After an hour's ride, we have found the new camp. It is on a beautiful wooded slope, overlooking the riverand 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 we dismount, the bugles blow the breakfast call.
Our 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 immediately 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 sucha day of the canvas catching fire—the smoke occasionally 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 prisoners 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 puffs and blows like a locomotive baby. There is also an old gentleman there, whose son was 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 noplace to sit up, and nothing to see, or hear, or do. I may as well turn in, too; but there rises a serious question. 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. WhatshallI do? Iwillpull them off, and will get up before reveille (an hour, if necessary) 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 notwithstanding the rain, says:
"Captain, fot orders."
"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 wood, he is wet and will no burn."
"But, Bischoff, wemusthave 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.
My dreams are entirely of boots, and they wake me early. Then commences a struggle for (outside) existence. 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 waterfowl 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."
"The Lord, he makes the rain come down,The rain come down, the rain come down,Afternoon and morning."
"The Lord, he makes the rain come down,The rain come down, the rain come down,Afternoon and morning."
"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, andhurry lest it come, for the road is not more uncomfortable than the camp, or the rain wetter elsewhere than it is here. The doctor is a grey-headed, prudent, experienced 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 suggestions)—"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, and 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. Nor can we trot off a mile or two, and then wait for the ambulance to catchup, 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 farms are frequent, they are poor and neglected, and the dwellings 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 our 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 constantly 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 manrides about the width of a city block ahead of us carrying 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 we can explain; and second, that King'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-fashioned 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 cannot 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 "sit down to dinner" once more. And then this dinner is so nice, and neat, and plentiful,showing, for a soldier's cooking, a good housewife'scare! 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, gentlemen: 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 lookfor 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 anything 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 Massachusetts 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 buriedthem, as if they were his own kinsmen, in the town cemetery; and the other took the dying captain of our artillery corps into his own house, and nursed him tenderly 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 Memphis 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 subject and make arrangements, and when we come up, everything is ready. Our weary horses are soon unsaddled 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 woodfire, and each comfortably puffs a pipe of home-grown tobacco. We sit down and join them, 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 we 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 socomfortable in my life—it was so delightful to shut your eyes and stretch yourself out, and feel the pleasant warmth of this glowing, flickering fire, when the opening 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?"
"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.
I lie by the fire this time without dozing. The men are all sleeping heavily and undisturbed. The hovering dagger does not trouble them. Soon it is time to change guard. I rouse the next man, and the sergeant comes in and takes his place on the bed. I wonder if other people find a weight inresponsibility. Many talked to me of thedangerof the cavalry service—only one 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 responsibility: 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 sound, for we have learnt to observe the movements of our own cavalry at night by this sign. Every housekeeps 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 anything?" "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." We 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 4A.M.I 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 noConfederate flag. In another moment we have entered, and are going up the main street. The first man stops and looks at us, 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 himself, 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 Confederate officer in town. He says "No," in a frightened way; "they allretiredthis 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 townspeople are therefore very much astonished to see a man left on guard with the horses, and perfectly amazed when he draws his 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 congealedcitizens 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 kindness 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;" on ourway out, it struck me that our road to Paris might be very easily barred by a little bridge-burning, and at Paris some questions 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; you 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 aswell as I can, and at length we reach the road. There, plain enough, is a cavalry trail, freshly made since we 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 I 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."
We 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 eventful Sunday morning, I found him tied in a yard, near where General Floyd took to his boat, and have no doubt he 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 smooth 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 Arabianblood atoned for his Southern education. It was refreshing to feel these high bred horses rousing themselves for their new march, as though it were the beginning of a new day, breaking into a gallop wherever 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.
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 submerged 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 wonderful. 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 daylight. 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 hear 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 itshalf 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 "deportment!" 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 unexpected 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 then open. Yet with theTennesseans it is early to bed and early to rise (though truth compels me to add, they are neither healthy, wealthy, nor wise), and every house 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 contrast, 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 earned, 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 commands 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 they 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 preparation. The fourth (being the last) platoon wasordered 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 trampling on the bridge, were beating to arms. Thinking it would not do to crowd more troops on the narrow causeway 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 myhorse roused the bull-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 signals 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 therewasa drum, because theyhadheard 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 beginningof 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 first 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 "lookout," 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 aplace 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 CampAsboth 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 comfortable." 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'tlet 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 persons 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 crossand 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 commenced. Hardly down, ere an officer arrived from camp. Another squadron was coming 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 all 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 my first experience in guarding bridges, and my care of the bridge over the Holly Fork.
There is in our school "Readers" 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," etc. These words (if I recollect them rightly) were printed in different "Readers" 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 theone who succeeded and the many who failed—of disconcerted faces and puzzled looks, and the Holly Fork became associated with the lesson, as hereafter (should I ever return to North Moore street) the lesson will, doubtless, call to mind the Holly Fork.
It is a pleasant Spring morning, and I am ordered to take my company and "scout to and beyond Conyersville, 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 Tennessee.
Though it is a March morning, the air is as soft and balmy as it will be in New York next May; and in the 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 wecame 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 languidly, 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—