the afternoon I had my horse unsaddled, spread 
 my buffalo on the floor, pulled off my boots, and laid 
 down for a good sleep before my night-watch com- 
 menced. Hardly dow r n, ere an officer arrived from 
 camp. Another squadron was coining to relieve us, 
 and we were to return immediately. The men who had 
 been on duty all day were asleep ; their horses were all 
 down too ; our arrangements were alt nicely completed 
 for the night ; but we must go. " Call in the videttes 
 and saddle up," were the orders; and soon we were 
 marching back. So ended ray first experience in 
 guarding bridges, and my care of the bridge over the 
 Holly Fork. 
 
 There is in our school " Headers " a certain lesson 
 about a vagrant little brook, wherein is told that " the 
 glossy-green and coral clusters of the holly flung down 
 reflections in rich profusion on the little pool visited 
 by a ray of softer sunshine," ete. These words (if I 
 recollect them rightly) were printed in different " Read- 
 ers" in different ways; sometimes a hyphen between 
 glossy-green, sometimes a comma; and again no mark 
 whatever. A fearful wilderness of words it was, in 
 which scholars and teachers, and even principals, at 
 examinations, and other important times and seasons, 
 have gone astray : whoever then correctly construed 
 " glossy green " and " visited," could do what no one 
 else could. "While standing guard at the bridge, there 
 came to me the memories of the reading lesson of the
 
 THE HOLLY FOUR. 87 
 
 one who succeeded and the many who failed of dis- 
 concerted faces and puzzled looks, and the Holly Fork 
 became associated with the lesson, as hereafter (should 
 I ever return to JSTorth Moore street) the lesson will, 
 doubtless, call to mind the Holly Fork.
 
 88 SKETCHES OF THE WAR, 
 
 VII. 
 
 SCOUTING. 
 
 IT is a pleasant Spring morning, and I am ordered to 
 take my company and " scout to and beyond Conyers- 
 ville, with two days' rations." There is a stir and 
 bustle through our tents, and great delight at the 
 thought of going out. Some are bringing up horses 
 from the picket ropes ; others are rolling blankets, and 
 strapping them behind the saddles ; others are packing 
 away coffee, pork and hard biscuit in a pair of rude 
 saddle-bags, which we have made from an old tent, and 
 now carry on a led horse. Soon Bischoff leads his horse 
 and mine up to the tent, and soon after the first sergeant 
 reports all ready. The men are drawn up in line ; they 
 " count off by fours ;" the order is given, " by two's to 
 the right," and we are marching slowly over the high 
 hills and through the tall oaks which belt the Ten- 
 nessee. 
 
 Though it is a March morning, the air is as soft and 
 balmy as it will be in ISTew York next May ; and in tha 
 distance, the opening buds throw a mist-like haze over 
 the forests. Here and there a crow starts from some 
 tall tree, and caws familiarly as he flies away; and high 
 over head, the chicken hawk sails round and round as 
 we have often seen him do at home. When first we
 
 SCOTTTING. 0V 
 
 came here last February, there were robins in these 
 woods and many Northern birds, who seemed sad and 
 songless, and behaved like invalids passing the winter 
 at the South. The meadow lark spread her wings lan- 
 guidly, and the robins sat listless on the apple trees, as 
 though they were home-sick, and, like us, longed to fly 
 back to their Northern nests. The blackbirds alone 
 kept up their spirits, flying around and across such 
 fields as they could find in rapid, veering, fitful flight 
 
 " And here in spring the veeries sing 
 The song of long cigo." 
 
 If you had been riding with us for the last five miles, 
 you would think we were travelling through an unbroken 
 forest. The bridle-road, worn smooth by cavalry horses, 
 runs down in deep hollows and climbs up high hills 
 but always in the woods. Fallen trees lie across it, 
 frequently compelling IK to zig-zag round them ; and 
 w r hen we look out from the openings on the brow of the 
 higher hills, we see nothing but woods unending 
 woods. One or two melancholy figures have met us; 
 clad in- their sombre dress, and mounted on their ambling 
 mules, they have silently nodded and passed on. Once 
 or twice the settler's, axe has rung out from some distant 
 dale, as if to tell how fir these solitudes extend. The 
 wild turkey has called to us not far from the road ; the 
 quails have sat still, and looked curiously at us; and the 
 brown turkey buzzard has soared near by, as though ho 
 neither knew nor cared whether we were there or not.
 
 . 
 
 90 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 Yet, nestled in these wilds, are many farms and houses, 
 whose owners love seclusion, and hide themselves from 
 each other by a veil of intervening forest. 
 
 In one of these there lives an elderly man named 
 Patterson. When first by accident we rode past his 
 door, one of the men said " He looks more like a Union 
 man than any one we have seen yet;" and we soon 
 learnt that he was a Philadelphian, who had wandered 
 to Tennessee many years ago for health : he had mar- 
 ried here, settled and become a Tennessean. His 
 clothes are the yellowish, brownish homespun, which we 
 all call " butternut ;" and his house has the strange 
 opening through the centre, so common here. I cannot 
 quite determine whether these Tennessee houses consist 
 of two houses hitched together by " the roof o'erhead " 
 and the floor beneath, or of one long house, with a big 
 hole cut through the middle. They are not bad in 
 warm, weather, for there is abreeze blowing through 
 this open part, and in it the family sit and work. The 
 stone chimney runs up the outside of the house, and 
 gourd dippers are hung around the door. 
 
 I like these gourd dippers much the water tastes 
 better from them than from anything else, and tho 
 sight of one makes me thirsty. We therefore stop to 
 see Mr. Patterson, and get a drink ; the pail of fresh 
 water is quickly carried from the spring, and the gourd 
 dippers are eagerly seized by the men. 
 
 Some miles from Mr. Patterson, we stop to feed. It'a 
 a bleak house, and looks as though the owner had beea
 
 
 
 SCOUTING. 91 
 
 long a\vay. Two small boys appear very frightened 
 aud very civil. 
 
 " Where is your father, my boy ?" I ask of the elder. 
 
 " Iti the army, sir." 
 
 " The Southern army ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "And your mother?" 
 
 " She's gone up to grandfather's." 
 
 " Well, my boy, I shall have to take some of your 
 corn for our horses." 
 
 " Oh ! I don't care nothin' about the corn, if yuh 
 wunt pester us." 
 
 We all laugh at this, and assure him he shan't be 
 pestered. The horses are unbridled, picketed to the 
 fence, and fed ; and the men sit on the sunny side of the 
 road and eat their dinner. We take an hour's rest and 
 then remount. As we come in sight of a rather better 
 looking house than usual, we see a couple of its young 
 ladies in the garden, men ploughing in the field, and 
 women working in the yard. Suddenly there's a great 
 commotion. The two young ladies turn and fly to the 
 house ; the men in the field drop their ploughs and run 
 to the house ; the women in the yard follow to the 
 house. We ask, what can the matter be ; it looks as 
 though a thunder storm had burst on them, and they 
 have run to the house to keep dry. But as we draw 
 nearer, we see them anxiously peering through doors 
 
 and windows at us. " There's a chance for you, W , 
 
 to be polite ; ride up and ask them if they've been
 
 92 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 troubled by guerrillas, and whether we can be of any 
 service." My lieutenant turns his horse and gallops 
 across tha field. We watch him as he approaches the 
 house, and laugh as we observe the inmates rapidly 
 retire from door and windows. Then one contraband 
 conies bravely out, to whom the lieutenant appears to 
 be talking; and then reappear the men, the women, five 
 or six dogs, and the two young ladies. The lieutenant 
 soon rejoins us, laughing; we were the first United 
 States soldiers they had seen, and they didn't know but 
 we would burn the house and kill them ; they had run 
 to the house, because it was " nat'ral," and they didn't 
 know where else to run. 
 
 But evening approaches, and I must choose a camp- 
 ing ground for the night. On our left, half a mile back 
 from the road, I can see a large house, surrounded with 
 many stacks and corn-cribs. It belongs to Major 
 Thornton, who is spoken of as a very rich man, and by 
 no means a loyal one. He has not yet had the pleasure 
 of entertaining soldiers, and I determine to stop with 
 him for the night. But do not suppose that I shall 
 halt now while the sun is up, and messengers can ride 
 oft' and tell King's cavalry that we are here. Oh, no 1 
 we shall make a long circuit, and steal back here three 
 or four hours from now when people in the adjoining 
 houses have gone to bed, and the darkness hides our 
 movements and our sleeping-place 
 
 An hour or two brings us to Conyersville. It ia 
 indeed hidden from us by some woods, but for half an
 
 SCOUTING. 93 
 
 hour every one has told us it is " uh byont uh haf uh 
 mile uh syo ;" so we feel sure it is not far off now. A. 
 contraband is seen coming down the road, and he stops 
 and tells me there are soldiers in Conyersville he doesn't 
 know which kind ; he says he " could see them a moving 
 along the road, and was afeard to go in, for fear they 
 might be seceshers." We have two squadrons out, but 
 they were not expected here, and King's camp is only a 
 dozen miles or so away. 'Tis an even chance' whether 
 they are our men or the enemy's. "Close up." "Form 
 fours." " Draw sabre." In a minute we shall be in a 
 fight, or jogging along as quietly as before. We reach 
 the top of a little hill, and on another road before us are 
 moving the dust and figures of a body of cavalry but 
 through it are seen the blue jackets and sabres of our 
 troops, and in another moment, we recognize them as 
 our own men. I hold a short conference with the cap- 
 tain, and then we ride into Conyersville. 
 
 Conyersville is " not much of a place," the men say ; 
 " there is a tavern, and a store, and a blacksmith shop, 
 and half a dozen houses ; and the folks are all secesh." 
 Yet weeks in the woods give one a craving for a city ; 
 BO we stop at Conyersville a little while, all the while 
 knowing there is nothing to see. We then turn to the 
 left, and go some miles down the Paris road. We pass a 
 road that runs back to Major Thornton's, partly because 
 it is too early to go there, partly to the better mislead 
 any one who might follow us. At last, as it grows dark, 
 we come to a second road, which turns off at a sharp
 
 94 SKETCHES OF THE WAB. 
 
 angle and goes to the major's ; and this we take. It 
 runs through thick woods through a swamp along 
 the edge of a little millpond over its rickety bridge, 
 and close to its little mill. It is so dark, indeed, that 
 we can hardly find the major's, and even ride a little 
 way past the gate. At length we turn in, and the 
 lieutenants ride on to wake the people up and inform 
 them that we are coming. Being rather grander 
 people than usual, they have not gone to bed. Now, 
 walking into a man's house and taking possession of it 
 is not an agreeable task. At home, it seemed so ; but 
 when you come face to face with the man, and more 
 especially with the man's wife and children, the duty 
 becomes unpleasant. It is done somewhat in this way : 
 One of the lieutenants is standing by the garden gate, 
 with a stout man beside him, and as I ride up, he says, 
 " This is Major Thornton." " I am sorry to trouble 
 you, Major Thornton, but I must stay here to-night, 
 and shall have to take forage for sixty horses, and use 
 your kitchen for my men to cook their supper. Where 
 would you prefer my putting the horses ?" The major 
 says he has a large barn yard ; that will suit him, if it 
 will suit us. " Very well, sir, if you will send some of 
 your men to show us and give out the forage, I will seo 
 that none is wasted." 
 
 The men wheel into the yard, and a couple of con- 
 trabands, very loyal and cheerful, assist us to the 
 major's oats. They enjoy feeding the United States 
 horses at the major's expense immensely, and insist on
 
 SCOUTING. 95 
 
 throwing down from the stack a dozen more sheaves 
 than we want. " It nil do them ere bosses of yourn 
 BO much good they don't get oats every day oats 
 mighty scarce in this country ; and the major, he's 
 nothin' but a secesher," they say. 
 
 While I am overlooking the men, BischofF, with his 
 usual skill, has picked out the best place in the yard 
 for the horses. " You sleep here, captain," he says, 
 " this side of the corn crib, and I tie the horses close 
 by, and then get some corn stalks and make a bed." 
 Meanwhile I have a private talk with one of the con- 
 trabands, and learn all I can about the roads around u. 
 " How many men for guard and picket, captain ?" asks 
 the first sergeant. " I find there are two roads, sergeant, 
 so you will have to detail fifteen men and a sergeant 
 and corporal. I shall sleep at the end of the corn crib ; 
 let them bring up their horses there, and let the other 
 men unsaddle." 
 
 This done, I walk in to see Major Thornton and his 
 family. The major is a middle-aged gentleman, who 
 revels in a rich farm and sixty niggers. He is very 
 civil, but by no means glad to see us. But his wife is 
 a kind woman, whose hospitality has become a habit, 
 and she could not treat us with more politeness and 
 cordiality if we were really her guests. She gives the 
 men all the milk in the dairy, which is always a treat 
 to them, and urges me to let as many as possible sleep 
 in the house she has fourteen beds, she says, at their 
 service, and it will be too bad to make them sleep out
 
 96 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 in the cold. But the men must sleep together, .and by 
 their horses; so her good natured offer is declined. 
 Beside Mrs. Thornton, there sits a good natured little 
 daughter, with light hair and blue eyes, and the pretty 
 name of Kelly. Miss Nelly tells me that the war lias 
 cut them off from literature, which they took in form 
 of the New York " Ledger." She brings out some of 
 the old numbers, with Mr. Cobb's terrific stories and 
 pictures of knights on horseback and ladies in swoons, 
 all looking so familiar, that I almost expect to hear a 
 newsboy run round the corner, shouting " Ledger ! 
 New York Ledger !" 
 
 After spending half an hour thus, I go ont. The 
 men have finished their supper, and are going back 
 to the yard. They choose sheltered positions, where 
 stack or crib wards off the wind, and there lay down 
 a little mattress of corn fodder. Two of them then 
 join forces in blankets and sleep together. After look- 
 ing at the men, and walking round among the horses, 
 I turn toward the crib where I am to spend the night. 
 There is a good bed of corn leaves spread upon the 
 ground ; at the head, the crib breaks the wind, an-d at 
 the foot, my horse stands picketed to the fence; a 
 little to one side sleep the guard ; and around, ready 
 saddled and bridled, stand their horses. It will soon 
 be time for the second relief to go out, so I wait. 
 Soon the corporalon camp guard comes up, and pulling 
 out his watch, says, " Ten o'clock." " Then call up the 
 next relief." They are soon up : the men for picket
 
 SCOUTING. 97 
 
 mount tlieir liorses ; the sergeant takes two and rides 
 down one road the corporal two and rides down the 
 other ; the new sentinel takes the place of the old 
 one, who quickly crawls into his bed among the corn 
 leaves. " Call me," I say to the other, " if you hear 
 any alarm, and when it is time to relieve guard." 
 " Yes, sir :" and I lie down. I unclasp my belt, and 
 draw my sabre and pistol close beside me. You do 
 not know how much like friends they seem. The corn 
 leaves feel cold and damp ; the night is dark ; and 
 the wind wails mournfully. I draw my buffalo close, 
 and wish I were warm and asleep. For a moment I 
 raise my head, for up the road I hear the tramp of 
 horses. It is slow and regular ; the sergeant returning 
 with the men on picket. They come in, fasten their 
 horses, and lie down, under their blankets; and they 
 and I fall asleep. 
 
 I have not slept long, and was but just roused by 
 some one laying his hand on my shoulder. It is the 
 guard. I am up in an instant, and ask what is the 
 matter. Nothing, it is time to relieve the picket. 
 Again the sergeant and the corporal go out with the 
 fresh relief, and again I lie down to sleep. At last 
 the camp guard, as he calls me, says, " Four o'clock," 
 instead of " Time to relieve," and then I order " Call 
 up the men." 
 
