"And here in spring the veeries singThe song of long ago."
"And here in spring the veeries singThe song of long ago."
"And here in spring the veeries singThe song of long ago."
"And here in spring the veeries sing
The song of long ago."
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 us to zig-zag round them; and when 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 far 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 he neither knew nor cared whether we were there or not.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 married 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 a breeze 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 the 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's a bleak house, and looks as though the owner had beenlong away. Two small boys appear—very frightened and very civil.
"Where is your father, my boy?" I ask of the elder.
"In 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 beentroubled by guerrillas, and whether we can be of any service." My lieutenant turns his horse and gallops across the 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 comes 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 camping 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 off and tell King's cavalry that we are here. Oh, no! 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 is indeed hidden from us by some woods, but for half anhour every one has told us it is "uh byout 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 captain, 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; so 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 sharpangle 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 see that none is wasted."
The men wheel into the yard, and a couple of contrabands, 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 onthrowing down from the stack a dozen more sheaves than we want. "It ull do them ere hosses of yourn so 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 contrabands, and learn all I can about the roads around us. "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 outin 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 Nelly. Miss Nelly tells me that the war has 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 out. 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 looking 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, and 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 corporal on 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 picketmount their horses; 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 littleface 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 seem 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 breakfast. The men whose turn it is for picket, ride on a mileor 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, our 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 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 attention 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 allappearance 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 frequently 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!"—
"Oh, shame! oh, horror! and oh, womankind!"—
"Oh, shame! oh, horror! and oh, womankind!"—
"Oh, shame! oh, horror! and oh, womankind!"—
a plug of tobacco, and then deliberately took a chew! The second and third followed; and then the three young ladies drew up around the sacred hearth (which some of their cousins were lighting 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 correctthan our own. Thus, for our awkward "get down," they have "alight." Instead of saying, "How early did youget upthis morning?" they would say, "How early did youarise?" Relations, relatives, and connections they callkinfolk; and these are never welldressed, but wellclad. Ahorse-pathis known as abridle-road; abrookas abranch, and astreamas afork. One man complimented Bischoff by saying he was the mostchirkyoung fellow in the regiment; and a young lady praised her own horse by telling me that Gipsy might run fast, but she couldn'ttotedouble.
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?"
"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."
"Will your mistress be back to-night?"
"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 distance, down the road, we hear a shout or two, and then a rumbling noise.
"What is that, sergeant?"
"It's horses," says 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 in?" asks the sergeant.
"No; 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 "Yoo, yoo—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 inconsistencies 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 plastered; 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;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?"
"No, 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 complacently 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 favorably." 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 time just like a parcel o'niggers!"
There's a compliment for us, thinks I. I must tell the doctor of that—and howfavorably we impressed them!
Supper is over. The corn dodger was far better than 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 sentinel 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, even 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 concealed 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 willenable him to pass. If I had not had the countersign, it would have been the sentinel's duty to detain me, and call for the sergeant of the guard.
"Captain," says the sentinel, "I was going to call you. I think I hear a wagon coming."
We listen, and its creaking grows plainer down the road. We move to one side, and the wagon draws nearer.
"Shall I halt them?" says the sentinel.
"No; I hear children's voices."
They come on and pass close beside us; the children prattle away, and the father and mother talk of William somebody, who did something or other, and how Jane and her husband were going somewhere with the 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 sentinel would halt them, and they would go no further to-night; but as it is, we are tolerably secure this side of the Holly Fork, and they are so manifestly ignorant 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 the 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 the guard, the sergeant is rousing the next relief.
"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 no false alarm; but if there should be anything, then fire your carbine in this direction, 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 cheerfulness, "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 numbersCheer thy young heart."
"Soft be thy slumbers,Rude cares depart,Visions in numbersCheer thy young heart."
"Soft be thy slumbers,Rude cares depart,Visions in numbersCheer thy young heart."
"Soft be thy slumbers,
Rude cares depart,
Visions in numbers
Cheer thy young heart."
And with sweet Ellen Bayne ringing in my ears, I lie down beside the camp fire and fall asleep.
A fairer 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;"
"When the box-tree, white with blossoms,Made the sweet May woodlands glad;"
"When the box-tree, white with blossoms,Made the sweet May woodlands glad;"
"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 day" 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 complete 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 thatif the rumor proved true, next morning he 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." "No, 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 hear 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 seven responses to the great guns of the fort.
An hour passed; those who had the fastest horses came back. "Was it Memphis?" "No, not Memphis—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 congratulate 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 Bischoff 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,through 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 squadron was marching in three platoons, with an interval of a hundred yards between them. The first came up, 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 us 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 heardnothing of Mrs. Ayres, except that she was "a prominent 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 reiterated 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. I am a woman, and unprotected, and you have a company of soldiers; I can offer no resistance," etc., etc. I 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 or 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, andposition, 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 Confederate Government, and another with 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 houseroom to offer. "My daughter plays," she said; "perhaps you like music." I said that I liked music exceedingly, 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 N. 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.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 Ayres 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, whatmustI 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 invitation 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 preparing to resume our march, there came a messagefrom the major, saying we would not leave till afternoon. 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 our 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 precaution 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. We 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 challenge. It would seem the simplest thing in the worldto call out, but this 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 Tennessee that we doubted this. At length we reached Como, and stopped in the barnyards of a leading 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 mustgo back and dine with him—his wife had seen us, and was 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 surrounding 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 hadbetter 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, shaking hands, and asking questions, while the littleman 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 schoolmaster. 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 up 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."
"It's really so!" cried the man with great earnestness. "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."
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 estimate. I also knew they must have heard of our whereabout, 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 littleschoolmaster 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 I could, and with many glances over my shoulder, wondering 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 thefamily. 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, returning, 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?"
"Here, captain," said Bischoff, close beside me, as he held my horse under a shadowy tree.
I mounted—gave some instructions to the other captains—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 keeping 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 beensent 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 dismount, 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 unexpectedly ran upon our advance guard standing still. I 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 theafternoon 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 Tennessee. 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 welcoming "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 welcomed 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, sheadded, with a bitter emphasis I cannot describe, that they were rebels, and we might capture them or kill them; but she wished we wouldkill 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 Lockridge 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 squadron; they had dismounted; their horses were tied to the fences; their lieutenant had gone out with their pickets; and their captain came up and laughingly said he hadtaken a prisoner, and introduced me to a lieutenant of an Illinois regiment, who had just ridden in. He 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 dismounted; 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. The 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 saw three of the 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 horsewith 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."
I looked for my horse, 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."
I 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 nonsense; saddle your own horse 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; and 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 lookedup 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 rear 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 butthe 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 galloping down the valley, the pursuing foe close upon us.
But, to return to Bischoff. He rode that day a fiery, little, black horse, that became nearly frantic as he heard the rushing sound of the enemy's horses. Bischoff 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 hewas 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 prostrate men. It looked as though no 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 fractious, 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 surrounded and a prisoner.
At length we emerged from this, to us dark vale, and felt our horses tread firm ground. We had gained alittle 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 unnecessary risk; but he said he had been offered $200 for hismule, 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 snaffle-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 alocomotive 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.