Mike KelleyBy Ben McCulloch Hord
By Ben McCulloch Hord
NOTE—If anything better than this has ever been written about the war I have never seen it. It is worthy of the great masters—of Sterne, of Thackery and Dickens. So pleased is Trotwood’s with this sketch that we have secured the picture of its author, Major Ben M. Hord, one of the best and truest of men and beloved by all who know him. Major Hord has held many positions of trust and confidence, was a gallant soldier in the big unpleasantness and was for a term Commissioner of Agriculture for Tennessee. He is still young, and this sketch shows he is gifted as a writer. We will publish another story from him soon.—Editor.
NOTE—If anything better than this has ever been written about the war I have never seen it. It is worthy of the great masters—of Sterne, of Thackery and Dickens. So pleased is Trotwood’s with this sketch that we have secured the picture of its author, Major Ben M. Hord, one of the best and truest of men and beloved by all who know him. Major Hord has held many positions of trust and confidence, was a gallant soldier in the big unpleasantness and was for a term Commissioner of Agriculture for Tennessee. He is still young, and this sketch shows he is gifted as a writer. We will publish another story from him soon.—Editor.
He was an Irishman by birth, and a blacksmith by trade, but gave up his bellows and tongs to “follow the feather” of his gallant countryman, Gen. Pat Cleburne, in the Confederate Army, and became a gunner in a battery. In many of his characteristics Mike was strikingly like his great captain. Though possessed of a rich vein of Irish wit and humor he did not have that volatile, bubbling over-flow of spirits so natural to his people; on the contrary, he was quiet and retiring in his disposition, even to apparent timidity. His only form of dissipation was tobacco. I well remember his dirty little cob pipe, black with age and tobacco, with a stem not three inches long, of the same color, and from the same causes.
Every old soldier who saw much active service in the field, in thinking of the close places he has passed through, will recall vividly the sunburnt face and form of some comrade, friend or acquaintance, conspicuous for his courage, brave where all were brave, but he the bravest of them all. In this light dear old lion-heartedMike always appears to me, when memory harks back to the stirring scenes of forty odd years ago. With the courage of a game-cock, the modesty of a woman, and a sunny temperament, he was indeed a lovable companion, and when by your side in action, made you feel as if you had two right arms and a double pair of eyes. It is not, however, to speak of his courage that I write, but of some ludicrous incidents that happened to him after he “jined the cavalry.”
BEN M. HORD.
BEN M. HORD.
BEN M. HORD.
Mike was torn nearly in two by a canister shot the second day at Shiloh, while his battery was engaged with one of the enemy’s, and as soon as he was able to stand the journey, his surgeon sent him to his home in Helena, Ark., to die, as he thought, but which Mike, with an Irishman’s perversity, refused to do, and which he explained to me afterwards, in a half apologetic tone for not doing, that the shot really didn’t damage his “in’ards.” It, however, incapacitated him for service in the infantry, and as the Federal forces by that time had the river as far down as Vicksburg, he could not well get back to his old battery, so he reluctantly joined the cavalry. I say reluctantly, because while he knew every bone and nerve in a horse’s foot, and was perfectly at home when he had that article between his knees tacking on a shoe, put him on a horse’s back and he was as helpless as a new born babe. I doubt if he was ever on a horse half a dozen times in his life, until he joined Capt. Rufe Anderson’s company of scouts of Colonel Dobbins’ regiment, Walker’s Brigade of Arkansas Cavalry, of which I was also a member at that time. Seeing him one day, shortly after he had joined, hesitate on the bank of a little stream, as if debating with himself which would be wiser, to attempt to ride across or to get down and wade and lead his horse, I called out to him: “Grip him with your knees, Mike, and your back will keep dry.”
“Grip him with me knase, is it?” he replied. “Then, be jimminy, I’ll git down and wade, for it’s myself that’s as bow-legged as a barrel hoop, and it’s me grub, not me back, I’m afther kaping thry.”