 The day is breaking as we pass out of the yard, and 
 wheel round the corner of the house. Early as it is, 
 Miss Nelly is up to see us off, and her pleasant little 
 
 5
 
 98 SKETCHES OF THE WAK. 
 
 face smiles and bows happily from the piazza. Mrs. 
 Thornton, too, is up, and, as I bid her good day, she 
 courteously says we had better wait for breakfast, it 
 will be ready soon ; and she points to the kitchen 
 chimney, from which the smoke is rising briskly. 
 These Tennessean women work harder, I think, than 
 ours do at home. All day long, as you ride, you will 
 hear the droning spinning wheel in almost every house, 
 and beside it the clack of the heavy hand loom. The 
 wives and daughters of the poorer farmers do all the 
 garden work, and much besides that ours hand over to 
 the men. We see black women grubbing out bushes 
 in the fields, and white ones ploughing, harrowing, and 
 hauling grain, with ox teams, to the mill. The wives of 
 rich planters rise early, and soem busied and worried 
 till night. The houses would have a thriftless look to 
 our eyes, did not fine trees surround them. Trees are 
 the one thing in which they show good taste. They do 
 not ride much in carriages, because the roads are rough 
 and carriages are scarce. Yet side-saddles are plenty ; 
 and constantly on these bridle roads you will meet 
 women on mules, often with a -child or two perched on 
 behind or perhaps a mother carrying her baby in her 
 arms, and mounted on a sober, old mare, whose little 
 colt frisks merrily around. 
 
 "We have not met any though this morning, and at 
 eight o'clock have travelled back to the Paris road, and 
 to within four miles of Paris. Here we halt for break- 
 fast. The men whose turn it is for picket, ride on a mile
 
 SCOUTING. 99 
 
 or two down the road, the others dismount. The two 
 who act as cooks take possession of a little out-kitchen, 
 and proceed to fry the bacon and boil the coffee. I 
 walk into the house and find a wretched family. The 
 father of it is old and sick. He groans as I speak to 
 him, and says : " Oh, onr wretched country ! "What 
 have we done that we must suffer so ? I have always 
 been for the Union, but the young men are all against 
 it." His son, a young man, and evidently a rebel, 
 seems equally wretched. I tell him I must feed my 
 horses, and he points to the barn yard, and says there 
 is corn there. Generally these people receive us with 
 some show of welcome, but he seems utterly indifferent. 
 I ask him if he will not see that his property is x not 
 abused ; that perhaps there is some crib or stack he 
 does not want touched ; but he shakes his head, and 
 walks up and down the piazza, paying no more atten- 
 tion to us. Down a deep ravine behind the house is a 
 beautiful spring. Gigantic oaks rise over it, and the 
 water flows from a bank of fine, white sand so fine and 
 white that it seems an alabaster fountain. Here I unroll 
 my towel and make my toilet, and then climb the hill 
 for breakfast, which is ready. 
 
 This duty done, we resume the march. I am ordered 
 not to enter Paris, and, therefore, turn off and strike 
 across the country, to regain the direct road from Paris 
 to the Holly Fork. A very blind road it is, winding 
 through woods, and frequently lost. Yet here are wide 
 plantations, shut in from the rest of the world, with 
 their large houses, and chickens, and beehives, to all
 
 100 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 appearance patterns of peace and contentment. "Within 
 them you will find a people plain and simple in their 
 manners and their lives, with many good traits, and 
 some bad ones. They have an easy, quiet way with 
 them of taking things as they find them, with little 
 show, and less pretension. The hot blood we hear 
 about hardly ever appears, and then seems the effect 
 of too much tobacco and bad cooking. Indeed, I fre- 
 quently think the cooking is the cause of the rebellion. 
 They all look dyspeptic, and are disposed to be low- 
 spirited and despondent. If you were to walk in and 
 dine with them, you would find that fried pork and 
 corn dodger were certainly on the table. This corn 
 dodger, you must know, is a mixture of corn-meal and 
 water, very nearly the size and shape of a roll of butter 
 split in two and hurriedly heated, though hardly baked. 
 A week ago I was at a house where there were four 
 dishes of pork upon the table. To these may be added 
 some fried chickens and hot biscuit, and this will be the 
 unchanging bill of fare. Bread that is what we call 
 bread I have not yet seen, and am sure it is hardly 
 known. 
 
 But dinner done, at this house I speak of, there came 
 before me another little custom that may surprise some 
 of my friends. The mother of the family took her pipe, 
 which I had often seen before, and was not surprised at ; 
 but the daughter furthest from me dived down in her 
 pocket, and, after rummaging there a minute, brought 
 up 
 
 " Oh, shame ! oh, horror ! and oh, womankind !"
 
 SCOUTING. 101 
 
 a plug of tobacco, and then deliberately took a chew I 
 The second and third followed ; and then the three 
 young ladies drew up around the sacred hearth (which 
 some of their cousins were fighting to protect from the 
 pollution of us Yankees) and indulged in a little social 
 spitting. It is embarrassing, if you are not used to it, 
 to ask a country belle a question, and then have her 
 turn her head suddenly the other way and spit before 
 she answers. The first time we witnessed this interesting 
 ceremony, a young officer of our party thought he would 
 do something cool he would ask a woman for a chew 
 of tobacco. So, marching up, he said, " Miss, will you 
 be so kind as to give me a chew of your tobacco?" 
 The rest of us felt annoyed; but the girl quietly, and 
 as a matter of course, fumbled in her pocket and brought 
 out the old plug. 
 
 But while I am telling you this we have come out on 
 the Paris road, and have turned toward the Holly Fork. 
 The causeway and the bridge are unchanged, and the 
 little store is still empty and open. We reach the cross- 
 road, on the top of the hill, and then turn to the right. 
 This leaf-covered road leads through tall woods and 
 secluded farms. We see no one in the wide-spreading 
 fields, nor about the distant farm-houses : they might be 
 thought deserted but for the smoke that lazily rises and 
 floats away. At one little wayside cabin the owner asks 
 us, in the usual phrase, to " alight." There are many 
 old English words and phrases among this people some 
 odd and obsolete, and some better and more correct
 
 102 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 than onr own. Tims, for our awkward "get down," 
 they have " alight." Instead of saying, " How early 
 did you get up this morning?" they would say, " How 
 early did you arise?" Relations, relatives, and connec- 
 tions they call kin folk and these are never well dressed, 
 but well clad. A horse-path is known as a bridle-road 
 a brook as a branch, and a stream as a fork. One. 
 man complimented Bischoff by saying he was the most 
 chirk young fellow in the regiment ; and a young lady 
 praised her own horse by telling me that Gipsy might 
 run fast, but she couldn't tote double. 
 
 But two or three miles down this road we come to a 
 gate, on which three little contrabands hang, grinning. 
 Very quickly they drop down and swing open the gate; 
 and very glad they are to see us, whatever missus may 
 be. Within this gate is a fine open grove, and through 
 it are seen a small timber house, some contraband cabins, 
 and a barn or two. We have heard of this house before. 
 It belongs to a Lieutenant Reynolds of the rebel service, 
 and was selected, before we started, as a good stopping- 
 place. In one of the cabins we find a young mulatto 
 woman, whose sad, intelligent face awakens more than 
 usual respect. 
 
 " Is Mrs. Reynolds at home?" I ask. 
 
 " No, sir, she's at her mother's." 
 
 " Are you alone here ?" 
 
 " There's a man a ploughing, sir, out in the field there, 
 and another girl she's a grubbing." 
 
 " Whose children are these ? Yours 2"
 
 scoumra. 103 
 
 "That one's mine, sir; the other two's mother is 
 gone." 
 
 " Where ?" 
 
 " To Memphis, I s'pose, sir. They sent her off and 
 sold her the time your soldiers took the fort." 
 
 * f Will your mistress be back to-night 2" 
 
 *' No, sir, she don't stay here nights." 
 
 " Then I must trouble you to show me where your 
 provisions are. My men have eaten up all their rations 
 and must have supper here." 
 
 Two of the men come in and go to work as cooks, 
 and the others are in the yard, unsaddling and cleaning 
 their horses. With one of the sergeants, I stroll out to 
 the road. "We cross it and walk a few yards, to get a 
 view of some fields beyond. As we are looking and 
 talking of the pickets for the coming night, in the dis- 
 tance, down the road, we hear a shout or two, and then 
 a rumbling noise. 
 
 " What is that, sergeant ?" 
 
 " It's horses," sayg the sergeant; " they are galloping 
 and there's more than one too." 
 
 We both spring for the gate. 
 
 "Shall I order the men to fall inf asks the ser- 
 geant. 
 
 " Xo ; there are not many horses coming. Let us 
 wait and see." 
 
 In another moment appears through the trees, a black 
 boy mounted on a horse, and behind him two mules on 
 a gallop. The black boy repeats his wild " Too, yoo
 
 101 SKETCHES OF TIIK WAR. 
 
 yo, yoo," and when he does so the mules redouble their 
 speed. As he approaches the gate, he pulls up. 
 
 " "What are you galloping for ?" I ask. " Is anything 
 the matter ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, sah ; I been a ploughing all day, and am a 
 comin' home." 
 
 " What ! do those mules plough all day and gallop 
 home in this way at night ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, sah ; they likes it. Why, it does 'em 
 good." 
 
 The boy and mules all look so bright and fresh that I 
 am bound to believe it does them all good ; and as we 
 thus talk the other girl comes up the road, carrying her 
 heavy grubbing hoe upon her shoulder, and with many 
 startled looks at us, goes toward the house. They are 
 a strange people these Southerners, full of inconsistences 
 and all sorts of incongruous traits. They are not a 
 musical people ; you never hear a boy whistle, or a girl 
 singing at her work ; they are not liberally educated, 
 and schools and schoolmasters are few. Yet in half 
 the houses you will find pianos, and half the women 
 play by note. In this house the ceiling is not pi as 
 tered ; the unpainted mantel is covered with broken 
 bottles and old candlesticks ; the rough log walls are 
 adorned with twopenny engravings cut from almanacs 
 and country papers ; all the furniture in the house is 
 not worth $5 ; but there is a piano, a handsome one, 
 with a showy cover. It is so with their characters: 
 some are very high-minded, and some are very mean ;
 
 SCWTING. 105 
 
 and some, with a stock in trade of honor, unite the most 
 Indian-like duplicity. And here let me tell you a story 
 to the point. 
 
 As the black boy loiters round, I say to him, " Well, 
 Dick, have you seen any soldiers before this?" 
 
 " ]N~o, sah," says Dick ; " but missus has." 
 
 " Ah ! where did she see them ?" 
 
 "Why, thar was some of your soldiers up to Mr. 
 Clokes' a spell ago, .one Sunday, and missus she was 
 thar." 
 
 Now, as you will recollect, we were at Mr. Clokes' on 
 a Sunday, and there were one or two visitors there then. 
 The doctor and I had been very polite to everybody, 
 and everybody had been very polite to us, and none 
 more so than these visitors. When we left, I compla- 
 cently said to the doctor that this was much the best 
 way to treat these people, it must conciliate them ; and 
 the doctor had said, " Oh, certainly ; if we have not 
 made them loyal, we have at least impressed them favor- 
 ably." So, recollecting all this, I said to Dick : 
 
 " Well, Dick, what did your missus say about the 
 Union soldiers ?" 
 
 " Oh ! she said they made her so mad she could 
 hardly -eat." 
 
 " Hardly eat ! Indeed why what did they do to 
 her ?" 
 
 " Oh, they didn't do nothin' to her, only she said she 
 couldn't bear the sight of um ; she said they acted all 
 the tinle just like a parcel o' niggers /" 
 
 5*
 
 106 SKETCHES OF TflE WAR. 
 
 There's a compliment for us, thinks I. I must tell 
 the doctor of that and how favorably we impressed 
 them ! 
 
 Supper is over. The corn dodger was far better tl^an 
 hard biscuit ; the roasted sweet potatoes were excellent ; 
 and the lieutenant's ham a great improvement on his 
 patriotism. The men have lain down in little groups 
 around the house ; in front, under the large trees, burns 
 the guard fire. The guard sleep behind it, and their 
 horses, saddled and bridled, are picketed as usual 
 beside them. The pickets have gone out, and the senti- 
 nel moves slowly backward and forward near the gate. 
 I walk down to speak to him. As I approach, he wheels 
 sharply round and challenges, "Who comes there?" I 
 give the usual answer, " Friend, with the countersign." 
 "Advance, and give the countersign," and he points his 
 carbine at me. I advance, and whisper the word 
 " Roanoke." " The countersign is correct," says the 
 sentinel ; " pass on." 
 
 This form of challenging is always followed at night, 
 evon though the sentinel distinctly sees, and perfectly 
 well knows the person coming. The " countersign " is 
 a word, usually the name of a battle ; it is given to the 
 sergeant of the guard at sunset, and he gives it to each 
 sentinel as he posts him. The countersign is kept con- 
 cealed from everybody but the commanding officer and 
 the officers of the day and of the guard. When any 
 person is to be sent through the lines, one of these 
 officers may give him the countersign, and it only will
 
 SCOUTING. 107 
 
 enable him to pass. If I bad not bad tbe countersign, 
 it would have been tbe sentinel's duty to detain me, 
 and call for tbe sergeant of tbe guard. 
 
 " Captain," says tbe sentinel, " I was going to call 
 you. I tbink I bear a wagon coining." 
 
 We listen, and its creaking grows plainer down tbe 
 road. We move to one side, and tbe wagon draws 
 nearer. 
 
 " Shall I halt them ?" says the sentinel. 
 
 " 'No ; I bear children's voices." 
 
 They come on and pass close beside us ; the children 
 prattle away, and tbe father and mother talk of William 
 somebody, who did something or other, and how Jane 
 and her husband were going somewhere with tbe baby, 
 but won't now for some unknown reason. They do not 
 know that we stand close beside them, and that within 
 a few yards is a troop of horse. If they did, the senti- 
 nel would halt them, and they would go no further 
 to-night ; but as it is, we are tolerably secure this side 
 of tbe Holly Fork, and they are so manifestly igno- 
 rant of our whereabout, that I spare them the fright 
 of being stopped by soldiers and kept from home all 
 night. 
 
 " But don't let any more pass, Waldron," I say to 
 tbe sentinel, " and keep a bright look out, and call me 
 if you hear the slightest sound." 
 
 "Yes, sir." And Waldron resumes his lonely 'walk. 
 
 I leave him, and as I approach tbe guard, tbe sergeant 
 is rousing tbe next relief.
 
 108 SKETCHES OF THE WAS. 
 
 " "Walter," I say to a young trooper, who is going out 
 on picket, " Walter, you are to go back a mile on the 
 road we came down, and you will be posted near the 
 wide cornfield that we passed." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Be careful that you give nq false alarm ; but if there 
 should be anything, then fire your carbine in this direc- 
 tion, and come in on a gallop." 
 
 Yes, sir." 
 
 " And, "Walter, you need to be very watchful to-night, 
 for you will be the only man on that road, and it is a 
 lonely spot." 
 
 " Yes, sir," says Walter, with undiminished cheerful- 
 ness, " I'll be very careful." 
 
 And then he turns toward his saddled horse, tightens 
 the girth, and unhitches the rein. 
 
