UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
AT LOS ANGELES
I
SKETCHES OF THE WAR:
A SERIES Or
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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
405
from which It was
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FCJU. -\ .
3601
N84s
Nott -
Sketches
of the war
UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBF
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UNIVERSITY of CALIFORNIA
L.US AMGELEb
U BRAKY