Several months had passed since Mike had joined us and he had improved in his horsemanship to such an extent that he would even venture sometimes, when very much aggravated, to punish the “brute of a baste” he was riding with the spur, instead of dismounting and larruping the horse with a sprout, as he did at first. But notwithstanding his poor skill as a rider, Mike’s love of anything that might lead up to a brush with “our friends, the enemy,” was so strong he was always ready and anxious to go on our scouting expeditions.
Anderson, the captain of our company, was a superb rider. Having spent many years of his life on the Texas frontier, he could perform all the tricks in the saddle so common to the cowboys of the present day, but rarely ever seen then, such as scooping down and picking up his glove, hat, or pistol from the ground, with his horse at full speed. The frequent encounters his company had with the cavalry of the enemy made him pretty well known and much sought after by them, and through the citizens they had obtained, not only a good description of him, but also a thorough knowledge of his dexterity as a rider.
On one occasion our scouts reported aforaging train of the enemy coming out from Helena escorted by a squadron of cavalry. Weatherly, our first lieutenant, was in command of our troop that day, Anderson being absent, and as the old man was of a naturally quarrelsome disposition and never lost an opportunity to pick a fuss or make a fight, either in or out of the army, we were soon in the saddle and on our way to strike the escort of the foragers. We were considerably outnumbered, but Weatherly thought that if he would dismount part of his men, place them in ambush, and when they opened fire on the blue-coats, charge with his mounted men on their rear, the advantage of the surprise would about even the thing up. So part of us were dismounted, Mike and I of the number, and placed in a dense thicket not more than twenty paces from the road. The Federal column soon rode in, and at the word “Fire” the thicket blazed, and at the same time Weatherly charged, as he thought, on their rear with his mounted men. A number of men and horses went down under our fire and the head of the Federal column was thrown into confusion, but only for a moment, for we had struck the Fifth Kansas, commanded by Maj. Sam Walker, as good a body of cavalry and as brave an officer as there was in either army. At command they wheeled and formed, fronting the thicket, and charged in the face of our second volley. At the same time a yell, distinctly “Yankee,” and a heavy discharge of carbines farther down the road to our right, told us as plainly as if we had seen it, that Weatherly had wedged himself in between the advance guard and main column of the enemy. At this unexpected turn of affairs, with nothing but our six-shooters to hold back such odds (we did not have time to reload our guns), it did not take long to determine what to do. “Fall back to your horses,” was the order, and we fell.
Mike and I were together. Partly on account of his old wound, but mostly, I think, on account of his contentious disposition under such circumstances, he was the poorest runner I ever saw—at least it impressed me so at the time—and when we reached our horse-holder he was mounted, the others all gone, and throwing the reins to us he followed in hot haste. I was in my saddle instantly; Mike was not so fortunate. His horse, a long, lank old bay, as thin as a fence rail, excited by the shooting, shouting, and running, was plunging viciously around in the brush dragging Mike, who was pawing the air with first one foot and then the other in fruitless efforts to catch the stirrup, at the same time keeping up a continuous string of comments upon the situation generally, interspersed with bits of advice to me and curses at his horse, such as: “Give’m a taste of your shooting, boy,” “Whoa, you d—d old brute of a baste,” “Look at the blue divils how they swarm,” “What a d—d fool old Weatherly was,” “Struck’m in the middle,” “Divil take the cavalry service,” “Whoa, you—”
In the meantime the Federals, finding nothing in front of them, were coming on as fast as the nature of the ground would admit, firing at random, for the bushes were so thick they could not see ten feet ahead of them.
Although expecting to show a clean pair of heels to the enemy, I had instinctively drawn a fresh pistol from my holster when I mounted, and according to Mike’s advice was using it to the best advantage I could, at the same time anxiously watching his circus performance with the old bay, and inwardly praying that it would come to a speedy close, or both of us would be either killed or captured, in a half minute more. I couldn’t leave him under the circumstances, for he had more than once stood between me and “the other shore,” in places equally as close, and to desert him now, would look like rank ingratitude and cowardice.