 He cannot be thinking of himself, for as I walk away 
 I hear him softly singing : 
 
 " Soft be thy slumbers, 
 Rude cares depart, 
 Visions in numbers 
 
 Cheer thy young heart." 
 
 And with sweet Ellen Bay no ringing in my ears, I 
 lie down beside the camp fire tuid fall asleep.
 
 A SURPRISE. 109 
 
 VIII. 
 
 A SURPRISE. 
 
 A FAIREK May-day never dawned than that which 
 greeted us last spring in Tennessee, 
 
 " When the box-tree, white with blossoms, 
 Made the sweet May woodlands glad;" 
 
 And the green hills and fresh-leaved trees were hung 
 resplendent in yellow, white and purple flowers. 
 
 My first sergeant and myself sat after breakfast 
 beneath the tent-fly, finishing our muster-rolls. The 
 30th of April is a " mustering clay" in the United States 
 service, when all its officers and soldiers must be called 
 and counted, and their names be transmitted on proper 
 * rolls to proper authorities. As we thus worked, an 
 orderly came in, and handed me an order to take two 
 days' rations, and scout toward and beyond Paris. But 
 the rations were not then in camp ; so after issuing 
 orders to saddle up, the sergeant and I resumed our 
 work, not sorry that the delay would enable us to com- 
 plete our rolls. 
 
 Suddenly, on the still, damp air of the morning, there 
 came, echoing from Fort Henry, the boom of a cannon. 
 "We started. " What does that mean ?" A week before 
 there had been a rumor one evening that Memphis was 
 taken, and the colonel at the fort had sent us word that
 
 110 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 if the rumor proved true, next morning lie would fire 
 seven guns. We had then listened, but there were no 
 guns ; and later news stated that Memphis was not 
 taken, and could not be. 
 
 A second gun sounded and a man near us gave a 
 " hurrah !" " You need not hurrah," said another ; 
 " they've got four guns loaded down there, and are only 
 firing them off." A third fired, and a fourth, and in the 
 pause which followed, each said, "I wonder if there 
 will be another!" A moment passed, and the fifth 
 rang out loud and clear. A cheer sounded through the 
 camp, and everybody came out of his tent. "What can 
 it be? something has happened." "Xo, nothing has 
 happened ; they're only practising, or playing a trick 
 on us." Bang ! went the sixth. The sanguine men 
 gave a loud cheer. ' Will there be another ?" " Yes !" 
 " No !" " I'm sure there will." " I'm sure there 
 won't." A silence- the pause seems endless ^surely 
 five times as long as between any others. All are 
 breathless. "There! I told you so." " I knew it was 
 nothing." " Memphis can't be taken in a month 
 there's nothing to fire about. You won't bear any more 
 
 to-day." " There's no use in waiting any " BANG ! 
 
 went the seventh, louder and clearer than all the rest 
 put together. The men jumped on the logs and wagons 
 and cheered wildly ; and the officers who were not on 
 duty rushed for their horses, and galloped furiously 
 toward the river, while our two little howitzers rung out 
 aevon responses to the great guns of the fort.
 
 A SURPRISE. Ill 
 
 An hour passed ; those who Lad the fastest horses 
 came back. " Was it Memphis 2" " No, not Mem- 
 phis better than Memphis guess." No one can guess. 
 " It is New Orleans Farragut has taken New Orleans." 
 Another cheer runs through the camp, and we congratu- 
 late ourselves on carrying such news with us on our 
 scout. 
 
 But the rations were strangely delayed. The men 
 yawned, and wished they would hurry up; and the 
 horses stood saddled round the tents, with their heads 
 down, quietly dozing through the day. Late 'in the, 
 afternoon they came, and, with them, an order to send 
 a larger party, and for me to report to our major for 
 orders. I did so. 
 
 " "When will your squadron be ready ?" asked the 
 major. 
 
 " It is ready now." 
 
 " Well then you may start at daybreak ; I will 
 follow with the others at nine, and join you at Paris in 
 the afternoon." 
 
 A new tent had arrived that day from St. Louis, to 
 take the place of my old and leaky one ; and Bisehoff 
 had amused himself, during the afternoon, by pitching 
 it, little thinking that I was to sleep in it just one night. 
 It felt like having a new house, and its fresh, snowy 
 walls, the perfection of neatness. 
 
 There were men stirring long before daylight, and 
 with the first grey streaks of dawn, we mounted. Our 
 road was a short cut, leading by narrow, winding ways,
 
 112 SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 
 
 tlirongli tall woods, up little streams, and over high 
 hills. In the cool calm of the morning, it was a picture, 
 of peace and safety ; and no soldiers ever moved more 
 joyously than we, or seemed less likely to be fugitives 
 and prisoners before the march should be done. 
 
 Three miles from camp we halted at a sparkling 
 brook to adjust saddles and water horses. The squad- 
 ron was marching in three platoons, with an interval 
 of a hundred yards between them. The first came up r 
 halted and dismounted ; then the second, and the third, 
 so quietly and orderly, that I felt a satisfaction I had 
 never felt before. 
 
 At last we came to Paris. Its little square was green, 
 and its streets were prettier than in the gloom of that 
 March morning. "We picketed our horses on the Court 
 House fence, and strolled around. Everybody agreed 
 in saying that our old acquaintances, King's cavalry, 
 had gone to Corinth, and that the country round u.3 was 
 cleared of guerrillas. Beauregard was calling in all his 
 troops then, and this seemed probable. But one of the 
 first questions put to me was, "When will the major 
 and the rest of the party be here ?" The order had been 
 given the night before; I had marched at daybreak; 
 no one had passed us on the road. " How did this 
 information reach them ?" I asked ; " who could have 
 brought it ?" 
 
 The main body of our detachment arrived during the 
 afternoon, and I was ordered with my squadron to the 
 farm of a Mrs. Ayres, some three miles off. I had heard
 
 A SURPRISE. 113 
 
 nothing of Mrs. Ayres, except that she was " a promi- 
 nent secessionist," and quite wealthy ; and three months' 
 active cavalry service had quite accustomed me to riding 
 into people's houses, and taking possession for the use 
 of the Government. Yet I was rather taken aback, 
 when a lady with grey hair and widow's weeds came 
 out, as I rode up. I said that I regretted to intrude, 
 but that I was ordered to stop there ; and she said that 
 it was very unpleasant; she and her daughter were 
 alone, no gentleman in the house, and she wished we 
 would go somewhere else. I explained that no one 
 would come in the house or be guilty of any rudeness, 
 and that she might feel perfectly safe. But she reite- 
 rated her request, and went on : "I am a secessionist, 
 sir ; I am opposed to the Union. I scorn to deny my 
 principles. Of course you will do as you choose, sir. 1 
 am a woman, and unprotected, and you have a company 
 of soldiers; I can offer no resistance," etc., etc. 1 
 answered that I admired her sincerity, and cut the 
 argument short by asking in which yard she preferred 
 my putting the horses, and from which stacks we should 
 get forage. There were woods on the right of the 
 house ; the men filed into them, and in a few minutes 
 fires were lighted, horses picketed, and we were 
 bivouacked for the night. 
 
 An hour c* two elapsed, and I received a message 
 that Mrs. Ayres wished to see me. I went in the 
 house was large and handsomely furnished, and she was 
 evidently far superior in intelligence, education, and
 
 114: SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 position, to the simple country people among whom we 
 had hitherto been thrown. I afterwards learnt that 
 one son was then at "Richmond, a member of the Con- 
 federate Government, and another wilh Beauregard, at 
 Corinth. I began the conversation by hoping that she 
 had recovered from her alarm. She said, " Oh, 
 entirely," and that she had expected the officers in the 
 house to tea, and that she had beds enough for them. 
 I replied that I had promised that no one should 
 intrude, and that I intended my promise to apply to 
 myself as well as to my men. Mrs. Ayres hastened to 
 say that it was no intrusion ; that I must at least stay 
 and spend the evening ; she really could not allow me 
 to go out in the dark and cold, while she had house- 
 room to offer. " My daughter plays," she said ; " per- 
 haps you like music." I said that I liked music exceed- 
 ingly, and should be most happy to hear some, and as I 
 was finishing my civil speech, Miss Ayres came in. 
 She was a pretty girl of seventeen, and gave me an icy 
 bow that said I was there by military power, and was no 
 guest of hers. " Mary," said her mother, " Captain 1ST. 
 wishes to hear some music." The young lady gave 
 another icy bow. There was a little black girl curled 
 up in a corner near the fire. " Bell," said Miss Ayres, 
 "carry the candles into the other room." The little 
 black girl uncurled herself, and seizing the candles, 
 marched into the other room. There she placed 
 the candles on the piano, and immediately popped 
 under it and curled herself up again on the floor.
 
 A SURPRISE. 115 
 
 I moved round, and took my position at one end of 
 the piano, as an admiring listener should. It was a 
 handsome instrument, and seemed like a friend, for I 
 read on its plate, " Wm. Hall & Sons, New York." It 
 had come from New York, and so had I. Miss Ay res 
 took her music-book, and I waited for her to begin. 
 She partly opened the book, then stopped, and looking 
 deliberately at me, said, " "Well, sir, what must I play ?" 
 Had she slapped me in the face I should not have been 
 more astounded. It was evident that she was in the 
 same frame of mind her mother had been in at the 
 gate. But I had been so particularly civil that this cut 
 was too unexpected. I felt my color rise, but kept my 
 temper down, and inwardly resolved that her little 
 ladyship should take this back before our acquaintance 
 ended ; so I answered, almost sweetly, that I would 
 leave that to Miss Ayres' better taste ! We had a little 
 contest then, she trying to make me order something, 
 and I trying to make her select the piece. It was a 
 drawn game, and ended in her suggesting a couple of 
 pieces, and my saying, " Either of them." 
 
 An hour passed very agreeably, and when I arose to 
 go, all coolness had entirely vanished, and the invita- 
 tion to stay was really cordial. But it was an inflexible 
 rule with me, when on these expeditions, to sleep 
 beside my guard, so I declined ; and, after thanking 
 them, went out. 
 
 The next day came in brightly ; but as I was pre- 
 paring to resume our march, there came a message
 
 116 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 from the major, saying we would not leave till after- 
 noon. The day wore wearily away; and toward evening 
 there came a second message, saying we would not 
 start till eight the next morning. Then a feeling of 
 uneasiness came over me. This long delay I did not 
 like. The sky, too, became overcast, and a heavy 
 storm soon gathered over head. I made onr little 
 arrangements for the night; the horses were moved 
 under cover ; the men found refuge in a barn ; and a 
 little carriage house was taken for our guard tent. I 
 received another invitation to the house, and paid 
 another visit more agreeable than the first. As I came 
 out, the rain was coming down soakingly. I had put 
 out additional pickets, and used the additional precau- 
 tion of going out myself with the relief. The first time 
 I did so, it came near terminating my expedition. It 
 was fearfully dark, and the horses had almost to feel 
 their way. I knew we should find the picket about a 
 mile from the house, where the woods ended on the 
 brow of a hill. I had selected the place, because- there 
 they would be hidden by the trees, yet would have a 
 clear view, on an ordinary night, through the fields 
 beyond. I knew, too, the angle of the fence they were 
 to be in, and expected to find them with little trouble. 
 AVe approached the spot, but were not challenged, and 
 I began to wonder if anything was the matter. We 
 went a few steps farther, and I found we had passed 
 the woods and were descending the hill. Still no chal- 
 lenge. It would seem the simplest thing in the world
 
 A 6UEPKISE. 117 
 
 to call out, but tins could not be done here they must 
 challenge us. Suddenly, close behind us, and in a very 
 startled tone, came " Who comes there ?" and with it 
 the "click," "click" of a pistol. I answered just in 
 time ; for, in the darkness, and amid the beating of the 
 storm, we had passed them unseen and unheard, and 
 they thought that we were a party approaching from 
 the opposite direction, and, in another moment, would 
 have fired. 
 
 Day came at last a drizzly, rainy day and we set 
 out for Como. The country was new to us, and much 
 better than we had yet seen in Tennessee. There were 
 groups of contrabands at every house, reminding us 
 that it was Sunday ; and we passed a little church, 
 whose congregation was within, their saddled horses 
 tied around the building. We all remarked that the 
 people seemed more cheerful than any we had seen ; 
 and soon a man we met took off his hat, and said, 
 " The Union, the Constitution, and the Enforcement of 
 the Laws ;" yet we had seen so little patriotism in Ten- 
 nessee that we doubted this. At length we reached 
 Como, and stopped in the barnyards of a leadin-g 
 secessionist. Hardly had we dismounted, when a large, 
 good looking man followed us into the yard, and said, 
 " I'm truly glad to see you, gentlemen, you've come 
 at just the right time." He then introduced himself 
 to me as Mr. Hurt, of Como ; and said that his house 
 was a quarter of a mile back he had seen us pass 
 he had run after us he was a Union citizen all must
 
 118 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 go back and dine with him his wife had seen us, and 
 waa actually getting dinner ready. 
 
 I walked back with Mr. Hurt to his house. His 
 wife I found a pleasing lady-like woman, and she 
 repeated the invitation to bring all. I said I thought 
 bringing fifty men into a private house to dinner, and 
 that on Sunday, was a little too much ; but she said 
 quite earnestly that she could do nothing better on 
 Sunday than care for Union soldiers. Soon one man, 
 .and then another, came in, whose looks more than their 
 words assured us of a warm and living patriotism to 
 which we had long been strangers. From them I 
 learnt that there were many more hiding in the sur- 
 rounding woods, and that a party of rebel citizens had 
 recently been amusing themselves by arresting Union 
 men, and sending them off to Memphis. I determined 
 that so far as I was concerned, this fun should stop ; 
 and when the major, with the main body, arrived, 
 I submitted my plan to him, which he approved, and 
 ordered me to execute. 
 
 My plan was very simple to take twenty-five of my 
 best mounted men, and stay behind, ostensibly as a rear 
 guard ; to start about dark, as if to follow the major ; 
 but, in reality, to turn off on the first cross-road, and 
 arrest the parties during the night, rejoining the major 
 in the morning. 
 
 Accordingly, after dinner I strolled up to where the 
 men were, and said, carelessly, to the first-sergeant, that 
 one-half of us were to stay as rear guard, and he had
 
 A SURPRISE. 119 
 
 better pick out those who had the freshest horses there 
 might be a good deal of riding to do. In a little while 
 the detachment started, leaving me with my party, little 
 thinking how soon we were to be a rear guard in 
 reality. As the last of the column vanished down the 
 road, my anxiety of the previous evening returned, and 
 I sent a vidette up the Caledonia road. It was then 
 three, and we should not start till six ; so I went into 
 the barn and lay down, hoping to have a little sleep to 
 make up for the three previous nights. But I was soon 
 roused to see a Union man, whose brother had been 
 arrested, and then to see another who was to act as 
 guide ; and then Mr. Hurt came in to insist on my 
 going back to his house and sleeping there ; so I rose 
 and walked back. At the house we found a young 
 man, a cousin of Mrs. Hurt, who had heard of our arrival 
 and ventured in from the woods. We sat down upon 
 the piazza and fell into an interesting conversation. 
 Three of her brothers were in the Southern army " as 
 good Union men as you," she said, " but forced in." 
 Their little boy was named Emerson Etheridge, after 
 the Tennessee member of Congress, who has stood so 
 firmly for the Union ; and on the large tree in the yard 
 was hoisted the last flag that had waved in Western 
 Tennessee. 
 
 As we thus talked, a little man was seen coming up 
 the road, and thereupon the whole family left me and 
 rushed out to meet him. They came back laughing, 
 sho,king hands, and asking questions, while the little
 
 120 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 man both laughed and cried, and said, " Oh, my dear 
 friends, you do not know what sufferings I have been 
 through since I left you !" He was their Yankee school- 
 master. For ten years he had lived quietly there, but 
 a year before had been ordered off, and narrowly 
 escaped being hung. He had left a child behind, and 
 now, hearing the country was quiet, had ventured back 
 to see his old friends and his child. 
 
 The afternoon glided away, and it was nearly six. 
 Mrs. Hurt had left us to hasten tea, but we still sat on 
 the piazza, talking as before. Suddenly Mr. Hurt sprang 
 Tip and said, " What are those men ?" I looked and 
 saw my vidette coming in between two countrymen : 
 whether they were bringing him, or he them, seemed 
 doubtful. I seized my sabre and pistol, and walked to 
 the gate. 
 
 " There is bad news, captain," said the man. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "These men say there are three thousand rebel 
 cavalry at Caledonia." 
 
 I suppose I looked incredulous, for one of the men 
 said, very earnestly, " It's so, sir. Ask Mr. Hurt ; he 
 knows me." 
 
 " He's a good man," said Mr. Hurt ; " but I don't 
 believe three thousand any more than you, do." 
 
 " ItV> really so !" cried the man with great earnest- 
 ness. " Mr. Ashby saw them, and sent us over here to 
 tell you, and the other Union people ; and we have run 
 our horses all the way across."
 
 A SUEFKISE. 121 
 
 I glanced at the horses : they were covered with foam 
 and mud. I looked at Mr. Hurt : his face had suddenly 
 grown very serious. 
 
 " Did- Edward Ashby see them himself?" he asked, 
 in a low tone. 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "And he told you himself?" 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 " Then, captain," he said, turning to me, " it is so." 
 
 There was a moment of dreary silence. 
 
 " How long were they passing Mr. Ashby's ?" I 
 asked. 
 
 "Three hours." 
 
 " Which way were they going ?" 
 
 Toward Paris." 
 
 " How far is it from Caledonia to Paris ?" 
 
 " Twelve miles." 
 
 I knew that three thousand was a reasonable esti- 
 mate. I also knew they must have heard of our where- 
 about, and that a party might be coming up the road 
 at any moment; yet I ventured one more question: 
 
 " "What troops did they say they were ?" 
 
 " Jeff. Thompson's." 
 
 " Jeff. Thompson's ! That is very strange. "Where 
 did they say they were going ?" 
 
 "They said they'd come for provisions and Union 
 men." 
 
 This answer completed the distress of those around 
 me. The cousin looked toward the woods; the little 
 
 6
 
 122 SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 
 
 schoolmaster asked if he might not stay with his child 
 just this one night? Mr. Hurt said that he meant to 
 risk it till morning, while his wife said that he must fly 
 at once : they might burn the house, but they would not 
 hurt women and children, and she was not afraid. I 
 shook hands hastily with them, and hoped that we 
 might meet again. I told my vidette to gallop up the 
 road and tell the men to mount, but to say not a word 
 of the reason why. And then I followed as rapidly as 1 
 could, and with many glances over my shoulder, won- 
 dering that the enemy's advance was not already upon 
 us. It was not half a mile to the barnyards, but the 
 way seemed endless, until a turn in the road showed 
 me the men mounting, and Bischoff coming to meet me 
 with my horse. In a moment more I was mounted, 
 and had sent a messenger, on a gallop, to the major, 
 while the rest of us followed at a less rapid gait. 
 
 Arriving at Irving's farm, where the main body had 
 halted for the night, I found all as quiet as though 
 nothing could happen. The horses were unsaddled, the 
 men reposing, and the major had gone to a farm a mile 
 distant. I ordered my own men to saddle up, and 
 galloped after him. "We rode back to Irving's, and held 
 a consultation with the other officers, the result of which 
 was that he took an escort and went down the road to 
 see Mr. Hurt ; while I was to wait till ten o'clock, and, 
 if he did not return by that time, to retreat northwardly 
 to the little town of Dresden. 
 
 I went into the house, and talked to the ladies of the
 
 A SURPRISE. 123 
 
 family. They were wealthy secessionists, and it was 
 advisable to conceal, so far as possible, our movements. 
 As ten o'clock approached, I slipped out, and ordered 
 the men to mount and be perfectly still. Then, return- 
 ing, I said to the ladies, that they must not feel alarmed 
 if they heard our pickets and guards during the night, 
 and, bidding them good evening, went out. I saw, 
 dimly, the men drawn up in line. 
 
 " Bischoff," I called, in a suppressed tone, " where are 
 you 2" 
 
 "Here, captain," said Bischoff, close beside me, as 
 he held my horse under a shadowy tree. 
 
 I mounted gave some instructions to the other cap- 
 tains the men wheeled into column and we were 
 moving slowly and silently toward Dresden. 
 
 The rain, which had stopped during the afternoon, 
 began again. The road plunged down into dense 
 woods, and the darkness was profound. Some refugees, 
 mounted on mules, and wrapped in their home-spun 
 blankets, joined us picturesque, but sad exiles, in keep- 
 ing with the wild and stormy night. They were our 
 guides, and but for them we could not have found our 
 way through the hidden road. 
 
 " "Well, quartermaster," I said to the young officer 
 who rode beside me, " this is our first retreat." 
 
 " Yes," he answered ; " and a most appropriate night 
 for a first retreat." 
 
 It was not improbable that we should be attacked in 
 the rear ; and not improbable that a party had been
 
 124 SKETCHES OF THE WAS. 
 
 sent round to intercept us in front ; and every sound 
 seemed the signal for an affray. Occasionally the 
 wagons became snagged, and word would be passed up 
 the column ; a halt would be ordered; men would dis- 
 mount, feel for the wagon, and disentangle it from 
 some tree or stump ; word would be passed up again, 
 and we would resume our march. Thus, about three in 
 the morning, we approached Dresden, when I unex- 
 pectedly ran upon our advance guard standing still. 1 
 quickly ordered a halt and demanded what was the 
 matter. A horse, they said, had disappeared in the 
 middle of the road ; they could not even find him. I 
 called for matches, and several men tried to strike a 
 light ; but the rain had soaked through everything. I 
 recollected a little tin box of wax tapers in my great 
 coat pocket, and by dint of striking one of these under 
 my cape, obtained a light. The little flickering ray 
 disclosed the feet of the horse, sticking up in the air, 
 his body hidden in a narrow gully which the rain had 
 washed across the road. I dismounted six men to try 
 and pull him out, and with the rest went on. Here the 
 major overtook us. He had gone back, but had learned 
 nothing of the enemy. In a few minutes we entered 
 Dresden. Pickets were posted on the different roads, 
 the horses were crowded into some barns, and then, 
 with the men, I crawled up into the hay-loft, and, 
 soaking wet, lay down for an hour or two on the 
 soft hay. 
 
 We waited all the morning, and about one in the
 
 A SURPRISE. 125 
 
 afternoon started, still moving northwardly toward 
 Paducah. The road was hard and good ; the sun came 
 out, drying our wet clothes, and everything seemed 
 promising and pleasant. As we passed the first house, 
 the family appeared in front of the door, and waved a 
 little flag. It was the first flag we had seen in Ten- 
 nessee. My squadron, which led the column, broke 
 into rapturous applause as they caught sight of the 
 starry emblem ; and as each of the others came up, 
 wondering what could have caused the commotion, 
 they repeated the cheers. A cavalcade of Union men 
 accompanied us, and as we approached their homes, 
 they would dash ahead and notify their families that 
 we were coming. At every house the inmates appeared, 
 waving handkerchiefs and clapping hands ; and at several 
 the long hidden flag was brought out to help in wel- 
 coming " the Union soldiers," who cheered the flag 
 whenever it was displayed. Thus our march went on, 
 more like a gay, triumphal procession than a retreat. 
 We stopped at a little house, and a venerable matron, 
 with her grand-daughter, came to the gate and wel- 
 comed us. The old lady shook hands with all who were 
 near, and solemnly hoped that God would be with us ; 
 and the younger one laughed and cried. She hoped, 
 she said, that we* would not think her bold or crazy; 
 but she felt as if we were friends, and it was the first 
 time she had been safe for months. Her husband and 
 father were then hiding in the woods from guerrillas. 
 She had two brothers in the rebel army, and, she
 
 126 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 added, with a bitter emphasis I cannot describe, that 
 they were rebels, and we might capture them or kill 
 them ; but she wished we would kill them. 
 
 We went on and descended into the valley of the 
 Obion. The sun was sinking in the west, as our 
 column wound through the great trees and came upon 
 Loekridge Mill. On the right, I saw a large white 
 house surrounded by a garden ; on the left a barn yard 
 with an eight-rail fence ; in front and beyond us, the 
 Obion and the mill. 
 
 " We will stay here to-night," said the major. 
 
 " Left into line. March. Be prepared to leave at a 
 moment's notice," I said to my men, " and to saddle up 
 in the dark. Break ranks." 
 
 The men scattered through the yard, picketing their 
 horses. The second squadron picketed theirs on the 
 outside of the yard, and the third went back to the 
 farms on the edge of the valley, to act as a rear 
 guard, 
 
 " Where will you put our horses, Bischoff ?" 
 
 " At this tree in the yard, captain," said Bischoff. 
 
 " Very well ; I must see if there are any pickets 
 wanted between us and the rear guard." And I turned 
 my horse and rode slowly back. 
 
 It was a noble valley, smooth as a floor, and covered 
 with huge oaks and elms. I came to the third squad- 
 ron ; they had dismounted ; their horses were tied to the 
 fences; their lieutenant had gone ont with their pickets; 
 their captain came up and laughingly said he had
 
 A SURPRISE. 127 
 
 taken a prisoner, and introduced me to a lieutenant of 
 an Illinois regiment, who had just ridden in. Pie was 
 a very handsome and intelligent young man, and 
 informed us that he was a Tennessian, and had come to 
 see if recruits could not be found there. He seemed 
 greatly elated at being back in his own State, and as 
 we rode along, I remarked to myself how hopeful and 
 happy he was. We arrived at the house and dis- 
 mounted ; I gave my horse to one of the men, and went 
 in to introduce Mr. Crawford to the major. Him we 
 found in an upper room. He had taken off his jacket 
 and was seated, comfortably smoking. I introduced the 
 lieutenant, and then went out, intending to post the 
 pickets in front Th men were on some logs opposite 
 the house, finishing their supper ; the sun had set, and 
 the light was fading and growing hazy amid the great 
 trees. 
 
 I walked across the little garden, and laid my hand 
 on the gate. As I did so, I heard a yell toward the 
 rear ; I turned quickly, and far up among the trees I 
 eaw thi-ee of th<e rear guard. Their horses were on a 
 gallop ; they waved their caps wildly, and shouted 
 something which" sounded like "saddle up." At the 
 first glance I thought they were messengers ; but, at the 
 second, I saw running beside them a horse with an 
 empty saddle. I knew what that meant. 
 
 " Saddle up, and fall in," I shouted to the men ; 
 " and you men in the house call the major; tell him we 
 are attacked."
 
 128 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 I looked for my liorse, but he had disappeared. I 
 rushed to the barnyard, and there saw the man who 
 had held him. 
 
 " Hamelder," I cried, " what have you done with my 
 horse?" 
 
 " Bischoff took him, captain." 
 
 1 hurried to the tree. Bischoff, knowing the horse 
 would have a night's work, had seized on the moment 
 of my going into the house to unsaddle and rub him off. 
 But Bischoff stood faithful at his post in the confusion ; 
 while every other man was hurrying for his own horse, 
 Bischoff was saddling mine. As I came up, he held the 
 horse and stirrup for me to mount as coolly as though 
 we were at a parade. 
 
 " Never mind this," I cried, " I can mount without 
 this norsensc ; saddle your own liorse and be quick 
 be quick." But my buffalo, rolled up as it had been 
 unbuckled from the saddle, lay on .the ground, and 
 Bischoff stooped for it. "Throw it away," I cried, 
 " saddle your horse and come out of this yard, or 
 you're lost." 
 
 I turned ; all of the squadron had gone out I was the 
 last ; anu as my horse dashed over the broken fence, 
 Bischoff was left alone. 
 
 My men were in line, but a disorderly stream of 
 flying men and riderless horses was pouring past. I 
 looked round for the major, but he was not in sight. 
 and I found myself the ranking officer there. " I must 
 act, it is no time to wait for orders," I said, as I looked
 
 A SURPRISE. 129 
 
 up the valley, and saw the head of the rebel column. 
 They were coming on a gallop, their shot guns and 
 rifles blazed away, and their wild yells were louder 
 than the volleys they fired. Between us were the last 
 of the real- guard and the horses of those who had 
 fallen, " wild and disorderly." Turning the other way, 
 I saw the river and the bridge. " We must check 
 their advance," I thought, " and then cross the river 
 and tear up the bridge; it is our only hope. I will 
 charge them." I touched my good horse as I drew my 
 sabre, and he flew round. I was giving the orders, 
 " Draw sabre. By platoons. Left wheel," and the 
 squadron was executing them, when the men of the 
 second squadron rushed franticly round the barnyard 
 fence and into my line. In an instant all was confusion. 
 There was no time to restore order, the rebels were not 
 the width of a city block distant, and their buck shot 
 flew thickly, wounding men and horses, while there 
 rose the thundering sound of cavalry at full speed. I 
 still had a hope of the bridge. In another instant they 
 would be upon us. " About," I cried, " gallop and 
 form across the bridge." As we went by the yard, 
 Bischoff had not come out. " He has sacrificed himself 
 for me," I said ; " but I cannot leave my command to 
 save him, though he were my brother." 
 
 Across the narrow bridge we went safely, though it 
 swayed and trembled under the tramp of galloping 
 horses. As the men wheeled and reformed, I moved to 
 the right and looked back. Hitherto I had seen but 
 
 6*
 
 130 SKETCHES OF THE WAK. 
 
 the head of their column, and had formed no idea of its 
 strength. Now I saw, far up the valley, a solid 
 unbroken column of perhaps a thousand men. Between 
 them and the bridge were a few men, and many flying 
 horses, which ran madly. The enemy. were armed with 
 guns, and my men had but sabres and pistols. The 
 captain of the second squadron had been at the. bridge, 
 trying vainly to rally his men ; but they had gone, and 
 mine were the only ones left. "All is lost now," I 
 said ; " I will not keep my men here to be sacrificed for 
 these runaways." I gave the order, and we were gal- 
 loping down the valley, the pursuing foe close upon us. 
 But, to return to Bischoff. lie rode that day a fiery, 
 little, black horse, that became nearly frantic as he 
 heard the rushing sound of the enemy's horses. Bis- 
 choff threw the saddle on him, and as he buckled the 
 girth, the rebels appeared opposite the gate. There 
 was no time to waste then. Quick as lightning he 
 drew out his knife, and cutting the reins by which the 
 horse was tied, swung himself into the saddle. The 
 little horse wheeled. By cutting the reins, Bischoff had 
 lost all control of him, but he seemed to know precisely 
 what was needed. Instead of going to the gate, he 
 turned and rushed at the fence. It was higher than 
 himself, and Bischoff thought they were lost ; but the 
 little horse gave a tremendous bound, and came bravely 
 over. They were now neck and neck with the rebels ; 
 it was a race to the bridge. The little horse won, and 
 dashed over ahead of their foremost horses. But he
 
 A SURPRISE. 131 
 
 was only ahead there were not six feet between them, 
 and he crossed amid a shower of balls, and almost 
 hidden by the smoke of their rifles. Bischoff lay flat 
 on the saddle, and trusted everything to the horse. The 
 bridge crossed, he soon widened the gap, and in a few 
 minutes bore Bischoff triumphantly among his friends. 
 