“Turn him loose, Mike, and jump up behind me, it’s our last chance,” I yelled, and at that instant the front line of the enemy burst through the thicket into the open woods within thirty steps of us. Bang! bang! bang! went the carbines. “Halt! halt! surrender! surrender!” they called out. I wheeled, to pick up Mike, if possible, and take my chances running, just in time to see his horse lunge forward and he lying like a sack of meal crosswise in the saddle, with one handclutching the mane about midway his horse’s neck. My first impression was that he had been shot, and I was relieved to see him wiggle his leg over the blanket strapped behind his saddle, and straighten up. Our horses were going at racing speed and Mike was doing some wonderful riding. He was bouncing about like a ball, neither foot in a stirrup, and he showed no partiality for any particular place to sit. Every time his old horse would make a jump, Mike would come down on him in a different place—behind the cantle, in the saddle, over the pommel on his neck, then back again, up one side and down the other—he literally rode the old bay from his ears to his tail. A fallen tree was in front of us, both horses took the leap at the same time, and Mike disappeared on the far side of his old “brute of a baste”—gone this time, sure, I thought, but the next instant, bare-headed he bounced back on top again. Our pursuers, not liking to follow us too far in the woods, fired a parting volley of lead and curses at us and pulled up. A few hundred yards farther on we run into our scattered squad, that had halted and reformed.
An hour later, Weatherly having gotten the company together, we were pegging away at the rear guard of the enemy as they leisurely fell back into Helena, having sent their well-loaded wagons on in front. I stopped a moment to get a drink of water at a farm house the enemy had just left. The old man had a son in our company, and was anxious to hear from him, and learn something of the skirmish.
“I tell you they came very near getting Captain Anderson,” he said, after learning that his boy was all right.
“How’s that?” I asked, “Captain Anderson wasn’t in the skirmish at all.”
“Oh, yes he was,” he replied. “That Yankee captain that just left here told me he rode right up on Anderson. Knew it was him from his riding; never saw such devilish fine riding in all his life; said Anderson just played along in front of him, cutting up all kinds of antics on his horse, and he could have caught him had he not been afraid Anderson was just trying to decoy him into another ambush.”
I knew at once that Mike’s remarkable performance had been taken for Anderson’s skill. The story was too good to keep, and no one enjoyed it more than Captain Anderson. When the boys run it on Mike, however, he replied:
“It’s all right, me lads, but there’s no danger of any of you blackguards ever being misthaken for your betthers.”
It was not long after the above episode before Mike had another opportunity, of which he took advantage, to masquerade as his captain on horseback. One morning a scout came in and reported a strong body of Federal cavalry coming out from Helena, on what was known as the “middle road” to Little Rock, on a scouting expedition; which for the benefit of the younger generation I will say simply meant they were hunting for a fight. I remember very distinctly I thought those Western fellows were exceedingly quarrelsome, and as Mike said, “a meddlesome set of divils,” in those days, and uncommonly handy with a sabre or six-shooter; but I have met many of them since then, and together we have imbibed the juices of the corn and rye, and even of the grape, while talking over old times, and I have found it simply astonishing how erroneous early impressions sometimes are.
There were two or three public roads that branched off from this “middle road” at different points between our camp and where the Federal column was last seen, and after sending couriers to draw in all of our pickets and assemble the regiment for action, the Colonel ordered me to take four or five men, go down and observe the enemy, get their strength, report from time to time which road they were advancing on, so that he could place his command and strike them on ground of his own choosing. Mike went with me; he always did when there were any prospects of fun or a fight, and while the probabilities were rather slim for either in this case, for I was instructed to keep myself concealed and after getting the desired information rejoin the regiment as quickly as possible, Mike took the chances of something turning up that would givehim an opportunity to “bust a cap at the meddlesome divils,” and asked to be one of the men to accompany me.
I was perfectly familiar with the country, and taking the little squad started on an air line through the forest for the point where the first road branched off, which I hoped to reach before the Federals came up, so that I could take a position suitable for my purpose and send a man back with the required information without being seen by them.