 It was a fearful ride across that valley. The road, 
 level and straight, did not shelter us from the enemy. 
 Trees had fallen across it, and there were deep bog 
 holes, into which horses plunged and fell. As you rode, 
 you came upon a man whose horse had fallen in leaping 
 a tree, or mired in struggling through a mud hole. 
 Here was one who had risen, and was trying to escape 
 to the neighboring woods, and there another, who could 
 not extricate himself from his fallen horse. As I looked 
 back and watched the fate of those I knew, I saw the 
 first of the enemy, as they came up, fire upon our pros- 
 trate men. It looked as though 110 quarter was given. 
 Before I had ridden far, I came upon the captain of the 
 second squadron standing in the road. He had been 
 wounded and unhorsed. I endeavored to pull up and 
 take him behind me ; but my horse, excited and frac- 
 tious, reared and plunged so that I could not stop. I 
 called to the captain to take another horse, led by one 
 of the men. He did so, but in a few moments was 
 thrown, and before he could rise, found himself sur- 
 rounded and a prisoner. 
 
 At length we emerged from this, to us dark vale, and 
 felt our horses tread firm ground. We had gained a
 
 132 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 little on the enemy, and were just beyond the reach of 
 their guns. I got the men formed once more into 
 column, and the retreat, though still at a gallop, became 
 orderly. I asked after the other officers ; two had 
 escaped and were with us ; three were captured, and the 
 major had been shot near the bridge, falling beside one 
 of my men. I was therefore again in command, and 
 had to determine speedily on a plan. 
 
 There had been with us a farmer, named Gibbs, 
 mounted on a white mule, which ran like a deer. 
 Gibbs was perfectly cool, and when we came out of the 
 valley, he had pulled out a plug of tobacco and taken a 
 customary bite, with the remark that he guessed we 
 were all right now. I asked Gibbs if he knew the road 
 to Hickman, on the Mississippi. To which he replied : 
 " Oh, yes." " Then come with me," I said, " and lead 
 us there ;" and I took him to the head of the column. 
 Telling the sergeant who led to follow Gibbs, I fell out 
 and began to drop back to the rear. Unfortunately, 
 the white mule would not lead, and in a few moments 
 Gibbs rejoined me. I then took a couple of young 
 men, who were also escaping with us, up to the head, 
 and giving them the same directions, again fell back. 
 Unluckily, excited and riding on a gallop by moonlight, 
 they passed the Hickman, and continued on the Paducah 
 road. 
 
 Gibbs fell out of the column, and rejoined me, as it 
 passed. I told him he had better not run this unneces- 
 sary risk ; but he said he had been offered $200 for his
 
 A SURPRISE. 133 
 
 mule, and would risk anything with it. Bischoff also 
 fell out, and we three rode at the rear. We did not 
 ride so long. Suddenly from the bushes and woods on 
 the side of the road, there was a flash; and bang! bang ! 
 came the fire of our hidden foes. In an instant every 
 horse was at full speed, rushing by. My own gave a 
 wild bound. Poor Tennessee ! he had been acting 
 nobly from the first, and I thought he was only excited 
 by the firing. My attention was chiefly upon the men, 
 but as I gathered up the curb-rein to check him, I 
 noticed that it was gone on the side next to the firing. 
 Still I did not think he had been hit. But he put his 
 head down, and rushed between Gibbs and Bischoff. 
 They caught him by the bridle, but in a moment he had 
 dragged them half off their saddles. I told them to let 
 go, and he dashed forward, striking madly against the 
 horse in front. The concussion sent us over to the 
 ditch, but he did not stop. With his head down, and 
 running straight as an arrow, he flew by the entire 
 column. I returned my sabre to the scabbard, and 
 winding the snaifle-rein round my wrists, made every 
 effort to stop him. It was in vain. I exerted all my 
 strength ; I used all the art I was master of, or that 
 Mr. Rarey had taught ; I drew his head from side to 
 side, till his mouth touched the stirrups ; but he went 
 on, on, on at the same furious pace. The road lay 
 through thick woods and down a series of steep hills. 
 On one of these it turned. The horse refused to follow 
 its windings, and kept straight on. It was like a loco-
 
 134: SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 
 
 motive rushing through, the woods. There were two 
 trees before me, close together. On he went, dashing 
 between them. He struck against one and reeled, but 
 did not fall. Beyond, and on the steepest of the hill, lay 
 a fallen tree. His head was down almost to his knees, 
 and I knew he could not see. I made a great, a last 
 effort to raise him. It failed the tree seemed under 
 me there was a crash a blow and I lay on the 
 ground, the horse struggling on top of me. 
 
 I tried, vainly, to rise and remount; but my right 
 arm hung useless, and I felt dizzy and weak, while 
 my good horse still struggled on the ground. Yet the 
 enemy were coming. . I dragged myself quickly down 
 the bank, at the foot of which ran a little stream. As I 
 reached it, I heard the gallop of horses on the hill above 
 me. " My sabre," I said, " must not fall into their 
 hands." I unbuckled it quickly, and gave it a last 
 look. It was the parting gift of my best friends, and 
 had been my constant companion by day and by night. 
 I could not bear to part with it thus. For an instant I 
 hesitated. " Perhaps they will not see me," I said ; 
 " but no, the risk is too great ; whatever happens to me, 
 they shall not have the sabre." A log lay across the 
 brook. I leaned forward, and under its shadow, threw 
 the sabre in. It splashed in the dark water and was 
 gone. "Shall I throw my pistol after it?" No! it 
 will be but a pistol more for the Confederacy. Here 
 they come." I stretched myself close beside the bank, 
 and the party of horsemen galloped by.
 
 THE ESCAPE. 135 
 
 IX. 
 
 THE ESCAPE. 
 
 I WAS now alone in the quiet woods. The sounds of 
 trampling horses had died away, and the little rill beside 
 me trickled peacefully in the still night. I reached 
 my hand down, and, filling my glove with water, poured 
 it over my face. It was cool and refreshing, and in 
 a few moments I was able to rise. I looked at the 
 stream at the log, beneath which lay my sabre and at 
 the tree, beneath which lay my horse ; and then, making 
 an effort, I stepped upon the log, and crossed into the 
 thick brushwood on the other side. But a few steps 
 were taken when I was glad to sit down upon a fallen 
 tree. I felt stunned and faint, yet hoped I was gathering 
 strength and would soon be able to go on. As I was 
 thus seated the question arose, What should I do ? Fort 
 Henry, I knew, was eastward of me. Should I go there ? 
 it was but thirty -five or forty miles. No ! the coun- 
 try between must be swarming with rebels. Should 
 I go to Paducah ? It was sixty miles northward, and 
 the enemy would, doubtless, follow in that direction. 
 Should I remain hidden in the woods, trusting to their 
 leaving in a few days ? Should I crawl to some barn or 
 stack, and take the chance of their not searching it? 
 Would my strength hold out if I went on ? and would
 
 136 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 the fractured bone, that I felt tinder my coat, and the 
 growing pain in my side, do without the surgeon's care 
 till I could make my way out ? 
 
 At length I decided on my course : I would go north- 
 ward till daylight, and thus be some miles ahead ; then 
 I would turn eastward, and thus place myself on one 
 side of their probable line of march. During the next 
 day I hoped to meet a contraband, and, obtaining infor- 
 mation, then decide whether to continue eastward, 
 toward Fort Henry, or turn northward again to 
 Paducah. 
 
 Thus deciding, I took out my handkerchief and tied 
 my pistol round my waist, and then rose from the tree to 
 begin my journey. The broken ribs made it painful to 
 breathe, and my right arm had to be supported constantly 
 by my left. Around me, all was beautiful and serene. 
 The calm moon shone, in peaceful contrast with the excit- 
 ing scene I had lately witnessed, and lighted my steps and 
 pointed my way. No sound disturbed the stillness of 
 the woods, save that from a distant farm there came the 
 tinkle of a cow-bell. It was in the direction I wished 
 to go, and toward it I slowly made my way. A friend 
 had brought me down the April number of the " Atlan- 
 tic" before leaving camp, and I had read Wliittier'a 
 " Mountain Pictures." A line of it came to my mind : 
 
 " TLe pastoral curfew of the cow-bell rung ;" 
 
 and I wondered whether any other reader would ever 
 thus apply it.
 
 THE ESCAPE. 137 
 
 I had to walk slowly through the silvery-lighted 
 woods ; but at last drew near the ringing noise, and 
 climbed the hill, on the top of which were the farm and 
 barnyard of the cows. A road ran along the brow of 
 the hill, and on the other side of it appeared some wide 
 fields. To the left was a clump of apple-trees, and the 
 hoarse bark of a dog told me they covered- a house. I 
 stopped a few moments to rest and listen, and then 
 stepped cautiously into the road. On the opposite side 
 was a large tree, and in its shadow I tried to climb the 
 high rail fence. I was weaker than I had supposed. 
 My limbs refused at first to lift my weight, and my one 
 arm could not keep me from swinging round against the 
 fence. Twice I thought I must give it up ; but, after 
 several efforts, I mounted it, and then, holding my 
 breath, I let myself drop down on the other side. 
 
 Across the wide field there was another road. I had 
 not gone far when I heard a noise in the woods, and, 
 fearing it might be a picket of the enemy, 1 lay down 
 beside the fence. The moon was then near the horizon, 
 and I deemed it most prudent to wait till she had set. 
 
 Soon after this I came upon some cows, and these I 
 drove before me. I thought that if there should be a 
 picket in the road the cows would turn off, and there 
 would be less likelihood of my being seen or heard. 
 After going, I should think, a mile, we came to a broad 
 road. This the cows crossed ; and I was about to fol- 
 low, when a large dog came from a house beyond, and, 
 after barking furiously at the cows, came toward me.
 
 138 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 I took my pistol out, and was prepared to fire, when 
 the dog stopped barking. It was well for me he did so, 
 for within a few yards I heard horses coming up the 
 road. I looked, and saw the outline of some horsemen. 
 There was no time to fly. I sank quietly down upon 
 the ground, and lay still. The horsemen came on. 
 They seemed a picket. One rode in front, who seemed a 
 sergeant, and the others followed. They passed close by 
 me so close, I could hear the jingling of their spurs. 
 
 When they had passed I rose, and determined that 
 thereafter I would not go upon any road or cross any 
 field, or spare any pains. I entered the woods. They 
 were now thick, with underbrush, and I had not the 
 moon to guide me. Frequently I had wanted the North 
 star on night marches, but it had always been hidden 
 by clouds. Now, however, on this night, when I needed 
 it above all others, it shone out beautiful and bright. 
 As I watched it, it seemed an old friend, reappearing to 
 aid me, and again and again as I emerged from some 
 thick underwood, and turned toward its constant blaze, 
 I felt as if it were the companion of my flight. 
 But even with its aid, I encountered difficulties. Some- 
 times the trees would hide it, and often I had to keep 
 my eyes fixed on my path or strained on suspicious 
 objects around me. My plan was to take some distant 
 hill for a land-mark, and on reaching it, to look for 
 another, and make toward it. Yet fallen trees and deep 
 hollows often made me change my course, and some- 
 times made me lose it, and then I had to search the sky,
 
 THE ESCAPE. 139 
 
 and refind the star before I could go on. As I could 
 not use my hands, I was forced to push my way through 
 the brush with my, left shoulder. I had lost my hat, 
 too, in the fall, and my hair often caught in the 
 branches. So my progress was slow and wearisome, 
 with no help around me, but with hope before. 
 
 I should think it was about three o'clock in the morn- 
 ing, when, from the top of a little hill, there appeared 
 just before me the smoking, smouldering fires of a camp. 
 I knew if it were a camp, that I was within the lines. 
 I turned, therefore, and made my way back as a bur- 
 glar might glide through a house sliding my feet along 
 the ground, lest I should tread upon some crackling 
 braneih choosing the thickest wood and the darkest 
 shade. About an hour later, I saw, as I thought, some 
 tents, but knew it was most improbable there should be 
 any there ; so I stopped to examine, and then saw they 
 were but the grey light of morning breaking through 
 the trees. It was a welcome sight ; yet I confess the 
 night had not seemed long, and that I was surprised to 
 find the morning come. 
 
 I now changed my course, and turned toward the 
 east. The woods changed too. There were small trees, 
 with little underbrush, and the ground was a smooth, 
 descending plain. I kept on over this for miles. The 
 sky brightened ; the sun rose, and mounted higher and 
 higher. I heard the barking of dogs, the lowing of 
 cattle, and occasionally the voices of men and children. 
 I came, too, upon roads, and these had to be crossed
 
 140 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 with great caution, coming out step by step, looking 
 carefully up- and down-, listening anxiously, and thei 
 hurrying across and plunging into the woods on the 
 other side. Whence these roads came or where they 
 went, I neither knew nor cared. I was ignorant of the 
 country, but not compelled to ask my way. For once, 
 I was strangely independent, and needed only to look 
 toward the sun and travel east. 
 
 Later I came upon fields and farms, and round these 
 I had to make long circuits. One chain of farms, I 
 thought I never should get through. Again and again 
 I was forced to go back and try again. The temptation 
 to break through my resolution, and cross just this one, 
 or that one, was very strong ; and I found that making 
 one's escape, like any other success, depends on his reso- 
 lution and perseverance. 
 
 Toward noon, as I was approaching a road, I heard 
 children's voices. I looked, and saw, or thought I saw, a 
 man on horseback. He sat still as though on guard, 
 and I supposed he was one of the enemy's picket. The 
 woods were thin, so I lay down and drew the bushes 
 over me. I watched him, but he. did not move, and I 
 soon decided I must stay there as long as he did. Not- 
 withstanding my anxiety, I fell into a doze, probably 
 not for a minute, yet when I opened my eyes, the man 
 was gone, and a tree stood in his place. It was an 
 optical illusion. My eyes had been over-worked for 
 three nights, and for the last twenty hours, constantly 
 strained in examining objects far and near. The
 
 THE ESCAPE. 141 
 
 momeiit <l 8 rest had dispelled the apparition. I remem- 
 bered that as the sun was rising that morning, I had 
 long doubted whether a clump of bushes was not a 
 group of my own men that trees and stumps had 
 several times been changed to sentinels and guards ; 
 and I remembered, also, the tents in the morning, and 
 the camp-fires during the night. 
 
 I now began to suffer from thirst, for I could only 
 !rink by dipping up water with one hand. The sun, 
 loo, beat down through the half-leaved trees, and 
 became painful. I twisted some leaves into a sort of 
 cap, but it was often brushed off, and at best made but 
 a poor shelter.' I had been disappointed also in not 
 meeting a contraband. Some I had seen in fields, but 
 always with white men, and them I must shun ; and as 
 I did so, I asked myself whether this was the United 
 States, and these Americans, that I should be thus 
 skulking like a hunted criminal. 
 
 Feeling now and then a little faint, I decided on 
 going to a house for something to eat, and again 
 plunging into the woods. Yet here great caution was 
 necessary. I wanted a small house, because it would 
 probably contain but one man, and I must have it out 
 of sight of neighbors and near woods. I passed several, 
 but none of them complied with my conditions one 
 was too large, another too far back in an open field, 
 and a third was overlooked by a fourth. 
 
 It was perhaps three o'clock, and I was growing more 
 and more faint, when I saw an opening through the
 
 14:2 SKETCHES OF THE WAK. 
 
 ^ . 
 
 trees and the corner of a house. I approached it slowly. 
 There was a field beyond, but no houses in sight, and 
 the woods came up to the yard behind. " It is just the 
 house I need," I said to myself, " and now I must risk 
 it and go in." I slipped my pistol round, so that I 
 could draw it quickly from under my coat, and pushed 
 open the gate. All was quiet ; I walked round to the 
 door, and saw a woman inside, who looked startled at 
 seeing me. She said she would call her husband, who 
 was in the field, and went out. I watched her, and in 
 a few minutes was satisfied by seeing them returning. 
 I went back, and narrowly inspected the house. A 
 shot gun hung over the window, but it was unloaded and 
 rusted. As I finished, they came in. He was a young 
 man, with a bright, happy face far too cheerful a face 
 for a secessionist. "VVe looked at each other, and he said : 
 
 " You are a Union soldier." 
 
 " Yes," I answered ; " and what are you ?" 
 
 " I am a Union citizen," he replied. 
 
 The word " Union" was something of a talisman ; if 
 he had been a rebel, he would have said Federal. 
 
 James Mills (for such was my new-found friend's 
 name) was the first of several suffering and devoted 
 Union men, who refused all pay and reward for the 
 services they rendered to me, and whose kindness I 
 cannot sufficiently praise. He told me I was in a dan- 
 gerous neighborhood, and must neither stay, nor travel 
 by the road. His wife hurried for me a dinner, and 
 then he went with me through some fields and woods.
 
 THE ESCAPE. 143 
 
 and placed me upon a path leading to a second Union 
 man's, named Henry Chunn. It was something Kke 
 three miles to Mr. Chunn's. but I felt quite fresh and 
 equal to a dozen, if necessary. 
 
 Arriving there, I was most kindly received by his 
 wife. She told me that her husband would cheerfully 
 take me on toward Paducah. She made me lie down ; 
 she bathed my shoulder ; and she did everything for 
 me that womanly kindness could suggest. This was 
 the first bed I had lain upon for more than three 
 months. It produced an old effect, for in a few 
 moments I was sound asleep. I slept till after dark, 
 and then awoke by hearing the children cry that father 
 had come. He came in, and walking up to me, said, 
 in a cordial, honest voice : 
 
 " My friend, I am truly glad to see you ; you are 
 truly welcome to my house." 
 
 I went to sleep again and slept till morning. There 
 was bad news then: his mules had disappeared from 
 the barnyard during the night. But I must wait ; his 
 boys would find them by the time we finished break- 
 fast. At breakfast a little circumstance occurred which 
 may give you an idea of the different life we lead on 
 the border. Across some fields, and beyond some 
 woods, we heard a gun. It was no cannon a mere 
 shot-gun, such as a boy might fire anywhere on a 
 spring morning yet we all stopped talking. 
 
 " What does that mean ?" I asked, after the silence 
 had continued a few moments.
 
 144 SKETCHES OF THE WAK. 
 
 " I don't know," said Mr. Chunn. 
 
 "Have your neighbors guns and powder?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Then," said I, " it may mean a great deal for us." 
 
 "We all rose from the table, and looked anxiously 
 across the fields ; but nothing was to be seen. The 
 family looked troubled, and Mr. Chunn said something 
 about the mules being gone, and this being strange. 
 We waited some time, but all continued quiet. But 
 the boys had not found the mules, and Mr. Chunn 
 accordingly walked on with me toward the house of 
 Mr. Edward Magness, who was likewise a good Union 
 man, and would willingly help me on. 
 
 I took leave of these kind, simple-minded people, 
 whose plain and honest goodness is rare in the great 
 world, from which they live apart, and went slowly 
 along the little wood road. I soon came to a field in 
 which were two or three men and several children, 
 planting corn. I must here explain to you that in the 
 South corn is the one great crop on which everybody 
 lives. The bread is all made of corn ; the horses are 
 fed on corn ; the pigs are fattened on corn ; and if the 
 corn should fail there would be a famine. There were 
 fears that it would fail. The spring had been cold and 
 wet, and the planting was not half done, which always 
 had been over a week before. All hands were working 
 early and late on every plantation, seizing on this fine 
 weather for hurrying in the corn. As Mr. Magness 
 came down a furrow, near me, I stepped out of the
 
 THE ESCAPE. 145 
 
 bushes, and told him briefly who I was, and what I 
 wanted. It must have been an unwelcome tale ; yet 
 he never, by a look or word, gave a disagreeable sign. 
 Promptly he stopped his plough and unhitched his 
 horses. Unwillingly I saw the planting cease. But 
 when I spoke of it, lie said pleasantly, they would try 
 and make up the lost time when he came back. "We 
 went to his house, the saddles were soon put on, and 
 we started. My companion was more than usually 
 intelligent, and gave me much information. He also 
 understood the danger of being seen by secessionists, 
 and picked his way with great care by unused roads. 
 
 A ride of several miles brought us to the house of Mr. 
 Wade. A very shrewd and cautious man was Mr. 
 Wade, yet a staunch Union man, who had spoken, and 
 Buffered for the cause. He had spent the previous eight 
 months chiefly at Paducah, stealing up occasionally in 
 the dark of evening to see his family, and leaving before 
 daylight the next morning. Once he had been arrested, 
 and twice his house had been searched and robbed. He 
 knew well the woods and by-paths, and had tried the 
 difficulties and dangers of escaping from guerrillas. He 
 and lj therefore, had much more in common than the 
 others, and in him I felt I had a trusty and experienced 
 friend ; yet strange to tell, he was a South Caro- 
 linian. 
 
 We went into the house. On a couch lay a very aged 
 woman, who, I thought, was childish. Mr. Wade and 
 Mr. Magness were old friends, and talked as country 
 
 7
 
 14:6 SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 
 
 neighbors talk, of crops, and roads, and men, and places. 
 At last Mr. Magness said : " I saw Edward Jones yes- 
 terday, and he told me they had had a letter from Joel, 
 and that he wrote they were leaving Corinth, and had 
 been attacked. His regiment was defeated, and he had 
 to run for his life." 
 
 The old lady, at this, rose up and said : " Say that 
 over, sir." 
 
 Mr. Magness repeated it. 
 
 " He is my own grandson," said the old lady. " The 
 night before he went he came here, and I told him 
 never to fight against his country the country his fore- 
 fathers fought for. He said, ' Grandmother, they will 
 call me a coward if I don't go.' A coward ! I would 
 let them call me anything, I told him, before I would 
 fight against my country. But he went. And, now, 
 what do you tell me? He is my own grandson my 
 own flesh and blood so I can't wish him killed," said 
 the old lady, with great feeling ; " but, I thank God I 
 thank God he has had to run for his life /" 
 
 Our early dinner finished, Mr. Magness took hia 
 departure, and we started. 
 
 " We will stop at my brother-in-law's, captain," said 
 Mr. "Wade, " and get you a better saddle. It is only a 
 mile from here." So we rode quietly along. 
 
 " We will pass our member of Assembly," said Mr. 
 Wade. " It is about a mile from my brother-in-law's. 
 He is a true man, I tell you. The secesh would give 
 anything to get him."
 
 THE E8CAPE. 147 
 
 By this time we reached his brother-in-law's. A 
 little girl was in the yard, and, as we stopped, came to 
 the gate. 
 
 " Well, uncle," said the little girl, " are you running 
 away again from the rebel soldiers ?" 
 
 " No," said Mr. Wade, cheerfully oh no : there are 
 no rebels round now." 
 
 "Yes, there are," said the girl. "Father has just 
 come from Fararington, and there are four hundred 
 there." 
 
 " What ! four hundred in Farmington !" 
 
 " It is so, brother," said a woman who had come out 
 " it is so. They came there this morning ; and husband 
 hurried back to tell the neighbors." 
 
 " Captain," said Mr. Wade, " the sooner you and I 
 get out of this country the better for us." 
 
 " How far is it back to Farmington ?" 
 
 " Only four miles." 
 
 " Is there any reason for their coming down this 
 road ?" 
 
 " Yes : Ilinckley, the member we elected, lives on it, 
 and Jones, who helped elect him, lives on it, and I live 
 on it. They would like to arrest us all. But about half 
 a mile from Hinckley's there is a little side-path we can 
 take for five or six miles." 
 
 Could we have ridden on a gallop, the side-path 
 would have been reached before the threatening danger 
 could have reached us ; but, unfortunately, the pain in 
 my side had increased so that we could not go faster
 
 14:8 SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 
 
 than a walk. I tried a trot for a moment, but could not 
 bear it, and reined up. " Do you ride on, Mr. Wade," I 
 said : " there is no need of our both being taken." But 
 Mr. "Wade refused. 
 
 It was an anxious ride. We knew that Farmington 
 was not far behind, and they might come clattering 
 after us at every moment. We looked back often at 
 every turn of the road from the top of every knoll and 
 hill, but nothing was seen. 
 
 Soon we came to Hiuckley's. Two men were seated 
 on the porch, and the flag was flying in front of the 
 house. I rode on ; but Mr. Wade stopped, and said, 
 " Pull down your flag, boys, and take to the woods." 
 It was quietly said, but the two men sprang up. I 
 looked back, and saw them exchange a few words with 
 Mr. Wade, and then one pulled down the flag as the 
 other ran toward the stable. There was another anxious 
 interval, and then we reached the side-road. We went 
 past it, so as to leave no trail, and first one, and then 
 the other, struck off through the woods until wo came 
 to it. A very intricate and narrow little road it was ; 
 so that the enemy could not have travelled much faster 
 than we. Yet there were some settlers, "but all good 
 Union men," Mr. Wade said. At the first we stopped ; 
 and he borrowed a butternut coat, and, with some diffi- 
 culty, helped me off with my soldier's blouse, and on 
 with it ; so that to any person in a neighboring house 
 or field we must have seemed like two farmers riding 
 along.
 
 * 
 
 THE ESCAPE. 149 
 
 After six or seven miles, our bridle-path came bacfe 
 to the main road. "There is a nasty, secesh tavern 
 down the road a mile or so," said Mr. "Wade, " and if 
 they are in this part of the country, they will be sure to 
 go down there for the news and a drink. If we can only 
 get across the road and over to old Washam's, we shall 
 be safe." 
 
 Slowly we came out to the road. We stopped and 
 listened we held our breath, and bent down to catch 
 the trampling of their horses. We moved on where the 
 bushes grew thickest, and stopped again. Then Mr. 
 Wade rode out and looked up and down. " There is no 
 one in sight," he said ; " come on quickly." I hurried 
 my horse, and in a moment was across. On the other 
 side were great trees and but little underbrush to hide 
 us. We hurried on until we were hidden from the 
 road, and then Mr. Wade drew a long breath, and said : 
 " They won't come down this road ; we are safe now." 
 
 The danger past, there came a great increase of pain. 
 Each step of the horse racked me, and I felt myself 
 grow weaker and weaker. At last came the refreshing 
 words : " Old Washam's is the next house," and soon 
 the next house appeared. " A true Union man," said 
 Mr. Wade, and true he seemed, for the flag was dis- 
 played before the door. We stopped, but I was too 
 exhausted to dismount, and had to slide off into Mr. 
 Wade's arms. As I did so, an old lady with silver spec- 
 tacles upon her nose and knitting in her hand, came out. 
 " What is the matter with that poor man ?" she cried ;
 
 150 SKETCHES OF THE WAB. 
 
 and then catching sight of my uniform under the butter- 
 nut coat, " Why, it is a Union soldier ; bring him into 
 the house bring him in immediately." So I was 
 brought in and laid upon a bed, and tenderly cared 
 for. 
 
 I lay there watching the knitting and listening to the 
 old lady and her daughter's talk. They had a consulta- 
 tion upon my safety, and it was decided that I should 
 go to the daughter's house for the night. " It is off the 
 road," they said, " and if they make an attack, we can 
 send you word across the fields." But later, we learnt 
 that two spies had passed the house that day, and it 
 was decided I should be sent on that night. 
 
 We were to start from the house of a son-in-law of 
 Mr. Washam's, and he and his brother-in-law were to 
 drive me. I walked up to the house, and found the 
 wagon nearly ready. His wife was a young girl, with 
 a sweet and gentle voice and manner. " It is too bad," 
 she said, " too bad that you should go away so wounded 
 and wearied. In peace, we would not let any one leave 
 our home thus." Soon the wagon came to the door. 
 " Mother," she said, " let us make up a bed in it." 
 
 *' Oh, no," I interposed, " I am not used to a bed ; 1 
 have not had one in three months, and cannot put you 
 to such trouble " 
 
 " It is no trouble to us," she replied, so earnestly and 
 kindly, that I could not doubt it ; " do not think that 
 of us." 
 
 " But," I went on, " I assure you, some hay in the
 
 THE ESCAPE. 151 
 
 wagon is all I want, and much more than I atn accus- 
 tomed to. Besides, I am dusty and dirty, and shall 
 certainly spoil your bed clothes." 
 
 " If it had not been for you Union soldiers fighting 
 for us," she answered, " there would be nothing in this 
 house to spoil ; and whatever we have, you shall have." 
 
 Against such goodness and patriotism, who could 
 raise objections ? The bed was made in the wagon ; 
 they helped me up, and blessed by many good wishes 
 and kind farewells, we started. For me it was so much 
 more safe and comfortable than usual, that I soon fell 
 asleep ; but to my two young friends, it was an unusual 
 and ait anxious drive. Frequently I was roused by the 
 wagon stopping. Sometimes they heard dogs barking 
 sometimes voices, and once a gun. At length I woke, 
 to find the wagon standing in front of a house, and 
 young Washam. thumping on the door. Soon a man 
 came out. 
 
 " Why, boys," he said, " what on earth are you doing 
 here this time o' night ?" 
 
 " Why you see, Mr. Derringer," said one of the 
 " boys," " here's a wounded Union officer, hurt in the 
 fight on the Obion. Joel Wade brought him to our 
 house, and we've brought him here ; and now we want 
 you to take him to Paducah." 
 
 " I'm really sorry," said Mr. Derringer, " that I've 
 lent my wagon; but my neighbor, Purcell, is a good 
 Union man, and he will d > it. All of you come in, and 
 I will go over and see him."
 
 152 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 I told Mr. Derringer to wait till morning ; but he 
 would not hear of it ; and after seeing us comfortably in 
 bed, he started off to walk a mile or two and wake his 
 neighbor in the dead of night, to tell him he must come 
 at break of day and carry on a stranger, of whom he 
 had never even heard, for no other reason than that he 
 was a wounded Union officer. 
 
 Before daylight, Mr. Derringer roused us. It was all 
 right, he said ; his neighbor Purcell would be there ; 
 and now his wife was up, and had breakfast ready. As 
 breakfast finished, Mr. Pureell arrived; I bade my 
 good friends good-bye, and started on the last stage 
 of my journey. As we reached the main road,- we saw 
 numbers of men mounted on jaded mules, and clad in 
 sombre butternut, with sad and anxious faces. Unhappy 
 refugees flying from the invading foe ! Some who had 
 journeyed through the night, rode with us toward 
 Paducah ; others who had reached it the day before, 
 rode anxiously out in quest of news. As many caught 
 sight of me, they recognized the marks of recent service. 
 