A half-hour’s rapid riding through the timber brought us close to the place where the roads forked and where I intended to take my first look at the blue-coats. The road here ran through thick woods. I knew I was close to it, but the undergrowth, through which we were riding, was so dense I could not see it. I also knew that if the enemy had not already passed this point, allowing them ordinary marching time, they could not be far off. Placing the men in line, some ten or fifteen steps apart, so they would be less likely to attract attention, we rode slowly and cautiously forward, feeling for the road. I took the place of lookout, and the men were to stop or move forward according to the motion of my hand. Mike was next to me on my right, some ten or fifteen steps away, and while I watched for the enemy, he was to watch me, and when I signaled him, he was to signal the next man, he the next, etc.
We had gone perhaps fifty or seventy-five yards in this way, when I heard that dull, rumbling sound familiar to every old cavalryman, that told me we were in close vicinity of a large body of moving horses. Peering through the bushes in the direction of the sound, and without turning my head towards my men, I motioned them to stop. The rumbling noise grew louder and nearer. For a few seconds my little party were perfectly quiet, then Mike’s horse grew restless and began to move about. Watching intently in the direction of the approaching noise and without looking around, I again motioned Mike to keep quiet, but it did no good. I could hear him swearing vigorously in a low tone at the old “baste of a brute,” but it only seemed to make the horse worse; he not only continued to twist and turn about, but began to sneeze and stamp the ground. At that instant I saw the advance guard of the Federal column file around a bend in the road not two hundred yards below us. I could tell from the direction they were coming, that we were much nearer the road than I had supposed, and that they would pass dangerously close to where we were standing; at the same time Mike’s horse began to lunge around, snorting, sneezing, kicking and keeping up as much racket in the brush as a train of army wagons, while Mike himself was swearing by note and loud enough to be heard above it all.
“Here they come, Mike! In the devil’s name keep quiet or they’ll bag every mother’s son of us,” I said as I turned my face toward him to see what was the matter. A glance explained it all. The old horse, in twisting about, had knocked over a rotten stump and uncovered a yellow jackets’ nest, that held a half bushel, it looked to me, of the maddest jackets I had ever seen. They had sampled the legs of Mike’s horse several times, but when they began to swarm up and pop it to him on his thighs and sides, the old fellow could stand it no longer and bolted straight forward through the brush, kicking, snorting, squealing like a mustang, and inside of fifty yards of where we were standing jumped into the open road.
Mike and his steed were about the busiest pair just then I ever saw; the old horse was kicking, squealing, stamping, plunging and biting in his frantic efforts to get rid of his tormentors, while Mike was giving his whole time, and undivided attention, to swearing and sticking on. He made no effort to guide him, but by the luckiest chance on earth the horse turned up the road, instead of down towards the enemy.
It was evidently a startling apparition that thus suddenly appeared in the road in front of the Federal cavalry, for they came abruptly to a halt, and for a moment seemed undecided as to what it was, or what to do, for the old horse had his busiest end towards them and they could see, what must have appeared to them, a dozen or more horses’ tails flirting up and down, around and aroundin the air (for the old brute was swinging it vigorously and with lightning rapidity), and a countless number of heels and legs flying out of this cloud of horse hair in all directions. At the same time a shapeless bundle of something gray, was bouncing about on top, for Mike in his gymnastic exercise in holding on assumed many inconceivable attitudes, all of which were enveloped in a thin yellow cloud that certainly was not dust, and out of which came curses, groans, squeals, and snorts. The old horse did everything but lie down to rid himself of the torture. Finally he made up his mind to run, and such running—a streak of lightning would have been distanced at the rate he went. He looked as if he was literally flying and would only touch the earth at intervals long enough to sling his heels out in vicious kicks, first on one side and then the other. At this part of the performance Mike would bounce up a frightful distance, but always managed to come down on the neck, back, or side of his horse. I never in my life saw such running, and can truthfully say no circus ever gave a greater variety of styles in riding.