 " Are you from the Obion ?" they asked ; " how far 
 off is the enemy now ? "Will he dare to come here ?" 
 
 We drew nearer to the town, and the signs of alarm 
 increased. The crowd of refugees grew greater the 
 cavalry patrolled the roads the infantry was undei 
 arms, and the artillery was planted so as to sweep the 
 approaches. At last some houses appeared. 
 
 " This is Paducah," said Mr. Purcell ; " you are there 
 at last."
 
 THE ESCAPE. 153 
 
 We stopped at headquarters, and I went in to report. 
 
 " Is the adjutant in ?" I asked of an officer who was 
 writing. 
 
 " I am the adjutant, sir," he answered, without look- 
 ing up. 
 
 "I have come to report myself as arriving at this 
 post." 
 
 " What name, sir ?" 
 
 I gave my name. The adjutant looked up, and with 
 some surprise, said : 
 
 " Why, you are reported killed, sir; two of your men 
 saw you lying dead under your horse !" 
 
 " How many of my men have come in ?" 
 
 " About half; they are at the Provost Marshal's." 
 
 " Any officers 2" 
 
 " Yes ; one of your lieutenants was taken, but escaped, 
 and came down from Mayfield by railroad. And now," 
 said the adjutant, " don't stay here any longer ; go at 
 once to the hospital, and I will send an order to the 
 medical director to give you a good surgeon." 
 
 A few moments more, and I caught sight of a group 
 of my men. Then came the painful questions: Who 
 have come in 1 Who are missing? Who last saw this 
 one ? Who knows anything of that one ? Where does 
 K's family live ? and who will write to tell them how 
 he fell ? And then came a surgeon a quiet room a 
 tedious time an old friend and a journey home.
 
 154: SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 X. 
 
 THE LAST SJOUT. 
 
 FROM New York to Fort Henry might once have been 
 an interesting journey, but campaigning has robbed 
 travelling of its charm, and henceforth I fear it will be 
 but dull work for me. The railroad bore me swiftly to 
 the mouth of the Ohio ; I have looked again on Cairo 
 in its dirt and mud, Paducah with its dusty streets and 
 hospitals, and now I am on the banks of the Tennessee. 
 
 But I am here only to close my service in the West, 
 and to say good-bye to my comrades of the Fifth ; to 
 get Gipsy, and to recover my sabre. I have had an 
 interesting soldier-life in Tennessee more interesting 
 than I shall have again and I leave it with regret. 
 
 With me so many things have happened here on 
 Sunday, that you must not be surprised that it is 
 Sunday now. It was on Sunday that Donelson surren- 
 dered on Sunday that I went upon my first foraging 
 on Sunday that I entered Paris with a flag on Sunday 
 that we began our first retreat and it is Sunday now 
 that I am starting on my last scout. 
 
 The party consists of the men of my old squadron, 
 most of whom were with me in the spring. They have 
 not been to the Obion since, and quickly guess that our 
 destination is Lockridge Mill.
 
 THE LAST 8COTTT. 155 
 
 It is a beautiful October day, and the tall Tennessee 
 corn stands ripe in the fields, though the woods are as 
 green as they were last June. The Muscadine grape is 
 purple, and the persimmon trees are scattered thickly 
 along the road. Yet the frost has not sugared all of the 
 persimmons, and when we taste one which it has not 
 touched, our mouths are drawn up as though we had 
 tasted so much nut-gall. The weather and the woods 
 are all that we can wish, and my life in Tennessee will 
 be interesting to its close. 
 
 The road is one that I have not passed over with you, 
 for it would not be safe for us to go by Paris and Como. 
 Too many people would guess our destination if we did, 
 so we reverse the circle, and hope to come back that 
 way. This road will lead us through a bad neighbor- 
 hood, where the guerrillas have many friends. Last 
 week cotton and tobacco were burnt near Boydsville; 
 and we know of large bodies of them up the river, who 
 have succeeded King's cavalry, and may swoop down 
 on us at any time. We need, therefore, to use much 
 care and caution, and be always on the watch. For 
 many miles our ride has not been marked by anything 
 unusual ; but it is now evening, and we are approaching 
 a little hamlet. We reach it we have seen no one, 
 and no one has seen us ; but every door is closed, and 
 every house is empty. I do not like this. The advance 
 guard has noticed it too, and halted for orders. 
 
 " Push on, corporal," I say ; " be very watchful ; send 
 two. of your men well ahead, and keep on at a trot."
 
 156 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 No one is seen, and no sound is heard for some time, 
 and then we meet a man on horseback, who lias drawn 
 out to the side of the road for us to pass. A sergeant 
 leaves the column and tells the man that he must come 
 with us ; and, much against his will, he does so. But, 
 not long afterwards, we halt to feed our horses. 
 
 " Send Corporal Morton and four men back a mile as 
 a picket. Let them take corn with them and feed two 
 of the horses, while the others go further down the 
 road. Then change and feed the others, and, when all 
 are done, come in without further orders." 
 
 The advance guard pursue the same plan, and then I 
 turn to the man on horseback. 
 
 " I have been up to the doctor's for medicine for m j 
 wife," he says, " and she's expecten of me back. I wish 
 you would let me go, sir." 
 
 " I cannot now," I answer ; " but I will try to let you 
 off soon." 
 
 " Couldn't you let me go now, sir? She's real sick. 
 Here's the medicine, just as I got it from the doctor. 
 You can look at it if you want to ; and she'll be scaret 
 bad if I don't come. I'll give you my word not to say 
 anything to anybody, if you don't want me to." 
 
 The man is very earnest ; he has the medicine, and 
 he appears very truthful. I am afraid you will think 
 me quite cruel when I answer : 
 
 "I am sorry ; but it's my duty to detain you. You 
 cannot go." 
 
 The man sits down beside the gate, and the sergeant
 
 THE LAST SCOUT. 157 
 
 who has him in charge sits down with him, where, I 
 fear, they do not enjoy themselves. 
 
 The owner of the house stepped out as soon as we 
 arrived, and good-naturedly invited us in ; finding that 
 we wished to feed, he showed the way to the corn-cribs, 
 and dealt out his corn with a free hand. But one 
 object in our halt here is to arrest him. As he returns 
 from the cribs, I tell him I wish to speak to him ; and 
 we walk to the house. 
 
 " Mr. Bennett," I say, " you are a soldier in the 
 Southern army." 
 
 " No, sir. I was, but I've been discharged." 
 
 " Let me see your discharge." 
 
 His wife searches for it in a wardrobe, and in a few 
 minutes brings it to me. It states that he was dis- 
 charged from the service of the Confederate States on 
 account of physical disability. 
 
 " You left, then, because you could not serve any 
 longer." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Had you a pass through our lines ?" 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Have you reported to any of our officers, or taken 
 the oath ?" 
 
 No, sir." 
 
 " Don't you know you are violating military law, and 
 are liable to be arrested?" 
 
 The man says nothing. The three children, who 
 fcave watched the reading of the " discharge " as though
 
 158 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 it were a safeguard, turn their frightened faces upon 
 me, and his wife moves nearer and says pleadingly : 
 
 " Oh, sir, he is sick. He can't fight any more, and 
 will never go again. He is willing to take the oath, 
 and was going down to take it last week." 
 
 " Why did you not go 2" 
 
 " I heard there would be an officer up at Boydsville, 
 and that I could take it before him. I acknowledge I 
 ought to have gone down before." 
 
 " "Well, you have answered so frankly against your 
 self that I will take your word for this. Go down to 
 the fort by Thursday, report yourself to the command 
 ing officer, and take the oath." 
 
 The man promises he will, and his wife thanks me 
 and gives many assurances that she has had enough of 
 the war. We have a little talk about the rebellion, 
 and then I go out. The man whose wife is sick still 
 gits by the gate, and looks up entreatingly as I pass. 
 But the horses have finished their feed, and the rear 
 guard is coming up the road. 
 
 " You may go now, sir," I say to him, " and I regret 
 that you have been stopped ; but be careful to tell no 
 one that we are here to-night." 
 
 He promises, mounts his horse, and rides away. I 
 wait until he is out of sight, and then order the men to 
 mount. Mr. Bennett comes up and shakes hands, and 
 I ask him which is the road to Boydsville, and how far 
 it is there. He tells me it is about eight miles, and
 
 THE LAST SCOUT. 159 
 
 " So you are going to Boydsville, are you?" 
 
 " Yes," I answer, " we're going that way. Good 
 night." And we move off at a trot, upon the Boyds- 
 ville road. 
 
 It is three o'clock in the morning, and we are bivou- 
 acked in a large field far back from any road or house. 
 Last night we soon left the Boydsville road, and then 
 crossed over to a third one, and stopped here about ten. 
 The moon now shines brightly, and all is still as though 
 it were midnight ; but the camp guard is calling up the 
 men, and we must resume our march. When the sun 
 rises we shall be many miles away. 
 
 As we approach Boydsville, we meet a couple of 
 wagons with boxes and goods. They are stopped, and the 
 usual questions put. " Where are you from ?" " Where 
 were these goods bought ?" " Have you the government 
 permits to buy goods ?" The men reply that they have 
 come from Paducah, and produce the bills of goods, all 
 properly stamped by the United States inspector, so 
 we let them pass. 
 
 It is now nearly noon, and we cannot be many miles 
 from Lockridge Mill. Once or twice some man has 
 thought he remembered a house or hill as one he had 
 passed in our retreat ; but no one has felt sure of this. 
 At last we come to a cross-road, and four houses which 
 bear the name of Buena Vista ; and, as we reach it, every 
 man starts and looks about him. There is no mistaking 
 this ; we have been here before, and have good cause to 
 remember the place. It was here they fired on us
 
 160 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 across the corner of the field ; here, some of the men 
 turned the wrong way and had to come back ; and here, 
 the side of the road was gullied out like the bars of a 
 gridiron, and I wonder more now than I did then that 
 my horse ("ne'er such another") ever crossed it at a 
 gallop as I rode beside the column. 
 
 The squadron halts here ; but I select eight men, and 
 keep on. We think that an hour's ride will take us to 
 the spot where my horse fell, and another will bring us 
 back. But retracing a road ridden over in such a man- 
 ner by moonlight, and at another season of the year, is 
 no easy task. Yet here eight heads prove better than 
 one ; for, it often happens that out of the eight, there 
 will be only one who noticed a little something, and 
 only another who noticed a little something else. 
 Before long, however, there is another burst of excla- 
 mations, for another noticeable place appears a long, 
 straight stretch of road between two wooded knolls, and 
 covered with the stumps of young trees as thickly as 
 though they had been driven down by hand. Well do I 
 remember how, when I caught sight of it, I ordered the 
 men to pull up and cross slowly, and how I turned and 
 watched for the enemy to reach the knoll and open 
 their rifle fire before we should be over. Yet, after 
 passing this, the noticeable places are few, and then 
 cease. We turn down this road and that one, and come 
 back, finding nothing that we can remember. If it 
 were not for the sabre, I would give up the search and 
 go back. At last, only one of the party believes the
 
 THE LAST SCOUT. 161 
 
 spot we are seeking is still before us, and even his faith 
 in his memory is shaken. We have been two hours 
 instead of one, and have found nothing yet. "We have 
 ridden since three this morning, and the day has sum- 
 mer heat. Shall we keep on ? Yes, a little farther. I 
 must find my sabre. But we come to a house hidden 
 beneath a clump of apple trees, a wide field, a high 
 fence and a large tree. It is my turn to remember 
 now how inch by inch I toiled up that hill, and how 
 beneath that tree I tried and failed, and failed and tried 
 to climb that towering fence. 
 
 A 'little farther on a road turns off, and the men are 
 sure that it was this road we took. At the turn (wher- 
 ever it may be), there was on that evening a man with 
 a yoke of oxen, who came near being run down. As 
 we stand discussing the question, a contraband comes up. 
 
 " Sam," says one of the men, " do you remember the 
 fight on the Obion last spring ?" 
 
 "Yes, sah," says Sam ; "I like to been killed thar." 
 
 " You did ! how so ?" 
 
 " Why, just as the soldiers were a comen along, I was 
 a standen right here on this here very corner with our 
 ox-team, and for all the world I thought they'd a run 
 over me." 
 
 "What ! are you the man with the oxen ?"I exclaim. 
 
 " Yes, sah," says Sam ; " I'm the very man." 
 
 " Then, Sam," I say, " you are the very man we want, 
 and must go along and show us where the soldiers went 
 that night."
 
 162 SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 
 
 We dismount, and half the men take the horses to 
 the nearest house to feed, and, with the others, I walk 
 on. The men say they remember it, but to me it is all 
 a blank. The main events 1 recollect clearly, but my 
 fall, I find, knocked the last three miles of the ride 
 entirely out of my memory. We go on nearly two 
 miles, and I see nothing that I can recall. Then the 
 road goes down a series of steep descents so steep I 
 wonder if I ever did ride down them on a runaway 
 horse. As we descend one of these I stop, for before 
 me, as in a dream, stand two trees, and through them 1 
 see the fallen trunk and branches of another. I do not 
 expect to see the remains of my horse, for I have 
 already learnt that he staggered bleeding to a house 
 near by, and was seized by the enemy. But this is the 
 spot I am sure of it. 
 
 "I think it was farther on, captain," says a corporal, 
 " that I saw your horse down I think it was there, and 
 you must have crawled down to the brook at that 
 place." 
 
 I will try the corporal's place first, and I walk rapidly 
 down there. I reach the bank of the brook, and my 
 heart fails rue, for the brook is dry ; its waters cannot 
 hide the sabre now. I look above and below, and there 
 is no sabre to be seen. But this is not the place there 
 is no log here I knew it was higher up ; so I jump 
 down into the bed of the stream, and walk eagerly up. 
 Above me is a point, and when I turn that point I am 
 certain I shall see the log and perhaps the sabre. I
 
 THE LAST SCOUT. 163 
 
 reach it, and am pushing through the bushes that over- 
 hang the brook, when a sergeant calls out, " Here it 
 is." Yes, there is the log, and beneath it, just as I 
 threw it in, lies the sabre. Rusted and broken and 
 never to be drawn again, it is a thousand times more 
 precious than when, burnished and bright, I first 
 received it. I know it is valueless, and that its beauty 
 and its usefulness are gone, but the happiest moment 
 of my soldier-life is when I find my ruined sabre. 
 
 In the twilight of evening we return to Buena 
 Vista. Yery anxious have I been for the last two 
 hours, and very anxious seem the men, as they stand 
 round their saddled horses, at our prolonged absence. I 
 have heard of a party of guerrillas in front and of 
 another on our right, and the men have heard of a third in 
 the rear. Our horses are too tired to march far, and we 
 have already been here too long. The left seems clear, 
 and to the left is Lockridge Mill, and our road back 
 but too many have already guessed that we are going 
 there, and the men have asked too many questions to 
 keep our destination a secret, as hitherto it always has 
 been. It is such situations as this that make the 
 cavalry service so interesting ; and in its miniature 
 strategy is a constant charm. The question, What shall 
 be done? must be answered quickly, and one needs 
 move skilfully when he is surrounded by difficulties. 
 Here the roads cross somewhat like a letter X. Up the 
 first we marched in the morning, and up the second I 
 have just come; the third leads to Lockridge Mill,
 
 SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 and in the fourth we have no real interest. The men 
 mount, wheel into column ; I order " trot" " trot out" 
 and we move rapidly up the fourth road. No sooner out 
 of sight of the houses at our starting place, than wa 
 come down to the slowest of walks. Whenever a house 
 appears, w r e are seen on a trot ; and whenever the house 
 is passed, we find ourselves on a walk. Thus we appear 
 to be going rapidly up this road, when we are in fact 
 moving slowly. Some three miles up is a watering 
 place, the only one, and there our thirsty horses must 
 drink. As we pass the last house, its pack of dogs 
 bark, and its inmates come out and look at us go by. 
 Then we go down, down, down into a damp, cold, 
 wooded ravine. In its depths we find a muddy stream, 
 and the horses plunge their nostrils deep, and quaff it 
 thirstily. We come out on the other side, and halting, 
 dismount. 
 