As soon as the horse stretched out into a run, and the enemy could see what it was in front of them, they unslung their carbines, fired a volley at Mike and a half dozen or them darted out at full speed after him. As they passed I heard one fellow call out:
“Look at the damned rebel how he rides, will you?” And a sergeant mounted on a big gray horse shouted:
“It’s Anderson himself, boys, come on!” and he drove the spurs in the sides of his horse.
They were too intent on catching, as they thought, the noted captain and expert rider in front of them, to notice us in the brush, but being quite familiar with their methods, I was satisfied they would at once throw out flankers to prevent an ambush, so I moved back promptly to a safe position, and after following and watching them for several miles, and getting all the information desired, finally locating them on the proper road, all of which I reported to the colonel from time to time by sending a man back, I rejoined the command myself just in time to take a part in the wind-up of a sharp little fight that was claimed a draw by both sides. We held the ground, but the enemy was drawing off in good order down the road they had advanced on. We lost some men and had killed and captured some of theirs. Amongst the latter I recognized the sergeant, on the big gray horse, who had been so intent that morning on capturing Mike, thinking it was Anderson. He was battered up a little, had caught a pistol ball in his bridle-arm and evidently from the cut on his head had been knocked off of his big gray in the skirmish by some of our fellows.
Mike and I were standing by while his wounds were being dressed by our surgeon. He happened to be a countryman of Mike’s, and with that never failing, but indescribable bond of sympathy that the gallant sons of the Emerald Isle always have for each other, it matters not under what sky or flag they meet, they were soon engaged in an animated, but amicable discussion as to the merits of the two respective armies. With the truthfulness of a saint depicted on his countenance, Mike made the most startling and exaggerated statement concerning the strength and resources of our troops, and turning toward Captain Anderson, who had just walked up, he said: “I’ll l’ave it to Cap’n Anderson if I’m not right.”
At the mention of Anderson’s name and rank, the prisoner turned quickly and with much curiosity expressed in his face, critically eyed, over and over, the light but sinewy figure of the noted captain and skillful rider. Anderson noticed that he was being closely scrutinized, but without knowing any special cause therefor, he nodded pleasantly at the captive trooper and remarked: “That was a pretty sharp rap some of our fellows gave you over your head, sergeant.”
“Right ye are, Cap’n,” he replied, “but it’s meself that would be afther takin’ tin times as many, only to have caught ye this mornin’, whin we chased ye down the road.”
I had not yet mentioned to the captain any of the minor details of mymorning’s work, so he knew nothing of Mike’s adventure with the hornets, for that worthy gentleman, when he joined the command at the end of his wild ride, had simply reported that we had met the Yankees unexpectedly at a bend in the road and they had chased him some distance, but that I, with the rest of the men, was yet in the brush and would get all of the information wanted. The other men that I sent in afterwards, had reported direct to the colonel and were at once sent off by him to hurry up different detachments consequently, Mike’s last feat in horsemanship had not yet gained circulation.
Anderson looked at the prisoner when he made the above statement, and shook his head doubtfully. Mike looked at me and shook his head slyly.
“You are mistaken, my man,” said Anderson. “I admit I have had to show you my heels occasionally, but it was not on the cards to-day. That don’t look like it, does it?” he added, as he pointed down the road to the cloud of dust that marked the retreat of our late adversaries.
The sergeant was not to be denied, however, for he had seen him, as he thought, with his own eyes and had shot at him; lowering his voice to a half whisper he said:
“Faith, Cap’n, and it’s no shame to ye that ye run, for didn’t we have the howl command at our back? But it’s a beautiful rider ye are to be sure; it’s yourself that can tache the best one that iver sthradled a horse, and Jim Sullivan would give a month’s pay to see ye do it again and take a dozen more knocks like this on his head besides.”
Anderson turned to me with a look of bewilderment on his face and asked: “What is the fellow talking about? What does he mean?”
“Ask Mike,” was all I could say, for I was convulsed with suppressed laughter. With a sly wink at Anderson and a droll look on his dusty, smoke-begrimed face, Mike replied:
“To be sure, Cap’n, it was meself that did the thrick on horseback this mornin’ the fellow is sp’aking of, jist for me own devarsion, and to show the bloody divils how ye have taught your men to ride as well as fight.” And he gave another confidential and assuring wink at Anderson.
“Why, of course—certainly, Mike—certainly,” said Anderson, anxious to confirm any statement Mike would make, but not yet certain of his ground.
“It’s the blissid truth I’m afther tilling ye, Jim Sullivan, if that’s yer name,” continued Mike, turning to the sergeant, with a face as serious as a Quaker’s prayer meeting, “whin I say I’m the poorest rider in the company, bad luck to the old horse for the same, but as ye had the least bit of a taste this mornin’ of what I can do in the saddle, whin I’m a mind to, jist scratch yer head and think what the cap’n and the rest of the boys can do whin they thry.”
The sergeant looked with open-eyed astonishment from Anderson to Mike, then grasping the latter’s hand with a proud look on his face he said:
“It’s ould Ireland, me lad, that can bate the world. Ye may be a poor rider in your company, but ye can make the best man in the ould Fifth (his regiment) ashamed of himself in the saddle, and by the same token some of’m were rocked, whin babies, in horse troughs for cradles.”
The captain and myself left Mike and his countryman discussing horses and how to ride them, but we were satisfied Mike would change the subject as soon as possible, for he knew no more about either than a Digger Indian does of the Greek alphabet.
It was not long after this before Mike had his “innings” on our friends in blue, although he did not come out as scathless as in the two scrapes above mentioned.
Our pickets reported a body of Federal cavalry advancing towards LaGrange from Helena, on the St. Francis road. Our regiment was badly scattered, having to picket some twelve or fifteen miles of country, but at the sounds of “boots and saddle” a hundred and forty or fifty men “fell in,” and with the colonel at our head we went trotting through LaGrange to meet the enemy.
Some two or three miles below the little village, the road ran through one of those large cotton plantations common in that section, with a high rail fenceon either side. In the woods just at the end of this lane there was a thick, heavy growth of young paw-paws. Dismounting Weatherly, who had in the meantime been promoted to a captaincy, and thirty-five or forty of his men, were placed in ambush along the road with instructions to open fire on the enemy as soon as they came up. The colonel took the rest of the command, skirted the plantation and came to the lane a half mile further down and in their rear. We had scarcely reached this position and formed in the timber before Weatherly’s guns opened. We swung by fours out into the lane and with a yell went at them under full speed, Colonel Dobbins and Captain Anderson (the latter’s company being in front), leading the charge on the right and left of the column. The road was as open and level as a billiard table, every man was driving the steel in his horse, and we were going at racing speed. The rear companies of the Federal squadron promptly wheeled to meet us and poured a steady fire from their carbines on us as we came up. I happened to be one of the first fours and was within a few feet of the colonel, when I saw him glance over his shoulder, slacken his speed somewhat, throw up his hand and call to Captain Anderson: “Let the men close up!” At the rate we had been coming, we were necessarily badly strung out, and the Federals were standing solid across the entire road, not more than seventy-five yards from us.
I pulled up my horse slightly and had half turned my head to look back, when, like a red streak, a trooper dashed by me. There was no mistaking the rider. The reins were flying loose, the old horse’s blood was up, and so was Mike’s. He couldn’t have stopped him if he would and he wouldn’t if he could, for “Charge” to Mike meant “go in” whether there was one man or a thousand at his back. He was unslinging his gun for action as he passed (a double-barrel shotgun loaded with buck and ball, and, by the way, the best weapon cavalry could be armed with in those days for close work). I had only time to notice this before our rear had closed up and the colonel again gave the order to charge. The delay was only the fractional part of a second, but Mike was then flying fifty yards in front of us. I saw two puffs of smoke fly over his shoulder and he disappeared in the cloud. The next instant we were “mixing with ’em.” The action was short, sharp and fierce, the Federals using the sabre, we six-shooters, and was too hot to last long. Their rear gave way, we went through, joined Weatherly, and never gave them time to reform until they were driven inside of their lines.