 Nothing could seem more strange or be more unusual 
 than halting in such a spot, and at such an hour ; yet 
 no man asks a question, or appears surprised. Those 
 who have been at the cross-roads all day, gather in little 
 groups and talk ; and those who have been with me, lie 
 down and doze. Wonderful are the effects of discipline 
 and experience ! A year ago how agitated would these 
 same men have been, and how discussed this inexpli- 
 cable delay ! Now they are undisturbed, and leave it 
 all to me. The videttes ride in and whisper reports, 
 and ride out again with whispered instructions; yet 
 this man relights his pipe, and that one goes on with
 
 THE LAST SCOUT. 165 
 
 his story. At length the Tennessee bed time is passed, 
 and the videttes from the front " come in." The orders 
 are given, "Be silent ;" " Hold your sabres so that they 
 will not clank ;" " By file to the right ;" and we are 
 retracing our steps to Buena Yista. Riding by file 
 makes a less intense noise, though the column ia 
 stretched out to twice its usual length, and the noise 
 lasts twice as long. We mount the hill noiselessly, and 
 I look with anxiety at the house. Do I see a light ? 
 No, 'tis but the moon glimmering on the window panes. 
 We approach it the dogs are as silent as the men. I 
 am before it, and check Ida to her slowest walk the 
 column behind me hardly moves, and the horses seem 
 to tread lightly. "We are past, and no cur has yelped or 
 person seen us our first strategic movement is success- 
 ful. " It was done first rate," whispers the sergeant 
 behind me ; " we got ahead of the dogs that time." 
 
 On our left there is a corn field, with the tall Southern 
 corn still standing. We halt, and two men dismount, 
 and, in the shadow of a tree, take down the high rail 
 fence. The column, turning in, passes up a corn row to 
 the other side of the field; the two men, remaining, 
 carefully replace the fence. The shadow of the tree 
 hides our trail, and we have left no other sign behind 
 us. On the other side of the field is a little basin, 
 unploughed and grass-covered, wherein our horses are 
 picketed. As I ride around it, I find they are com- 
 pletely hidden away; it is perfect for our purpose. 
 The sentinels stand on the rising ground behind us, and
 
 166 SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 
 
 in the clear moonlight, see over a wide expanse of fields ; 
 and here we lie down and securely sleep. 
 
 It is three in the morning, and the men have left 
 their cavalry couches, and are silently rolling their 
 blankets and saddling their horses. We leave the field 
 as we entered it, replacing the fence and turning toward 
 Buena Vista. How surprised the owner will be when, 
 harvesting his com, he stumbles on the traces of our 
 mysterious bivouac. The country still sleeps in the 
 chill, silent moonlight, and very chilly and silent are 
 we ; but by and by the day breaks, and, as the sun 
 rises, we descend into the dark, damp valley of the 
 Obion. The direction of our march is reversed so is 
 the hour, and so are all the circumstances, yet we feel 
 awed by the memories of last May. Every fallen tree 
 or muddy hollow has a tale here this man's horse was 
 Bhot, here another was wounded, and here a third nar- 
 rowly escaped. On the bank of this little stream, the 
 man who leads was taken prisoner ; over it Tennessee 
 made an unequalled jump; in this mud hole, five horses 
 went down, and further on, near the bridge, our major 
 fell. Looking at it calmly and critically, it seems even 
 worse than it did then, and I wonder how one of us 
 escaped. 
 
 We reach the bridge ; the thickened foliage leaves the 
 valley less open, yet I can, in fancy, see again that long 
 column bearing down upon us. What a strong position 
 it is ! how easily we could have held it, had we been 
 armed like the enemy ! And here are the house and
 
 THE LAST SCOUT. 167 
 
 the barn-yard, and Bischoff shows us the very place 
 where the little black horse made his famous leap ; and 
 M>. Lockridge comes out and points to some graves, 
 and his wife repeats some dying words. They beg us 
 to stay to breakfast, and say that though they suffered 
 last spring, they have been blessed with an abundant 
 harvest; but we do not feel like breakfasting there 
 now, and pass on to the houses where the flags were 
 waved, and where the welcome is worthy of the flag. 
 
 A long day has this been for us sultry and hot the 
 streams dried up the wells a hundred feet deep and 
 our horses have suffered much. We are still seven 
 miles from Como, when two mounted men are seen 
 behind us. " Bring those men in, sergeant." The ser- 
 geant wheels about and soon returns with them. 
 
 " I must trouble you to ride with us awhile, gentle- 
 men," I say ; "I wish to talk with you." 
 
 " We are going to Cottage Grove," says one of the 
 men ; " it is seven miles off, and we have ridden a long 
 distance to-day : I hope you won't take us far." 
 
 " I will see about it," I say ; and we ride on. 
 
 One two three miles ; it is no joke to the men, they 
 plead their loyalty, and give their names and proffer their 
 honor. The answer they get is, " I am sorry for you 
 I know it's hard ; but I cannot let you go." 
 
 " We've been up to old-man Gibbs', near Presden." 
 
 " A tall dark man, who sometimes rides a white mule ?" 
 
 "No, that's his son. Now you know the kind of 
 folks we've been among, maybe you'll let us go."
 
 168 SKETCHES OF THE WAK. 
 
 " I am sorry for you I know it's hard ; but I cannot 
 let you go." 
 
 Four five six miles, and they ask : 
 
 " Do you mean to take us to Como 2" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " When we get there, will you let us go ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 (t It's further from Como than from here ; our horses 
 are tired, and our folks will be frightened." 
 
 " I am sorry for you I know it is hard ; but I cannot 
 let you go." 
 
 " Mr. Hurt knows us, and will vouch for us." 
 
 Well, I will see Mr. Hurt." 
 
 Como is reached at last. Our secession friend's barn- 
 yards are still standing, and half the men halt there ; 
 this time to trouble him for supper as well as forage. 
 With the rest I continue down the road that I walked 
 up so anxiously when I was last here. I dismount and 
 walk to the steps, where stands Mrs. Hurt. We come 
 from a guerrilla country, and in the twilight she does 
 not recognize me. I can see in her frightened look and 
 agitated manner, that she thinks we are some of her 
 Southern brethren. I therefore hasten to announce 
 myself by saying, " How are you, Mrs. Hurt ? I have 
 come back for that tea you were getting for me last 
 spring." A very joyful meeting it is ; and Mr. Hurt is 
 called, and we shake hands as though we had been life- 
 long friends, and say to each other that we can hardly 
 believe our acquaintance was but of the part of a single
 
 THE LAST SCOUT. 169 
 
 ' * 
 
 day. Trouble and danger bring people very quickly 
 close together. 
 
 But the two men all this while have been, sitting on 
 their horses at the gate, and now they cough loudly. 
 
 " Come here," I say to Mr. Hurt, " and tell me if you 
 know these men, and if they are trustworthy." 
 
 We walk to the gate, and Mr. Hurt bursts into a loud 
 laugh. " Why," he says, " you have arrested the only 
 two Union men there are in Cottage Grove !" 
 
 I am vexed, but I cannot help laughing ; and the men 
 are vexed, but they, after a minute, laugh too. 
 
 " Don't tell it up there," says Mr. Hurt, " or the 
 secesh will laugh at you all your lives ;" and then we 
 shake hands, and they ride away. 
 
 I need not tell you that this time we stayed to tea ; 
 nor how we talked over the events of the former visit ; 
 and how everybody remembered where everybody sat, 
 and what everybody did, and every word that every- 
 body said. But it is time to go, and though Mr. Hurt 
 will not hear of it, we saddle up, and bidding them 
 many good-byes, resume our march. 
 
 Last spring when we crossed the Tennessee, two men, 
 named Anderson and Paris, came into camp as refugees 
 from Paris. When I was in Paris with the flag, some 
 one came behind me and said, in a whisper, "Tell 
 Anderson and Faris not to come back !" As we 
 guarded the Holly Fork next day, Anderson and Faris 
 appeared. I stopped them, not on their account, but- 
 for the reason that I would not let anybody pass ; and 
 
 8
 
 170 SKETCHES OF THE WAK. 
 
 afterward they came down and stayed chieriy in camp. 
 On our expedition to the Obion, Faris had been our 
 guide. He was taken, a court-martial was held, at 
 which a neighbor of his one Captain Mitchell was 
 the chief manager and witness; and Faris was sen- 
 tenced as a spy, and hung. He met his death bravely, 
 writing a calm and heroic letter to his wife upon his 
 coffin. 
 
 We have all wanted to catch Master Mitchell ; and 
 now, on our way from Mr. Hurt's, I accidentally learn 
 that last evening he came into Paris. We have been 
 on the road since three this morning, and it is eleven 
 now ; but this opportunity shall not be lost, though he 
 is a cunning fellow, who probably will not stay 
 two nights in the same place. And now we halt 
 at the house of an old Unionist, who bears a striking 
 resemblance to General Scott, and whose fine old house 
 is surrounded and overshadowed by a noble grove, 
 equal to our Battery in its better days. 
 
 " Call me at half-past one," I say to the corporal of 
 the guard ; " and relieve guard in an hour." 
 
 " Half-past one, captain," says the corporal. 
 
 " Call up the men." 
 
 The men turn out promptly after their two hours' 
 sleep. 
 
 " The moon seems pretty much in the same place," 
 says one. 
 
 " No wonder," answers another, " it's only half-past 
 one."
 
 TITK LAST SCOUT. 171 
 
 Nothing more is said, and no surprise expressed. If 
 you could hear them, you would think that going to 
 bed at eleven and rising at half-past one is their usual 
 course. 
 
 "We pass quietly out of the beautiful grove, and wend 
 our way toward Paris. Paris is not altogether safe ; 
 Captain Mitchell's visit may have been the forerunner 
 of a guerrilla raid. At three in the morning we have 
 passed Mrs. Ayres', and are on the outskirts of the 
 town. The men are informed of the object of the 
 movement, and are burning with the desire of taking 
 him. There is no need of the order, " If he attempts to 
 escape, shoot him, cut him down, give him no quarter." 
 Those who know the house form a party to surround it, 
 and the rest a reserve to look at the court-house square 
 and see if there be any guerrillas there. We descend 
 to the little stream that bounds Paris ; we climb the 
 hill, and enter its empty streets. The men are riding 
 by file, and intent as I am on my object, I am struck 
 with the strange, spectral appearance of this long line 
 of horsemen slowly winding through the silent town. 
 
 "We approach the house, and the sergeant who has 
 charge of the party dismounts half his men ; they fasten 
 their horses, and climb the fence. There is an instant's 
 exciting pause, and then the men on foot rush to the 
 back of the house, while the others gallop to the front ; 
 the house is surrounded. I dismount and enter the 
 gate, and as I do so the front door opens, and a woman 
 and two or three girls come out.
 
 172 
 
 SKETCHES OF THE WAE. 
 
 " Is Captain Mitchell in this house ?" I say to the 
 woman, whom I naturally take to be his wife. 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " When did he leave it 2" 
 
 " I don't know, sir." 
 
 " Is this Mrs. Mitchell ?" 
 
 "No, sir. My name is Mrs. . I don't live 
 
 here." 
 
 He has either escaped, I think, or is still in the house, 
 and this party has been sitting up with him ; so I say, 
 somewhat sarcastically : 
 
 " Are you ladies in the habit of being up till three 
 in the morning ?" 
 
 "No, sir. To-night we are sitting up with a sick 
 person." 
 
 " How sick?" I say, not half believing the reply. 
 
 There is a young girl of fifteen standing beside the 
 woman, who has earnestly watched me, and she answers 
 my question : 
 
 " She is my sister," she says in a trembling voice 
 11 she is my sister, and she is dying." 
 
 " It is so," says the woman. " The doctor says she is 
 in the last stages of diphtheria, and can live but a few 
 hours. Captain Mitchell came back because he heard 
 she was dying. If you don't believe me, you can come 
 in and look for yourself." 
 
 " No," I answer, " if this family is in such affliction, 
 we will be the last persons to intrude. I will withdraw 
 the most of my men ; and you, my girl, may go back tc
 
 THE LAST 8COTJT. 173 
 
 your sister, and feel assured that no one shall disturb 
 you during the remainder of the night." 
 
 They seem surprised, and, thanking me, go in. I post 
 a man at each corner of the house, and the others go 
 back to bivouac in the court-house square. I am much 
 perplexed what to do. It shall not be said that we 
 searched a house while a girl was dying, and yet it may 
 be a trick, and he within. Walking up and down upon 
 the court-house steps, I think the matter over, and 
 determine on this course : There is a physician attend- 
 ing this girl, and there is another here in whom I can 
 implicitly trust. At sunrise I have routed these two 
 gentlemen out, and marched them down to the house. 
 I then send for Mrs. Mitchell. She comes out, pale from 
 night-watching, and looks with no friendly eye on the 
 pursuers of her husband and the disturbers of her child. 
 
 " Captain Mitchell is not here," she says calmly. 
 " He took leave of his daughter, and went away yester- 
 day. She has only an hour or two to live." 
 
 " I don't dispute your word, Mrs. Mitchell ; I feel for 
 you in your affliction, and know how harsh and unkind 
 my actions must seem ; but it is my duty to search this 
 house. Yet I will do all I can for you. I will keep my 
 guards on the outside ; or I will let Dr. Matheson go 
 with your physician, and if they report to me that your 
 daughter is as ill as you say, then I will let them make 
 the search." 
 
 "I don't object to this, sir; it will not frighten my 
 daughter."
 
 174r SKETCHES OF THE WAR. 
 
 ft 
 
 The two doctors go in, and Mrs. Mitchell continuea 
 standing beside me on the piazza. 
 
 " You have a hard lot," I say; " your husband away 
 at such a time near you, and yet unable to return." 
 
 " Yes, a very hard lot," she answers with a sigh. 
 
 The two doctors come out, and Dr. Matheson says : 
 
 " She is nearly gone ; it is diphtheria the last 
 stage." 
 
 " Then search, the honse, gentlemen, thoroughly, from 
 top to bottom, in every room and closet; examine 
 every bed and corner." 
 
 They come out again, and report that he is not in the 
 house. The guards return their sabres and march 
 away ; and Mrs. Mitchell, to my surprise, holds out her 
 hand and says, " I don't blame you, sir, for what 
 you've done; I wish all others had treated us as 
 kindly." 
 
 Much as I desired to arrest him, I confess that I am 
 greatly relieved. Arresting a father at the bedside of 
 his dying daughter would mar the pleasant memories 
 of my last scout in Tennessee. 
 
 I am gliding down the beautiful river, its crystal 
 waters sparkle in the sun ; and Fort Henry is lessening 
 on my sight : the tall hills opposite sink down, the 
 flag-staff and the waving flag alone are left. Now, 
 farewell, Tennessee !
 
 


 
 This book is DUE on the la' " * ^ stamped below 
 
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 Sketches 
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