I was hurrying back to the place where I had last seen Mike, when I came up on our surgeon gouging into a poor fellow after a ball and inquired if he had found Mike.
“Yes.”
“Dead?”
“No, but wounded and on ahead in an ambulance.”
I didn’t have an opportunity to see him until some time after midnight. I found him stretched out on some straw, with others, in a barn that had been converted into a hospital. His head was swathed in bandages and looked as big as a half bushel. His face was so swollen he could not see, and the poor fellow was delirious.
From the surgeon I learned that Mike had marched a couple of prisoners up to him, saying: “Take charge of ’em, Doc,” when he keeled over at his feet with an empty six-shooter in his hand. An examination showed that his head had been terribly beaten; the cuts were to the skull in five different places.
I afterwards learned from Mike, as soon as he was able to crawl out and suck his cob pipe, that after emptying both barrels of his gun, he did not have time to draw his pistol before he was wedged in the Federal column, and clubbing his gun, he was “knocking the spalpeens” right and left, when some “dirty blackguard” struck him over the head, knocking him from his horse. In falling he was caught between the horses of a couple of Federal troopers, his arms pinned to his sides as the horses were crowded together in the lane, and the last thing he remembered they were beating a tattoo on his head. When he recovered consciousness he was lying in the timber and two Federal soldiers werestanding close by, their command gone and they undecided whether to try and escape or surrender. Mike decided the question for them. Struggling to his feet and taking a pistol from the ground, having lost his own, doubtless in his tumble, he promptly ordered them to throw up their hands, which they did, and were marched back as above stated. Neither Mike nor his prisoners knew at the time that the pistol he pointed at them was empty.
Mike was a great favorite with the colonel, who, like the rest of us, would occasionally joke him about his riding. Shortly after the incident just mentioned Mike was out sunning himself. The colonel passed by and began to rig him about letting his horse run away in the charge, and carry him into the Yankee lines. “Run away, is it,” said Mike. “Och, colonel, now it’s yerself that’s fond of a joke. Whin we swung out in the lane ’n ye told us to charge, if ye had jist tipped me a wink, and said, ‘Mike, me lad, I don’t mane it, I’m only joking,’ me head would be as sound this minit as your own.”
The laugh was on the colonel, and he enjoyed it most heartily.
Dear old Mike! He answered the last “roll call” only a few years ago, and “passed over the river.”
The first time I met him after the war was at the general reunion of the U. C. V. Association in this city in 1897. I had gone to the headquarters of the Arkansas veterans looking for him, and learned he was out looking for me. There were a number of the old company present, and as I stood chatting with them about the old days, some one remarked, “Yonder comes Kelley now.” Looking up the street we saw him coming, with his hat off, mopping the perspiration from his face.
“Let’s see if he will know him, boys,” said one, as they clustered around me.
“Find him, Mike?” one of them asked, as he came up.
“No, bad luck to it; but I’ve been hot on his thrail these two hours past, ’n have nearly run the legs uv me off intirely. The little devil is as hard to catch now as he was thirty years ago, when he was riding that old gray horse,” he answered, as he threw himself down in the shade with a grunt of disgust.
There was a general laugh, but my heart was in my throat, and I did not join in until the others had ceased. In an instant he was on his feet. “I would know that laugh in a thousand,” he exclaimed, looking eagerly around. I pushed my way through and stood before him.
The steel-gray eyes I had so often seen flash defiance in the face of death were dim with tears as his hand clasped mine, and when I felt his arm around my shoulder, his bearded cheek against mine, there were drops that were not perspiration falling from my own face.
Maudlin sentiment of two old men, you say? Yes, if you choose to call it such; but a sentiment formed and welded together over and over and over again in the fiery crucible of battle and one that death alone can break.